Prince of Air and Darkness

by M. A. Grant

  She leaves without looking back and my mind instantly begins following all the potential paths this meeting could take. A trick, a setup for impossible requests, a genuine effort at diplomacy? And why Aileen? What’s so important that she’d risk Aoife’s wrath to seal a treaty with my Court?

  I suppose I’ll find out tomorrow night.

  Phineas

  Sebastian winces when I lift the ice pack from his knuckles. I can’t blame him. They’re completely busted up, swollen, and split.

  “Remind me again why you came here instead of getting Gumba to help?” I ask as I head to the bathroom for the first aid kit. Thanks to my constant run-ins with dangerous magickal creatures, we’re pretty well stocked.

  “If I asked Gumba for help, he’d ask what happened. And if I told him what happened, he’d stomp off to crush those dickheads and then he’d be facing Prince Lyne’s punishment.”

  I shiver. The memory of Roark holding an eyeball in his bloody hand still hasn’t left me. I snag the kit and a hand towel and rejoin Seb in the living room, settling across the coffee table from him and pulling out the hydrogen peroxide. “I’m pretty sure you getting into a fight with Seelie isn’t something Roark would stand for.”

  Seb doesn’t look up at me. He stares down at his knuckles, flexing his fists cautiously and stopping whenever the skin starts to tear in new places. Eventually he gives me one hand and lets me start cleaning.

  “It was less a fight and more a misunderstanding,” Seb tries to explain while I work. “They bumped into me. I swung first. Old habits, I guess. We’re both at fault.”

  “Seb, they had to cross the common in order to bump into you. Not exactly an accident at that point.”

  He sighs and lets me start on his other hand. “They’re just pissed about the sanctions.”

  “Were they setting you up so you’d have to face punishment?” The thought of Roark doing something to one of my friends makes the ley line quaver within me.

  Seb shifts uncomfortably. He’s always been more sensitive to my magick than my other friends. Something about straddling Court lines. Says it feels like being bitten by hundreds of fire ants. I try to calm down. After a moment, he relaxes again. “Nah. Plenty of witnesses to confirm I was just defending myself enough to get away.”

  I finish the first cleaning and dig out the calendula salve and gauze. “Don’t know if that’ll matter to Roark,” I grumble.

  “It would. He doesn’t punish anyone who doesn’t deserve it. Ouch!”

  He snatches his hand back and clutches it to his chest, glaring at me for putting too much pressure on one of the deeper cuts.

  “Sorry! Sorry. Here, give it back.”

  We sit in silence while I dab more salve on, careful not to hurt him again. Only when I think I can keep my voice steady do I ask, “You do know what he did to those two fae, right?”

  He shrugs. “They fucked up. If he hadn’t punished them first, the Pantheons would have allowed the Seelie to decide the reparation. Their punishment would have been a fuckton worse.”

  Wait, what? I fumble with the gauze, earning a curious look from Seb.

  “But...he hurt them,” I protest.

  “A little bit. But he didn’t permanently disfigure them or leave them psychologically scarred.” Seb’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “The Summer Court’s quite talented at doing both those things, trust me.”

  Roark was protecting his people. Roark was keeping them safe. And I... Oh, God, I seriously messed up.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I finish tying up the last of the gauze and run my hands down my face. “Nothing. Just being stupid again.”

  Seb gives a soft laugh and shakes his head. “I doubt that. But you do look exhausted. Have you still been practicing outside of class?”

  Now it’s my turn to shrug. “I need to get better with it.”

  “You’re working too hard. Even athletes know to take time off to heal so they can come back stronger.” He leans back, biting his lip to try to hide his growing smile. That sneaky smile, combined with the quick, appraising glance he gives me, warns he has a plan. A plan undoubtedly filled with poor decisions and destroyed comfort zones and more fun than I’d ever find on my own. “We’re going to the Summer’s End Ball.”

  “The Seelie party? Are you insane? They’ll attack you again.”

