by M. A. Grant
What should we do? the ley line asks. It’s so impatient.
Roark’s ghost sits beside me, whispering, “Wait for me.”
Wait for him to destroy my trust. Wait for him while he carves into another fae’s flesh to prove he deserves to carry his mother’s title. Wait for him while he transforms completely into Mab’s Prince of Air and Darkness.
The ley line expands, filling that empty space behind my ribs. We will transform, too. We will multiply.
Yes. Focus, Finny. Pods heavy with beans, the look of joy on my parents’ faces when our crops double.
The image shifts against my will, rippling until it’s Roark there, pride in his eyes when I tell him of my success.
A twinge in my chest.
He isn’t here.
He lied.
He made his choice, and it wasn’t me.
I think I understand now why people melt into the ley line, let it burn them out of existence. The pain stops.
But life must go on. Without him, without me, it doesn’t matter. It must go on.
I focus on that thought, feeding it in an endless loop to the ley line, until it scorches every atom of my being. I tip my head back, digging my fingers into the earth, and release the energy. It cuts its way out, a sharper burn than Queen Mab’s ice knife ever caused. Around me, the world echoes its passing.
I pull out my phone and text Roark. I tried.
I sit in that damn field until the sun shows its face and the energy of the ley line burrows itself wholly into this section of the crop. Once that hum vanishes, I stand, brush dust and chaff off my pants, and head back toward the house.
I’m nearly there when the reality of what I’ve done hits me. I’m not sure how long it will take the ley line to do its work. I’m not sure if I was successful. All I know is that I feel empty and drained, and it has nothing to do with the magick I used.
I don’t want to go back to the house to face my parents yet. So I let my feet lead me to a familiar tree and sit down beneath it.
Mom must have seen me from the kitchen window because she joins me a short time later, when the sun slants its rays over the fields. I can’t feel the ley line, haven’t since I forced it to obey me earlier. I didn’t push myself too far this morning, but now I worry that’s a sign of my failure. Maybe the price to save this land for my parents was higher than what I actually paid. Maybe I’ve only made things worse.
“You’re up early,” she says.
“Couldn’t sleep.” It’s not a complete lie. I get to my feet and ignore the way the dew has soaked into my pants.
“I’m still not sure why you came up here to think instead of sitting on the couch like you normally do.” She wraps her jacket tighter around her and looks over the small memorials at the base of the tree. She’s laid out fresh sunflowers, and the pop of yellow against the grass makes this place look happy instead of sad.
“It made sense at the time.”
She bends down and straightens one of the flowers leaning against a cross. Once she’s content, she rises and takes my hand in hers. We look down at our family history in silence.
Markers for lives lost too early. Markers for hopes and dreams taken away from those who deserved them most. Markers of the bitterest grief, a grief I can barely understand even though it haunts my parents still. I could have been any of them. Instead, I stand here beside my mother and her ghosts, thinking of balance and cost and the price of being another cross on a hill.
“You know, we almost lost you,” she says quietly.
In all my years of hearing their story, this was never part of it.
“Really?” I glance over at her, surprised to meet her steady gaze.
“We had tried so many times before and when this pregnancy took, it seemed like a miracle. We waited five months before we told anyone. The day we told your grandparents that a baby was finally coming, your father went to the store. He came back hours later with safety locks for the cabinets and a miniature football. No diapers, no wipes, no clothes. I’ve never seen him so proud.”
Her hand trembles and I rub my thumb over her knuckles in silent encouragement. “A week later, I started bleeding. Finny, I’ve never been so scared. They said you weren’t in distress, but they couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Four days in the hospital, in the middle of planting, and your father running himself ragged here before driving back to town to spend the night in my hospital room. But you held on. And when your father brought us home and turned down our road, you started kicking and pushing. You’d never done that before. You were part of this farm before we ever met you.”
