by Melissa Marr
“The what?” Leslie asked. Her arms folded. “The people who were seeking Thelma were faeries?”
Irial shrugged. “She didn’t want to be queen, and I knew . . .”
And Niall knew. In Irial’s words, his truthful admsssion, he had revealed a secret. Niall clarified, “You knew. You knew she was the missing queen.”
“Yes,” Irial admitted. “I made the curse.”
“Did you always know?” Niall stared at the faery he’d finally started to figure out the past handful of years.
Again Irial shrugged.
Niall half-fell into the chair Irial had offered when he’d arrived. “So you shagged the woman who would have been the Summer Queen if Keenan had found her?”
Again Irial shrugged.
“We suffered over a hundred more years of winter because you felt like hiding the queen?” Niall wanted to throttle him, simply squeeze until Irial had sense in him, but as such a thing was neither possible nor wise—and the events were all in the past—he simply stared at Irial.
• ♦ •
After a few moments, Irial stood and walked away. Niall wasn’t wrong, and Irial was sure that from the outside it probably seemed like a heinous thing he’d done. It wasn’t that simple, though.
Thelma was special.
He didn’t risk the wrath of both Summer and Winter casually. Admittedly, such a thing wasn’t out of character for him, but he wasn’t foolish.
Except when it comes to love.
He turned the door knob, feeling a sharp edge of the glass knob, a memento from when he’d thrown a few things in anger. Just inside the room, Irial paused. The last time he stood here was the day after Thelma left. The room had still smelled of her perfume. Her sheets had smelled the same.
He’d brought her beignets and coffee, as they had shared the first time they had a meal together, and for the first time in centuries, Irial was truly happy. He had been well aware of her mortality, of the fact that loving her as he’d allowed himself to do could only end badly. He’d been equally aware that the then-weak Summer Court and the over-strong Winter Court would both have him skinned alive if they knew that the missed Summer Queen was nestled in his sheets.
“You weren’t trying to thwart Summer, were you?” Niall’s voice came from the doorway to the room.
Irial had heard his steps, known that the first wave of anger would pass once Niall tasted Irial’s feelings.
“Iri? I was rash,” Niall said, not quite an apology, but they’d never been much for such words.
Irial shrugged. When he’d met Niall, Iriall could taste every feeling, every glorious bit of desire, of hope, of joy. It was a skill unique to the Dark King. He romanced Niall, Thelma, Leslie, and then Niall again with the unfair ability to taste what they felt. He negotiated with kings and queens with that same gift. It had made him formidable. And still he lost more often than made sense. Sometimes knowledge—or love—was not enough to overcome fears or doubts.
“I hadn’t planned to love her,” Irial admitted, back still to Niall. “Or you. Or Leslie. I’m terrible at it, you know?”
“No,” Niall corrected. “You are terrible at dealing with the fears that come with loving, not at being in love.”
Irial walked over to the bathtub, a claw-footed indulgence that Thelma had thought the single most remarkable part of the house. . . other than books. She’d read the way most mortals breathed or slept, as if death himself would come if she went too long without words. Across from the tub, where the light could brighten the desk, were a collection of jewelry making tools. Half-finished pieces littered the table.
As did a ring, the match to the one he’d received.
“I wanted to be with her forever. To have a child. To grow old as mortals do,” Irial said. The letters that had been delivered the week prior, the strange missives from the past that had been all addressed to him but never sent, had finally arrived a century late.
Irial turned to face Niall. “I think it might have been my . . . daughter who wrote to me, and Thelma. She wrote, too. And journals. Not Thelma’s. I have been trying to understand, and all I can think is that I lost her. Time stole her, my duty to the court . . .”
Memories of the past crowded in as Irial tried to contain the massive well of loss, of anger, of confusion that threatened to swallow him.
They stood, awkwardly in silence, until Leslie joined them. Her hand was shaking when she held up a letter.
