by Alyssa Day
Grace cut through the water with long, smooth strokes. Swimming had always been her refuge. Her solace.
Her escape.
Pool, lake, or ocean, it almost didn’t matter. All she needed was the water, welcoming her, lifting her—buoyant—above sadness and pain. Water washed her clean of the blood, the tears, and the grief. It offered comfort, though she didn’t deserve it.
A temporary forgetfulness, though it was her curse always to remember.
She quickened her strokes, slicing cleanly through the rolling waves. The winter wind was blowing at a fair clip, tossing swells of deepest blue almost playfully. Nature watching to see if she could handle the challenge. Chillingly indifferent if she could not. The undercurrents were a trap for the unwary—stronger swimmers than she had been towed out to a suffocating death.
Death. Even now, in her ocean refuge, her mind always turned back to death.
Grace slowed her pace, lifted her head out of the water, and shook the droplets from her lashes. Rolled over to float on her back, letting the gentle swell carry her for a while. The cold winter water was too much for most swimmers, but something in her heritage protected her from extremes of hot and cold. The “Diana DNA,” she called it. Her hair was a tangle across her body; she should have tied it back. Should really cut it. What kind of self-respecting rebel leader had long hair?
The thought resonated like an echo in her mind, whispering secret refrains to half-buried memories. Robert. Robbie. Her brother.
Grace allowed herself to remember. On this, of all days. Once a year, she allowed herself the weakness of memory. Of emotion. And pretended not to notice when salt water of her own making slid down her cheek to join the sea.
“You’re going to have to cut it,” Robbie said, grabbing playfully for the end of her long braid. “What Olympic swimmer ever has long hair? It’s not aerodynamic,” he teased.
Grace jerked her hair out of his hand. “That doesn’t even make sense. Wouldn’t it be aquadynamic or something? For an older brother, you sure act like you’re eight years old sometimes,” she loftily informed him. “If—if—I make the Olympic team, I’ll cut my hair. But for now—”
She faltered. Her mom had loved Grace’s long hair. Loved brushing it for her and braiding it, ever since Grace had been a little girl. Right up until she’d been too weak and sick to lift the brush.
His grin faded and he pulled her into a one-armed hug, a rarity since she’d turned fifteen and hit what he always called her defiant years. “I know, Gracie. I know. I miss Mom, too.”
Before the tears burning in the back of her eyes could force their way out, Robbie’s phone rang. He checked the screen. “Gotta go, Baby Sis. You know me, I’m always in demand. See you tomorrow.”
As he sauntered off, she almost didn’t say it. He didn’t deserve it, always teasing her. But affection won out over her temporary pout, and she called out to him before he’d walked out of the poolhouse gate.
“Happy birthday, Big Brother.”
Those had been the last words he’d ever heard her say. That night, the supernatural creatures everyone had always believed were only myths had shown up on television and Internet broadcasts all over the world. They were real; they’d wanted the world to know. Persecuted minorities. Time for the world to change and recognize their rights.
But Grace hadn’t cared about the world changing back then. All she’d cared about was that a band of female vamps, celebrating their newfound freedom to strut their fangs in public, had run across Grace’s big brother in a bar.
Robbie had been celebrating, too. Twenty-one years old that very day, time to party. High on a couple of beers and his first time in a bar, he’d met the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, according to the witnesses. They’d enthralled him, which was probably easy enough even without vamp mind control.
Twenty-one. Running on all hormones and not a lick of sense. Most survived it. Robbie hadn’t.
Grace dove deep and then slowly floated back to the surface, still lost in the memories. She’d given up her Olympic training and given up on life. Turned her face to the wall and lain in bed, unmoving, all day. Day after day. Never spoke a single word for a solid month, even to her aunt who’d raised them after Mom died. Poor Aunt Bonnie had been at her wits’ end, ready to call a shrink.
Then, one month to the day later, she’d gotten out of bed and gone to the gym. Started working out harder than she’d ever trained for swimming, but this time with a darker purpose. A killing purpose.
Found a friend of a friend who knew somebody starting up a group. A rebel group. Like-minded humans who wanted to reclaim their lives and country from the vampires and shape-shifters who were slowly and insidiously taking over the United States. Taking over the world, from what she’d heard, but a girl had to start somewhere.
Truly began to live only—finally—on the first day that, curious, she’d picked up a bow. Heard the wood sing through her soul. Spent some time tracking back through her past, on the advice of a shape-shifting shaman. Found the great-grandmother her mother had refused to allow her to know; learned of her heritage. Grace, like her great-grandmother and all the females of her line, was a descendant of Diana, and it was her destiny to protect the world from evil.
Diana, the huntress goddess. Skilled beyond all others with her bows, which were made only of the richest, most magical wood from the heart of an eleven forest. Goddess of the moon and sworn protector of the weak and helpless.
Weak. Helpless. Two things Grace had vowed never, ever to be.
