by Melissa Marr
He shouldn’t be able to manage that. The Dark belonged to Niall now, not this faery.
“No.” It was one word, but it was enough. Her guards came in, a rush of vine and bark.
Urian smiled, cold and vicious. That was a look she remembered well from Bananach, madness tinged with fury.
“We are fine,” she told her guard. She motioned for them to leave. Perhaps it was foolish, but she wanted to try talking to him. Tavish and Siobhan stayed, but no one else was near. Only them. If Tavish were anyone else in the court, Aislinn would feel unprotected. He was fierce—and Siobhan was brutal when provoked.
And Aislinn was the queen, a faery with the ferocity of summer inside her very skin. Her uncle was no threat to her.
“If you must, you may call me Aislinn.”
“Aislinn,” Urian echoed. “My sister’s granddaughter. The last ashes of my family.”
He might be family, but he wasn’t the sort of person Grams was, not even the sort of person her mother had been—or that Irial was. At least not the Irial she’d met and known. Urian reminded her of the fey things that had been the stuff of nightmares for her growing up, vicious in ways she would never understand.
“Such an odd little mortal-turned-faery. You took my mother’s crown, my niece’s crown.”
“Thelma didn’t want it. She ran to avoid it,” she reminded him. “My mother didn’t either. She ran and died avoiding it.”
“And you?”
“I fought to avoid it. This wasn’t the life I wanted, but it’s mine now. This court is mine.”
“You like power, though. You’ve drawn the eye of the High Queen’s son,” Urian added. “
“I knew Seth before he was her son.”
What makes you so interesting, Ashes?
“I don’t know, Uncle. Why are you here?”
As Urian laughed, shadows skittered closer as if he was theirs somehow. It frightened her. A tiny part of her wanted to kick everyone here out and call the rest of her family, which was now both Grams and Irial as well as Seth, but Aislinn had doubts as to Urian’s temper—and stability. He hadn’t approached his father or his sister. He hadn’t approached Seth, the faery who was de facto leader of the solitary.
“Seth,” she said, latching on to that detail. “Is this about him? Some solitary fey thing?”
“Oh, it’s about a lot of things, Ashes.” Urian shook his head, as if he was sad, but it wasn’t sorry glinting in his eyes. Rage and hunger simmered in him, so hot that she could have been looking into Bananach’s eyes.
Without meaning to, a sword of sunlight formed in her grip, blinding bright and sizzling with heat.
Urian glanced at the sunlit blade. A smile that was identical to his father’s curved his lips. “Do let them know I’ve come calling, Ashes.”
Then he flung something glittering toward Siobhan.
“Siobhan!” Aislinn was halfway across the room before she finished the word, but Tavish was closer and almost as fast. He pushed Siobhan aside.
He was there, in front of his co-advisor. The blade that had been hurled at Siobhan stabbed Tavish’s stomach. And then he was on the ground, blood pouring from his wound.
Her advisor. Her friend. Her brother-by-choice. Aislinn was livid. The sword that was in her hand a moment ago was there and raised. She met her uncle’s eye and stalked toward him.
“Will you let him die, too?” Urian asked, taunting her with the sort of voice best suited for playground quarrels. “Or will you kill the son of the last Dark King? Whose life matters to you? What do you choose today? Death or life, Ashes?”
Her guards came in.
“No!” Aislinn called. “He is not yours to touch.”
“Ash!” Siobhan called. “Tavish needs you.”
“We aren’t done,” Aislinn said.
Urian merely grinned.
But when Aislinn turned toward her advisors, Urian walked to the door and left as quietly as he’d arrived.
“Sunlight?” Tavish asked.
Aislinn flinched slightly, not so much that it was obvious to anyone who didn’t know her. She knelt at his side. “There are complications.”
“I know,” Tavish assured her, voice shaky from obvious pain. “The side effects . . . are acceptable. Appealing, even.”
The Summer Queen said nothing.
“Siobhan?” he asked.
