Prince of Air and Darkness

by M. A. Grant

  My vulnerability must show on my face because Sue urges, “You can do it.”

  “Yeah,” Herman says. “You have good taste. Order us anything.”

  Sebastian and Gumba both nod eagerly.

  I breathe past the tightness in my chest and linger for a moment on Smith. “Yours as well?” I ask.

  His smirk and the jaunty tilt of his head put up a good front. But his eyes are full of kindness and trust and pleasure. The way his gaze lingers over me cuts like a knife. “Let’s see how well you know me.”

  “You’d be surprised,” I mutter as I head for the bar, waving off Herman’s offer to go with me. Of all the drinks I have to order, Smith’s is the one I don’t even have to think about. I already know exactly what will sum up how I see him.

  They’re talking quietly when I return with the tray. I’m too nervous to sit, too eager to stand, since I’ll hunch over their shoulders and try to read their expressions. But there’s no point putting it off.

  “All right, Gorgon,” I say, “let’s start with you.”

  She accepts the cocktail and takes a sip. Her nose wrinkles and for a moment, I fear I’ve blown my chances on the first try. Then she smiles and says, “Damn, this is good. Gin and...vermouth?”

  “Yes. An essential staple to its world.” I give her a knowing look and she flushes with pleasure at the comparison.

  I hand Herman the next drink. “Afraid it’s just vodka. Nothing fancy, but you always had good taste.” I gesture back toward Sue, who laughs. Herman accepts the proffered glass with a smile.

  Gumba gets a lager, which he approves of judging by the foam coating his upper lip. Sebastian marvels over his Chartreuse cocktail. Honestly, his wasn’t a fair challenge. Nature faerie, herbal liqueur. No-brainer.

  I save Smith for last. Everyone else watches as he takes the remaining glass. He peers down at the amber liquid and shakes his head, tiny smile growing across his lips. “You got me...?”

  “Whiskey. Neat.” I clip the words so my nervousness doesn’t show as badly, and sit on the edge of my chair, resting my hands on its arms, and wait for him to try the drink.

  To his credit, Smith doesn’t swallow it all in one gulp. Some of my excitement dims at the reminder that he doesn’t fully trust me. He takes a tentative sip and his fingers curl around the glass, fingertips pressing white as he shakes and collects himself.

  I doubt Smith has ever tasted top-shelf rye whiskey. It’s like taking a punch to the jaw, with a hint of spice that sneaks along the back of your tongue. When you swallow, the burn travels all the way down, hitting the stomach before lancing you with a wave of heat.

  Liquid ley line.

  The perfect drink to describe him.

  I wait, desperate for him to get it. To understand how much I do know him. But I’m sure that’s too much to ask.

  Spots of color grow high on Smith’s cheeks and he swirls the whiskey in his glass. “It’s good,” he finally says.

  The rest of them cheer, but their approval doesn’t matter. Smith can’t look at me. His words were quiet and soft. His reticence makes me want to tilt my head back and roar my triumph. After weeks together, I know his frustrations and triumphs and inhuman drive. Like the whiskey in his glass, Smith is a masterpiece; with a single drink, I’ve told him as much.

  Finally allowing myself to admit it is better than the slight buzz I could get from the alcohol. Fae don’t get drunk easily, and I revel in every second of this. No distorted memories tonight. This freedom, this rightness, and the man sitting next to me are mine. This moment together is one that Smith and I can both keep. I lean back, contented, and let the evening flow on.

  Another round of beers later, the others have begun arguing over some television show. I’m trying to keep up with the ridiculous names and political alliances and failing miserably. It doesn’t matter. Listening to laymen arguing war games is the most fun I’ve had in weeks. Herman launches into a ridiculous diatribe over hypothetical battle strategies and is met with strong resistance from Sebastian and Gumba.

  They’re so loud, I don’t realize Smith’s been trying to get my attention until he touches my elbow. I turn to him, angling myself away from the conversation, and ask, “What?”

  “You’re awfully quiet,” he says, leaning in so I can hear him better. “Still enjoying yourself?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not correcting them.”

