by AJ Lancaster
Marius should say something. Anything. Anything at all.
He said nothing.
Rakken kissed him. It was unexpectedly gentle, a slow siege that slid under his guard. He’d never been kissed like this, like he was being seduced. And gods, it was seductive, Rakken’s persuasive mouth and the heat of his hand on the back of Marius’s neck, firmly directing angles. Marius’s fingers curled in the material of Rakken’s shirt, unsure if he was holding on for dear life or pulling him closer.
Rakken tasted like rain and citrus, like kissing a storm-tossed lemon orchard or some other, better metaphor Marius’s mind was too demented to come up with. It filled the aching loneliness at the centre of him, despair washing away under raw physicality, nothing but heat and the hard, throbbing awareness of his own body, the animal desire to rut. Gods, he hadn’t felt this alive in months, not since he and John—and that thought brought him crashing back.
“No,” he said, shoving Rakken away. Rakken went easily, but the lines of his face hardened.
“No?” Rakken said, lifting an eyebrow. His tone was dispassionate, but his pupils were blown wide, the black swallowing the green of his irises. His mouth was flushed red. He wasn’t as unaffected as he wanted to seem. Good. Why was that good? Marius shouldn’t want Rakken to want him. He didn’t. Well done for making sense in your own head.
“You don’t even like me, Rakken. And I don’t like you. We aren’t even friends.” They weren’t, were they? When had he somehow forgotten that? He didn’t like this man—this fae—with his insufferable arrogance and questionable ethics, regardless of how addled he made Marius’s hind brain. His hind brain wasn’t supposed to be in charge of decision-making. Remember the trouble it got you into the last time!
Rakken gave Marius a slow inspection from head to toe, lingering on certain unmistakably aroused aspects of his anatomy. “That need not be an obstacle,” he drawled. “You clearly desire me.”
Marius flushed. Oh gods, let the earth open up and swallow me now.
“That’s not the point! The point is I’m not a toy for you to play with just so you can get your unwanted attraction to an infuriating mortal out of your system!” He was trembling. He wasn’t even sure where the words had come from, but they felt true. Rakken’s narrowed eyes certainly suggested he’d struck true.
He doesn’t want to want me any more than I want to want him. The realisation stung, and another, more bitter one came on the heels of it: Rakken’s magic was drained after summoning such powerful glamour and flying them here with his damaged wings; he needed more magic before he could build a portal to Stariel. But strong emotions could augment fae magic, couldn’t they? Strong emotions like desire?
“And I’m not bloody fuel for you to recharge your magic with! That’s what this was about, wasn’t it?”
Rakken didn’t deny the accusation as Marius pushed past him. Nor did he make any attempt to stop him, which made Marius irrationally angry. “I’m not some weak mortal you can use just because it’s convenient! None of us are!”
Of course Rakken never did things for simple reasons; of course everything had to serve some ulterior motive, even something as base as lust. Gods, I’m a fool. Shame coiled roots through him, snuffing out the remnants of desire.
Marius shivered as he let himself into his greenhouse, soaked to the bone. He’d been so terrified of being used again, of being overwhelmed by desire and loneliness and falling yet again for the wrong man as a result. But he…hadn’t done that, had he? He’d just pushed away the walking definition of The Wrong Man. The comfort was cold but oddly energising. He turned, shoring up that newfound knowledge. He wouldn’t let himself be used again.
He turned to close the door, found Rakken watching him hungrily—but there was no apology in his expression.
“Marius—” Rakken lifted a hand and dropped it, as if he hadn’t meant to make the gesture.
Marius cut him off. “You can come in when you’ve recovered enough magic to build a portal. Otherwise, you can damn well stand out there and drown, for all I care.” He shut the door.
37
Naming Conventions
We will return shortly. Our sister temporarily delayed us. Marius is safe.
What did it mean, temporarily delayed? Hetta turned the words Rakken had sent to Wyn over again. Couldn’t Rakken have been slightly more explicit? But then, when did fae ever speak plainly if being cryptic was an option? At least he’d said Marius was safe.
