Prince of Air and Darkness

by M. A. Grant

  “I thought I made Queen Mab’s orders quite clear,” I say over their rapid apologies, my fury growing. Their actions could now endanger a positive verdict for our Court, making Ripthorn’s suffering even more pointless than it already was. I refuse to talk over them; I refuse to listen to their poor rationalizations any longer. The flick of a finger freezes their tongues in their mouths.

  The crowd around me murmurs, so I raise my voice and recite, “Let it be known that the Winter Court will do no harm to our Summer cousins. We will abide by the Accords and the rituals of the season. Anyone who challenges this edict, who allows fear and doubt to cloud their judgment, will be punished.” I take a step closer, until I could reach out and touch both the offenders. “What part of that is so fucking hard to understand?”

  The two fae before me bow their heads. They’d look resigned to their fate if not for the trembling of their shoulders. At my back, the Seelie are silent, despite the panicked fluctuations of their glamour as they realize this isn’t a joke. The rest of my Unseelie stand in guilty silence. I take my time looking around the crowd, meeting the eye of every fae I saw throwing a punch.

  “I should demand reparation from anyone wearing the blood of our Summer cousins.” They give a collective flinch at my quiet words. “However, the decision does not belong to me.”

  I glance over my shoulder at the Seelie. The faerie Reginald attacked wipes blood from his upper lip and gives a half shake of his head. “Those two started it,” he tells me. “I can’t ask for more than that.”

  I nod, already thinking through my options. Something quick, something showy. Something that the Pantheons will hear about before day’s end. Something that will allow me to keep my subjects’ respect and trust when this is all over. One final glance at Reginald and his friend to confirm my decision. Yes, that’s the only option.

  I release the hex on their tongues. The crowd watches us and I’ve never felt such gratitude for their trust.

  The two ringleaders hold my gaze and I offer them a grim smile. They swallow their whimpers and lift their chins. I rest a hand on top of Reginald’s head and settle my other hand between the pestilence faerie’s shoulders. “Blood for blood.”

  They tremble, but manage to whisper back, “Blood for blood.”

  It’s short, messy business. I turn to the Seelie—a boggart eye in one hand and a set of glossy wings in the other—and lift a brow at their pale faces. “It’s enough?”

  They swallow hard when the blood drips from my hand to fall to the stage, but nod.

  Shortsighted fools.

  The true value of this little act lies within its practicality. Boggarts have three eyes and, if they rest properly, can regrow any of them within a few weeks. The pestilence faerie was close to molt and would have lost his wings within a month even if I hadn’t torn them out. While I may have hurt two of my subjects today, I’ve kept them from facing the Pantheons’ discipline. I regret their pain, but not my actions.

  All is well. I’ve salvaged it. My people are safe now.

  The magickal tension in the air twists. My glamour stretches to confront the furious hum, the sensation of magick racing toward me like a vibration down a taut wire. A quick glance around the crowd is unnecessary. Horrified dark blue eyes confront me from mere feet away.

  Don’t, Smith. Not now. Let me finish this.

  Hiding behind my glamour so I can keep a close eye on the bane of my existence, I finish with “So I mete out justice in the name of Queen Mab, with her full power and blessing.”

  But before any of my subjects can respond, Smith blurts out, “Justice? You call this justice?” The horror’s given way to fury and disgust, and while I should be used to that, in this moment, I flinch as if Smith has struck me.

  Our early years on campus, when Smith viewed me with mild disinterest, were bearable. But the passage of time, the crucible of proximity and observation, has led to something entirely different. Disinterest is something I can ignore. So is ill-advised physical attraction. The weight of Smith’s misconceptions, feeding him lies or half-truths to keep up the charade... Nothing in my royal training has helped make that sting any less.

  “Stand down, Smith,” I say softly.

  “What the hell are you doing to—?”

  I don’t allow him to finish the question. I can’t allow it. A whisper on half a breath launched in his direction is enough. The curse hits him, binding him in place and leaving him little more than a living statue in the midst of the crowd.