“This was delivered to the house,” she said. Before he could panic much at the thought of Leslie unprotected, she added, “Chela brought it to me.”
Irial opened it and pulled out a single page of spidery handwriting.
I grew up hearing of you. We stayed clear of fey things, and she often spoke in terrified words of the Summer King . . . and of a kind faery, a beautiful man.
What she failed to tell me, of course, was that the beautiful faery was also the Dark King. I knew your name, but not what role you filled in that world. Had I known, I would not have written.
When the Summer King came to my door for my daughter, Moira, I tried to figure out how to find you. I discovered then that you were the king of the worst of fey. Still I was prepared to reach you, but Moira died, and she left discovering that you were as awful as I feared.
I believe you are already acquainted with my granddaughter, Aislinn.
Every so often, I would check to see if this house stood empty. One of my granddaughter’s faeries has been watching it for me—the whims of an old lady--so if you ever read this, I would welcome the chance to meet you.
Perhaps it is time for meeting.
Elena Foy
Irial handed the paper to Niall. “Thelma’s relative . . . is the Summer Queen’s grandmother. The person who wrote to me”—Irial looked at them—“who might be my daughter or granddaughter is the Summer Queen’s garndmother!”
As Niall and Leslie read, Irial knew when they understood the import of what the letter contained.
“Of all the people in the world, why did it have to be her?” Niall muttered.
“So the women in Ash’s family were always the ones who would be the Summer Queen,” Leslie pronounced. “Grams, Ash’s mother, Ash.”
“And Thelma,” Niall added.
“Thelma had the Sight,” Irial said. “She saw me, and she still chose me.”
The three stood in silence as the sheer enormity of the thing settled on them. He was quite possibly blood family to the Summer Queen, Aislinn Foy, might be his great-granddaughter. How in the name of all that he held sacred was he going to navigate that relationship? He couldn’t fathom her taking that well.
Her partner, at least, tolerated him. He and Seth weren’t friends precisely, but they had a relative congenial acquaintance.
Then Irial grinned. “Wait till the whelp realizes you’re his stepfather-in-law!”
“Not quite how that works,” Niall pointed out.
“And there’s no saying that Grams is your d—”
“But she might be!” Irial exclaimed with an uncharacteristic whoop.
Niall and Leslie exchanged a look.
“Even if she isn’t,” Irial continued, “she is related to Thelma!”
Although Irial was, in his heart of hearts, the embodiment of Discord, he wasn’t going to do anything to hurt Thelma’s relations, but his mind was already spinning on the possibilities of teasing Seth and on strengthening the alliance between Dark and Summer. It might not seem like discord or chaos, but it strengthen some court alliances, which necessarily weakened others.
“Shall we go out on the town to celebrate?” Irial draped an arm around both of his beloveds. The issue of Leslie’s mortality still lingered as a fear, but that was a trouble for tomorrow.
“I think I should start with a house,” Irial mused. “This house. And a pony. Mortals like ponies, and Ash is related to Thelma.” He frowned but brightened instantly. “Maybe even my descendent! Kelpie or steed?”
Niall and Leslie e
xchanged a look of horror that Irial pretended not to see.
• ♦ •
“Think of it as preparation for our little ones,” Niall said.
Irial stopped. Leslie froze, but Niall could taste her hope, her joy at such thoughts.
“Come now,” Niall said mildly. “Leslie wants children. Once she’s finished with school and moves in—”
“She’s moving in?” Irial said with raw hope. He stared at Leslie as if he’d just been granted a gift.
Leslie nodded. “In a few months.”
Irial lowered his voice and asked, “And . . .?”
“There will be children. Eventually,” Leslie murmured.
“Oh, when Ani and Tish were tiny, I bought them this little toy shoppe in Philadelphia,” Irial remarked. “We’ll need to see if there are any shoppes near and—"
“No,” Leslie said firmly. Her flood of amusement surged toward Niall, and undoubtedly to Irial, too, through their ink connection. Leslie folded her arms and announced, “Our children will not get their own stores.”
