He was suddenly holding me so close that the blood on his shirt slapped cool against my skin. His hands were so strong as they moved up my back, pressing me against his body. “The queen put her mark within me, to give to you. Once you have it, all will know that to harm you is to risk the queen’s mercy.”
“The kiss,” I said.
He nodded. “She said, I must give it to you, as she gave it to me. Forgive me.” He kissed me before I could ask what he was seeking forgiveness for.
He kissed me like he was trying to climb inside me through my mouth. I wasn’t ready for it and hadn’t given permission for it. I tried to pull away, and his arm locked against my back, pressing the leather into my skin. His other hand held my face, fingers digging into my chin. I couldn’t pull away from the kiss, I couldn’t pull away from him.
Struggling was getting me nowhere, so I stopped and opened my mouth to him, kissing him back. A tension went out of his body, as if he thought I’d given permission. I hadn’t. I grabbed his black T-shirt and began to pull it out of his pants. It was so wet with blood that it clung to his skin, but I pulled it free. I ran my hands over the flatness of his stomach, upward to the smooth swell of his chest.
He melted against me, the hand on my back kneading against my bare skin.
My hands found the wound high up on his chest. It was wide, a deep slash. Three things happened at once: I plunged my fingers into his wound; his body stiffened and I felt him react to the pain. I think he would have released me then, but the third thing happened on the heels of his pain, with my fingers plunged inside the meat of his body. The queen’s mark filled his mouth and slid inside mine.
A sweet rush of power filled my mouth, pouring from Doyle’s body into mine and melting warm between our lips, as if we were both sucking on the same piece of candy. The power swelled inside us, melting between us in long sweet strands. It filled us to the brim with warmth, like mulled wine poured into twin cups, until power ran down our bodies, through our bodies, to finally pour in liquid warmth across our skin.
Doyle broke the kiss, pulling away from me. I slid to the floor, not from blood loss this time, but because my knees wouldn’t hold me.
I couldn’t seem to focus on anything, as if I were looking at the world through a haze. Doyle was leaning both hands on the sinks, head down, as if he was light-headed, too. I heard him say, “Consort, save me.”
I don’t know what my snappy comeback would have been, because the door burst open, slamming into the far stalls. Sholto was silhouetted in the doorway. He’d thrown the grey overcoat across his bare chest, but the nest of tentacles showed like some monster trying to pull itself from his skin.
I had a sense of movement behind me, and turned to see Doyle go for the sword that he’d laid in the sink. I felt Sholto’s power rise like a wind in the lighted doorway. I realized suddenly that they both thought the other had come to kill me.
I had time to yell, “No!”
Doyle’s flame vanished, swallowed into a darkness that was velvet and perfect and filled with the sounds of moving bodies.
Chapter 16
I SCREAMED, “DON’T! SHOLTO, DOYLE, DON’T HURT EACH OTHER!” I HEARD flesh hitting flesh, the sliding footsteps as someone glided through the dark, someone drew a hard breath, then small noises.
“Dammit, listen to me, neither of you is here to harm me. You both want me alive.” I don’t know if they didn’t hear me, or didn’t care. There was at least one sword being used in the dark, so I didn’t get up and walk toward the light switch—I crawled. I kept the weight of the sinks to my right and searched the darkness just ahead with my left hand.
The fight continued in almost utter silence. I could hear them straining against each other. Someone cried out, and I said a silent prayer that no one was dead. I almost crawled into the wall, touching it at the last second. I worked my way up until I found the light switch. I hit the lights, and the room was suddenly blindingly bright. I was left blinking in the brilliance.
