by M. A. Grant
“Maybe. If she sent Goodfellow for me, it’s serious.”
Roark tries to hide his unease, but I know the lines of his body now. He isn’t as calm as he appears, no matter the glamour he’s employing. He reaches into his pocket and fiddles with something.
He pretends to be composed, but holds himself too tightly for me to touch him the way I want. If I reached out to brush his hair off his forehead, or clasp his neck, or lean into him, the barely tethered misery would be loosed. He’s going to face Mab; he can’t afford such a loss of control. I reach out and brush the backs of my fingers against his.
He lets out a breath. It shudders past his ribs and his shoulders curl in.
“Hey,” I say softly, “it’s you and me here.”
Some of the tension leaches from him. “I know.”
He reaches for me now. The ley line curls against his skin, calming itself as we touch. I trace my fingers down his forearm, sliding over the delicate curve of the bones in his wrist. I rub my thumb over the steady beat of his pulse, wishing I could help him somehow.
“What do you think she wants?” I ask as I circle the inside of his wrist. Slow, steady, over and over.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “Probably something to do with the war preparations. Maybe with Sláine.”
He shuts down, staring at my fingers, still braceleted around his wrist.
“He’s your brother,” I say.
Roark fights something in himself and the battle works its way out, leaving his glamour trembling. “My older brother,” he finally says. “This is all his fault.”
I wait. I can’t help; I’m too stupid and human and mortal to do much. But I can offer him this, a chance to divest himself of this weight before he goes to face his mother.
“Sláine went to the Accords. Instead of ensuring the peace treaty continued, he defected to the Seelie Court without warning. And now I get to clean up his mess.”
His bitterness worries me. “Is it that bad?”
He finally looks up, holds my gaze. “No,” he says. Gathers his resolve. “No. It’ll be fine. I know what I have to do.”
The glamour he wears like armor cracks. His smile’s lopsided, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced. He slides a hand through my hair, leaning in after his touch with closed eyes and a faltering sigh. “Will you be all right? I’ll come back as soon as I can.”
“I’ll be fine. Take however long you need.”
“No. I promised I’d help you at the farm,” he says as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I’ll be there.”
“You don’t know if that’s true.”
He opens his eyes and scowls at me. “I’ll make it true.”
I shake my head. “If your mother called you back to the sídhe, she won’t let you leave to help me. She’ll make you choose, and we both know you’ll do what’s best for the Court.” Roark’s sense of purpose is something I admire, so I ignore the ache of disappointment his leaving causes and do my best to smile. “I get it, Lyne. It’s your job.”
His eyes narrow and his lips peel back from his teeth as he snarls, “For Herne’s sake, trust me, Finn.”
Stepping out of his reach is like defying the pull of gravity. But I do it. Let my hands fall. We watch each other in that charged silence.
My mouth’s dry, my throat tight. “I do. I do trust you. Just...don’t make promises you can’t keep.” Don’t give me false hope.
Roark understands what it means to carry an unwanted burden, when it’s easier to abandon it or break under it. Allowing myself to rely on him, to share my weaknesses without doubting his intentions, is like reaching out for him when I channel the ley line.
And, as always, he’s already waiting to reach back to me. “I don’t.”
I shudder when he clasps my face in his hands and rests his forehead against mine. “Finn,” he whispers, “I won’t let you down. Wait for me. I’ll be there.”
His kiss is gentle and aches with something too fragile to say. And then there’s nothing but cold and wind and the door closing behind him.
Roark
Mother’s waiting when I arrive at the sídhe. She sweeps a hand toward me and one of her redcaps hurries to collect my bag.
“What happened?” I ask her, peeling my suit jacket off and tossing it to her lackey. “Goodfellow said I was needed immediately.”
“Lugh brought us a present.”
“What was it this time? A deer’s head?”
“Far more useful. A Seelie who was cast away by Titania this morning. The Hunt found him. Lugh thought we could coax him into telling us news of Sláine.”
