by Melissa Marr
"For what?" Aislinn took the blouse, fingering the soft cotton.
"For some sort of peace. He's not going away. Your mortality isn't coming back. Don't start eternity with him believing he can tell you what to do. Start by putting him off kilter: dress for battle."
Donia sorted through the skirts and overdresses. They all seemed too regal, too formal. Aislinn would need to remind him she was not like the others, bound to do his bidding. She was a girl who'd grown up in a world where women had choices. "Be more aggressive than he is. Summon him to you. If he takes too long, don't wait. Go to him."
Aislinn looked helpless, standing there clutching the blouse. "I'm not sure I can."
"Then you've already lost. Your modernity is your best weapon. Use it. Show him that you are entitled to some sort of choice. You know what he is now, so demand that he talk to you. Negotiate for what control you can wrest from him." Donia drew out pants, sleek and modern. "Go change. Then we'll talk more."
Aislinn took the slick black pants with a shaky hand. "Is there a way to win?"
"The Summer Girls believe they've won." Donia hated saying it, but it was true. The girls were happy: they didn't see their dependence as a burden.
Aislinn twisted the cotton blouse in her hands, wringing it like a wet cloth. "What's the alternative? There has to be another choice."
Donia paused. She put a hand on Aislinn's wrist, shook off her glamour, and revealed the snow falling in her eyes. "Me."
Although the winter chill was awful for the summer fey—which she now was—Aislinn didn't look away.
So Donia let the cold slip into her fingertips, leak out until frost blossomed on Aislinn's arm, forming small icicles that dangled on her elbow, then fell to the floor with a clatter. "This."
Wincing finally, Aislinn pulled back. "I want neither."
"I know." Donia reigned the cold in, trembling with the effort. "But given the two…They are free in ways that I'm not. To be a Summer Girl is to live forever, to dance and play, and have the freedom from almost everything. It's a life of eternal summer. They have no responsibility; they leave that behind with their mortality, and he" — she almost choked on the words but she still said them—"takes care of them. They want for nothing."
"I don't want that."
Donia wanted to tell Aislinn to refuse it, but it wasn't her place. That was his job. Instead Donia told her, "It's what you're becoming already. Surely you've noticed?"
At that, Aislinn's shoulder's slumped.
Donia remembered it—that strange dissociative feeling that accompanied the changes. It wasn't a pleasant memory, even now with the cold settled deep inside her. She kept the pity from her voice and said, "To not join them, you must take the test."
"What kind of test?" Aislinn sounded even younger then, frightened.
No one had asked it before. By the time the test was an issue, the girls were already decided. They might not have verbalized it, but their choice—to risk everything to be with Keenan or not—was already made in their hearts. In Donia's time, none had loved him enough to attempt it. Nor, for that matter, had he truly loved them—at least that was what she'd told herself each time he wooed them.
"That's for him to say. I cannot. He'll hold out a third choice, the prize, as it were. In nine centuries, no one has ever become that third thing. If you take the test and lose, you become what I am. If you do not take the test before the next season comes upon us, that too is a choice: you simply join the other girls." Donia gave Aislinn a gentle push toward the bedroom. "Go change."
Aislinn stopped in the doorway. "Is there any way out of whatever mess this is? To just walk away? I want to go back to my life. Isn't there someone we can talk to?"
Donia carefully closed the wardrobe door, not looking at Aislinn. No one had ever asked that, either.
Still facing the wardrobe, she said, "Only one girl has ever avoided choosing."
"How?"
Turning, Donia caught Aislinn's gaze and killed the hope that had crept into her voice. "She died."
CHAPTER 24
He is no less a personage than the King of Faerie…Very numerous indeed are [his subjects] and very various are they in their natures. He is the sovereign of those beneficent and joyous beings…who dance in the moonlight.
