She nods. As one, we push all our power—her Summer and my Winter—at each other.
The daggers shiver as they are torn apart.
Sunfire burning until it burns out, ice freezing until it shatters.
I sag back onto the Aureate Throne as Summer heals me, Winter healing Roue on the Adamant Throne opposite.
Our realms respond.
Fair Faerie brightens, all the decay and Inimical damage Aldebaran wrought melting away as the Summer’s heat bathes it, purifying it. Black fields become white and gold again. Burning trees go out, fresh bark zipping up over trunks, boughs suddenly bursting with leaves, all the brooks sparkling, the skies that impossible blue.
Dark Faerie, too, shocks as the vaults heal, the fissures smooth over, the sallow grey turns back to glossy black, floors and walls, the stained glass reknits itself.
With a final, shuddering boom! the chambers rock and then settle.
In the seam between light and darkness, there are no longer two separate thrones room, Dark and Fair. Now the two throne rooms are made one, overlapping in the middle, heavy gothic vaults bleeding into golden archways, broody stained glass melding to brilliant oriel windows.
It’s dizzying, and it makes little sense.
Things in Faerie rarely do.
I blink and find myself sitting on Roue’s lap on the Adamant/Aureate Throne on the seam of Fair Faerie and Dark Faerie, the coiled black dragon’s body bisected with an array of sunlit rays.
“Hi,” I whisper, taking in her savage beauty. It makes my heart ache.
Her smile is everything to me. “Hi yourself, princess.”
With a brush of my hand, I purify the Inimicals. They burn and blaze, turning to ash and taking all their effects with them.
The Winter leaves me in a flood of ice and mist gusting from my pores just as Summer leaves Rouen in a flush of golden light. It tingles painfully and then is gone, leaving us as we were—me a fair Fae of the Summer Court and her a dark Fae of the Winter.
All around us, Fair Faerie and Dark Faerie have stopped dead on the edge of Convergence.
Midsummer is over. The queens have taken their thrones.
I look at Reinghûl who is picking himself up off the floor.
“The Battle of Wits is over. We’ve beaten you.”
44
ROUEN
Can your sunlight and Summerfire
Burn the darkness
From my soul?
- “In Darkness,” Euphoria
* * *
Syl and I stand next to each other, queens of this new shattered and reassembled realm. Turning, I face my father, the king of Dark Faerie, my body smoking from Summer’s bright kiss.
I face him as Queen of the dark Fae.
With a wave of my hand, I summon the power of UnderHollow. It shivers through me in a chill wave. As one, the Adamant Guard, the Xi, the arch-Eld—everyone—wakes from their Inimical-induced spell and bends to one knee before me. Dark Faerie rumbles, the deep wards restive, the bones of the realm recognizing my will.
The will of the queen.
Even the Ebon Knights recognize the power that wreathes me in ice and shadow. They bow before me, laying their pikes at my feet.
All except my father.
“You’ve failed, Father.” Effortlessly, Winter power rushes through me, down to my fingertips, coalescing into a sword purest frost and wintersteel.
My father’s swords melt.
“The Battle of Wits is over, Father. You’ve lost.”
He tries to flee.
My wintersteel blade finds the Inimical circuit on his cheek. I sink it deep. Shink! In a blast of Winter, the master-key circuit curdles and dies, the glow fading like an ember winking out.
He slumps to the floor at my feet, his hand over his bleeding face. “You can’t rule. There’s never been a dark Fae queen.”
“But I am queen, Father.” As I say it, it’s sobering. I didn’t choose this.
But I am this. The Queen of Dark Faerie.
His eyes, blue like mine, glow with hatred. “Go on. Take the throne. See if you can do any better than me. See if you can fight your dark self.”
A spear of fright pierces my heart.
I grit my fangs. “I’ll never hurt Syl. Never.”
“You will be queen and she will be your consort. It doesn’t matter that the thrones have been destroyed. It’s in your nature, your dark self.”
His words jar me to my core.
