by Ryan Graudin
“What’s your name?” I ask the spirit.
The dog growls; its custard-yellow canines glow beneath the scant light.
“Blæc.” The name blends in perfectly with the rest of its rumbles, caught only by my sharp hearing.
“I won’t hurt you, Blæc, unless you give me a reason,” I add. “I just want to talk.”
The snarls die. Poison-bright eyes roll back to look at me.
“You’re a London soul feeder. You must be aware of what’s going on at Buckingham. Tell me, who’s doing all of this? Who has your kind allied with?”
The Black Dog shakes its head; a high keen of a whine leaves its muzzle. “I don’t know. I don’t bother with events beyond my territory.”
I twitch my finger. The binds on the animal’s legs clench tight, drawing out a yelp.
“You’re lying,” I say. “I know the howls that travel at night bring news between your kind. You must have picked up some tidbits from those.”
Sounds of begging and pain become a mumble of gravelly words. “She doesn’t come here, doesn’t speak to us. We do not know her name!”
“Then how do you receive orders?” I feel the anger, my own monster, stirring. My teeth grit against it. I need to keep the dog alive if I want answers.
“There are those she speaks with: messengers, leaders,” Blæc pants. He’s twitching, squirming under every cruel white lash of my spell.
“Who? What are their names?” Now I’m getting somewhere.
But the Black Dog’s muzzle snaps shut—a row of zipper-tight teeth and twisted black lips. Its eyes paint over with a familiar sheen. Blæc is afraid.
The savageness inside me wants to pull, winch his bonds tighter and pour more pain into his haunches, but something else in the creature’s eyes stops me.
“I’ll erase your memory,” I promise. “No one will find out what you’ve told me. You’ll be safe.”
Blæc whimpers, unsure of my proposal. The dog is walking a dangerous line, caught between immediate pain or the possibility of another spirit’s wrath.
“I swear it,” I hiss into his cathedral-arched ear. “I swear it by the Greater Spirit.”
His uncertainty wavers, mists apart like windswept smoke. “There are two the Old One speaks with. Two that I know of—Jaida, a Green Woman, and Cari. She’s a Banshee. All of the orders go through them.”
I lean back on my heels, eyeing the animal as I commit the names to memory. A Banshee and a Green Woman. Together. Though it’s something unheard of, I know the dog’s telling the truth. There’s no deception curled around its grooved, tire-black lips.
“And where might I find them? Jaida and Cari?”
Blæc’s head shakes, causing the rest of its body to shudder. “I don’t know.”
Another truth. This creature doesn’t know much. It lies at the bottom of the totem pole, a hulking scavenger of souls in the lamp-flecked London night.
“Very well. That’s all I need to know.” My finger sinks deep into the clumped, matted fur of the creature’s forehead. “Forgiete.”
While the spell permeates layer after bewildered layer of the beast’s mind, I sever its bonds and all but run for the closest entrance. Once the memory spell settles, the Black Dog will become its old, snarling self, ready to tear into any creature that steps foot in its territory. Sure enough, when I reach the end of the tunnel, the creature is howling. The sound curls the end of every hair, tugs at my heels. I drag through it, step decidedly through my blocking spells. If the dog wants food, it’ll have to venture out of its miserable underpass, into the tangled city streets.
My mind races, but I keep walking down the riverfront at a steady pace. Jaida and Cari. A Green Woman and a Banshee. Defending Richard against their powers is one thing, but being an aggressor is another thing entirely. It’ll be much harder to wring information out of those two soul feeders than it was to subdue Blæc—a lone wolf of a spirit. I’ll need help in my hunt. I’ll need Breena.
Mab’s warning forks like lightning through my thoughts: trust no one. Including Breena. I pick up my pace, nearly barreling through a slow couple in front of me. Breena isn’t the traitor. I have to trust her. If I can’t, then there’s no one else for me to depend on to keep Richard safe.
And if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that I can’t do this alone.