“I’m fine, you fool.” She knelt on the floor opposite the queen. “You, however, have a scratch.”
He laughed. “My queen? Sister?”
“You will escort Tavish to his room as soon as I fix this.” Aislinn nodded at the oozing wound. The edges were blackening as if ink had poured there, and the skin started to writhe.
“Poisoned,” Tavish whispered. “If you could heal me soon . . .”
The Summer Queen pressed her lips together tightly, and she lifted his torn clothing so that the bloodied skin was visible.
“Are you sure?” Aislinn asked. “We can call a healer and—”
He looked at Siobhan as he answered Aislinn. “Yes.”
Siobhan wasn’t quite sure what she was missing, but her queen looked her in the eye and said, “That yes was to you, Siobhan. Remember that.”
Then, the Summer Queen began to glow. Sunlight seemed to radiate from her entire body, as if she had summoned the sun itself and somehow held it inside her small frame. The guards, the freed Summer Guards, assorted Summer Court faeries all started flowing into the room as if they were being called to their queen’s side.
“Be well, brother, and be loved,” Aislinn whispered, and then she brought her hands down on the wound, cupped them there at first, and then pressed down.
Tavish moaned, first in pain as she seared whatever poison had entered his body and then in a sort of agony as the skin sizzled and burnt. When the Summer Queen finally lifted her hand, a tattoo was there, a sun much like the blackened sun already on Tavish’s throat.
“My queen,” he whispered. Then he looked at Siobhan and murmured, “My beloved.”
“Ash?”
“He’s drunk on sunlight.” Aislinn didn’t sound much more sober. The room was erupting in flowers, and couples—or couples for the night—were kissing and caressing.
Tavish slid his hand over Siobhan’s leg, at first caressing her calf but within moments his hand was above the knee and showing no sign of stopping.
Siobhan caught his hand in hers and asked, “What are you doing?”
“Seducing you . . . ?” Tavish smiled drunkenly.
Siobhan stifled her giggle. She hadn’t ever seen him quite this drunk other than the week Aislinn became queen. That week, he’d kissed Siobhan until she thought her whole body might melt. The next day, he was as taciturn ever.
Siobhan vaguely heard Aislinn say, “Seth!”
And the queen’s formerly-mortal lover stalked toward her. “Sorcha said you would need me, and I thought—”
“My uncle was here to murder someone,” Aislinn said, sounding far too light-hearted. “But . . . can we . . .”
The queen and her lover were gone then, and Siobhan was left with her amorous, intoxicated co-advisor.
“What happens in the morning?” Siobhan prompted, catching and again holding tightly to Tavish’s hand which had escaped her grasp.
“More sex!”
Siobhan started laughing. “That sounds wonderful, but I thought you wanted to think things through.”
“Fuck it,” he said cheerily. “Loved you for almost a damned decade. Had to watch others be where I wanted, but if you’re mad enough to want me, I’m done arguing.”
Siobhan helped him to his feet—and discovered that without restraint, his hands were everywhere.
“You have the perfect arse, Siobhan. Like a firm apple.” Tavish had both hands on her bum, squeezing and caressing.
“I had no idea,” she murmured, pushing him back slightly. Although she was sure he truly wanted her, feeling the obvious proof of his desire straining toward her, Siobhan a
lso knew Tavish. Sober again, he’d be mortified that he was so amorous in public. He was a wonderful lover, but not as public about it as many in their court.
Siobhan started to steer him toward his room, trying to ignore the stares and even a smattering of applause and remarks of “it’s about time” or “finally come to his senses, has he?”
“I shall compose a sonnet for each breast,” Tavish declared, voice low enough that only she heard. “Two sonnets. One for the left, and one for the right. Perhaps a Rondeau on your apple cheeks, though.”
“A what?”
“Lyric poem,” he said, speaking in that exaggeratedly correct way of the truly drunken.
They’d made it to the edge of the room when Tavish looked at her and said, “Let me love you, Siobhan. Let me be impulsive and enjoy this sunlit madness.”
