Fairy Bride Ch25: The Interview (Patreon)

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Guy Mallory walks towards the electronic store’s windows, television lights dancing across his suit.  It’s August now, and in London that heralds the end of summer’s brief reign; already, the sun sets, and evening fog rolls in.  It reminds him of the worst moment of any holiday: its end.

Oh, how he’d love to watch the interview.  To see the look on Spencer’s face, or his new nymph, all dolled up for TV.  Heh.  The poor girl’s so broken, she’ll probably be sobbing over what she’s done to Spencer.  He can already imagine that alluring hopelessness in her eyes.  It’s what drew him to her in the first place.

And why stop at her?  With Harcourt gone, this ‘King’ will be in his palm, or risk exposing all the Market’s secrets to Mallory’s little network.  There’s no point in bargaining; Guy can take what he likes.

So maybe Daphne needs a friend?

He pauses, staring into the wall of television screens.  Cable news, Coronation Street, evening game shows and James Bond reruns.  All so last century.  All such dead ends.  He turns on his heel, back into the growing night, clutching the note in his pocket.  That strip is more valuable than any of those shows, than all his wealth combined.  The opportunity of a lifetime.

And it’s just an address to somewhere in Southwark.

Toulouse, France

The car stops in an abandoned park, far away from the city’s lights.  Still, she can see the studio in the distance.  Something in her stomach twists.  This is it.  In fifteen minutes, she’ll be staring at her greatest chance at freedom.

Her only hope of salvation.

Her breath hitches when she feels him tightly clutch her shoulder.  She wants to be comforted by it, tells herself she should, but words can only go so far.  Her Keeper must feel her trembling.

He leans forward, petting her hair.  She doesn’t pull away.  “You don’t have to do this,” he whispers.

She smiles.  That was her Keeper, always concerned.  But they both know the words are hollow.  His future rests in her hands.

“If you’re having a hard time, just imagine me.  Sitting on the couch, cheering you on.  Because I will be, promise.”  He steps out of the driver seat.  “Just be yourself, and you’ll do great.”

She doesn’t reply, staring blankly through the glass.  Herself?  What does ‘herself’ even mean?

The car door opens, and he offers his hand.

“Daphne,” Spencer asks.  “Are you ready?”

Sarah Morgan settles into a plump seat, bowl of popcorn in hand.  The projector whirrs to life, showering the wall in advertisements.  She’d been worried about working out Spencer’s home theatre, but it turned out to be quite simple.  He hadn’t left instructions; in fact, beyond their promised occasional visits, he’s probably not aware of his in-laws 'house sitting.’  But come on, a house this large?  To the Morgan’s, it’s like a holiday all its own.

“Daniel, it’s starting!” She calls back.

“Just a moment, dear!” She hears in the distance.

Sarah smiles fondly and settles down into her seat.  Really, she ought to be allowed a bit of mischief.  She was young once.  Not exactly fair if her daughter gets every adventure.

The familiar introductory jingle echoes of her favourite programme echoes through the darkened, cavernous room.  Excited, Sarah turns towards the screen and joins the cheer of the audience.

“GOOD EVENING, KIMBERLY!”

“Good evening, Britain!”  Kimberly shouts back.  Her laughter rattles the small television hanging above the bar.  “Or, for the fine ladies before me… bonsoir France?”

While the studio audience cheers, Henri Ombras groans.  These British animals.  How can they mispronounce something so simple as ‘bonsoir’?

The Shadow-Walker is cleaning one of his private rooms, a collection of blackjack and roulette tables designed to look antiquated.  Er, by human standards.  It’s quiet, secluded, hard to reach.  Perfect for tonight… even if the airwaves are earsplitting.

“That’s right, loves!  I’m coming to you LIVE from Toulouse, where we’ve chased down one of the hottest headlines this summer.  But first, some news.  COVID cases reached a record daily high yesterday, with many accusing Bojo and his Cabinet of letting us Brits out a bit too early!”

Dozens of tendrils slither from the man’s body, a rag coiled in each, polishing the furniture to a patented sheen.  Nothing less for the Yeoman's Respite, his pride and joy.  Henri is so lost in the whispers buzzing around that he doesn’t hear the boots until they’re crunching beside him.

“You know what that means, ladies?  Back on Zoom, back in the masks, back to the Rule of Six, and worst of all, back to an empty studio!  Frankly, girls, I’m getting pretty tired of it.  What about you?  Do you wanna get stuffed back inside?”

“NON!”

“You wanna have a good time?”

“OUI!”

“Ombras.”  A gruff voice speaks over the canned laughter.  Henri turns around.  The man sports black trousers, a white cap, and a blue coat littered in medals.  He stands tall and proud, a rugged scruff across his face, his gloved hands always bearing towards his sabre.

“Magister,” Henri has to force his smile down.  “You’re looking sharp as ever.”

“Same to you, old friend.”  Captain Morris pats Henri on the shoulder and slides out his phone.  The black screen stares back at them, empty and reflectionless.   “Let’s return some favours.”

“Of course, of course, I’m on TV, so I’ve gotta say, there’s no excuse to be unsafe.”  Kimberly waits for the audience to calm down.  “Our country’s finest minds have spent the last year working hard on the AstraZeneca vaccine-”

A vicious snarl echoes through the warehouse at the mere utterance of that word.  Lianna Stirling, sitting cross-legged on the concrete, pours her second drink.  It might betray her Spartan discipline, but if she’s expected to sit through an hour of this cosmopolitan, propagandic filth she’s going to need it.  The so-called pandemic was so clearly a concoction of the Zionists and Chinese that hearing anything less was madness incarnate.  Sure, these sophists have ‘evidence,’ but who do you think invented that?

