The Torn Wing

by Kiki Hamilton

  “Ah, my lovely lady.” The court jester drew near and took Larkin’s hand. With a flourish he bent at the waist to make a show of kissing her fingers. Now that he was closer, Tiki could see the man had wrinkles around his eyes and appeared older than many of the others in the room. He reminded her of someone she’d seen dressed in a similarly gaudy outfit at a street fair in Brompton outside the Victoria and Albert Museum one time. She wondered now if he’d crossed over for a day of entertainment in the mortal world.

  Painted-on rays of bright yellow arced out across his eyelids and cheeks, making his eyes appear to be miniature suns. “Beautiful bird, your return to court is welcomed by many—” his voice lowered— “but the wings of a dove are no match for the talons of a hawk.”

  Tiki wondered if somehow the man could see through Larkin’s glamour.

  Larkin studied the jester for a long moment. “Unless, Fool—” she leaned close to the man’s ear and Tiki strained to hear her words— “the dove has the heart of a fox.” Though the title she’d bestowed upon the man seemed an insult, her voice held no rancor, nor did the jester seem to take offense.

  The man held a finger aloft. “But do those with the heart of a fox see through the illusions of the cunningly ambitious?”

  Larkin flicked her wrist as if to brush a piece of lint from her sleeve. “Be gone with your puns and shrouded advice. I don’t wish to draw attention at this time.”

  The jester’s eyes flicked to Tiki and then on to Rieker. Tiki could see curiosity burning there before he bowed to Larkin. “I await the moment to bask in the graciousness of your beauty, and that of your friend—” he nodded at Tiki— “another day.” He swept away, pulling three colorful balls from a pocket in his vest and began juggling to the amusement of another group of people.

  Larkin leaned close to Tiki. “Your reflection in an enchanted mirror is not what I brought you here to see.” She pointed to the far end of the hallway. “There—at the end—do you see it?”

  Tiki and Rieker squinted through the shadows to where Larkin pointed. Elevated above the throngs of people dancing, drinking and eating, was a platform against the far wall. Great steps led up to a massive slab of rock twelve inches thick. Centered on the rock was a huge golden throne in the shape of a dragon, its head turned to the side and roaring, spiked horns protruding from its snout and lining the back of its neck. Great golden wings were outstretched and the stout legs were crouched as if the beast meant to leap into the air at any second. The short front arms were thrust forward, like the outstretched talons of an eagle, above a seat that protruded from his belly.

  Four guards, armed with bladed spears, surrounded the dragon and stood at attention on each side of the raised dais. Their faces were stern, given the party atmosphere that surrounded them.

  “That seat?” Tiki asked.

  Larkin’s voice was soft. “That ‘seat’, as you so casually refer to it, is the Dragon Throne—where those who rule Faerie sit. It stands on Cloch na Teamhrach—The Stone of Tara. You might note that even Finn’s name MacLochlan references the cloch, or stone.” She wrapped her long fingers around Tiki’s wrist as she drew her near to whisper in her ear. “An inescapable destiny.” Tiki shivered as Larkin’s cool breath brushed her skin. “In just a few moments, niece, you will touch the stone and it will roar once again.”

  “But the throne is so well-guarded,” Rieker said, his voice heavy with concern. “How will she get close enough to touch it?”

  “We will find an opportunity,” Larkin said airily. Then softer, under her breath, “or we’ll create one.”

  Someone bumped Tiki’s arm and she turned. Standing, not a foot away, was a young man. Tall and thin, his straight hair was raven-feather black and pulled behind his head to reveal a large scar that sliced from his ear to his chin, causing one side of his mouth to pucker. Two more scars slashed through his eyebrow and across his forehead, in a gruesome testament to some horrific battle, but it was the familiar blue eyes that made Tiki stare. He opened his mouth to speak when a shrill voice interrupted.

  “Sean!” A dark-haired faerie threw her arms around the young man’s neck and locked her lips on his. It took him a minute before he got his hands on her shoulders and pushed away.

  Tiki’s jaw dropped open as Rieker jerked around. Sean? Was this the faerie who had been providing information about the Otherworld to Rieker?