  “Nope. It’s open to all pantheons, so they’ll be on their best behavior. I was going to meet someone there anyway. I’ll get you in the door, set you up with some friends—”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Finny.” He looks so serious, so unlike himself, I shut my trap. Once he knows I won’t protest, he says, “You’re burning yourself out. Take a break. It’s just one night.”

  I want to argue, but can’t. He’s right. Every time I use the ley line lately I walk away more beaten down than before. I’m not getting any closer to helping my family, only closer to leaving them before I can. Besides, what’s one night off in the big scheme of things?

  “You’re a terrible influence,” I tell him.

  He knows it’s a victory. “This is exactly what you need. Trust me.”

  Chapter Seven

  Phineas

  Never again, I promise myself as I excuse my way through yet another crowded room. I will never trust Seb again.

  The Seelie sorority house on the edge of campus is decked out in all its finery. Servants borrowed from the Seelie High Court float through the space, carrying delicate trays filled with organic delights that must have cost a small fortune to get this late in the season. Champagne and ambrosia waterfalls trickle down mountains of glasses so clean they’re nearly invisible. Overhead, enchanted stardust floats in the air, so you feel like you’re constantly walking through a cloudscape of glitter.

  Seb prepared me enough that my game-day suit keeps me from standing out as a total imposter, but he also abandoned me to find his real date after a quick round of introductions to some of his friends. Friends who have since parted to find other friends. I wander around, greeting some acquaintances in passing, mostly fae I’ve worked with in classes or played against in the intramural football league. They’re kind and open and willing to let me join them, but I politely decline and continue deeper into the rooms. It’s kind of fun to play high-class for the night, but the reality is, this isn’t my scene.

  I have no interest in smiling and chatting and listening to classical music, surrounded by fine china and delicate stemware and black ties. Give me an old blanket on a lawn, fresh barbeque, and arguing about the game any day.

  The only upside of the large crowd is the freedom it grants me. It’s easy enough to slip through the initial crowds at the entryway, the rooms where different types of music blare and invite dancers to step to the floor, the quieter social rooms where groups sit on comfortable furniture and converse in earnest, hushed voices. Soon, I’m nearly to the back of the house and its entrance to the garden, which I’ve always wanted to see after hearing classmates talk about the work they’ve done on it. Almost there, but not quite, when a rosy-cheeked group of underclassmen emerge from a game room. Instead of squeezing past their boisterous group in the hall, I dart into a side room. It’s a minor detour on my way to the garden, which I’m sure I’ll admire thoroughly before slipping out the garden’s gate and returning to the apartment.

  The moment I step through the doorway, the atmosphere changes. The excitement of the party is gone, replaced with the low-key pressure of magickal auras and a seriousness that keeps the conversations hushed and private. It’s not that the room’s empty; on the contrary, there’s a lot of people in here and a number of them are student leaders within the university. Most of them spare me a polite glance, but slip back into their private conversations easily, dismissing me before they can even assess my worth.

  Roark’s too busy talking to the Seelie princess Aileen to notice my entrance. It gives me a private moment to watch him. He’s cut from the shadows. Black suit, black shirt,
black tie, all cut to accentuate his athleticism and fencer’s frame. The black reminds me of armor donned before a battle, an efficient outfit rather than an attractive one. It doesn’t matter. He makes no effort and still stands out more than any man here. He’s always stood out.

  For the first time in years, I don’t feel any shame for noticing. Maybe because I’m trying to reclassify the Roark in my head with my new knowledge of Roark acting as Prince Lyne. This small reframing of his role makes me question my view of him in more memories than I’d like. He’s no longer just my asshole roommate, or Mab’s dangerous disciple. He’s also a diplomat committed to protecting his people at any cost.

  Judging from his expression, it might be too high a cost. We’ve lived and fought together long enough for me to recognize the small tells that warn how badly this conversation is going. The minuscule downward twist of his lips. The slight narrowing of his eyes. The way he leans back and tries to earn himself an inch more space. He’s angry and frustrated and I’m surprised Aileen hasn’t picked up on that yet.