Just like her.  Harcourt’s fluffy little demon-spawn.  Yet another weapon in the Judeo-Dryads’ plans.

Oh, how they thought Lianna’d be tamed.  By those fluttering eyes, those rosy cheeks, that sweet-smelling and soft little hand.  No!  Lianna looks away, hardening herself.  She is above sin.  She is Spartan.  For every temptation, her flame will grow.  Until her rage has consumed this street, this city, this nation, and bathed it all in the blood of Reds.

But before those streets are bathed, and the succubus can entice her no longer, Lianna Stirling needs another drink.

“Outrage on Twitter after last night’s Euros match, where footage of a girl crying over Germany’s loss prompted cheering from English football fans in the stands.”

Martha Mallory does not gasp with the audience on her flat screen TV.  She’s too busy chopping onions and not staring at her phone.  Trying to put her husband’s message out of mind.

Another missed dinner, another late night.  When he’s only been home for a week?  The knife starts moving harsher, faster.  He promised he’d stop doing this.  That he’d find the time.  But that was all before Monaco, wasn’t it?  When he vanished for a MONTH without warning?

She sniffles and wipes her face.  These motherfucking onions.  They always make her cry.

“It’s hardly the first controversy in this tournament.  Last week in Budapest, activists protested the government’s new propaganda laws by-”

“Carson, come in. I know you’re hiding.”

The teenager jolts from the stairs.  They had been glued to the footage of a man running from security, draped in a rainbow flag.

“Hey, Mum.”  Carson buries their face in their phone, averting eye contact.  “Post come yet?”

“On the table,” she sighs. glancing back.  Carson beelines for the cardboard box, eyes on the floor.  Martha takes a quick glance back.  They’re wearing a hoodie again, despite it being summer.

She bites her lip.  “Care to tell me what’s inside?”

“Nothin’,” they shrug.  “Just clothes.”

“I thought you hated clothes shopping.”

“Things change.”  They swoop up the box and march back across the floor.  “Can I eat upstairs today?  There’s a big League tournament on, and I don’t wanna-”

“CARSON!”  Martha shouts, horrified.  “What are you wearing?”

Carson, blushing, follows her eyes to their legs.  Large socks travel all the way past their knees, decorated with pink and white stripes.

“Uh…” they stammer.  “Socks!”

Martha blinks.  “For what?”

They swallow anxiously.  “... Gaming?”

“It’s been a busy summer in the world of drama.”  Kimberly’s voice echoes through the estate’s impeccable speaker system.  “After all that time locked inside, celebs have been getting rowdy!  But none have caught the waves quite like our next guest… or have so seriously rocked the core of British politics.”

Daniel steals a handful of popcorn.  “I still don’t know how you get so excited-”

“Shhhh,” Sarah whispers, patting him on the arm.

“What started as a drunken spat with her MP husband in Monaco has exploded into the biggest scandal this year, as a dozen other women corroborate her claims against one of Labour’s brightest stars. We’ve all seen the photos, we’ve all heard the rumours.  But since that first story broke, there’s been one perspective nobody’s been able to reach.”

“I’m serious, dear.  It’s all so sensational.  ‘Biggest scandal this year?’  Has she even said who’s on?”

“If Kimberly flew all the way to France to see her,” Sarah points out.  “It’s got to be someone important.”

“Well, I’m glad to announce that voice is silent no longer.  I’ve tracked this story all the way here, to the Riviera.  And we’ve found someone who’s very eager to set the record straight and make sure they’re heard. So let’s give a very warm welcome…”

“On this show?  Sarah, I’ll swear right now.  Kimberly’s about to bring out some teenage pop star that you or I have never heard of.”

“ To DAPHNE HARCOURT!”

Daniel freezes.  The speakers rattle with the crowd’s cheers as his daughter crosses the stage in a sparkling white dress.  A little hat’s perched on her head, and a veil half-draws over her beaming smile.  Setting herself on the couch, Daphne turns to the camera and waves.

“Hi, mum!  I’m on TV!”

Sarah drops the bowl of popcorn.

Daphne watches the swirling faces like she’s in a dream.  She keeps her posture straight, just like her Keeper told her.  Her memory runs through different answers, over and over.  A squeaky voice inside herself makes sure it’s his and hers.

“So, Daphne.”  She jolts at the voice, turning towards the relaxed host.  “How’ve you been?”

“Uh, alright!”  Daphne quickly gets into the rhythm, nodding casually and keeping her smile.  It’s almost automatic.  “Yourself?”

Kimberly shrugs.  “Honestly?  This city is divine. And you’ve been darting around for a whole month?”

Daphne nods again.  Kimberly laughs.

“Hard not to get jealous.”

As practised, Daphne feigns embarrassment.  “O-Oh no, I’m so sorry, I-I didn’t mean-”

She cuts off her fake stammer to listen to the crowd's soaring laughter.  Mallory was right.  They loved humility.

“It’s quite alright, quite alright.”  Kimberly shifts in her seat, clandestinely glancing at Mallory’s notecards.  “Gotta say, Daph - can I call you Daph?”

“Anything you like!”  Daphne strains to keep her voice high-pitched.

“I love the hat.”

“Thank you!”  Daphne tilts it down for the cameras.

“But I gotta ask, just curious, have you ever thought about wearing something… darker?”

“Pardon?”  Daphne’s supposed to feign surprise, but the hostess’ sudden tone genuinely catches her off-guard.

