by Melissa Marr
“Lily?” Eilidh prompted.
Lily looked up.
“There’s blood on your face.”
For a moment, Lily was confused, but then she realized that she’d bitten herself hard enough that blood was trickling from her mouth. She reached up to touch her lips and her fingers came away coated in red.
Rhys held out a small embroidered piece of cloth. “You are strong-willed, niece.”
She took the cloth from his hand, looked at it, and said, “You can’t have this back, not with my blood on it.”
Torquil and Eilidh both smiled at her approvingly. Rhys laughed unexpectedly. It was an odd sound from someone so severe.
Then he said, “You are obviously my family, Lilywhite Abernathy. I would not take arms against Eilidh for you, but I would bloody my blade against Calder or Nacton or any other who meant you ill.” He did not mention Endellion, but it was a comfort to know that she was not alone in the face of the others who might mean her harm. “It would be an honor to stand as your guard, niece, as long it does not harm my sister.”
Rhys’ voice was such that Lily couldn’t help but think of truths from a pulpit, of pronouncements from her father’s crime synods. Rhys spoke with the surety of a fae who knows that he cannot lie. He did not include the king or queen in his list of those he would not fight for her safety. That, too, spoke volumes.
“Accepted,” Lily said quickly. “Your vow is accepted.”
He smiled and said approvingly, “Definitely Mother’s descendant.” Then he grew more serious. “Some fae can compel truths of their relatives or those of lesser bloodlines. It is a rare trait, what humans call recessive, I believe. I am the only of the fae who can do so currently. Mother finds it useful.”
“Does it work on humans?”
Rhys didn’t flinch as he said, “It often leaves them unwell, sometimes comatose, but yes.”
“And halflings?”
“The same.”
Lily was the one to look away. Fae weren’t known to be particularly gentle, but he’d just attempted something that could harm her. Something about it prodded at her memory. She stared at him as she thought back to fae vows. “Aren’t you foresworn if you break your vow?”
“If it would hurt you, I wouldn’t have been able to attempt it. Because of my vow, my gift would be ineffective. The vow allowed me to try it. That was the most efficient way to discover if you were fae or simply fae-blood.” He gestured at Zephyr and Creed. “The Sleepers are all what the humans deem halflings. You, Lilywhite, are much more than that.”
twenty-six
ZEPHYR
Zephyr stared at the fae in front of him, trying to make sense of the things he was saying. The facts of the situation didn’t mesh. The fae couldn’t lie without pain. The purer the fae bloodline, the worse the pain. Zephyr could hide the pain of lies when he’d had to do so. He could do it, but it wasn’t easy. Somehow, though, either Zephyr had been lied to before or he was being lied to now. It had to be one or the other, but both were improbable.
“We are not halflings,” he said.
“Lilywhite is obviously not,” Rhys allowed. He was straight-spined on the vine-wrought chair Eilidh had created. Even after Lilywhite had lashed him to the chair, even after he’d tried to compel words from her, he was implacable. At his side, Eilidh was quietly speaking to Torquil.
“None of us are halflings.” Zephyr stood, his anger pushing him to move. It was a trick he’d learned as a child: movement helped him focus past the emotion. Creed and Lilywhite stood when he did. Even though there was conflict, they were still his friends. For a brief moment, he took comfort in that.
“You are, Zephyr. Lilywhite, as I have said, is more.” Rhys leveled a stare at her that spoke volumes. It was abundantly clear to everyone present that she was far more like him than like them. Her gifts were stronger than anyone else’s.
Because we are still young, and the gifts don’t always manifest until later. Clara had explained it. All of their handlers had explained it that way when they were children. They’d had to hide some of their gifts, and their appearances were certainly fae enough to arouse unwanted attention. She’d said, “You were chosen because we could hide you more easily.”
“The humans call it ‘halfling.’ You have one parent who is true fae.”
“Okay, so we’re born of one of the fae, maybe that’s not so different than being fae-blood.”
