by Lyra Evans
“Okay,” he said, aiming for a steadiness of tone he didn’t feel. “On the count of three. One. Two. Three!”
And Oliver rushed forward. He passed through the division as though stepping into an open refrigerator, the air whooshing around him in cool gusts. He shivered slightly, suddenly colder than he liked, and blinked away his mind’s confusion. When he settled in to his reality, his hand still connected to Connor’s, he looked around himself.
He was in the woods somewhere, probably still in Maeve’s Court, given how humid it was. Once the coolness of the portal passed, the heat of the night set in again. Only the humidity here was more intense, more physical. There were massive green leaves hanging off sloping trees and little droplets of water fell quietly from them. Shoots of bamboo rose up around the edges of some of the trees, and the grass beneath his sodden feet rose up tall and soft, blowing in an insubstantial wind. He also realized, much too late, that he was standing in a bog.
Oliver glanced back at the hand that held Connor’s only to find Connor’s hand disembodied on the air. With a shudder, Oliver called out for Connor but heard nothing. He supposed the portal was a sound barrier too. Instead, he tugged gently on Connor’s hand, tapping the fleshy part between Connor’s thumb and forefinger with his finger. He tapped once. Then twice. Then three times. And then he pulled on Connor’s hand again.
After a moment, Connor jumped through the portal, falling forward toward Oliver as though he’d skipped a few stairs going down. Oliver caught him with a hand to Connor’s chest and helped him straighten, the shallow marsh-water sloshing slightly around them.
“Where are we?” Connor asked, sniffing around. “The marshy outskirts of the jungle-forest,” he answered himself. “The southern-most edge of Maeve’s Court on the West side.”
Oliver looked from Connor to their surroundings. The jungle-forest was an apt name for the flora around them. Palm trees mixed with leafy, fruit trees and interspersed with conifers, it was the strangest mix of plants Oliver could have conjured. Thick, ropey vines looped between birch and maple trees, while moss spread along the base of palm tree trunks. There were shrubs and thick grasses, and bamboo patches throughout. In the distance, Oliver heard the distinct tinkling melodies of robins and blue jays, singing in harmony with toucans and phoenixes. The smell of soaked earth and chlorophyll filled Oliver’s nose, crickets playing their symphonies along with the low buzz of cicadas.
Swallowing hard, Oliver searched for some sign of where they should go. They stepped forward through the boggy grass, careful not to disturb any animals hiding there. Snakes and Marsh Selkies liked to nap in the tall grasses while waiting for prey. Oliver was in no mood to deal with snakebites and Selkie charms, so they were cautious moving forward.
Unsure of why he felt this particular direction was forward rather than anything else, Oliver kept on, Connor following quietly in his footsteps, quickly leaving the marshy ground behind for solid earth. Neither of them questioned their direction at all, and it took them only a few minutes of trekking through the jungle-forest to figure out why.
They came to a manor house hidden among the dense foliage of the jungle-forest. Tall and stately, with shuttered windows and column-flanked doors, it somehow looked perfectly appropriate among the palms and fir trees. Around the front was a sprawling veranda overlooking what seemed to be a moat of some kind, or perhaps another marsh. As Oliver and Connor walked up the central pathway toward the door, Oli saw movement in the water to his right. Pausing to identify it, Oliver nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized the shapes were the head and tail of an alligator, hovering comfortably at the surface of the water.
Increasing his pace slightly to get up to the veranda, Oliver knocked at the door more hastily than he would have liked. The alligator showed little interest in Connor and Oli, but Oliver was quite keen to keep it that way.
The bright red door swung open to reveal Lucia standing just inside, a relieved smile on her face.
“You figured it out,” she said. “Rory was worried the stone direction wouldn’t be enough, but I told her to give you more credit than that.” Oliver smiled, shooting a pointed glance at Connor who would not meet his eye. “Come in, come in.”
They entered the house to a large hall that yawned outward to a main gallery. The walls were adorned with paintings and tapestries set around the central staircase. The stairs swooped upward, gilded in gold and red, to the upper floors. A balcony at every level lined the perimeter of the main hall, the banister of the same detailing as the staircase and doors leading off to numerous rooms Oliver could hardly count.
