Chrysalis Ch17: Blood in the Market (pt1) (Patreon)

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          The Fae Market L knows, the Market at night, is awash with neon colours and vibrant glows. In the afternoon, however, the Market is drab and desaturated, lit only by the strange, cavernous awning that merely passes for a sky. The cavern extends hundreds of stories above them, its features lost in the centuries of urban condensate between them. In this space, structures built on structures, buildings and shops and homes simply grew up from themselves or were haphazardly repurposed every generation. As if the Market were merely a colony of hermit crabs.
          In the upper floors, where L and Ian worked, the fog was light and moisturising. But at the base level where they found themselves, the world has to swim through a miasma of mist and fog. In that dampness was a flood of new life: mushrooms, mosses, lichens, rodents. With all these elements overlapping, the Unseelie was a nest for shadows, corners hidden and alleys lost. Unsurprisingly, the phosphorescent red lights used to illuminate this pit do little to remedy its nightmarish visage.
          And what are those lights illuminating? Cages. No matter where L turns, the thick and frigid odour of iron and copper greet her. It makes her feel cold, threatened, dirty. And yet, there is never respite. The quarter is crammed with iron and agony; hanging from rafters or stacked by the score.
          But far, far worse than the cages themselves were the captives within them. Every direction revealed dozens of new bodies. They were frightened, emaciated, and did little to hide the burns of iron or the marks of their handlers. Restraints were fairly common; in this cage, a werewolf had its jaws wired shut, in this, a brownie had his legs and arms bound. But for an equal number, no restraints were needed, bar the white jackets that adorned them all. The fight had long since died in these beings, these people. Smothered in the oppressive air that had become their existence. They simply lay, dead-eyed, like broken toys. Waiting to be discarded.

L can feel Ian’s arms erupt into goosebumps, and knows she’s doing the same. She forces her eyes to the ground, her feet lost in low-hanging fog. She can’t do this. She can’t look these beings in the eye, can’t comprehend the shame and suffering clear in their faces. But they all watch her. Silently pleading that she bear witness.
          "We shouldn’t be here," L starts, as if anyone should. “It’s not safe. The buyers…”
          Memories wade through the river of her thoughts. Evil grins, midnight black jackets. Eyes glowing and jaws gnashing in hunger or greed. How many prowled these inhuman halls, how many would care for the laws and codes that kept L and Ian out of their hands and throats?
          L's legs bend as she pulls her arms around herself. The stink of iron is thick in her throat, clinging to her antennae like freezing oil. She grasps Ian’s hand even more firmly. Willing it away.
         .Loudly, abruptly, there’s a thrumming in the space. It echoes in her head, rhythmic in beat. Her heart? Ian’s? No, it's... mechanical. Metallic. So regular as to be industrial.
          With a loud hiss and an ear-crunching BANG, the doors of a metal elevator crack open. A black-clad, shrouded figure pushes a massive cart from it. Creaking wheels rub harshly against the street, and neither L nor Ian can turn away from its contents. Tiny bodies crawl towards the pair, gazing with eyes too big for their faces.  They're small. At first glance, L thinks they’re fairies. She wants them to be fairies, because the longer she looks, the more clearly they’re-
          "Children." Ian’s voice is quiet and distant. "Human children, London children. They’re… they prolly haven’t started school…"
          If it wasn’t for the warmth of his body, L would think Ian was sprinting from this hell. His voice grows further away with every word. “L, there’s dozens. H-how many are coming in every day? For fucking what?”
          “Changelings.” The word trails from L’s lips with no direction from her. Her eyes are glazing over. “Like… in the stories. Fae aren’t supposed to m-merge. They… replace. Remove, and take over. And the babies that are removed… go here.”
          “Stealing babies?!” Rage and incredulity war in Ian’s voice. “Slaving children?! How long has this been goin’ on!? Fuckin’ ‘ell, this is a few blocks from my home. This could be me!”
          "Ian, it was me," her voice is light on the revelation. Her head's spinning. If Lyra had been a bit desperate, a bit less merciful… she’d be there. In that cart. In that cage. Her entire life shrouded in this hell, this abomination.
          She tries to look at the vendor, even as her feet start to lose balance. His expression is at one stroke indifferent, the next playful. As if he enjoys this. The revulsion is so strong that she could scream. This couldn’t be allowed, this shouldn’t exist. There has to be something she can do to stop this.
          L puts her hand out, trying to steady herself against the wall. It brushes against a discarded, empty cage with a soft hiss. She recoils with a gasp, clutching her hand. Her fingertips have been burned bright red. This has to stop, she has to stop this. But how?
          Something whispers in her ears. A dull, soft sound, like a faint melody. The same sound that -

