by M. A. Grant
“We may be blamed for the increased risk to students from other pantheons.”
She purses her lips. Her words are measured, deliberate. “We have several allies who have been concerned that this war will spread beyond our borders. They would be interested to learn what weapons were used against their children tonight. I’m sure some well-placed comments could spur them to action. Their weight would benefit us with the other pantheons.”
“Good. It’s only going to get worse, especially after an attack of this scale.”
“You’re reminding our subjects to be discreet in their dealings with any Seelie?”
I nod. “Of course. No actions are taken on campus without my knowledge.”
“You’re a good ruler, my dear. Always have been. Your loyalty and intelligence are true assets. They’ll serve you well when you take on the mantle.”
Her easy words ring in my ears like funeral knells. The laws governing the Winter Knight’s role remain unchanged. Both Courts function on a balance of magickal power; the rulers and their children stabilize the forces of Summer and Winter. If the princes or princesses are few in number or, worse, weak, the Knight steps in. It’s a dangerous position; whoever wears the mantle directly shares the power of the faerie rulers, easing the trickle-down effect to their heirs. With our Court’s power hanging by the barest thread thanks to Sláine’s defection, the Knight has never been more necessary.
That knowledge doesn’t stop me from stiffening at the mention of the role. Mother’s confidence that I’ll give up my freedom to wear the mantle hasn’t wavered, despite my continual protests. I could argue again, but negotiating with her while I’m this tired is too great to risk. “I thought the situation was improving,” I get out through gritted teeth.
“Lugh’s growing stronger,” she agrees, “so we are managing for now.”
Managing means the strength of magick that should be balanced between three princes is finding new equilibrium between two. It’s a small victory, but doesn’t eliminate the threat of the Knighthood.
Lugh is often beyond our Court’s reach, making it difficult for him to learn how to properly bear the weight of his position, which forces Mother to rely even more heavily on me. No matter my feelings toward my eldest brother, we need him to return. We need him to reset the balance and take on some of the strain so the Winter Knight’s role is no longer necessary.
I try to keep my tone light when I ask, “Has there been any news about the High Prince?”
“No.” The air in the room crackles, it freezes so quickly. Mother sits ramrod-straight in her chair. “And we can’t wait for him any longer. There’s not enough time left. You should familiarize yourself with the Knight’s power before Samhain. Controlling it between then and Yule can be overwhelming—”
“No point rushing into it,” I interrupt. “There’s plenty of time to learn before Samhain.”
“Roark.”
“You said Lugh was improving. Did he visit? You should have let me know. We haven’t seen each other in a while. I would have come home.”
Mother locks gazes with me. Her eyes narrow at my blatant change of subject. “We can’t avoid this forever.”
I force a smile and continue blithely, “I’m assuming Keiran is still at his side. Between that man and the rest of the Wild Hunt, I think Lugh might be the most protected of all of us.”
“Don’t think you’re distracting me—”
“You may want to send him a raven to warn him about this recent attack. I doubt any Seelie would be foolish enough to hunt for him in the Wylds, but we didn’t think they’d come after our students on campus either.”
Mother may not be effusive, but she cares for all of us in her own way. She must be worried about Lugh, because she hesitates and considers my suggestion. It’s the opening I need to make my escape.
I rise, the motion anything but fluid thanks to my exhaustion. The throbbing over my spine has worsened as the skin there attempts to heal. At least I can’t feel the trickle of blood working its way past my belt and running down my leg into my shoe anymore.
“Bridget was preparing me a bath,” I say. “I want to clean these wounds before they finish healing.”
Mother sighs, but won’t risk my health. It’s not a true victory, merely a stay of execution. “How long do you plan to remain in the sídhe?”
“Only the weekend. I need to meet with everyone on Monday to discuss what happened.”
“Very well. Sleep as long as you need. I will reach out to the Pantheons today. We’ll meet tomorrow before you return to decide what you can share.” With a careless flick of the hand, the doors of her chamber open and I’m dismissed.