“This is Maeve’s jungle-forest retreat,” Lucia said. “It’s one of her most personal spaces and a very tightly-guarded secret. I assured her that both of you would keep that confidence no matter who asked in future.”
Oliver and Connor nodded. “Of course,” Oliver said. “She agreed to see us?”
Before Lucia could answer him, a deep, melodious voice responded in her stead.
“Obviously,” Maeve said. “It would have been quite absurd to invite you to my private estate only to refuse a meeting, wouldn’t it?”
Chapter 19
Standing at only a pinch above five feet, Maeve was accustomed to the deeply mistaken perception that she was cute and easily intimidated. Oliver and Connor had no such delusions, gaping up at her from their positions in the entrance to her marsh-hidden manor. With the air and poise only royalty affect, Maeve gazed down her flat nose at them, one hand loosely perched on the gilded banister. Her body curved with the perfect slopes of a pear, she wore colours as bright as her Court—a sunny yellow fitted cropped top over a floor-length skirt of fine, insubstantial silk in red and orange hues. Over her shoulder was draped a swath of fabric connecting the skirt to the top and covering part of her otherwise exposed midsection. Gold woven into the fabric of the swath shone and glittered in the light of the entryway, lending her an even more surreal presence.
Her face was round, her dark skin glowing beneath the light dusting of shimmering powder over her cheeks and eyelids, her lips a deep crimson. Head shaved on the right side, she wore her hair on the left in long, wild curls that breathed free and unrestrained. Atop her head was a circlet of gold, silver, and rose gold, woven into her hair and dipping down her brow in a peak.
She descended the stairs to one side, her eyes ever trained on Oli and Connor, and Oli felt a frisson down his spine. He’d been in the presence of royalty before—meeting Logan on the last case, and before that being presented with special thanks from Nimueh herself—but every time it felt different. Nimueh had been like a proud mother rewarding a successful child, and Oliver had felt his heart swell in pleasure, some small part of him affirmed for the first time. Logan had been somewhat like a distant and impenetrable father, so full of authority in every word and step, and Oliver had felt determined not to let Logan down.
But Maeve was something else entirely. Standing before her, watching her approach from above, she was as a goddess, dipping down to the world of mortals in order to bequeath them some wondrous gift. Like the Moon Herself embodied in a vision, Maeve was just as regal as the other two leaders and seemed even more formidable.
“Forgive us, your Majesty,” Connor said, bowing so low he folded in half. She was half his height, but Oliver was sure no one would ever have noticed. “We had not anticipated the possibility of meeting with you personally. We are humbled by your presence and your help.”
Oliver bowed low as well, only a beat later than Connor. His cheeks burned, and he fought hard to regain himself. He was here to do a job, to get answers. There was no time or space for getting star-struck. And he was hardly the type to swoon over nobles.
A waft of cinnamon and fire, the spice of rum, and the salt of the sea passed Oliver’s nose, and he breathed in deeply once before shaking off the urge. When he looked up, Maeve caught his eyes with a smirk, and Oliver gathered himself.
“I have not yet offered my help,” she sa
id simply, turning her attention back to Connor. “And, indeed, I was under the impression it was your lack of humility that brought you to my door. Do you not think you alone can solve the murder of my dear friend? Or was I misinformed?”
Connor stared her down, his piercing blue eyes meeting her oak-brown ones without flinching. But as Oliver glanced between them, he saw the slightest flush on Connor’s cheeks and growing around his neck, and he realized she had this effect on everyone.
“He was your friend,” Connor said after a long moment, his throat tight, “But he was my cousin. My kin, my Alpha. And I am to be framed for his murder. I think I am uniquely qualified to solve his murder, as no one else seems interested in actively trying.”
Oliver felt his spine shift, aligning itself straighter than it should be, and the air around them turned to crystal. Maeve’s gaze was sharp, full of cold fire, but she said nothing for a long moment. Oliver took the time to take stock of the manor. The main entrance was the only obvious point of egress, but there were doors around the lower floor that lead off to unknown locations. The stairway led up to another series of doors, and all of them were closed. Only one doorway on the lower floor was unblocked, and it seemed to lead off to a kitchen, if the copper pots hanging from the ceiling were any indication.
