The Unseelie King straightened, his sword dropping from Bryce’s neck. “Eamon.”
“Father.”
Wait. What?
“‘Father’?” Mal’s tone was half-outraged and half-fearful. “Gwydion’s bloody bollocks, you’re not just royal, you’re the gods-forsaken Unseelie prince?”
Steve—no, Eamon, a much more appropriate name for him—paced forward, his own sword loose at his side. “I was.”
“Guards!” the King shouted.
“They’ll not answer. I’ve seen to that.”
“Is this some fiendish glamourie?” Bryce couldn’t see the King’s face, but his voice held a sneer. “You cannot have escaped your fate. The unwinding of the curse was impossible.”
“Improbable, perhaps. But not impossible.” Eamon held out his arms, his sword pointing toward the ceiling. “As you see.”
“But— But—”
“It’s true, Father. Despite your best efforts to destroy your sons, you’ve failed.”
“My sons.” The King spat on the flagstones. “Worthless, both of you. Your brother had one task to prove his loyalty. One. An insultingly easy task for a true Unseelie—his target had no battle skills. How hard could it have been to kill that swine? But could he do it?”
“He had his reasons.”
“He defied me! As did you. My own sons!” The King retreated as Eamon paced toward him, and Bryce could finally breathe without worrying he’d impale himself. He drew his aching wrist closer to his body and slowly flexed his fingers. Nothing appeared to be broken, but damn.
“Did you never consider how your actions appeared to your people? If you could punish your own sons this way, what might you be capable of against those to whom you held no close ties?”
Bryce dared to lift his head to check on the rest of the room. The King was occupied with Eamon, indulging in a little family therapy. Mal was still holding Rodric in a death grip, although they were nearer to Bryce than they had been before the King’s arrival. Would it be enough? Bryce had no idea how this drama would play out, but his goal hadn’t changed: find the adder stone before it could be used to destroy both this world and his own.
Slowly he raised himself to his hands and knees, trying not to draw anyone’s attention. Eamon and the King were focused on each other. Rodric was watching them avidly, almost as if he’d forgotten Mal’s restraining hold.
Mal, though, focused on Bryce at his first movement, turning his head slightly so he could keep Bryce in his line of sight while still tracking the discussion between the King and Eamon.
Bryce eased back to a sitting position. Nothing to see here, folks. Just getting comfortable. Scooting on his ass, he inched closer to the table, pretending to be absorbed in the family drama. As the King grew increasingly shrill and loquacious, Eamon grew ever more stoic and monosyllabic. Balance. It’s everywhere.
Mal must have figured out Bryce’s target, because he angled his body, leaning toward Bryce without loosing his hold on Rodric. Finally Bryce was next to a half-dozen mounds of broken porcelain, the vases Rodric had been smashing when they arrived. Now what? He couldn’t dig through it unobtrusively—plus he didn’t know if the stone was under any of these piles at all. If only he could see—
Idiot. If he weren’t trying to play secret agent, he’d have slapped himself on the forehead. I don’t have to see it to find it. He’d had contact with the stone’s effects in his poor blighted wetlands, so he was far too familiar with its energy signature.
Concentrate on the flow, the lines of power. Where’s the disturbance? The wrongness? The thing that doesn’t belong?
Tendrils of power curled around him, caressing his skin, inviting him to join in their dance. So beautiful. So harmonious. So— There.
It wasn’t in the broken crockery at all. It was tucked under the table itself, at the point where a leg met the ornate skirt—eye level for someone, say, the height of a bauchan. Or for a druid sitting on the floor. Who says there’s no such thing as karma?
He scanned the room. Eamon and the King had moved their argument—which was getting increasingly crazed on the King’s part—all the way to the edge of the throne room, in front of the arch that led to the corridor. Rodric’s attention was still focused on them. Mal, though—Mal’s lips quirked, and he gave an infinitesimal nod before turning to face the royal spat, a tiny encouragement that filled Bryce with more warmth and confidence than any ten professional accolades.