“If you try to walk away in the morning, I’ll stab you myself this time,” she warned.
“As you should,” Tavish said before kissing her thoroughly.
In a moment, she realized his hands were unfastening her buttons, so she half led, half dragged him to his room where they made love stumbling and drunken and desperately until he sobered—and then did so again and again with more care and soft words.
The next morning, Tavish and Siobhan met the Dark Court’s guests. Aislinn had left Seth resting in her chambers, so it was only the regents and their advisors—and the two tiny tiger cubs. They rolled and romped as if they’d always been a part of the Summer Court.
The current and former Dark Kings had arrived; their semi-human consort, Leslie, was not there. And as Siobhan looked around the jungle-like room, she realized with a near human awkwardness that she was currently sitting in a room with her two past lovers, her future lover, and her best friend.
Tavish looked uncomfortable, so she leaned over and kissed him speechless. He was still sore from the injury Urian had inflicted, but he was upright and therefore determined to be at the meeting.
“Well done!” Irial said. “That’s one way to keep the old boy in the Summer Court.”
“Irial!” Niall and Aislinn said simultaneously. The tigers pounced into Aislinn’s lap, and she gently put them on the floor.
Tavish shrugged slightly. “He’s not wrong.”
When no one spoke, he added, “I’d still rather we murder you than meet with you, but my queen, my friend”—he nodded toward Niall—“and my . . .”
“Lover,” Siobhan filled in. “Beloved, I hope?”
He squeezed her hand and repeated, “and my beloved seem to think you have redeeming qualities.”
“They are sometimes not evident, but they are present.” Niall took a long drink of whatever libation he was consuming before adding, “The Dark Court appreciates your consideration and patience, Tavish.”
Irial opened his mouth to reply, but a band of shadows covered it immediately. The former Dark King raised a brow and looked at Niall pointedly.
Tavish snorted as Niall ignored his own beloved.
“While Irial is not under the command of my court, I will give my word as Dark King that he has no ill will toward your court—or you.” Niall looked briefly embarrassed. “And as both a man and king, I want you to know, Siobhan, that I had no idea at first of the way Keenan misused you.”
Siobhan did not miss the key omission in that statement. Niall was, however, a creature who ruled the things of nightmares. He had become the Dark, and so he was—and previously had been—more shadowed than sunlit.
“You were good to me.” Siobhan looked at Irial. “Both of you.” Then she shrugged and added, “If Ash didn’t need me, I’d thought to defect to your court.”
“I thought as much,” Irial said quietly, as the shadow-wrought gag vanished. He looked immeasurably pleased with himself as he noted, “That’s why I provoked him.”
“What?” Tavish asked.
He tapped his own chest. “Chaos, my dears. Cha-os. My lovely granddaughter needs you, and love”-- Irial looked around at them—“love makes madness seem rational. If you love our girl Siobhan--”
“Woman,” Siobhan interjected. “Not a girl.”
“And not yours,” Tavish added. “My woman.”
Aislinn laughed. “Well played, grandfather.”
And at that, Irial preened. “Love. For it, we would do the impossible.”
“Yes, but could we address the topic at hand?” Niall’s tone was stern, but no one there could miss the look in his eyes as he glanced at the embodiment of Chaos. The Dark King was in agreement—and in love.
“And perhaps after that, discuss the topic of what gifts one can send the Summer Queen?” Siobhan added.
“She likes them,” Irial said, pointing at the sleeping tigers curled into the Summer Queen’s lap. “It was an excellent gift.”
Tavish lifted his glass to the Dark King and then to the Summer Queen. “I do not envy either you.”
Irial frowned, but after a moment, he sighed loudly and said, “Now, let us address the matter at hand. My lost son . . .”
* * *
End
Winter Dreams: A Wicked Lovely Story
Keenan
1990
* * *
The Summer King rarely missed his Mother’s court. Keenan had been born as the child of Summer and Winter. He chose sunlight, that was the secret no one seemed to realize: He could have chosen ice.
