by M. A. Grant
Worse than my own ignorance is Smith’s constant gratitude for my fumbling efforts. Any time I spontaneously change our exercises or throw a new challenge at him, he adjusts without complaint. He takes the pain, ices his new bruises when we get back to the apartment, and steps onto the mat the next day.
His dogged determination to learn and improve is admirable. And sometimes foolhardy. He still hasn’t moved.
“Can you get up?” I call to him.
He mumbles something unintelligible, but lifts an arm to give me a thumbs-up. It takes a few more minutes, but Smith finally rolls over and pushes up off the ground. His hair is sweat-darkened and the skin exposed by his tank top has reddened from exercise and mat burns. He still manages to grin and shake his head.
“I almost had you that time,” he tells me, returning to his starting position a few feet away. He stretches his head from side to side to loosen his neck and settles comfortably onto the balls of his feet. “Couldn’t you tell?”
“No.”
“Bullshit.” He points at my face.
“What?”
My confusion only grows when he taps a finger to his temple. I didn’t think it was possible for him to grin any wider, but somehow he accomplishes it. Cautiously, I lift my hand and mimic his earlier gesture. The only thing I feel is a single drop of sweat.
“Told you,” he says proudly. “Pretty soon I’ll be beating you.”
Without a word, I point at him. The hex—a flash freeze this time, for change of pace—hits before there’s any stirring in the ley line. He gasps when I release him a second later and folds in half, hands on his knees, supporting himself through a coughing fit. The ley line bursts over his skin in a delayed defense. I lunge forward the moment its electric pulse hits my glamour and grab hold of his shoulder, drawing off the excess power until he can tamp it down again. At least he’s getting faster at that.
“Unfair,” he wheezes once the threat of spontaneous combustion has passed.
“I’m so sorry. I forgot how your attackers always give you a sporting chance,” I say.
He chuckles and reaches up to settle a hand over mine lightly. It’s the ghost of a touch, but the ease of Smith’s motion amazes me nonetheless. He acts like we’ve always been this close, this familiar with each other, and I ache for it to be true, instead of being a practice measure. After our first few practice sessions, he admitted physical contact helps him focus on protecting something other than himself; it figures that such an absurd heroic impulse would help him learn stronger control. The moment he’s confident he can hold the ley line in check, his hand drops and I’m free to pull away.
I try not to regret it.
“Again,” he says.
The ley line shifts under his skin. I’ve been pushing him and his magickal control too hard. He straightens and heads back to his starting position, but he moves slower this time. He’s getting tired. The realization makes a dangerously unacceptable hint of concern twist behind my ribs.
“Hand-to-hand,” I tell him. And to provide him the excuse I know he’ll need, I add, “Goddess knows you need the practice.”
The next half hour of grappling against him gives me plenty of time to stew. The more time we spend together, the more Smith lets me see how much our practices wear on him. It may be a show of trust on his part, but witnessing his vulnerability leaves me off-kilter. Worse, every time he falters or attempts a messy combination, my irritation only grows, until I can’t contain it any longer.
“Watch your guard,” I snap when his elbow drops again.
He adjusts without argument, but the concentration required to fix his form means he drops his hold on the ley line’s power. He needs to master how to bolster his attacks with magick. His rapid improvements mean nothing unless he can take this next step.
He throws another punch. His fist makes a meaty slap when it collides with my palm.
I ignore the sting. “Mediocre. Try to put something behind it this time.”
A flicker of something in his eyes. His lips press together, but he doesn’t complain. He just punches again.
The threat of the ley line’s power hangs in the air, arcing intermittently with small signs of Smith’s exasperation, but I can’t feel it when our skin meets. The whole point of teaching him hand-to-hand was to make up for his poor spellcasting. If he can’t throw the ley line into these moves, he’ll be in even greater danger. No protection at a distance, no defense in close quarters. He won’t stand a chance if anyone comes for him, and as soon as I take on the mantle, I won’t be around to help—
I swear and wrench my hand away, rubbing at the back of my neck as if I can physically dislodge the thought. My future’s closing in and I can’t seem to run fast enough to escape it. My sudden retreat is abrupt enough Smith stumbles forward a step before he can catch himself.
“Someone is in a mood,” he mumbles. “What set you off this time?”
“You,” I bite out. “For Herne’s sake, use your damn magick or I’ll walk out. I don’t have time to waste on an idiot who can’t even trust himself to—”
My bare arms tingle and my glamour’s shield shudders and bows in without warning. One moment, I’m glaring at him, the next I’m wondering why I’m staring at light fixtures. I try to sit up, but every attempt to contract my muscles sends tiny lightning bolts coursing under my skin.
“Fuck! Roark, are you okay?”
Smith looms over me, brows pinched with worry. He reaches down and pulls me up off the mat. My knees are too weak and my spine flashes now and then with strange bursts of sensation.
“I’m sorry.” His hands skim over my shoulders, the back of my head, and tangle gently in my hair while he checks my eyes. “I’m so sorry, Roark. I didn’t mean to... Well, actually I totally meant to hit you, but I thought you were just baiting me and that you’d protect yourself and—”
“This is exactly what I wanted.” Smith gapes at me. A flush spreads from his collarbones up to his neck and higher, settling in his cheeks. I reach up and grip one of his wrists, hope-drunk and fiercely proud.
