Under a Winter Sky

by Jeffe Kennedy

“Shall I dispose of . . . the contents as well?”

  “I have no use for the head of Weasel Nuts, and re-gifting that would probably lead to awkward questions.” I shoved the box slightly toward him.

  “You never bore me, my dear plum pudding. For someone with eternity ahead, that is a treasure.”

  I thought more than a little about Eternity as I prepared for the trip to Elphame. Unlike my visits to Beatrice or my mother, this trip was a multi-day affair. Oddly, perhaps, time between the worlds was uneven. My first stay there had been a month, but in New Orleans a mere three hours passed.

  Going there did not mean I missed anything at home. My city was not left unpatrolled, and it wasn’t as if the police did nothing. New Orleans had reconfigured their entire force. They protected the city, watched for the draugr and aided the citizens.

  Still I was, for reasons that I was not pleased to admit, anxious.

  Witches from the Outs were not a good fit for royal courts. I mean, sure I coped with the draugr queen’s soiree but that was because I figured I’d get to threaten or stab someone. Eli repeatedly stressed that neither of those were advisable at the Yule celebration with his uncle, the king of the fae.

  Tonight, though, Eli and I were having a “date-night.” A few hours locked away in my home, surrounded by fight dummies and weapons. It wasn’t as romantic as his place, but it was my home. It was important to both of us that we spend time here, too.

  I wasn’t the world’s best date, though, much to my frustration. My nerves were frayed, and it was making me filter-free. “What if I glare at him? Is that—”

  “A terrible idea?” Eli said. “Yes, it is.”

  “Can I hex him?”

  “No.”

  “Make a bargain?”

  “No!” Eli gave me a look that everyone in my life did from time to time. It usually meant I was a lousy patient, but . . .

  “I’m hungry.” I was both pleased to realize why I felt surlier than usual and surlier because I had the distinct feeling that a good bottle of gin wasn’t going to fix this.

  Alice wasn’t there, and the martini shaker was still empty. Draining her energy had me on restriction, and I still couldn’t bring myself to ask anyone else. I knew my friends would tap a vein for me, but I just . . . couldn’t.

  “I swore I’d die before I become like a draugr,” I said, admitting the thing that had been plaguing me more and more. I’d survived an attempt on my life a few times, bad luck, pretending to be more human than I was, but the injection of venom a few months ago was life-changing.

  Eli walked out of my apartment without a word.

  When he returned, he had a bag with the top of a dusty bottle of whisky sticking out.

  He pulled the bottle out and put it on my coffee table with more force than he would’ve if he were calm. Then, he looked at me.

  “What?”

  “If I didn’t know how hard this was for you, I’d accuse you of trying to avoid my home country,” he started. He opened a bag again and pulled out two glasses.

  When I opened my mouth to object, he caught my hand. “You are impossible, Geneviève Crowe. Difficult to get to know. Fierce to the point of recklessness. But you are not a draugr. You are not monstrous, by any definition.”

  I nodded because what could I say? I knew he believed it, but sometimes I felt monstrous. I had draugr eyes, and I could flow. I was the only one of my kind, and the dead came to me at my will. The faery king called me things like “death” or “dead witch,” and more than a few people thought I ought to be dead because of being a witch.

  I didn’t exactly feel loveable.

  He poured whisky into both glasses.

  Then Eli reached in the bag again, and when I saw what he held I was standing on the other side of the room. A small, gleaming knife. Mother of pearl handle. Thin blade. Watching me the whole time, he pushed up his sleeve and slid the blade over his forearm.

  He turned his arm so the cut was over a glass. Still holding my gaze, he said, “Given freely.”

  “Eli . . .” My mind said no, but my teeth were there to remind me that I was less witch than I used to be.

  I shook my head no even as I stepped closer, watching blood—his blood, fae blood—drip into my glass.

  “My life is yours, Geneviève Crowe.” He took a bandage from the bag and pressed it to his arm. “I would shed every drop for your safety, your health, your happiness.”