— The Mabinogion (notes) by Lady Charlotte Guest (1877)
Keenan stirred his drink idly. The Rath usually cheered him, but all he could think about was how to convince Aislinn that she was essential. He had let his emotions go earlier, let his power leak all over her, and she'd swooned— recognizing it as it called to her own changed self—but he'd need another tactic for their next meeting.
Never the same move twice.
"If you aren't going to talk, go dance, Keenan." Tavish spoke calmly, as if he weren't worried. "It will do them well to see you smiling."
Beyond him, the girls were dancing, spinning in that dizzying way that they liked, and giggling. Guards—on and off duty—circulated through the crowd. Though it was his club, the winter fey and the dark fey both frequented it more and more, making his own guards increasingly necessary as time passed. Only the high court fey seemed able to follow house rules somewhat regularly. Even his own summer fey weren't well behaved most nights.
"Right." Keenan slammed back the rest of his drink and motioned to Cerise.
His cell rang, and it was her. Her voice. Her. My resistant queen. "Aislinn?"
He made a writing motion in the air. Tavish held out a napkin; Niall scrambled for a pen.
"Sure…No, I'm at the Rath. I could come now…" He hung up and stared at the phone.
Tavish and Niall looked expectantly at him.
Keenan motioned for Cerise to go back to the floor. "She wants to meet and talk."
"See? She'll fall in line like the rest of them," Tavish said approvingly.
"Do you need us or can we go" — Niall snagged Siobhan around the waist as she walked by—"relax?"
"Go dance."
"Keenan?" Cerise held out a hand.
"No, not now." He turned away, watching the cubs run through the crowd, barely avoiding being trampled under the dancers' feet.
He let his sunlight trickle out over the crowd, setting several illusory suns to rotate over the dancers. My queen sought me out. It would all be as it should, soon. My queen, finally beside me. He laughed joyously, seeing his fey frolic in front of him, the fey who'd waited with him. Soon, he'd be able to restore the court to order. Soon, all would be right.
Aislinn walked down to the abandoned building by the riverside, murmuring Donia's advice over and over with each step: Take the offensive. She tried to believe she could do it, but the mere idea of going into their den made her feel ill. She'd seen enough faeries going into Rath and Ruins over the years that she'd known to avoid it at all costs.
But here I am.
She knew where he was, knew that he'd come if she beckoned, but Donia thought this was wiser. Be aggressive. Strike first.
Aislinn clung to the hope that there was a way to keep her life, at least as much of it as she could.
I still don't even know what he wants, not really. So she was going to ask—demand—that he talk to her, that he tell her what he wanted, and why.
I can do this. She stopped at the door.
In front of her, half leaning on a stool, was one of the club's bouncers. Under the glamour, he was a terrifying sight—curled tusks spiraled out on either side of his face, ending in sharp points. He looked like he spent all of his time lifting weights, a fact he didn't hide with his glamour.
She stopped several steps away from him. "Excuse me?"
He lowered his magazine and looked over his sunglasses. "Members only."
She looked up at him, catching his gaze as best she could, and said, "I want to see the Summer King."
He laid the magazine aside. "The what?"
She straightened her shoulders. Be assertive. It sounded a lot easier than it felt.
She tried again.
"I want to see Keenan. He's in there. And I know he wants to see me. I'm the" — she forced the words out—"new girl in his life."
"You shouldn't come here," he grumbled as he opened the door and motioned to a boy with a lion's mane standing just inside. "Tell the…tell Keenan that…" He looked at her. Ash.
"That Ash is out here."
The lion-boy nodded and scampered off, disappearing through a doorway. His glamour made him seem cherubic, his lion's mane a wild twist of sandy-blond dreads. Of the fey around town, the lion-maned ones were among the few that never seemed to cause trouble on purpose.
The guard let the door fall closed with a thud. He picked up his magazine, but he kept glancing at her and shaking his head.
Her heart thudded. Trying to feign nonchalance, she glanced back at the street. Only a few cars had driven by so far; it wasn't a busy area.
If I'm going to go for aggressive, why not start now? A practice run. The next time he looked back at his magazine, she said, "For what it's worth, you're sexier with the tusks."
