Ferrous (Fae's Folly Book 1)

by Valerie Mars

“I’ve had a lot of practice lately,” I murmur while pressing my cheek to her head.

  I always imagined raising cows alone, but raising them with Mallory could be a happy option, too. Happier, even.

  34

  Mallory

  I close the door behind Kai, savoring my last breath of pine.

  “You’re thawing him, you know.”

  “Funny, coming from the Ice Prince, himself.” My response is immediate, the memory of my pact to allow him zero head space following only after.

  His reply brushes into my ear despite his place across the room, tickling my neck. “I was warm enough to melt you.”

  I turn from the door and decide against awarding his ego any further. “I hope it’s enough that he’s able to live a proper life someday.”

  He raises a brow, mocking me. “One war at a time, Brooks.”

  I let down my hair and fling myself onto the couch. It’s way too stiff—something fancy designed for schmoozing guests over providing comfort. I consider telling him the true identity of my bard friend he was so worried about, but decide to stay quiet. It isn’t my secret to tell.

  He hangs his arms over the back of a sitting chair. “Couch or bed?”

  I sigh, realizing the night of discomfort ahead of me. “Couch.”

  “You’ll regret that.”

  “I know.”

  “Everything you require is in the bathroom. I’ll be waking you early,” he says on his way to the bedroom.

  “Thanks.”

  He pauses, hand lingering on his doorknob. “Goodnight, Mallory.”

  “Night.” His door shuts softly, and I head to the bathroom. Fresh toiletries line the sink and I spy a folded pajama set on a shelf above the toilet. Twyla is an angel.

  I brush my teeth, finding myself grateful to lack fae hearing this night. My own thoughts make plenty enough company. I know I’m supposed to be contemplating how the human population can affect Faerie, but my heart elects to catch up on the countless events of the past few days instead. I lose track of time, polishing my teeth until I realize it’s my third time brushing the bottom row.

  By the time I finish and change, I’m eager to find peace in sleep. Maybe dream about Kai babies and cows. I admire the lavender jadeite tub on my way out, loathing my impending return to the bottle-ridden accident waiting to happen in my apartment.

  A pillow and blanket await me on the coffee table. I make use of both and enter the fetal position on the couch. As much as I hate to do it, I’m due for another cry.

  Quietly, I cry for Bash and August. I cry for the friends who will never know who I was or where I went if the council deems my efforts worthy. I cry for the fae who are suffering and for Kai’s solitude, soaking through the silky pillowcase and wetting my hair. I’d probably cry for Ryland, too, if it weren’t for my inner pact.

  And that thought alone is what does it. Irritation trickles in to wipe away my sadness, and I’m finally able to sleep.

  I awaken in the rain again. It’s familiar and comforting, but not the smell of where I fell asleep last night. I crack an eye, nervous to discover which images lie before me. Thankfully, my feet still stretch across the length of the couch as disagreeable as its owner. Pact maintained.

  There is one difference in the scenery, however: a pillowy down duvet has joined my couch burrito. It’s the bulk of my couch burrito, if I’m being honest. I resent the slate duvet immediately, for it’s obvious from where it came, but wish I hadn’t noticed due to the comfort it adds to my rigid makeshift bed. The tender spots on my body tell me the couch put up a good fight last night.

  Bare feet move over the wooden planks near the kitchen, explaining my reason for waking. It’s just the Autumn Prince. Bruising be damned, I turn over and resolve to fall back asleep.

  “I was moments from waking you, Brooks.” Curse his hearing. “We’re about an hour out.” His feet pad closer to the living room. “I’ll have coffee ready when you’re finished freshening up.”

  I groan. “Who told you I can be summoned with coffee?”

  “Your breath.” I respond with an apropos pfft, prompting a surprising chuckle. I’d curse his sense of smell, too, but it’s going to work out in my favor this time. This time, I’ll crawl out from the cardamom cave of conflicted feelings and go drink coffee.

  Brushing my teeth and hair go as one would expect, but I make a disappointing discovery upon changing my clothes: it wasn’t Twyla who did the shopping. There’s no way she would choose this sweater after I explained my need to distance myself from lavenders and periwinkles.