  “Eli . . .”

  He held out the glass of blood and whisky. “The fae date with eternity in our minds, dearest. Everything I am is yours, including my body inside and out.”

  I took the glass with a shaking hand, and he lifted his blood-free drink.

  “To eternity,” he said.

  I clinked my glass to his and echoed, “To eternity.”

  ~ 11 ~

  After Eli’s blood gift, there was nothing to do but behave as I hoped would win the favor of the fae. His blood and his words made his seriousness exceptionally clear. No person could ask for a better partner than Eli. I didn’t deserve him, and I never would. Of that, I was sure—but I was damn sure that I would do my absolute best to try to be an asset as we stepped into Elphame a few days later.

  We were arriving an hour before the Yule Ball. He was no more interested in a longer stay than I was. Eli was subtle about it, but he’d made clear when we were here the first time that he had no desire to assume the throne. Eli liked my world, our world. Maybe he wouldn’t always feel that way, but right now, he was opposed to becoming a king.

  Luckily, the king was young enough that we weren’t yet at that crossroads.

  When we arrived, we were greeted by a contingent of royals and the king himself. I still didn’t know what to call him. The fae were not free with their names. Maiden, lady, lord, or a false name were often used. I knew that.

  They, of course, knew my name. I’d given it freely as a sign of trust.

  The royals that met us, exactly six lords and six ladies as well as five guards, were spanned out from the king in a formation that would allow weapons. I smiled at that. The thought of training with fae warriors was more tempting than any ball could be.

  “Welcome, Geneviève of Crowe.” The king looked at me with an implacable expression.

  But I felt the others judge me, eyes lingering on the Renaissance-meets-function dress I wore. Soft blue with silver-shot designs, it was as festive as I ever was.

  The king, to his credit, made note of the colors and knew enough about me to say, “We are honored that you would join us during the festival of Chanukah. Chag Urim Sameach.”

  I could tell that he’d practiced his words, and it made me feel a little warmer.

  “Blessed Yule, and Chag Urim Sameach,” I said with a deep curtsey.

  And yes, I’d practiced that. I had never in my life curtsied before, but if I bowed, the faery king and his entourage were going to be staring into my cleavage. That seemed a bit awkward, so curtsey it was.

  The king, to his credit, didn’t comment on my willingness to observe protocol. I gave him a genuine smile when I straightened. The ruler of Elphame was striking and raw in his beauty, more warrior in appearance than nobility. He was draped in a white-fur-lined cloak, and a simple circlet of silver with green gems sat atop his hair. He did not look any older than Eli, but that could mean he was anywhere from forty to four hundred.

  There was no queen at his side.

  I realized then that he’d never wed. Faeries’ lifelines were bound together, so by staying unwed, the king had not risked dying because his partner did. It said something about his priorities and independence. In this, he and his brother—Eli’s father—were very dissimilar. It was also a thing I understood.

  Eli offered me his arm, and we walked to the king’s side, and without a word, we walked in a procession from the gateway to an open field. There under the boughs of a beautiful oak tree, the fae king went to his throne. It looked as if the earth herself had crafted the chair.

&nb
sp; Beside the throne was a silver menorah. There, in Elphame, the king of the fae motioned me forward.

  “I do not find it is my place to say the words you’d need,” he said. “Light your candles, and know that you are welcome here, Geneviève of Crowe.”

  I whispered my prayers, and I lit the candles.

  Then, the king walked to that stone and wood throne.

  Eli took my hand. He led me to the exact center of the field, knelt to remove my shoes and whispered, “I would offer you everything I possess in both worlds if you were here willingly.”

  When he stood, I sighed and slid my hand into his as we prepared to dance. “I am willing, Eli, more so than is good for either of us.”

  Maybe it was the amount of Eli’s blood that still rolling through my veins, or maybe it was the holiday. Or perhaps, despite every ounce of willpower, the act of dating this man had been wearing down my defenses. I still was not going to doom him by marrying him, but more and more I was wishing I could.

