Moonlit Ménage

by Bronwyn Green

  Another sound wended its way into her consciousness as she recognised the sound of the lock on her door disengaging. Expecting Tarran and Quill, she was surprised to see the head of the residence hall entering her room. The woman’s eyes looked glassy as though she were drugged. Woodenly, she stared at Brontë as if she could see through her, then glanced around the room, clearly searching for something.

  “Alicia? What’s going on? Do you need something?” Brontë asked, forcing the words out, but the other woman ignored her. A chunk of icy dread dropped into the pit of Brontë’s stomach, and she knew without a doubt that the Sidhe were behind this.

  Dazed, Alicia stumbled around haphazardly opening drawers and rooting through them. Her posture straightened somewhat when she reached the desk. Picking up the key, she shuffled towards Brontë like a sleepwalker and reached for the cuffs.

  As much as she wanted to be free, there was still a tiny, rational part of her brain that knew it was a very bad idea. She pulled her wrists close to her body, trying to keep them from Alicia’s grasp.

  Seeming to possess some sort of superhuman strength, the woman pinned Brontë’s hands to her lap and inserted the key into the first lock. Clicking it open, she quickly repeated the action with the other one. The cuffs fell from Brontë’s wrists, and Alicia dropped the key onto the mattress before leaving the room in her unnatural stupor. As if watching herself from a great distance, Brontë saw her fingers close around the small piece of unforgiving metal and shove it in her pocket.

  The music that had quieted slightly while the other woman was in the room was back with a vengeance. Even if Brontë had wanted to put the shackles back on, the pull of the faery song was too strong. Unable to stop herself, she stumbled out the door and darted through the back exit of the residence hall into the ominous gloom surrounding the Gwydyr

  Forest.

  The haunting melody pulled her forward through the brambles and bracken at the tree line and into the woods. The part of her mind that registered pain wished she’d left her jeans on instead of changing into her pyjamas. A knit cami and shorts were not meant to be worn while wandering through a forest. In the dark.

  The bright jingle of bridle bells sounded in the distance. She thought she saw a streak of silver up ahead, but when she blinked, it was gone. The tempo of the song changed, and she found her feet moving faster, heedless of the sticks and rocks covering the forest floor. She’d be a mass of cuts and bruises by the time she reached her destination. Far in the recesses of her mind, a sliver of rational thought surfaced, and she realised that it would be a nonissue if she didn’t survive whatever the faeries had planned for her.

  The jingle of bells sounded again off to her right. Turning to look, she saw the streak of silver again. It moved more slowly this time, and she was able to make out elaborately dressed figures on horseback riding through the woods. Though she heard the pounding of hooves, she couldn’t feel the vibrations. Glancing at the ground, she saw why. The horses were running above the forest floor.

  Bathed in a shimmering glow, the riders looked for all-the-world like a Mediaeval hunting party. In unison, they turned to look at her, as though their heads were all connected to a single puppet string. Icily beautiful faces stared at her—some with curiosity, others with contempt. Brontë’s breath froze in her lungs. These had to be the Sidhe. As the procession thundered past, she thought she saw two familiar faces among the party. It couldn’t be.

  A cruel, crystalline laugh rang through the trees as the riders disappeared. Heart in her chest, she continued to follow the urgent tune deeper into the forest. She felt like she’d been running for hours. Legs and lungs burning, she finally stumbled into a well lit clearing. The music stopped abruptly. The only sound was her harsh, gasping breath.

  Elegant, twinkling lanterns hung in high branches, spilling a warm, golden glow over the grove. Vibrant coloured silks and pillows littered the forest floor and hung from tree limbs making it look more bordello than woodland. From the shadows, a glacially beautiful woman emerged. With waist length, silvery-white hair she looked vaguely familiar, but Brontë couldn’t place her. After all, how many people did she know with delicately pointed ears and faintly glowing skin?

  “You’re late, Brontë. It isn’t nice to keep royalty waiting, mortal.”

  Brontë scowled at the other woman. “What do you want from me?”