He gaped at her. The magazine hit the damp ground with a soft smack. "With the what?"
"Tusks. Seriously, if you're going to go with a glamour, add bars in place of your tusks." Aislinn gave him an appraising look. "Bit more menacing, too."
His grin was a slow thing, like sunrise creeping over the horizon. He altered his glamour. "Better?"
"Yeah." She stepped closer to him, not touching, but closer than she'd have believed she could get without panicking. Pretend it's Seth. She tilted her head so she was looking up at him. "Works for me."
He laughed, nervously, and glanced over his shoulder. The messenger wasn't back yet. "I'm liable to get flogged if you keep doing that. It's one thing to go for a mortal, but you" — he shook his head—"you're off limits."
She didn't move, not closing that last little gap, but not backing up, either. "Is he that cruel? To beat people?"
The guard almost choked on his laugh. "Keenan? Hell, no. But he's not the only player. The Winter Girl, Keenan's advisors, the Summer Girls" — he shuddered, lowered his voice—"the Winter Queen. You never know who's going to get pissy about what once the game's in motion."
"So what's the prize for the game?" Her heart thumped so loudly now, she felt like she'd have chest pains any minute.
Keenan and Donia weren't telling her everything; maybe he would. Donia might say she was trying to help, but she was one of the players.
The messenger was coming back, leading two of the vine-decorated faeries she'd seen in the library.
Focus. Don't panic whatever he says.
He leaned down so his tusks framed her forehead and whispered, "Control. Power. You."
"Oh."
What does that mean?
She mutely followed the vine-covered girl, wondering if the fey ever gave a straight answer.
Aislinn—my queen, here—followed Eliza through the crowd; they parted for her as they did for him. She was lovely, a vision come true. The Summer Girls spun like dervishes. Winter fey sulked. And the dark fey licked their lips, as if in anticipation. Others—solitary fey and the rare high court fey who mingled in the crowd—looked on, curious, but not invested in the outcome. It was as if his life, his struggle, were nothing more than a tableau for their amusement.
Eliza stepped up, bowed her head. "Your guest, Keenan."
He nodded, then pulled out a chair for Aislinn. She wasn't smiling, not happy at all. She wasn't here to accept, but to fight.
And everyone's watching.
He felt curiously ill at ease. He'd always chosen the field of battle, always set the stage, but she was here—in his club, surrounded by his people, and he hadn't a clue about how to deal with it.
She came to me. Not for the reason he'd like, though; her posture was proof enough that she was there to deny him. As strategies go, it was a good one. Even if she wasn't the queen, she was the best game he'd had in a long time. If she weren't so terrified of him, it would be a lovely start to the evening.
"Let me know when you're done staring at me." She tried to sound blasé and failed.
She turned away and flagged down one of the innumerable cubs that scampered around. "Can I get something normal that mortals drink? I don't want any of that wine I had at the faire."
The cub bowed—his mane bristling when another faery tried to step closer—and went in search of her drink, not slowing for the fey clustered around him, becoming lost in the throng of dancing faeries.
From the edge of the dance floor, Tavish and Niall watched openly, using the guards to form a barricade of sorts to keep the girls farther away. They rarely had sense about what should and shouldn't be said. Tonight they were almost impossible to deal with, believing their queen was finally among them.
"I'm done staring," he murmured, but he wasn't. He didn't think he ever would be if she dressed like that very often. She had on some sort of vinyl pants and a very old-fashioned blouse that laced up with a red velvet ribbon. If he tugged that ribbon, he was fairly certain the whole thing would come undone.
"Do you want to dance before we talk?" His arms almost ached to hold her, to dance as they had at the faire, to swirl in the fey—our fey.
"With you? Not likely." She sounded like she was laughing at him, but her bravado was forced.
"Everyone is staring." Staring at both of us. He needed to assert himself or the fey would think him weak, subservient to her. "Everyone but you."