Cryptic Exhibit A was chatting unconcernedly with Hetta’s stepmother on the chesterfield. Irokoi had changed to mortal form and now wore human clothes and shoes. He hadn’t given Hetta any more information when pressed except to express enthusiasm for Rakken and Marius’s returning as soon as possible.
I wish I could figure out what he’s playing at. Remembering the ancient frost of his power, the deliberateness with which he’d unfurled it, it was hard not to see Irokoi’s air of bewildered innocence as pure camouflage. With age came power, Wyn had said more than once, and Irokoi was the oldest, wasn’t he?
Camouflage or not, it was working on Hetta’s older female relations. Even Aunt Sybil’s rigid disapproval from earlier had softened. But then, Aunt Sybil had a soft spot for all handsome young—or apparently young—men, up to and including Rakken, so her judgement was clearly not to be trusted.
“Alexandra is named for my mother’s sister, who died when I was a girl,” Phoebe was telling Irokoi. “Gregory for Henry’s great-uncle.” Her expression faltered at the mention of her son, and Hetta felt a twinge of guilt. She hadn’t spoken directly to Gregory yet, but from the way her younger brother refused to meet her eyes, she had a fairly good idea why he’d been sent down from university. Yet another thing to put on her list of problems she’d indirectly caused and now needed to solve.
“You frequently name children after other people, then?” Irokoi asked, fascinated.
“Oh, yes, all the time! And a good thing too because sometimes I think there are so many Valstars that if we didn’t reuse names we’d run out! But Laurel is simply because I liked the sound of it. She was going to be Jessica, but it didn’t suit once she was born.”
Hetta decided to make her exit. The press of things she needed to catch up with weighed on her. Jack had disappeared onto the estate, apparently leaping at the chance to be rid of his delegated authority, and babbling something about a royal message, but she needed to pin him down again and get a proper debrief.
She stood to go, but Irokoi turned to her. “I don’t think you should name your children after Aeros, given what Hallowyn did to him. But what was your mother’s name?”
“Edith,” Hetta said faintly. Her family’s attention fixed on her interestedly.
Phoebe took pity on her, asking Irokoi kindly, “And what is your mother’s name, Prince Irokoi?”
Irokoi’s delight dimmed for a beat. “They called her Ryn.”
“But that wouldn’t do for a boy,” Aunt Sybil pointed out.
“It wouldn’t?” Irokoi looked surprised. “Oh, I don’t know the rules of these mortal naming conventions. Can you combine them? Edyn? Rydith? Hettyn? Wynetta?” He sounded entirely delighted.
Hetta looked up to see Wyn frozen mid-step on the threshold.
“Brother!” Irokoi said brightly. “Apparently you can name children after other people. Don’t you think my name is an excellent one?”
“My Star,” Wyn said, ignoring Irokoi with a composure Hetta envied. He gestured towards the hallway in an apologetic way. “Forgive the interruption, but would you mind stepping out for a moment…”
Hetta stood hastily. “No, of course not.” She tried to keep her pace dignified and radiate an aura of official-business-ness as the two of them made their escape.
“Thank you,” she said fervently when they’d reached her study. The fragments of Irokoi and Phoebe’s conversation skittered around the room, unspoken but as present as the heavy wooden furniture and colourful prints on the wall. “I’d like t
o strongly veto Wynetta. Actually, I’d like to veto all of Irokoi’s suggestions.”
Wyn swallowed. “Agreed.”
The weight of the future reality in which they had a child with a name pressed down on her. It seemed to be having a similar effect on Wyn; his expression as he stood next to the window was smooth and unreadable, but Hetta was fairly sure of his feelings. Naming their baby—if they failed, did they want to name their loss?
We’re not going to fail, Hetta vowed, conscious of the weight of the heartstone at her throat. It had darkened noticeably since last night. But hadn’t they already achieved half of what the High King asked? Well, assuming he accepted their extremely technical fae argument.