Twenty
My search for Breena doesn’t take long. I feel her familiar aura even through the city’s electrical haze. Anabelle’s in a tiny, upscale restaurant: the type that needs a reservation months in advance. The type with polished hardwood, pure silver utensils, and antique furniture so aged it looks like it might fall apart under the slightest weight.
Being invisible in a restaurant is an interesting challenge. Servers and hosts zip past, balancing trays of well-dressed plates and cocktails. I cling close to the wall, following Breena’s aura like a bat tracing echoes: up the crimped, narrow stairway and behind a door of lushly cobalt curtains. I find her in the princess’s private dining room. The table is ringed with Anabelle’s school friends: blondes, brunettes, diamonds, and pearls. I look down the row, remember the loneliness in Richard’s voice as he spoke of friendship. It’s rarity. How many of these girls would stand by Anabelle if they knew what was coming?
Breena stands by the window, taking in the same scene, face half masked by a potted-palm frond. “Emrys! What are you doing here? Where’s Richard?”
“I left him with Ferrin and Helene. Listen, I need to talk to you.” I edge close to the windowsill. Outside in the darkness someone passes on the far sidewalk. For the faintest second, I imagine it’s a Banshee.
“I haven’t told anyone, if that’s what you’re asking,” Breena chips in. There’s a new edge to her voice; it makes me uneasy.
“That’s not it,” I reply. “Not at all, actually.”
I take a deep breath. Including Breena in my plans is risky. I have no guarantee she won’t report back to Mab or try to use her age to order me into submission. But without Breena, the plan is even riskier. I could end up dead. Trusting our friendship is my only choice.
“I need your help.”
She brushes the palm frond away, caressing its fan with her fingers. “With what?”
“I think I know how we can end this—get to the bottom of the threat. I tracked down a Black Dog. It gave me the names of soul feeders who are in contact with the Old One. We can hunt them down for information.”
Breena’s hand freezes, splayed in the exact silhouette of the plant she’s touching. “You went hunting? On whose orders?”
“It was my decision,” I tell her. “I’m sick of waiting on Mab’s scouts. The trail to the Old One is here, in the city. You know that.”
“Does Mab know what you’ve done?” The dining room’s light is warm, reflecting off rich wood and gold-threaded wallpaper. It falls on Breena’s face, calls her out from the darkness like a figure in a Rembrandt painting.
“She encouraged me to investigate.” My stomach twists under the half-truth. Mab would be appalled at my proactive methods: hunting down the enemy instead of waiting patiently for the evidence to surface on its own. So many weeks ago, when I was wholly hers, I would never have considered this.
“And what are their names? The ones you want to hunt?”
“Jaida and Cari. One is a Green Woman and the other a Banshee. That’s all I know. Apparently they relay the Old One’s instructions to the other soul feeders here in the city. They’re the link, Bree. They can lead us to her.” My speech gains speed. The thought of exposing the Old One is enough to make me giddy.
Across the room the princess laughs. The sound jolts, cuts through the air like a battle-worn bagpipe. For the briefest second, I have the sensation that everyone in the room can see me. I glance over my shoulder, but none of the diners even look up from their watercress salads.
“I don’t know. . . .” Breena begins. “It sounds awfully risky, not to mention impossible. Who knows how many Banshees
and Green Women are crawling through this city? And if we do find them and manage to make them talk, then what? Do we kill them?”
“We’ll figure something out. . . . Wipe their memories or gag them.” I shrug, trying to dismiss these problems I hadn’t thought all the way through.
“And if their magic is too strong for that?” Worry grays Breena’s face. “We could both end up dead, Emrys. Then where would Richard be? I know you’re eager to protect him, but we have to think of all the ramifications, all of the consequences. You haven’t been thinking clearly—you’re riding on your emotions.”
I don’t try to argue. I know better than anyone that emotion . . . love . . . is pushing me into this hunt. “We have the element of surprise. That gives us something.”
“And I suppose if I say no, you’re going to go off and do it yourself anyway?” Breena says with a roll of her eyes.
I nod.
“Of course,” she mutters.