He needed all of it too, because when he reached out and plucked the stone from its hiding place, its malignant essence nearly made him retch. Nevertheless, he forced himself to close his fist around it. For the sake of both worlds, he needed to keep it safe.
Flaming abyss. The Unseelie prince. How had Mal missed the signs? With the power that Steve—no, sod it, Eamon—had tossed around so casually, he had to be royal, or at least a highborn who outranked the Sidhe. And if he’d been Seelie, Mal would have heard rumors about a lord who’d gotten himself ensorcelled into a monster. The fae were notorious gossips. What else did they have to do in these latter years? They had no wars to fight. Couldn’t abduct the occasional random human for dalliance—although Mal managed his dalliances just fine in the Outer World.
He glanced at Bryce. No more random dalliances for me. I’ve found the one I want. Although his druid didn’t look too chipper at the moment, leaning against the heavy leg of a table with his fist clenched in his lap and his face positively green. Poor bloke. This adventure wasn’t exactly a skip through the park. When they got home—
Wait a mo. It hadn’t fully registered when Mal was adjusting his position to give Bryce more slack, but they were separated by easily half again the length of their tether. How—
Rodric struggled a bit in his chokehold. Mal jerked him sideways slightly so he was facing the squabbling Unseelie royals rather than Bryce. “Give over, Luchullain. You’re done.”
“So why haven’t you ended me? Waiting for your druid master to give the order?”
“Shut it, you poncy git.”
“Can’t do anything without his leave now, can you? Does he reward you well if you follow your orders? Does he pat you on the head and say ‘good boy’?”
“You’re a fine one to talk about taking orders. Here you are, at the beck and call of His rotting Unseelie Majesty, all to score a bit of power and a fancy-dress hand.”
“I take orders from no one,” Rodric growled, glaring after Eamon and the King, who’d moved their party into the corridor. “That fool is naught but a puppet. Even now he spares no thought for anyone save himself.”
“You mean he’s sparing no thought for you. Hurt your feelings, did he, leaving you to get pummeled so he could enjoy a cozy chat with his son?” His son. I still can’t believe it.
“Neither of them is of any consequence. Soon I’ll—”
“Soon you’ll have a gag shoved in your gob if I have anything to say about it.”
“But you don’t. None of you do. Not you. Not that cold bitch of a Queen. Not even your incompetent druid.” Rodric jerked his chin at Bryce, who was staring at something in his hand with a look of revulsion. “There he sits, for all the world like a—” Rodric tensed, pulling against Mal’s grip.
Shite. The Gloine nan Druidh. Bryce must have found it; that’s why he looked so ill and why Mal’s stomach was roiling in sympathy. “Don’t even think—”
A shout and a clash of swords from the corridor startled Mal, and Rodric shoved his elbow into Mal’s stomach hard. Mal doubled over, trying not to hurl, and Rodric twisted out of his hold to scramble toward Bryce.
“Shite.” By the time Mal staggered to his feet, Rodric had made it across the room. He backhanded Bryce with his metal hand, sending Bryce sprawling and the Gloine nan Druidh spinning away toward the throne.
Bryce’s head rang from Rodric’s blow, and he swallowed convulsively against a wave of nausea. The adder stone. Where is it? Must keep it away from Rodric.
He staggered to his
feet, disoriented. Swords clanged outside in the corridor, followed by a cry and . . . was that a double set of retreating footsteps? Mal was barreling toward him as if their tether had just rebounded.
“You all right, mate?”
“Never mind me. Where’s—”
With a shout of triumph, Rodric scrabbled something out from under the throne and clutched it to his chest. From the sick yellow swirl of wrongness in his nonmetallic hand, he’d retrieved the adder stone. Damn it. Bryce’s head was still swimming too much for him to manipulate the energy as he’d done before.
Rodric leaped to his feet and pumped both fists in the air. The anti-evil potion must’ve still been affecting him slightly, because a frizzling bolt of murky power shot into the rafters, raining dust and cobwebs and splintered wood down on them all.
“Oho. It seems your poison is wearing off.” Rodric thrust his metal hand toward Bryce. “Shall my next shot relieve you of your druid master?” He grinned, the smug bastard, and shook the dust out of his hair. “Faugh. The state of this Keep is a disgrace. When I take the throne, any servant who shirks his duty so will be treated to a turn in Govannan’s forge.”