  Nope, this is her brother’s doing. Like a dog pissing to mark his territory, Ryland served me a sweater and ribbon that both match his hair. I’d be impressed at how closely they match if I wasn’t so annoyed. The worst part? They look great. I stare myself down in the mirror. You will not make an ordeal of this. It’ll only satisfy him further.

  I enter his kitchen for the first time, admittedly curious to find out how fae cooking works. I don’t remember a real kitchen in Bash’s place, but he’s lower on the totem pole than Ryland and has fireballs for hands, anyway. I peek around Ryland, expecting to see a wood-burning stove, but instead find a fairly modern looking range. And same as the piano strings, I have to know.

  But first, I must ask about the mugs of coffee waiting on the table, one already full of cream. “Which one is mine?”

  “The black. There’s cream if you want it.”

  “Do I ever.” I top that sucker off, noticing Ryland’s is a similar shade to mine. Kai practically apologized to his black coffee when he saw how much cream I was adding. That’s one point for Ryland, I guess. He can have it, being he’s in the red, anyway. I eye his damp hair before moving to his side. “What fuels the flame?”

  He tosses a handful of chopped apples into the pot he’s stirring. “Gas, same as humans.”

  “I didn’t realize fae can drill for oil.”

  “We’re allergic to iron, not progress. Your ancient Chinese drilled with bamboo, for Ophelia’s sake.” He pops a fresh cranberry into his mouth.

  “I guess all this time I was imagining my bath water being heated by a crew of fire fae who change shifts every hour or something. Like on steam-powered ships and stuff.”

  His smile is genuine as he shakes his head and throws in the rest of the cranberries. “There’s a bit of truth in that,” he says, pointing to the chandelier hanging over his table. It glows with the same rocks that were at the fire-water-cold tournament. “Those were more prevalent when our magic was strong. They required less effort to charge and held power longer. Now they’ve become a luxury in cities with an economy and population to sustain keeping them charged.”

  “Makes me want to smuggle one back to my room, to be honest.”

  “That’s implying you go back to your room.” His statement feels like a threat in more than one way, and I use its duplicity to ignore the way this setting softens him.

  “How silly of me to forget I’m a prisoner here.”

  He sighs before ladling half the cranberry-apple oatmeal into a bowl. He ladles the rest into another and delivers them to the table, taking a long sip of coffee before sitting down. “I hope you enjoy your prison gruel, mortal.”

  I stare at him, awaiting an additional snide comment. Nothing comes, and it dawns on me that he might be a morning person. Gross. I sit down and dig into my oatmeal, the silence piercing my nerves like a thousand needles. The oatmeal is delicious, of course. Even if it reeks of stupid Autumn.

  But fall was my favorite season before meeting Ryland.

  “Is it really always Autumn in Kilthorne?”

  “Hordes of Summer hunters aside, yes. Kilthorne has more elk than it does people.”

  “I’ve always loved Autumn, but I don’t know if I’d appreciate it as much if its length were timeless. Did you ever travel to your mother’s Spring home?”

  Suddenly he’s gazing out the window, looking far away as he conjures memories. “Once or twice
for my father’s work. That’s about it.”

  “Do you enjoy your work?”

  “I enjoy helping people,” he replies to the window before gathering his dishes and standing. “We leave in fifteen minutes. I’ll see you at the door, then.” He gives me a brief nod, then deposits his dishes into the sink and all but sprints.

  While it’s true he probably has to comb his hair and ready himself, I’m pretty sure Ryland Everhart just ran from me.

  My mind is busy in the fifteen minutes spent finishing my oatmeal and getting ready. The stuff with his mom weighs on my chest, a smidge of guilt creeping in from having brought up an obvious source of pain in his life. It reminds me how petty his upbringing must have been, him and his father constantly kissing ass in hopes that everyone forgets his mom was the fae version of a junkie. I think of how he must long to distance himself from me, a fresh sep in the eyes of his peers. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” they’ll sneer. And while his peers judge from behind, the council watches to see if he’ll be able to turn the mistake of my coming here into something useful.

