by Ryan Graudin
And it’s just us.
Together.
The way things should be.
Two
The night is young when I step out of the Rolls-Royce. My heels feel especially perilous on the soft garnet carpet which stretches to the dock. Fortunately, no one is looking at my feet. All eyes are on the dress Helene and Anabelle so painstakingly crafted.
Camera flashes burst like supernovas. Questions storm over, tangled and hurried. Reporters shout them with jousts of their microphones, practically clawing over one another to stretch past the barrier.
A microphone jabs out from my right. “Who was your designer?”
“How are you adjusting to life without magic?” someone shouts.
And another question, biting and unexpected. “What do you think about the people who’re saying you put King Richard under a love spell?”
I’m still dazed by the jags of light and shrill questions when Richard appears at my side. This afternoon’s disheveled blazer has been replaced with a sharp tuxedo. He’s also wearing his paparazzi face: the smile that’s just a little too stretched. I try to copy it, give the cameras a show. But this isn’t such an easy thing to do when you’re navigating a carpet in four-inch heels.
“Need help?” Richard looks over when I start to sway. The press smile quirks into a fleeting real one.
I accept his hooked arm, since the carpet soon gives way to a ramp. It stretches out like the back of a sleeping dragon, connected metallic plates heaving at the will of the Thames.
My balance woes fall away as soon as I step onto the yacht. The boat is built of glamour and money. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think it was a house in Chelsea, brimming with furniture and art. There are even chandeliers hanging from the ceilings: fat jewels ready to be plucked.
The string of rooms is already full of tuxedos and designer silks. They laugh, chat, and shake hands. Dresses sparkle and slink. Most of the women look like dolls—painted lips and perfectly coiffed hair, ears and necks dripping with diamonds.
Richard and I step into the room and the chatter dims. The hush, I know, is not for the king. Many of these guests are members of Parliament. No strangers to royalty. But it’s not every day people set eyes on a former immortal.
Their eyes are so many colors. Faery-pool blue, long-meadow green, dark like barrows. All of them are on me, searching for a glimpse of magic. Something other. Whatever it is, they’ll be disappointed. My choice was made. I’m one of them now.
“Your Majesty. Lady Emrys. Welcome!”
“Prime Minister. Thank you for having us,” Richard says, and gives Lord Winfred a hearty handshake. The warriors-clasping-wrists-before-they-plunge-into-battle kind.
I think back to the many etiquette lessons Richard’s sister drilled into me: smile wide and graciously, compliment your hosts, wait at least five minutes before you start tucking into the hors d’oeuvres.
A platter of smoked salmon and chives drifts by. I ignore it and smile at the prime minister. “This is all very lovely.”
“Do you like the Faery lights?” Lord Winfred nods at the chandeliers, where dozens of inlíhte spells nest in the crystals: silver, aqua, mint, and glow. “Lady Winfred had them installed here and at Downing Street. She thinks they add to the ambience.”
The room looks otherworldly cast in the light of the Fae. It looks like my other world. My life before. I have to blink before I remember that these gorgeous women in flowing, long dresses are Parliament members’ wives. Not courtiers of the Faery queen.
“I, for one, am just astounded at the fact that they’ll never die,” the prime minister says. “At least, that’s what I was told by the Fae who created them. They’ll last forever if we want.”
I look back at the inlíhte spells, pick apart their threads of magic. They’ve been tied off—looped into themselves to create an endless cycle of energy. The lights will stay lights until someone decides to come unknot them. “It’s true. The spell feeds off of itself.”
“Remarkable. Self-sustaining energy. Sometimes I still can’t believe it’s in our reach.” Lord Winfred goes on, “I was hoping to find a way to substitute the yacht’s engine power as a demonstration this evening, but unfortunately that will take more than a few magic-fusion batteries.”
“Emrys tells me Queen Titania’s court has been experimenting with larger models,” Richard says. “Hopefully we’ll have something of note within the month—”
“More like three months,” I correct him. Looping a spell is simple when it comes to small things—Faery lights, hair color, blocking spells to keep mortals from poking around places they shouldn’t. The larger the spell, the more complicated the knot. And when there’s electricity involved . . .