“You’re hallucinating,” Mal growled. “You’ll never be King.”
“Who better? I’ve the bloodline, and now I have this.” He thrust out his silver hand. “Absolute proof that I’m destined to rule—not just the paltry Seelie sphere, or only Faerie, but our true kingdom in the Outer World.” He held up the adder stone. “When I toss this little beauty into the Well, I’ll usher in a new order.”
“The new order of what?” Bryce’s head was clear enough to perceive the gaping hole in Rodric’s logic. “You’ll have nothing to rule over if you poison the water both here and in the Outer World.”
Rodric sneered. “The Outer World must be cleansed of its corruption, of the unworthy, of everything not Tuath Dé. I care nothing for its current degenerate state.”
“You should.” Bryce swayed, and Mal steadied him with an arm around his waist. “Good God, man, Faerie is an artificial construct. It depends on analogs and anchors in the Outer World. If you destroy them, do you imagine there will be anything left?”
“You know nothing about Faerie, druid. A fortnight ago, you had no inkling it even existed.”
Mal’s warmth, his presence, his touch, was restoring Bryce’s strength by the second. “I may not know Faerie, but I know ecosystems, and this one is seriously out of balance. It’s at a tipping point, close to the limits of its ability to self-correct.”
“Druid nonsense. All will be well.”
“No, it won’t. That spell—” Bryce pointed to the adder stone, “it’s not evolution, not even revolution. It’s total annihilation.”
“Lies!”
Bryce shared an exasperated glance with Mal. “Why do villains always claim that anything inconvenient to them is a pack of lies? This guy belongs in Congress. The opponents of global warming would love him.”
“Enough talking.” Rodric backed away, his attention swinging from Mal and Bryce to the empty doorway where Eamon and the King had vanished. “I have an appointment with destiny. But, first, perhaps I’ll do a bit of housecleaning myself.”
He pointed one metal finger at Mal.
“No!” Bryce lunged in front of Mal, bracing for impact, but before Rodric could get off his shot, Alun surged out of the door to the kitchen passageway with a roar and barreled across the room, sword drawn. But then a small figure darted past him and whacked Rodric in the kneecap with a cudgel the size of a four by four.
Rodric bellowed, dropping the adder stone to clutch at his knee, and Heilyn clubbed him on the back, twice, sending him sprawling.
“Well, well, well.” Mal strolled over to Rodric and planted his foot on the wrist with the weaponized hand. “I see you’ve found yourself a sidekick.”
Alun planted his feet, glaring down at Rodric. “Heilyn’s assistance was of course appreciated, but—”
“I wasn’t talking to you, brother.” Mal grinned at Heilyn. “Those wee arms are sturdier than they look.”
Bryce rather thought the issue was “never underestimate the power of righteous anger,” but when Heilyn scooped up the adder stone to offer it to him, he changed his opinion: never underestimate the power of kindness.
Unwilling to touch the adder stone with his bare hand again, Bryce stripped off half his bifurcated vest and used it to wrap the stone securely, stowing the bulky bundle in a pants pocket. He might not know what to do with the vile charm, but Cassie probably would. In any case, it would be out of Faerie and nowhere near his wetlands.
“Thank you, Heilyn.” Bryce had to raise his voice to be heard over Rodric’s curses and moans. “If it weren’t for you, we’d have been screwed.”
Heilyn tugged on its mossy forelock. “Always that is true—even if the task is preparing luncheon.”
“Really?” Bryce cocked an eyebrow at Mal and Alun. “You high fae can’t even make your own sandwiches? No wonder your fridge is full of takeout.”
Mal shrugged, staggering slightly when Rodric struggled to free his hand. “What can I say, mate? We’re creatures of engineered habit.” He swore as Rodric bucked again. “Bryce, give me the other half of your vest so I can tie this arsehole up.”
“Also . . .” Heilyn collected Bryce’s vest and handed it to Mal, then retrieved its club and climbed atop Rodric’s back. “We can become quite heavy when we choose.”
