of Maidens & Swords

by Melissa Marr

  “William’s getting old,” she said as politely as possible. “The boys and I notice it more and more each time he comes in to the General Store. He isn’t as careful around town as an Undertaker needs to be.” She paused, weighing the words as carefully as she ever did when the subject of the Undertaker and Graveminder came up. “It’s time to replace him.”

  Charles frowned. His relationship with the Undertaker—as with every Undertaker before William—was contentious. They were both adversaries and allies, both dedicated to the one human woman who could move between the land of the dead and the living world. The complicated relationship didn’t mean Charles disliked William or wished ill on him. Alicia understood that as she hadn’t years ago when her husband, Conner, was the Undertaker.

  “He’d not that old,” Charles objected. “It was only a moment ago that he became—”

  “It’s been decades, Charlie,” she interrupted.

  His sense of time was skewed at best, and she’d realized several Undertakers back that it was up to her to help Charles notice when time had passed. Being the embodiment of Death made for a peculiar relationship with time. She’d taken it upon herself to be loyal to the calling she’d embraced when she’d been alive. She might be dead, but she was still a Graveminder.

  She watched as Charles paced away from her. He stooped and lifted a handful of rubble. Silently, he let the powder slip through his fingers. She knew it would take only a thought to turn the white chalky dust and bits of rubble into a wall again. He wouldn’t though. Whatever she destroyed, he left broken. That, too, was on the long list of topics best not pondered. He’d done only enough repair work to keep the building intact, and now he was auditioning designers to repair and renovate his home.

  While they waited in silence—her on the floor and him surveying the destruction—Charles’ personal assistant, guard, and all-around pain in Alicia’s ass came in with a tray. On it were glasses, an ice bucket, and decanter. Behind Ward were lackeys with chairs and a small table, as well as two men with brooms. In minutes, they’d cleared a space, arranged the furniture, and left the drinks.

  Ward looked to Charles, ignoring her as if she weren’t visible to him, and at Charles’ nod, he departed again.

  Alicia and Charles sipped their drinks in silence, a companionable peaceful habit that she knew they wouldn’t admit to cherishing.

  “I’ve not met the new Graveminder yet,” Charles admitted somberly after he finished his drink. “After the way things went when I met Ella . . .” His words faded, but they weren’t necessary. The unprecedented actions of the young girl who was to replace Maylene Barrow had led to this awkward situation. Ella Mae had committed suicide, determined to hasten her journey to the land of the dead, and the current Graveminder had decided to hide the truth from the girl who would replace Ella. William, by extension, had hidden that same information from the next Undertaker. Neither Byron nor Rebekkah knew of the land of the dead. It was well past time for that to change.

  And Alicia was going to make sure it happened.

  “William is weary,” Alicia pointed out. “He’s vulnerable every time he comes here. If you don’t act, I will.”

  She didn’t specify how she’d act, but Charles knew—as did William. The Undertaker and Death were both too worried over the current Graveminder. Maylene was hiding her replacement, letting the girl wander outside Claysville, utterly unaware of her duties. It was well past time for the changing of the guard, and even though Alicia’s descendent was cosseting the next Graveminder, Alicia wouldn’t be.

  “Insist he bring the boy to meet you, or I’ll force the matter,” she announced.

  Charles sat in the destroyed parlor long after Alicia had left. Alicia’s ability to offer to kill William bothered him. He wanted to think that her willingness to kill was a result of having been here in the land of the dead where shooting, stabbing, strangling, or any variety of heinous acts only resulted in temporary death. He wondered sometimes, though, what she’d have been like had she not been trapped in Claysville because of the contract he’d made with her long-gone ancestor.

