Prince of Air and Darkness

by M. A. Grant

Mab doesn’t salivate as I expect her to. She remains coolly indifferent; she could be explaining how clouds are formed or why two plus two equals four. “The Knight is an extension of my power. My sword, if you will. He supports the best interests of the Winter Court. He protects me and my sons for as long as we need him, or until he is defeated in battle.”

  The ley line snickers at the very thought that we could be destroyed while my heart catches on the simple phrase for as long as we need him. “Immortality?” I whisper.

  “As near to it as our people can be,” she says. She looks pensive when she adds, “Not true immortality, but an extension.”

  Years steeling myself for the end. Years of approaching life with militant optimism because it was too short for bitterness. Now, lifetimes lie before me, mine for the taking. And Roark beside me in all of them.

  Mab works her way through the better half of a pomegranate before I can bring myself to speak again. “The Knight retains his free will?” I ask.

  Her lips purse, but she gives a cautious nod. “If he asks.”

  “Your Knight could argue against your commands? Disobey you if given a bad order?”

  A swift, cool breeze makes the candles on the table flicker. “Although I would wish obedience of all my servants, there are times that call for a voice of dissension. As long as lines are not overstepped without due cause. And there are always consequences,” she adds.

  “You knew Roark would question you.”

  She sighs. “It seems his nature.”

  “And you were still going to have him take on the mantle?”

  Her glamour snaps back into place. Too bad. I wish I could see what emotions are actually hidden in those dark eyes. “Again, I have little choice.”

  “What if you took me instead?”

  I start coughing when the temperature of the room plummets. Mab is so still in her chair I worry she’s turned into an ice sculpture. The ley line shrugs itself over me like a blanket and the air stops freezing in my lungs. Once breathing doesn’t hurt, I remind her, “You offered me the position once. If I took it now, would you be able to grant Roark’s freedom?”

  “Yes,” she purrs and the hairs on my arms rise at the power that roils under that single word.

  “Fine. I’ll take the oath whenever you want in exchange for Roark’s freedom.” I point at her and the ley line rumbles softly at my back. “He faces no repercussions for my actions and you swear to never interfere in our relationship.”

  For a heartbeat, I think she’ll turn me down. She’s too still, a snake before it strikes. I can’t help jerking when she reaches for her goblet.

  She smiles as she takes a sip of her drink. “Done.”

  * * *

  Turns out, becoming the Winter Knight isn’t just repeating a bunch of arcane words. The instant Mab and I came to a settlement and decided that I would take the oath the next night during the festival of Samhain, I was whisked away by servants. They took me to a room near the smithy—apparently the Unseelie have a full smithy in their sídhe—where I was measured and remeasured for ceremonial armor. Once that was completed, I was sent back to the living quarters. Mab must have given orders for me to be installed in my own set of rooms, since the hobs and redcaps escorting me refused to show me to Roark’s chambers.

  I channeled the ley line and let its energy burn over my skin in golden flames while I dared them to manhandle me to my new destination. At that point, they caved and called Bridget. She chuckled at the sight of my tantrum, but took me back to Roark, quizzing me on how to return so I could find my way in the future. He was still asleep, so I curled up beside him in the bed. I didn’t dream at all.

  This morning, Bridget reappeared and had me bathe again. Maybe I’m imagining it, but she doesn’t seem to dislike me as much as I thought. She found a friendly redcap to escort me back down to the smithy to try on my armor. It took a few hours for them to finish adjusting everything, but I have the afternoon free to stay with Roark before heading to the throne room for the official ceremony. Since he’s still resting, sneaking in is the best option.

  Which is easier said than done, since walking in armor is impossible to do silently.

  I close the door behind me, but cringe when the clanking continues even after I freeze. “For the love of God, how the fuck does she expect me to sneak up on anyone?”

  “She doesn’t,” comes the wry response from the shadowy corner where the bed is. “She probably expects you to burn her enemies to a crisp.”

