by Ryan Graudin
“You have violated the treaty of Camelot,” I rasp. “You’ve committed treason against Queen Mab and the rest of our kind. For this, the consequence is death.”
I bend down and study the shield clinging to her gray skin. It’s older and more powerful than I first realized. I don’t know if my magic alone can shatter it.
“What do I do?” Richard yells. His knuckles are tight, white as a winter moor.
“Just don’t let go,” I tell him, my mind scrambling for the right spell.
Slowly but surely, it comes to me. Word by word, the magic builds inside my body, taking the form of something dangerous and unwieldy. If I don’t handle it right, Richard could end up dead.
“Ábrece innan. Áfeorse!” All of my energies pour out, raging against the shield.
For a terrible moment, the Old One’s magic seems to hold. Then cracks, nearly invisible, race across the Green Woman’s skin, splitting off one another like a quickly spun web.
“Læte!” I shriek the final word.
The huntress’s eyes meet mine, solidly unrepentant. I watch, my jaw set, as the body in front of me starts to dissolve. It begins at the edges, pieces of her disappearing like sand sucked through an hourglass. Richard’s gasp of horror reminds me that he’s still straddling the dying creature. I put my hand out.
“Stay there. Don’t let go of her throat.”
He nods dumbly. His hands stay clenched until there’s no longer any neck to choke. The Green Woman is gone. I stand and stare at the smoking ground, where her body lay seconds before.
Richard stands slowly, wiping loose crumbles of dirt and leaves from his irreversibly stained trousers. “What the hell was that?”
I ignore his question as I feel around the park. It seems the Green Woman was alone in this attempt. But her death is fresh in the air; it won’t be long before other soul feeders arrive to investigate. There’s only one safe place Richard and I can go. The place we never should have left.
“We’ve got to get back to Buckingham. Now.”
But he doesn’t move. “Embers, what just happened?”
“I’ll tell you everything when we’re back on the palace grounds. I promise.” I look at his hand. It’s trembling, fingertips blurry with movement. I don’t reach out for it.
Richard’s mother is waiting for him. Her face the definition of anger—colorless and winched tight, ready to snap—as she watches him stumble down the hall. Clods of earth are still wedged in the tread of his oxfords, leaving a distinct bread-crumb trail of dirt as he follows me. Although I know she can’t see me, the queen’s glare is enough to send chills down my spine and give me pause. Richard keeps walking. Past me, past the lifeless stone busts of his ancestors, past his mother.
“Where have you been?” she sputters once she realizes he isn’t going to stop. “What happened to your clothes?”
He keeps walking.
“I asked you a question, Richard!” His mother marches after him, heels stamping over her son’s filthy tracks. “You just stood up the prime minister and a room full of journalists! At least have the decency to answer me.”
Richard reaches the door to his private apartments, rooms that were once his father’s. It’s here he pauses and looks his mother in the eye. “Not now, Mum.”
She stares at him; her wiry lips slack into a perfect, speechless O.
I slip, fluid, through the door as soon as Richard opens it. Every single corner of the room is scoured clean by my magic. No soul feeders. I know now, after our hasty walk back through the gathering rain clouds, that this was my fault. Even though I knew there were assassins on the loose, I’d let myself get caught up in Richard, in these . . . feelings I can’t seem to shake. I ignored my duties, skipped protocol. Richard almost ended up dead for it.
More angry words fly behind the door, all spark and heavy black smoke, before Richard finally enters and shuts it behind him. His back leans hard against the thick wood.
“My father didn’t die of a stroke, did he?”
Rain is falling, beating against the window beside me. The sound should be soothing. Instead all I can feel is the blade of the Green Woman’s magic, still slicing and paring my skin.
“No. He was assassinated. It seems that whoever, whatever killed King Edward is trying to kill you too.”
Richard’s lids close.
“I’m sorry. I should have told you before. But you had so much going on with your father’s death. I didn’t know if you’d be able to handle it.” The excuse seems flimsy now, worthless.