d̷̛͠ȏ̷͐ ̶͂͐y̴̅̕o̵̎͌ṵ̵̊ ̷͆̓ẅ̵́͘á̴͂ǹ̸̐t̴͊̐ ̷̇͗m̷̄͘é̸͆ ̶͑͘t̵̂̾ȏ̸̂

          Something grips L by the arm. Her head jolts up as she yanks back, her wings flaring in fear. "LET GO OF ME!"
          In the terror, the whisper evaporates. The hand withdraws as the static in L’s vision and hearing dissipate. It’s just Ian. Familiar worry plastered on his face.
          L's breathing slows. Her wingbeats follow suit, fading to a faint shiver. The cold is less overwhelming now. Just by a hair. Her throat aches as she tries to force words from it, tries to express her pain, her fear, her anger.
          But the words never come. The Unseelie Quarter is beyond expression. Incomprehensible.
          Instead, L lunges forward, wrapping her arms tightly around Ian. Her wings follow suit, sheathing him in a large, scaly blanket. Shutting him - and herself - from the world unfolding before them.
         .At first, Ian reacts with a stunned fright similar to her own. It passes as he holds her, placing his hand gently on her head and running through her silvery hair.
          "Shhhhhh..." He says. "Yer arright." He pulls her in tighter. "Yer arright.  Yer arright." His voice sinks into a mantra.
          "I'm not. I’m not. I’m sorry, I’m sorry," L mumbles, pressing her antennae against Ian, blocking out the lingering tang with the faint scent of his shirt. She swallows, retracting her wings. "I keep losing control. I keep risking her. I don’t-”
          "Store ain’t open yet." Comes a tight, willowy rasp, hissing at them both.
          "Well yer in fuckin’ luck." Ian's voice cuts across, pulling L closer, shielding her. "Ain't here to buy. Can’t you see she needs some air?”
          "Then she best-" Ian’s not having it. He quickly jabs the wall, scowling, causing the shelves to rattle and a thin layer of dust to rain onto the disgruntled shopkeep. L can’t see Ian’s face, but he’s clearly startled the shopkeeper.
          “A moment,” Ian snarls.
          "... fine,” the voice replied. "Just get on quick, unless the lass wants a pick-me-up."
          "I think she’s good, mate." Ian says. His voice is as tight as his grip on L.
          Her mind has turned to the merchandise, brilliant in this space of dusty pipes and broken stain glass. There are dozens upon dozens of different bottles along a wall, reminiscent of Trystan’s stache. But whatever warm, soothing hues he uses are unknown here; each glass is filled with neon, living liquid fizzles, pops, even leaps onto the floor.
         .Her wings twitch with each small eruption, and she tucks in closer to Ian. The words are scratchy in her throat. “There are… memories, right? Not songs.” Not a chance to escape this place.
          “Memories? Songs?” The shopkeeper scoffs. “Have you been shopping by the Suites, or are you some little nymph with her dryad’s card, first time outta the Wilds? I can’t make high-end shite with the critters we got here. This stuff’s a bit more… directly extracted.” He grabs a small poker and plays with a collection of cages behind him. L’s stomach curls into itself.
          "L, ignore him. I’ll take us to the Apothecary Borough. Away from this filth," the shopkeep snarls at his accusation. Ian waves lightly to get her attention, offering his hand. “We’ll take the long way around, but…”
          But it won’t be the Unseelie Quarter.
          L wilts, averting her eyes from the bottles, and grabs Ian's hand. She can hear the slither of alp-luachra behind the shelves, and it’s doing nothing to push down the memories surging into her gut.
          “Trystan showed you the way, then? When you got groceries last night?” She can feel her scorched fingertips, a low thrumming pain and smell. something acrid and strong, like scorched wiring, burning its way down her antennae. She really ought to remember the salves next time.
          God help them if there is a next time.
          Her hand squeezes Ian's, her thoughts racing back to the voice. How it so nearly overwhelmed her, how little it would take to lose herself again. How much she was risking just by being here.
          "Let's go. Quick as we can," she murmurs, straightening up. She tries to calm herself by tasting the soft glows of Ian’s shirt with her antenna. Worn fabric, sweat and the dusty, wooden aroma of the Glade's attic. Their home.
          Ian nods. "I'll lead. You can… you should look away. Think of happy places." L softly nodded before Ian suddenly looked up. “And L?”
          “Yes?”
          “... Two nights ago. Trystan showed me two nights ago.”
          L looked to the fog-layered floor. “... Right.”
          Despite his warning, she had wanted to look. Wanted the memories this landscape would paint to firmly press on her mind. That desire lasted mere moments as terror began to crawl through her nerves anew. She simply clung to his arm, burying herself in his embrace. The cold of iron slowly seeped away. Replaced with the must of copper.
          "Ian?" she starts, softly. "Thank you."