The two sidhe were locked together, bodies straining against one another. Doyle was on his knees, a tentacle wrapped around his neck. Sholto was covered in blood, and it took my eyes a second to realize that one of his stomach tentacles had been severed and lay twitching next to Doyle’s knee. Doyle still held the sword, but Sholto’s hand and two tentacles held it away from the other sidhe. Their other hands were locked against each other as if they were engaged in a game of finger wrestling. Except this was no game. I was actually surprised that Sholto seemed to be holding his own. Doyle was the acknowledged champion of the Unseelie Court. There were very few who could stand against him and almost none who would win. Sholto wasn’t on that short list, or so I’d thought. Then I caught something out of the corner of my eye: a small glow. When I looked straight at it, nothing was there. Magic is like that sometimes—only visible through peripheral vision. There was something glowing on Sholto’s hand: a ring.
As I watched, the sword slipped from Doyle’s grip and he started to go limp in Sholto’s grasp. Sholto grabbed the sword in his hand before it could hit the ground. The tentacles stayed around Doyle’s arm. I was moving forward before I had time to think of what I’d do when I got there.
Sholto held Doyle’s limp body in his tentacles and raised the sword in a two-handed overhead plunge, like you’d use to drive a knife into someone’s chest. I was behind Doyle as the sword started down. I curled my body over his, one hand upraised, my gaze never leaving that glittering blade. I had a heartbeat to wonder if Sholto would stop in time, then he reversed the sword and held it pointed at the ceiling.
“What are you doing, Meredith?”
“He’s here to save me, not kill me.”
“He is the queen’s Darkness. If she desires your death, he will be her instrument.”
“But he has Mortal Dread, one of her personal weapons. He carried her mark in his body to give to me. If you’ll calm down long enough to look with more than just your eyes, you’ll see it.”
Sholto blinked at me, then frowned. “Then why would she send me to kill you? Even for Andais that makes no sense.”
“If you’ll stop strangling him, maybe we can figure it out.”
He looked down at Doyle’s limp body, still hanging from the tentacles, and said, “Oh,” as if he’d forgotten he was still squeezing the life from the other man. Technically, you couldn’t strangle a sidhe to death, but I’d never been comfortable testing the limits of immortality. You never knew when you’d find a chink in the armor big enough to die through.
Sholto uncurled his limbs from Doyle, and the other man fell into my arms, his weight driving me to my knees. I wasn’t losing enough blood for this much weakness. It was either shock or something to do with using a hand of power for the first time. Whatever was causing it, I wanted to close my eyes and rest, and that just wasn’t going to be happening.
I sat on the floor, cradling Doyle’s head in my lap. The pulse in his neck was strong, steady, but he did not wake. He took two quick breaths, then his head threw back, eyes wide, and he took a great gasp of air. He sat up coughing. I saw him tense, and Sholto must have, too, because the sword was suddenly pointed at Doyle’s face.
Doyle froze, staring up at the other man. “Finish it.”
“No one is finishing anything,” I said.
Neither man looked at me. I couldn’t see Doyle’s expression, but I could see Sholto’s, and I did not like what I saw. Anger, satisfaction—he wanted to kill Doyle, it was there on his face plain to see.
“Doyle saved me, Sholto. He saved me from your sluagh.”
“If you had not warded the door, I would have been here in time,” Sholto said.
“If I had not warded the door, you would have been in time to mourn over my dead body, but not in time to save me.”
Sholto still wouldn’t take his gaze from Doyle. “How did he get inside when I could not?”
“I am sidhe,” Doyle said.
“So am I,” Sholto said. The anger i
n his face hardened just a bit.
I slapped Doyle’s shoulder, hard enough to sting. He didn’t turn, but he winced. “Don’t bait him, Doyle.”
“I was not baiting, merely stating a fact.”
This entire fight was beginning to feel very personal, as if there was business between the two of them that had nothing to do with me. “Look, I don’t know what you have against each other, but call me selfish, I don’t care. I want out of this damn bathroom alive, and that takes priority over whatever personal vendetta the two of you have. So stop acting like little boys and start behaving like members of the royal bodyguards. Get me out of here in one piece.”
“She’s right,” Doyle said, softly.