“I’m not a child.” The edge of his jaw bulges, the beginnings of anger knotting his muscles together.
“I never said you were.”
“I’m stronger than you think I am.”
I think of the way he risked his life, a mess of flesh and screams as he overpowered the Green Woman, pulling her off of me. How, again, he’s the one protecting me. “I know.”
This seems to take the fight out of Richard’s voice. “What was that thing?”
“A Green Woman. They look like beautiful, green-clad blondes to bait men. It’s not until they go in for the kill that you see what they really look like. . . .”
“If my blood is so helpful, then why was the Green Woman trying to kill me?”
I pause. The question is an obvious one, but it isn’t so easy to answer. To get into the mind of the Green Woman and the Old One who sent her is a challenge even for me. The answer lies in the past.
“When royal blood is spilled by an immortal’s hand, the blood magic doesn’t just fade. It transfers somehow. The attacker grows stronger from that death. We don’t know exactly how it works—such an outright attack on the crown has never happened before. Arthur and Merlin warned us something like this might happen. We’d begun to think it never would. . . . There’d never be a need for an immortal to kill the royals. Someone’s just gotten desperate. Or greedy. They’re trying to kill you to take the blood magic all for themselves. They’ll go on down the line until they have enough power to accomplish their goal. Whatever it is.”
Something the Green Woman said during the flurry of her attack hasn’t left. It’s been looping through my thoughts, spiraling into me ever since I first heard it: our warning. Our warning. She knew what the Banshee told me under the vaults of Westminster.
This shows me the power of the Old One’s influence. She’s taken two very different castes of spirits, the Green Women and Banshees, who despise each other, and pieced them into allies.
She’s united the soul feeders. It’s not just Richard’s blood she wants, but all of mortalkind. She wants to take the island back as her own, and now she has the numbers to do it.
“What about Anabelle and Mum? Are they in danger too?”
“Everyone in your family who has royal blood in their veins is in danger. Although not quite as much as you. Blood magic is strongest in the crown’s direct successor. That’s why the Green Woman was going after you instead of the regent,” I explain. “But Anabelle and the other royals have Fae guarding them as well.”
Richard opens his eyes and walks around the plush velvet furniture of the ornate sitting room. He stares through the window, at the rain that’s started slapping against glass.
“There are things you can do to make my job easier. The same goes for the rest of your family.”
Richard stops pacing. “Like what?”
“Right now the city is our best defense. Whatever’s after you appears to be quite an old spirit—she won’t stand to come anywhere near London. That’s why she’s been sending assassins to do the job for her. Banshee and Green Women I can handle. An Old One is a different story. It would be best if you stayed within London’s borders.”
There is an unpleasant turning in my gut, as if to remind me of the city’s true feelings for my kind. What it actually means for me to stay.
“Stay in London? For how long?”
“As long as it takes.” I grit my teeth, waiting for the worst of the pain to pass.
The prince shakes his head. Weariness, just a flash of it, crosses his face. “It’s not possible! Once I accede the throne, they’ll expect me to tour—to go overseas.”
“Well, let’s just do it for as long as we can. Until we figure out a better way to guard you outside of the city. Same goes for your sister,” I add.
“And what am I supposed to tell Anabelle?”
“Tell her anything you’d like. Lie. Just don’t let her leave.”
I try to distract myself from the nausea by examining several small, recently acquired burn holes in the top layer of my skirts. The bright teal silk is peppered with charred spots. Ruined. I frown. The skirt, snatched from a duchess’s closet two hundred years ago, was one of my favorites.
“Do you think there will be any more attacks?”
“Definitely.” I nod. “Someone powerful wants you dead. I don’t think the death of a single assassin will deter them.”
Richard sighs. The sound deflates him. “I need some tea.”