“You mean Keiran thought he could be useful to us,” I correct. Lugh’s lieutenant of the Wild Hunt and personal bodyguard is the only level head in the group. Thank the Goddess Lugh listens to his advice.
Mother shakes her head and turns left down the hallway leading past our training rooms. The thick carpet running the length of the space muffles the click of her heels. Servants clear a path, bowing as she passes.
“No. Keiran was prepared to behead him and leave him there as a message for other Seelie who wandered too far from their sídhe. It was Lugh who stayed his hand.”
Her news shocks me. My younger brother is impetuous, headstrong, and rarely concerned with matters of the Court. Yet, he halted his revelries to bring us a prisoner who may know how to bring our oldest brother home. Blood will win out, it seems.
“Impressive. Where is the prisoner now?” I ask, trailing after her as we wind our way down narrower and narrower halls. The temperature drops. The walls that are normally decorated with paintings and tapestries become more and more barren, until nothing but roots and moss and dripping water decorate them.
“Chained and awaiting our ministrations.” Her lips purse and she taps her finger against her chin. “The green room, I believe.”
How unfortunate. Perhaps Bridget can bring me a change of clothes. The green room has better equipment, but a higher likelihood of bodily fluids spilt as a result.
“I didn’t interrupt your evening, did I?” she asks.
The question is sweetly innocent and I know without doubt that Goodfellow fed her every tiny detail he could about Smith. So I play along. “Of course not, Mother. I am your humble servant.”
She gives a delicate sniff. “Humble? Really, Roark, there’s no need to overdo it.”
“If you’re eager for news of any nonexistent developments in my relationship with Smith, you could simply ask.”
“I prefer when both parties are interested in the conversation. Soliloquies are vulgar.”
“I’ll remember that.”
She clearly was unwilling to take risks with her new prisoner. The six redcaps guarding the entrance of the green room straighten as we approach. Nickgut, one of Mother’s most loyal attendants, steps forward. “As requested, no one has entered the chamber, Your Majesty.”
“Excellent.” Mother turns to me. “How would you like to proceed, darling?”
“Let me try talking to him,” I say. “When it fails, you can take over. Hopefully it’ll spare you having to ask him the same questions again and again, since he’ll already be very clear on what we want to know.”
The quaking I conceal behind my glamour stops when she nods. I was afraid she would press for me to take a more active role in the torture. I used to be better than she was at coaxing out answers. But since I freed Smith years ago, my hand shakes so badly when I pick up a knife that I can’t even cut a straight line. Now I rely on my brains and magick alone.
“Send Nickgut when you need me,” she says, already walking away.
I motion and another redcap unlocks the door and pushes it open for me.
The faerie chained to the wall whimpers when I walk in. There’s no point in a dramatic entrance. I’ve spent centuries cultivating my reputation. It serves as another weapon in my arsenal.
I adjust my sleeves one last time and snap my fingers. A redcap hurries in and grabs th
e chair I point at, dragging it over for me to straddle as I watch the prisoner. At first, he tries to avoid looking at me. I wait. They all start this way, praying that courtesy and respect will win them my favor. It never works.
Nothing but the sound of his harsh breathing and the drip of water down the walls. He’s older than I expected, cheeks hollowed, hair lank. He may have been cast out by the Court this morning, but his punishment extended further back. That’s a boon to us. Hopefully his loyalty has already worn thin.
“You know who I am?” I ask, once he can’t take his eyes off of me.
“P-Prince Lyne,” he stammers.
“Let me be frank. I’m on a deadline this weekend and don’t have time to play games.” He whimpers, but I ignore it. “I will ask you five questions. You will answer them. Mercy will be shown for your honesty. Lies, disrespect, or a refusal to share your knowledge will be met with a great deal of pain. Do you understand?”
I receive a broken sob in answer.
“Good. Have you been forbidden to return to your Court?”