  We danced, feet bare on the earth, and when the first song ended, the field filled with fae couples. Fireflies and stars lit the night, and candles and bonfires burned. There was peace here, among the people of the wood and air. There was acceptance here, more than I allowed myself.

  And when the king greeted the dawn’s light with a deep bow to me, I barely flinched.

  “I present to you Geneviève of Crowe. Betrothed of my nephew. Born of magic. Giver of life and death. Future queen of Elphame.”

  The faeries bowed, curtsied, or knelt. Swords and gowns were brought before me. I winced at the whole thing, but on the outside, I smiled and replied, “It is an honor to be made welcome by the people of earth and air.”

  It was not an acceptance, but it was more than I thought I’d be able to muster. Eli kissed me soundly, and for a flicker of a moment, I let myself imagine a future here with him. Nature unbound. Acceptance. Love. There was much to treasure.

  But I was not made for ruling. I was a warrior first, a creature that summoned the dead, and a woman utterly unsuited to motherhood. No amount of wishing would change that. My womb would not create life, not even for Eli.

  The following afternoon, I was sleeping outside on a mossy hill with Eli beside me. Well, half under me. I was held against his side, my head resting on his chest, and we were both pillowed by thick moss.

  He may not have napped; I wasn’t sure. What I did know was that we needed to address matters.

  “We have a bargain, and I do not seek to break that,” I said, treading carefully. “I fear that it was entirely to my benefit, and for that I am grateful, but nonetheless . . . I need to ask you to let me speak of the future in general.”

  He sighed. “I know.”

  “I won’t speak of our future,” I hedged. I’d been thinking of ways around the rules because well, of course I had. I was not as clever as the fae, but I had spent a lot of time researching faery bargains.

  Eli smiled, although it looked sad when he did.

  “Courtship . . . dating . . .” I started, awkwardly fumbling forward despite knowing that danger was ahead. “I need to understand this, Eli. It’s not fair to expect me to know things when this is not my culture.”

  “Do you think of the fae as fair, Geneviève?” His hand trailed over my back, fingertips tracing my spine.

  “Eli . . .”

  He sighed. “At the end of the courtship, one must accept the betrothal with an exchange of vows, or one must forsake the betrothed.”

  My heart thudded at that.

  “That is traditional.” Eli paused, and I knew he was trying to impart some wisdom to me. “There are no other options, traditionally. Matrimony or division. A date was set, and without an extenuating event, there are only no further options.”

  I weighed the things he admitted, pondering options. “So, that means that on Twelfth Night I have to commit or quit.”

  He looked at me. “We may not discuss our future, Geneviève. There are laws. The terms of a bargain overrule every other tradition for my people.”

  “If I quit?”

  “Then I will never speak to you again,” he said, voice tight. “Not as friends or partners. Nothing.”

  “But I’m not ready to marry anyone,” I exclaimed. I sat up, glaring down at him. “And I can’t lose you. I . . . have feelings for you.”

  Eli took my hand. “I am aware of all of this.”

  “But I can ask for anything?”

  “That is our deal.” Eli stared at me, and I let myself read the images he was trying to will to me.

  “I would wait,” he said. “I am in no rush, Geneviève. I have no desire for a wife unless you are that wife.”

  “If I ask for our engagement to end? As my request?” I prompted. “End but you not forsake me as a . . . friend and partner?”

  “I could never touch you intimately.”

  I realized then what options he’d offered me with this bargain. I could not end it without losing him, and he could not end it at all. So, my options were marriage in about two weeks, or to ask for a request that was so carefully worded that I would have time. We would still court, but with no intent—on my part—to marry.

  “It’s exhausting, dealing with the nuances of the fae,” I muttered before pushing him down and snuggling into his arms. “I like dating you, though.”

  Eli laughed. “There is much to be said for dating.”

  “I could do it for a very, very long time,” I whispered.

  “Indeed.” He kissed my forehead. “I do enjoy our dates.” He paused and in a low voice asked, “Where do witches stand on orgasms outside?”

