by Ryan Graudin
Hurt echoes deep in my chest as I watch him. I don’t like the way this stillness has settled over him. I shield him from bites and Banshee screams. But this . . . pain, loss, death. I can’t protect Richard from this.
Five Frithemaeg watch the scene unfold in silence. They strike me as awkward, huddled together at the fringe of the mourning humans. The presence of death unnerves them.
“How long have they been like this?” I ask.
The younglings all turn at once, necks snapping to attention like a herd of startled deer. All of them are wide-eyed with their own shock. I stare hard at Helene, huddled in the rear of the group.
“How long?” I ask again.
Helene blinks those doe eyes and clears her throat. “Two—three hours maybe. It took the mortals a little longer to find the king’s body. . . .”
“Has anyone checked the perimeter?”
Blank-slate stares and gapes are my only answer.
“There’s an assassin on the loose and no one bothered to check the room?” Irritation heats my veins, my voice. I fling my hands toward the row of vulnerable, high-lit windows. “What are you waiting for? Go!”
Helene and another youngling dash off to secure all of the room’s openings with spells.
“Attend to your details,” I tell the three remaining Frithemaeg. “You can’t protect them if you’re hiding in this corner.”
They scatter like roaches caught in the light.
“Helene,” I call to the Fae who’s still busy sealing the window. She looks up, brushing dark hair from her face. “I’m taking Prince Richard off your hands. Breena will give you your next assignment.”
Richard shifts on the love seat, breaking his long, void stare at the branching light fixtures on the far wall. A subconscious response to his name. As I look back at the prince, a sudden realization sinks in and claws my throat.
Richard will become king. Not immediately. He’s still seventeen. A regency, with his uncle, the Duke of Edinburgh, as its head, will be set up in his place. But only a few short weeks now lie between him and the crown.
Something just behind his dead expression tells me he knows. None of the family has spoken a word since I entered the room. Despite their togetherness, they are each alone. Their thoughts are far from the throne and who will fill it. Only Richard remembers, and I can tell the thought petrifies him.
As it should.
I walk back to the love seat, just a few inches from the prince. Tears are finally starting to surface on his breaking face, clumping like dewdrops against his lashes. I mutter under my breath, words unheard, “It’s okay, Richard. We’re in this together.”
It’s well into evening when Richard finds himself alone. He shuts his bedroom door in a daze and stares into the unlit room. Every muscle in his body is rigid, unyielding. Just like his mother’s.
Death—the aftermath of it—is a strange thing to watch from the pedestal of immortality. I’ve seen death in every way: as a thief in the night, as the heat of fever, as the lust of a warrior. Yet I’ve never really understood grief, or what it does to those left behind.
But seeing Richard alone in the dark. It breaks away pieces of me. I’m a glacier, plunging, falling apart against the sea.
The spell between us dies, becomes dust on the fibers of the rug. Richard doesn’t start when I appear. His head turns, slow, in my direction. He blinks, taking me in.
“Where were you?” His question is just splinters, barely containing his tears.
The dam breaks and Richard’s aura floods the room. Becoming everything. I gasp at this pain. At the sheer aching magnitude of it.
Shadows gather in the corners, lurking beneath the chairs and growing behind doors. I stare into them, trying to ground myself against the grief in the air. So much has changed in the course of a day, both beyond these walls and within. Thoughts of the Old One and Richard’s pending kingship fight for space in my clouded mind, but I push them away.
This isn’t the first time I’ve seen a monarch cry. But the others had friends, spouses, to soak in the sorrow. To help carry the burden. For now, all Richard has is me.
What should I do? Say something? Words feel so tapped out, empty.
I do the only thing that feels right. What I’ve seen so many times before in the privacy of grieving halls. I reach out to him.
At first he stares, examining my fingers and their neat, rounded nails, like he’s seeing a hand for the first time. Then his eyes slide up, up. Past my arm, my throat, my mouth. His gaze latches into mine.