She looks around us, taking in the fields and the house. The lights are on, so Dad must be moving around now. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you sooner. We needed to get our heads on straight and before we knew it, you were back at school and it didn’t seem the right time. I suppose there’s never a right time for bad news.”
I can make out my dad’s shape stepping off the back porch. He looks around before finding us and Mom raises a hand to him.
“How’s he handling it?” I ask, watching Dad make his way up the hill with long, easy strides. He’s steady and strong, but I can’t remember a moment of my life when he hasn’t been moving or working. The thought of him giving this place up and renting an apartment in town is impossible to imagine.
“He keeps busy. We both do.” Even after all the years of their marriage, my mom’s eyes light up at the sight of my dad.
He joins us and pats my back twice before wrapping an arm around Mom. If he’s confused to find us out here, he doesn’t act it. Instead, he buries his nose in Mom’s hair and mumbles, “What’s going on?”
She plays with one of the buttons on his flannel shirt. “We were talking about what’s coming. Better to face it now.”
“It’ll be fine, Phineas,” he says gruffly. “Even if we lose this place, we still have you.”
For now.
“We’re proud of you. I know things haven’t been easy and we sure as hell haven’t known how to help with all your...” he waves a hand in my general direction “...magick stuff, but you’ve worked hard and it’ll pay off for you soon.”
Or it could kill me first. My mother said it so perfectly. There’s never a right time for bad news.
The fine trembling in my hands spreads, quaking through my chest and stomach and down into my legs. If I don’t tell them now, will I get another chance? The next attack against me, planned or not, could push me past my limits.
“I needed to talk to you about that.” I wince the moment I say it, but it was so quiet, Dad doesn’t even hear. Mom does.
“Oh? What’s going on, honey?”
“What if my magick has a cost?”
Of course Dad hears that. He frowns. “What kind of cost are we talking about?”
Swallowing hurts. Looking over to see their worried expressions would hurt more. “A pretty high one,” I admit, voice only cracking a little.
“Have you discussed this with anyone at school? Can they do anything to stop it?”
“It doesn’t work like that, Dad. The ley line is part of me. Even if I’m not trying to use its power, I still sense it.”
“But you can stop using it?”
“I don’t know. No one knows. Everyone else who had this power died before they could tell anyone.”
“Died?”
Fuck. Dad’s jaw is clenched and his arm around Mom has tightened, probably to help her stay upright. She’s paler than I’ve seen and she clutches Dad’s shirt so hard it’s twisting at his collarbone.
I hold up my hands, cursing myself and wishing I could take it back. “It’s not that bad. I’ve already lived way past the life expectancy for a host, so clearly I’m doing something right. And I’m getting better at using it without any side effects, so—”
“How long?” The brittle fury in Mom’s voice stops my excuses. “How long have you known?”
“Sophomore year?” A light breeze ripples through th
e leaves of the tree and sends the fields fluttering. I watch the movement and swallow hard. Hopefully her anger isn’t directed at me. “I mean, I’d read about it freshman year but it didn’t really sink in for a while.”
Of all their reactions to the news, the sight of my mom walking away from us is the least expected. I start after her, but Dad grabs hold of my arm and shakes his head. “Let her go. This is...” He shudders, but doesn’t release me. “You’ve given us a lot to take in.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Halfway down the hill, she stops. Even this far away, I can see her shoulders heaving.
“Why wouldn’t you tell us?” It’s a broken question and the tears in his eyes mirror my own. “Phineas, you should have told us.”
“I didn’t know how to choose,” I admit. I dash away the tears threatening to spill over my lashes. “I don’t want to hurt you, but that means giving up my magick, which I’m not sure I can do. Not that it matters now. I’ve fucked this all up.”
He smacks the back of my head, but it’s too soft to do anything except grab my attention.
“Stop that. We’ll figure this out.” He drags me into a rib-crushing hug and the safety of his embrace makes the ache in my chest settle deeper. “We’ll figure this out,” he repeats and I nod, pretending not to hear his voice waver.