So he dropped his glamour, letting all the sunlight he carried illuminate him, making himself shine like a beacon in the dim light of the club. It was one thing for a mortal to see a faery; it was another to sit before a fey monarch.
Aislinn's eyes widened; her breath caught on a gasp.
Leaning forward across the table, Keenan darted a hand out to grab one of her tightly clenched hands.
In a move too fast for mortal eyes to see, Aislinn yanked away—then scowled down at her hand, as if she could quell the reminder of how changed she already was.
Then the cub Aislinn had sent for refreshments was back, holding a tray of drinks; three of his pride followed him, each carrying a tray of the sugary mortal snacks the fey preferred.
With a friendliness she denied feeling for the fey, Aislinn smiled at them. "That was quick."
They stood straighter, tawny manes puffed in pleasure.
"For you we'll do anything, my lady," the eldest one answered in that gravel voice the cubs all had.
"Thank" — she caught herself before she said those uncomfortable mortal words—"I mean, it's kind of you."
Keenan smiled as he watched her. Maybe her changing attitude was a result of her own changing body; maybe it was a product of her inevitable acceptance of the fey. He didn't care, though, as long as she was smiling at their faeries.
But when she glanced away from the cubs—compelled to look at his glowing face—she stopped smiling. Her pulse beat in her throat like a trapped thing. Her gaze skittered away from him; she swallowed several times.
It isn't the cubs that make her blood race, that make her face flush. It's me. Us.
The cubs sat their trays on the table: ice cream, cakes, and coffees; desserts from local bakeries and sweet drinks with no alcohol in them. They snarled at each other as they pointed out delicacies.
"Try this."
"No, this."
"She'll like this better."
Finally Tavish came over to the table with one of the guards to remove them. "Go away."
Aislinn watched silently. Then, with visible decisiveness, she turned back to Keenan. "So let's talk about your little game. Maybe there's an answer we can find that'll let us both get back to our lives."
"You are my life now. This" — he waved a hand dismissively around him at the club—"the fey, everything, it all falls into place once you accept me."
None of it mattered without her beside him. If she says no, they all die.
He whispered, "I need you."
Aislinn clenched her fi
sts. This wasn't working. How was she to reason with him when he sat there shining like a celestial object? He wasn't threatening her, wasn't doing anything but tell her things that should sound sweet.
Is it so awful? She wavered as he looked at her so intently—seeming for all the world like he was a good person.
He's a faery. Never trust a faery.
His harem stood behind her, other girls who'd been where she was. Now they mingled in the crush of bodies around her, faeries themselves. It wasn't a life she wanted.
"That's not the sort of answer that helps." She took a deep breath. "I don't like you. Don't want you. Don't love you. How can you think there's any reason to…" She tried to find the right words. There weren't any.
"To court you?" he prompted, half smiling.
"Whatever you call it." The smell of flowers was overwhelming her, dizzying. She tried again. "I don't understand why you're doing this."
"It's already done." He reached out.
She pulled away. "Don't."
He leaned back in his seat. The blue lights of the club heightened his inhuman appearance. "What if I told you that you were the key—the grail, the book—that one object that will rescue me? What if I said you were what I need to defeat one who freezes the earth? If your acceptance would save the world—all these faeries, your mortals, too—would you do it?"
She stared at him. Here was the answer that they'd been hiding from her. "Is that what this is about?"
"It might be." He walked around the table, slowly enough that she could've stood and put the chair between them.
She didn't.
"There's only one way to find out, though." He stepped just close enough that she'd need to shove him away to stand. "You have to choose to stay with me."
She wanted to run.
"I don't want to become one of them" — she motioned to the Summer Girls—"or some ice faery like Donia."
"So Donia told you about that." He nodded, as if this too were normal.
"The detail you didn't mention? Yeah." She tried to sound reasonable, as if being told her options were harem girl or ice faery was an average thing. "Look. I don't want to be one of your playthings, and I don't want to be what Donia is."