  “Sorry, miss.” The young man said to the dark-haired girl as he held her shoulders, stopping her from throwing herself at him again. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

  The girl was devastatingly beautiful: sloe-eyed, with cinnamon skin and lips the color of crushed cherries. She rested one hand on the young man’s hip and teased his chin with a strand of her hair. “I don’t think so. It’s been a long time, but not that long.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, and slithered close, oblivious to the others around them.

  “It’s me, Pashan.” She rubbed her hips against his and Tiki felt her cheeks flame. “Surely, you haven’t forgotten the times we’ve shared, have you, Sean?”

  “Sean?” Tiki had not meant to speak out loud. She would swear those blue eyes were Dain’s.

  The dark-haired faerie spun around to face Tiki. “And who are you?” She looked Tiki up and down. The expression on her face made it clear she didn’t consider Tiki any competition.

  “Pashan.” Larkin’s voice was firm. “Leave us. Now.”

  The dark-haired faerie opened her mouth to argue then thought better of it. She pressed her lips together and flounced away.

  Rieker took a step toward Sean. “What are you doing here?” His shoulders were back and he seemed coiled to react.

  “I need to tell you—” Sean started.

  Larkin flicked her hand at the newcomer and interrupted. “Not now.” She slipped her hands through Tiki and Rieker’s arms and pulled them in the other direction. “We can talk later. There are more important things to attend to first.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Another body has been found.” Arthur stood at the end of Leo’s bed, his face grim.

  There was no answer for several heartbeats.

  “And?” Leo said in a weak voice.

  “Same as the others. Slit from neck to navel, as if by a claw— the heart removed.” Arthur rubbed his forehead with his hands. “That makes four now. The last one was the same night you were attacked.” He loosened his cravat. “Four murders, four missing hearts, not one bloody suspect.”

  He paced to the door and back again. “He disappears like the mist in the night. No clues, no trail to follow. Not a single drop of blood outside the bodies.” Arthur stopped and propped his hands on his hips, his long tweed coat pushed behind him. “I think you’re the only one who has seen him and lived to tell about it.”

  “I barely saw him,” Leo said in a whisper. “He was on me like a wild beast, all dark shadows and claws.” He tugged his purple robe tighter across the bony ribs of his chest. “He was there to kill me, too. I know it.”

  Arthur propped himself on the end of Leo’s bed. “I have to agree. Mother is so well-protected—he can’t get to her, so I’m afraid he attacked you instead.” He sighed. “Mamie warned us.”

  “The murderer is obviously not of this world,” Leo said in a weak voice, “nor is he fey.” Rain suddenly pelted the window, like fingers tapping to get in. “He must be some other kind of creature.”

  “But what?” Arthur said. “And how do we stop him?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dancers claimed the floor in the Great Hall of the Palace of Mirrors, twirling and weaving with wine-induced exuberance. The music of fiddles, flutes, horns and bagpipes filled the air, notes trembling like a million birds fluttering over-head.

  Guards stood at attention beside each of the tall, black and gold fluted columns, surveying the crowd. Some clutched spears, others held spiked mauls, a few were outfitted with bows and arrows. All of them had daggers and sheathed knives hanging from the
ir belts.

  As Larkin led them through the room, Tiki dared a glance into one of the huge mirrors that filled the niches between the columns. But just as she passed, two dancers moved between her and the mirror, blocking her view. The musicians started playing a waltz and Larkin pulled them to a stop. The throne was still a distance away and the crowd was thicker at that end of the hall.

  “We need to get closer to be ready when the opportunity presents itself,” Larkin said.

  The music shifted and a new group of dancers claimed the floor as Larkin led them forward again. The sheen of satin, taffeta and exquisitely embroidered brocade reflected the torches that surrounded the raised dais, giving the impression the material was made of flame. The men’s trousers were straight legged, the color of bark, with colorful jackets and tails that flared behind them as they turned. Their boots flashed with gold buckles that matched the gold buttons and embroidery on their jackets. Bottles of blue faerie wine were handed about freely.