But upon first hearing Gran tell wild stories of unbelievable powers, Grace had privately scoffed, in spite of the faint tingle of recognition that had stirred in her mind. She’d told herself she was humoring the old woman. But finally, when she gave in and took the bow from her great-grandmother’s hands the magic had poured into Grace. Changing her. Making her . . . more.
Gran had told her that she’d only held out long enough for Grace to find her, but it was time for her to rest. Kneeling there, watching the life fade from her great-grandmother’s eyes, Grace had sworn to use the bow and trust Gran had placed in her, and make something of them both. Make something of herself.
Finally, when she was twenty-one, she’d met one of the rebel leaders so far up the chain of command that everybody said her name with a certain hushed awe. Not that Quinn looked tough. More like a character in a manga novel—tiny, with dark, raggedy hair. But it had only taken one look into Quinn’s eyes to know the truth, because the dark gaze held a bottomless well of pain and rage and deep, black knowledge.
Grace had gazed long and hard into those eyes and never looked back. Only a teenager—a girl—she’d honed herself into a warrior. And these days she avoided mirrors and only occasionally wondered if, when others looked into her own eyes, they saw the same thing she’d once seen in Quinn’s.
It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. She blew the air out of her lungs and sank down beneath the waves again, letting the water swallow her body and her tears. She almost allowed the forbidden thought to enter her mind. The thought that came more and more frequently these days.
The thought of how pleasant death by drowning would be, compared to the alternatives.
But not today. Not on Robert’s birthday. A decade since that final birthday—ten long years since he was murdered. It would profane his death and, more important, his life if she were to choose to die on this of all days.
She pushed her body back up through the strong current and gasped in the oxygen she needed. She’d live to fight another day. For Robert.
But the vision of another face superimposed itself over Robert’s in her mind as she struck out for shore. A scarred face, with eyes haunted by unimaginable pain and sadness. A face surrounded by a lion’s mane of gloriously golden hair.
Alexios. Alexios. The Atlantean warrior whose fighting skills were already legendary among the rebels. The man whose face—half ruined by vicious scarring, half sculpted into impossible beauty
—appeared more and more frequently in Grace’s most sensual and disturbing dreams.
Half of the women in her command had a schoolgirl crush on him. Some sort of Phantom of the Opera thing. He could have slept with any of them. All of them.
But he never, ever had. Or at least not a whisper of it had reached her ears, and a rebel squadron was a very close-knit group. No secrets were ever kept, no matter how minor. Secrets caused failure.
Failure caused death.
No, Alexios wasn’t involved with any of the women, or men for that matter, in her command. But maybe he had a girlfriend in Atlantis. Maybe even a wife.
Not that it was any of her business. And the strange, empty ache in her stomach was only hunger. It had nothing to do with regret. Nothing to do with that kiss that had shaken her to her core.
Just before he’d vanished. A girl could take that sort of thing personally.
She reached the shallows and stood to walk the rest of the way, squeezing water from her hair and pushing it back away from her face, scanning the beach as she did. Forget Alexios. Clearly he’d forgotten her. Constant vigilance, even here. Especially here. Especially any time or place she might be tempted to let her guard down.
The glimmer of moonlit sand appeared empty, but vampires often rode silken shadows in the night. The only thing truly known about their powers was that the full extent of them was a closely guarded secret. Grace double-checked the sheaths strapped to her legs and then started toward shore.
The voice came out of nowhere, deep, lyrical, and drenched with magic. Forest magic, if she had to guess, since a certain tonal quality resonated through her body like the hands of a virtuoso caressing a violin. “There is something oddly compelling about a woman wearing nothing but a silver dagger and a wooden stake strapped to very lovely thighs. If I had not other, darker business to discuss, I would be pleased to play with you for many hours this night.”
As if his voice had opened a window in her senses, she could see him. Fae, of course, as his voice had told her. Tall and lean. Waist-length hair of purest silvery white lifting away from his face in the gentle breeze. Dressed in simple dark clothes that gave no hint as to his identity.
But he didn’t need a cloak or crown to announce his rank. The moonlight focused a spotlight on him as if Nature herself preened and flirted in his presence. Fae royalty. Only they had the power to glamour even her from this distance.
She took another step, then stopped. Considered drawing the dagger, but realized the uselessness of the gesture. Clenched her hands into fists slightly behind her back, so he could not see the effort it cost her, then pushed at the glamour. Narrowed her eyes and opened her Sight.
Damn. He was still glowing.
“This is not naked. It’s a very conservative swimsuit. If you can’t tell the difference, you’ve been out of touch for a few decades. Not to mention the fact that I only play when I choose to do so. But of course you’re not just royalty, you’re Seelie Court, so you’re probably not used to rejection,” she called out, after inclining her head in acknowledgment of his position, his royalty, and the fact that he could squash her like a bug.
Still, she wasn’t going to curl up in a ball, either. “I think you’re in the wrong place, Your Lordship.”
“I am never in the wrong place, lovely Grace, descendant of Diana,” he replied, inclining his head to her as if to an equal.
