by M. A. Grant
The cool night air outside helps. With the spontaneous combustion issue, I mean, not my inevitable death. The reality isn’t as terrifying as it used to be. All the other people who had this power died before the age of twenty, including Joan of Arc. So...hooray, I’ve already exceeded my life expectancy.
That’s what Herman and Sue wrote on my birthday cake back when I turned twenty-one. Happy Birthday, Finny! You’re still alive!
“More’s the pity,” Roark had murmured as he snagged a piece of it and vanished back to his room. It wasn’t insulting; Roark’s never hidden that he’ll be first in line to dance a jig on my grave when it’s all over.
Maybe Roark will end up killing me first. Take that, history.
Restless, but unwilling to risk others’ lives while I’m this out of control, I check my phone to see what time it is. Plenty late now. Hopefully Roark’s gone to bed or wandered off to do whatever Unseelie princes are supposed to do when the faerie Courts are squabbling.
I don’t want to see him again tonight. But part of me craves it because he’s the only person who calls my future like it is. Who calls me like I am.
Instead of heading home, I walk the grounds. Even after dark, I never worry about walking Mathers’s campus. It’s one of the few neutral zones in the world established by the magickal Pantheons. No one is stupid enough to risk the wrath of immortal entities to commit any crime against a student while they’re peacefully studying at university.
“Hey.”
I jump and the ley line follows suit, rising up and smashing into me like a rogue wave. A quick spin and panicked “The fuck?” reveals the cause of my most recent heart attack.
Robin Goodfellow sits cross-legged a few feet above the ground. Instead of the drunken sneer he sported the last time I saw him in the park, he’s all humble contrition now. Pressing a hand to my sternum doesn’t help me catch my breath, but it does make me feel a little less like my heart will beat its way out of my chest.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Sorry about last night,” Goodfellow says. “I thought it was a game. Didn’t know that thing was actually coming after you.”
“Most people don’t.”
He picks at a fraying lace on his boot, contemplative despite his refusal to look directly at me. I’m shifting, searching for a polite way to sneak around him, before he finally says, “I could’ve stayed to help you.”
I don’t like how he makes it sound like a question, a potential deal, instead of a simple observation or apology. I wave off his dubious concern. “You had no reason to stick around. Besides, it worked out.”
“I noticed.” He tilts his head and the streetlights glint off an unnerving smile. “Little human like you... I never guessed you’d survive that kind of attack. How’d you make it out?”
Instead of the normal urge to be friendly and chat, a voice in the back of my head whispers for caution. It sounds a hell of a lot like Roark, which makes sense. He was the person who warned me about Goodfellow’s penchant for dickish tricks and high-stakes wordplay.
I return Goodfellow’s smile with a polite one of my own. “The usual. You know...” I point toward the path. “It’s getting late. I should be going.”
“Sure. Sure. Have a good night.” Even after he fades away into the night, the sensation of being watched doesn’t leave until I’m almost halfway home. Only then can I relax and start to enjoy my surroundings.
Overhead, streetlights flicker in and out. The path I’m on is slow and easy, meandering its way past the public gardens of the campus. Agriculture majors like me are required to care for the gardens during our undergrad studies, so this is a familiar stomping ground.
To my left, the chaotic shadows of the English garden loom. It’s one of my favorite spaces, an explosion of growth carefully tamed to provide the illusion of wild beauty. During the day, numerous Seelie visit this garden. It makes sense, since their powers cater to growth and the proliferation of new life.
The wet clicking and popping from the darkness alerts me that something is off. For a second, I think one of my knees is out of joint or that Goodfellow’s returned to play a trick on me. By the time I realize neither of those is the case, it’s too late.
Roark
Dean Tanaka’s office is formal, but comfortable. Designed to assure anyone visiting that he’s “one of the people” while also upholding Mathers’s hallowed moral strictures. A power play done up in silk tapestries, tatami, and fine woods, capable of tricking lesser visitors into underestimating his abilities due to his absolute hospitality.