“Lucia, here, tells me you are trustworthy,” she said after a moment. Lucia stood off to one side, watching hesitantly. She wrung one of the fingers on her left had with her right, a small gesture barely noticeable from where she was, but it was enough to tell Oliver she was nervous. “As one of my oldest and trusted friends, I agreed to meet with you to take stock of you myself. But why should I trust you, Connor Pierce? What stops me calling the NCPD right now to arrest you and have you executed?”
The threat was hypothetical, more quizzical than underscored with heat, but it spurned Oliver to act. “Because he’s innocent,” Oliver said, the ferocity of his assertion surprising even himself. He felt it tear through his chest as he stepped between Maeve and Connor, a living shield to protect his lover. “He would never have killed Logan, not like that, and I would never have helped him do it.” Oliver glanced back at Connor, their eyes meeting a moment. The feeling that passed between them was deep, rooted in a place Oliver would never be able to reach on his own, but it was real. It was true.
“Your loyalty is legendary, Oliver Worth,” Maeve said, and Oliver pulled back slightly, as though afraid of her words. “And your determination to see justice done is admirable. But do you not think you are perhaps blinded in this particular scenario? Why should I trust you either? You could easily be lying to me in order to support your mate-to-be in this.”
Oliver rolled his tongue in his mouth, the flat of it rolling over his teeth. He glared at Maeve, frustrated to find she had no qualms whatsoever with antagonizing them. Effortless and ethereal as ever, Maeve stood with her clothing flitting around herself on invisible wind.
“If the record of my investigations is not enough to convince you of my loyalty to the truth, first and foremost, than I really don’t know what I’m supposed to say to convince you,” Oliver said, affecting more confidence than he felt. But a spark of antagonism grew in him. He’d been fighting one kind of accusation or another all his life. He’d been accused of having driven his father to suicide, accused of not being a good enough son, of not being man enough, at age ten, to protect his mother from murder. He’d been accused of being a cheat, too good at his exams, a brownnoser, too chummy with his superiors, a bad cop, ignoring protocol and the orders of his higher-ups in order to investigate the coroner, his suspect for the Thistledown Killer murders, and of being a snitch for turning on a police employee and ally when he presented the evidence to convict him. Oliver had been labeled gay by some, whore by others, trash by many, and all too many things to remember by the inventive writers of the Daily Spell.
He was tired of having to fight, and looking at Connor, worn out from the events of the day, he realized Connor was tired too. He’d fought for many of the similar things Oliver had. Except, until now, Oliver hadn’t realized that Connor had suffered at all in his life. His manor, his cars, his businesses—everything in Connor’s life seemed to come easily to him. It all seemed so wholesome, but the idea that Connnor spent much of his childhood being told he’d killed his own family via magical guide was more than Oliver could take.
“I see anger in you, Oliver Worth,” Maeve said, studying him closely. Oliver shivered again, involuntarily. “So much, and yet still, not enough.”
Oliver growled low and gritted his teeth. “What does that mean?” he snapped. “Are you going to let us see Nimueh or not?”
Maeve considered him carefully, her long, gold-tipped nails tapping against her lower lip. “Perhaps if you were to make a deal…” Her gaze travelling between the two of them, her smile quirking at one end, Maeve suddenly appeared significantly more threatening to Oliver. A tendril of fear uncoiled in his belly, squirming up to his chest, and Oliver readied himself in the event he’d have to fight her. “Only Connor would have to agree to the deal,” she continued, eyeing Oliver’s shift in behaviour. “He’d only need to confess the truth, and by the magic of the deal, everyone would know it. If he’s guilty, then the Three Courts will know for certain. If he is innocent, they will know that too.” She looked beyond Oliver to Connor. “What do you say?”