My chambers are ready when I arrive. Bridget started a fire and scented steam rises from the oversized copper tub. Various herbs float over the surface. I recognize most of them, the result of several centuries’ worth of her medical treatments. They might make the water sting initially, but they’ll ensure the wound is clean and heals faster.
I strip, hating the sensation of dried and drying blood flaking and peeling itself from my skin. As I expected, the herbs are a bit astringent, but it doesn’t take long for the myriad of pains to subside and for my muscles to relax.
I wake to cool water. I mutter a vague prayer of thanks that I didn’t drown myself falling asleep in the tub and don’t bother to dry off when I crawl out. Instead, I bury myself into the turned-down sheets of my bed, too tired to worry about the damp. It’s of little matter now.
I need to sleep.
Then I need to plan.
And once that’s done, I need to figure out what the hell to do about Smith.
Chapter Ten
Phineas
I should have gotten here earlier. The Delphi lecture hall is already crammed full of Unseelie. It’s amazing to witness how they continue to pack themselves tighter and tighter into the lower level of the old theater, although I wish I weren’t being swept along with the rest of the crowd.
I manage to wriggle my way through the worst of the crowd to take refuge along a back wall. Unlike the fae I saw at the Summer’s End Ball, the Unseelie here look around with somber expressions and speak in low voices, as if they’re afraid of being overheard. If it weren’t for the nervous charge in the air, I’d ask someone where I could find Roark. He’s been suspiciously absent from our apartment since our party, but Sebastian made it sound like I’d be able to catch him here with relative ease. That seems impossible with the campus’s entire Unseelie population in attendance.
I can’t see over the heads of the Unseelie ahead of me, so there’s no chance of spotting Roark from this distance. Fighting my way back into the crowd is a fool’s errand. It’d be better to look for a seat upstairs in the balcony. I head up the stairs to my left, hoping I’ll get lucky. Most of the balcony’s seats are taken, but there are a few empty spots in some of the boxes along the sides. I claim one with a sigh of relief and examine the scene below me.
The hall breathes with murmurs as the Unseelie wait. But I can’t focus on what they’re saying because I can’t tear my eyes from the figure standing near the edge of the lecture stage. The ley line thrums and I can’t tell if the heat rising in my cheeks is from its magick or my own nervousness.
He’s here.
The Prince of Air and Darkness is living up to his moniker today. Black knit cap, black shirt under a worn, black leather jacket. Tight black jeans leading to heavy black combat boots. A man of the people.
I drink him in, grateful for my anonymity in this living mass. For the opportunity to stare at features I didn’t know I’d already memorized. His phone is pressed to his ear, and he listens intently to whoever is on the other end of the line. The conversation doesn’t last long. The remaining Unseelie are still finding places to stand when he nods a few times and hangs up.
The worry that’s dogged me this weekend quiets some when he slips his phone in a pocket and stretches. He doesn’t hold himself with that partial curl people use t
o protect their injuries. It’s an indulgent movement. Chest expanding, pushing outward. Arms stretching high, lifting the edge of his shirt and flashing a crescent of skin that makes me regret not pushing my way in closer on that lower level. The movement reminds me of his lithe grace with his rapier and the strength of his body when he pressed against me, scalding me with that kiss. He must have healed already, or the cut across his back wasn’t as bad as I’d thought.
The relaxed lines of his body change the moment he turns and walks to center stage. He’s greeted with silence, and not the gradual kind. No, the entire hall waits on bated breath, watching him with an intensity that crawls up over my spine.
“I’m sorry you had to be here today.”
His words roll out over us, reaching everyone even though I know he’s not using glamour or magick to assist. His voice is too soft, too controlled. Too honest.
“Her Majesty Queen Mab and I have spoken at length this weekend. We have been in communication with the Summer Court. They deny orchestrating the attack—”
Now, a few murmurs, which fall silent when he stretches up a single hand. It’s barely a movement, one filled with exhaustion instead of bravado.