“So just one store,” Irial said. “We could do that. Compromise.”
“Not what—"
“Pish!” Irial gave them both big smacking kisses. “What abut water parks? How old do the children need to be before we buy that?”
“I’m not pregnant,” Leslie reminded him.
Irial waved his hand, as if to brush the objection away. “When you’re ready, love.” He motioned toward the stairs. “For now, I shall dote on Elena and Ash. My girls.” He paused. “Maybe.”
They followed him down the steps, all but tumbling when he came to an abrupt halt. “Either way, they should have guards. Give me a moment to talk to Chela before--”
“They have guards,” Niall reminded him. “Summer Queen. Her grandmother.”
“More guards!” Irial went to see Chela.
“You realize you are going to need to make peace with Ash,” Niall said. “Whether or not she is related to Irial, he’s going to be protective now that she’s related to his lost love.”
“And you?”
“Dark King,” he added with a smile.
“How did he not notice the name?” Leslie asked.
Niall shrugged. “Mortal naming conventions are odd. We rarely use their full names, unless they matter.”
“I’m not as mad at Ash, but . . .” Leslie scowled. “I don’t know.”
Not a single month without drama, but Niall loved them both. Petulent. Mercurial. All around maddening. Riddled with complications he couldn’t image. They were everything he could want in life.
“Perhaps we should ask Seth to use that future-seeing of his about your mortality or semi-fey nature before Irial tells them he might be Ash’s great-grandfather,” Niall suggested.
“Agreed,” Leslie said with a laugh.
Then they went to join Irial to celebrating finding a connection to his past and planning their future life--and eventual parenthood.
* * *
The End
Excerpt of Seven Black Diamonds
Seven Black Diamonds
* * *
“A dead baby. A score of slaughtered sailors. The truth of what started the war was a matter of which side you were on and how you spun the story. In her grief, the queen wept seven tears into the sea, one for each of her brightest diamonds, and then she waited” (The Cost Of Secrets by Iana Abernathy)
Eilidh
“You were created to serve.” The Queen of Blood and Rage sat on a throne inside her small throne room. The throne in this room was nothing more than wood and vine. It flowered at her will, but the blooms were absent today. The queen herself needed no ornamentation to evoke terror. Her eyes did that without any seeming effort from her. Today, she was worse that usual as she’d been preparing to spar when the Sleepers were brought before her. Her hair was bound back in a tight braid. Her hands were gloved, and she wore armor the color of battle-blackened blood.
Behind her on the wall were an assortment of sharpened blades, swords as well as axes and daggers. In front of her, kneeling on the bone-white floor, were five of her Sleepers, half-fae, half-humans who were created to serve as soldiers in her war on humanity. At the queen’s either side were her two living children, her Unseelie son Rhys and Eilidh, the queen’s daughter with the king of Seelie court.
No one else was in the room. The usually crowded chamber seemed almost cavernous with so few people present. Unlike many meetings, this one was secret. Neither of the courts knew of the queen’s Sleepers.
Eilidh wished she didn’t know either—especially when the girl kneeling in front of her mother said, “I’m not a murderer.”
“Truly,” the queen murmured.
Anyone who lived in the Hidden Lands would recognize that tone. Eilidh suppressed a wince. She was the queen’s heir, and whether or not she wanted to be the next in line to the Hidden Throne, Eilidh had a duty. She would stand in this small room with her mother and brother. She would witness the proceedings with an emotionless mien.
“I understand that we were born to serve your cause,” the girl said. “We all do.”
The five Sleepers behind her said nothing.
“We will not kill for you though,” the girl said. She was still on her knees, but her voice was strong, echoing slightly in the queen’s private throne room, despite the obvious danger in disobeying the Queen of Blood and Rage. The other five Sleepers remained silent. At least one of them looked as foolishly brave as this half-fae girl who was facing the Queen.