  She glided towards Brontë. The music began to play again and the woman plucked an elaborately carved viola and bow from the air. “Only your life,” she said, pressing the instrument into Brontë’s hands.

  Cold fear mixed with anger and trickled down her spine. Somehow, she had to escape from this nightmare. She would have loved to smash the viola upside the faery’s head, but the command refused to leave Brontë’s head and travel to her limbs. No more able to control her hands than she had been her feet, Brontë lifted the instrument and drew the bow across the bridge. Refusing to think too deeply on the woman’s words, she fingered the strings, playing the tune that wouldn’t leave her mind.

  As the notes fell flawlessly from her fingers, other figures entered the clearing. All were blindingly beautiful—long, lithe and so graceful even the most poised human would seem awkward and clumsy by comparison. Their ethereal, gossamer clothing looked to be woven of spider silk and flower petals. Sparkling jewels dripped from their shining hair, gleaming in the light of the lanterns.

  Some carried instruments and joined the melody, others sank onto the pillows and watched. None were Quill or Tarran. She thought for sure she’d seen them when the procession had passed her by in the forest, but maybe she’d been mistaken.

  The woman who’d spoken to Brontë waved her hand over the roots of a nearby tree, and a polished harp grew from the ground, followed quickly by a throne made of branches and gnarled roots. Settling herself on the wooden seat, she too began to play.

  The music was so wrenchingly beautiful, Brontë wanted to cry. It seemed to draw out every speck of loneliness and heartbreak she’d ever experienced, but she couldn’t stop playing. Her body was no longer her own.

  As the melody drifted through the trees, it seemed to summon more of the Sidhe to the clearing. They filled the small glade all watching expectantly, swaying with the music. Several wore circlets of gold or silver around their brows, others wore wreaths of wild flowers or leaves. The faeries seemed to hum with curious excitement, with only a few exhibiting hostility. It seemed the majority of the resentment and anger came from the musicians. She felt like she’d been dropped in the middle of some supernatural dysfunctional family reunion.

  The pace of the song increased. In groups of twos and threes, people began to dance. As they whirled, others joined in. They seemed as helpless against the magic of the song as she was. In no time, the grove was filled with dancing, writhing bodies, and the tune showed no sign of slowing.

  Brontë’s fingertips ached, bruised from the seemingly endless playing. If she kept up this pace much longer, they’d be bleeding; cut through from the strings. The woman at the harp glared at her and pushed the tempo faster still. Brontë’s fingers flew across the neck of the instrument to keep up. She was half surprised smoke wasn’t rising from the bow.

  All at once, a man appeared in the centre of the grove. He looked like a slightly younger, far more fey version of Quill. He clapped his hands twice, and the music fell silent, including her instrument which tumbled to the ground from her suddenly nerveless fingers.

  “It is time,” he said. Drawing a gilded knife from the sheath at his waist, he approached her.

  Frantically, she tried to run, but she found herself frozen to the forest floor. It was as if her muscles had seized and no longer worked. The man grabbed her forearm in a bruising hold and dragged her to stand before the woman with the harp. The pale woman stood. Both her instrument and throne melted back into the ground as if they’d never existed.

  She reached out and grasped Brontë’s chin, turning her face back and forth, frowning. “
I just don’t see it.”

  The rest of the Sidhe who’d crowded close, seemed to melt away, forming a path of sorts. Regaining the use of some of her muscles, Bronte pulled from the woman’s grasp and turned to see what was happening. Her mouth dropped open, and her heart began to race.

  She had seen Quill and Tarran in the procession—at least, she’d seen a version of them. Tarran’s hair was no longer the white blond she’d grown accustomed to. It was a silvery-white—much like the bitch beside her. He had the pointed ears of the Sidhe and his eyes nearly brought her to her knees. The familiar grey had been replaced by a night sky full of stars. Constellations swirled through his irises on a backdrop of grey, indigo and violet.

  Awestruck, she turned to look at Quillen. His silky, dark hair was the same, maybe a little curlier and his ears were no longer rounded. But his eyes took her breath away. The deep green was still there, but now it looked as though brilliant autumn leaves blew across the surface of a pond.

