The Immortal Queen
The Unseelie Court
Book Two
Jennifer L. Hart
Copyright 2018 Jennifer Lynn Hart
Cover image designed by Rebecca Frank
All rights reserved.
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All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.
Definition: To run the gauntlet:
A punishment endured by convicted military personnel and inflicted by his/ her fellow soldiers, usually in the forms of beating, clubbing, whipping, etc.
To suffer an onslaught of criticism from various sources at once.
The test to become forever young, to prove oneself worthy of immortality to Underhill. Many who attempt it are never seen again.
All of the above
Contents
The Special Hell
Somebody Call Webster’s
Spies Among Us
Mistakes
You Don’t See That Every Day
Soul Walking
Valkyrie Village
Underhill
Where Sea Meets Sky
An Offer
Dinner with Killers
Encounters in the Dark
Double Cross
An Oath for an Oath
Lost
Too Stupid to Live
Naked and Afraid
Among the River Sprites
What’s Eating Him
The Gauntlet
The Hardest Part
I Call a Do-over
Home Sweet Home
Date Night
About the Author
The Special Hell
The worst three words in the English language are without a doubt, the one’s spoken by the handsome prowler in my bedroom. “Time for school.”
“How did you get past my aunts?” I mumble and burrow deeper under the covers, doing my level best to ignore the half wolf, half god that equaled one giant pain-in-the-ass alarm clock.
“You left the window open.” Aiden gestures to the slit in the windowsill where sure enough, there is a one-inch crack. “I took it as an invitation.”
Aiden’s abilities include turning himself into nothing more than a collection of sparks. If he ever decides on a life of crime, he’ll be the world’s best cat burglar. “I’d tell you to go to hell but then you’d literally have to do it.”
“Someone’s in a mood. Training go that well last night?” Aiden, fresh from the shower and smelling of cedar, sage and his own unique wild scent, plops himself down on my bed. His weight makes the entire mattress quake and my sore muscles scream in protest. He tosses back the covers, exposing me to the late summer morning breeze that hints at cooler weather. The boxer shorts and tank top I sleep in provide no real barrier from the chilly air.
Or from Aiden.
I hiss and swat at him. Regret accompanies the groan that bubbles up as the aches and pains in my muscles intensify. “Freda’s a sadist.”
A chuckle from the werewolf. “Probably why the two of you get along so well. Turn over.”
I glare up into his leaf green eyes. “Why?”
He’s all normal innocence, eyes wide, dark hair neatly combed. The picture-perfect all-American teenage boy, and about as trustworthy. “I’m going to give you a massage.”
Yeah, right. “You’ve gotten way too handsy with me since you figured out I’m not
going to kill you.” It isn’t an idle remark. I have killed people, several of them in fact, most recently a jealous fey queen who wanted my head on a plate.
In my defense, she started it.
“Who says I have to use my hands?” He makes a grab but I dodge him and sprint for the bathroom. The lock clicks. A rumble of masculine laughter emanates from the other side of the door. “Next time then, my little queen.”
“In your dreams.” I call through the oak.
“Every night,” he murmurs, totally unashamed to admit such a weakness.
I rest my forehead against the door and press my palm to the scarred wood. That was close, too close. I want Aiden’s hands all over me almost as much as he wants to put them there. But a physical connection will complicate an already overly thorny relationship.
No time to dwell on that now. Instead, I turn to the shower and set the water to tepid. Even though I crave lingering beneath a scalding spray, something needs to cool my blood, so I can face the world calm and collected. As the Ice Bitch.
A pang goes through me. It was a nickname that my best friend, Sarah Larkin had given me what felt like a lifetime ago. Sarah died last spring, in a head on collision with a downed tree. It wasn’t until Sarah was gone that I realized how much she meant to me and how much I regretted not sharing my darkest secret with her.
Namely, that I am a sixteen-year-old serial killer. A punisher of evil incarnate. A hunter of men.
And that’s not even the half of it.
Clean and shivering, I step from the shower and wrap one towel around my hair, another around my body before tip-toeing to the bedroom door and opening it a crack. Not that I suspect Aiden is lying in wait for me. Better safe than sorry.
No sign of him. The window is still open, the sheer curtains dancing in the morning breeze. I shut it and turn back to make the bed. It’s then I see it, a lone pink rose on my pillow. My heart kicks up as I retrieve the flower. It’s perfect, the petals still tightly closed but soft as a newborn’s cheek. There’s a note, too, four words written in spidery scrawl on a page torn out of one of my notebooks.
It’s not all bad.
I blow out a sigh and plunk the rose in the glass of water on my nightstand. Aiden’s right, it’s not all bad. He’s the most understanding potential boyfriend an asexual sixteen-year-old girl could ever hope to have. He doesn’t try to pressure me or convert me. He’s willing to wait until I am ready, even if that means we never have sex. He just wants to be with me, whatever that entails.
I’m not sure what that says about his sense of self-preservation, since I can kill a full-grown man with a kiss. And since my adoptive parents are two of the Fates who give him the hairy eyeball at every opportunity.