“—and despite our best efforts, no agreements to turn over the perpetrators have been reached.”
His shoulders roll forward a little, hunching the slightest bit. I recognize that stance. It’s the same one I use when I’m preparing to take a hit. When I’m trying to ready myself mentally for a blow that I know will cause pain but have to pretend I don’t feel. And I ache for him.
His spine stiffens, his shoulders pull back, and his chin rises. “You deserve the truth.”
Authority peals in every word and the flash of his pale eyes as he takes in the room leaves me lightheaded. He’s more powerful than anyone I’ve known, commanding the room without raising his voice.
“We are not safe. The attacks will continue. The assailants were willing to spill royal blood, and they will not stop until that is accomplished. They will use you as pawns in a war that is not yours to fight, and there is not a fucking thing I can do to stop that.”
Around me, fae shift in their seats. Below, the audience on the floor ripples with reactions. How much is it costing him to admit this? To share his imminent failure with them? He’s standing there, proclaiming his weaknesses to everyone, and I’m too scared to tell my parents that the ley line’s magick is going to kill me someday. The growing tightness in my throat makes it hard to focus when he continues speaking.
“Stay together. Watch out for each other. Report back to me, as you’ve been doing. We cannot retaliate and we cannot give in to fear. If we do, we lose what new support we have gained after the attack. Anyone found to be a risk to my mother’s cause, to our Court’s cause, will be dealt with by me. There will be no delay. There will be no mercy. There cannot be.”
Whispered agreements from his subjects. But those last words aren’t a threat, no matter how much they sound like one, no matter how many fae look pale and frightened. They’re an apology. Buried deep in the back of my mind, that tiny, nagging thought begins to prod me again.
“No matter what it takes, I will do all I can to protect you. There may be orders you hate, but I beg you—” his voice breaks a little and my fingers clench in response to his pain, and the ley line throbs in sympathy “—do not question in that moment. Rail against me later, once you are safe. But obey when the time comes. I will not betray your trust.”
The Unseelie rise in a fluid movement, a silent promise to their prince. I stand with them, although I feel like an interloper now. Like I’m seeing something in Roark I shouldn’t have been allowed to witness. A confirmation of what I already knew.
“Stay safe,” he says and like that, we’re dismissed.
Except, as the crowd begins to move, exiting the lecture hall, Roark tilts his head. Lifts his face with unerring accuracy to pin me in place with his gaze. He never even looked at anyone else. Simply turned and found me.
And that strange, hungry need I felt in the garden flares up in me so hard my breath catches.
We stay like that, statues with locked eyes, until the hall is quiet and we’re the only ones left. The room seems so much smaller now, a world shrunk down to this tiny bubble of space, and for the life of me, I’m not sure what to say.
He doesn’t seem to suffer the same problem. “Smith.”
“Hey.”
He waits for more, stance indolent but for the militant jut of his chin. He utterly defies gravity. And physics. And pretty much every other familiar law of nature I ever learned in school. Even now, he manages to lounge against thin air, watching me from under his lashes, arms crossed over his chest like my being here is some burden for him to bear.
“I needed to talk to you,” I say. My words echo too loudly across the space between us.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t seem to breathe.
Is he going to walk out on me?
“Wait, okay?” I take the stairs two at a time, balancing myself with the handrail so I don’t tumble in my haste. My heart’s pounding when I reach the ground floor and I turn the corner into that main floor with no expectations.
He’s still there. Waiting like a shadow, watching me with feline interest as I make my way toward the stage. “How’s your back?” I ask.
“Sore. But healed. How’s your chest?”
“Sore. Too, I mean. But not healed yet.” I’m trying to speak through cotton, my mind blanking because he’s standing just a few feet away, and the ley line is quivering, it’s so excited to see him. I stare at his lips and when I finally tear my gaze away, I’m startled to find he hasn’t looked away from mine.
“Your speech was good.”
His gaze flicks back up and one dark brow arches.