  It isn’t my place to intervene. I misread a situation before and ended up hurting both of us. Probably better for me to beat a hasty retreat and squeeze past the underclassmen squad instead. I pop out the door, but they’re still there, louder thanks to a new set of friends who apparently just found them. Crap. I’ll have to try to sneak through the dignitaries’ room after all.

  I’m almost to the rear door of the room, the one that opens out into the hallway behind the current blockage, when Roark’s shoulders stiffen. This close, the fabric of his jacket pulls taut from the movement and I can’t help but admire the image for a fleeting moment.

  Not fleeting enough. Like he senses me creeping around behind him, he turns abruptly in mid-conversation. Those ice-shard eyes fix on me. Widen slightly. “Smith? What the hell are you doing here?”

  Roark

  This evening’s useless. I suspected it would be, but the confirmation is still upsetting. I could have used tonight to catch up on my work, to try to sleep, to read for pleasure, something I haven’t been able to do in ages. Anything that would have granted me a few precious hours of solitude. Instead, I voluntarily threw myself into the political quagmire and have nothing to show for it.

  Aileen continues to drone, rehashing her plan for our “partnership” for what feels like the hundredth time. If I get Mother to have the Pantheons lift some sanctions, she will ensure the safety of my Unseelie subjects on campus. It isn’t worth pointing out the fatal flaw in her plan: Attacks on the Unseelie are already forbidden. I won’t give her such a coup in exchange for something I already possess. She doesn’t even have news on Sláine’s status in the Summer Court. A total waste of a night.

  “Would meeting next week give you enough time to talk to your mother?” Aileen asks me.

  A faint buzz down my neck into my spine. I stiffen, hoping the intrusive sensation will fade, only to find it growing stronger. Aileen says something else, but I don’t care because this feeling is so familiar and it can’t be. Not here...

  I spin away from Aileen, positive I’m imagining things and needing to prove it to myself. But I’m wrong. He’s there. Phineas Smith stands by the back door of the room where the student leaders and pseudo-diplomats of Mathers gather to forge new deals and partnerships with the tacit approval of their Pantheons. He commands the space without conscious effort thanks to the way his shoulders fill out the blue-grey suit that matches his eyes and the intoxicating warmth of his magick.

  Damn him.

  “Smith?” I call. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  He glances at the door, then back to me, clearly undecided whether to flee or stick around. I take a step toward him, but Aileen puts her hand on my arm and says, “Prince Lyne, we should finish this discussion before—”

  “I’m afraid this discussion was over a while ago,” I counter, slipping my arm free. I don’t drop eye contact with Smith, willing him to stay put until I get to him. “We have no ability to sway the Pantheons. Therefore, I cannot accept your terms. I appreciate your goodwill and wish you a good night.”

  “I see.” From the corner of my eye, I catch the way Aileen inspects Smith. I’m not sure what the perusal teaches her, but she gives a single nod before saying, “I’ll leave you to it, then. Good evening.”

  The moment her glamour vanishes, I stop holding my own at rigid attention. Apparently Smith can read that small change because he takes it as an invitation. His cautious approach ends with both of us leaning against a bookcase against the back wall, looking out at the rest of the people in the room. The silence should be awkward, especially after our confrontation the other day; Smith hasn’t tried to speak to me since Mother showed up and scared him out of the apartment. There’s nothing awkward about this, though. The low hum of his magick is familiar and comforting and I stretch my glamour over him, doing my best to keep us inconspicuous.

  After a small eternity, during which time the population of the room changes several times, he remarks, “It’s weird to see you here.”

  “It’s weird to see you here, too, Smith. I didn’t know you were a fan of the Seelie.”

  “I’m not. But Seb was coming and I wanted to make sure he had someone to watch his back.”

  Seb... Ah, the half-Seelie faerie who hangs out with Smith’s group.

  “I didn’t think you were a fan of them either,” he adds with poorly disguised curiosity.

  “An act of diplomacy, I assure you.”

