by SM Reine
Marion’s spine straightened as she inhaled. She killed the emotion in her face. “Would you help me find Benjamin?”
“It depends. You’ve got to be honest with me all the time. Real honesty, not Marion-honesty. You need to let me in on whatever’s happening with you—and good gods, Marion, you have to stop treating me like an enemy. You have to trust me.”
“You hurt me.” Marion wished she didn’t feel genuinely vulnerable saying that.
“After everything we’ve suffered together, can you blame me for that one mistake?” Konig asked gently. “I was provoked, and you’re far from perfect.”
All he’d done was hit her.
Meanwhile, Marion was conspiring with her mother to conquer Konig.
Control Konig, control the kingdom.
Konig loves you.
She looked down at her wine glass. She hadn’t taken a single sip of it, and the waning sunlight tinted it amber. “I can’t forgive you…yet. I meant it when I said that we can work on it. No more pretending in public, no more leaving as soon as its done. We’ll spend evenings together. We’ll date, I suppose.”
“Gods, Marion,” Konig said, kissing her fingertips, “that’s all I ever wanted.” His lips were ice.
Even though Marion planned to stay in the Autumn Court overnight, Konig agreed to sleep alone. He’d been sleeping alone for months. Even Nori had never lingered in his bed because she’d always been running to catch up with Marion. Konig hadn’t complained; at least his needs for orgasms were met.
He had other needs, though. As his mother would have pointed out, sidhe craved physical contact and affection.
One more night in bed alone meant one more night aching.
But maybe it was one night closer to escaping loneliness, too.
“You look happy.” Heather was doing a security sweep of his bedroom before he slept. She insisted on personally doing daily checks.
“Marion’s coming back to me,” Konig said. “I really think she is.”
Heather snorted.
“What?” he asked, glancing at her over his shoulder in the mirror. A pair of servants began removing him from his elaborately laced jacket.
“I thought Marion was the one with memory loss,” Heather said. “That’s all.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Come on, Konig.” She ran her fingertips along the windows, climbing onto a chair so that she could reach the valances. They’d found a listening charm in that spot in his old bedroom before. “You know whenever you feel like you won an argument, it’s because Marion wants you to think you’re winning.”
“We weren’t arguing.”
“You’re trying to out-wait Marion’s grudge so she’ll love you again. She’s held out longer than a couple weeks before. If she’s giving up now, it’s too soon.”
The servants slid his shirt off. He removed his cufflinks, watching the glint of metal in his mirror.
Marion had said that she was getting memories back again. Hadn’t she? And he’d taken it to mean that she was going to finally succumb to him.
He started laughing.
“Great, you’re already going nuts with power,” Heather said.
He wiped imagined tears from his eyes. “I really thought the light of reconciliation might be at the end of the tunnel.” He’d forgotten how manipulative Marion could become just because his grieving dad had barfed out some sentimental bullshit.
“Completely nuts.” Heather leaped easily off the chair, crossing the room in a streak. She yanked the leather cord out of Konig’s hair and fluffed it over his shoulders. “Marion wants something.”
“This Benjamin person,” Konig said.
Maddisyn had told Konig about Wintersong’s search for Benjamin. Wintersong had attempted to be discreet while asking around, but information flowed through the Autumn Court as freely as wine.
“Did she say who he is?” Heather said.
“She doesn’t seem to know.”
“So it’s not Benjamin Flynn.” She grabbed an envelope off his desk and tossed it into his chest.
He read the letter quickly the first time, and then slowly the second. Konig was laughing again by the time he got down to the signature a third time.
Flynn. Benjamin Flynn.
That was a surname that Konig had heard before, but not in this context.
“Benjamin Flynn.” Konig flicked the letter at Heather.
Her lip curled at the sight of the publishing company’s letterhead. It was a request from an editor who wanted to send someone to the Middle Worlds to write a book about the sidhe—a writer named Benjamin Flynn.
“It sounds like you know that name.”