“Try saying so without ‘maybe,’ niece,” Rhys challenged.
She couldn’t, and they all knew it. They were less fae than Zephyr had believed, but they were also more fae than she’d thought.
“The Sleepers are not true fae, but not simply fae-blood.” Rhys’ voice had the sort of edges that made Zephyr’s skin prickle. “You, however, are more. Your mother was the first child born to both fae courts. You are her sole child. Whether you were born of a fae father or not, yours is the union of the two strongest lines of all faeries. You are the child of the first, the strongest, and so you are more. It is that simple.”
Again, Rhys gestured at Zephyr and Creed. “None of the Sleepers are what you are. No one is.”
Zephyr’s temper grew sharper and sharper. Geysers of soil and water erupted from the ground, showering all of them with mud. Leaves and blossoms clung to their bodies, stuck in the mud that was now covering all of them. If not for the fact that he’d all but attacked one of Endellion’s children, it would be amusing. Jets of water continued to flow like a series of small fountains bubbling out of the earth around them.
Rhys wiped his hand across his face, revealing a studious expression. “Your fae parent was of a strong line.” He tilted his head, looking similar to a household pet who’d been caught in a storm. “Earth and water. I have only the earth, but my mother . . .”
“Mother’s primary gifts are sea and soil,” Eilidh said as she looked at Zephyr again. “Creed said that you were the one she hand-selected for leading this cell. You’ve met her, as well. No other Sleepers have had a private audience with her.”
What was Eilidh saying? Zephyr thought back to the terror of kneeling before the Queen of Blood and Rage. Was she telling him that Endellion was his mother? He wasn’t sure if it was better or worse if she were to be his mother. It would mean that Lilywhite was his . . . niece, his family, not his intended.
“I’m sure the queen isn’t the only one who has those affinities,” Zephyr pointed out reasonably. “I’ve never summoned water. There’s no saying that”—he gestured at the small geysers somewhat helplessly—“was me.”
“You have hair that could be hers,” Rhys said.
“And eyes that could be yours, Rhys,” Eilidh offered.
The severe faery stiffened at her words. His attention swept over Zephyr. “I’d like to say Mother wouldn’t do such a thing, but she has no lines she wouldn’t cross for her plans.”
“What human birthed you?”
Zephyr shook his head. “You have to be joking.”
Torquil, who had remained silent for much of their meeting, spoke then. “He is not. You favor him, and the queen is thorough in her plans. She cannot carry young easily, not since the baby’s death or . . . disappearance apparently.” Torquil very carefully looked at Eilidh. “There was a time when some of us were invited to lay with mortals, to create young with them. She had hopes that we could breed with the humans, to have children—even halflings—to replace some of those we lost. Only those who were the strongest of the fae and those she herself trusted were invited to that night’s party. It was an odd request, but we do not survive by disregarding our queen’s requests. Even the king is not so foolish. He did as she bid. We all did. Rhys was there.”
“It makes sense,” Rhys mused. “She’d said the children weren’t conceived, that the wine was bad and none of us had impregnated the women.”
“She lied,” Torquil suggested.
“She wouldn’t want us to get attached to humans, but she would want to have strong halflings for the progr
am. It would allow their fae traits to overcome the weaknesses of humanity.” He reached out and caught Zephyr’s jaw, holding him still and staring into his face like the truth was there if only he stared long enough. “I suppose you aren’t disposable after all.”
Zephyr jerked back.
“The human I bedded had eyes like spring skies, and her lips were berry red. She spoke of wanting a fae child, too. For a human, I thought she would’ve been a good choice to carry my young. The woman was called Arabella. She was a pretender in recorded plays for humans—”
“Actress,” Zephyr corrected. “My mother is an actress.”
There were a lot of people who could fit that description. Even his mother’s name was not completely unusual, but after being called a miracle baby his whole life, Zephyr knew that Rhys was likely talking about her.