We stand like this for a long time. My arm aches, its muscles become lead, but I keep it stretched out. I don’t know what else to do.
At last he takes it. My fingers slip smooth around his, holding them together.
I don’t let go.
I don’t want to.
Westminster Abbey is where they lay King Edward to rest. Misting rain creeps through the great open doors of the church. The floor is so crowded with people that I’m forced to leave Richard’s side and observe him from the Abbey’s towering stone vaults. The aisle is lined with all of the kingdom’s distinguished men and women, turned respectfully toward the casket as it glides past. A bright flag of the family crest covers the coffin from view; a cluster of lilies spills over its sharp edges. The pallbearers set it down at the head of the sanctuary, only a few paces from Richard and the rest of the royal family.
The air hangs gray, sodden with mourning, but it doesn’t make the Abbey any less breathtaking. Soaring stone, echoes of color and fragmented light, visages of carved marble saints. I take all of these in as the scriptures are read—a reminder that beauty still exists in the humans’ cluttered lives. There’s a peace here too, traces of the Greater Spirit linger in the etched grave markers and polished choir pews.
Richard stands straight, without wavering. His prominent jaw is set as he stares at his father’s coffin. I wonder if he hears any of the priest’s words as they leap from the leather-bound book into the officiant’s vocal cords.
“When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: ‘Death has been swallowed up in victory. Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?’”
I hear Breena rustling next to me. She’s restless, her eyes picking apart the crowd. Other members of the Guard crouch like angelic gargoyles in the open arches of the Abbey’s upper levels. All of them are alert, and like Breena, they’re waiting. The death of a king is something very few soul feeders would fail to observe.
“Look there.” Breena nudges me and points into the mass of mourners. “See her?”
I follow the trajectory of her finger into the rear of the crowd. A woman stands in the back, leaning against a thick stone pillar. Her sleek hair is especially black against skin that looks as if it’s never seen the sun. A familiar twinge breaks my calm as I stare at her.
“Banshee,” I hiss through gritted teeth.
Breena’s curls bob as she jerks her head toward where the creature stands. “She’s not alone.”
Beside the woman, clinging against her skirts, is a huge, shaggy Black Dog. Only its long yellow canines are clearly visible against its matted fur. The outlines of its body are fuzzy, bleeding into the shadows around it.
Every soul in this sanctuary is in danger.
“We’ll go together.” Breena’s face sets into a determined grimace. “I’ll get the rear. You try to talk them away. They might go peacefully.”
I hold back words of doubt as we coast over the crowd.
The Banshee sees me coming. Her rosy lips curl into sickly white cheeks as she grabs the Black Dog’s ruff. It’s growling; I hear its rumbles of discontent over the service’s swelling organ music.
“Good day, sister,” she addresses me just as the others did—in the tradition of the days before we were divided, pitted against one another as Frithemaeg and soul feeders.
“You’re not welcome here,�
�� I tell her. “Leave the dead in peace.”
“It’s not our way.” She smiles down at the dog. Its black lips slide back, exposing sharp, flashing enamel.
I ignore the dog’s threats. “You need to leave.”
“Tell me, sister, why do you bother? They’re weak. They’re frail. They’re nothing but fodder. Albion belongs to our kind. If you try to protect them, you’ll fall as well.” The Banshee’s unnerving smile retreats into the stunning, harsh angles of her face.
“Is that a threat?” Every muscle in my body is taut, ready. The fight is coming. I feel it.
The Black Dog snarls; a long drop of saliva reels out of its mouth and pools onto the flagstones.
“It’s the future,” the Banshee says. “Tell the Guard that unless they disperse, they will be treated as mortals.”
“You know we can’t. That choice was made long ago.” Back when Mab shook Arthur’s hand. When Frithemaeg and soul feeders became entirely separate breeds: one existing to prey on humans, the other to save them.
“Ah yes. I see it’s worked out well for your kind.” The beautiful predator smirks. “How much longer will you survive off the blood magic? It’s only a matter of time, sister. I’m offering an easy solution, a way out.”