  My mouth goes dry and my heart spasms so painfully I actually raise my hand to press it against my chest, which fills the air with a god-awful din. “Roark? You’re awake?”

  “As if I could sleep through your entrance. Practicing your promenade before you officially take on the mantle?” he asks drily as he rises from the bed, clutching a sheet around his hips while he peruses my new outfit. “Bridget caught me up.”

  The longer he stares, the tighter his jaw becomes. This was the outcome he’d fought so hard to avoid and now I’ve waltzed into his room, flaunting his failure in his face. The chest plate of my armor is a freaking billboard of my allegiance. The Unseelie seal, the skeletal branches of a tree done in some kind of obsidian, stretches over the pale metal like a grasping hand. And then there’s the rest of it, the pale, frosted links of chain mail falling to mid-thigh, the blue-and-silver gambeson hitting my knees, the vambraces and greaves etched with the hoarfrost pattern that declares my place in the Winter Court.

  The spaulders encasing my shoulders were the only pieces not fully detailed when I’d arrived in the smithy. I managed to talk the blacksmith into giving them a pattern of feathers instead of hoarfrost. It was worth the battle of wills because when Roark notices that touch, he swallows hard. I wonder what he’ll say when he learns I’ve requested my non-ceremonial battle armor be made up in the same raven pattern as his.

  He takes a tentative step toward me and the fire and candle light falls fully over him. His skin may be healed, but he moves with the caution of a man who fears his body will give out on him. It shows in his face. The skin around his eyes is tight, and every now and then, the corner of his mouth twitches as he tries to contain a wince. I know the ley line healed his injuries, but I doubt the aches and pains will vanish as quickly. That kind of damage always leaves some kind of mark, even if it’s invisible to the naked eye.

  Worse, I sense his glamour guttering as he tries to maintain his hold over it.

  “Hey,” I say quietly. When he raises his gaze to mine, I hold up my hands, trying to soothe him even though he’s so angry with me he can’t speak. “It’s you and me here.”

  When he hears those words, the same I’d said so long ago in our apartment before the world went to shit, he gives a low huff and shakes his head. His glamour shivers and drops and, as that strain leaves, his body relaxes.

  Something tries to burst its way out of my chest. Roark with glamour is handsome. But until now, when he’s too exhausted to maintain his mask, I never realized how masterfully he wielded it. It gave his face sharper lines, the black of his hair more intensity. The Roark standing in front of me shouldn’t look so different.

  Except, his mouth is softer. His cheekbones are high and arched, but no longer capable of cutting glass. His midnight hair has lost the blue-and-purple sheen, replaced with warm, auburn undertones that remind me of a perfect bed of campfire coals. The only thing that remains the same is the damn color of his eyes.

  I must be looking too long at him because he drums his fingers against his leg and some stiffness returns to his spine and shoulders. He seems almost nervous for me to see him like this.

  This real him.

  It’s like staring at the sun. Blinding. It burns itself into my memory because something whispers I won’t be capable of staring at it for too long.

  “Stop,” he snaps.

  “Stop what?” Even his frown can’t keep me from grinning when I think that I am the only person who gets to see him like this. No m
atter how angry he is, I doubt he’s ever let his guard down this much for anyone else.

  He points at me and the metal of my chest plate becomes uncomfortably cold when real frost begins to curl over its surface. “You are a fucking idiot,” he says. “The Knighthood, Finn?”

  “Yes, Roark, the Knighthood. It’s not a big deal. Ouch!” I swear and rip at the clasps holding the vambraces on. They fall to the floor where the thick layer of ice coating the metal shatters and skitters its way across the stones like broken glass.

  “How is this not a big deal?” he asks, trying to sound cold and regal, but not quite managing to hide the tremble in his words. “All I have ever wanted was for you to be free and in the few hours I’ve been unconscious, you’ve managed to throw my carefully laid plan to hell.”

  “In the few days,” I correct. “You were kidnapped and tortured and I found you and brought you back here.”