I rub my palms on my jeans. “You sounded royal and shit.”
He rolls his eyes and, like that, I can breathe. I wait awkwardly as he walks over and sits on the edge of the stage. “What did you want to talk about, Smith?”
“What happened at the party—”
“Can’t happen again,” he says curtly, boot tapping against the stage. “I know.”
The rest of my sentence dies and my fingers curl in tightly enough that my nails dig into my palms.
“Oh?” I ask. I’m pleased at how calm I sound, even if my heart is beating against my rib cage and I’m trying to remind myself that this pain cutting through me isn’t real.
“There’s already been too much violence. Anyone who discovers that we can channel the ley line together will try to eliminate half of that equation. They’ve already come after me and nearly got you by stupid coincidence.” His jaw flexes and he glances away. “There’s no knowing who they’ll attack next. If we’re together, it makes for an easy target. Distance is the wisest course.”
“Distance meaning that I don’t get to be around you anymore?”
Catching Roark off guard is nearly impossible. His head jerks back toward me. He frowns. “Is that a problem, Smith?”
“Yeah.” Shit, that came out too fast. Too desperate. He knows there’s something he’s missing and his features sharpen, as if he’s trying to read my humiliating confession through my skin.
“Yeah,” I repeat, forcing myself to speak slower, more calmly. To pretend like I’m not coming up with any flimsy excuse I can right now. “It’s a problem because we live in the same fucking apartment, Lyne. Because I already mostly hang out with the Unseelie. And the biggest problem is that when we were fighting together, I actually felt in control of the ley lines. I have to leave Mathers knowing how to control my powers and right now, you’re my best chance of figuring that out.”
His eyes widen. It’s only the barest movement, but on a person who prides himself on his iron composure, it’s impossible to ignore.
The ley line winds up through me, filling my chest and making it hard to draw breath.
“After all you’ve done over the years,” I say, “you don’t get to make th
is decision about us alone.”
He opens his mouth to argue and I shock myself when a growl rumbles out of my chest. Something’s changing on his face, so I press forward before he can stop me.
“No, Roark.” I select my words carefully, refusing to look away from him, to give in any way. “Six years ago, you chose me. To torment, to target, to ignore when it suited you. I don’t know why and I don’t care. But doing that made other people notice me and my magick. If a war breaks out and they come after me again, it’ll be your fault.”
It’s like I’ve unleashed the ley line on him. He tenses and watches me, motionless except for the rise and fall of his chest.
“Help me learn to use my magick without burning out. Once I know what I’m doing and can take care of myself, you can walk away with a clear conscience and never look back.”
He doesn’t speak, not right away. I watch the bob of his Adam’s apple, the flutter of those dark lashes against his cheek. The silence lasts so long I expect him to get up and walk away from me. Instead, he asks, “That’s all you want?”
I look at his mouth without meaning to. He notices. A pale flush grows over his cheekbones, but he doesn’t hide it. He’s testing me, hoping I hand him a reason to quickly deny my request.
So I force myself to pretend I don’t care about how he smiled when we fought side by side or how his mouth fit perfectly against mine. I’m going to be a target when this all goes to hell, and my parents need my help. Those are my priorities.
“Yes,” I lie, “that’s all I want.”
He takes a deep breath. Two. Clears his throat. And asks quietly, “When do you want to start?”
Chapter Eleven
Roark
Smith’s back hits the mat with a dull thud. He bounces and skids a few more feet before stopping. Thank the Goddess no one else is in the gym with us. We’ve been going at it for almost an hour and he’s spent more time on the ground than he has upright, incapable of raising the necessary counter-curse fast enough no matter how many times we practice. He’s come a long way since our earliest practices, when he either couldn’t access the ley line at all, or drew on it too quickly and with too much force. He’s starting to pull on smaller amounts of it, but too inconsistently for true success. Every time we leave this gym in failure, my frustration grows. There has to be some kind of middle ground with his power, but I’ll be damned if I know how to find it.