It’s akin to wrestling a giant squid and trying to tie its tentacles in a pretty Christmas bow. While you’re covered in ink. Underwater.
The prime minister nods. “Queen Titania—might she be able to come to London soon? I’d love to thank her for all the advancements she’s contributed.”
“The city is too dangerous for her at the moment,” I remind him.
“Ah yes, the sickness.”
“Lights-down has been helping,” I say. “None of the younglings have felt nauseated for at least a day. But Queen Titania is older. Fae her age are sensitive to metal and gears without electricity. The oldest ones couldn’t even stand the Industrial Revolution . . .” I pause, realize I’m rambling. “But Titania is resilient. Perhaps after a few more blackouts she can endure the city for a few hours.”
Any more and her sanity would be at stake. She would end up just like her predecessor, Mab: swept away by the madness of the machines. A dangerous, all-powerful, unhinged spirit.
“I look forward to that day.” Lord Winfred smiles like he means it and raises his glass. “To our united kingdoms! A new Camelot!”
“May it be a bit more successful than the last,” Richard adds.
Britain’s prime minister moves on to greet more guests. The first thing he points out to them is the Faery lights. Their chorus of oohs and aahs threads through the steady hum of a live string quartet.
My feet are all pain. Tendon and bone ache against the cutting curve of my stilettos. “I’m going to go find our table and sit for a minute. These heels are vicious.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Richard eyes the shoes as if they’re poisonous toadstools. “Go and save your toes. There are a few people I’ve been meaning to talk to. Will you be all right on your own for a bit?”
“I’ve managed a number of centuries without you. It’s possible I’ll be able to last a few more minutes.” I wink and he smiles—in that amazing way of his.
“Point taken.”
“But you should hurry just in case,” I add. “I might vanish when midnight hits.”
“I thought that was Cinderella, not the fairy godmother.”
I smile as I wobble away.
I find our table close to the open doors of the yacht’s bow end, where London’s lights sweep by on a current of movement and night. Lord Winfred’s boat has been unmoored. It’s sliding under the blue cables of the Tower Bridge just as I sit down. The entire structure is lit up like the gates to some ancient god’s kingdom.
“Beautiful view, isn’t it? I can’t get enough of London at night.”
The voice comes from across the table. Its speaker is a young man, hardly older than Richard. His skin is pale and smooth—a perfect blend of milk and chalk. His eyes shine almost teal through the dimness: sharp and bright. Clever. The stare of a politician.
“It does have a certain draw.” I smile through the bright blossoms of the centerpiece. “Forgive me, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
“Julian Forsythe. And this is my wife, Elaine.” The man nods to the seat next to him, where a dark-haired woman sits. The whole of her is so slim and pale she looks like she just stumbled out of a crypt. Her dress is skintight, its fabric shimmering. All of this pulled together by a pop of red lipstick
.
“A pleasure. I’m Emrys.”
Elaine’s eyebrows rise, like arched raven’s wings. The eyes under them are just as dark, and dewy. They look at her husband. “I didn’t know we’d be sitting at her table.”
I stare straight at the centerpiece: a whole towering cluster of birdsfoot trefoil. The color is so happy and yellow it makes my eyes ache. A lump grows in my throat. For one of the first times this evening, I feel like I don’t belong here. On this boat. At this table. By Richard’s side.
I swallow the feeling back. I think of how Anabelle would handle the situation: she would smile. Say nothing. That’s what I do. Elaine doesn’t smile back. Instead she stares and cocks her head, like I’m some sort of strange beetle that’s been doused in formaldehyde and pinned to a collector’s board.
“Strange choice of flower, don’t you think?” Julian calls across the table. He shows no sign that he heard his wife. “Where I come from it’s almost a weed. We called it ‘Eggs and Bacon.’”