Damn, damn, double damn. He knew who she was. What she was. And it’s not like she could bring her bow with her when she swam, or one of the iron-tipped arrows she kept in her quiver for the occasional rogue Fae. Why would he be here, now? Why her? The Fae were chillingly indifferent to the sorrows and concerns of the rest of the world. They still harbored a certain animosity over being outed by the vampires, but they considered themselves to be far, far above the hustle and flow of the concerns of humanity. If asked to anticipate a visitor, Grace sure as heck wouldn’t have guessed elf. In fact, despite the rumors that the Fae had a special connection to her family line, she’d never spoken face-to-face with an elf in her life.
She wouldn’t have picked tonight to start, if it were up to her, either.
As if her thoughts were the goad to his actions, he lifted one hand and her bow—that had been in the trunk of her car—suddenly hung from his fingers.
He was holding her bow, and it wasn’t hurting him.
“It is a beautiful bow, but of course you knew that.” He caressed the curve of the wood, and his mouth slowly tilted into a smile of such terrible, dangerous beauty that she imagined women by the thousands had thrown their naked bodies at his feet just from the sight of it.
Strangely, she was unmoved.
“How can you touch my bow?” she demanded.
“Its wood is from the glades in my forest, willingly gifted to Diana’s kin for their use. Of course I can touch it. It responds to my hand and to my call.”
He lifted his gaze from the bow and pinned her in place with his stare. “I offer truce and parlay, Grace, daughter of Diana, on my word as Rhys na Garanwyn, High Prince of the High House of the Seelie Court. Please come to shore and let us talk of enemies, alliances, and how we might be of service to each other.”
High prince, High House. Yeah. She was seriously out-matched. In a split second, Grace weighed her options and found herself with only one choice. She headed toward shore.
As she stepped onto dry sand a cautious ten feet or so away from him, he bowed deeply and, rising, held out to her a pile of green-and-gold silk. “Permit me to offer you this cloak so you do not catch a chill, lovely huntress.” His voice was heat and light and music, inviting her to dance closer and closer to the flames, and the contradiction of his icy blue eyes offered her everything she’d ever wanted or needed.
Except she didn’t want or need any of it. Not love, not passion. Only revenge. Only justice. Now he was ticking her off, but she knew enough not to let him see it.
“Your offer is far too generous, Your Highness. You know of course that I cannot accept gifts of any kind from you without incurring a debt I may not be able or willing to pay. It seems a little unfair that you’d start off a conversation under truce and parlay by trying to trick me.”
His seductive smile vanished, turning into a friendly grin. Both expressions deceptive, no doubt. “Well, as you humans say, it was worth a try.” He dropped the cloak and it turned to sparkles of light and vanished before it ever touched the sand. “You have my word I will try no other tricks.”
“Then I must ask for my bow to be returned to me.”
He tilted his head to indicate the pile of her clothes that she’d left on the beach. Her bow lay on top of them.
“And the arrows?”
“I had no use for your quiver. It remains in your vehicle.”
She strode over to her towel and small pile of clothes and quickly dried off and pulled the dark blue sweatshirt and shorts over her swimsuit, then slung her bow over her shoulder. He, of course, managed to repress any chivalrous tendencies to look away and watched her dress with an expression of sincere appreciation on his elegantly sculpted face.
“You’re an athlete, of course. The daughters of Diana always have been. I do love the play of finely toned muscles under silken skin,” he mused, almost to himself.
“I’m a fighter,” she said flatly. “I’m assuming that’s why you wanted to talk about alliances? Although I thought you Fae were like Switzerland.”
“Neutral. Yes. We always have been. Yet the vampires have encroached upon and are near to breaking ancient treaties. If they succeed in this quest to enslave both shape-shifters and humans, we of the Fae will be . . . unhappy.”
“Outnumbered, you mean.”
“Perhaps. Surely at least . . . disadvantaged. We prefer to keep numbers in balance, as Nature herself prefers balance in all things.”
She thought about that for a moment. Nodded. “Makes sense. What do you want from us? I thought humans were beneath your notice, no offense.”
&nb
sp; “Surely you yourself do not claim to be strictly human?” He pointedly glanced out at the cold water and then down at her bow.
She shrugged. “I think of it as human plus.” She gestured toward the path to the public parking lot at the far end of the beach. She’d feel at least somewhat better in reach of her arrows, regardless of their uselessness against him. It was a comfort thing.
Steel-tipped arrows as safety blanket. She needed a shrink. The laugh tried to escape and came out as a strangled chuckle. She shook her head and started walking.
The Fae prince fell in beside her, his long legs easily matching her stride. He glanced at her, lifting one eyebrow. “This situation amuses you?”
Suddenly she stumbled as the memory of Robert’s face flashed into her mind. His smile as he’d walked away from her on that terrible day. As he’d walked toward his death. She shook her head. “Your Highness, nothing amuses me anymore.”