“In every photo of you, you’re head to toe in white.  Bathing suits, handbags, pearl earrings.  I mean, we don’t judge anyone here on Good Evening Kimberly, this is a positive space.  But you have to admit,” Kimberly shrugs.  “It’s a bit eccentric.”

Something inside Daphne writhes.  She can’t stop the twitch on her face.  “Uh-”

“Is there a reason?”

Daphne’s eyes flick to the cameras, the stage.  Still on, still there.  She chuckles, nervously, her smile waning.  “W-W-Well… i-if you must know… I…”

Her breathing picks up.

“I…”

Her knuckles squeeze tight.

I haven’t picked my own wardrobe in over three years!

Daphne blinks, terror across her face.  She turns to Kimberly, trying to gauge her reaction to the bombshell.  But there’s nothing but a long silence.  Kimberly’s brow tilts in concern.

“Daph?” she asks.  “You, uh, haven’t answered.”

Daphne’s eyes go wide, and she smacks her own wrist.  Just like that, the smile pops back on.  “Sorry, sorry, I-I must have spaced out-”

“Happens to the best of us!”  Kimberly coos.

“Okay, alright, I’ll share the secret.  White is my favourite colour, it’s true, but the REAL reason I always wear it’s because…”

She forces her smile to grow.

“... it makes laundry day so much easier.”

“Yes, Nigel, I heard you the first time.  Channel 4.”  Cyril, Lord Harcourt of Ashford, turns away from his phone to hack out a loud, phlegm-filled cough.  The climb up the stairs was never getting easier.

Nigel’s nasal voice continues to squeak through the phone, so Cyril abandons him to the coffee table.  Those sorts of men were frogs, spewing erudite hogwash in a flailing attempt to inflate their own self-importance.  But every now and then, even the most ridiculous squawks deserve heeding.  Like a canary in the family’s old coal mines.

Cyril grabs the remote and sets himself in his favourite chair.  His other hand flits to a cigar box, a bottle of scotch waiting patiently on the side.  He’s about to flick his silver lighter when Channel 4 finally blares.

It makes his face go white.

“Laundry day?”  The hostess breaks amidst the roaring laughter.  “Don’t you have staff?”

“Well, sure, but…”  Spencer’s woman giggles.  “I always do the chores before they arrive.  If I made a big mess for them, I-I’d just feel bad!”

That sparks even more laughter.

Cyril sets the lighter down.  Nigel’s still braying when the Lord finally hits ‘disconnect.’  He punches in a new number, face deeply set in a frown.

“What the hell is he thinking?”

Spencer’s mobile vibrates, rattling the small table until it’s picked up by delicate, black-gloved fingers.  Alienor Lousteau balances it against the brush in her other hand.  Reading the caller ID, she smiles, and looks at her Kept, still maintaining an Olympic posture for his portrait.  “C'est son père.  Devons-nous lui dire ?”

Zetti frowns, lightly tilting his head towards their guest.  Spencer paces around the room in a single straight line, his face buried in his hands.  He’s been murmuring the same phrases since he walked in, the record player’s rendition of Beethoven’s Third Brandenburg Concerto doing nothing to calm him.

Alienor sets the phone down.  “Point taken.”

“I-I shouldn’t be doing this.”  Spencer finally stalls, speaking to nobody in particular.  “I puh-puh-promised I’d watch the show.  Shuh-shuh-she needs support.  I’m her husband.”

Alienor gestures.  “The remote’s over there.”

Spencer marches towards the table, hand extended… then freezes.  “I-I can trust her, can’t I?”  He looks at Alienor pleadingly.  “Shuh-shuh-she wouldn’t go on the telly just tuh-to say muh-muh-muh-mean things.”

Alienor returns to her painting.  “You gave her a script, no?  Ordered her to memorise it?”

“Yes.  You’re right.  Of course.”  A few seconds pass.  Spencer’s hand starts to twitch.  “Okay, but what if she-”

“Spencer,” Alienor says curtly.  “You’re a Keeper.”

“... Right.  Keeper, heheheh.  Duh-Duh-Daphne’s silliness must be ruh-ruh-rubbing off on me.”  He laughs nervously at his own awkward joke, stiltedly holding the remote.  He takes a deep breath.  “... I’m a Keeper.”

He presses the power button.  Daphne’s glamoured face flashes across forty-eight inches, her laughter echoing through the room.  She starts to speak.  “I-”

Spencer immediately turns the television off and goes back to pacing.

Daphne laughs along with the audience, no matter how loudly the voice in her head screams.

It’s not a fucking joke!  I’m trapped in this nightmare, HELP ME!

“So, Daphne…”  Kimberly shuffles through her cards again.  She’s been doing that more and more as they fly off Guy’s script.  “I think this question’s been on everyone’s mind… how old are you?”

“Twenty-three!”

“And you’ve been married three years.”  Kimberly whistles.  “And Spencer is…?”

“Forty,” Daphne grins.  “Years young.”

The audience doesn’t chuckle.  “That’s a big gap,” Kimberly tilts her head, signalling Daphne for the third time.  “How do you feel about it?”

I hate it.  It disgusts me, and he won’t even admit-

“Actually, I find it a little exciting!”

“Really?”  There’s a strain in Kimberly’s voice.

Daphne shrugs and giggles, like she’s been trained.  Spencer’s line suddenly feels a lot worse with her Mum watching, but…  “Well, you know how it is, with older guys.  He’s got more experience-”

“Okay, okay!”  Kimberly lifts her hand, even as the audience hollers.  “Let’s stick to daytime programming!”  Thank God.  “How exactly does a twenty-year-old meet a sitting MP?  Family friends?  Social gathering?”