Fire knots and twists under my skin as I gather my magic together. This deadly woman isn’t just some scavenging prowler. She’s a messenger.
There’s a flash of yellow in the shadows behind the pair. Breena creeps to their backs unnoticed.
“Who sent you?” I know she won’t tell me, but the question buys the few seconds Breena needs.
The Banshee’s pale arms spread toward the congregation and the bright, blooming coffin. Like she’s presenting an offering. “The one who brought this to pass. There’s more to come.”
Breena’s magic rushes hot through the air, singeing the inside of my nose, my throat.
All at once, the Black Dog lets off a terrible, skin-peeling howl. The organ’s strained notes fall silent and several humans look around, eyes wide. They won’t see anything when they look to our pillar, but the Black Dog’s cries sends chills through even the deafest listeners.
The Banshee wheels about, lashing at Breena’s magic with her own. I open my mouth to speak a spell, but a lunge from the shadowed beast cuts it short. The Black Dog’s aged-yellow canines snag my many layers of skirts—it ends up with only a mouthful of taffeta and cotton. I aim a powerful kick at my attacker’s side. Half yelp, half snarl, the beast turns for its second assault. This time I’m ready.
“Áfeorse.” The spell ripples from my fingertips and meets the dog head-on. Blazing white tendrils of magic cling to the beast’s torso like Kraken tentacles, dragging it down, tighter and tighter. The Black Dog rips and snaps at my spell with magic and curved daggers of teeth. But my magic is stronger still, even in the city. The dog’s stocky legs tremble as it tries to resist the banishing spell, but they buckle beneath the curse’s weight. Sulfurous light envelops the animal spirit, banishing it far from the cities into the moors of its birth.
At the loss of her companion, the Banshee abandons the fight. She dresses herself in the silver and black feathers of a hooded crow, and wings through the church doors, becoming just a speck against the heavy slate sky. Breena and I stand for a few seconds, staring at the scuffed stones where our opponents just stood. Pieces of their magic linger. I wrinkle my nose at its taste, tangy and foreign. Like metal.
“They were messengers,” I say, recalling the Banshee’s words. “They came to warn us. There’s more to come. She said if we protect them, we’ll fall too. Whoever’s behind this wants to take out the entire crown.”
Breena’s eyes are ice. They glaze across the congregation, taking in the hundreds of bowed heads and folded hands. “They want a clean slate . . . no more mortals.”
“And no more machines.” I murmur a reminder of how drained we are, how far from our prime. It’s better than last time, this aftermath. The Abbey’s Portland stone, thick with memories of its long ages beneath the earth, helps keep my energy up.
Organ music surges from brass pipes, chasing all remains of the Black Dog’s howl out into the narthex. It’s the final hymn, one I’ve heard many times before: “Amazing Grace.”
“We’ll send Mab a message,” Breena says, mostly to herself. “Ask her to send the scouts to the edge of London. That way we’ll have a good warning when the attack comes.”
I shake my head. “There won’t be a full-on attack. They’ll do it with assassins, just like King Edward.”
Through the crowd, I glimpse Richard’s tall, sandy head. Even with the herd of black suits and dresses around him, Britain’s prince looks painfully vulnerable. The distance between us seems wider from my anxiety. It isn’t safe to stay away from him.
“It’s like you told me in the park. The best we can do is stay with them until Mab and the scouts figure this whole thing out,” I say. “We’ll try to keep them in the city.”
Breena’s face is a mess of frown and doubt. “They’ll get them, Emrys. Sooner or later, we’ll make a mistake.”
I try to absorb her words, move past them. But, like so many other noises in this place, they echo.
The casket’s mound of lilies quivers as the pallbearers lift it up. A lone white petal slips out of the bouquet, tumbles to the floor. The coffin glides through the broken crowd, commanding the attention of everyone present. I bite my lip as King Edward’s shell floats past, trying to ignore the sick lurch in my gut.
It won’t be Richard in the coffin.