His blush deepens, and the fingers against the nape of my neck curl a little tighter. “Um, it is?” His gaze fixes on my mouth.
“Of course...” His confusion makes me trail off to review what I just said to him. When it clicks, I release his wrist in a fit of embarrassment. We both take an awkward step back. “Not that. I meant—”
He scrubs a hand over his face. “No, I get it. You meant the punching and the magick and all.”
“Yes.” I relax my weight and lift my fists, hiding behind my glamour so he doesn’t see my hands trembling. “Try again. This time, don’t hold back. We’re so close.”
“Okay,” he murmurs. He pauses to look at me and whatever he sees makes him duck his chin. His arms come up and his feet shift into a wider stance. “We’ll get it this time.”
* * *
There’s unexpected comfort in listening to Smith and his friends chatting in the living room before they leave for Domovoi’s to party after the end of term. I can’t begrudge his happiness after the improvements he’s made in the past few weeks. At least one of us still has a future left to celebrate. At least he’ll survive longer than me.
This is good. This is what I want for him. He’ll be able to stand on his own when I’m no longer at his side.
I repeat it again and again as I tackle the pile of paperwork Mother sent this morning. After receiving my note about the large number of Seelie students who have withdrawn from campus, she wanted a list of names. That task alone would take me some time, yet she threw even more at me. Page after page of blueprints, careful renderings of various suits of the Knight’s armor. She ordered I provide my feedback and measurements so the blacksmiths can start working. Writing notes in the margins of the pages feels a bit like planning my funeral suit. I can only bear to work through the first two designs before I toss the pages on my desk to finish later.
I’m not trying to avoid the responsibili
ties of the mantle as much as delay them. The term’s finals may be over, but I’m sure I can claim some other reason I can’t return the information as quickly as Mother requested. In the end, she’ll still get what she wants, and I’ll still lose.
The flickering of the ley line’s magick searching for my glamour serves enough advanced warning that I don’t jump when Smith raps at my door frame. He’s a welcome distraction, freshly showered and changed for a night out on the town. Broken-in jeans cling to his hips and thighs just enough to hint at what’s underneath, and his loose, soft sweater still ends up stretching across his chest and biceps. He grins and some of the ice in my chest thaws at the sight.
A few weeks shouldn’t have made such a difference to us, considering the ugliness of our past, but something’s shifted. Smith seeks me out every spare moment. And when he’s not looking for me, I find myself reaching out with glamour to try to find him. I’m constantly waiting for the brush of his magick’s heat and the low-level shock that’s starting to feel more and more like home.
Even now it reaches out to butt up against my glamour and the knots in my shoulders loosen. “Need something?”
“Gumba and Herman finished their last finals today. Want to come celebrate with us?”
I gesture toward my desk. “I still have some work to finish—”
He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s one night. The world isn’t going to end because you let yourself relax for a few hours.”
I need to argue. I need to throw another excuse at him so he walks away. I need to watch him leave with his friends and then I need to return to those damn papers because once I say no, the temptation to fight for every inch will be too strong.
“Lyne. Look at me.”
Goddess help me, I do. He’s just as surprised, eyes widening a bit before relaxing, laugh lines creasing the corners when he beams back at me.
“One night,” he repeats. “It’ll be fun. I promise.”
And people fear faerie deals.
“Fine,” I mumble, grabbing a jacket out of my closet.
“Wait... Really?”
I hide my blush and stuff my arms through the sleeves. “Yes, Smith. I’ll go out tonight. I want—” This. I want one night for myself, one night when I can pretend it’s all going to be okay even if I know it’s a lie.
I swallow hard and try again. “I want the distraction.”
He laughs and leads me toward the surprised group waiting in the living room. “I’ll do my best.”
* * *
Watching the dance floor lights in Domovoi’s play over Smith’s hair, I’m forced to admit that he was right. The evening has been fun. I had worried it would be lonely, but I underestimated Smith’s friends. Once Smith explained I wanted a “night off” from all things royal, they made it their personal mission to ensure I’m free to be... I’m not even sure. Normal? Relaxed?
I sneak a glance at Smith as he smiles at a particularly pushy Unseelie who asked to speak with me and was told to wait until tomorrow. Okay, it’s not really a smile. More of a feral grin, the kind that promises pain. He seems larger for some reason when he stares down my would-be supplicant, confidence broadening his shoulders as he provides a physical barricade between me and my duty. The ley line sparks like a damaged wire, though, which isn’t the best sign. Every time it’s felt like that during our practices, something wound up on fire. I keep an eye on the napkins while listening to the steady flow of conversation of the group surrounding me. Smith eventually scares the Unseelie off, but even when he turns back to us and gulps down the rest of his beer, I can’t push the buzz of that unstable power from my head. No one else notices it.
“Thank Zeus that nightmare’s over.” The satyr, Herman, slumps back in his chair and manages a tired smile when his girlfriend, Sue—who is far too observant for my taste—settles in his lap. “Let’s get freaking plastered and pretend that final didn’t kick my caprine ass.”