“Oh, no!  He-”

-was combing for victims.

“-came from a very different crowd.  We just happened to share drinks.”

“Ooooh,” Kimberly lifts her brow suggestively.  “Doing a little digging, I see.”

Daphne guffaws.  Genuinely.  “Y-you’re giving me way too much credit, Ms. Kimberly.  I’m not that smart.  Didn’t know he was an MP until someone else told me!”

“He kept it hidden?”  Kimberly asks.  “Then what’d you talk about?”

Daphne giggles again, hoping it can hide her shaking.  “Umm… I really shouldn’t…”

She waits for Kimberly to start rousing the crowd.  Dozens of voices start egging her on.  “Daphne, Daphne!”

“… oh, fine!  He’s gonna kill me when he sees this, but we spent the whole time talking about bugs!”

“... bugs?”

“Yeah!  See, I was obsessed with them when I was a kid.  When Spencer learned, he told me about his insect collection.  Even invited me to come see!”

Kimberly folds her arms.  “You didn’t think that was a little creepy?”

It was.  It was a glaring red flag.  And when I saw the nests and the posters, I screamed.  He chased me through the house, made me drink his blood-

“Maybe for some girls, but not for me.”

Daphne readjusts herself.  Most of the audience members are leaning in, enthralled.  Good.  That’s what both MPs were expecting.

“You know, it’s funny.”  Daphne turns back.  “I’m here, talking to one Britain’s biggest names-”

“Aw, thanks.”

“- but exactly three years ago?  I was taking Cro-Mart night shifts.”

For the first time, Kimberly seems actually surprised.  “Really?”

“Yeah.  I was a loner.  The quiet kid.  After dropping uni, I had nothing in front of me.”  Daphne makes herself look shy.  “I just… felt so small at first.  I couldn’t stop thinking, ‘what did this guy see in me?’  Then I learned that-”

-he wanted a pet.  Someone he could enslave.

“-... he was a quiet kid, too.  Had a hard time making friends.  Just like me.”  Daphne folds her hands together, taking a breath.  “Despite all our differences, we share that.  I think that’s what really makes us work.  Almost like it’s… magic.  He changed my life, in ways I had never dreamed.”

“Sounds like he’s lucky to have you.” Kimberly smiles.

Daphne forces the scream down.  “We’re both lucky.”

“So you must have been pretty shocked when you heard Ms. Pujar’s allegations,” Kimberly continues.  “You’ve never been reached for a comment.”

Daphne bites her lip.  She’s crossed into dangerous waters now, even if she’ll still have to smile and laugh.  If she says one thing wrong, Spencer breaks.  If she says everything right…

… he might break anyway.

‘Shouldn’t he break?’  The voice asks her.  ‘You know what he did, to you and her.  And you’re still going to support him?’

“A-Actually…”  Daphne raises her hand meekly.  “I-I would like to comment on that, but…”

What have you done to yourself?

“... I want to speak to Ms. Pujar directly first.”

Kimberly gestures to the cameras.  Daphne scooches to the side, breathes in, and gives the crew some time to zoom before she speaks.

“Shravya.”

The woman’s skin prickles at the sound of her name, but she never looks at the hospital room’s tiny TV.  Between the pile of union paperwork and her sister, asleep at last, there’s more than enough to keep Shravya Pujar occupied.

And yet she can’t bring herself to fully turn away.

“We’ve never met, but my husband’s told me a lot about you. The way you opened his eyes.  The way you taught him to help others like you.”

Shravya scowls.  The little bitch.  Playing for pity, just like her husband.  Of course he married a ditz, of course he’s having her trot out while he cowers behind.  It’s all so him.  He even married a working girl.  Must feel so exotic.

“He’s trying to change Britain, just like you’d want him to.  That’s why we’re both so confused, Ms. Pujar.  You’re threatening that change with words you know aren’t true or fair.”

Papers crinkle beneath her fists.  Unfair.  Her expulsion was unfair.  His actions were unfair.  She added some details, and removed a few others, but she didn’t lie about the pain.  Or the heartbreak.  And those alone weren’t enough to be believed. So where’s the real unfairness?

“But my husband doesn’t blame you for them, Shravya, because you showed him that he needed to change, too.  Even if he didn’t understand, until he had already failed.”

Shravya rears towards the television, ready to snarl at this pixelated girl.  But when her eyes reach the screen, she pauses.  There’s something deeper in Daphne’s face.  Something aware.  Something knowing.

“I’ve never met you, Shravya, but I want to say I’m sorry.  For all the problems your differences caused, and all the pain you might have endured.”

It can’t be transmitted by words or voice, but when the women’s eyes meet, they share a feeling.

A buzz cuts Shravya’s thoughts off.  Her Mum’s text scrolls past.

‘घर पर एक पार्सल आया.  यह आपको संबोधित है.’

‘A parcel came by the house.  It’s addressed to you.’

Shravya glances at the accompanying photos, and a hand covers her mouth.  They show a worn, used cover of Bertrand Russel’s Roads to Freedom, and an intricate drawing of a blue butterfly’s wings.  A note below it reads: “This is what I burned when I pushed you away.”

Shravya keeps reading, the world going still.

‘I hope you weren’t broken, Shravya.  I hope you still soar.  Because I want to fly again, too, and I’m sorry you can’t join me.’

Something wet stains her hand.

“But I’ll speak now as Spencer’s wife,” Daphne’s voice still rings from the television.  “He’s not the monster that you’d make him be.”

Shravya shudders.  Like shifting sands, a twenty-year-old mask slips away.

“My husband has never hurt me,” Daphne whispers.  “And my husband never will.”