“Aren’t those poisonous?” The chair next to me slides back, and Richard finally takes a seat.
“They are, actually.” Julian Forsythe reaches out, pinches a blossom between neat fingers. The sunny petals crumple—a sad, quick death. “Just don’t let it end up in your salad. Seems like some rogue florist means to off half the government!”
“I wouldn’t joke about that.” Richard frowns and looks over his shoulder. “Jensen! Eric!”
Two officers from the king’s Protection Command—his human security—pull out of the crowd. They look like everyone else at this gala: tuxedo-sharp and slick. Only their earpieces and the slight lump of their holsters give them away.
“It seems the flower arrangements are poisonous. Find a way to dispose of them and let the Winfreds know,” the king orders them. “Discreetly, please. I’m sure it was an honest mistake.”
“You’re quite trusting,” Julian says, “for a man in your position.”
Richard’s shoulders grow rigid under his tux. He snaps open the cloth napkin and places it in his lap. “If you call it trusting to believe that people make mistakes. Then yes.”
“I find that mistakes are never quite as common as they seem.” The politician drops the bruised blossom onto the tablecloth.
“We’re all human.”
“Are we?” A smile curls its way across Julian Forsythe’s face. His eyes land on me.
I stare back, struggle to keep smiling.
“You’re right though,” Julian goes on. “The arrangements were probably a mistake. Death by flower is hardly effective. If anything I’d say they were a warning.”
Richard still hasn’t let go of his napkin. His face is handsome, steady, straight, as he wrings the white fabric under his fingers. I slip my hand under the table, rest it on his.
“I see you’ve met the Forsythes. Julian is the leader of the M.A.F.,” Richard says finally.
“M.A.F.?” I ask.
“The Mortal Alliance Front. It’s a new party formed to protect the interests of mortals against monst—” Julian stops short. His eyes still haven’t left me. “—other creatures.”
Richard’s hand twitches under mine but he looks straight at Julian. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here. They said you were on your honeymoon.”
“It was brief. I’m afraid I can’t take too much personal time, with the state of things.”
“Your honeymoon?” I leap at the change of subject, go for its throat. “Where did you go?”
“If Elaine had had her way we would’ve spent the week in dreary Wales. Reading manuscripts, exploring castles, being cold.” Julian looks over at his new wife, his expression softened. “She’s getting her doctorate in medieval studies. Those things fascinate her. I practically had to drag her to the Mediterranean kicking and screaming.”
“Medieval studies?” Richard’s fingers have relaxed, but only barely. “You have a wealth of information sitting right here. Emrys lived through those times.”
His words make my toes squirm. As if they needed a reminder of how other I am.
Elaine opens her mouth, as if she’s about to speak. The boat gives a sharp, unforgiving shake. All across the yacht glasses tumble, dishes rattle, chandeliers sway like wind chimes.
“What the—” Julian Forsythe snaps around in his chair.
I look in the same direction—out over the waters. The Tower Bridge looms well behind us. The wider lights of London have ceased gliding. Instead they hover: jewels of electric, washed-out colors. Oranges, blues, and yellows dancing over dark currents. The yacht sits, stranded in them.
There’s a second, startling shudder. A server’s scream cuts the night; her tray of cucumber sandwiches scatters all over the bow deck.
“Th-there’s something! In the water!”
My chair tumbles behind me, my heels left behind. There’s a tug and a rip on my gown, but I keep running—barefoot—all the way to the open deck.
The Thames’s dark waters are almost invisible against the night’s reflections. But there’s one spot where London’s lights don’t show. A break in the water. A huge mass of something else.
It could be anything down there, draped in the river’s black currents. A U-boat, a giant sea-beast Kraken, some disgruntled water Sprites. But then a sound rises. Soft and hushed, like a sneeze and a purr and a downpour of gravel all at once. A noise I know well.
The Kelpie is a huge one. In the water it resembles more of a whale than a horse. I can just make out its glistening, seal-like fur and pinned lynx ears as it swims the length of the yacht. Its wake bulges and fans through the Thames.