“We are all dark Fae, my daughter. We all have this in us. Only a dark fae can understand you. Only a dark Fae can sit at your side.”
I loom over him. “You’re lying.”
“Roue.” Syl’s gentle hands ease me back.
But I don’t want to be eased. I press my blade against his throat. “He’s lying.”
“Come, child.” The bain sidhe alights between us, red cloak and green dress a blare of color in a place of light and darkness. “The Battle of Wits and War is over. You are the victor and queen. I have wailed for Death. You must deliver.”
“I know.” I stand over my father, my wintersteel blade pricking his cheek. It would be so easy to drive downward, to end his life.
“Roue,” Syl breathes, all her hope and love for me resonating through the bond.
It would be so easy to kill.
But I take my sword away. “I’m not like him.”
The bain sidhe hisses. “He must die, Majesty.”
A murmur goes up from my people, but I call for silence with a raised hand. “He will die. But not today and not at my hand.”
I toe him with my boot.
“Father, I sentence you to exile, to the Greymoors, to wander forever. Friendless. Powerless. Let every Fae know he is outcast. Sluagh.”
Pariah. Enemy. I sentence him to the same punishment he sentenced me to long ago, before I even met Syl.
I reach out, and all the power of Dark Faerie slams into me. It fills me up, darkness and velvet power, whispering to every corner of my being, making my dark self stronger. For a moment, I fear what this will mean—for me, for Syl—but I can’t turn back now.
Syl and I will handle it together.
At my calling, a portal opens in wind and icy snow. The Adamant Guard moves to my father’s side and hoists him up.
“You can’t do this!” His screams go unobeyed. “I command you to release me! Release me! You’re all my subjects, my servants!”
“Not anymore.”
They drag him to the portal. Beyond, I see the Greymoors, shapeless, mist-shrouded, covered in swamps and rot and other unpleasantries. “I hear bands of redcaps roam in the Greymoors, Father. They’re always hungry. I imagine royal flesh would be especially tasty to them.”
Fear lights his eyes, and my dark self relishes it.
I give the Guard a nod, and they throw him thorough the portal.
“Rouen! Daughter, pl—”
A wave of my hand cuts the portal and his screams off.
The bain sidhe comes forward, a glittering black crown in her hands. “Now.” Her voice is resonant, like wintry thunder. “Become the queen you were meant to be.”
I straighten, turn, and see my people flooding the Throne room, the Adamant Guard taking up an honor guard up the dais to the Adamant Throne.
“Your Majesty.” Alystin steps forward. “Your seat awaits.”
I look at Syl, but she only nudges me. “Go on.”
“I will if you will, princess.” I look to the fused thrones, Adamant and Aureate. Dark and fair, just like me and Syl. “We can both fit, I’m sure.”
Her shock shoots down the bond. “But that means… Roue, you can’t mean—”
“For us to rule together?” I let me gaze linger on her pretty face, the hope and love in her grey eyes, those curls and adorable freckles. “I do.”
I hold out my hand. “Rule with me, as dual queens?”
Her adoration warms me down the soul-bond. “I would love to.”
Together, we step t
o the foot of our daises.
Together, we walk up the steps.
“Ready? On three.” Syl smiles, so bright.
My love for her swells inside me. As long as I have her, I can do anything.
“One…two…”
EPILOGUE - SYL
“Three!”
Together, Roue and I take the fused throne as dual queens. We sit on a chair of light and darkness, summersteel and wintersteel merged, the sun’s rays and the dragon’s teeth.
Above our heads, the two hearthstones burn like twin hearts, thrumming.
Their humming winds up, two different pitches to start, but then one strikes a common tone and the other follows. What flows from them is a deep, throbbing resonance, thrumming with harmony through the throne room.
Roue turns to me. Her fingertips brush my cheek. “I adore you, my queen.”
Shivers run down my spine, the good kind. I turn to kiss her fingers. “And I love y— Rouen!”
My shriek shatters the calm as a massive coal-black horse plunges into the throne room, breathing fire and pluming smoke and soot from its mane and tail. The stench of spicy habaneros hits the air.