Konig didn’t know Benjamin, but he’d known a Lucas Flynn. That was a pseudonym used by Seth Wilder while he worked as a doctor in Ransom Falls.
Damn it all, but Heather had been right about Marion. His queen did nothing without reason.
“She’s looking for Seth,” Konig said.
Heather was the one who had found Seth and Marion together in the pantry. Her expression darkened at the mention of his name. “Oh really?”
Konig pointed at the letter. “Oh yes. And he’s trying to get access to the courts to see her. She must think I’m stupid.”
“So what should we do about this Benjamin Flynn guy? I could capture him, if you want.”
“I have a better idea.” Konig grinned. “Let’s invite him to visit.”
9
Rylie had been confused when Benjamin asked her for a favor. “An editor?” she asked, eyebrows furrowing.
“The acquisitions editor at the house that published your autobiography, I figured,” Benjamin said. “I just want the chance to submit a book proposal. I’ll submit a writing sample using a fake last name so that nobody knows I’m your son. Can we do that? Is that okay?”
“I’m sure it won’t be a problem.” A smile bloomed on her mouth. “You’ve never asked for that kind of favor before.”
Historically speaking, Benjamin hadn’t been interested in using his parents’ connections for personal gain. There wasn’t much point in it. He was mundane, they were werewolves. Most things that his parents could get would only benefit preternaturals.
The dreams had changed his mind.
Ever since meeting Nathaniel in the forest outside of Myrkheimr, Benjamin had been having crazy dreams every night. Sometimes he dreamed of that woman with the knife, and sometimes he dreamed about the blonde mother who wasn’t Rylie. Many other times, he just dreamed about blood, and fire, and war.
It always ended with the knife woman asking him for help.
That woman was real. Benjamin needed to find her.
“What should I tell my editor your books will be about?” Rylie asked. She was already pulling her tablet out of the basket beside her chair and opening the email app.
“The sidhe courts,” Benjamin said promptly. “The events following Marion’s wedding have piqued public interest in their culture, and I can get access to the Middle Worlds that no other writer could.”
“You think Marion will let you in?”
She probably wouldn’t. Memory loss or not, she wouldn’t give anyone a favor unless he had something she wanted.
ErlKonig, on the other hand, was an easy target. In the few minutes they’d been in the same room at the wedding, he’d caught so much secondhand ego off of the faerie that Benjamin had practically gotten drunk on it. The king would want a story about him told his way. Flattery would be a quick, easy access point.
From there, he would access Marion. And then the door he’d been dreaming about.
It showed up in a thousand different forms when he was sleeping, but all of them were representative of a single door. That one door, whatever it looked like in reality, would lead Benjamin to the knife woman.
“I’m sending this email,” Rylie said, fingers flying over the screen, “and I’ll trust you already know what you’re getting into with a publishing contract. Don’t yo
u?”
Benjamin didn’t have a clue. “Yeah, Mom. I’m not a kid anymore.”
She hit the send button.
It took a month, all told. One email had been enough for Benjamin to get a contract in his inbox. Rylie wouldn’t let him sign it without going through lawyers, though, so that bounced back and forth like a boring game of basketball for weeks on end. By the time he was done, Benjamin Wilder could legally operate as Benjamin Flynn—the name he’d picked, to his mother’s eyebrow-arching confusion—and Rylie had arranged for Benjamin to travel to the Autumn Court.
She saw him through the ley lines. His mother’s smiling face was the last thing Benjamin saw on Earth.
Her smile was different. Not the happy-sad one she got whenever she realized how much of an adult Benjamin was now, but…different. Pensive, maybe. Expectant.
Benjamin was greeted at the other end of the ley line by an archer with her hair in twin braids. She wore white-furred pants, a leather vest, and a takes-no-bullshit frown.
Disoriented, Benjamin wavered on his feet. “Hey, uh…” He cleared his throat. Looked around Myrkheimr’s lawn. There was no sign of the devastation Arawn had wrought there. “Uh, I’m from the publishing company. The writer. I’m Ben—”
“Benjamin Flynn. Follow me.”