  Tiki spotted a man sitting on the elaborately carved Dragon Throne. He held a goblet of gold in one hand that matched the circlet of gold which sat upon his shoulder-length black hair. He had to be Donegal. Dressed in rich black garments which shimmered as he moved as though made of iridescent black silk, his eyes were dark and slitted, reminding Tiki of a snake. An aura of evil emanated from him like a putrefied scent. Two men fanned him with giant wings.

  Larkin edged them closer and nodded in the king’s direction. “Those are O’Riagáin’s wings.”

  Tiki stared in macabre fascination. The man looked utterly content being kept cool with the wings of the murdered Seelie king.

  Donegal’s gaze paused on their group. His thick black eyebrows pulled down in a frown, his eyelids half-closed, like a predator evaluating its prey. His gaze flicked to Rieker, and then to Tiki.

  Tiki took a step backward into the thick of the crowd. “He’s looking at us,” she whispered.

  “You there.”

  Tiki froze as the UnSeelie King’s gritty voice echoed around the room. Donegal was staring right at her. She clutched at Rieker’s sleeve. “He’s seen me.”

  “Stay calm,” Rieker said, putting his hand over her fingers. “He doesn’t know who you are.”

  Donegal raised his hand to stop the music and rose from his chair.

  “You.” He pointed in Tiki’s direction. Whispers buzzed through the hall. “In the blue dress. Approach.”

  “Now’s our chance,” Larkin whispered. “Just touch the stone that his throne stands upon.”

  The crowd around Tiki and Rieker backed away, magically creating space where moments before there’d been none.

  “I’ll be right behind you,” Rieker whispered in Tiki’s ear. He gripped her elbow and moved them toward Donegal. “Be careful. If it’s not possible to touch the stone, don’t try.”

  “My lord.” Rieker bowed from the waist, pinching Tiki’s arm for her to do the same. From the corner of her eyes Tiki saw two guards moving through the crowd in their direction, brandishing iron-bladed spears. “We are honored by your presence.”

  Tiki’s heart skipped in her chest like a stone over water. The guards grabbed Rieker’s arm and then hers. Rieker’s brown thatch of hair fell over his forehead shadowing his eyes as they were yanked forward, but a smile played upon his lips. “Don’t fight them,” he whispered out of the side of this mouth.

  “Halt.” Donegal uttered when Tiki and Rieker were a few feet away. There was no way she could cover the distance and climb the steps to stand on the stone before the guards stopped her—most likely with a blade through her heart.

  Donegal gazed at her with narrowed eyes. “Who are you?”

  Tiki sucked in a quick breath. They’d never discussed the possibility that Donegal might question her. Was this a trap? Had Larkin deliberately put a glamour on her that would attract Donegal’s attention?

  An eerie silence hovered in the room. In that instant of pure quiet, all the reasons she stood there flashed before Tiki’s eyes. She raised her head, suddenly more confident than she’d ever felt in her life.

  “My name is Tara, sir.” Rieker’s hand tightened on her arm.

  Donegal peered down at Tiki. “You dare say your name is Tara?” His black eyes stared at her. “That is a powerful name. Surely you must know you have to earn the right to claim such a name.”

  Tiki’s mind raced. She hadn’t been sure how she would gain access to the throne to touch the Stone of Tara, but maybe the opportunity was just going to present itself—like a pocket, begging to be picked.

  “I do,” she said in a firm voice. “In fact, I can prove my claim.” She was surprised to hear some of Larkin’s arrogance in her own voice. “May I approach?”

  “Don’t—” Rieker reached a hand out to stop her, his voice urgent. Tiki motioned for him to be still.

  Donegal swept her up and down, looking for any hidden weapons. “Tell me.”

  Tiki shook her head. “I have to show you.”

  The room was silent, everyone mesmerized by the contest being played out before them. Even Larkin remained silent. Tiki glanced over her shoulder but she couldn’t see the faerie among the crowd.

  Finally, the dark king nodded. “Slowly.”

