by M. A. Grant
The wraith is on the move again, leading its disgusting army into battle. Roark’s busy casting a series of jagged ice waves at some deer zombies and their smaller woodland compatriots that just emerged from the nearby trees, so I reach down and snag some rocks from the ground.
No time like the present to use my magick to avoid death.
“Phineas Smith winds up for the pitch,” I mutter, trying to gauge the distance between us. “He pulls back—”
My rock flies through the air and hits the wraith in the free-floating cloth where its legs should be. The ley line remains dormant beneath me.
“Poor form, Smith,” Roark mocks from my right. Another wave of ice cuts us off from the pack of decomposing dogs staggering their way toward us.
I try to ignore Roark’s amusement. “Let’s see if he can come back from this.” I wrap my fingers tighter around the next stone. “He winds up. And—”
This rock pings against the wraith’s broken ribs before bouncing inside its chest cavity. The creature makes a sound of displeasure, but doesn’t slow its approach. Again, no ley line. The lub-dub of those two hearts echoes like battle drums in my head.
“Bases are loaded. Phineas Smith is the last hope—”
Roark grumbles something that sounds an awful lot like Goddess, please, no. I draw my arm back. This time, I focus on scratching the surface of the ley line, a subtle invitation for it to come and play.
It finally answers. The warmth tickles up my leg and spine, resting in my shoulder before flowing down my arm into my fingers. I let the power seep into the stone, whisper a quick prayer, and fling the rock with all my might.
The good news: The rock hits its target. The heart it slams into makes a wheezing noise and the already discordant beat shifts again, even more jarring this time.
The bad news: The rock’s on fire, which means the wraith is now on fire, and for some godforsaken reason, all the corpses the wraith reanimated burst into flame, too.
I shriek, Roark swears, and the ley line misinterprets this as me asking for more power because it flares again. Now the dogs drip fiery spittle from their jaws and the freaking deer are crowned with flaming antlers.
“Enough,” Roark commands. “Enough helping.”
I would argue, but he’s already in motion. Roark’s one of the best fighters I’ve ever seen. He’s all fluid, catlike grace and absurd strength, capable of bending under vicious attacks or standing so firm our enemies break against him and shatter. I watch in awe as he conjures a magickal rapier from nowhere, bounds up one of his ice waves, and takes a flying leap to drive the blade straight into the wraith’s burning heart. It’s a beautiful lethality, one that secures my safety instead of threatening it, and it does things to me.
The moment he lands the blow, the wraith crumples to the ground and the zombies freeze in place. The creature’s not dead, but it’s clearly on its last legs. It struggles ineffectually to escape.
“Your business?” Roark asks it.
It answers, but Roark gives a hard shake of its head. “So he can understand,” he snaps.
Oh. I’m the he.
The wraith’s jaw skitters, its teeth bouncing together with painful xylophonic sound, but speaks again. “Hungry.”
“For?”
“Power.”
“Always,” I grumble.
“Like you have much else to offer,” Roark says. He gives a light huff at the sight of my raised middle finger before returning his focus to the wraith. “You can’t have him.”
“Hungry,” the wraith whines. It’s eerie to watch the pale green flames of its eyes flicking between Roark and me. Eerier still to see those fleshless lips clicking out words without a tongue or vocal cords to form them. “Want him.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
I blink. Never would have expected to hear that from Roark.
Roark leans closer to the impaled monster and whispers something else in that ancient tongue. The words are swift, slick, beautiful in their primeval flow. The wraith’s eyes burn brighter and it hisses back a response. I don’t have to know the language to know it’s furious. When Roark doesn’t respond, the wraith coos something else and those green flames fix on me.
Greedy. Hungry. Just like every other damn creature that’s ever come after me.
My roommate follows its stare. His gaze holds on me for a moment. Roark’s nothing like the wraith or any of the other magickal beings who’ve ever come after me. There’s no hunger in his look...just a flash of something that’s gone too fast for me to recognize it.
The wraith whispers again, but Roark’s had enough. He pushes the rapier’s blade in deeper, pinning the wraith more fully, and recites something. At the silvery words, the wraith shatters. Its two flaming green orbs hold for a moment in the still night air before rising higher and higher, until they whisk away on a night breeze far above us.
The moment they vanish from our sight, the zombies around us collapse. They don’t go back to where they came or anything. That would be too nice. Too clean. Too much like the world had pity on me.
Instead, they collapse in place. Smoldering piles of rotting limbs or already bleached-out bones. They look bad. They smell worse.
“You’re a menace,” Roark says, staring hard at one of the burning piles of what used to be a ferret. “Six years, and you still can’t control your magick. They should have expelled you after the hydra.”
“Sorry I and the rest of the student population at the stadium didn’t have the forethought to rip apart an ancient monster with ice spears so it couldn’t regenerate—”
“Or ability,” Roark interrupts. “Forethought or ability.”
I flip him off and kneel so I can inspect my shin. Yeah, definitely going to need some rubbing alcohol for this one, maybe some superglue for the worst of the lines. I glance up. “Regardless, thanks for helping tonight.”
“Don’t mention it.” A muscle in his jaw flexes. “I’m serious. Don’t mention a word of this to anyone.”