Chapter Eighteen
Roark
They broke my watch.
The black blood flowing down my right arm leaves a trail in my wake. Lugh urges me to go to the healer. Behind us, Keiran’s deep bass recounts the entire clusterfuck in detail to Nickgut, who arrived to tell us to meet Mother in the throne room. Hobs follow the Hunt, scooping up discarded weapons and armor. Bridget, her face set in stone, circles me like a shark sensing a struggle in the water. Her dexterous fingers undo the clasps of my armor.
She removes the pauldron and a new spurt of warm blood escapes. It was a lucky strike. The dagger angled itself under that plate and dug into my shoulder. Bridget pauses over the clasp of the breastplate, her eyes tracking the wet darkening of my sleeve.
“By Herne,” I growl, “just do it.”
She obeys. The world goes white and my younger brother steadies me as all my strength gushes out of that wound. Silence buzzes in my head. A deep breath. The spinning stops. Another breath. Grey shadows right themselves. I stalk out of Lugh’s grasp, regaining my earlier pace.
We were ambushed by the Seelie and they broke my watch.
I have no idea what day it is.
“Roark, you’re bleeding,” Lugh reminds me again.
“Report to Mother,” I order.
“You were stabbed. Your shoulder needs attention—”
I ignore him. I don’t have time to argue. I don’t have time for any of this.
They think it’s my shoulder that made me hunch over my horse’s back on our miserable ride back. That the pain from the injury is what left me screaming into the mane. That some kind of poison pushed me to ride my steed to the cusp of death to return to the sídhe.
They can believe whatever the hell they choose. I have no intention of telling them the truth. The pain of a promise broken, of magickal bindings turning on their speaker, is an exquisite agony only the sufferer can appreciate.
And that can’t hold a candle to the knowledge that Finn’s out there, hurting, and I couldn’t get to him in time.
“Roark Tahm Lyne.”
The rest of the retinue freezes when my mother calls my name. She waits at the entrance of her throne room, a terrifying vision of ice and shadow.
“It was a trap,” I announce, tightening my grip around the shattered timepiece in my left hand. “He wasn’t there.”
“You’re injured. I have healers waiting.” She gestures toward the privacy of her throne room. “Come.”
I feel the pressure of that command, the sticky webbing of the magick she infused into the word. In my hand, broken iron wheels sit frozen in time. Choices, choices.
“Lugh and Keiran will explain,” I say as I pass.
I’ll suffer for that slight. But I’ll suffer later. That’s all that matters. Only Bridget follows me to my chambers.
Safe in the privacy of my rooms, I finish stripping. After this many centuries with me, Bridget doesn’t have any delicate sensibilities left. A rush of water sounds from behind the screen hiding my copper tub.
“No,” I call, trying to dig clothes out of my bag one-handed. “No time.”
She emerges around the screen, scowling. The rush of water doesn’t slow. “You’re covered in blood. Yours and Seelie. We’ll make it quick.”
“I need to go.”
“You will do no good leaking through your shirt and looking like you just rode through the Wylds. Bathe. I’ll set out your clothes. Once you’re bandaged, no one will stand in your way.”
She doesn’t make me give her the watch. Not that I would have if she asked. I hold it up out of the water with my uninjured arm.
The herbs she sprinkled in the water make my shoulder spasm as the flesh begins to knit itself back together. The wound was deep and it’ll take time before it fully heals, even for a faerie of my power.
She tsks when I rise unsteadily from the water, but helps me dry off and wraps me in another fresh towel before she sits me in a chair. She packs the wound with one of her herbal concoctions and wraps it quickly. She orders me to stay there and begins putting away the bath supplies.
With her distracted, I return to my task. She hasn’t put out my clothes yet, but there’s a stack of things at the top of my bag. I tug on my boxers and jeans. The shirt seems impossible. Bridget overlooks my snarling and discards the tee shirt in favor of one of my button-down flannels from my closet. Although it requires less movement to get on, I’m still sweaty and shaking by the time we finish.