-----

          The air is heavy and sticky, like it's clinging to them as they walk. L prays the Quarter is harder on her senses than Ian’s. He shouldn’t have to bear this for both of them. She feels the vibrations of metals, hears the whirr of air when something sharp is swung. The stomach-churning sounds of meat follow. Blood leaves a bright, coppery odour permeating through the streets, threads of rancid decay lurking beneath. It has sunken into this place.
          She tries to keep her world small, just the ground by her feet and the touch of Ian’s hand. He's guiding her carefully, even warding off curious pedestrians. A tight knot of guilt refuses to move past her outburst at the Glade, the many warnings he gave.
          "I'm sorry." L whispers, shifting to try and minimise her wing’s profile. Every time they walk past some unseen form, the back of her neck crawls. She can’t escape the paranoia this place sparks. "I wasn’t trying to ditch you. Well, not really.”
          "I know you weren’t,” Ian replies. His motions are confident, his demeanour strong. Or... not strength as much as bravado. The stiffness in his voice and his motions make clear how heavy a mask he is wearing, how hard he is gritting his teeth and pushing through.
          "This was already hard enough. Then Lyra comes and takes the fuckin’ piss from us all. And… I haven’t been perfect either. Frankly, I must be pretty damn frustrating." He breathes a chuckle that’s not nearly as tough as he’d like it. L is still trying to ignore how many people here see her as food.
          “That doesn’t mean I should be wandering off. You were right. Something could have happened to me, or you, and we’d never…” She sighs. “It’s easy to forget. The Glade is so warm now, so comfortable, so normal. It feels like a world apart.”
          "Well we’re getting through the worst,” Ian replies, his smile audible. “And, well, you are safe here, innit? It’s still the Market. We’re still… what’d the King call us?”
          “Retainers,” L answers. “Like in a court.”
          “All those ‘fantasy’ novels paying off?” Ian’s laugh brushes off the quick jab he receives from L’s elbow. “Though… I dunno, she is tolerating this. Strange to think a pack of cats could have that cruelty.”
          “Speak for yourself, Ian. Have you ever met a cat? And remember the skulls?” L replies. She furrows her brow. “Honestly… I don’t even think it’s tolerance. She wants this. Why else would they be in London? The stories about fae are pretty consistent on how well things go for the humans that find them.”
          “Fuckin’ ‘ell,” Ian shakes his head. “And here I thought Cromart was the bottomest rung.”
          L steps over something oblong and off-white, caught  between two flagstones. A tooth. "I don’t think one can be her retainer and be safe at the same time. We’re just pieces in a game to her. What if she gets bored? What if I disappoint her?"
          Her voice tightens. It’s not only her she fears disappointing. "I need that song,” she stresses.
         ."We'll get it," Ian says, his resolve building before he comes to a sudden halt. “Speak of the devil…"
          He turns, and tilts L’s chin up with his hand. With his other arm, he waves, a thin smile on his face. "Welcome to the Apothecary Borough."
          L's ears could pop with the release of pressure. The Apothecary Borough is as Gothic as its neighbour is Brutal. The entire space is filled with tall, grand spires, centred around an enormous clock tower that surges over the other buildings. Mechanical birds flit across the streets carrying parcels and letters. Pedestrians weave through the tight space through a spiderweb of small bridges and spiral stairs.
          L resolutely keeps her head forward, startled by the contrast. "How far does this go?"
          Ian releases her chin to point at a plinth. "Not far. Just one bloody mall designed by the world’s worst architect, innit? Prolly still beats John Lewis." Ian releases her chin to point at a plinth. “See, they got these directories all over.” L walks up to it, watching Ian trace his hand around the outline.
          "Does it give you the vendors?" she asks.
          "Vendors and merch. Songs, songs, songs… HERE!" He cheers, stopping. "Looks like there are a few stores to browse, all on the third floor. So… feel like taking the stairs, or gonna fly above us mortals again?”
          L gives her wings an experimental flap, then shakes her head, smiling. She holds out her arm. "Well, since you’re offering… Walk me up, Mister Human?"
         ."Oh, gladly, Miss Fae." He cheerily offers her his arm and the two ascend together. L's heart grows lighter with each step they scale.
          She’s back in control. She’s safe, and protected. Maybe they wouldn’t find trouble.
          Maybe everything was finally going to work out.