“So that is why Mother favored you,” Rhys said musingly. “You are her grandson. My . . . son.” The faery studied him much the way Zephyr had studied science experiments. There was no emotion there. “How is your swordsmanship?”
Zephyr said nothing. He turned to Eilidh, bowed deeply to her, and turned away from all of them. His father was fae. His mother . . . the woman he’d pitied for having no real child of her own, for thinking he was hers, was actually his true mother. She’d cheated on her husband to have him. She’d had no idea that he was being born to be used. Zephyr had always taken comfort in the fact that he was living the life his parents had chosen. They all had. Instead, his father, his fae father, had no idea he existed, and his mother apparently had only wanted to have a baby.
Was that the case for all of us? Were our human mothers all so desperate that they’d bedded with fae, knowing how hard it was to live as a fae-blood, knowing that their very existence was illegal? Zephyr felt his emotions getting increasingly out of control. The water he’d denied being responsible for surged higher.
He turned and ran. They could catch him if they wanted, stop him without even moving from where they were, but he didn’t care. He needed out.
Everything is a lie.
Behind him, he could hear Lilywhite calling to him.
It didn’t matter.
A lie.
Everything is a lie.
I am no one.
As he crossed the campus, he didn’t slow to see if Lilywhite or Creed had followed him. Right now, he didn’t know how he felt about seeing her—and he didn’t want anything to do with Creed. Creed had brought them here, brought Zephyr’s father here, and Zephyr knew that if he saw Creed, he’d want nothing more than to let his aggression out on him.
He made his way through the hedge, through the walled garden, and to Belfoure, where he knew Alkamy would be. He could feel the pulse of his own blood warm at her throat, and he followed it unerringly. He’d hoped it would work as such when he gave it to her, and tonight he was grateful that the queen had allowed him to take the blood-wrought stones with him. He couldn’t make sense of much in the world, but he knew this much at least: he needed Alkamy the way he needed earth.
The familiar thrum of the city did nothing to ease his mind tonight. Neither did the friendly voices as he crossed through the main part of the Row House. It wasn’t until he reached the VIP section and Alkamy that he felt anything near calm. He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed her by both hands and jerked her into his arms. He needed this, needed the peace that only she could offer him.
She yelped in surprise and started to ask, “What—”
He cut off her question with a kiss. Behind him, he could hear voices, and several flashes of light made it obvious that cameras were capturing it all. He knew on some level that he was being foolish. He should be stronger. He shouldn’t care about the lies that were woven into his life.
He did care though. It was all fucked up. Everything felt wrong—except having Alkamy in his arms for this moment.
All of the need he’d been shoving away was in his kiss. It was the sort of starving embrace that they seemed to always share, as if there would never be another, as if this moment was the last. Every time they kissed, they both knew that one of them would say, “Not again. Remember? Not again.” Tonight, he wouldn’t be the one to say it, and he hoped she wouldn’t either.
When he finally released her, she was trembling. She didn’t pull him closer, but she didn’t run away either. He slid his hands to her hips, unable to let her escape, unable to do anything but hold on to the one person in both worlds who would never lie to him or use him.
In his peripheral vision, he could see Violet and Roan gaping at them. Beside Roan, Will’s hat was drawn low enough to shade his face, and he was staring at the ground, further hiding himself.
As Alkamy leaned against his body, not even stepping out of his arms, she reached up and stroked his face. “Talk to me.”
He shook his head, even as he reached out to touch the blood-ruby in the hollow of her throat. She was his only anchor in a sea of madness. He knew it, had known it for years, but that didn’t mean he could say it aloud. He had to be responsible, to look after the Sleepers. It was his duty, and Zephyr Ryan Waters always fulfilled his duties. He’d been waiting for years for someone to help him do that, a partner, a love of his own—and the fae he’d been promised not only didn’t seem to want him, she might be a blood relative.
Zephyr ignored everyone. He swept Alkamy into his arms and all but marched to the dance floor, carrying her like she was his bride. They passed the velvet rope. The camera flashes continued. The murmurs continued.