  The only person who could kill the already dead was him, and that was an act he rarely took. He didn’t want to do it now either. Minding the dead wasn’t quite the same as taking their lives. He found the curious spark of the living rather intoxicating. Every Graveminder was special to him, not just because they were living but because, through them, Charles knew the world of the living. None were as special as the first Graveminder. He’d been in love with Abigail; it was why the contract was created. Love for her had made him unable to deny her anything. The result was a gap between the living and the dead, and the inhabitants of Claysville were still paying for that. There, the dead didn’t always stay dead, and it was all because Charles couldn’t say “no” to a living woman who looked at him fondly and said, “Please, Charles?”

  Unfortunately, that very same weakness for his Graveminders meant that he was at odds with their living partners. There was no love lost between William Montgomery and the ruler of the land of the dead. That did not mean, however, that Charles was keen to commit murder. The death of the Undertaker would cause the subsequent death of the Graveminder. The peculiar bargain Charles had made with their predecessors centuries ago meant that the mortality of the two was entwined.

  Reluctantly, Charles admitted that Alicia was probably right. He sipped the remainder of Alicia’s drink in silence. It was as close to actual contact with her that he ever got.

  He was still sitting there when Ward returned some time later.

  “I need to see Maylene and William,” Charles told them. “It’s time that I meet the next generation. The new Graveminder and Undertaker need to be brought back to Claysville so they can be ready to assume their duties.”

  “Love Hurts: A Wicked Lovely Story”

  Set after the Wicked Lovely series

  Irial looked at the letters that had been delivered to the current house in Huntsdale. He stood in the doorway, exposed in his bare feet and bare chest. Spring, fortunately, was a true and reliable event the past few years. If anything, the former Dark King was wondering if the season had come a touch early this year. Trees were erupting in new growth, and the ground seemed speckled with flowers. If not for the curious, hand-delivered package, he’d be debating popping over to Winter’s abode and asking for a last frost, just a brief freezing before the Summer Queen had her way with nature.

  Not that he minded an early summer, of course, simply that he was the embodiment of Discord. Stirring a minor tiff over the greenery seemed the right path. It had, in fact, been his plan. Now, though, he couldn’t focus. In his hand was what appeared to be the key to his unraveling. Yellowed pages were covered in protective sheaths. It was the word on the top that left him, the man who had led the Court of Nightmares and Monsters, terrified.

  Da

  Dadaih.

  Athair.

  Father.

  Irial was the embodiment of chaos, of discord. He’d fought, slain, and even died. He’d loved and lost—more than once. His first love, Niall, abandoned him for many centuries. His next love, Thelma, left and died without their even reuniting. The third love, Leslie, had risked death to leave him.

  Dadaih.

  The script went from childish to mature. The sophistication of the words changed, and the tone grew cold.

  Father.

  With a jolt, Irial realized that the door was still open. Still, he stood at the threshold of his home, a house he shared with the current Dark King, and read. Flowers bloomed outside, and the sky was clear. Somehow, Irial felt as if a storm was about to erupt. Sadly, his was not a court of nature, as the Winter Court and Summer Court were. He could not send storms free to vent his feelings. All he could do was draw shadows to his skin.

  Da.

  Irial read that one word in all its forms repeatedly. He didn’t need to read the pages that were stacked in the other envelope to know that sender’s name. Thelma was the onl
y of the three people he’d loved who had died. She was gone.

  And between leaving me and dying, she had my child.

  Niall stood in the grand lobby of the Benedum Center, appreciating the now-familiar chandeliers of theater. In the latter part of the 1900s, it had been a concert hall of a different sort. He’d seen both Prince and Bob Marley there in the ‘80s. These days, it housed both opera and ballet, and as much as some faeries mocked his fondness for both, the current Dark King knew that anyone who doubted the appeal of opera simply hadn’t been paying attention. It was often terribly tragic stuff, rife with manipulation, murder, and mayhem. Any faery worth his salt would like theatre.

  Luckily, even the fey like the Hounds, who might not understand his love of this type of art, appreciated arts and music in general. Even better, Leslie shared his interest. Typically, Irial did, too.