“I need to go,” I keep repeating the entire time.
She ignores me as I ignored my mother and gets me to slip my feet into my boots.
“My phone,” I demand.
She puts it in my hand. “I turned it off so it wouldn’t run down while you were gone. Where do you need to go, young master? Shall I prepare an exit from the sídhe for you?”
“No.” I’m already at the door. “I know where I’m going. I’ll do it.”
I forced Smith to give me directions, but I don’t really need them. My power roils under my skin, ready to explode outward, and the sídhe responds instinctively. I close my eyes and focus on the fine details of the picture Smith gave me. The picture I memorized because I stared at it so often. Then I reach out with my glamour and ask the sídhe to take me there.
The ground shivers beneath me. Warm sunlight pierces through my eyelids and I blink, spinning around slowly to make sure I arrived in the correct place.
There’s the hill. The white farmhouse. The fields, although they’re partially harvested already. No machines running. Hopefully I got here in time for their meal break.
My shoulder hurts too much for me to run on the dirt road angling its way up to the house, but I walk as quickly as I can manage. Each step I take soothes that deeper, invisible wound, reminds me that I’m a step closer to making up my broken promise to Finn.
I’m not sure what to do when I’m finally in sight of the house. Do I call out? Go to the door and knock? Should I try texting Finn?
A light breeze buffets the back of my neck and I shiver as it cools the sweat there. I probably look like hell. A hint of glamour, just enough to save my pride. Maybe Smith will give me a quick hit of the ley line. Where is he? I reach out, but don’t sense him.
Odd.
I pull out my phone and turn it on, but before the home screen appears, the door to the house opens and a woman steps onto the porch.
She’s shorter than me. Curvy. My heart skips a beat when I notice she has Finn’s blonde hair and impossibly warm smile. She gives me a little wave. I return it, careful to use my good arm, wondering why she’s the only one here greeting me.
“You must be Roark,” she says whe
n I’m nearly to the steps. She laughs at my surprise. “Finny’s told us a lot about you.”
“He has?”
“Of course. I’m Rose.”
Once I’m on the porch, she reaches for me a little cautiously and wraps me in a hug. I squeeze her back as gently as I can, careful not to jostle my shoulder. Glamour covers a lot, but it struggles to hide dripping blood. She releases me once she feels me straightening.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asks, already on her way inside.
It only seems appropriate to pause on the threshold. This is Finn’s home. This is the place that shaped him into the man I love. Crossing through its doorway reminds me of the song the bard once sang in our court, about the knight reaching for the cup and finding heaven in his grasp. A moment of transcendence. And when I step into the house, that holy dark drowns me.
I drink it in. The bones of this house proudly boast of its inhabitants living here. Appearances be damned, this is a place where joys and sorrows fill the rafters to bursting. The paint on the walls has faded a little, but the colors aren’t muted. They’ve settled comfortably into the open rooms. A few boxes are stacked in corners, probably holding whatever used to be on the empty shelves. Smith didn’t mention they were moving, though... Perhaps they’re redecorating?
“What would you like?”
I turn to my right, where his mother’s voice drifts from what I assume is the kitchen. It’s a small space, packed to the gills with pots and pans and cooking supplies and handmade curtains which hide the old shelving. I should take off my shoes.
Rose commands this space with the same grace of my mother on her throne. Holding a glass in her hand and watching me expectantly from her place near the fridge, I have the strange urge to bow to her.
“Anything is fine,” I hear myself say.
Her nose wrinkles. “That’s not an answer. We have water, pop, iced tea—”
“Water, please.”
She nods as if my answer pleases her and pours me a glass, dropping in a few ice cubes. She motions for me to sit at the table. The wood is worn, scratched and pocked, but lovingly cleaned and shined despite its flaws.