“Please, Bree. I need this.”
“Well, it has been a while since I’ve gotten into a brawl. . . . Fine.” She sighs, as if some heavy weight is sliding off her back. “I’ll go with you. But only because I don’t want you getting yourself unmade in some filthy, rat-strung alley.”
“Oh! Thank you!” I throw my arms around her, an action she clearly isn’t expecting. She stands awkward in my embrace, her own arms dangling at her sides like limp fish.
“We should do some reconnaissance first. I don’t want to go plunging into a situation,” Breena says once I let go. The stiffness of her voice reminds me of just how human my embrace was. “And we’re out when I say so. Understand?”
I let the last statement glide over, try not to think about what could happen. “We’ll go the night after Richard’s birthday. That’ll give you time to order a replacement Guard for Anabelle.”
She nods, but I see the apprehension behind her tundra-washed eyes.
“We’ll be careful,” I tell her. “I promise.”
Twenty-One
A chance. A chance. A chance. This is what the silence whispers when I return to Buckingham. I sit on the edge of Richard’s bed, watching him swim deep through dreams. The music we danced to after Anabelle’s birthday party is long gone, pushed back into its cardboard sleeve and shelved with all the other records.
I take in Richard’s smell: a tangy mix of soap and his own natural musk. Earth and sea salt. I memorize every inch of exposed skin, noting the freckles and scars: the crescent-moon Coke-can sliver on his thumb, the knotted, pearly dog bite.
Love: a word that holds so much in four brief letters. What does it mean for me to love him? It’s a thought so huge and foreign I can barely fit my brain around it.
One thing I do know: being so close to him helps me forget the gut-shredding sickness, the traitors, and the Old One. It would be so easy for me to just stay here, watch him forever.
But I don’t know if that’s enough.
Eventually he opens his eyes. He finds me there, watching. He doesn’t flinch when our gazes meet. Instead he holds my eyes in a steady, unrelenting stare. Fear, yearning, love. All of these swirl up inside me, a pillar holding right now together, pulling my old self apart. I’m motionless on the edge of the mattress, scrambling to read what might be behind those irises of henna and green.
And though that draw is still, always, between us—a forte of feeling under my skin—Richard seems now, more than ever, unreadable.
“I don’t think I can get out of bed,” he says. His breath blows hot against my face.
The hairs on my arm rise, like tiny twists of fire, flickering for more breath, more touch. I try my best to ignore them. Right now is about Richard. About helping him face the day. “You start by sitting up.”
He groans, buries his bristly jawline into the cream-puff pillow.
“You’re still afraid?” I ask after a while. Richard stays burrowed, as if some fabric and feathers can really shield him from the hours, days, years to come.
Finally he breathes deep and rolls onto his back, exposing all the tautness of his shoulders and chest. I focus hard on his stubble-coated, pillow-indented mess of a face. “I don’t feel like a king. I have absolutely no bloody idea what I’m doing. . . .”
“None of the new monarchs did. Most of them felt the way you do now.” I reach out and take his hand. It’s cooler than mine, trembling like a discarded autumn leaf. “There’s no reason you won’t be a good king. All you can do is get out of bed and try to do best by what’s been handed to you.”
“They were scared too? My father was scared?” Slowly, surely, his grip steadies until I can’t tell if I’m holding his hand or he’s holding mine.
“Oh sure. Some more than others. They all had their fears. Henry the Third was a mess. Albeit, he was nine years old.”
“I guess that puts things into a little perspective.”
Right now, in this little heaven of cloudy sheets and amber dawn light, I long to graze my palms against his face, kiss him. More than that, I want to tell him everything, to pronounce, so loud and clear and eloquent, the word love. But fear spools out, painting so many different futures: Richard accepting my love, asking me to give up everything. Richard running, tearing me to pieces with his denial.
I don’t know which would break me more.
So I swallow it back, for another time. “You’re going to be an amazing king, Richard. You have Edward’s steel. And more, I think.”
The smile on his face is fresh, full of newness.
