Page 23 of The Unseelie War
“That way,” Bitty pointed toward what had once been the theater district, her tiny face pale but determined. “It's coming from the Boston Opera House.”
“Of course it is," Ava muttered. “Because nothing says ‘dramatic supernatural crisis’ like an opera house full of goddamnmonsters.”
As they got closer, the architecture became increasingly bizarre. The familiar red brick facades of Boston's historic buildings had been invaded by the twisted tree spires that belonged in Tir n'Aill.
Street lamps had become crystalline trees that chimed in the wind, and the sidewalks were paved with sheets of music. No, they were builtfromsheets of music, compacted together instead of bricks or concrete.
The Boston Opera House itself was barely recognizable. The original archway of the facade had been replaced with thorny vinesthat pulsed with a sickly green light, and the traditional marquee by floating letters that spelled out words in the First Language.
The buildingitselfseemed to be alive. More than that, the buildingitselfseemed to be the source of the roaring. Its walls were flexing with each inbreath and then shrinking with each muffled sound.
“Thefuck?”Ava could only stare up at the literal monstrosity.
“I do not know, but I do believe we are about to find out.” Serrik sighed.
Another roar echoed from within the building, followed by a distinctly feline yowl of distress.
Something in Ava clicked. She knew that yowl. “Lysander!” Immediately, she took off running toward the entrance.
“As predicted. After you, Bitty.”
“Come on, Mr. Serrik!” Ava heard Bitty yell. “We have to help him!”
The main doors had been replaced by what looked like the entrance to a cave, complete with stalactites dripping some kind of luminescent fluid. As they approached, Ava could hear voices from inside—multiple voices, all speaking at once in tangled, echoing cacophony.
“—not real not real NOT REAL?—”
“—just a dream just a story just a?—”
“—what's the point what's the PURPOSE?—”
And underneath it all, she could hear Lysander's voice, strained and desperate. “Stop! Please, just stop talking! I can't—I can't think?—”
They rushed through the cave-mouth entrance and into what had once been the opera house's main lobby. The space had been transformed into something that looked like a collision between a concert hall and an Unseelie throne room. The ceiling soared up and twisted in dizzying ways, supported by columns made of crystal. The floor was a mosaic of mirrors that reflected the room around them, butnot them.
And in the center of it all, something massive writhed and twisted.
It was hard to look at directly—the creature seemed to shift between forms faster than the eye could track. One moment it was a giant cat with too many eyes, the next a humanoid figure made of shadow, then something that seemed to twitch and spasm like a glitch on a computer screen.
It was the source of the cacophony. All the muddled, screaming voices that were talking and howling at once. But through the chaos, there was one phrase that it was repeating over and over again. One phrase that all the voices seemed to be chanting beneath all the rest.“What are you? What are you? What are you?”
Lysander was backed against one of the crystal columns, flickering between his humanoid and cat forms in time with the flickering of the monster in front of him. Sometimes he was translucent, other times solid. When he spoke, his voice kept changing—sometimes his own, sometimes echoing with voices Ava didn't recognize.
“I don't know!” he screamed, his form shifting so rapidly it hurt to watch. “I don't know why I exist! I don't know, please stop!” His voice changed mid-sentence, becoming deeper, more resonant. “—what purpose do I serve—” Another shift. “—if any purpose at all! Why wasn’t I allowed to just die?”
The nightmare creature clearly fed on his confusion, growing larger and more solid with each word. It reached out with appendages that might have been claws or tentacles or something worse, trying to engulf the flickering fae entirely.
“Hold on, Lysander.” Ava stepped forward, reaching out to tap into her new power. But as she started to draw on her new abilities, the creature turned toward her. Something in it seemed to snap, like lightning finding a grounding rod.
She caught a glimpse of its true nature.
It wasn'tjustLysander's nightmare. It washers.
That made sense, didn’t it?
She made him, after all.
His doubt was hers. And all that shame she'd felt about creating him, about whether their friendship was real or manufactured. The guilt over making someone to serve her needs without considering what he might want for himself. The fear that she was no better than the fae she'd criticized for manipulating others.