I watch as he picks up the phone and rings Lawton. He’s calmed down considerably since we first entered the room. Color has returned to his face, and his voice is steady as he requests the hot tea. How had I thought he wouldn’t be able to handle this?
“What made you attack the Green Woman?” I ask when he sets the phone back.
“What do you mean?” He collapses on the end of an embroidered love seat.
“I’ve never seen any man attack an immortal head-on like that. You had no chance against her. Why did you do it?”
“I don’t know. I just did. You needed help, so I came. There wasn’t too much time to think.” He pauses. “Why do you ask?”
“It—it’s happened before. You coming to my rescue.”
Richard knows what I mean in an instant. “Then that man in the tabloids was telling the truth? You were there when I punched him? You erased my memory?”
“Yes. He was harassing me.” I can tell by the look on his face where his thoughts are jumping. Back to that morning with Edward. I want to kick myself for dredging up the painful moment, for forcing him to dwell on that one scene he’s worked so hard to move past.
“At least the punch was worth something then.” But his wavering expression tells me it doesn’t change anything his father said. It doesn’t make things better.
A sharp tap from the other side of the door breaks apart any words I’m about to say. Richard looks warily at the door, as if he expects a pack of hellhounds to come barreling through it at any moment. Considering that his mother was the last person in the corridor, the possibility isn’t all that remote.
But it’s only Lawton with the tray of tea. The young assistant leaves as quickly as he comes, pausing only to pour a bit of the coppery liquid into the china cup.
“It’s been hard, since Dad . . .” Richard falters. “I mean, just a few weeks ago I was at Eton and my biggest worry was whether or not the prefects would find my stash of booze. Now it seems as if everybody wants something from me. And I have nothing left to give. I don’t know if I even had anything in the first place.”
I can taste his sorrow; it pollutes the air around him.
“Tell me,” he goes on after a moment of silence, “do you ever think about death?”
“What about it?” My question is cautious. This is a holy, sacred subject we’re exploring. Especially in this company.
“I mean, do you ever think of what’s on the other side? What’s beyond it?”
“Not very often,” I admit. Only now in the past week has death been so present in my thoughts.
“I guess you don’t have to. Must be nice, living forever,” Richard says.
I say nothing.
“Sometimes I wonder if he’s watching me. Dad, I mean.” The prince swallows. The teacup in his hand rattles, spitting amber drops on his suit. “I wonder if he likes what he sees.”
“He might’ve had a few words about what happened today. . . .” I could have said something false, comforting. But I know that no matter what, Richard will stay bound to his father’s ghost. Best to just spill out the truth, quick and cutting. Hope it leaves its mark.
Richard groans. “I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to live that one down. I’m sure the papers tomorrow are going to be fabulous. It’s just—I dunno. I couldn’t make myself do it. Seems silly now, doesn’t it? That I should be afraid of something I was raised to do?”
“Every mortal has that problem. I believe you call it ‘stage fright,’” I tell him. “What perplexes me is that you’re not more worried that there’s an ancient Fae out for your blood.”
“I don’t think there’s room for any more fear. And, I have you.”
I stare at the empty space next to Richard. I want, very much, to go sit with him.
My body—bones, tendons, and all—feels frail. Distinctly human. I’m sick of standing, and the prince’s love seat is the closest piece of furniture. All it would take is three steps. Three steps and I could be next to him.
No. The ambush in the park happened because I got caught up in Richard. If I knew what was best for me, for him, I’d stay far, far away.
I want to tell him he should be scared. That he should be terrified. What he doesn’t know, doesn’t realize, is that he was the one who saved us.
Without him, I would be nothing now. Unraveled into ether and air.
Thirteen
Richard’s sleep is still deep and dream-soaked when his sister arrives. In the nights he’s slept since his father’s death he’s kicked the sheets, twisting them into inextricable knots with his long legs. The fight with the Green Woman drained this restlessness out of him. He’s as still as a body laid out for a viewing, the sheets draped over him flat and unwrinkled.