  The scent of crushed greens and warm earth drifted to her as the men drew closer. For a moment, she was breathless and dizzy, but the sensation passed, and she found her voice. “So, does one of you want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

  Quill drank in the sight of Brontë. Cuts marred her pale skin, and bruises circled her wrists, leaving a definite imprint of where the shackles had been. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’m so sorry, cariad. I thought the iron would protect you.”

  “You’re a fool,” the man beside her crowed.

  “Shut up, Kynan,” Tarran muttered, beating Quill to it.

  “Is there a problem, brother mine?” the woman cooed, smiling coldly at Tarran. “I have your sacrifice all ready for you. There’s nothing left to do now but slit her throat and take your crowns.”

  “Silence, Rhosyn!” Tarran demanded, whirling on his sister.

  “You’d dare threaten me? Over a mortal?”

  “If you push me, I’ll do more than that.”

  Ignoring the arguing siblings, Brontë crossed her arms over her chest and levelled a glare at Quill. “So this celebration you mentioned…it’s actually your coronation?”

  He nodded.

  “And what?” she demanded. “You’re going to kill me now?” Her eyes clouded, and she looked between him and Tarran. “Was that all last night and today were? Softening me up for the inevitable betrayal?” She blinked back tears and shoved her hands in her pockets. “Or were you just making sure I got a good ride in before my time was up?”

  “It’s not like that,” Tarran murmured.

  “This was never supposed to happen,” Quillen added. “We were trying to keep you safe.”

  “We love you,” Tarran admitted.

  Brontë’s eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t speak.

  “In love with a human? You two are going to make me vomit.”

  A flash of silver glinted in Kynan’s hand. Quill made a grab for it, but Rhosyn already held the blade at Brontë’s neck. Icy fear threaded through his veins.

  Tarran’s breathing grew shallow. “Don’t Rhosyn. Please.”

  “Look at her,” Quill demanded. “You’ve already spilled enough of her blood. Let her go!”

  “I don’t think so.” Gripping Brontë’s forehead, she pulled her head back exposing the vulnerable line of her throat.

  He and Tarran made a grab for Rhosyn, but Kynan and another man grappled with them, keeping them far enough away from the women to provide any help. Brontë elbowed Rhosyn in the stomach and fumbled in her pocket. Holding her hand like she was gripping a knife, she brought her fist down on Rhosyn’s thigh.

  The faery screamed in agony and the blade dropped to the ground, drops of Brontë’s blood soaking into the earth. Tarran dove for the knife, snatching it up from where it had fallen. The stench of burning flesh rose from Rhosyn’s damaged thigh and wafted through the grove causing many of the fey to flee.

  Brontë stood above her, blood running down her neck, iron key clutched in her fist. “Don’t you ever touch me again,” she snarled at the sobbing woman.

  Quillen and Tarran flanked Brontë settling their arms around her waist while Kynan helped Rhosyn from the grove.

  Brontë pulled from their grasp and glared at them. “Don’t even think about it. I can’t believe you two lied to me.”

  “We didn’t exactly lie,” Tarran said.

  “Omission of truth is the same thing.”

  Quill sighed. “What were supposed to do, cariad? Tell you that we’re related to the faeries who want you dead?”

  She kept her arms crossed over her chest, and he wondered if she was doing it to keep from punching them.

  “We were going to tell you,” Tarran admitted. “But we needed to make sure you were safe first.”

  Quill coaxed a chair from the tree roots behind Brontë. “At least, sit for a moment and let me tend to your neck.”

  She frowned. “I’m fine. It’s not deep.”

  “Please, just let me see.”

  She settled in the chair and tentatively tilted her head to give him access. A shadow fell across them and he looked up. One of the younger Sidhe waited, holding a soft cloth and a bowl of water. Quillen took the gift gratefully, smiling at the girl.

  Dipping the cloth into the warm water, he sponged away the drying blood from Brontë’s neck and chest. She was right, the cut wasn’t deep, but that didn’t stem his rage at his brother and Rhosyn. They’d both suffer for what they’d done—what they tried to do.