His lip quivers. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“Did you serve Queen Titania before this exile?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
I raise a brow and lift my hand, gesturing for him to expand on the answer.
He swallows hard, but obeys. “I was one of her private gardeners, Your Highness.”
“Were you privy to the affairs of the Seelie High Court?”
His shoulders shake. This answer takes longer, but after a few breaths, he admits, “Yes, Your Highness.”
“Where is my elder brother Sláine being held?”
“I...I can’t...”
The blast of wind I slam into him steals the scream from his lungs. I grasp his hand in mine, tightening my grip around the delicate bones until I feel them slide from the pressure, and then force my winter magick into them. He thrashes against his bonds as the tiny ice shards work their way under his nails, through his skin, into the joints, freezing and blackening everything they touch.
I wait for his renewed screams to die to exhausted weeping before I lean in with a smile. “I’m curious. Do you value your life?”
Another tiny push and the shards work up his arm, seeking out the vein leading to his frantically beating heart. He shrieks again, a desperate, high-pitched “Yes!”
I release him and fight the urge to wipe my hand on my slacks. The black lines of frostbite slow their progression up his arm, although his hand is a shriveled, burned husk of its former self.
I keep my voice light. “I will repeat my question, then. Where is my elder brother Sláine being held?”
Nothing. He rocks back and forth, lips moving in a silent argument with himself. I wait. Then I pull out my watch. It’s my talisman, a physical reminder of the promise I made to Smith. Time passes differently in the sídhe, but it can’t affect the iron in this timepiece. It’ll keep me on schedule. Minutes tick by, precious moments I need if I hope to get back to Smith in time.
I click the lid shut and stand. “Very well. You refuse to share your knowledge.”
He pleads with my back, promising me anything his desperate mind can think of. I return to the door and knock twice, a signal that I want to speak with one of the guards.
“Yes, Prince Lyne?”
“Fetch me a cup of tea, Nickgut. And please tell Mother it’ll be at least an hour before I’ll need her. I only got to question four.”
The redcap bows to me, so low that blood sloshes from his hat onto the ground. “Of course, Your Highness.”
Business concluded, I turn back to the prisoner. His pale green skin is pasty from fear.
I stretch, rolling my head from side to side, flexing my shoulders and releasing them. I whisper the words of the hex and smile when ice traps his legs and crawls higher. When it reaches his stomach, I wave a hand and the ice changes direction, crawling inward instead of upward.
“Let’s start again, shall we?” I ask, returning to my chair. “This time, we’ll see if you can answer all my questions before I manage to find your liver. Have you been forbidden to return to your Court?”
Chapter Seventeen
Phineas
Friday morning and campus is abuzz with rumors that war councils have convened in both Courts. All the Seelie have left campus. Unseelie whisper about their parents being given orders to return to the sídhe. Gumba and Sebastian are unusually dour.
No one mentions Roark.
I go through the motions in my classes. They’re fairly quiet, with the fae either absent or trying their best to be invisible. That night, I pack my bag for the weekend while my friends watch a movie and eat pizza. They make sure to hug me and say goodbye when they leave. Sebastian tells me to call if Monday’s traveling spell back to the school doesn’t work and I need a ride to the apartment. Gumba programs Roark’s number into my phone.
He chuckles when I can’t bring myself to delete it.
Saturday morning, I break the seal on the bottle storing the potion for the first half of the traveling spell. Professor Liddel walked me through it weeks ago when I put the request form in to the university’s transportation department. Keeping his warning in mind about the smell, I plug my nose, press the bottle’s mouth to my lips, throw it back, and think of home.
There’s a deafening noise and the world spins by like a sped-up country fair ride. The ground shakes under my feet and I wonder if the spell will keep working if I hurl up the potion and—
A fence post collides with my elbow. I swear and stumble away, blinking to clear the triplicate from my sight. My mouth tastes like burnt rubber and stale airline pretzels and the air around me feels charred somehow, like I came through it so quickly I left some kind of scorch mark in my wake.