She led him into Myrkheimr. Her braids swayed with every step. The straps on her leather sandals creaked. All normal sounds, as he’d have expected to hear. The ward magic was working perfectly.
He didn’t have that weird different feeling again, like he had when meeting Nathaniel.
Benjamin was disappointed that the other teenager didn’t make an appearance before he reached the throne room.
“Arms out, legs spread,” the archer said.
Bemused, he stood still as she patted him down. She only found the tablet on which he’d be taking his notes.
She handed the tablet back and opened the throne-room door.
Stepping over the threshold momentarily disabled Benjamin’s protective wards. His mind swam with conflicting sensory information—a lurid display of flashing color sometimes, vine-strewn wreckage at others.
When things settled, Benjamin found himself in a throne room dotted with low wooden furniture grown out of the castle’s foundations. There were pale spots on the walls where tapestries had been replaced by gilt mirrors. Slender waterfalls foaming from the roof splattered Benjamin’s reflection with crystalline droplets.
King ErlKonig was the only ruler in attendance at the moment. He faced the looking glass behind his seats, using it to survey his reflection as a servant dressed him. “Who’s this?” Konig asked, watching Benjamin’s approach in the looking glass.
“I’m Benjamin Flynn. My editor said you’d be expecting me.”
Surprise flitted across Konig’s face. “You’re Benjamin Flynn?”
Benjamin had been expecting some incredulity. He was mature for his age, but Rylie’s genetics had given him round, almost babyish cheeks. It made him look like a kid even if he did have his dad’s broad shoulders.
“That’s my name, yeah. I’m absolutely Benjamin Flynn.” Not Benjamin Wilder, that’s for sure.
Konig made a noncommittal sound. His servant continued to dress him. “I hope your travels were uneventful.”
“Uneventful is a good word for it. The best word.” Benjamin had never had an “eventful” trip that hadn’t ended in screaming, blood, and getting locked in his dorm until Rylie’s nerves settled. And since he’d ventured into public without his usual seelie guard, an eventful trip probably would have also ended in his untimely death.
Konig’s servant finished tying his belt, and the king turned to survey Benjamin.
For a prince who’d risen to rule at such a young age, there was impressive gravity in his presence. The mirror warped behind him, twisting into a blur of color framed by tapestries. “Flynn,” Konig said. “Why Flynn?”
Benjamin blinked rapidly, trying to think of an answer. “My mom’s Irish.” She wasn’t, but Flynn sounded like an Irish name, so it seemed like a plausible reason for a black boy to have such a white name. “I don’t understand why—”
“I saw you with Rylie Gresham at the vote before my wedding. That was you, wasn’t it?”
How far could Benjamin carry his lie to a king before getting decapitated? “Yes, I was with her at the wedding. I’ve been working on this book for a while.”
“Flynn is the name that Seth Wilder used when he was a doctor,” Konig said, and he sounded a little less friendly about it now.
Every sidhe Benjamin had ever met was flighty to a fault. The whole species was so obsessed with the next seventeen orgasms that they were lucky to remember to sleep, much less identify a random face from a party.
Until Konig.
Konig had recognized the face of an unfamiliar man from a crowded room and connected Benjamin’s pseudonym to its reference. Benjamin had thought he was being sneaky, but it was not sneaky enough for the new sidhe king.
He reset his expectations for Konig’s intelligence. “Okay, yeah, I’m Rylie’s son.”
“Then why pay homage to Seth?”
The only possible answer Benjamin could give was the honest one. “I wanted to see how Marion would react.”
Konig’s laugh made the vines uncurl with pleasure. The tension in the room eased. “I’m curious to see it too. You weren’t using a fake name to hide the fact your Alpha parents hooked you up with a valuable book contract?” He sauntered down the stairs toward Benjamin. The king might have even been taller than Benjamin’s dad, who cleared six feet by several inches.