  “Pro. Some witches, in fact, are distinctively in favor of this. Was there one in particular witch you were asking about?”

  He rolled me onto my back as he moved over me. “Mine.”

  I’m not sure I’d have objected to the possessive tone in his voice, but it didn’t matter because he covered my mouth with his and kissed away any words I might have had.

  ~ 12 ~

  When I returned to New Orleans, I was worn out, weary, and ready to ask for a time-out on my life—as much as I was ready for the next week to pass so I could test my plan on my faery bargain.

  I’m pretty used to drama, and the holidays are full of it for most folks. Between the three types of beings in my life—human, draugr, and fae—I was ready to propose a time share for future holidays. One species per year. Of course, my humans included my witchy mother and friends, so given my wish, I’d stick with just them.

  Still the money, wisdom, and favor from Beatrice were useful.

  And maybe the swords from the faery king were nice.

  But I was ready for a nap after dealing with everyone’s agendas—which was why I was anything but charming when Beatrice flowed to my table at Bill’s Tavern.

  “Really? Don’t you have a daytime nap or something to attend? Beauty sleep? Minions to frighten?”

  “Invite me to be seated.”

  “You need an invitation?” I perked up. Draugr rules were as hard to find as rooster’s teeth.

  “No, Geneviève.” Beatrice’s pale lips curved in a mimicry of a smile. “I simply have manners.”

  I sighed and gestured to a chair across from me. Beatrice, ever the cooperative dead lady, sat next to me.

  “There are those who would wish you dead no matter what,” she started.

  “You must be a riot at parties.”

  “The last party included beheading vermin.” She met my gaze. “Did you receive my gifts?”

  I nodded. What exactly was the protocol for a box with the head of man? Or the antique jewels from a man who undoubtedly became dust and ash? I figured I’d go for subtle and said, “It was a very you”—I made air quotes—“gift.”

  Beatrice smiled. “I have another gift, Geneviève.”

  She slid a book to me. It felt heavy with magic, and I knew that it was a grimoire of some sort.

  “I understand from your friend’s shop that the
buyer for this would be you,” she said. “I’ve supplied others you or Lauren sought, but this is not one you could afford even with Harold’s jewelry.”

  I couldn’t even joke that I had nothing to give her. There were gifts, and then there were gifts.

  “Why?” I managed to ask.

  For a moment, Beatrice appeared centuries old; not that she suddenly amassed wrinkles, but that she looked weary in a way that reminded me that bitch though she could be, she was a woman in a man’s world—and had been for centuries.

  “I have removed threats, but there are those vile men or draugr every generation that seek my descendants out. You, Geneviève, are more of a target than most. You are witch and mine, but you carry other traits.”

  I swallowed.

  “Threats will come. They are a storm, waves pounding as if they will wear us down in time.” Her eyes were glimmering with a light that was eerie to behold. “I do not lose. I will not. And you, daughter of my daughters’ daughter, are the last of my line. They will come, and you will be able to win.” She tapped the book with a finger. “Learn.”

  Then the draugr queen stood to go.

  Before I could think too long on it, I asked, “Would you want to have dinner with Mama Lauren and me? I mean sometime . . . maybe not dinner, but—”

  “I will”—she smiled wickedly—“BYOB, as they say. Bring my own blood.”

  I laughed, more at her delivery than her bad sense of humor. “And we could talk. I think my mother would like that. I would, too.”

  I was still sitting there with my book in silence several hours later when Eli joined me. “Frosting?”

  I looked up.

  “Are you well?”

  “Beatrice brought me a book.” I stroked the cover again. I wasn’t prepared to open it yet, and certainly not here.

  “I see . . .” He sat beside me. “Alice had this sent by courier.”

  The hot pink canteen he handed me looked more practical than I would typically have thought of when thinking of Alice, but when I opened it, I recognized the scent. I’d already begun to be able to tell the owner of cocktail by the scent. My body had changed.