  “I remember being tortured,” he growls. “And I vaguely remember thinking I had lost my mind because there was no way you could have found me there. Not without—”

  Moments when I manage to surprise Roark are few and far between, so I can’t help preening a bit when he rears back. Confused, he stretches out a hand and his glamour sails toward me. The ley line instantly rises and rushes back to meet it.

  “How?” he whispers when our magicks meet. “You walked away and refused it.”

  “That doesn’t mean it stopped being there.” I shrug at his incredulity. “You’d been kidnapped and I had to find you. And once you were back here, I had to know you’d be safe from anything like that ever happening again, so I made a deal with your mom.”

  “At what cost?” He must have been saving up his energy for this explosion.

  I yelp when the spaulders and chest plate freeze over, channeling the ley line to keep the ice from spreading down to my skin while I fight to get the armor off. When it finally falls to the floor, I glare at Roark. “Knock it off, Lyne. I don’t go around melting your shit, so you don’t get to go around freezing mine.”

  The air around him sparkles with frozen motes of dust and water particles. Even though he looks about ready to keel over, I’m kind of wishing I’d kept my frozen armor on in case he decides to try to spear me with ice like he did that stupid kraken.

  “What did you do?” he bellows and his voice cracks in the middle of the question.

  He has to step back to the bed because he can’t stand anymore and when I try to reach for him, he holds his hand up in warning, like he’s holding his rapier even though he’s too weak to summon it. When he repeats the question, it’s little more than a broken whimper. “What did you do?”

  “I did what was necessary. I did what I wanted to do, no thanks to your damn spell. Every choice made was mine, and fuck you for thinking otherwise. Bridget likes me now and she will not hesitate to help me get my own chambers if you’re going to keep acting like a—”

  “Miserable bastard?” he interrupts with a wan smile.

  The tiny spark of hope nestled behind my ribs catches and I grin back. “Your words, not mine.”

  “I don’t understand...” He runs a hand through his hair, but he doesn’t try to warn me off when I move closer. “How could you want this?”

  “You mean an eternity fighting at the side of the man I love instead of letting my magick burn me out after a few years living in quiet desperation? You’re right. Seems like hell now that I’m thinking about it.” I turn and head for the door. “Guess I should go tell your mom I want out of the deal—”

  Roark reaches out and snags hold of my elbow. “You’re such a pain,” he grumbles, but he doesn’t let go.

  I’m about to ask if I’m allowed to sit down when he asks, “Finn?”

  The sound of my name from his lips is heaven. “What?”

  His focus rests solely on the palm of his left hand. “You love me?”

  The easiest question I’ve ever had to answer. “Yeah, Roark, I do.”

  He glances up, back ramrod-straight, staring at me with some undefinable expression. I shuffle my feet, still trapped by his grip, wondering how long we’re going to watch each other. When I can’t stand it any longer, I blurt out, “Do you have anything to say about that?”

  He tugs on my arm. “Shut up and come to bed.”

  Later, our bodies spent and relaxed, he helps me get dressed again. Over my chest plate, we argue whether he actually needs to come to the ceremony. I want him to rest. He wants to be there to defend me if I need it, even though I tell him I can shake and bake anyone who looks at me the wrong way. I’m pressing my suit when he brings my ear closer to his mouth and whispers a promise of what will happen immediately after the ceremony if he gets to go. I’m too distracted to argue further and obey him wordlessly when he walks out, leaving me nothing more than the order to finish getting dressed.

  I’m tightening my greaves when he steps back into the room, impeccably dressed in a jet-black suit. I love him so much it hurts. Every time I don’t think it’s possible for that emotion to dig in deeper, it does.

  “Sorry,” he apologizes. “Scrying with Mother took some time.”

  “Why were you talking with her?”

  “I had a few questions about tonight’s ceremony and I didn’t want to waste my energy walking to her chambers.”

  “Hopefully it won’t take too long. I stand there in this tin can and say some words.”

  He rolls his eyes.

  “What’s that?” I ask as he comes to my side.

  He looks down at the black fabric in his arms. “A present for tonight. I wanted you to know I’m glad you’re here.”