“I know how lucky I am,” Benjamin said. “My dad kicked my ass up and down the sanctuary until I learned to demonstrate humility, and you can’t imagine what it’s like to get your ass kicked by an Alpha werewolf.” Abel took it easy on Benjamin, but it was still a fight between an Alpha werewolf and a human kid.
“I’m familiar with struggling under asshole fathers,” Konig said.
Benjamin shrugged. “My dad’s made me the man I am today.”
“Yeah, they do that. For better or for worse.” Konig’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t dismiss your accomplishments because of privilege. People may hand things to you, but those things would be useless in other hands. If this book is horrible, your reputation will be blown. You’ll never get another contract. You’ll still have to earn your success.”
“The fact I even have the opportunity—”
“You’ve learned humility. Now let me show you pride. Repeat after me: I deserve this.”
Benjamin said, “I deserve this,” but it was hard to inject confidence into it when he remembered Abel’s corrective education.
The king laughed. “It’s a start.” He whirled at the sound of footsteps on the other side of the door. “She’s here. Don’t show weakness or she’ll eat you alive. She smells blood.” He finished the last sentence at an exaggerated whisper, which he managed to complete before the Queen of the Unseelie entered.
The years had changed Marion in a thousand subtle ways. Her face was longer, her eyes troubled. She had somehow become even more graceful than before. She also didn’t show a hint of the regality she used to have, even though now she was an actual royal.
When she lifted her gaze to Konig’s, she was standing up straight, her eyes sharp as an eagle’s. “My apologies for the delay,” she said, much too formally for a twenty-year-old woman with her new husband.
And then she looked at Benjamin.
She stopped walking.
Rylie said that Marion had lost her memories, but that was recognition. Her mouth dropped open, like she’d forgotten words.
He’d hoped she would be a little excited to see him. The absolute astonishment was more rewarding than he’d expected.
“I forgot to warn you that we’d have company,” Konig said. “This is Benjamin… What did you say your name is?”
“Benjamin Flynn,” he said.
“He’s going to attend court fo
r the next few weeks and write a book about us,” Konig said, much to Benjamin’s surprise.
He hoped to spend weeks in the court to “write the book”—and to do all the investigating he needed—but he’d expected such authorization to take a lot more work to earn.
Marion still couldn’t seem to speak.
Benjamin hadn’t gotten a good look at her during the wedding. Probably for the best he hadn’t—if she’d looked half as good as she did now, it could have made for some really awkward checking-out-the-bride-type moments. Marion was wearing a scanty dress of ice and feathers, and only some of that was opaque, in sidhe tradition.
“Nice to meet you, Your Highness.” Benjamin bowed.
Marion nodded. “A pleasure, Master…” She lifted an eyebrow. “Flynn?”
“Benjamin Flynn, that’s right.”
“Benjamin Flynn.” She clutched her heart in both hands. “Yes. Thank you for joining us, Master Flynn. Would you—”
“No time to talk. Oberon and Titania can’t be left waiting.” Konig held his arm out to her. “Come.”
She slid her hand into the crook of Konig’s elbow. They were a matched set, the two of them. Marion was draped in slinky winter fashion with a dress that billowed like thunderheads at the bottom. Konig was in braided leather and red velvet, a splash of blood against Marion’s pure snow.
Marion turned from Benjamin without a second look and followed her king out of the throne room—graceful, silent, and, strangest of all, obedient.
When Marion had entered the throne room, she had been prepared for round two against Konig. She’d spent the weeks leading up to dinner collaborating with her mother on behaviors, phrases, and topics that Marion could use in order to convince Konig of her sincerity.
In short, she was braced to fight.
She was not braced to see Seth.
No. It’s not Seth.
This person had skin nearly the same shade of brown, and hair of nearly the same texture. Soulful brown eyes took up half of his face. His pointed jaw was just broad enough for his lopsided smile, which managed to look shy and fearless at the same time.