Fully dressed in cut off denim shorts and a black tank top, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. “This is stupid,” I tell the petite blonde with narrowed blue eyes. “I have better things to do than repeat the tenth grade.”
A knock sounds on the bedroom door. “Nic? Are you ready?”
I open the door to Jasmine, the elfin twelve-year-old strawberry blonde cherub whose mother gets off on subjecting me to some of the most gruesome physical challenges known to the forever young. Jasmine grins up at me, practically vibrating with excitement. Today is her first day of school. Ever. And she couldn’t be more thrilled with the prospect. Picking out school supplies with her took a ridiculous amount of time. She lingered over every notebook, tested every pen.
I wonder how long her enthusiasm will last. In my experience, public education has a way of dulling the edges of the sharpest minds.
“There you are.” This from Chloe, the gorgeous red-haired Fate who today smells like cupcakes. “Breakfast just hit the table and coffee will be ready in five.”
“I’m the queen of the Unseelie Court,” I point out. “It’s undignified tha
t I have to repeat a grade.”
Chloe, usually the more understanding of my aunts, shrugs me off. “You should have thought of that before you dropped out of school halfway through last semester.”
“And you’re not the queen yet.” This comes from Addy, the fatalist of our little trio. She peers at me over the top of her glasses, her brown braid bristling like a cat’s tail. “It’s a title you have to earn back.”
“All the more reason I should stay here and train with Freda,” I say but no one is listening, instead, gathering around the table for pancakes topped with late season strawberries and fresh whipped cream.
Frustration makes me grind my molars. How am I supposed to rule the Unseelie Court when I can’t even get my family to hear me out?
Someone raps on the front door.
“Don’t open it,” Addy grumbles from behind her laptop screen.
Chloe sets down her fork. “We have half an army camped in the field, we can’t
ignore the door all day.” She pushes back from the table and rises.
The hinges groan as the farmhouse door swings inward. Chloe casts the newcomer a black look and her cupcake smell shifts to one of burnt toast. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Told you so.” Addy doesn’t bother to look up.
Aiden stands there, wearing the same blue jeans and black t-shirt, military style combat boots he’d been wearing the first day I’d seen him at school. As a part time wolf, Aiden’s need for clothing is limited and so is his wardrobe. While I appreciate his minimalistic style, I’ve been ordering a few more pieces suitable for high country fall and winter. I am, in many ways responsible for his basic needs, the same way I’m responsible for Jasmine’s education and the aforementioned army’s support.
Aiden bows formally to my aunts. “Ladies. I’ve come to escort the queen and Lady Jazz to school.”
His speech is unnecessary, we agreed on the details weeks ago, but Jasmine grins in delight, loving the nickname. Aiden’s courtly manners enchant her, unlike her mother who still harbors ill will against him for things that happened in my past life.
“We know that,” Chloe snaps.
“Come in,” I call. “Have some breakfast.”
There’s a spark in Aiden’s leaf green eyes as he crosses the threshold. The way I phrased the invitation had been worded as a command. And when I issue him a command, he is unable to refuse.
He chooses a seat beside me, takes the plate Jasmine passes to him and loads it with seven pancakes. Under his breath he mutters so only I can hear, “I know what you’re doing and it won’t work.”
“I assume you brought your own syrup.” I grin at him, safe in the knowledge that he won’t try any of his shadier tricks with my aunts and Jasmine present.
Aiden might not be willing to break bread with two of the women who had ruined his life on more than one occasion, but his oath to me leaves him with no choice but to obey. It’s a power I hate having over him. Our relationship is made up of a series of whacked-out power struggles. I’ve been needling him lately to encourage him to drink the magic syrup that will break the connection between us once and for all.
“I’d rather have the strawberries. One last taste of summer.” There’s a wicked gleam in his eye as he says the words.
I jolt in my chair as a memory surfaces, not one from my current lifetime.
I am lying on my back in a meadow, long dark hair falling over my shoulders to cover my naked breasts. Aiden, also naked, is kissing his way down my body. The last rays of sunlight bathes our bare skin in an amber hue.
“I wish we didn’t have to leave,” I murmur, my hands fisted in his rumpled hair. It’s clear from the state of dishevelment that it isn’t the first time I’ve done so.
“It’s not over yet,” he kisses the inside of my thigh, his eyes molten with lust. “One last taste of summer.”
“Nic?” Jasmine’s voice breaks me from the reverie.
I turn to her and realize I’ve completely zoned out, the effects of my cold shower long gone. “Sorry, what was that?”
“Mom said you should stop by the base of operations before we go. Nahini wants to talk to you first thing.”
I turn to Aiden. “Did she say anything to you?”
He shakes his head. “I would have told you if she did.”
Excitement builds in my belly. “Maybe she’s found them.”