Nine
It doesn’t take long for things to change. Not two days after the funeral, Richard is walking around his room, tearing rock-band posters from the walls and rolling them into tight tubes. Faded shades of men walking across Abbey Road and swirling neon colors that bubble into words like who and doors join the growing pile of boxes by the doorway.
The oil paintings stay, but the walls seem lesser, mined of meaning. Richard moves on to his record collection. He picks through each individual album, inspecting its sleeve before nesting it away into a box. He does all of this sorting with strangely attentive detail.
I sit on the bed and bear this process. Everything is silence. The turntable was the first thing to be packed away.
Since that night of fresh loss, when our hands locked and I held him there, I’ve said nothing. I don’t know what to tell him. Richard hasn’t eaten and his night hours are more pace than sleep. He’s retreated into himself—to some inner sanctum I cannot reach. I know that when the time is right he’ll emerge back into some semblance of his old self.
For now, all I can do is be here. Watch and wait.
The box of exquisitely organized records is almost full when the door swings open. Richard starts. A copy of The White Album drops between his legs.
The woman who walks in is the image of pristine—a mirror of Anabelle in future years. Her silvering hair is swept up flawlessly with unseen clips. Her skirt and blouse are immaculately pressed and her heels tread with the confidence and grace of someone two decades younger. They leave a trail of camouflaged indents all over the rug. Holes where no one can see.
“Mum.” Richard speaks his first word of the day, his voice hoarse, rusted from hours of disuse.
“What are you doing?” His mother’s question is sharp. She glares at the boxes by her feet.
Richard retrieves the fallen record and tucks it gently into the rest of his collection. “Packing.”
“The maids can do it for you.” She flips her wrist, catching a flash of her silver watch face. “We’ve got to go.”
The prince selects another album from his slimming pile. His fingers brush over it with tender familiarity, wiping away dust and memories as he prepares it for its journey.
His mother’s eyes train in on him like a stalking tiger’s. There’s nothing close to Richard’s grief behind her gaze. It’s all hardness. She’s like a diamond—all the pressures of her life, her lover’s death, have
crushed her into something terrifying, unforgiving.
“Didn’t you hear me? We have a meeting with the prime minister and your uncle today to discuss your preparations for the crown.” She stops, just now catching sight of Richard’s garb—jeans and a white V-neck. “You’re not even dressed?!”
“Sorry. I forgot.” Something in Richard’s sullen words makes it obvious that he’s lying. That and the fact that Lawton reminded him of the meeting at breakfast this morning.
“They’re expecting us in fifteen minutes, Richard!” His mother grits her teeth. “This meeting is of the utmost importance. You can’t be late.”
“Tell them to reschedule. I’m busy.”
“Reschedule! Don’t you get it? There is no rescheduling! This is the prime minister, Richard, not one of your Eton chums. You’re going to become king in one month! You can’t just ignore it or pretend it’s not going to happen! You have to grow up!” With every word, her voice pitches into a shriek. It’s amazing how, with so much brokenness inside her, she still resembles a perfect, slightly aged porcelain doll.
“I don’t want to go, Mum.” Richard’s words are all the same tone, robotic despite his mother’s awakening temper. “I’m not ready yet. I just need a few days. I thought you’d understand.”
“You see. This. This is what did it—” She stops short. “You can’t keep acting like this. It’s time to grow up.”
But the prince doesn’t let her previous statement go. “This is what did what?”
His mother’s cheeks pale, her mouth pinches with regret. I can tell by watching the curve of her chin that she’s shaking. “Nothing. Forget it. I’ll reschedule the meeting for tomorrow.”
Richard stands. The album he’s sorting tumbles onto the rug. “What did you mean, Mum?”
“I told you to forget it,” she says, eyes flashing. “Tomorrow at noon. Don’t be late.”
She strides out almost as quickly as she exploded in. The door slams behind her, startling and final. Richard stares at it, deadpan.
He turns to me after several seconds. The look behind his eyes is devastated. Smoking ruins. “She thinks I killed him.”
