by Melissa Marr
She looked away.
He still thought she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Her blond hair had faded to the white of a snow squall, and pallor made her lips seem blue, but she was still as beautiful as she had been before she’d taken over as the Winter Girl.
Together they walked over to the mortal he’d chosen, Tracey, for the ceremony that everyone knew wouldn’t happen.
Tracey didn’t love him, and he couldn’t see her as the Summer Queen. He shouldn’t have selected her. She was fragile in a way that he knew would make her an unlikely match, but she was lovely. He’d seen her dancing in patch of sunlight near him. He’d been glamoured, invisible to mortals. She was happy, dancing in the light, and he’d wanted her to live forever.
In that moment, that flicker of affection, he’d chosen her.
In truth, he hadn’t truly encouraged her to risk the cold. He had, instead, spoken of a lifetime in the sunlight, knowing that she wasn’t his destined queen and unable to bear the thought of her misery if she tried to accept the test. Lately, he wished none of the former mortals had to endure either of the curse’s two options. If there was another way to break the curse without risking them, he’d do it.
“I wish you’d suffer the way I do,” Donia whispered from his side.
“I do suffer, Don. I swear to you that I do.” Keenan glanced at her, barely resisting the need to touch her. “You know I do.”
“Tracey?” Donia said, louder now.
The latest in Keenan’s long list of failed loves smiled at Donia and Keenan both. This part of the test was inevitable, the words unavoidable. Some traditions—and all curses--were as laws for faeries.
The Summer King knelt before Tracey. “Is this what you freely choose, to risk winter’s chill?”
“Oh…” Tracey watched him—and he knew his skin glowed brighter as summer’s flames flickered just under the surface. At such moments, he no longer looked anything like a mere mortal. For this moment, Keenan was Summer made flesh.
“Tracey?” he prompted, hoping she wasn’t going to say ‘yes.’
“It’s not what I want,” she said, sounding apologetic. “You’re wonderful, Keenan, but . . . I don’t want to be a queen. I’m not her. We both know that.”
Curses were inflexible, though. Keenan had to say the words. Every single time, he said them. This was no different.
“If you agree to try and are not the one, you’ll carry the Winter Queen’s chill until the next mortal risks this.” He paused, glancing at her, willing her to refuse. “Do you choose the test?”
Tracey shook her head. “I mean, I understand. . . and I’m sorry, but . . . I can’t.”
He whispered, “I know. . . .”
He beckoned to the Summer Court advisors, Niall and Tavish, who had arrived as soon as the test began. They gave Beira a wide berth, but both fey men watched her cautiously as they approached Keenan.
“Would you see Tracey home?” he asked.
Tracey hugged him. “You’ll find her. I just know it.”
Keenan wished silently that he still believed that.
Tracey giggled suddenly as the vines that wrapped every Summer Girl stretched and shivered over her skin. “They tickle.”
“They also keep you alive and stronger,” he told her.
“You saved me.” Tracey smiled at him. “Someday, you’ll find the person to save you.”
Keenan nodded and looked at her, not sure what to say. She was a friend, but she was also his responsibility now. Every Summer Girl was. Like plants in need of sunlight, they stayed near him.
In a rare moment of kindness, Beira waited until Tracey left to behave in her usual way. “That was depressing,” she said. “No one to save you . . .”
“Must we do this, Mother?” Keenan met the Winter Queen’s gaze, seeking the remnants of the faery who had once loved him a little at least. Her love had always been capricious, but he remembered moments of it. Perhaps nothing of that maternal love was left under her bitterness and rage.
The Winter Queen’s response was to exhale ice all around them, knowing the pain it caused him.
He stood in the sudden carpet of ice and snow, watching Donia’s eyes fill with ice and her lips tint blue.
“Well, isn’t that the way of life?” the Winter Queen said. “You’re pitiful and alone, again.”
Keenan, however, wasn’t sure if he was intentionally selecting those who wouldn’t be his missing queen—or if such a person simply didn’t exist.
What if she’d died? What if the curse was worded in such a way that the one girl he needed had died centuries ago? Or what if the Winter Queen had sent her minions to kill the girl when she was found? Could they locate her? Were they as unaware as he was?
Donia, the current Winter Girl, was the last one who’d attempted to be his queen and failed. That was almost half a century ago. Before her was Rika, who was currently living in the American desert, as far from the cold as she could be.
Keenan stared at Donia as he said, “My heart wasn’t in it this time. It’s already full.”
Donia widened her eyes slightly. She stared at him, silent, but he knew she understood.
His mother, however, laughed in that horrible, chilling way of hers. “Still?” Beira asked. “After all these unfortunates, you’re pining after this one?”
The Winter Queen stroked an icy hand over Donia’s hair, leaving it glittering with snow crystals that, for a moment, seemed like diamonds. “Donia would’ve been a harsh queen once she realized how useless you are, Sweetling.”
Keenan turned and walked away before Donia could answer. The truth was that he didn’t deserve Donia. Fate had made that clear when she wasn’t the keeper of the missing summerlight—but he loved her.
Still.
He feared that he always would, and the curse was so much more awful because of it.
Donia
When Keenan left, Donia felt the usual mix of longing and rage. As a mortal, her reaction to him had been far different. The mortals he romanced never knew what he was until they were near the point of changing. By then, it was too late. Their mortality was gone, and the only choices were risking the cold or being a part of his collection of vine-wrapped Summer Girls.