  The corner of his mouth turns up and I scrutinize the barely visible freckles dotting his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, the short, stubby eyelashes that help make his already average eyes that much plainer.

  “Let them have their fun,” I say quietly. “They don’t need to know that there’s no way an army of that size could actually exist. They’d run out of resources within weeks. Besides, no monarch would be stupid enough to drain the treasury to pay them all.”

  “So how would you win?” he teases.

  “I would ride in on a dragon and let it eat most of the army. Once it was full, I’d burn the rest of them, and stroll into the capital without facing any resistance.”

  “That’s...terrifying.” I frown and he quickly adds, “Effective, but terrifying.”

  A musical laugh rises above the noise, distracting me.

  Sue watches us, smiling wider when I turn to her. “What are you two arguing about?” she asks. The rest of the group has fallen silent by now.

  I expect Smith to pull away, to put some distance between us before his friends notice how close we’ve been sitting, but he doesn’t. When I look to him, he actually seems excited to put me on the spot. “You should tell them.”

  Gumba bites first. “Tell us what?”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” I say to Smith. Killing the conversation right when the group has finally started relaxing seems unwarranted. Besides, his friends don’t have centuries of study about strategy or diplomacy. It would be pointless to win such an argument.

  “If you don’t, I will,” Smith murmurs. “And I’ll say I came up with it.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  He shrugs and turns away from me, leaning over the table to share with his rapt audience. The bastard’s actually going to claim my victory.

  I throw out an arm to stop him and use it to push him back into his chair. He starts laughing and tries again. The ley line nuzzles against my glamour, but I ignore it and press my palm to his chest. To my surprise, he stops fighting and waves a hand toward everyone else. “Go ahead.”

  Hoping it comes across as casual, I blurt out my winning strategy. “Army formations don’t matter if dragons are going to eat everyone anyway.”

  Silence. They stare at me, moment turning from slightly awkward to painfully awkward when no one speaks. Under my palm, Smith’s chest rises and falls steadily, although it still shakes with silent laughter.

  Clearly, I misread the situation. I shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have pointed out such an effective, albeit brutal, strategy, and ruined their conversation. I’m about to excuse myself from the table when Herman slaps a hand to his forehead and groans.

  “The dragons. I forgot the fucking dragons.”

  And the arguments begin again, with a new level of fevered intensity. A wave of relief washes over me. I didn’t kill the mood. If the words flying rapidly around us are any indication, I might have given them another pitcher’s worth of discussion.

  “Roark?”

  The ley line burns against my palm and when I glance back over my shoulder, Smith hasn’t moved. The sight of him pinned by my hand, a dull red spreading up the back of his neck to his ears, and his cheeks delicately flushed, robs me of all thought. He’s breathing faster, or maybe I am. He reaches up to clasp his hand around my wrist, but he doesn’t pull me off him like I deserve. He holds me there. Whispers, “It’s okay,” even though we both know it isn’t, and I’m willing to believe him.

  All my need and confusion tangle together. Tonight may be my l
ast escape before returning to my life’s unalterable course and, in this moment, I only know one thing: I don’t want this to end.

  He stands without warning, brushing aside my arm, and reaching for the empty pitcher on the table. The ley line coils on itself, barely contained. He avoids looking at me.

  “I’ll grab us some more beer,” he announces. He doesn’t wait for his friends’ distracted thanks to lope a hasty retreat toward the bar.

  I get up and follow him.

  Phineas

  Back in high school, before I came out, Sarah, one of my kind-of girlfriends, liked when I put my hand on her leg. I think it’s because she enjoyed the jealous looks from the other girls. She also probably hoped it would coax me into finally trying to reach second base with her.

  She always wore denim cutoffs in the summer and her legs were smooth and soft and smelled like her peach lotion. It was nice to sit there with her, hand resting on her skin, feeling connected to someone else, even if it never went farther than that.

  Our connection was a weak imitation of what Roark and I try to ignore now. His hand was a brand and its absence remains etched on my skin. I meant it when I told him it was okay, but his expression made me panic. Shock. Only shock. I didn’t want to watch him leave again, so I walked away first.