  “I am the Prince of Air and Darkness.” The reminder is as much for the rest of the crowd as it is for Smith. A declaration of my role and the indignities I refuse to suffer. “And this is the justice of my mother’s Court.”

  No arguments. No coy glances. They offer me bowed heads and peaceful silence. Good.

  “Leave me.”

  They obey without hesitation, even the two Unseelie I disciplined, who pause long enough to thank me for my mercy before scurrying off to lick their wounds. As they flee, I inspect the mess I’ve created. The scar on my palm is obscured with tarry, black boggart blood. I drop the eye, absently tracking the way it rolls to the edge of the grass and stops near Smith’s feet. Picking the blood from under my fingernails is an impossible task, so I let my magick spark and engulf my hands in the delicate blue flame I’ve worked with since childhood.

  Mother was surprised with my affinity for fire. Her magick is drawn to water and wind, the base elements of our Winter Court. My elder brother Sláine can’t manipulate fire either. Among my family, my talent is odd.

  I love flame. Watching it consume is like looking in a mirror. Primitive hunger, raw power, and a continual search for that next fix. Anything the flame wants and gets, it devours, until there’s nothing left but ash and dust. Sometimes it will kill itself in its efforts to consume everything it can. There is never enough to fill it, and I understand that emptiness all too well.

  The fire dances over my knuckles, cleansing the blood away, a flickering blanket of the Northern Lights coating my skin. Like everything in my Court, even this fire is cold. Maybe that’s part of the reason I’m so drawn to Smith. The ley line burns under his skin all the time. He’s always warm, like he’s heated from the inside out. Even now, petrified by my curse, his magick surges against mine like a wildfire.

  A quick look confirms we’re alone. I flick my hands and the flames vanish, allowing me to turn my undivided attention to Smith. Petrified or not, there’s no mistaking the rage in his gaze. I should be grateful for that: It simplifies so many things I don’t have time to worry about.

  Instead, a defense springs to my lips, thrown out between us like a flimsy shield before I can stop myself. “You shouldn’t have spoken. This had nothing to do with you.” I raise a hand cautiously and hold it, palm out, toward him to unwind the curse. “This was a Court matter—”

  “Bullshit,” he snaps. Probably should have left his mouth for last. “You really expect me to stand back and watch you torture others? Me?” His voice breaks on the word, the jagged pain digging in under my skin. “Your mother considered me a Court matter, too. Or have you forgotten?”

  We’ve danced around this topic for so many years I’m unprepared when he hurls it at me point-blank. The blow reverberates, shattering what’s left of my control and canceling out the rest of the binding curse instantly. “No,” I whisper, but he’s too angry to hear me.

  “You’re just like her,” he growls. “Hurting innocent people for no reason.”

  “I didn’t have a choice.” He scoffs, but I push on. “Smith, I swear to the Goddess, I wasn’t—”

  “Stop lying to me!”

  The faint prickle at the back of my neck is the only warning I get. I should have noticed the other signs earlier—things being drawn toward him. Refuse. Loose dirt. Grass. Me. Instead, I couldn’t look away from the raw pain in his face.

  I don’t notice that we’re long past his tipping point until it’s too late. Ley lines aren’t discrimin
atory and Smith can’t control their power worth shit. The vacuum of space around us shivers once before exploding outward.

  Or maybe he explodes outward.

  I barely have enough time to throw my glamour out over the area, hiding us from prying eyes. It surges just ahead of that unchecked power as it blossoms outward.

  I slam into the back of the amphitheater. My skull cracks against the brick and the world shudders with darkness as I fall back to the ground. If I were a human, I’d be dead. Thank the Goddess fae are hard to kill.

  Smith blazes like phosphorous, melting the grass and dirt and Goddess knows what else at his feet.

  Living fire. A vessel for the ley line. As beautiful as it is deadly.

  “Smith,” I croak as I clamber to my feet.