“The great Darkness, bowing out of a fight? Inconceivable. Or is it that I’m the one with the sword now?” Sholto moved the sword a fraction forward, touching the tip to the indentation in Doyle’s upper lip. “A sword that can kill any fey, even a sidhe nobleman. Oh, I forget, you’re not afraid of anything.” There was a bitterness, a mockery, to Sholto’s voice that said without doubt that I’d stepped into an old grudge.
“I fear many things,” Doyle said, his voice calm, neutral. “Death is not one of them. But the ring on your finger is something that I am wary of. How did you get Beathalachd? I have not seen it used in centuries.”
Sholto raised his hand so the dark bronze of the ring glimmered dully in the lights. It was a heavy piece of jewelry, and I would have noticed it on his hand if it had been there earlier. “It was the queen’s gift to show her blessing on this hunt.”
“The queen did not give you Beathalachd, not personally.” Doyle sounded very sure of that.
“What is Beathalachd?” I asked.
“Vitality,” Doyle said. “It steals the very life and skill of your opponent, which is the only way that he bested me in a fight.”
Sholto flushed. It was considered a sign of weakness to need more magic than you had in your own body to defeat another sidhe. Basically, Doyle had said that Sholto couldn’t win a fair fight, and had had to cheat. But it wasn’t cheating—just less than chivalrous. Fuck chivalry, come back alive. It was what I’d told any man I’d ever loved, including my father, before every duel.
“The ring proves that I have the queen’s favor,” Sholto said, his face still colored by his anger.
“The ring did not come from the queen’s own hand to yours,” Doyle said, “any more than your order to kill the princess came from her mouth.”
“I know who speaks for the queen and who does not,” Sholto said, and it was his turn to sound certain.
“Really,” Doyle said. “And if I had come to you and given you the queen’s orders, would you have believed me?”
Sholto frowned, but nodded. “You are the queen’s Darkness. When your mouth moves, her words come out of it.”
“Then hear these words: The queen wants Princess Meredith alive, and back home.”
I couldn’t read all the thoughts moving across Sholto’s face, but there were a lot of them. I tried to ask the question he would not answer for Doyle. “Did the queen herself tell you to come to Los Angeles and kill me?”
Sholto looked at me. It was a long, considering look, but finally he shook his head. “No,” he said.
“Who told you to come to Los Angeles and slay the princess?” Doyle asked.
Sholto opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. The tension flowed out of him, and he stepped back from Doyle, lowering the sword to his side. “No, I will keep the name of the traitor to myself for now.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because Doyle’s presence here can mean only one thing. The queen wants you to return to court.” He looked at Doyle. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Yes,” Doyle said.
“She wants me to return to court?”
Doyle moved so he could see both Sholto and me, his back to the empty bathroom stalls. “Yes, Princess.”
I shook my head. “I left because people were trying to kill me, Doyle. The queen wasn’t stopping them.”
“They were legal duels,” he said.
“They were court-sanctioned assassination attempts,” I said.
“I did mention this to her,” Doyle said.
“And she said what?”
“She gave me her mark to give to you. If anyone kills you now, even in a duel, they will have to face our queen’s vengeance. Trust in this, Princess: even those who desire your death greatly will not want to pay that high a price for it.”
I looked up at Sholto, the movement made me slightly dizzy. Shock, definitely shock. “Fine, I’m going back to court, if the queen can guarantee my safety. What does that have to do with you not giving us the name of the traitor? Who used the queen’s name to send you to execute me, when she didn’t want me dead?”
“I will keep that information to myself for now,” Sholto said again. His face was that arrogant mask that he wore so often at court.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because if the queen allows you back to court, you don’t need to bargain with me. You will be able to return to faerie, to the Unseelie Court, and I would bet my kingdom that she’ll find you another sidhe lover. So, you see, Meredith, you don’t need me. You’ll have everything I could have offered you, and you won’t be tied for a lifetime to a deformed monster.”
“You’re not deformed, Sholto. If your hags hadn’t interrupted, I’d have proved that to you.”