He draws himself up and explodes into a cloud of ravens that blot out the streetlights before vanishing into the night sky above me, crowing his victory for the world to hear.
His message is clear: The Prince of Air and Darkness is back.
Chapter Three
Roark
The only thing keeping my gnawing sense of failure at bay when I head to class this morning is the knowledge that I saved Smith last night. Again. At least some things remain status quo.
Normally my return to Mathers is one of joy; on campus, despite the expectations of my title, I’m freer than when I’m back home at Court. This year, though, the weight doesn’t lift from my shoulders as I make my way down gleaming footpaths and past tall stone dormitories and lecture halls. The term’s classes have already been in session for weeks. The campus should be a busy hive of activity, students from all Pantheons mixing and mingling as they wander to and from classes. I suppose they still do, but there’s cautious distance between certain groups now, a subtle shift of seating in common areas, and more people walk with lowered heads and increased purpose.
I receive some nods of acknowledgment from those I pass, but more than a few students drop their gazes, suddenly distracted by their books or feet or the architecture of nearby buildings. While I’ve never been popular with the Seelie students, they’ve never outright avoided me. Worse, there are students from other pantheons acting the same way. Mother worried rumors would begin to spread outside the Courts’ boundaries. She’ll be displeased to hear her suspicions were founded.
The thought of bearing bad news to her again grows into an ache behind my sternum. I’ve lived free of doubt for centuries only to have my composure shattered in a scant handful of years. Disappointing Mother, being incapable of preventing Sláine’s defection, walking away from unproductive bargaining at the Accords... Every choice I make reeks with the threat of failure.
Is this how Smith feels all the time? Constantly wondering if he’s made the ri
ght decision, constantly searching for validation that he hasn’t made the situation worse?
No wonder he’s such a disaster.
Fellow students mill around me as I enter the university’s main commons and head toward the registrar’s office. Hopefully I won’t have too long a wait to clear up this registration mess. I’m heading up the steps into the building when a young redcap coming down spots me and does a double take. “Your Highness! I didn’t expect to see you here so soon.”
I draw up on the stairs, pulling a bit on my glamour to ensure I’m portraying an appropriately formal expression instead of mild irritation at the interruption. “Oh?”
“Did you get a chance to talk to Ripthorn?”
Ominous. “Why would I need to talk to Ripthorn?” I ask.
The redcap squints at me, torn between confusion and a newfound wariness. “Well, after last night I figured he’d go to you before he came to make a formal report—”
Dammit. The campus police are stationed in this building. I do my best to cover for my ignorance, and offer what I hope is a charming smile. “I haven’t run into him yet. Can you remind me which dorm he’s in?”
“O-of course, Your Highness. He lives in Isidore Hall.”
“Thank you. I’ll try to catch him there right now.”
The registrar will have to wait. If one of my subjects is coming to make a police report, it’s critical I reach him first and learn what I can about the situation. Our Court cannot afford to be blindsided by unknown details at any potential hearing. I cannot be blindsided by details of what my subjects are suffering while I’ve been away.
Isidore Hall serves as a purgatory for first-and second-year university students. It’s designed to be a mixing place for the various Pantheons, so our young people can meet and mingle and form lasting friendships across cultural divides. Before this summer, I fully supported the idea of mixing magickal groups. Now, I hate that my Unseelie subjects are spread out around campus. What was once a gesture of unity now feels like an unnecessary risk.
It’s easy enough to get inside the hall. A passing dryad holds the door for me, not giving a second glance as I sweep past her. The RA’s room is on the first floor, near the entrance. His door is open, so I walk in and ask where Ripthorn’s room is located.
I don’t need to say who I am, or why I need the information. Everyone on campus knows me. I’m fairly certain it’s a combination of my looks—I take after my mother—and my reputation, which preceded me for centuries before I finally took my place here. No one refuses the Unseelie prince, even if they should. I suppose I should be grateful my title gets me what I need when I need it, but sometimes the flustered apologies and respectful distance grows tiresome.
Once the RA gives me what I need, I head upstairs. Room 208 is toward the end of the hall, tucked in between a storage closet and the last room. This end of the hall is unnaturally quiet, as if the residents are doing their best not to disturb Ripthorn. Their caution digs at my conscience. What the hell happened last night? And why didn’t anyone find me before now? It’s not like I wasn’t around.
You were with Smith, an insidious fear whispers. You’ve chosen him before.
Shut up. Don’t think of that.
I rap my knuckles against the door and wait.
A scuffle of movement from the other side. When the door finally opens, it’s only a narrow gap and I’m fairly certain the woman standing there glaring at me isn’t going to open it much farther.
“What do you want?” she asks. She’s taller than me, wiry, and with a short bob of dark hair. Her accent is faint, but there’s a rough timbre to her words that betrays her worry. The white glow of her eyes underscores that emotion. Ripthorn knows a dragon. Just my luck.
Instead of playing twenty questions and heightening the anxiety, I cut to the chase. “I’m Prince Lyne of the Winter Court. I just returned to campus from the Accords and was asked to check on my subject Ripthorn. Is he home?”