I sit at the shadowed right hand of my mother’s throne in the depths of our sídhe’s cavernous halls. Tanaka’s going to have to work harder to impress me.
He’s well aware of the fact. It’s the reason he’s sitting across from me at a low table like an equal, a cup of tea steaming gently beneath his steepled hands, instead of trying to win me over by showing me his exquisite art collections.
“I find it interesting that you’re speaking to me about this issue when the student in question hasn’t even filed an official report,” he says, returning to the point he’s been pressing for the last ten minutes. “Perhaps he doesn’t intend to file a complaint.”
“Perhaps,” I agree, keeping my hands resting on my knees. A hint of glamour hides the way I have to flex them from time to time in frustration.
“Until I have the report in my hand, I have no reason to believe our faerie students will act out again in such a way. Students from either Court,” he adds quickly.
“I see.”
“Until all the facts are gathered, this incident could be little more than an accident. A drunken act gone terribly wrong. Perhaps a prank taken too far in the heat of the moment, as in the past.”
I bite my tongue and resist the urge to shatter his delicate china cup by freezing his tea. Or his hand.
“Dean Tanaka,” I finally say when I can keep the trembling from my voice, “we both know I am attending Mathers as a gesture of Queen Mab’s goodwill. She has spent decades urging the youth of the Winter Court to pursue higher education and support the Pantheons’ push for economic diversity. We both know that it is my word alone which keeps my people—and their tuition money—from leaving this institution overnight.”
His eyes flash silver and the pads of his fingers press together tightly. I’ve spent centuries studying Mother’s diplomacy. One of her lessons has never failed to guarantee me what I want: In order to win someone to your side, you must know what they’re unwilling to lose and promise they can keep it.
I lean closer. “This was more than a simple prank. If I believe my subjects are in any danger, I will not hesitate to ensure their safety.”
It’s an unsubtle threat, but my tolerance has been pushed beyond its limit. Besides, he looks away first. I’ve won this round. Mother will be so pleased.
“I’ll need to consult the Board and the Pantheons first,” he says slowly, “after the student files a formal report. However, if the perpetrators are not students at this university, the situation will be out of my hands. All justice will be meted out by the Pantheons. In the meantime, you may assure Queen Mab that any retaliation committed by students on campus will receive immediate punishment.”
His stern expression emphasizes the casual threat he levels back at me. At least the battle lines are clear. “I would expect no less,” I say. “Our students will be reminded of the university’s expectations for their conduct.”
“Clearly reminded, I’m sure.” He rises, the first outright inhospitable gesture he’s made tonight, and gives me the barest tilt of a bow. “Good evening, Prince Lyne.”
I mirror his gesture, bowing a little deeper to give the illusion of respect. “Thank you for seeing me, Dean Tanaka. Good night.”
I send Mother another raven once I’m walking back toward the apartment. Campus has fallen silent over the course of our meeting, with most of the students gone to parties or on weekend trips. It’s my fav
orite time of night, when the streetlights can barely compete with the darkness. It’s a time to think.
The unavoidable truth has shown itself. The Seelie never used to cross these kinds of lines. Tricks and pranks between Winter and Summer fae were common, a safe way for us to push each other’s limits. The glory came from avoiding physical harm, not causing it. As long as it didn’t disrupt the academic setting or negatively impact other students, Dean Tanaka usually let such matters slide, trusting the faerie monarchs to mete out justice if anything went a bit too far. That’s probably why he doesn’t understand how this is different. In my time on campus, I’ve never seen a student physically assaulted on campus grounds. If they went after Ripthorn and receive no punishment, they’ll find other Unseelie. They may start harassing our allies, as well. Friends from other Pantheons. People like—
A low, buzzing hum vibrates down my spine.
Smith?
My steps falter and I glance up. About a hundred yards away, the library stands, an island of warm light in an ocean of shadow. Herne and the hunters, how did I end up here?