The voice is roaring now.  Daphne can see the same discomfort in Kimberly, her wild eyes and unkempt hair.  The woman’s hidden notecards are a jumbled mess, Mallory’s script long abandoned.

“So you believe Ms. Pujar’s lying about your husband’s assault?”

“I don’t think she’s telling the truth.”  That’s easier to swallow than outright lying.  “There are details-”

“But in Monaco, you called him ‘Spencer Alexander Harcourt, my abusive bloody husband.’”

Daphne’s stomach twists, and she fidgets awkwardly on the couch.  Distant whispers emerge from the crowd.

“Should we jog your memory?”  Kimberly smirks.  “‘He had all the money, all the power, and I never had a choice.’”

“Th-that’s…”  Daphne swallows.  “W-well-”

Tell her, the voice beckons.  His commands can’t reach you here.  Tell her everything.  You can END THIS!

“I-”

“‘He stole how I dress, how I look.”  Kimberly looks venomous.  “Daphne’s not even my real name.”

Footsteps patter behind the hostess.  Daphne spies a tall woman in a black leather jacket, leaning against the wall.  She remembers that hawkish face, those searching eyes.  Hannah Clarke, the reporter from Monaco.

That must be her getaway.

“Mrs. Harcourt, why did you say those things if they’re not true?  If your husband really hasn’t hurt you?”

Kimberly pauses for effect.  Daphne looks around the room.  She knows the two women can sense her fear.  The audience, too.  One-and-a-half million British households are tuned in to watch her squirm.

Say it now, the voice compels her.  It’s your only chance.

Daphne closes her eyes.  Breathes deep.  Speaks calmly.

“Ms. Kimberly… that affair in Monaco…”  She opens her eyes.  “I didn’t mean a single word.”

Silence.  She could hear a pin drop.  Kimberly leans forward.  “Excuse me?”

“I told the press false things about my husband.  Things I knew were false.  Because the words were forced out of me.”

Behind Kimberly, Hannah Clarke unfolds her arms.  The hostess squints.  “Forced out?  By who?”

“The MP for Eastleigh.  The Minister for European Affairs.  He’s been conspiring for months to hurt my husband…”

Daphne sits a little straighter and makes sure she speaks clearly.

“... and his name is Guy Mallory.”

Daniel watches the hostess blink.  The Morgan’s are just as confused as she is.  “I don’t-”

“You don’t know him?”  Daphne perks up.  “He was in Monaco with me.  But if that doesn’t ring bells, maybe you should talk with your show’s producers.  He gets lunch with them, did you know?  Seafood and lobster, every Wednesday at 3!”

Kimberly sputters.  “I-”

“Or that woman, there!”  Daphne points off stage, and the camera pivots towards a woman in a leather jacket.  “Hannah Clarke of the Evening Star.  Mallory asked her to tape compromising footage of my husband, sent her our whereabouts so she could summon a paparazzi!  Or maybe you should check your PHONE!”  The camera cuts back to an accusatory Daphne.  “After all, he wrote your questions, just like he wrote all the answers I’m supposed to give!”

The audience roars into rumours.  Daniel squints, resting a hand on his chin.  “Sarah, does our daughter sound… off?”

Sarah blinks at him.  “She’s…under a great deal of pressure…”

Kimberly’s voice shakes as she tries to calm the crowd.  “Ladies, ladies, let’s remember!  These allegations haven’t been verified-”

“It’s called the truth!”

“It’s just… you know how I always watch those speeches in Parliament?  That bit about the lobsters, it sounded exactly like Spencer.  Almost makes me wonder…”

“Daniel…” Sarah furls her brows.

He sighs. “With all those women, you don’t think-”

“My husband’s record was spotless!”  Daphne’s shout breaks their focus.  “Until he crossed Mallory and his backers!  He wanted to free the press!  And for that, they want him DESTROYED!”

“If Spencer was hurting our child…”  Sarah glances around the room again.  Taking in the great emptiness of the space.  “Wouldn’t she say?”

“I know I sound crazy.  The media will call me drugged.  But at this very moment, from my husband’s office, we’ll be publishing our proof!”

Cyril Harcourt swirls his whiskey glass, watching the screen with growing interest.

“We have evidence that Mr. Mallory bribed a dozen women into making false allegations, with funds from the Tory mogul Robert Marshall.  I’ll also be sending messages I received from Mallory, including a script of new claims to raise against my husband here and the documents I’d need to legally seize his estate.”

His nostrils flare.  The estate!?  Over his dead body!  The shock makes him hack another harsh cough.  As he calms, Cyril thinks of Mallory and Marshall both.  A conspiracy was not surprising; they’re stern, ambitious men.  But going for him!?  The leading Tory of the Lords?

How did his son find out first?!

“If I complied with his demands, Mallory offered enough money to keep me secure for life.  If I refused, he’d reveal a deep secret about me, something he only learned in my husband’s trust, something he thought would RUIN me!  Which is why I spoke against my husband, and why I was pushed into giving…”

Daphne hesitates, looking at the ground.  “... other favours.”

Gasps from the audience.  Daphne holds herself and looks away.  Cyril’s phone starts buzzing by his hand.  ‘Police at Westminster,’ it warns.  ‘Docs seem real.’  Explosions from the chat for the Conservative Party.

Something close to a smirk grows on Lord Harcourt’s face.  She’s a fairly good actress, for someone not in politics.  He won’t say he’s impressed by Spencer’s… singer…

… but he can’t deny such a masterful play.

“But I want Mr. Mallory to hear, now, that I will not be playing his game!”