A tremulous voice calls out from behind the woman at the door. “Prince Lyne? Réka, it’s fine. Let him in.”
Réka glowers at me, but steps back from the door and gestures me inside. As soon as I make it past the threshold, she closes and locks the door behind me and stalks to stand beside the young fae who waits in the center of the dorm room.
The easiest reaction would be anger, but Ripthorn is so nervous I worry he’d think my rage was directed at him. Rather than risk that, I cover my fury with glamour and state the obvious. “You look like shit.”
He winces a little when he laughs. I pretend not to notice the way his hand shakes when he reaches up to brush his teal hair behind his ear, skimming lightly over a split cheekbone. The damage is extensive. An ugly welt at the corner of his mouth. Blackened eyes turning deep purple. And judging by the way Réka carefully leads him back to sit on one of the beds, the rest of him probably took a beating as well.
Once he’s more comfortably settled, I pull out a desk chair and take a seat. Part of me idly catalogues how close they sit together, the way Réka watches Ripthorn’s hand reflexively gripping at his knee. Her expression is painfully earnest, her affection and concern obvious despite my presence. When she rests her hand over Ripthorn’s, the fae shudders and slumps against her.
“What do you need to know?” Ripthorn asks me. His words are dull, even if his body is caught in the throes of panic.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened,” I suggest. “I’m not here to judge your actions. I simply want to know what occurred last night.”
I have to remain as dispassionate as possible. It doesn’t matter how much I hate this part of my job; it is the most critical aspect of my role on campus. Collecting facts, asking invasive questions, and acting as if I don’t believe the victim’s pain are all necessary to appease the Pantheons. The Unseelie subjects must be supported, but there can be no question of my making an erroneous judgment based on emotion.
It comes in fits and starts. If it weren’t for Réka’s quiet strength, the way she keeps rubbing her thumb over Ripthorn’s knuckles, I don’t know if the kid would have ever told me the truth.
He went to Domovoi’s with a few friends. They left early and he stayed behind to finish his beer. Some Seelie he didn’t recognize from campus came in. They got drunk. They tried to pick a fight with an ogre first. When that didn’t happen, they tried to pick a fight with him. He left immediately and headed back to campus. They caught him before he could get back to the dorm.
Réka squeezes Ripthorn’s hand. “I should hunt them down.”
“Don’t,” I command. “Retaliating without the Pantheons’ approval could set off another Faerie Civil War.”
A ripple of magick. It’s ancient, strong, and reminds me of the shocking power of a gust of wind from an unexpected direction.
“I am not your subject,” she growls.
I lift my chin and hold her glare. “But Ripthorn is,” I tell her. “One escalation leads to another.” And then, softly, just to her, “I can’t risk making worse for the next faerie.”
Her nostrils flare and her magick swells, growing until I fear she’ll shift right here. I don’t want to fight a dragon today. The urge to reach into my glamour for my sword, to prepare my defense thrums through me. I ignore it. Réka isn’t reacting to me...she’s reacting to the pain she feels on Ripthorn’s behalf.
This is what love does to us.
What fools we are.
Only my understanding stays my hand from my sword’s grip. And I hate the woman for reminding me why.
“I’ll take this to Dean Tanaka.” With this news, he’ll make time for an appointment with me whether he wants to or not. “The Pantheons will probably want to interview you since you were injured in a neutral zone. Mother or I will be present with you.”
I stand, wishing I had something better to offer than diplomatic words. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. If you need anything else,” I tell him, writing my cell’s number on a scrap of paper on the
desk.
Réka rises and escorts me to the door. I’m not surprised when she follows me out into the hall. To avoid the lecture she’s probably been preparing for our moment alone, I cut her off with “Thank you for taking care of him.”
She opens her mouth, likely to rationalize it away, but I wave a hand. “He’s relaxed with you. He feels safe. My subjects’ safety matters to me. So, thank you.”
One second. Two. Three. Réka’s shoulders drop. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help him last night.” The admission scrapes its way out of my throat.
“You’re here now. It’s enough.”
I wish that were true.
Once I get outside the dorm, I summon one of our ravens and send a message to my mother. Neutrality broken. Meeting with Tanaka tonight.
There. That should catch her attention well enough. I watch the bird disappear into the darkening twilight, its blackness blending into the star-speckled sky. The temptation to give in to my mind’s desire to escape, to allow my body to scatter into ravens, to become fractured wholes that weave and bob and dart through the air calls. Free. The only freedom I ever have.
No time. I need to meet with the registrar. Get back to the apartment. Wait for Mother’s reply. Write up reports and draft declarations. Email my professors. Buy my damn textbooks.
And yet, despite the growing list of things I need to accomplish, guilt sticks in the back of my throat, threatening to suffocate me. Ripthorn was so close to where Smith and I fought the wraith. If I knew, could I have made the right choice? Could I have exchanged Ripthorn’s safety for Smith’s?
I know what my answer to that question should be. Despite that, the truth will linger in the back of my mind all day.
* * *
Mother doesn’t contact me until the evening. The moment her pale, perfect reflection appears in the still water of the scrying bowl on my dresser, her expression twists into a frown.