“I’ll always believe in you. Now get out of bed, you lazy arse. We have a birthday party to go to.”
Richard shoots me a look of bale and mock contempt. “That’s no way to treat a king!”
“Even kings need a push every now and then.” I slide off the bed. “Oh, and Richard?”
He grunts and starts sorting through his floor laundry for an acceptable outfit. From the look of the crumpled shirts and slacks, I doubt he’ll find anything of worth in that pile.
“Happy birthday.”
Richard pauses; the smile on his face blazes like the noon. I tuck the sight away in my mind. I know I’ll need it, to remember, in the days to come. “Thanks, Embers.”
The party is extravagant, a worldwide affair of friends, family, and unstoppably grinning diplomats. There’s an elaborate five-course meal of fruit, pheasant, and every other expensive ingredient. A multi-tiered cake towers in one corner, waiting to be cut. There are more toasts than I care to count—explosions of corked tops fizzing gold into glasses every few minutes—pour after pour after pour in Richard’s honor.
Under six pear-shaped chandeliers of blazing crystal, they dance, mingle, and drink until they glow. I feel as if I’ve stepped back in time, watching them. Silk-clad women glide around pomegranate carpet, cocktails in hand. Men in sharp tuxedos gather in groups. Their conversations of politics and art are as circular as they’ve been for centuries.
As the night goes on, the furrow in Richard’s brow grows. He watches his mother flit in and out of the crowds—newly refreshed from her time in Bath. She hasn’t said a word to her son. Not that she needs to. I can tell the occasion is too much for him. These scores of distinguished guests, the orchestra, the flower arrangements that resemble small jungles. There’s not an eye in the room that hasn’t pinned and examined him like some elaborate foreign insect.
It doesn’t help that there’s alcohol in the room. It flows abundantly, in champagne flutes and endless wine bottles. The crowd of faces grows increasingly flushed and the laughter grows volumes louder by the hour.
It’s all too much. It doesn’t take a Fae’s sense to know he’ll run.
Richard’s gracious smile stays, faithful as a trained dog, when he heads for the door. He glances over his shoulder to make sure I’m following. I weave through the crowd, ducking beneath martinis and wild-slung elbows. Though it would be easier to fly over their coiled, braided heads, I prefer to preserve my magic. Tonight, with the confused crowd and newl
y anointed power of Richard’s kingship, is the perfect opportunity for the Old One’s assassins.
Richard doesn’t stop at the door. He walks through the palace’s grand, public rooms, roped off and dimmed. We pass through these silhouettes of grandeur like a night train, flying past the bruise-shaded darkness without braking. Although we’re in the same building, it feels as though we’re worlds away from the bright noise of the party. The silence of the halls is strange, invading after an evening of constant chatter.
“Where are we going?” I ask after we plow through the second room.
“You’ll see.” Richard pauses to let me catch up with him. Somewhere in his journey out of the ballroom he managed to snatch an unopened bottle of champagne. He grips its gold-papered neck with terrible tightness.
More questions rise, about the bottle, our path, but I bite them back. The last thing Richard needs right now is more pressure. I have to let him lead.
We continue to the far corner of the palace. To a place Richard’s daily duties never take him. Out of all of Buckingham’s many rooms, the one that holds the swimming pool is my favorite. Its walls are all windows, presenting a full view of the gardens beyond. Now, with the night, the light of the stars creeps through the panes, raining silver on the water. The pool is smooth and undisturbed, acting as a mirror.
Richard sits. The jungle-green bottle tinks hard against the tile as he sets it down. His fingers uncurl, fall away from it.
“Some birthday, huh?” His laugh, the hollowness of it, bounces off the windows, rounds us like a repeating canon.
“Your mother does know how to organize a party.” I come to rest just inches from the pool ledge, inches from him.
“It was Belle, I think. If Mum had her way, she would hide me forever.”
“You’ve done a good job today,” I tell him.
The sudden tilt of his head, the slant of his eyes on me, speaks surprise. “You think?”