The day was darkening, Starwater’s surface already semi-obscured by wisps of fog, though Hetta could feel the wind starting to rise.
“Did you actually have something to ask me or were you just aiding and abetting my escape?” she asked.
He smiled. “Not specifically, but I could certainly have come up with something if pressed.” His expression sobered. “The bank manager is unhappy. Apparently Lord Arran is a shareholder.”
The bank couldn’t know about the leviathan attack yet, which meant Lord Arran had said something to the bank even before he’d accepted Angus’s invitation.
“We’ve been meeting our repayment obligations. As a shareholder, that should make Lord Arran extremely happy. And those tenants are about to sign the lease on the Dower House. Unless something happened while we were gone? Jack didn’t say anything.” The experimental seed varietals and new drainage scheme wouldn’t bear fruit till the next growing season at the earliest, and they still desperately needed cashflow to undertake maintenance and upgrades that had already waited far too long. Her villagers shouldn’t have to go through another winter without insulation.
Wyn shook his head. “All excellent facts that I pointed out, but I fear…” He sighed. “He implied that the extension of any further funds would be contingent on the outcome of the Conclave’s next meeting.”
Hetta thought of the way Lord Arran had looked at Gwendelfear, and her heart sank to somewhere around her boots. The Conclave would’ve accepted Jack without a murmur. Hetta didn’t believe in second-guessing herself, but it was hard not to in this instance. Stariel had chosen her, but Stariel didn’t understand politics or finances. What if the faeland had chosen wrong?
She shut down that line of thought as unhelpful and picked up the stack of accumulated mail. Wyn didn’t say anything as she sorted through it until she found one bearing Queen Matilda’s seal and opened it, revealing an invitation addressed to “Lord Henrietta Valstar & His Royal Majesty Hallowyn Tempestren”.
She put her thumb over His Royal Majesty, blanking out the incorrect title with a mixture of relief and guilt; she was glad it wasn’t true, despite everything, and it was sort of nice to see their names linked together so officially. Gods, what were they going to do about finding a new ruler for ThousandSpire, assuming Irokoi really did know how to free it?
She removed her thumb, and the title glittered accusingly up at her again. Of course the queen had assumed Wyn would be King of ThousandSpire now. Hetta ought to tell her that was not the case and never would be. The invitation was to the Meridon Ball, now less than a fortnight away. There was a veiled threat behind the polite words, we expect your attendance. Please confirm.
Hetta gave the invitation to Wyn, who read it grimly as she opened the next missive. It was, ironically, the official summons to the next meeting of the Conclave, in Greymark. A bitter laugh choked its way out of her. Well, at least she’d been invited before she’d unleashed bloodthirsty monsters on the Chair.
“I’m developing quite an aversion to letters,” she said, handing that one to Wyn as well.
“You’re a good lord,” Wyn said. “The Conclave should welcome you into its ranks. If it won’t… Well, we persuaded the bank in our favour once before.”
“You persuaded the bank.”
“With our plan, as your steward relying on your delegated authority. I will not accept sole credit. Delegation is part of ruling.” Wyn paused. “Besides, allow me to be arrogant enough to want to contribute something to your life besides trouble.”
“Don’t you dare make this about you!”
Frustration flashed in the russet of his eyes. “But it is about me. If the Conclave rejects you, it will not be because you have failed as a lord. It will be because of your association with me.”
Hetta gave an angry laugh. “Allow me to be arrogant enough to want to be accepted or rejected on my own merits!”
“I…” He sagged. “I’m sorry. And you are right; it infuriates me as well to think that you may not be. If the Conclave has any sense, the lords will see past their prejudices to what you are.”
This, irrationally, only made her angrier. “Stop agreeing with me!”
He blinked. “Ah…do you really want to fight, Hetta?”
“Yes!” She wasn’t sure if she wanted to hit him or kiss him. Irritation sparked in her like fireworks. What was wrong with her? “Are you calling me irrational?”
A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth, as if he were trying hard not to smile. “Remember I told you the books strongly advised against doing so.”