Sweet mother of the Blue Angels, maybe springing for a plane ticket back would be safer.
The aftershocks fade quickly and the ley line squirms in glee at the fields spreading out in front of me. I know this place. Love it. I’m home.
I hike my bag higher on my shoulder and take a wobbly step toward the dirt road on my right. It’s not far to the house, maybe half a mile. The breeze gusts around me, rustling the pods of soybeans making up this year’s crop.
When I hit the base of the driveway, I cup both hands around my mouth and bellow a hello. For a moment, nothing. Then the screen door of the house opens and my mother steps onto the porch, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She starts laughing and rushes down the steps toward me.
“Finny! You got here so early!”
My mother’s hugs are one part sugar, six parts steel. She’s never the first to let go. I can’t bear to let her go either, not when I know this could be my last time home unless we make enough from this harvest to save the farm.
My father breaks up the reunion. He emerges from the house, tips back his baseball hat, and grins at me. “Just in time,” he says.
“I figured you’d need some help,” I say. He claps me on the back and walks me and my mother toward the house.
It’s not fancy. The screen door sticks and you have to haul on it to get it open. The kitchen’s cramped with the dining room table in it, but Mom refuses to let us eat dinner anywhere else. The stairs to the second story creak, and I still bump my head on the doorway into my room unless I remember to duck.
They’ve started packing. It probably wouldn’t be noticeable to anyone else, but this is my home. I have the shadows and dust motes memorized. A picture taken down here, a set of books missing there. Small pieces of furniture moved or gone.
My room is mostly untouched, but the stack of cardboard moving boxes peeking out of my closet reminds me that soon this space will also be neatly put away.
I have no intention of letting that happen.
“Finny?” my mother calls from downstairs. “Do you want waffles?”
I manage to eat four and have to wave off a fifth so I can finish the sausage links she cooked. My dad shakes his head and grimaces when I clean my plate and
lean back in my chair, hands resting on my stomach.
“You still eat like a horse,” he comments.
“I know how long we’ll be out there today. How’s it looking?”
He takes a swig of his coffee and watches my mother’s hips sway as she cleans her counter. “It’s going to be tight,” he admits. “Not much rain lately, so I don’t think we need to worry about mold or sprouting. But it was dry when they flowered. Vick said he wasn’t seeing many beans per pod when he last checked.”
“Hopefully we have better luck.”
My mother swoops in, prepared to take our plates, but I beat her to it. “Sit down, Mom. I know where the sink is.”
She rolls her eyes and promptly ignores me. Instead of relaxing, she refills my dad’s coffee. Once I’m back at the table, she joins us. My dad always says he knows where I get my stubborn streak from. Quiet rebellions, he likes to call it. My mom’s the master of them.
“How’s school?” she asks. She loves hearing about my classes and the new magickal spells I’m learning, even if I never quite confess how badly I do with them, or their catastrophic physical toll.
“Good,” I say. “On track to graduate in June.”
“With a master’s degree. I’m so proud, honey. And your friends? Those nice roommates of yours?”
Dammit, I really wish I had a bit of Roark’s glamour right now, anything to hide my blush.
Of course, she notices. “Finny?”
“They’re fine.” I play with the seam of the tablecloth. “Actually, one of them may be coming to visit this weekend. If he can make it.”
“Which one?” my dad asks, his voice getting the edge of a growl.
I swallow. “Roark.”
God bless them, they don’t launch into a lecture. My dad takes a sip of coffee. My mom blinks a few times, but recovers faster.
“He’s the...prince?”
“Yes.”
“The one you said you were getting along better with?”
My ears are about to go up in flames. “Yes, Mom.”
“Did you invite him to visit?”
Why did I clear my dishes? There’s nowhere to look except my lap or the empty table or my parents’ faces.