Oliver shifted, turning his attention to Connor, willing him to—frankly, Oliver wasn’t sure what he was willing Connor to do. Taking the deal could be a trap; it could be disastrous. But if he were to take the deal and confess his innocence, this whole mess would disappear. Problem solved. In an instant. Fae magic at work.
“No,” Connor said, and the word hit Oliver square in the chest, stealing the wind from him. Maeve’s eyebrows shot for her hairline, her eyes wide, the quirk at her lips still there. “With respect,” Connor went on, bowing his head slightly, “after what I’ve been through, I cannot trust to a resolution via Fae magic. And neither would my pack. There is no telling what the repercussions of such a deal could be. It’s too dangerous, too volatile, too fickle.”
“You ask much, Connor Pierce,” Maeve said, her face a shimmering mask of intensity. Oliver couldn’t even begin to decipher her expression. “And yet you give so little. Trust is earned with trust. Why should I allow you in to see Nimueh if you offer no proof at all that you do not intend to make a victim of her as Logan?”
“It’s the magic I don’t trust,” he said. Oliver cast a look at Lucia. Her expression had barely changed, the nervousness still present, though she was considering Connor in a new light. “Not the one performing it, your Majesty. Magic of all kinds can be twisted and abused, even in the hands of the most honest, careful caster. But if you will not give us the chance to prove our innocence without the aid of magic, then we should leave, as we then have no hope of convincing Nimueh to help us find the true killer.”
Connor turned to Oliver, and the look they shared was like the bond between them, secret and understood in the hearts of them. Offering his hand to Connor, Oliver nodded over to Lucia and made to leave.
“It has been long since I’ve met an heir as wise and disciplined as you, Connor Pierce,” Maeve said, and they both stopped short of the door. Turning back to Maeve, Oliver found her smiling brightly, her eyes alight with excitement. “Logan would be proud, I think, of the Wolf you remain in these troubled times.”
Connor stilled, tilting his head slightly to the side, as though he didn’t quite understand what she said. Oliver glanced back at Lucia, who was also smiling, her posture relaxed and pleased.
“It was a test,” Oliver said.
Maeve nodded. “And you passed,” she said. “Magic, particularly Fae magic, is a powerful seductress. It acts as a drug for the soul, luring people into easy solutions where they never consider the ramifications of those solutions. But a deal to prove Connor’s innocence would only prove the opposite. Only a guilty man would stoop to such extremes to prove himself innocent.
The innocent have no fear of judgment and no trust in overly simple answers.”
Oliver exhaled as though he’d been holding his breath since entering the manor. Dizziness in his mind left him feeling weak, but he followed nonetheless when Maeve gestured that they should. She climbed the steps again, with Connor and Oliver trailing behind her gauzy skirt. They walked along the balcony toward the door at the far end of the second floor.
Off-kilter and trying to reset his axis, Oliver sought in himself the line of questioning he’d devised for speaking with Nimueh. But as they came upon the door, simple, white, its only décor a gilded knob, Oliver couldn’t seem to call to mind his own name.
Maeve opened the door and ushered them in, swishing through as though she were showing the house to potential buyers.
“Nimueh, love, are you all right?” she called, leading them through a large and warmly decorated sitting room. There were bursts of colour everywhere, and patterns in geometric and symmetrical shapes across pillows and tapestries and rugs. A low wooden table bore a decanter of glass surrounded by finely fluted cups and filled with a bubbling, golden liquid.
“Oh, I’m in here, Maeve,” Nimueh said, her voice thick and muffled. She stepped out of the distant doorway, her long golden hair hanging in loose, untended waves. The clothing she wore was nothing like Oliver had ever seen her in. The silk top was cut low and edged with black lace, emphasizing her ample chest. Her jeans were worn, faded, and artfully torn in places around the knees. Over the top, a long, threadbare sweater hung limply around her shoulders, the fabric so thin it was see-through. At her throat was a string of obsidian beads with sparkling sapphires dotted along the line. The circlet of platinum and obsidian she usually wore when speaking publicly was nowhere in sight. Instead, she held a tissue to her eyes, dabbing away at the redness there and trying to tamp down the puffy circles. “I was just doing what you suggested. Trying to let it all out, once and for all, you kn—”