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           "W-wait. How much?" L's voice crackles with shock as she draws back from the counter. The shop is small, but well-ordered and well-kept, everything neat and dusted. She can just make out little rows of containers, like jewellery or music boxes. They've all been locked tight, the songs within them tucked out of reach.
          Shoplifting clearly isn't an option. Which is becoming a problem fast.
          "The man on the last floor said these were the cheapest he knew of!" Ian bursts out. L looks pleadingly at the figure behind the counter.
          "Pffft, we are." A raspberry is popped by a small goblin girl, the name ‘Keira’ resplendent on a white name tag. She taps one hand on the counter, her claws clack clack clacking in an ornate rhythm. In another pair of hands, Keira’s got her nose buried in a tabloid. The latest royal family scandal is far too important for her to lift her eyes from it, but she’s been painfully aware of L and Ian’s presence.
          "I'll take it from your disbelief that you can't afford any of this." She lazily waves a hand. "And are therefore wasting my time."
          "I-I've got - " L digs out her trio of coins, holding them up in desperation. "Look, I've got these." She swallows, giving the shopkeeper a sickly smile. "A-and I've got an income. Ever do down payments? I’m sure we can work something-"
          Keira reaches under the desk without breaking her gaze from the tabloid, and slams a wooden plaque on the countertop. ‘No financing,’ it reads.
          "But it’ll be secure,” Ian starts to argue. “She works at the Glade, and she's a personal, uh, retainer to the King. That’s worth something.”
          "Ain't we all a retainer of the king?" the goblin replies. She graces Ian with the pointed exhaustion of someone who's time is, indeed, being wasted.
         ."But like moreso. Double retainer. Ya know, like, she can't leave or-" L elbows him, but it's too late.
          "Like a slave?" Keira raises an eyebrow, looking at L for the first. "The ‘ell’s her white jacket? What’s she even doin’ outta the quarter?"
           "I’m not a slave! It's not like that!" L flares her wings out, uncomfortably aware of how much it is, in fact, like that. She eyes the sign with barely disguised animosity.
          "Uh… do you have a clearance aisle? Or maybe something broken?" Anything would beat nothing at this point.
          Keira snorts. "Clearance? Where do ya think ya are, Mark’s & Spencer’s? Ya gonna call my manager next? Ah, piss off."
          "Maybe I can ask Trystan for an advance," Ian suggests, turning to L. "He... he's in the know, he'll probably float us."
           "Didn't you already get an advance for our food?" L hisses. "Look, he's friendly, I-I'm just not sure it's a good idea to keep putting yourself in debt to him. Don’t want to wear out our welcome, you know?"
          L’s eyes slide back to the shelves. They're pretty far back… but they're not too far, if she tries. Maybe if she lunged, or floated the ceiling…
          Without lowering the tabloid, the clerk’s eyes snap onto L. "Oi, lil Miss Slave? I know that fahkin’ look. Since you’re the King’s retainer an’ all, I’m sure you know what she does to thieves, right?"
          L's face goes pale, even as she looks quickly away from the tiny lockboxes. "I haven't broken any laws."
          Something begins to stir L’s feet, causing her vision to shake. At first, she thinks it’s a mere quirk of her antennae, one of a thousand such moments, until she sees the confused look on Ian’s brow.
          And then the percussive roar of an explosion.
          First one, then many, ricocheting through the Borough. L charges into the hallway in time to see the supports of the clocktower vaporise on one side, sending several tons of brass sliding into the ground. Bricks and mortar get pulverised beneath their own weight. Copper pipes start splitting and hissing like ruptured veins as the entire structure collapses onto the quad below, crashing in a cacophony of glass and springs and clockwork.
          Keira puts down her magazine and leans forward. "Finally, some fuckin’ action." She still sounds unamused.
          As L and Ian continue sprinting to the edge, they can see, three stories below them, a woman with hair as blonde as her skin glows, a black-clad companion at her side. In front of them, walking from the edge of the explosion, is a great white shark of a man. Several rows of glittering teeth twist in a broad, vicious grin.
          Cadogan.
          Blood on his lips.
          And Astraea in his sights.


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Thanks for reading!

We're going to make a special announcement about this, but to you special beans who keep up to date you get to know this ahead of time

This is our Rintern, Keira's, first official crack at editing Chrysalis!   Let's all encourage her!  She's doing great work.

Additionally, this chapter ended up being so big we're breaking it up into 3 parts.   So you can expect the next part to drop Friday August 12th!

See you then!