  The ley line’s power retreats back into him, but not to go dormant; it’s rebuilding for the next storm surge. The air crackles with it. He’s too pale. Sweat soaks his shirt and runs in rivulets down his face and neck. If the ley line lashes out again, it’ll hollow him out before my eyes. After all this time, after all the sacrifices I’ve made to protect him, he’ll die in front of me. Because of me.

  No.

  I hurl what’s left of my glamour at him. If he were fae, our magicks could catch against each other and blend. If he were fae, I could bear some of this weight. If he were fae, he wouldn’t be dying right now.

  The moment my glamour lands against him, the ley line rushes to meet me. It blisters, scraping my magick away layer by layer, peeling my glamour back until I’m left as little more than an exposed nerve. The world tilts on its axis and I stagger. Every muscle viciously contracts against the movement, and the unexpected pain rips a gasp from me.

  At the noise, Smith blinks. Looks at me. The ley line vanishes, like someone snuffed out the wick, and he’s all that’s left, confused and shivering.

  “Sorry.” The word is a glass shard in my throat.

  He opens his mouth. I step toward him, but my leg can’t hold my weight. A horrible emptiness roars up in me as my glamour fizzles out, exposing us and our chaos to the rest of the university. The ground rushes to meet me.

  Phineas

  When I reached down into that magickal river and let its power course through me, I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to do. I just knew Roark was standing in front of me with blood on his hands, just like there had been blood on her hands, and I wanted him to hurt. I wanted him to experience a fraction of the pain I’d felt under Mab’s blade so he could understand why I couldn’t let anyone else experience it.

  I held it together until he lied. Until he denied what he was doing to my face, as if I were a confused child. The little control I’d clung to cracked and all the power dammed up burst out. I should have channeled that flood of magick. Instead, I let it rip me apart as it burst toward Roark.

  It was painless. It was glorious.

  I don’t know how long I burn for, but in the depths of the fog, there comes the lightest brush of something over my skin. The crisp caress of an autumn evening, the whispered kiss of snow about to loose from the clouds. It reminds me of something I needed to remember. Something important.

  The fire recedes and the ley line’s golden haze clears from my vision. Roark stands there, waiting. He stares at me as shadows flicker in and out over his face. Says a word I’ve never heard from him.

  “Wha—?” I start.

  I’m interrupted as he crumples on himself. It’s the smoothest collapse I’ve ever seen.

  He’s dead. I lost control and killed him.

  My muscles protest when I rush to his side, hot and sore from channeling unchecked. Doesn’t matter. I press fingers against the column of his neck and the nausea fades a bit at the sensation of his steady pulse. The sight of his chest rising and falling mesmerizes me.

  “Thank you,” I mumble to any deity listening. “He’s alive.”

  Which poses a new problem. An inspection of the area shows that Roark’s order to disband was far too effective. I try to rouse him, but he’s deeply unconscious; when my efforts fail, I hoist him up and start trudging toward our apartment.

  It’s a small miracle that we don’t run into anyone on the way there. I have no idea what excuses I could make to explain the situation. Even better, I manage to avoid doing any further damage to him...not counting when his head accidentally hits our door while I wrestle for my keys. At least it’s proof he’s out for the count. If he weren’t, he’d try to kill me for offering any kind of help, especially physical support. No one touches Roark. He’s not big on vulnerability, and this version of him is exactly that.

  It makes me equal parts guilty and protective as I try to lay him comfortably on his bed. He’s a force of nature. I have never seen him falter in battle. He insults me and kills things in the same breath. He weaves spells and hexes and curses through the air so easily it’s like watching the conductor of a symphony orchestra. He even managed to keep himself together during our fight until I snuffed out first.

  But I put him on his ass when I unleashed the ley line.

  A strand of hair lies over his forehead, fallen free in the aftermath. I reach out to brush it away and register how my hand trembles with the action. Adrenaline. Guilt. Nothing more than that.

  He looks older with his hair brushed back. I wonder if he does it to help with the optics of his position; looking young and inexperienced while acting as the Unseelie queen’s right hand can’t be easy. He’s so confident I tend to forget that we’re about the same age when you take the conversion into account. Same age, but worlds apart in almost everything.