Nahini is third in command of the Wild Hunt. A tribal wise woman with the inborn grace of a dancer and the heart of a warrior. Until recently, she controlled the souls of wicked men who were sentenced to the Hunt as punishment. Unfortunately, those souls have been MIA for several weeks, including Nahini’s brother.
“Don’t get your hopes up.” Chloe cautions me. “The souls might have moved on, or been consumed by the Veil.”
I spear a few strawberries viscously. “I know. But their disappearance is my fault.” In one of my impulsive decisions, I’d traded their afterlives for the soul of my former best friend.
“Nahini doesn’t blame you, Nic.” Aiden puts a hand over mine. The gesture doesn’t go unnoticed by the rest of the table.
Uncomfortable with the gentle affection and their scrutiny, I pull away from his comforting touch. “I should probably go if I’m going to speak with her before we leave.”
“Should we come with you?” Jasmine jumps up, nervous energy effervescing from her like bubbles in a champagne glass.
I glance to her half-filled plate. “No, you two should stay and finish eating. Meet me down at HQ when you’re finished and we’ll drive into town together.”
Aiden’s lips twitch as he picks up on the ring of command in my voice. His lids lower, a dark promise of retribution for abandoning him with the Fates and his twelve-year-old fangirl.
My backpack waits on the bench seat by the door. I pick it up on my way out. The thing is worn but sturdy. It holds some sentimental attachment for me as well as books. I carried it into Underhill, the mystical fairy realm on the other side of the Veil, on my quest to save Sarah. Slinging it over my shoulder feels like the beginning of a new journey, its weight a subtle reminder that I have all the tools I need at hand.
It might be a lie, but at least it’s a comforting one.
HQ IS THE RUNDOWN STAFF quarters about a half mile from the farmhouse. Members of the Wild Hunt have used a combination of magic and the limited supplies on the farm to fill in the gaps in the collapsed roof and make the space somewhat livable. There are several rows of bunk beds, shower stalls with running water and enough electricity to keep the refrigerator and microwave operational. To me, the space is spartan and barely habitable but it’s about all the Hunt can handle. The fey and modern technology don’t mix.
In the beginning I’d offered to buy them whatever supplies they needed, even hiring humans to build a new bunkhouse. Freda had said, with some pride, that the Hunt would do what they always did and make do. It was enough for them to have a place to stay, to pitch tents and shelter the hounds, horses and birds of prey. I’d been relieved by this answer. Magic is easier than having a slew of contractors wandering around the property, asking questions about all the odd folk with armor and penchant to kill first and ask questions later.
Nahini is in the small room she claimed as her own space. It sits adjacent to the main sleeping quarters. Close enough for her to oversee the troops, but still set apart. Freda and Jasmine have taken over the potting shed on the far side of the training pitch, but someone had to keep an eye on the troops and Nahini had volunteered.
Inside, there is a camp cot, as well as a mat on the floor. The latest book she’d borrowed from my personal library is sitting on the cot, the pages carefully marked with a leather strip. Treasure Island again. I make a note to get her an e-reader, as she’s been through all of my print books at least twice already. Unlike the fey, Nahini is a turned human and has no inborn magic, only forever youth granted by Underhill. With practice, she could use modern technology.
Her weapons are laid out o
n the dented metal desk. Two long knives, a coiled whip that looks more like a long vine with thorns than anything man made, and a series of daggers. Nothing on the walls, no decoration or personal effects. The Wild Hunt travels light.
Nahini is seated on the mat, posture regal. She wears only a sleek black bodysuit, her armor polished and lined up along the far wall. Her feet are bare, the soles pressed together. Sunlight streams through the evergreen boughs, dappling the light against her smooth dark skin in exotic patterns. Her riot of braids falls halfway down her back. I glance up to see that some sprite had encouraged several trees to grow directly over the hole in the roof, the leafy canopy is so thick it provides decent cover, while still being part of the natural world.
I rap lightly on the open door and her lids flutter up.
“My queen,” she moves to stand. “How fare thee?”
“I’m good.” I pat the air, indicating she should remain where she is. “Jasmine said you wanted to see me. Is it about your brother?” I can’t keep the eagerness from my voice.
She settles easily back into position. “Not yet. There have been more thefts.”
Damn. Not the news I’d been hoping to hear. “Who is it this time?”
“Melrock and Gil.”
Names I’m unfamiliar with. “What did they take?”
“Food mostly, a brown sack of it right out of the trunk of one family’s transportation. Also, some fabric left hanging outside.”
The residents of Underhill didn’t have an industrial revolution. They subsist on a barter system, trading goods for services, usually magical services, and mostly they obtain things like food, clothing and weapons by stealing from humans. A hard habit to break, apparently.
“Food and clothing. Don’t they understand I will provide whatever they need?” The Fates aren’t flashy with their wealth, but after existing over several mortal lifetimes, money has a way of piling up. We could certainly feed and clothe the army, if they would just learn to ask instead of take.
“I don’t think it’s about need, at least not their immediate needs.” Nahini says carefully.
I prop the sole of one sneaker against the wall. “What do you mean?”
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