  The guard followed Tiki, the sharp point of his spear pricked against her back. One shove would send it through her heart. She lifted the hem of her dress and climbed the steps one by one. In that instant, all the stories she’d been told as a child raced through her mind like voices from the grave. All the magic, the whispered innuendo from her mother suggesting there was something more, that she had a special connection; the shadows that had shifted on the edges of her vision, the faces there one minute, then gone the next—she remembered and pulled from them. She was the daughter of Finn MacLochlan. She was marked with an fáinne sí. She would save the Queen and Rieker and her family.

  Tiki was one step away from the stone upon which the throne of the Faerie world sat. One step away from Cloch na Teamhrach—the Stone of Tara. She would claim her place in the Otherworld.

  She slowly lifted her left arm. The sleeve of her dress hung gracefully over her slender wrist, covering her birthmark. Donegal stared at her in cautious fascination.

  Now was the moment.

  She took a deep breath and stepped up onto the Tara Stone.

  Silence.

  The Stone didn’t roar.

  “What is it?” Donegal snapped, his face twisted in an expression of annoyance. “Is there something up your sleeve?”

  A terrible sinking sensation filled Tiki and she swayed, suddenly dizzy. She clutched at the arm of the throne to hold herself upright. Had it all been a lie? Had Larkin known all along?

  “REMOVE YOUR HAND IMMEDIATELY!” Donegal roared, ready to explode. The guards jumped forward with their spears forcing Tiki to step back. “What is it you will show me?”

  Tiki’s heart pounded like a kettle drum. She had risked everything to touch the stone and Cloch na Teamhrach had remained silent. Now what should she do? She couldn’t reveal her mark to Donegal—and she couldn’t walk away. She had put herself in an impossible situation.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Donegal!” The cry split the room. Every head turned toward the speaker. “You have something of mine that I want returned.”

  Larkin sat perched on a gold platform shouldered by four large men, which elevated her to the same height as the Dragon Throne. They carried her through the room as the party-goers fell away to allow them passage.

  She was dressed in a body-hugging gown of gold that glowed as if lit from within. Her blond hair hung in wild abandon reaching to her hips. She looked like a goddess descended from the sun.

  Donegal’s head jerked up in surprise. The guard’s grip on Tiki’s arm weakened as he looked to see who dared confront the Winter King as an equal. Tiki chanced a quick look at Rieker. His head was bent as the colorfully-costumed court jester whispered in his ear.

  A delighted smile creased
Donegal’s face. “Ah, Larkin, my little dove, there you are. I’ve been expecting you.”

  A buzz like a million bees filled the hall as servants and partygoers alike discussed this unusual turn of events. The story of Donegal’s imprisonment of Larkin had fed the rumor mills for months, only intensified by Larkin’s dramatic escape.

  “It is always such a delight to parry with you, my dear,” Donegal said. “Like a chess match come to life.”

  “Or perhaps a duel without swords,” Larkin said.

  Donegal’s smile widened, though his black eyes remained cold. “A duel? To the death this time, I wonder?”

  Larkin inclined her head. “Until there is a clear winner.”

  The smile faded from the Winter king’s face. “There aren’t many brave enough, or foolish enough, to challenge me in my own palace.” He swept his hand out to encompass the room. “Tell me, which of my possessions would you want to take from me?”

  “Just one,” Larkin responded coldly. “I want my wing back.”

  A collective gasp rose and hovered in the room.

  Donegal sat back against the throne, clearly surprised by her request. “Sad, I was hoping for a matched pair. Surely there are more valuable items for which you might wish to parley?”

  “I am prepared to negotiate,” Larkin said.

  Tiki marveled at the fearlessness in the blond faerie’s words. Just looking at Donegal made her shudder. To be imprisoned by him would be her worst nightmare. Why would Larkin take such a risk?

  Donegal lips curved in a smile of pure enjoyment.

  “Ah, Larkin, that’s what I find so entertaining about you. Always the challenge.” He tapped his ringed fingers on the gold arm of the chair. “So you want to negotiate for something you chose to leave behind. But with what, I wonder?”

  “A trade.” Larkin’s words were firm. “I have information that you seek.”

  Donegal threw his head back and laughed.