  This week must be a nightmare for him.

  I inquire how the duvet ended up with me on the couch as we’re exiting his suite.

  “You were cold. And I thought our living arrangement would be more believable if you wore my scent.”

  I can’t smell him on me, but everyone else will. What about him, though? My feet grind to a halt and I catch his arm. “What about you?”

  His nostrils flare as he glances down at my hand. “I rubbed your dirty laundry onto my doublet.” Seriously? That’s what he excused himself to do while I finished my oatmeal and felt sorry for him? I start laughing, and he rolls his eyes so far back I half wonder if they’ll keep rolling.

  I’m bent over at the absurdity of it when he cups his hand around mine and begins walking. My giggles die as I careen forward. He keeps me upright, and I stumble into walking at his side.

  “Won’t this ruin your political aspirations?”

  He stares straight ahead. “This takes priority.”

  Pfft. “Impressing the council only wins you nine votes, you know.”

  “Foolish girl, just plant the seed for them until we’ve reached the castle grounds.” He finishes with a smile, nodding to someone emerging from their room as we near the stairwell. I make an effort to keep closer to his side, and there are whispers before we’ve even left the citadel. Pretty rude, considering my weak human anatomy can pick up on it.

  I’m almost grateful for his hand when we exit. Autumn is losing ground to Winter, the air biting my nose as my exhale turns visible. Frost coats the grass, a pale juxtaposition to the black walls of either structure surrounding us. The crews are already hard at work, adding mesh made of metal to the windows. Bars would be more appropriate for Ryland’s, however.

  He pulls me to the side just before the castle doors, leaning his mouth to the shell of my ear as fae stream by. To them, it looks like a mischievous kiss, but it’s the faintest ghost of a whisper which touches my ear. “Remember the maps.” I’m not sure telepathy could have been more quiet. I’m also not sure I needed a reminder or the goosebumps that prickle over my entire body. Faehole. He gets half a point for supplying me with a thick sweater instead of a silk blouse, though.

  I nod, probably too rigidly. “Of course.”

  With that, he drops my hand and we enter the castle only loosely associated as fellow participants among the throngs of people. I don’t spot anyone I know, and hopefully no one I know spotted whatever the fuck that just was.

  Skye beckons me over from the farthest of the ballroom doors, and my heart swells for the dose of Summer balm it’s about to receive. She grabs both my hands in greeting, beaming ear to ear. “Big day, big day!” Something inanimate presses into my right hand. “I brought some of that candy we talked about for you to snack on. I still think it tastes like ass, but it’ll make your day go by quicker,” she says with a Summer wink.

  I curl my fingers around a vial before stuffing it into my front pocket. I’m betting this isn’t candy. “You’d waste your candy on me?”

  “You, of all people, would enjoy it. Go find a seat in the stands before your Spring folk overrun them,” she concludes with a friendly pat on the back.

  Uh. Alright, then. I thank her and enter the ballroom. It’s divided into four corners like the gala night, with several sets of bleachers crowding the walls. The room’s a lot more spacious without all the tables littered about. Save the corner bleachers, the only obstruction is the council’s raised platform in the center. I catch Ferra’s green hair near the top row as I near Spring, the cherry blonde of Laith beside her reminding me of Christmas elves.

  I mean, their ears are on point. Literally.

  They scoot in to make space, and Ferra is immediately upon me. “I knocked on your door last night, but no one was home. And now you smell like…” she sniffs a few times, as if to make sure, “Everhart?”

  Laith throws up a hand in greeting, looking equally perplexed and amused to be included in my love life gossip.

  “Hey, Laith,” I wave, casting him a pitiful plea for help with my brows. He shakes his head. “Traitor.”

  He leans across Ferra to whisper. “We aren’t the only ones wondering. Sorry, girl.”

  I roll my eyes despite knowing it’s the exact reaction Ryland was hoping for. “Truth be told, I didn’t expect this, either.”

  “What did it?” Ferra’s never shy to cut to the core.