“Stop trying to make me laugh! I don’t want to laugh!” She made an inarticulate sound of annoyance. “You’re just so…so…argh!”
His expression was extremely neutral.
“Oh, go away, then! I’m going to talk to Jack.” She put out the words as a challenge. Wyn was impossible to provoke, but her cousin would definitely oblige her. And she needed to talk to him anyway about what had gone on in her absence.
“Good idea.” His eyes sparkled. “I love you, Hetta.”
“I love you too!” she snapped back. “Now go away and do something stewardly.” Maybe she’d have a handle on her temper by then. She knew she was being unreasonable, and yet that didn’t seem to make a difference to her prickly irritation.
Wyn nodded. “My Star.” But his head came up sharply at the same time as something fluttered on the edge of her awareness, Stariel pulling her attention to the greenhouse as the gap she’d left in the wards opened. Relief filled her, re-ordering her priorities in an instant.
“Marius,” she said just as Wyn said, “Rake.”
“At least they have not strangled each other,” Wyn said. He held out a hand. She took it, squeezed.
As they walked out to the greenhouse, she imagined pulling a curtain around her mind, feeling both a little ridiculous and anxious as she did so. Wyn had been trying to teach her how to shield her mind against telepathy, but neither of them had any idea if it would be effective or not, since Hetta was human and they hadn’t had a telepath to practice with.
She supposed this would be practice now.
The temperature in the greenhouse was warmer than outside, trapping the weak sunlight. Hetta fiddled with the leaves of a sweet pea as the taut, pulling sensation increased and the portal took shape on the far wall. It slid open, showing a flash of unfamiliar greenery, and then Rakken and Marius were stepping through.
Both of them were dripping wet. They were also studiously ignoring each other. She couldn’t read Rakken’s expression, but the tight anger in Marius’s made her want to set Rakken ablaze on general principles.
Marius went to hug her and hesitated, but Hetta threw her arms around him anyway. He made a startled sound of protest. “Hetta, I’m all wet, you shouldn’t—”
“I haven’t suddenly become made of glass.” She released her brother, admittedly feeling quite a bit damper, and frowned up at him. “What happened with Aroset?”
“Aroset was in Meridon, but we escaped.” His gaze tracked over her worriedly. “How are you doing? Did you find Irokoi? Does he know how to help?”
“Fine, and yes, though he’s so far being extremely cryptic about it. What about the earl? And how did you escape?”
“What does Irokoi know?” Th
e demand came from Rakken. He was looking towards the house, his focus sharp, as if he could see through stone and greenery all the way to the drawing room containing his brother. Maybe he could; Hetta still wasn’t sure exactly how leysight worked.
“He says he knows how to free the Spires, though he’s been refusing to tell us details. You encountered Set?”
It was as if someone had switched on a light in Rakken. His mask of indifference slipped, his eyes brightening. He headed immediately for the door, but Wyn put a hand on his shoulder and halted his exit. The mask slid back into place with a beat of citrus and storms.
“Set,” Wyn repeated as Rakken glared at him. “What happened?” Hetta found herself reaching out to Stariel, just in case she had to quickly separate the two.
“She portalled into the train station, but we didn’t encounter her so much as successfully run away,” Marius said quickly.
Wyn frowned. “She continues to grow distressingly good with portals. She opened one to Deeper Faerie while we were there.”
Rakken shrugged out of Wyn’s hold. “Interesting but not currently relevant. My first priority remains the Spires.”
Wyn gave him a steady look. “Our interests align in this. I will drag Koi away from Lady Phoebe and meet you in the library. Your storming in dripping wet to demand immediate answers will not speed matters along.”
“Still playing the human butler, little Hollow?” Rakken mocked.
Wyn’s expression didn’t change. “You are a guest here, Rake.”
Rakken made an exasperated sound. “Very well. Ten minutes I will grant you.” He stalked out.
“Has he been like that for the entire time?” Hetta asked Marius.
Marius was drumming his fingers on the edge of a tray of seedlings, but he heaved a deep sigh at her question. “You have no idea.”