  Smith stuffs his hands in the pockets of his slacks and rearranges his broad frame into a slightly more relaxed vertical sprawl. “Is that what you and your mother were planning during her visit?”

  “No. It may be shocking to you, but my collapse prompted her maternal concern.” If he can act casual, so can I. After a final check that my glamour’s illusion remains strong enough to keep us hidden from prying eyes, I loosen my tie and pop the top button of my shirt. It’s a wicked liberty to stand amidst all the Pantheons’ best, imperfect behind a perfect mask.

  “How did she know?”

  “The Court’s monarch is responsible for distributing power evenly among their subjects. I tapped my glamour too strongly and she felt it. It wasn’t spycraft, Smith, so stop worrying.”

  “You almost burned out,” he says.

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” I protest, but he waves it off.

  “What I can’t figure out is why.” He pulls his hands from his pockets and turns toward me, shoulder still pressed against the wood shelves, arms crossed over his chest. I refuse to turn and instead tolerate his careful study of my profile. “I think,” he says slowly, “I owe you an apology.”

  I whip my head toward him so quickly I almost hit my temple against the bookshelf. “What?”

  He rubs a hand at the back of his neck and my mouth goes dry at the sudden strain placed on the buttons of his dress shirt. “I didn’t understand the situation before I stepped in. I...made a snap judgment from my own experience.”

  We both know what experience he’s talking about. The admission that he viewed what I did to my subjects in the same vein as my brother and mother’s behavior toward him wraps around my lungs like iron bands, squeezing until I can barely draw breath. No matter what else I do, my family’s behavior will always eclipse me and color my actions.

  A faint puff of steam twists up when Smith exhales. I focus on my glamour, desperate to regulate my emotional response. As deep a wound as his words cause, this conception of me will be safer for him in the long run. It means the spell’s bonds can remain strong and uncontested.

  “You’re a good leader.” His body tightens, the lines of his suit changing from the subtle flex of muscles, and his pulse jumps in his throat. “I was wrong. And I don’t think it was the first time.”

  I shift my position, mirroring his stance, and keep my mouth shut. He can never know how accurate he is. He must not like what he sees on my face, because he forces himself to smile and ask, “Isn’t
it exhausting pretending to be someone else all the time?”

  The rough honesty in his question is what keeps my feet rooted to the floor, a direct contradiction to my brain’s command to flee before I say something I’ll regret. His inquiry may be directed at me, but it goes deeper than that.

  I take a moment to look at him without hiding my actions behind glamour. For the first time, I let him witness my inspection. He glows with the assurance of mortality, which only highlights his new weight loss. How tired he looks. His stoic resignation is all too familiar.

  “About as exhausting as pretending everything is okay all the time,” I say, keeping my voice light and soft. I’m not trying to mock him and the way his smile shivers, then drops, says he understands. “However, it’s my job. I don’t have a choice.”

  “It’s my magick. My gift,” he scoffs. “I think I’ve got you beat.”

  I lean in. Of course Smith would view our shitty lives as a competition. A competition he will lose. “My mother is the Queen of Air and Darkness.”

  “My mother doesn’t know my magick will eventually kill me.”

  “Poor boy. My mother doesn’t care if I die, as long as it benefits the Court.” Admitting the truth of the Knighthood stings, but also lifts an unexpected weight from my chest.

  His eyes narrow and he leans in as well, close enough I can count the faint freckles decorating the bridge of his nose. I catch the scent of his soap, ginger and spices that somehow blend perfectly with his skin. “And being the good soldier, you’ll make sure it does.”

  His grin is all sharp edges. It makes him so real I’m tempted to take him by the collar and crush my lips to his. His breath spills warm against my cheek and ear when he leans in close enough to whisper, “I’m going to go out like a Roman candle and not even leave ashes behind for my parents to bury.”

  Everything recoils—body, glamour, mind—and his broken “Beat that” shatters me.

  Oh, Goddess. He’s going to die. He’s going to die and there won’t be anything left and I won’t even have a place to visit his remains over the millennia. “Fuck,” I choke out.