The stage around Daphne is complete pandemonium.  The audience is filming her separately on their phones.  Kimberly demands that the show cut to commercials, and Hannah Clarke seems ready to throttle them both.

But she can’t.  Not while the cameras are on.  And Daphne knows they won’t turn off until she’s had her say.  Kimberly doesn’t control her producers, and Daphne knows these are the highest ratings the show’s ever seen.

Even if Kimberly’s career doesn’t survive the process.

“And to show you all that I stand with Spencer, I want to share the secret that was used to threaten me.  To prove what Guy Mallory’s done.  To prove that I’m not afraid!”

It was her idea.  A single brick in the massive structure her Keeper had built for tonight.  He had protested vehemently at first; the risks were astronomical.  The public could turn against them, the media would go for their throats.  And if - when - Mallory weaselled his way out of the police, he’d use it ruthlessly.

“For those repulsed by bigotry, Mallory’s threat might confuse you.  One would think a woman of my privilege would not have to fear such things, and Mallory so often claims that he’s a ‘tolerant man’.”

Daphne knew there was no other option.  Without a glue to seal their claims, they could all be swatted down.  This final act would give them a chance for sympathy, an explanation for her seclusion and fear of the press in ways a human could understand.

“But in this Britain, the country that Mallory and men like him have made, people like me are never safe.  That’s why I was targeted, as much as my husband’s politics. Because of who I am, and what I represent!  Mallory forced me to say I wasn’t always Daphne, and once, he was right.  But no longer.  Because I…”

She stops.  Time seems to freeze. The stage becomes foggy, and the voices around her dim.  If she says this, Spencer’s won.  His truth becomes fact.  But there’s still an opening in these, a chance to destroy them all.  She can run.

But she’s tired of running.  Tired of losing.  Tired of huddling around those last few pieces of herself that others haven’t managed to take.  She needs a victory.  Even if it’s his.

Daphne closes her eyes, and stands tall and proud.

“Because I am Daphne Harcourt, and I…”

“… am…”

“... transgender.”

+++

Sarah’s face turns white.

+++

Cyril Harcourt spits the whiskey from his mouth.

+++

Henri Ombras flashes a Cheshire cat grin.

+++

And Martha Mallory stares at the screen, breathing slowly, in and out.

… was that why he went to Monaco without her?

The screen shows nothing but chaos.  Befuddled managers, dropped notecards, lots of shouting in English and French.  Carson’s finally watching it all, the phone abandoned to intense interest.

“Holy shit.  Spencer’s wife’s trans?”  They smile.  “That’s cool.”

Then they lower their head and go back to texting.

Mallory smiles as his key fits perfectly into the lock.  He’s standing in the remnants of an old industrial park, with rusty air and silent streets so unlike his side of town.  That’s hardly a problem.  Slumming’s where the fun is.  But when he opens the creaking metal door, he’s not greeted by fun.  Or anything.  Just old, dusty kegs and barrels.

Not a fairy in sight.

Mallory checks the address again, when something raps across the floor.  Metal on concrete.  A figure slides from the shadows, kicking an empty bottle of liquor.

“Took your time,” the figure coos.

Her eyes glow red, and a bronze spear glistens in her hand.

“Lianna?”  Mallory’s brow furrows.  “What are you doing here?”

She flourishes an envelope.  “I was wondering if you knew anything about this letter from Shravya Pujar.  She asked me to say some very damning things against my ex-boyfriend.  Thought it curious, since you’re his best friend.”

Mallory’s eyes grow wide.

Lianna slits out another strip.  “The check even has your signature.”

“Sh-shit!”  Guy starts backing away, eyes on the door, only for the spear to whizz past his face.  He halts with a scream.  The bronze wobbles along the walls, wedged into the mortar.  Guy sputters as Lianna tilts her head.

“Take a moment to think about which of us can reach this door faster, mortal.  I don’t usually miss.”

“I-I-I’m calling the police!”

“Go ahead.  See how that works.  After all, it was your party that defunded them.”  Lianna starts prowling forward, like a leopard.  “Let’s come along, MP Eastleigh, while we can still be quiet.  You’re wanted at another bar, but don’t worry.  The clientele is just as strange.”

Mallory backs into the wall as far as he can.  His fright seems to only make the vampire smirk.  “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on!”

“Gekokujō.  The low overcoming the high.”  Lianna’s eyes glisten.  “But if you were really so stupid as to not check your work, Guy, I suppose I could let you browse Twitter.”

Thwap!  Thwap!

Henri frowns. Between the crack of leather and the politician’s meek, pathetic whimpers, it’s getting hard to hear the radio.

Thwap!

“- warrant has been placed on Guy Mallory, Minister of European Affairs, following allegations by the headline-snatching dilettante Daphne Harcourt that he threatened to expose that she was not a biological woman.”

Thwap!

“Daphne, whose original name is still not disclosed, was on ‘Good Evening Britain’ to discuss her allegedly fraught marriage with Labour MP Spencer Harcourt.  But news of her transgendered status has already shaken social media-”

THWAP!

“Lianna, will you stop that racket?”  Henri scowls. “This is my cocktail lounge, no?  I’d appreciate a moment to bloody concentrate.”

“Then let me kill him, you liberal swine.  I can taste the blood from his bourgeois neck.”  Lianna wraps the belt around her hand.  Though she never actually hit the politician, Guy’s still a blubbering mess tied to the chair.