  “Well, he’s been catching me up on history lately, and one thing led to anoth—”

  “Oooo, the forbidden teacher-student romance,” Laith says, fanning his face. Eh, it’s a little more forbidden than that, buddy. “But who taught whom?”

  Fuck if I know. “I think he has the upper hand currently.”

  “You better fix that,” Ferra says with a nudge to my ribs.

  “Yeah, I’ll pencil it in between the matching gauntlet and being sent away.”

  Her forest green brows tilt. “You don’t think you’ll get a quad?”

  “The odds aren’t looking great for me, either,” Laith says with a sigh. “I haven’t been paired with anyone twice. And being a Spring Separatist doesn’t help.”

  “Well, both of you need to cheer up. We had barely begun before they decided to cut to the chase. They’ll decide well over 100 quads today.”

  “Easy for you to say, beast-babbler,” he mumbles. Ferra says nothing, peering into the Winter bleachers—maybe for Zeke?

  Our conversation meanders as the stands continue filling, and during their speculation on lunch, I remember Skye’s vial. I check my pocket as inconspicuously as possible, and as expected, its contents are a murky liquid. Home girl scored me some tea. Hopefully the flavor is closer to licorice than asshole.

  Same as the previous events, the crowd hushes as the council ascends the platform. Skye raises her teacup to me, which confirms my suspicion. The tea will have to wait, though. I have a lot of brainstorming to do before I can afford the distraction of whatever hallucinations it creates.

  Yeah, I’ll save that for later. As a parting gift with this world, because they won’t need a spy when everyone’s about to get strapped to three quad members for the rest of the war. By then there’ll probably be someone with the power to discern truth, anyway.

  Celeste doesn’t waste time with flowery words this morning, not that verbosity is her usual. I drift in and out of focus, unconsciously searching for the faces of Bash, Twyla, and Kai in the other corners of the room.

  She begins calling names, and I realize they’re using the most promising pairs as a base to build on. Several familiar faces enter the floor, Bash and Larkin among them. Next, the Spring bleachers are standing and we’re to parade past the pairs so the council can quickly narrow down the mingling of everyone’s magic.

  It’s only quick in relation to the weeks of events we would have suffered if it weren’t for August upping the ante. We snail through,
and they pull a few to stand with a prospective quad matching. Sometimes a stronger connection comes along and they pull someone from the floor and send them back to the parade. Once we’re seated, the council runs the entirety of Summer through. Then Autumn, Winter, and Spring again. This continues ad nauseam, and it’s easy for me to slip into the knot of contradictions surrounding the origin of the Iron Blight. Unfortunately, slipping out of thought proves just as easy.

  My mind runs circles around itself, getting redirected every time we’re made to walk the floor again. Between Bash and Larkin, I’m lost for who to make eye contact with, and I avoid Ryland’s every time I pass him and Kai. The four of them stand together as a quad during the final few passes, during which all thoughts of the Iron Blight leave me. I’m sure even my ears burn, seeing everyone in proximity like that.

  The world is a very small place sometimes.

  I’ve stated the same points in my head twelve times over by the time we break for lunch. Nonetheless, I make nothing of it, unless piling confusion on top of confusion into a monstrous headache counts.

  At the end of the day, something suspiciously similar to iron poisoning is wrecking the old and young. This suggests to me that toxicity may be a factor. There’s nothing noteworthy about this conclusion, but toxicity would explain Tristan’s rumor that Techies are out there dying in droves. They would be the first to crumble given their bodies are already full of poison. The problem is, Griffith’s dismissal of them doing it to themselves through new technology is plausible, too.

  But why do these clusters overlap with North American major cities? Has someone found a way to bring the iron funk of cities from Earth to Faerie? If not, is something of ours bleeding over? I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the AR selfie filters.

  35

  Mallory

  I almost tumble off the bleachers descending for lunch. It says a lot about my state of mind, given my fear of heights usually keeps me alert. Ferra catches me by my arm, chuckling. “Don’t go throwing yourself anywhere, yet. It’s not over until it’s over.” She cranes her head back at Laith. “That goes for you, too.” Neither he nor I made it out of the parade line. Neither of us are shocked, but I feel for Laith.