  I stand at the bar and wait for our next round, listening half-heartedly to the conversations swirling around me and urging myself to remain calm. It’s going to be fine. Roark and I are masters of avoidance. By the time I get back to the table, he’ll pretend nothing happened. We’ll train together and I’ll lament Roark’s pursuit of perfection and its cost to my body. But when we graduate and I can stand up to the full force of my magick without buckling, we’ll agree it was all worth it and part ways.

  By the time the bartender brings over the refilled pitcher and a round of shots I figure we could all use, I almost believe myself. The pleasant buzz finally catching up with me probably helps with that, too. I pay him and have partially gathered the shot glasses when one of the faeries sitting nearby notices me.

  “Hey,” he says, and I make the mistake of looking over. He’s tall, with white-gold hair and a face that could easily grace magazine covers. Probably Seelie.

  I look back at the bar. His buddy rises, cuts me off, and puts a hand on my shoulder. He leans in and growls, “Wait, weren’t you sitting with Prince Lyne? You like those bastards from the Winter Court?”

  Definitely Seelie.

  “I’m just trying to get back to my friends,” I say with what I hope is an unthreatening smile. Maybe it’s better to abandon the shots. “Have a good night.”

  “I know him,” a third says, slowly rising from his stool. “That’s the human who likes to pretend he can do magick.”

  “Seems unnecessarily harsh,” I grumble, but they don’t seem to care.

  Instead, they’re busy moving closer toward me at the same time the crowd drifts farther away. Something unhealthy glows in their eyes, something their glamour can’t cover. I grew up in a small town. I saw Friday night football games devolve, and I know how to throw a first punch. I really don’t want to do that here, especially after the whole wraith thing, but if that’s what it’s going to take to avoid getting Seelie-slapped, so be it.

  The ley line tickles the soles of my feet, teasing me. It would be so easy to reach down and lift a handful of power. To knock them on their asses. But I shouldn’t.

  “You’re always hanging around the Unseelie,” the second slurs. “Should pick your friends more carefully.”

  “Pretty sure I already do that. They’re waiting for me to bring back our drinks, so I’ve gotta go, guys.”

  They press in closer, tight enough that I can smell their hair product and the delicate colognes spritzed over their clothes.

  “Think Aileen would want to talk to him?” the first asks.

  A cruel leer grows on the third’s face. “No. But I bet the king and queen would. We should take him with us.”

  He wraps his hand around my forearm and twists when I try to pull away. He whispers something and my arm jolts from what feels like a hundred bee stings.

  I’ve faced down monsters far worse than this little group. I grit my teeth and assess the situation, even as the stinging in my arm gives way to a blistering sensation. The shot in my left hand is cheap whiskey, but it’ll burn just fine. I dip my fingers in the ley line and pull out just a sprinkling of it, trying not to forget how pissed off Roark will be if I overdo this and blow up Domovoi’s.

  The surface of the whiskey sparks, blue flame curling against the glass. When I smash it against this Seelie’s face, it’ll light him up.

  I lift the shot and swing it toward him, resigned to the unholy beating guaranteed to follow, when the glass is plucked from my hand. Bitter cold surrounds me. The Seelie start coughing as the moisture freezes in their lungs. Roark calmly blows out the flame and slams back the shot before placing the now-frosted glass upside down on the bar.

  “Another,” he says without raising his voice. “And three more for our friends.”

  The bartender, eyes wide, nods, but doesn’t interfere.

  The Seelie continue hacking, clutching at their fancy dress shirts. Some of the people around us have started to notice, but wisely don’t say anything. Roark’s presence encourages them to give us a wide berth.

  “Hey,” I mumble.

  Roark pretends to not notice my awkwardness. Instead, he lounges against the bar and watches his handiwork.

  His voice drops too low for the few around us to hear. “Honestly, Smith, you didn’t think you could just walk away after saying that, did you?”

  We both know what he’s talking about. “More like hoped.”

  He opens his mouth to reply, but when he sees the way I hold my arm, fury clouds his face. “They hurt you.”