“Richard! You’re not still sleeping, are you?” Anabelle’s knocks grow louder with each passing second.
I glance over at the bed, wondering if I should wake him. But Breena is on the other side of that door. If she catches sight of Richard and me, all is finished.
After another minute of pounding her fist against the wood, the princess finally shoves the door open. Everything—her hair, her makeup, and her wardrobe—is as coordinated and flawless as always. The princess is a jigsaw puzzle without the cracks. It’s only when you look straight into her eyes, between mascara-coated lashes, that you can tell something’s wrong.
Anabelle strides over to the bed, her high heels sinking into the plush rug. She makes a face at the mountain of laundry on the floor before she leans over and shakes her brother’s shoulders.
“Wake up, Richard! It’s almost noon!”
He starts at his sister’s touch. The headboard—a piece of birch hand-carved by long-dead woodworkers—shudders from the movement. Beating against the rust-red walls like an incoming telegraph. I take a sharp breath when his gaze glimmers by me and shake my head as barely as I dare.
Fortunately Richard seems to receive my subtle message. He blinks up at his sister.
Anabelle puts one hand on her hip. No amount of powder or paste can hide the glower she’s aiming at her older brother. “I take it, since you’re still asleep, that you haven’t read the papers today.”
A copy of the morning post dangles from her free hand. A picture of Richard swallows the front page. My stomach turns to see it—he’s walking down the gravel path, mouth open in what’s clearly mid-word. I know that the empty space beside him is where my image is supposed to be.
“‘Prince Richard Abandons Speech and Converses with Imaginary Beings: Has Britain’s Future King Cracked?’” Anabelle doesn’t even get halfway through reading the headline aloud before Richard falls back into the bed, his face completely engulfed in the goose-down pillow. “What is this?”
“Yes. What is that?” Breena glides up next to me. “What happened in the park yesterday, Emrys?”
My mouth dries as I stare at the paper. I’d forgotten all about the paparazzi and their intrusive cameras.
Richard roll
s back over, bleary eyes inspecting the wad of paper and ink. “They’re exaggerating, Belle. You know how they are.”
“This isn’t The Sun, Richard. This is a reputable news source. I can’t help but worry about your sanity when you go AWOL from a press conference and have intricate conversations with the air in Hyde Park.” Anabelle tosses the paper aside and looks down at her brother in earnest. “Are you okay? I mean, really?”
Richard pushes himself up. The sheets slide slowly down his chest, and I try my hardest not to stare. Seeing him half naked under the buttery slants of morning light, I can truly understand why Mab was so captivated by the human form. Why she wanted us to imitate it. The sculpt and dive of his muscles against summer-singed skin is like a masterpiece rendered by the Renaissance artists.
“Are you asking me if I’ve gone mental? Did Mum put you up to this?”
“Mum actually left for Bath this morning. She’s checked herself into a spa.” Anabelle sighs. “I’m asking out of the concern of my sisterly heart.”
“Mum went to Bath? She left London?” A storm cloud of worry rises, builds behind Richard’s face.
His sister scowls. “You’re going off topic. Answer my question.”
“No, Belle. I’m not crazy. I was talking to Edmund through an earpiece. The reporters took it out of context like they always do.”
“Emrys!” Breena’s fingers snap just by the slope of my nose, and I remember that I’m not supposed to be looking or listening to the royals’ drama. Richard’s on his own. “What happened in the park?”
My mind scrambles. Richard’s excuse is better than any I could’ve dredged up. I decide to elaborate on it.
“He got cold feet and ran off to the park. He called one of his Eton friends to talk. That’s when the press found him.”
In the fringes of my attention, I hear Richard speaking, low and serious. “Listen, sis. Promise me you won’t leave London any time soon.”
I grit my teeth. If anything would arouse Breena’s suspicions it would be this. . . . If only there was a way to keep him silent without my friend catching wind of it.