“You dare,” Rodric rasped as if all the air had been squeezed from his lungs, “you dare to raise a hand against your betters. You shall suffer, you and all your—”
“Oh stow it, Luchullain,” Mal said as he secured Rodric’s hands. “You’ve got nothing.”
He grimaced. “Even now, my loyal guards are putting the bauchan whelps down like the vermin they are.”
“Wrong again, Rodric.” Alun nudged Rodric’s side with his boot—although considering Rodric’s grunt, it might have been more than a nudge. “Your loyal guards are . . . shall we say . . . indisposed?”
Mal snorted. “Is that what you’re calling it to get around the letter of the Seelie-Unseelie treaty?”
“Terminology is irrelevant.” Alun sheathed his sword. “The salient point is that they’ll cause no further trouble to us—or to anyone.”
“I don’t know, brother. It’s not like you to exceed your official authority.” Mal’s expression was troubled as he glanced down at Rodric. “As pathetic an excuse for a fae as Rodric is, he’s still technically Seelie. But offing random Unseelie bravos? Not sure the Queen will back a rampaging Champion.”
Alun hooked his thumbs in his belt, drumming his fingers on the leather. “I do not rampage. And besides—”
“Our Champion has our full confidence and support.” The Queen appeared in the doorway, then glided across the floor as if it were the same grassy hilltop where they’d last seen her, with Eamon behind her, sword in hand, gripping the sullen King by one elbow.
Lovely. The party’s complete. Although Bryce would have preferred to strike a few guests off the approved list.
Heilyn immediately hopped off Rodric’s back and bowed low. With a glance at Alun, as if checking to make sure he’d take charge of Rodric, Mal strode forward to drop to his knees at the Queen’s feet. “Majesty. I realize I should have stayed—”
“You may spare us your excuses, Lord Maldwyn.”
At the drop in Bryce’s belly—an echo of what Mal must be experiencing—his anger flared, banishing the last of his adder stone–induced nausea. “Just a goddamned minute.” Mal shot him a panicked glance and gestured for him to kneel, but screw that. “Did you stop to consider that by imprisoning him like that, you put his life in danger? Rodric could have executed us both. It’s not like we could run away.”
The Queen regarded him coolly. “And yet you did.”
Heat prickled under Bryce’s skin. “No thanks to you. I get the whole feudal overlord motif here, but—”
“Peace, druid. T
here is no need for excuses because our decision has been . . . overtaken by events.” She cast a sidelong glance at Eamon, and for just a moment, pink glowed under her moon-pale skin.
Okay, then. So much for a G-rated night for those two.
“You— The two of you?” The King’s gaze bounced from Eamon to the Queen. “Impossible!”
“I told you I practiced no deception, Father. My curse is at an end.”
“Whore!” Rodric shouted, staggering to his feet, still bound by the remnants of Bryce’s vest. Alun clamped a hand on Rodric’s shoulder, unsheathing his sword. “You spread your legs for an Unseelie swine but—”
“Enough, Luchullain.” Eamon’s deep voice rang in the room like the toll of a funeral bell. “I have had my fill of you and more.”
Eamon waved his hand in Rodric’s general direction, and the silver hand dropped off his wrist, ricocheting off the throne to land on the floor with a clang.
Gwydion’s bollocks, what a turn-up. Court protocol be damned. Nobody’s paying attention to me. Not with Rodric howling over the loss of his hand on one side and the King screeching at Eamon on the other. So Mal stood up and limped over to join Bryce.
Bryce’s hair was rumpled and dimmed with dust, his glasses were askew, and he had a scrape along his jaw crusted with dried blood.
Yet he’d never looked more beautiful to Mal. “You all right, mate?”
Bryce smiled tiredly. “I’ll be better once I get rid of the adder stone. The damned thing is screwing up the energy patterns in here like you wouldn’t believe, not to mention making me want to puke.”
“Well, it’s druid magic. Doesn’t mix well with Faerie.” Mal peered around the room. “Where’d your fan club disappear to?”
The Druid Next Door Page 28