Sometimes he thought he could have been happier in the Winter Court, but he had a duty to the leaderless Summer Court. Summer had needed him, and Keenan wanted to matter.
“Summer is dying,” Tavish had whispered.
“You are so much like your father,” Niall had said over and over.
“When you’re of age, you’ll save them,” they both swore. “Better to rule a weakened court than be a servant to the Winter Queen.”
But Keenan wasn’t a mere child now, and his fantasy of rescuing anyone was barely a flicker of hope. He might not be a servant, but lately, he didn’t feel like much of a king. The world was blanketed by snow more often than not. Crops died, and animals starved. His own faeries shivered under layers of furs and he was . . . useless.
And no one cared. No one noticed. No one seemed to realize he was on the verge of giving up. Somehow the Summer Court still believed in him, and his mother . . . the Winter Queen? She would gaze at him in fear, in hate, in shivering rage. They thought he was the kind of king he wasn’t sure he could ever be.
Keenan doubted he’d ever be strong enough.
The curse meant that he was bound, unable to be at his true strength unless he found the one mortal in all the world who was carrying his sunlight. And he hunted for her, letting dreams guide him to this or that place. Somewhere out there a mortal was meant to be his, and the surety that every curse could be broken drove him when he wanted to surrender.
Today, he stood in a wooded area, and he clung to that truth. She was out there.
The trees, coniferous and towering, were dressed in ice and snow. The ground under his feet crunched as his boots came down on frozen grass and fallen needles. The air was chilled, reminding him that winter grew stronger and stronger. It was barely fall, and yet the earth looked like it was nearly Winter Solstice.
“I must find her,” Keenan whispered.
The trouble was that finding his queen now carried a cost. He had found the one mortal in all the world, in all the centuries, who seemed perfectly suited to him. He loved her. Still.
Perhaps, he was doomed as his father once was—to love a woman who hated him. His own mother hated him enough to torment him because he reminded her of the man who betrayed her.
When Keenan was a child, he’d summon heat or spark life in plants buried under thick layers of snow. And every time he did so, Beira, the Winter Queen, would rage. The more she raged, the more Keenan realized that his mother was kindling her hatred of his father—and in that icy rage she felt for the man who wronged her, she hated all things Summer.
She hated her son.
<
br /> He looked too much like the last Summer King, and so he dressed in clothes that were mortal-made, a gesture to remind the approaching Winter Queen that he was, in fact, not the king she still hated.
“Sweetling,” the Winter Queen greeted as she arrived for the test to determine his latest choice’s fitness for the role of queen.
“Mother.” Keenan let sunlight fill him, pulled on the strength of his court so he could face his opposition. He glimmered, casting sunlight that danced over the plants that Winter had frozen in her wake.
“Shall we dispense with this one?” Beira asked. She’d arrived alone, save for one other faery. The Winter Queen still enjoyed some measure of pageantry, and she swept toward him as if they were in a palace. As she moved over the ground, the length of a thick, black fur cloak trailed behind her. He thought, briefly, that it might be a grizzly bear’s pelt, but he chose not to ask.
Keenan gestured toward the clearing. “Let us commence.”
He’d like to pretend there was a chance that Tracey, the mortal girl he’d chosen, was his missing queen, but faeries can’t lie, and even the Summer King was not above that law.
Winter walked away, preparing for another trial. As no one thought the outcome would be anything unexpected, Beira was almost pleasant.
The other faery, however, was not. Try as he might, Keenan could not stop the thrill that filled him as he looked at her. Donia. Although he smiled at her, the last woman who had loved him enough to risk the curse was now glaring at him.
“Another one who sees that you are not worth it,” Donia said, voice no less musical than when she was a mortal. The ice that filled her only added richness to her words. “Tracey won’t take the risk. She’ll refuse.”
“I know . . . and it’s better that she doesn’t.” He paused, resisting the urge to touch her only because it would pain her if he did. His sunlight might be weak, but she was a creature of ice now.
“I still wish you were the one, Don,” he whispered.