  Tonight, they had planned to see Faust, a French opera of the medieval scholar who makes an ill-fated deal with a devil. Niall had, not so secretly, always wondered if Méphistophélès was inspired by Irial. An unwise bargain with a “devil” who is clever . . . the idea seemed rather more fitting than a mortal dealing with the fey, and although Irial never owned up to it, Niall recalled the years the courts all gathered in Germany. Goethe met fey creatures.

  Of that, Niall was certain.

  But the devil in question, Irial, had made excuses to miss the opera tonight. Worse yet, he’d done so badly. Now, Niall was left trying to convince Leslie that all was well—an illusion neither she nor he believed.

  A glass of wine. A smile. A stroll under beautiful chandeliers that sparkled in the high-ceilinged lobby that was filled with mortals and more than a few fey things. It should’ve been lovely.

  “You look beautiful,” he told his date again.

  “And you look handsome,” Leslie replied.

  This is when Irial would’ve made an inappropriate remark, fished for praise, or simply kissed one of them. His absence rankled. The lights all seemed to dim at once as shadows swarmed to Niall like a ripple of midnight seeping into the evening.

  Leslie’s hand tightened on his arm, and Niall sent his emotions like a nourishing elixir toward the rest of his court. Some of his faeries perched in nooks in the high ceiling, and others languished in the room, dressed in human guises, pretending to be nothing more than ruffians amongst the gentry in their fine dresses. It was far from the theatre of the past, where everyone was bedecked in gems and formal attire, but it was still very much a crowd where those who have wanted to be clear that they were superior.

  Or maybe they were as smitten by the grand spectacle of the opera as he was. His box seat was not a statement of status. It was simply a space where he could have privacy. No one not with him was in the box. The idea of reserving only a few seats in the box seemed odd. Privacy mattered.

  He and Leslie made their way to the Dark Court’s seasonal box and took their seats.

  She was silent, uncharacteristically so, but he was attempting to respect that. They were never awkward, with or without Irial at their sides, but tonight things were tense in a palpable way. Irial had asked Niall to excuse him, had put Niall in the position of misleading Leslie. There was no good answer, so Niall had chosen evasiveness as his solution to the mess.

  Leslie vibrated with tension at his side. The lights dimmed, and he thought that the moment of risk was over. Then she leaned closer.

  “He’s not ill?”

  And as much as Niall wished he could lie, he could not do so. “No.”

  “Injured?”

  As much as he did not want the former Dark King to be ill, he could not help the flicker that came over him in that moment. “Not yet.”

  Leslie smiled wanly.

  “I don’t understand either,” Niall admitted. “He’s avoiding me.”

  The show began, and with every tear that trickled down Leslie’s cheek, Niall thought about strangling Irial. Avoiding him Niall could forgive. Avoiding her? There was no excuse that Niall could imagine accepting.

  After the show, Niall and Leslie walked to the street, and there a steed waited. It was a living creature, one that had the heart of a wild steed but chose to serve as Leslie’s personal guard. Not quite a horse, not exactly a car, it was a member of the Hunt, but was riderless and technically remained so. Leslie was not a Hound, so she couldn’t be its rider—and the steed tolerated no other unless Leslie was there, too. Tonight, it wore the illusion of being a fire-red convertible.

  Leslie caressed the side of the car, much the way one greets a beloved pet. The fact that this particular “pet” was a monstrous beast with fire glimmering where eyes ought to be was immaterial. She was beloved by the whole of the Dark Court.

  “He’ll explain, or we’ll make him,” Niall swore to her as he walked around to the passenger seat.

  The engine roared when Leslie’s hands touched the steering wheel. She didn’t steer, not really. The steed carried her home or wherever else she wanted, as if it were a car. And Niall chose not to linger long on the thought that this once-mortal woman had tamed a steed so thoroughly that it functioned as her car—and seemed quite content to do so.