Something flickered over his face, rippling on the surface of his arrogance. “Yes, my hags.” He turned those tri-yellow eyes on me. “I thought you had no hand of power, Meredith.”
“I don’t,” I said.
“I think Nerys would argue with you on that.”
“I didn’t know, Sholto, I didn’t mean to . . .” I had no words for what I’d done to Nerys.
“What has happened?” Doyle asked.
“Black Agnes lied to the sluagh. She told them that if I mated with Meredith that I would become pure sidhe, and no longer be their king. She convinced them that they were protecting me from myself, protecting me from the wiles of the sidhe witch.”
I raised eyebrows at that.
He looked at me. “But I have persuaded Agnes and the rest that you are not a danger to them.”
I met his eyes. “I saw the method of persuasion before I ran.”
He nodded. “Agnes said to thank you—she’s never had better from me. She thinks it has something to do with your magic.”
“She’s not angry about Nerys?” I asked.
“She wants you dead, yes, but she’s afraid of you now, Meredith. The hand of flesh like your father—who would have dreamed it?” There was something in his eyes besides careful arrogance. I realized with a start that it was fear. Fear peeking through his mask. It wasn’t just Black Agnes who was afraid of what I’d done up in that room.
“Hand of flesh,” Doyle repeated. “What are you saying, Sholto?”
Sholto held the sword out to Doyle, hilt first. “Take this, and come up to my room and see what our little princess has done. Nerys cannot be healed, so I request that you grant her true death before you escort Meredith home. I will see you both safely to a taxi on the off chance that my sluagh are not . . . perfectly obedient.” His words, his body language all said that he was not happy with Doyle.
With a small bow of his head, Doyle took the sword. “If it is a favor you need, then I am happy to oblige for the name of the traitor that sent you to Los Angeles falsely in the queen’s name.”
Sholto shook his head. “I will not give up the name, not now. I will hold it until it is of use to me, or until I decide to deal with the traitor personally.”
“If you told us the traitor’s name, it would help us keep the princess safe at court.”
Sholto laughed then, that strange bitter sound that passed for normal laughter for him. “I will not say who sent me here, but I can guess who wanted the message given, and so can you. Meredith fled the court because Prince C
el’s supporters kept challenging her to duels. If it had been anyone else behind the attempts on Meredith’s life, the queen would have stepped in and stopped it. Such an insult to the royal family would not have been allowed, not even to a mixed-breed magicless mortal. But it was her precious baby boy who was behind it, and we all knew it. So Meredith fled, and hid herself away, because she didn’t trust the queen to keep her alive when Cel wanted her dead.”
Doyle met those accusing eyes with a tranquil face. “I think you will find that our queen is no longer so tolerant of the prince’s . . . eccentricities.”
Sholto laughed again, and it was a painful sound. “When I left the court only days ago, I’d say she was still very tolerant of Cel’s . . . eccentricities.”
Doyle’s face was still peaceful, as if nothing the other man could do would upset him. I think that bothered Sholto more than any other reaction that Doyle could have given him. I think Doyle knew that. “One problem at a time, Sholto. For now I have the queen’s promise, and her magic, to ensure that the princess will not be harmed at court.”
“As you wish to believe, Doyle, but for now I would ask you to aid me in bringing death to one that I valued.”
Doyle stood easily, as if he hadn’t been nearly strangled to death moments ago. I wasn’t even sure I could stand. There is more than just immortality that I miss by taking after my human blood.
They both reached out to me at the same time, and I took both hands. They nearly pulled me off my feet. “Easy does it, boys. I just need help standing, not flying.”
Doyle looked at me. “You are pale. How badly are you hurt?”
I shook my head and pulled away from them both. “Not that badly. It’s mostly shock, and . . . it hurt when I . . . did what I did to Nerys.”
“What did you do?” he asked.
“Come see,” Sholto said. “It is worth a look, or three.” He looked at me then. “The news of what you have done will ride before you to the court, Meredith. Meredith, Princess of Flesh, no longer merely Essus’s daughter.”
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