Miss Jardin!
But she doesn’t stop. She crashes into us.
“Syl!” Roue turns to bear the brunt of the impact.
The entire world tilts sideways as me and Roue and the fused thrones topple from the merged dais. Her arms come around me, and I throw up a white shield.
Wham! We hit the floor in a tangle.
In an instant, we’re on our feet, violet lightning bristling from Roue’s hands, white flame from mine.
Only to see…
Miss Jardin stands atop the dais in her human form. In her hands is an ancient tome bound in dark leather, crammed full of parchment pages, pressed flowers, and illuminated letters.
My heart goes out. “That’s not just any tome.” My hand finds Roue’s.
It’s a Grimmoire.
“Glamma’s Grimm.” I can barely get the words out.
“That’s correct, Miss Skye.” Miss Jardin sounds like she’s praising me for getting a math problem right.
On the contrary. I’ve gotten this part of our Faerie equation wrong, wrong, wrong.
Because Miss Jardin is very much not geised right now, which means…
Roue and I both say it. “She’s free.”
“Yes.” Miss Jardin looks down at us. I can’t see her eyes for the fire flashing across her glasses. “Now it’s time for a little payback.” She thumbs at the Grimmoire. “It was your Glamma who put that geis on me.”
For the first time, her voice trembles with emotion. Too bad that emotion is hate.
Toward yours truly.
I take a step forward, heart pounding. “Look, we can clear this up—”
“Too late, Miss Skye!” We barely get a chance to move before Miss Jardin rips open Glamma’s Grimm. Fire flashes off her spectacles as she starts chanting.
Black magic like smoke swirls around the open book.
If she makes a crack about liking revenge served hot, I think I’ll strangle her.
“She’s casting a spell!” I wince. Gee, thanks, Captain Obvious. I’m batting a bit fat zero here.
“Get everyone out!” Roue orders the Adamant Guard, and they hasten to obey, covering the arh-Eld’s escape with shields and their own armored bodies.
Once Roue sees her people are clear, she raises our clasped hands. “Shall we?”
I smile. “Let’s.”
We blast the betraying pocket púca with combined lightning and flame. It zorches and washes over her, bathing her and the Grimmoire in a light-and-effects show that’d put Frozen on Broadway to shame.
Miss Jardin shudders, her eyes blazing. She keeps chanting, though, and the black cloud expands, tiny bursts of black lightning zinging around in it.
“Again! This time, target the Grimmoire!” I hate the idea of destroying Glamma’s Grimm, but a promise I made to her long ago holds me to it.
I flame on, hot and heavy. Roue does, too.
Wham! This time, it’s a direct hit.
The second we hit the Grimmoire, it lets out a howling wail and flushes with a pale blue glow. The pages kick up as though stirred by a breeze. The letters lift off the page and begin to swirl and dance. I’ve never seen anything like it. Shivers ripple across my skin. It’s not Summer or Winter power.
“This isn’t Fae magic!” I shout over the din.
Roue nods. “Noted.” But I sense her worry, too.
Together, we pour on the power. Pale blue light flashes from it, blue smoke gusts up. It shudders violently, the pages riffling faster, faster. The letters blaze a single word in the air: Restorical.
What? It’s not English or Irish—or any human language.
It’s the language of pure magic.
With a shrieking claxon, the Grimmoire tears itself from Miss Jardin’s hands, flies several feet through the air, and lands at my feet in a huge burst of blue smoke.
When it clears, the magical word wisps away, and a familiar figure stands there.
Her smile crinkles up her weathered, lined face, her hair snow-shot ginger, her eyes green as my mom’s.
My heart skips a beat.
“Glamma,” I breathe her name to make her real.
“Hello, Syl.” She smiles at me. “I see you brought Rouen. Hello, Rouen.” She says it like we’re having a seaside picnic not about to throw down with the evilest pocket púca to ever evil.
“Glamma, how—?”