I turn, determined to walk away, to ignore the uneven tug of Smith’s magick, when the library’s door opens. Out walks the idiot, hands stuffed in his pockets, head down. He must have fled the apartment so quickly he didn’t even bother to take his work with him.
The sizzle of the ley line’s energy reaches my glamour in spite of the distance between us. I run a hand over my arm to ease the sensation and wonder if anything else can sense the alluring promise of his magick. Wonder if even now something other than me crouches in the darkness and watches him.
Walk away. Following him will only lead to trouble. He’s not yours.
I wait until his silhouette’s nearly vanished before following after him.
Phineas
A sharp prickling around my ankle as something tightens its grip, using my step forward to yank me off balance. Flashes of light spark behind my eyelids when my chin hits the dirt. The jarring impact slams my mouth shut and the cloying coppery salt of blood drowns me.
There’s no time to focus on that. Whatever snatched me is hauling me deeper into the garden. The damp grass tickles my stomach as my shirt rides up. I focus on kicking with my free foot, attempting to roll myself onto my back so I can at least see what the hell I’m supposed to be fighting.
We’re rapidly approaching the covered trellis that leads into the garden proper. Once I’ve been dragged off the main path and find myself alone in the darkness with this thing... Past experiences have proven that is when things try to eat me.
I spread my arms wide, digging my fingertips into the grass. We’re turning, which is bad. The curve necessary to pull me that direction brings me close to the edge of the path and I finally can snag a hold of the base of one of the hedges, which is good. So much pressure against my shoulder, against my tenuous grip. Gotta take advantage of this.
I haul my free leg up, pushing off with my toe so I can get my other hand around the trunk. Arms and leg working in tandem to haul me forward against the grip on my ankle.
My sudden movement must surprise my attacker, because the prickling against my skin eases. I grit my teeth and yank my trapped leg. The hold vanishes and I half-fall, half-somersault away. A quick adjustment and I manage to pop back up into an upright stance.
It’s dark here. I need to see what this thing is. I need light.
Illuminating charm from freshman year. The ley line jumps at the request and the tiny amount of magick I try to tap into transforms into a freaking geyser. The ghostlight I’m supposed to summon doesn’t appear. Instead, a nearby bush goes up in a blaze.
Crap.
Focus on the positives. Okay, I’ve got light. Not how I wanted, but it’s better than nothing. Trying to blink away the spots, I search for whatever wants to kill me. First rule of magickal combat: You’ve got to see what you’re fighting if you want the hexes to land correctly.
The firelight flickers and jumps around the garden. Ghastly shapes twist and snarl around me, false shadow enemies. Just beyond that circle of illumination there’s something else, something big and sinuous hovering out of sight, waiting for a moment to strike.
A flash at my right. I spin, trying to catch the movement, but miss it. A squelching pop from behind. Pivot that way. Miss it again. Around and around until I grow dizzy. I stop moving so I don’t lose my balance and realize the bush is half-consumed.
This thing is playing with me, waiting for my protection to burn out so it can finish me off. Well, fuck that. I shift closer to the bush as the light’s reach lessens.
“Yeah,” I call, “I’m not that stupid. If you want to eat me, you’re going to need to show me your ugly face.”
Silence but for the crackling of the fire at my back. Then there’s a painful creaking, like muscles and bones grinding against each other. A paw appears from the shadows. At least I think it’s a paw. It’s flayed, dark red muscle, yellow veins, white tendons pushing and pulling and flexing while black blood drips over them, creating a viscous layer to cover the skinless flesh. Sharp white claws spike into the grass.
I follow the paw up the thickly muscled leg, higher. A shoulder, curving and slipping into the light with catlike grace. Its face will haunt me if I survive. Double row of black eyes edged in yellow, short snout, and a wide jaw, too wide for anything I know. And teeth. Rows and rows of shark teeth, gnashing and grinding.
Holy fuck.
The ley line has surfaced so close that it scorches the soles of my feet through the thin layer of earth.
No explosions this time. Don’t destroy another part of the school in your final year.