  When they reached the apartment where she lived—in a building he’d recently and stealthily bought when the landlord was causing her anxiety—Leslie stayed in the car, as it purred loudly enough to mimic a fine engine. She stroked the dashboard and steering wheel. After a moment she announced, “I’ll handle Irial.”

  And Niall wasn’t fool enough to argue. If anything, he was certain that when he returned from his trip the issue would be resolved. Leslie wasn’t meek, and she’d become downright formidable these last few years.

  “Should I warn him?” Niall asked lightly.

  “Not unless you want to get caught in the crossfire.” Leslie stepped out of the car. “I won’t have him ruin our night, though. Join me?”

  If Méphistophélès were a woman, she’d be no more tempting than Leslie as she held out a hand. Niall would give her his soul, his vow, whatever she wanted. He was certain Irial would, too.

  “Forever,” Niall told Leslie as he took her hand.

  And she smiled with a sweet darkness that made him wonder how he could have earned such love.

  The weekend would come, and they would confront the secretive faery they both loved. Whatever Irial was hiding was something they could figure out together. First, Niall would attend to business, and Leslie to her classes.

  Irial was no closer to knowing what to do about the news of his child than the day he’d learned the news. Niall was away, and Leslie should be in class. Irial had counted on that time to figure it all out.

  The doors to the study opened with a thunderous noise.

  “You’re avoiding me.” Leslie stood in the doorway to the library after flinging open the doors in a burst of temper. Her once-blonde hair had become increasingly shadow-dark over the last three years, finally reaching the black of the ink that Rabbit had once tattooed in her skin.

  College would end soon, and their lives would change. Irial wasn’t sure how—and he was afraid to ask.

  What if she wants to move away?

  He did not stand. “What do you mean?”

  “The opera?”

  “Ah.” Irial nodded. “You weren’t alone, though.”

  She sighed. “Is it because you are feeling guilty?

  Irial shrugged. Guilt? Perhaps. He’d unknowingly abandoned a child—and he was hiding it from both Niall and Leslie. He paused. “Aren’t you to be in classes today?”

  Leslie scowled. “I couldn’t concentrate.” She stared at him. “You promised not to meddle. I know there aren’t threats like there used to be. Bananach is dead. Ren is . . . ”

  “Apparently missing,” Irial filled in helpfully.

  She’d never asked, and he’d never volunteered an answer on that particular situation. Ren had threatened Leslie, their Leslie, in order to draw out the faeries who loved her. They’d been drawn out, and when they had, Nia
ll had removed the threat to their shadow girl.

  “I don’t want you to meddle, but if you do . . . don’t avoid me afterward,” she ordered.

  One of the abyss guardians—sentient shadows that were typically only tied to the Dark King or his consort—slithered over to encase Leslie.

  “Hello, sweetie,” she whispered to the shadow-wrought creature as she came into the room and pulled the door behind her.

  The soft snick of the door catching was loud in the still of the room, and Irial felt strangely like prey for a moment.

  “I don’t only need you when there’s trouble,” she announced. “Don’t you understand that?”

  Mutely, Irial nodded. The shadows glided back to the walls as if they’d only ever been the ordinary shadows any lamp or shelf would cast.

  After a moment, Leslie crossed her arms and held his gaze. “What are you hiding?”

  “Hiding?” Irial echoed. The sight of her, the sheer force of her mortal self striding through the house of monsters, left him longing.

  “I know you, Irial,” Leslie said.

  “That you do, shadow girl.” Truth be told, he’d slaughter near every being in the world at her whim. Leslie’s very existence was a balsam on a soul that felt increasingly shredded these last few decades. Denying her was physically painful.

  Of course, seeing her today ripped at his heart more than he expected. Thinking about her inevitable death seemed impossible now that he was thinking of Thelma, and tangled into that was the thought of a child. His child.

  Half-fey children lived much longer than mortals, but not as long as faeries. Would he want that? Would Leslie? Would Niall?