“Plenty of time for that, dove.” She turns, her eyes taking on a steely glint. “If you’ll excuse me…I have an unruly pocket púca to wrangle.” Turning, she blasts Miss Jardin full force with a column of blue light.
Pale blue butterflies explode in a shower as the púca is hurtled back off the dais. She crashes right next to the two thrones. Glamma advances, already chanting. She raises her hand and the Grimmoire flies to it.
I look at Roue and she looks at me. “Are we, like, superfluous in this fight?”
“I’m good with it,” she deadpans.
“Me, too.”
Miss Jardin looks like a long-tailed cat in a…you know. Desperation stamps across her features. With a snarl, she raises her hand.
That’s when I realize…
She’s got a half-torn page in her hand.
Crap. I lunge for her, but she speaks the final word. “Darksider.”
Bolts of black energy burst off the page at us. I throw up a white shield, but it smashes through, hurtling into me and Rouen. We’re knocked back. Again.
Ugh.
I get up. Again.
Roue lies on the floor. She doesn’t move.
“Roue!” All the light in my heart goes out. I rush to her, turn her over.
She opens her eyes. They’re a deep, dark sapphire. As I watch, they splinter with ice and distrust. “Who are you?”
Shock hits me like a fist to the stomach. “R-Roue?”
“I said, who are you?” She scrambles to her feet, putting distance between us. Her eyes dilate in a fury I don’t feel.
Fear edges into my brain. I can’t feel her emotions. Can’t sense her thoughts. Desperately, I reach for our soul-bond.
It’s there, but it’s like a heavy weight’s on it, pinning it down. I can barely feel it.
And Rouen? She can’t feel it at all, if the way she’s beginning to summon her Winter power is any indication.
She squares off against me. “Answer me, fair Fae!”
“Roue, it’s me—Syl.” I take a step toward her.
Her fists lash with violet lightning. Roue strides toward us. “Who are you? Why are you in my kingdom?”
Fear strikes my heart like an arrow.
Without the soul-bond, she could hurt me, kill me. I don’t care.
“Roue!” I dive for her, but Glamma is there, dragging me back.
She doesn’t know you, Syl.” Glamma’s hand wraps around my biceps. “It’s a powerful spell, targ
eting Roue’s dark side, bringing it out.”
“No.” Horror shoots through me. My poor Roue!
Even now, she stands there, glaring at me like we’re mortal enemies instead of dearest loves. My horror and heartbreak floods me.
“I hope you enjoy my final gift to you, Miss Skye.” Miss Jardin’s smile is genuine, for once. She bends toward the thrones, reaching for the hearthstones.
Now my panic has a new focus.
The pocket púca who’s trying to steal the source of magic for both Faerie realms. She snatches them up.
I lunge for her. “No, you don’t!”
But she’s gone in a puff of black smoke, taking the two hearthstones with her.
I don’t have time to worry, though.
Just then, the pressure in the chamber changes. My ears pop. The stench of bitter snow and ozone hits, heavy and acrid. Roue’s fingers pluck at the air, creating a massive, churning ball of violet lightning and thundersnow.
It flashes on her face, illuminating her stark hatred.
For me.
My heart shatters. I stand there. “Roue, please!”
“Get out of my realm!” she screams, the power of her voice shuddering through the throne room. She releases the burning ball.
My world lights up in violet and snow squalls.
At the last second, Glamma grabs me and scoops up the Grimmoire. The pages flip, land on one, an elaborate equation scrawled in illuminated letters. “Transhift!”
The ball-lightning blazes past me close enough to scorch my skin.
We tumble out into my bedroom, singed and bruised.
But it’s not my skin I’m worried about.
It’s my broken heart. And Roue. The spell brought out her dark side.
I have to save her!
And as I help up Glamma, so very glad to have her home, I vow that I’ll go back for Roue. I’ll make her remember me, our love, what we mean to each other.
If I don’t, I’ll never put back the pieces of my shattered heart.
Not to mention, all of Faerie will fall to her dark rule. As Overqueen.
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