The hell beast snarls at me. Fire. Most things don’t like fire. The current of power churns beneath me and I wince when I reach in to draw out enough for a protective spell. It’s unstable in the face of the imminent threat and I can barely think of a hex fast enough to shape its intent before I have to fling it away, shaking my hands against the lingering burn. The monster flinches, but the hex bounces off its nose and fizzles out in the damp grass.
We both stare at the smoldering spot for a moment. Our eyes meet. I swear to God, the sickening bubbling coming from the thing’s throat is laughter. It steps closer.
Fire again, and then ice; neither leave a mark on the creature’s bloody flesh. Its breath steams as it huffs and moves farther into the light, exposing the long curve of its back. I hurl a summoned blade. A delicate paper cut appears on the monster’s paw.
I’m sweating, from panic at its advance, and from my straining efforts to control the boiling energy that flows up into me, filling me against my will. I don’t want the ley line to go off. I can’t let it go off.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I whisper, edging closer and closer to the nearly extinguished bush.
More hexes, more failure, each one more pathetic than the last. The monster doesn’t even flinch when I try now. I am not a threat.
God, my skull’s splitting. My knees go out and I hit the earth. The monster is so close I can smell the nauseating rotting meat stench wafting off its body. Another gurgle and its tail whips from the darkness, curling around my wrist, dragging me forward a little as the spines dig into my flesh.
And...that’s it.
The ley line surges forward, demolishing my flimsy control. It flings itself out of me, into the creature’s tail, climbing and falling and cresting over those raw muscles.
Now the monster’s on fire.
Its shrieks of pain are deafening as it takes off into the garden. It flails, kicks, and spins in an effort to escape, but I’m still in its grip so it can’t escape the fire coming from me and the ley line.
I manage to glance up long enough to see that we’re hurtling toward the back wall of the garden. I know that hidden behind that hedge, there’s a brick wall. I doubt my enemy knows that. I’ve got to get away before we collide with the wall in a heap of fire and blood. I thrash against the tail binding me, trying to muscle my way out of the
monster’s grip, but it’s too strong. Too strong, and too fast—
A soft whisper of metal, and then I’m free. Rolling over the grass and smashing my face into some of the flowers, but still miraculously free. Groggy, head spinning, muscles screaming, I lift my head.
Roark, rapier unsheathed, the edge coated in viscous black blood, stands there, watching the monster with a strange expression. “Goddess, Smith, what the fuck did you do to the poor thing?”
“Poor thing?” It comes out as a croak. I unwrap the tail from my wrist, wincing and hissing as I pluck the delicate spikes from my flesh.
Roark ignores my misery and watches the monster, who did run into the brick wall. It didn’t break through, so it’s huddled in a burning heap at the base. The hedges around it smolder and catch. Images of Roark sheathing his weapon are mirrored in its rows of eyes.
“Don’t,” I call to him, struggling to get to my feet. The moron’s going to get bitten or something, and I do not need Queen Mab coming for revenge if I get her son killed.
“It’s a sanglin, you idiot,” Roark snaps. “It won’t hurt me.”
I have no words. My wrist drips blood, I ache everywhere, and Roark says it won’t hurt him. Flabbergasted shock gives way to incoherent rage swiftly.
I gesticulate at the chaos surrounding us. “Are you insane?”
Roark glances back, at least. A splatter of my blood hits his cheek, dark against his pale skin. He glares and wipes at it with his wrist, smearing it over his skin.
“You’ve done enough already,” he says, accent heavier in his frustration. And he turns his back on me.
Just...fuck my life.
Roark
This has to be a new record. Two attacks in as many days? Either someone’s taken a shining to Smith, or the universe is trying to prove a point about his mortality. Only Smith could get a sanglin to attack him. Herne and the hunters, no one’s seen one of them aboveground in centuries. Only Smith could get a sanglin—a creature who ferociously hunts beetles, mice, and bats—to crawl out of the depths of the earth to find him and then attack him.