  It’s not a question. Cool fingers on my arm, brushing over what feels like raw skin. The ley line squirms, trying to help me control the pain like it did all those years ago in the Unseelie sídhe.

  I keep my voice down as I warn him, “Need to make the pain stop or the ley line’s going to do that for us.”

  “I can help, but it’ll hurt you more.”

  “And after?”

  He makes a face, then clamps his hands down on my arm. I yelp, but the burn’s ache dulls, fades, and finally vanishes as it’s replaced with a gentle numbness. The ley line stumbles when I cut it off and feed the leftover energy into Roark while I have the chance. His shoulders stiffen, but he doesn’t say a word against it or reprimand me like he has in practice. Instead, he turns his pale gaze toward the Seelie, face masked with glamour.

  “They hurt you,” he repeats, lower this time, rough-edged, like the ley line’s power is singeing the edges of his words.

  “No starting a war with drunks,” I hiss back, trying to tug my arm free. How can I prove to him that I’m okay? I can’t let him lose it. Any aggression from him would likely be considered an act of war. “We’re in public. You don’t get to hurt them here.” Wait, a loophole. I add, “Or anywhere else.”

  “They deserve it.”

  I glare down at him, almost too upset to notice he’s still holding on to my arm. Almost.

  “Roark, lift the damn hex already.”

  By now the Seelie are on their knees. Their lips are blue and their eyes turn up imploringly at Roark, who finally releases my arm. The bartender left the shots Roark ordered on the bar before retreating to the opposite end. Roark pushes three of the shots toward the Seelies’ seats.

  His mouth tightens, but he turns to my tormentors. The ley line—and my entire body—relaxes when he lifts his hex. Warmth floods back to our part of the bar and the troublemakers gasp as they gulp down new air. Roark holds out his hand to the ringleader, so regal and polite no one would think he was just choking the life from them. “Cockweb, isn’t it?”

  The Seelie flushes an ugly red. “Cobweb, sir.”

  “Ah, so sorry.” Roark helps him to his feet
and gestures at the shots on the bar. “I must have mistaken you for a daft prick who intended to start a war.”

  Crickets. A fucking chorus of them.

  The three Seelie blanch, gazes darting from Roark’s unblinking stare. Roark lifts his hand, the backs of his fingers tapping gently against my pec, a movement somehow protective and territorial at the same time.

  “After all, Cockweb, that is what would happen if any harm came to Smith.”

  The lead Seelie scowls at the second, deliberate misuse of his name. “Is he under the protection of the Winter Court now? Is he aligned, Prince Lyne?”

  The world grinds to a halt. It’s not that I didn’t see this coming; I just thought I had more time. Since I started at Mathers, I’ve always been pulled or drawn or dragged kicking and screaming into the fae world. I’ve always been tied to the Courts, to the Unseelie in particular, to the man standing beside me who smells of heather and winter.

  Either I choose my side in this war, or it will be chosen for me. Either I decide to go quietly, or I raze the world when it comes to take me. No matter the choice I make, I will lose.

  “No.”

  I start at Roark’s low statement. He’s not a mind reader, yet that word doesn’t seem to be directed at the Seelie. It was too quiet, too controlled, too...gentle. He hasn’t dropped his hand from me.

  “Smith isn’t aligned,” Roark continues, as if he hasn’t caught my full attention. “And he is not under the protection of the Winter Court.”

  The Seelie tense, ready to order Roark to step aside. To avoid a full-on brawl, he’ll have to. I really shouldn’t be this drunk if I’m going to fight three against one, although the adrenaline is sobering me up nicely.

  I lean my head down, enough so I can whisper in Roark’s ear, “It’s fine. I can take them.”

  He ignores me. “Smith isn’t under the Winter Court’s protection,” he repeats. “He’s under mine.”

  In this moment, I hate him. Hate his simple, confident statement said with such conviction that even I believe it. Hate him for making this personal, for claiming me in front of everyone. Hate that the ley line is burning brighter and hotter than any star because those words have simplified the world to the tiniest details: the dark hairline slashing into his pale skin, the barest weight of his fingers against my chest. His claim binds my heart with impossibly light chains, even though there’s no romance to be found in his words.