White fear washes over my face, my knuckles. For years of my former life it was all I did: shepherding Queen Mab’s Kelpies through the Highlands. But I always, always made sure to keep them far from the water.
On land they’re rideable; some Frithemaeg might even consider them tamed. But once they’re in their element—waterborne—Kelpies are deadly. More than a few men have been lured to the great, green deep. Consumed whole at the bottoms of lakes and riverbeds.
Sprites and other water spirits abandoned this river years ago when the sludge of the city made its waters unbearable. There shouldn’t even be Kelpies in the Thames.
But this giant Kelpie is here. And it wants something. It makes a swift circle; its massive form strikes the yacht. Lord Winfred’s boat tilts so far that I have to clutch the rail to keep my balance. A sound like splintered thunder laces the air: fiberglass.
I can’t tell if the hull’s been breached. That side of the boat is all foam and dark water as the Kelpie wheels around. But I know one thing—the yacht won’t be able to withstand another charge. The next hit will sink us. Drag us all into the Kelpie’s wild, lusty waters.
I look back over my shoulder. The yacht’s world is shattered glass and frantic, glamorous people clutching their chairs. I’m the only soul on the deck until Richard comes rushing to my side.
“What is it?”
“Kelpie,” I tell him in a clipped, managed tone. “Whatever you do, don’t go near the water. Try to make everyone stay on the boat.”
I start gathering the gauze of my skirts, making room for my legs to move up and over the rail. Richard’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Emrys, what are you doing?”
“I can get it under control. Lead it away from the boat. Give the captain time to get to shore.” I think. I’ve wrestled Kelpies before, but it was always on land. And I had spells to protect me from the Kelpie’s magic.
“Stay on the boat.” It’s more of a plea than a command, the way Richard says it. “Let the Frithemaeg handle it.”
Helene—she should be here. But she’s nowhere to be seen. The dark, gliding hump of the Kelpie’s hindquarters pulls out and switches back. Charging with even more speed than before.
“The Faery guard isn’t here. We can’t wait around for them to show up.”
“But you’re . . .” He bites his lip. “You’re mortal now, Emrys. You could die.”
There are more people on deck now. Gripping the railing with petrified knuckles. The Forsythes have joined the exodus—faces blanched with righteous terror.
“Emrys.” The king’s fingers tighten on my shoulder. I hear the fear in him. “Please. This isn’t your job anymore. I don’t need your magic, I need you. Stay on the boat. Stay with me.”
His words cut, but I don’t have time to feel them. I don’t have time to remember how breakable I am. The Kelpie barrels down; the Thames’s water froths white under its speed.
Richard’s grip on my shoulder isn’t enough to stop me as I climb over the rail and jump. My world becomes nude gauze and the shock of October water on my skin. The gown which was so airy only moments before is now an unbearable weight. The waters pull and lick, hungry for me.
I feel the slick of the Kelpie’s fur against my arm. Realize the raw power of the muscle beneath it. Longer hair from its mane or tail threads through my fingers, as slimy and tangled as seaweed. I grab hold.
The beast keeps churning and charging. My arms yank forward, snap tighter than whips. Water rushes into my face. I feel the force of the river clawing at me as if it wants to rip me apart.
My lungs burst with desperate fire. I need air, but I can’t let go. Not if I want to draw the Kelpie away from the yacht. I dig deep, scrounge through what little magic Herne left me. Not enough for a binding spell, or a banishment. It isn’t even enough to hurt the creature.
I think of Lord Winfred’s Faery light chandeliers. The last gasp of air in my lungs is spent in a garbled, underwater yell: “Inlíhte!”
It’s only enough for an instant: a blinding, blue light. Everything is illuminated, silhouetted like shadow puppets on a watery wall. The deep, underwater pillars of the Tower Bridge. The hulking base of the yacht. The enormous length of Kelpie flesh under me. Even when the light is gone these shapes stay in my vision: neon-lit ghosts.