Gumba nods. “Agreed.”
Gumba and Sebastian, the nature faerie Smith seems especially friendly with, offer to get the first round of drinks; after quiet discussion with Herman, Sue decides to tag along with them. I can’t help noticing the way Herman and Smith exchange a look when the three of them wander away.
“She’ll keep an eye out,” Herman says.
“Are you worried about them?” I ask. Clearly something’s off, so I stand up to look for them in the crowd. “Should I go help?”
Smith tugs at my sleeve, urging me to sit. “It’s fine. Just a bit of a different crowd tonight, that’s all.”
We sit quietly while we wait for their return. The dance floor seems plenty busy, but there’s no shortage of open tables. I’d suggest we take one closer to the bar so they don’t have to walk as far, but Smith and Herman seem content to stay here, using the railing and walls to provide us with space from the rest of the crowd.
Eventually our companions reappear with a fresh pitcher of beer and empty glasses. Sebastian groans when he sits back down. He’s not a threat, but I still don’t like the glances I see him and Smith exchanging from time to time. “Finny, is it good or bad that I was really confident about that nutrient cycling test?”
“Not sure. Either means you knew it well, or you were too stupid to know you didn’t know it.”
Sebastian responds by flicking a pretzel toward him; Smith grins and catches it out of the air. I’m so busy watching his fingers as he uncurls his fist and flings the pretzel toward his mouth, I nearly miss Sue’s question.
“Wasn’t your last final yesterday, Your Highness?” she asks.
I nod. “Ancient Sumerian.” She waits for more detail, as if it will help her piece me together faster. “The logograms weren’t that difficult. My accent was a bit rusty, though.”
“Missing most of the term will do that,” Gumba acknowledges. The others nod in agreement. Smith barely inclines his head, but I glamour over my blush when he doesn’t look away. Needing a moment to collect myself, I announce abruptly, “Next round’s on me. Decide which taste of the top shelf you want.”
Sue smiles like a schoolgirl. “Top shelf, huh?”
I can’t tell if she’s teasing me or not. If it were Smith, I’d be able to figure it out in a heartbeat. But Smith isn’t doing much talking tonight. He’s more of a silent observer, eyes scanning the bar so he can warn off unsuspecting fae before they dare to approach. His distraction means I’m on my own with the rest of his rabble. For some bizarre reason, I find myself wanting to impress them; perhaps if I can, it’ll make Smith happy.
Herne and the hunters, what’s become of me?
“We are celebrating the end of term, aren’t we?” I ask, checking the faces of the group around me for clues.
“Yep,” Herman agrees, turning back after watching a pair of whispering kitsune pass.
“And you let me tag along without complaining.”
“True,” Sue agrees with a warm smile. “Friends do that.”
The word surprises me. “Friends?”
From his chair, Smith chuckles. “What, you thought we were just hanging out with you because you’re the PAD?”
Words aren’t coming and my throat is strangely tight. “Um...”
Smith straightens a little in his seat, eyes narrowing. “Lyne?”
“Well, I may have assumed that was common practice...” I trail off, face burning under my glamour when they stare at me with a mixture of horror and amazement. “Isn’t that why you’re all being so quiet tonight? Because you didn’t expect me to come here with you?”
Sue’s the first to speak. “While it’s nice that you have clout and wealth, you were our friend once you decided to help Finny. And we’re a little quieter because—” She glances around and thinks for a moment before speaking again. “Well, you haven’t had a night off before, so we didn’t know what to expect.”
“What do you normally do?”
“Talk. Make dumb bets. You know, enjoy each other’s company,�
� Sebastian says.
“I don’t know any of you very well,” I admit.
“Not for our lack of trying,” Herman grumbles.
Sue elbows him hard, which makes Smith snicker. Once she’s sure Herman won’t speak again, she glances at me. “That’s not true. You’ve been around us for a few years now, even if we weren’t close. I bet you could order for us and get our drinks right without having to ask what we want.”
“I don’t understand.” And I don’t. I don’t know why she’s glancing around the table and why they’re all smiling and nodding like they’ve discovered some huge secret that I’m not in on.
“Come on, Prince Lyne,” Sebastian says, jumping in with Sue. “Order for us. We’ll let you know how you did. Consider this a bet between friends.”
Pride and fear war behind my chest. What if I order wrong? They’re offering to be friends. Telling me that this is what friends do. I’ve never had friends like that, not really. It’s an easily exploited vulnerability. Mother used to say having friends didn’t matter, as long as others respected and feared me.
I went to Mathers to fulfill the expectation held for royal children of all Pantheons, to make myself a social bargaining chip so our Winter Court could find allies. Then Smith came along, and my world narrowed itself again. Six years later, I expected I’d be returning to the sídhe alone to fulfill the rest of my duty.
Except, through Smith, I may instead leave with a handful of acquaintances who judge me based on the miserable person I am and who I could be, instead of my potential value to increasing their social standing.
I’ll have plenty of opportunities later to destroy what little trust they put in me. Tonight, I want this connection and these first delicate sprouts of hope. I want it so badly my palms start sweating.