Henri sighs.  “Trust me, Ms. Stirling, I share your frustrations.  Morris never lets me kill anyone, either.  But if you insist on brandishing that like a dominatrix, I-”

The door bursts open, and Lianna and Henri both snap to attention as Magistrate Morris walks into the room.  His square jaw is clenched, as always.  A dozen inky tendrils slide from his jacket, looping around Mallory’s chair and dragging it towards the Captain’s face.  Mallory yelps with the motion.

“Greetings.”  Morris leans down over the man.  “Are you the MP for Eastleigh?”

If five centuries of vampirism have taught Henri anything, it’s that he doesn’t truly know a human until the moment he feeds on them.  It’s only when they realise that they’re about to become food that mortals adopt some spice. Some try to run.  Others plead.  The foolish ones fight, and the boring ones just stand still, gaping.  As if Henri will spare their necks because they so impressively mimic a frightened deer.

By this analysis, Guy Mallory is very, very boring.

The MP finally stammers a few words.  “Who… who the hell are you?”

“Captain Edward Archibald Morris of HMS Albion. Former Captain of the Portia, current Magistrate of the Scáthsiúlóir. Veteran of Trafalgar, Navarino, and I’ll spare you the full service history, because I know you don’t really care.”  Morris puts a hand on his scabbard.  “You want to know why you’re here.”

The MP tries a smirk. As if they didn’t see him bawling two minutes before.  “Yeah, I do.  You have any idea who the fuck I am?”

“I can guess.”  Morris steps back.  “See, I’m old, Esteemed Minister.  I still remember a time when the Thames did not always smell like shit.  But ever since that water’s turned brown, it’s festered with a new breed of fish.  Large, and brutish, eating anything that swims in its path.  You’ve been swimming in that river for a long time, haven’t you, Mr. Mallory?  Because you consider yourself a very big fish.”

Behind Morris, out of eyesight, Henri Ombras has copied his posture, mouthing the words a half-second before they’re uttered.  The Captain’s been giving little speeches like this since he saw Pirates of the Caribbean.  Lianna struggles to hold back a laugh.

“There’s a funny thing about those fish,” Morris continues.  “The river lets them grow lazy and fat.  They fool themselves into thinking they’re the largest creatures out there.  So every couple of years, one jumps out, thinking they can claim the ocean.  They usually last a day or two, before they meet the sharks.”

Morris lets Mallory see his elongated fangs. The fierce look makes the MP scooch back.

“You thought you could lord over us like you lord over them, but that’s not how this works.  You rule because we let you rule, and we think you’ve bullied one minnow too many.  One we’ve grown quite fond of.”

Mallory’s eyes flash.  “Harcourt.  He set this up!?”

“I know, right?  A politician, scheming?”  Henri puts a hand over his heart.  “It’s unheard of.”

“Don’t listen to him!  That shitbag’s nothing compared to me!”  Mallory barks, chuckling nervously.  “Whatever influence he holds, I hold more.  Whatever he’s paying, I can double!”

“You think we’d do this for money?”  Morris scowls.  “Who do you think we’d want as our pointman?  Someone who backstabs his friend at the first opportunity, or someone who’s proven reliable?”

He pauses, noticing the looks from Lianna and Henri.  “More reliable,” he corrects.

At that, they shrug.  Henri folds his hands together.  “Though if you are interested in donating to small, local, British businesses-”

“Ombras.”

“Had to try.”  Henri shrugs.

“Spencer’s a little snake.  A worm.  Even his wife loathes him.”  Mallory seethes.  “He’ll shatter into a thousand pieces without me, you hear?  He’s NOTHING!”

“We’re just the messengers, Esteemed Minister.”  Morris marches towards Mallory, placing his phone against the MP’s ear.  “If you have something to say, speak to him.”

The night air is cool, but Spencer can barely feel it between his rapid breaths.  The phone shakes in his hand, and all the tongue twisters in the world couldn’t keep the stutter from his voice.  “Heh-hello?”

“Spence!  Buddy!  How ya doin’?”  Mallory’s voice crackles through the speaker.  “Listen, I’m in a bit of a tight spot.  Your Nazi pal’s spouting nonsense.  Was hoping you could return a favour or two by calming her-”

“No.”  Spencer makes the word sound flat.  Harsh.  Final.

“Guy, it’s over.”

Despite all his years knowing him, Spencer couldn’t guess how Guy Mallory would react tonight.  Anger?  Fear?  But he expected something loud, which is why the quiet unnerves him.

“You’re pulling.”  It’s stated like a demand.  “Spence, seriously, we’ve been friends for thirty years.  I was your fucking best man.  How could you believe Daphne’s bullshit, after everything I’ve done for you?”

“Daphne’s?”

“She reached out to me, Spencer, this was all her idea.  You know she’s wanted to escape from day one, but I wouldn’t have allowed it.  I was going to bring her right back, promise!  I’ve always stood by you!  So get your head out of your ass and help me!”

“Have you always been this afraid, Guy?  Of the moment everyone realises just how much you’ve been lying?”  Spencer interrupts him, his face set.  “Take the mask off, for once.  Before this ends, I want to talk to you like a man.”

There’s a long pause before Mallory speaks.  Spencer waits patiently, confused by his own calm.  “The cops won’t stop me, Spencer.”

“I know.  But they only need to slow you down.”  Spencer explains.  “Long enough to get your seat suspended, long enough for the Press Bill to pass.  And then your platform is gone, and with it, your power.  Face it, Guy.  No matter what you do, you’ve lost.”

“Funny,” Mallory replies.  “That’s what I was about to tell you.”

Spencer furrows his brows, squeezing the phone so tightly that he hears his knuckles crack.

“She was going to choose me, Spence, before you found out.  You know that, and you’re always going to know that.”

“She chose me now.”