  Realisation settled like a rock in his gut. They’d almost lost Brontë. “I’m so sorry.”

  She lifted a shaking hand and brushed his hair from his face. “I know,” she murmured. She glanced over at Tarran who’d squatted down beside her. “I also know that you guys did what you thought was best. But you have to admit, this is a hell of a way to find out your lovers aren’t exactly human.”

  Tarran grinned sheepishly. “Surprise.”

  A laugh slipped from her lips, and Tarran bent to kiss her.

  When he lifted his head, Quill said, “We’ve discussed it, and we’re willing to leave Faery for you. We’ll live as mortals, and—”

  A look of incredulousness crossed her face and her mouth opened and closed several times before she could manage to force out words. “Are you both insane?” Before they could respond, she continued. “Seriously? What the hell is the matter with you guys? If you give up the throne, who takes your place?”

  “Our siblings,” Tarran answered slowly as if trying to avoid a carefully baited trap.

  “Would those siblings be the psychotic twosome who made me think I was losing my mind and then tried to kill me?”

  Quill nodded. “The same.”

  “And you think those two being in charge of both kingdoms is a reasonable idea?”

  “Well…” Tarran hedged.

  “We love you,” Quill said.

  Her eyes softened and she swallowed hard and laid a hand on each of their cheeks. “I love you, too. Both of you. But I can’t be the cause of all of this being destroyed by those spoilt, malicious brats. Besides, it seems like there’s enough friction between the two courts without their drama.”

  “But—”

  She laid her fingers across Quill’s lips. “If they ruled, what would happen to the humans? I’m guessing it would be a sacrifice at every opportunity.”

  “This doesn’t change anything,” Tarran interrupted. “We still want you.”

  “Well, we still want a crowning,” a familiar voice said from behind them.

  With a sinking sensation in his gut, Quill turned to find his and Tarran’s fathers along with Aodhan, King of the Irish Sidhe.

  Brontë stiffened, still clutching the iron key as both he and Tarran turned to protect her.

  “Be at peace child,” Tarran’s father said. “You’ve spilled enough blood this eve.”

  “And showed great bravery,” his own father added.

  She rose on shaky legs to stand between Quill and
Tarran. “But was it enough to secure their reign?”

  The kings’ eyes widened in surprise and Aodhan’s lips quirked as he observed her. “You remind me of your sister, Beckett,” the Irish king said. Confusion creased Brontë’s brow as she stared at the man, but he simply smiled. “You needn’t worry about your brother and sister,” he said, turning to them. “They’ll be returning to Ireland to serve at my court until they can behave.”

  Quill fought the urge to cheer at the news. “Stay with us,” he said to Brontë.

  “Be our queen,” Tarran added.

  She blinked as if trying to process their words. “I don’t know anything about being a queen. I understand there’s a lot of tea and questionable hat-handbag combos involved.”

  Tarran snorted. “No dreadful hats. We promise.”

  “Or handbags. And you can still see your family,” Quillen rushed to say, “although you should know, you will outlive them. Time in Faery passes differently than it does in the mortal world.”

  “Are you asking me to marry you?” she finally choked out.

  Both men nodded.

  Brontë must have agreed, because a few minutes later she found herself back in the centre of the clearing standing between Tarran and Quill surrounded by crowds of eager Sidhe. Speaking in what could have been Welsh or might have been another language altogether, both men received circlets of twined silver and gold from their fathers.

  The third man, who apparently knew her sister—Beckett definitely had some explaining to do—approached her with a smaller silver circlet adorned with small green stones and gold leaves. “Normally, this honour would be bestowed by your father, but since you are alone in this land, permit me to crown you?”

  She nodded slowly, not quite able to believe she stood in the woods in her jammies being crowned queen of the faeries.

  As he placed it upon her head, he murmured, “As you’ve proven to be the bridge between the princes, may you be the bridge between their peoples, Queen of the Seelie and Unseelie Courts.”