  “You do want me to stay? I mean, you implied it earlier...”

  He gives a tiny smile. “It could make things awkward if you were to leave now. Mother and I just finished hashing out your official title.”

  He does something with the fabric and it unfolds in his hands, its length falling a bit shy of the floor. I rub the cloak between my fingers, impressed at its thick weave, before moving my gaze higher. The shoulders are covered with a cascade of raven feathers, so carefully fitted that they look more like dragon scales.

  Without his glamour to hide behind, Roark’s nervousness is painfully earnest. “Bridget promised to get a new one made for you, but it means tonight you’ll have to wear mine. As the Knight, your armor must bear the Winter Court’s seal. As the Prince Consort, I had hoped you would wear proof of our allegiance as well.”

  His glacial stare holds mine in the mirror while his words sink in and the armor around my chest suddenly makes it hard to breathe. “Prince Consort?”

  The corners of his eyes crinkle as he fights a smile.

  “Tonight?” I ask.

  “Tonight,” he confirms.

  This is what joy feels like. He waits for me to decide. As if it requires any thought at all.

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak. He moves to my back and I watch in the mirror as he attaches the cloak. When he’s done, he smooths the shoulders one last time before stepping away. I catch his arm, denying him that retreat, and curl my fingers around his wrist. He breaks into a smile and his eyes flash. An exquisite tension tugs behind my ribs when his glamour reaches out to meet the bright blaze of the ley line.

  We have an eternity before us. Let the war come.

  * * *

  To purchase and read more books by M.A. Grant, or to sign up for news about new releases, please visit her website at marionaudreygrant.com.

  A royal bastard forced into exile must return to the glittering Summer Court and its violent political games in The Marked Prince, the next book in M.A. Grant’s enthralling The Darkest Court series.

  Centuries ago, Sebastian left his royal Seelie title behind to find sanctuary among the Unseelie. Now, if he intends to remain with them, he must kidnap Prince Lyne’s defected older brother out from under the nose of King Oberon himself. A daunting task at the best of times, it’s only made more difficult when he finds the Summer Court i
n a state of disarray.

  The Green Man—the Summer Knight—is dead. The oppressed lower castes are drained of their magick. And around every corner, political machinations threaten an already-unstable regime.

  Sebastian’s only hope of navigating the new perils of the Court and bringing the prince home lies with Duine, a magickless Unseelie servant desperate to win his freedom. A servant for whom he’s developing a dangerous, deepening affection.

  When a powerful enemy steps from the shadows, it could spell the end not just for the Unseelie, but for both Faerie courts. Sebastian must decide what is more important: completing his mission and earning his future security, or risking his very life to ensure freedom for the man he loves.

  Available 2019 wherever

  Carina Press ebooks are sold.

  www.CarinaPress.com

  Copyright © 2019 by M.A. Grant

  Acknowledgments

  The best fairy tales are the old ones. The stories with curses and blood and tragedy, because those unfortunate events make the few happy endings all the more memorable. Roark and Finny’s story wouldn’t have been possible if my parents hadn’t given me the freedom of a library card and an open mind, which led me to those old tales. My Nana’s unwavering support of my writing reminds me to follow my passion, no matter where it takes me. I think she would have liked this story the most.

  Writing a book you love requires courage, and my sisters have always helped me look when I lose mine. They are the bravest women I know. Here’s to raccoon days and skeletons we pull out of closets while sitting in Sea-Tac, to Piggies, Ice Tigers, and Frankenporgs. All the love and thanks, from your sister, who is always by your side.

  As always, this book would not have been possible without my husband. Thank you for keeping me alive with reminders to sleep, exercise, and eat, even if I growled at you for the interruptions. You are my golden retriever. I love you.

  A universe of gratitude to my agent Deidre Knight, who took a chance on this story in a summer whirlwind. Your love of Roark and Finny, your support throughout this process, and your desire to make my writing better is evident in every chapter. Thank you for helping make my dreams come true!