“And how long will that last?  A week?  A month?  Nothing’s changed, Spencer.  You’re still the same snivelling, pathetic dog I picked up in school, and nobody’s ever going to want you.”

Something squeezes in Spencer’s gut.  Ancient words, their speakers long forgotten.  Freak.  Retard.  Coward.  Spencer presses his feet to the floor, sucking in breath.  A second passes before he opens his eyes.

“Maybe you’re right, Guy.  Maybe I’m still scared.  But I know one thing’s changed, because I’m not afraid of you.”  Spencer scowls.  “Ombras, teach this man fear.”

“Avec plaisir, Monsieur Harcourt.”  A distant voice rings.

Something loudly pierces through the speakers, and Spencer can practically sense the icy air rising from that distant loungeroom.  The inky fog, the slimy tendrils.  The loss of shape and sight, but for rows of sharp teeth pulled into a wide, Cheshire cat grin.

“What the fuck!?”  He hears Mallory blubber in his seat, pleading into the phone.  “Spence, wait, buddy, PLEASE!”

“The truth hurts, Guy Mallory.  Consider that a parting lesson from my wife.”

“SPENCER-”

Spencer disconnects, and exhales.  The world suddenly seems empty.  Void of colour.  He opens his camera and flips through pictures of Monaco, of Mallory, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, smiling that knowing smile.

Thirty years of torment gone, with the single click of a button.

Lianna stands over the Respite’s balcony railing, watching gamblers and debutantes beneath a field of strobing lights.  Joking, dancing, revelling in their hedonism, even as it bleeds them dry.

Her brows furrow at the sounds of heavy boots and the scent of tobacco in her nostrils.  “Keep that narcotic away from me,” she hisses.  “I don’t want to inhale your smoke.”

“Relax, Ms. Stirling.”  Edward Morris walks until he’s beside her, shifting his pipe.  “There’s no reason to be such a Nazi.”

She scowls at the joke, but doesn’t leave.  Neither does he.  It’s the closest they’ve been in a century, and neither is quite eager to smash through the ice.

“So,” Lianna sighs.  “What happens now?”

“The Harcourt’s have divulged their plans to me.  They’ll be under the full protection of the Scáthsiúlóir.  That should keep any mortal threats back… and make sure the Poisoned Ones stay away from their children.”

Morris looks at Lianna.  She rebalances on the railing, trying to hide her shock.  “... You’d help a human Keeper?”

“You’d help a transgender,” Morris cuts back.

Lianna frowns.  “If you think you can glean my reasons for joining her-”

“There’s no need.  Anyone could tell from your cheeks.”

Lianna bristles, but Morris ignores it.  Instead, he leans further down, watching the dancers, so full of life.

“I hope I’m doing the right thing.”

“It’s her choice,” Lianna replies.  Morris turns towards her, curiously, and so she elaborates.  “I’d have preferred her freedom.  So would you.  But though we’re powerful people, there’s never enough power to go around.  I gave her all the tools I had, and I’ll make peace with that.”

“... You’re right, Ms. Stirling.  Our part’s been played.”  Morris shifts his pipe.  “Whatever happens, it’s in their hands.”

Daphne races past the alleyways and car parks, worries chasing through her head.  What if this doesn’t stop Guy?  What if the public despises her?

What about the Tower?

But each only lasts as long as she needs to catch her breath.  It’s not her responsibility, Daphne reminds herself.  She can leave it all to her husband.  Her Keeper.

He waits on a street corner, silhouetted by the headlights of their rented car.  She rushes forward, a new excitement in her steps, her voice rising as she calls out.  “Spence!  We did it!  It went exactly like you said!  Everything got crazy, and I ran, and the audience was furious, and oh my God, we beat him, we really… Spencer?”

She looks past his pale fingers, and towards the camera in his other hand.  Spencer stares into the distance, vacant.  His shoulders are hunched, and he’s breathing sharply. Lethargically, he turns towards her.  His without light.

“It’s… over?”

Daphne nods quickly.  “Yes.  We won.  He’s gone, and he’s never coming back.”

“But…”  Something breaks across Spencer’s face.  Twisting and ugly.  “... You’re still here.”

Her eyes spark, but through the flicker of panic, she keeps her smile.

“Of course I’m here, Spencer.  Where else would I be?”

Like a dam bursting, he embraces her.  So tightly, and so totally, that she can barely breathe.  Daphne feels his body shake as he presses her to his chest, his face arching over her head.  Spencer relaxes his weight onto her, forcing them both to lean.

“Yuh-yuh-yuh-you stayed,” he stutters.  Tears start to sprinkle her hair.  “You dih-dih-diiiidn’t leave.”

He sobs loudly, his trembles shaking them both.  The more he melts above her, the closer he pulls her in.  Daphne lets him, unmoving.  Whatever voice might have once resisted has long grown dead and cold.

“I’m here, Spence.  I’m here.”  She whispers, so quiet he couldn’t possibly hear.  “I’ll always be beside you, and…”

His tears slide down her forehead, merging with her own.

“... and I’ll never, ever leave.”

continue reading -> 

Hey everyone!  It’s your friendly neighbourhood Lehanna.  I hope you all found the chapter as enthralling as it was to write it.  Though many of these characters were far from morally righteous, it’s great to give them a farewell.

This chapter was a gargantuan effort, and I couldn’t have done it without the team’s dedication.  Huge shout outs to Heart for her lovely illustration and Hark for his superb editing here.

Daphne’s chosen her future, but what will it look like?  Find out as we enter Fairy Bride’s final act in Chapter 26: The Sins of the World, coming to you Friday, January 5th.  See you then!