Their silence condemned them.
Endellion ruled both the Seelie and Unseelie courts, and even those fae-blood who lived outside the Hidden Lands. Possession of any fae blood was enough to be declared her subject—by decree of both fae and human law.
“Stand,” the queen commanded.
“You need to understand . . . I was raised as a human. We all were. You can’t expect us just to murder them. It’s—”
“Them or us.” The queen spoke over her as she descended from her throne.
“I’m both,” the girl argued as she came to her feet. “My mother is human. There is no them or us for the Sleepers. Can’t you see that?”
The queen glanced at Rhys, her gaze conveying the order.
When Rhys walked toward the girl, Eilidh stayed beside the queen’s throne. Protocol was a part of life in the Hidden Lands, even in the tiny private room where there would be no living witnesses beyond the royal family. Eilidh’s role as heir was to observe the proceedings, to learn, to see what a queen must do for her subjects.
The girl stood, but she did not move.
Rhys could’ve made her. He was the queen’s most trusted guard and truest servant. If she wanted him to move the young half-fae, half-human girl, he would do so, but the queen held up her hand.
She stepped down and walked over to face the girl. “Do you speak for your whole team?”
Eilidh wanted to tell the girl, to tell all of them, to stop what was about to happen. Instead, she forced herself to watch, knowing that these moments were what defined a future queen. She didn’t ever want to take the Hidden Throne, but as she had so many times already, Eilidh swore to herself that she would be a different sort of ruler than her mother.
The girl lifted her head to meet the queen’s eyes. “I do. We are a unit, but not the terrorists you’ve tried to make us become.”
None of the other five people dissented when the queen’s gaze drifted over them. “So you all choose to be human rather than fae? So be it.”
In the next moment, a scream began and ended. One of the queen’s various blades sliced across the girl’s throat. Between one breath and the next, she was dead.
Eilidh didn’t let her wince show on her face. Showing her feelings was not something she was allowed to do, even when the witnesses would be soon dead. Weakness wasn’t ever acceptable.
Looking up from the body at her feet, the queen ordered, “Mind Eilidh’s safety.”
Rhys ste
pped closer to the heir of the Hidden throne, as their mother glanced at the rest of the group.
In mere minutes, they were dead. They stood no chance against the queen. She had held the Unseelie throne for centuries and had bloodied her blade with every fighter who came close to being her equal. Even the Seelie King himself wasn’t so foolish as to raise a blade to her. Centuries ago, when she walked into his court, dripping with the blood of his best fighters, and announced that they would mate and unify their courts, he simply acquiesced.
Standing in the room with her children, the floor strewn with bodies, Endellion sighed. “I need to speak to the other handlers. Most of the Sleeper cells are not performing as they need to be.” Her longsword was pointed at the floor; blood dripped from the fae-wrought steel to the stone floor. The queen herself wasn’t even winded. She sighed and said, “My jewels are the only Sleepers that haven’t needed to be eliminated . . . yet.”
“Why?” Eilidh asked before she could stop herself.
Her mother smiled. “Because they were created with a different level of attention.”
Eilidh had questions, but she didn’t bother asking. The queen shared only what she thought necessary. That was the privilege of ruling. Eilidh bowed her head and held her silence.
Rhys drew their mother’s attention then. “Shall I clean this or do you still want to spar?”
Endellion looked briefly at him and then back to her heir. “Eilidh will tend this. You will spar with me. Come”
And then she walked away with no other word, leaving Eilidh with five dead bodies.
Lily
“You need to stop hiding and go downstairs.” Shayla stood in the doorway to Lily’s bedroom. Her long greying hair fell neatly over her shoulders instead of being bound into some kind of twist or held captive under one of her innumerable scarves. An elegant dress, no doubt by a runway designer, made her look like the lady of the house rather than Lily’s caretaker, assistant, governess, whatever-her-title-was-now.