“You’re scaring me,” she whispered against his ear. Her expression was light, making for good pictures, staying in the role she’d always held. Unlike him, she was still doing as she should.
“I need you. Help me.” He lowered her feet to the ground, realizing as he did so that she was dressed up like a Gothic doll. Soft strips of gray silk hung in faux tatters from her waist to her calves. The winding cloth illusion was continued by the fact that some of the sections were slit high enough that decency was barely met. The top of the dress was lace with an overlay of silver—not material made to look like it, but actual silver that had been twisted into a corset. He stared at her as they stood in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by gawkers and under the watch of three of their friends.
Violet was dragging Roan and Will to the dance floor. Despite the probability of being photographed, the boys weren’t refusing. They might not know what was going on, but they were at his side.
“I just need to hold you. If we’re on the dance floor, it’s safe. If we’re anywhere else, I don’t think I can follow the rules tonight. I don’t even want to try.” Zephyr pulled Alkamy closer again. What he really wanted was the sort of silence he could only find when they’d been intertwined together. All of his reasons for not touching her were still valid. He knew that. Right now, he didn’t care. “Tell me to stop or take me out of here or just let me hold you here.”
“I’m right here with you.” She rested her cheek against his chest. Her arms wrapped around him, keeping her as close to his body as they could be with clothes between them. She didn’t reply to his admission that he wanted to go where they could be together as they once were, but she vowed, “I’m always here for you, Zeph. Always.”
The tension that had held him like a coiled spring loosened slightly at her words and touch. He drew a deep breath, drawing in the soil and sunlight scent of her like it was the air he’d been denied. Alkamy was air and soil. She was every calming thing he needed.
In a voice so low that no one else would hear, he told her, “I met the joint court’s heir tonight, and her betrothed, and the fae who might be my father.”
Alkamy looked up at him. “Your father?”
“He has my eyes,” Zephyr admitted aloud. “Or, I guess, I have his . . . and I have his mother’s hair . . . and both of her affinities.”
He must’ve sounded as overwhelmed as he felt because Alkamy didn’t ask questions, didn’t push or even offer foolish words of comfort. She simpl
y asked, “What do you need?”
“You.”
She stretched up to kiss him. Her kiss wasn’t the desperate clash of teeth and tongue that his had been. It was the way they’d kissed before he’d been told that relationships among them were forbidden by order of the queen.
When their waitress came out to the floor with their usual drinks on a tray, Zephyr took Alkamy’s and downed it in one go. The vile taste of alcohol burned down his throat, but as with any fae—or fae-blood, since that’s what he apparently was—the effects were quick and intense. He felt the languor seeping over him, and tonight, he embraced it.
“That was hers,” the waitress said as he put the now empty glass on her tray.
“Great,” he said. “Bring me Creed’s too.”
The girl looked around. “Is he here?”
“No,” Zephyr said. “But once you return with the drink, I’ll take care of it for him.”
Roan stepped forward like he was going to intervene, but Violet and Will both reached out and stopped him.
With the show that Zephyr and Alkamy were creating, it probably wouldn’t have mattered if the boys finally did dance together in public, but they’d decided long ago to keep that much of their lives private. Violet danced with them, providing the same cover she usually did.
Zephyr’s hands slid up Alkamy’s spine, and cameras flashed. One of New Hollywood’s darlings was newsworthy; two of them back together would earn even an amateur photographer a check.
By the fourth drink, Zephyr’s face was buried against her throat when he wasn’t kissing her.
They stayed on the dance floor for the next half hour, but when he attempted to grab another drink, Alkamy stepped back from him. “Me or it. You don’t get both.”
With a shaky hand he held it out to her. Instead of drinking it, she handed it back to the girl. “He’s done. Take this to the back. Not the VIP section. We want a private room.”
Then Alkamy nestled against Zephyr’s side. “Come on, babe. We’ve put on enough of a spectacle. Let’s go where it’s quieter.”