  Sometimes, I wish that were different. Especially now, when all I want to do is give in to the insane urge to stay by his side until he wakes up and I can confirm he’s okay.

  A flutter of dark eyelashes shocks me enough to yank my hand back. Roark opens his eyes, blinks a few times to focus, and pins me with an indecipherable stare.

  “Hey,” I say. “How do you feel?”

  “Where are we?” He must feel truly awful to completely ignore my question.

  “The apartment. I figured you wouldn’t want to stay... Shit.” I cup his jaw, and turn his head gently from side to side. “You’ve got a hell of a concussion.”

  “You threw me into a wall,” he says, voice far too bland. “I’d be shocked if my brain wasn’t bruised.”

  He doesn’t fight my inspection. His pale eyes are half-lidded when I turn him toward the light, shallow lines creasing the corners as he tries not to wince. It’s a strange intimacy; when I finally pull away, the absence of it is as shocking as the touch itself.

  “Since I’m kind of responsible for this—” I start.

  “Completely responsible, you idiot.”

  “Completely responsible,” I amend, “can I get you some water or something?” I trail off when he arches a brow. “It’s just...after I use the ley line I’m usually kind of thirsty and shit...”

  My awkward explanation results in a faint, amused twitch of his lip. “Water would be nice,” he finally says, like it’s some huge admission.

  “Right. Give me a sec.”

  I hurry from his room, closing his door on my way. I’m nearly to the kitchen when I catch a hint of movement near the sofa.

  “Hello, Phineas.”

  Queen Mab bites back a smile when I curse and slam myself into the wall, attempting to crawl through it in an effort to get away from her. The ley line cowers back for once, avoiding the icy touch of her glamour. It remembers her, too.

  This afternoon, she’s nothing like the monster from that chamber; she must have put on her human costume before leaving the sídhe. The long midnight-blue dress is understated and her black hair is braided back. The crown’s a simple circlet of bone and stardust. No visible weapons, but that’s no consolation. The blades she used to bleed me out were conjured in the same way Roark conjures his rapier—out of glamour and thin air.

  “I just arrived,” Mab says, “and was looking for my son.”


  “He’s in there.” I point to his room. And, uselessly, add, “He wanted water.”

  “Oh?” The amount of insinuation she gives that single word is impressive. Only the guilt of making Roark wait is enough to shake me from my terrified stupor.

  “He couldn’t get it himself.”

  He must have learned the eyebrow trick from his mother. I can’t blame him; Mab’s is flawless, reframing all the planes of her face to show my explanation does nothing but confirm her earlier, unspoken suspicions.

  “He’s hurt.”

  Like that, her expression returns to cool indifference, although her body tenses like she wants to lunge at me.

  “Fine, too. I mean, he got hurt, but he’s going to be okay.” I hate myself. I hate her for leaving me on the edge of full-blown panic from a single movement. I hate how standing in her presence draws my skin so tight the scars across my chest threaten to reopen. I hate how every time I look at her, I’m back in that tiny room with nothing but the ley line and my prayer for a quick death. Maybe that lingering wish is why I confess, “It was my fault.”

  “I see.” Flat disbelief.

  “I lost control.”

  She continues to watch me, but the edge of violence leaves her limbs. “You lost control,” she repeats softly. She tilts her head toward the kitchen. “Fetch the water.”

  I’m not struck dead when I give her my back, so I obey. When I return with the full glass, she’s moved closer to Roark’s room. She waits for me to approach as close as I dare, then reaches out and plucks the glass from my hand.

  She examines it to avoid looking at me. “You hurt my son because you lost control of your ley line.” I can’t tell if she’s processing the information or genuinely angry.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  Roark’s eyes are pale and I’ve grown used to their weight on me. Mab’s eyes are dark, iris and pupil nearly indistinguishable, and her gaze is as timeless as the winter sky.

  “Why would you presume to control it at all?”

  Without another word, she goes into Roark’s room and closes the door, leaving me shaken and wondering why no one has asked the question before this moment.