Donia wouldn’t have turned back, even if she knew what he was. She wouldn’t have surrendered the chance for eternity with him. That was the secret that she couldn’t quite face. She couldn’t entirely blame him—because she chose the risk. She chose love. She chose duty. And if she had to do it all again, Donia would still choose him.
Half a century ago, Donia had been young, poor, and dreaming of the sort of romance she read of in books. And there was Keenan, her own Prince Charming. He was everything. Handsome. Charismatic. And he listened to her, truly heard her ideas and thoughts. Of course, she thought he was the one.
He would arrive to see her, pulling up to her home driving a beautiful green Jaguar convertible or a deep red Triumph Roadster. To own one car was unfathomable to her, but to own two? He dressed smartly, took her on wonderful dates where they’d dance and laugh, and she imagined a life of such joy. She thought they’d grow old, have a family, and dance forever. She’d felt so lucky.
Donia had loved him wholly and that love had not faltered when she discovered that he wasn’t human. He was, quite simply, a faery and still her fairy tale prince. Keenan was perfection to her.
So, when she faced the choice Tracey just had, Donia had accepted the challenge—and she’d been living with the pain of her failure for half a century now. She’d lost everything for loving him, and he’d lost nothing.
“Pack your things,” the Winter Queen ordered, forcing Donia’s gaze away from the weakened Summer King.
“Already done.” Donia knew the pattern.
“Good. He’ll move us now,” Beira said, and then she was gone, too.
Save for guards that Keenan tasked with her safety, Donia was left alone in a clearing. Tracey was escorted away, cared for by the
Summer Court advisors. The Summer Girls always were. Beira went off to gloat. No one cared about Donia’s aching heart—not when she lifted the staff and was filled with ice, and not now when she watched another mortal lose everything for Keenan.
The Winter Girl was always in the unique position of being hated by both Summer and Winter Courts. The Winter Queen never forgave those who loved her son enough to attempt to break the curse, and the Summer King was always at odds with her. Her very function in life—as a result of the curse—was to convince chosen girl after chosen girl that she should resist Keenan’s affections.
Donia, like the others foolish enough to risk everything for Keenan, was cursed for loving him. Filled with ice as a reminder of her loss, each Winter Girl could only be freed if she failed and another foolish former mortal took the test.
“I don’t need you,” she muttered toward the Summer King’s guards, who trailed behind her when she turned toward her current home. That home, too, was temporary. The Summer King never stayed long in the town where the last Summer Girl had been found. He’d follow some instinct or whim. Whatever the reason, he’d move his court, and Winter would follow.
For all that his power was bound, they were still beholden to his whims. The curse was placed about nine centuries ago, long before Donia was born, and the result was that the Summer King spent his life hampered, weakened by the binding of his power, ruling with half of his sunlight hidden away in a mortal. And he had to find her, one mortal in all the world.
Girl after girl had been romanced by the Summer King, given her heart to him and her mortality. He didn’t seduce them physically. That was a particularly twisted bit. Those who truly loved him, who were willing to take the test to see if they held Summer, never knew him physically. Those who didn’t love him, who refused the test, became Summer Girls. They knew him intimately—needed his touch to survive.
And Keenan knew they didn’t love him.
In her calmer moments, Donia could admit that it was a cruel curse for everyone involved, but seeing the man she’d risked death for romancing other women year after year didn’t leave her very calm. Feeling aches down to her very bones didn’t make Donia feel forgiving.
Knowing Beira made Donia understand why the curse was so dark. The Winter Queen was a creature of rage and bitterness. Add that to all faeries’ propensity for clever curses, and it was no wonder that the curse was awful.
Donia walked, invisible to mortal gazes, to her rented cabin. She’d liked living here, surrounded by trees. This, too, she couldn’t keep.
Because of him.
Who knew where they’d end up?
They’d live in the new place for a few years until the Summer King found the next potential queen. It was a horrible way to spend an eternity: she had forever to watch him woo woman after woman, knowing that he was telling them the words he’d once said to her, whispering their names, listening to their dreams.
Donia was almost to the cabin when Sasha, the wolf who was her companion animal, loped toward her. Sasha, like most sentient creatures, tried to avoid the Winter Queen. No one with sense wanted to be in Beira’s presence for long.
A twinge of empathy for Keenan filled Donia as she thought about growing up under Beira’s loving care, but the Winter Girl had no time for sympathy, especially for him.
She walked in quiet peace, silent as the path grew thicker with snow and the areas where mortals lived were far from sight. This part, the peace of nature, was her one true solace in her life of late.
He’d steal that, too. He always did. And Donia, for all that she wished otherwise, still loved him. Love was her curse, her flaw, her downfall over and over.
* * *
The warmth at her back let her know Keenan was there. He sought her out after every failed test, as if she were a consolation prize.
“You know, I still wish you were the one,” he said.
“Can we not?” Donia continued walking, not looking back.
“Don . . .” He caught up with her, so they were walking side by side.
“Every time, Keenan, every single time this happens you come to me. What am I to do? Live an eternity with the scraps you have for me between your romances?” She glanced at him, hating the way her heart still reacted as he smiled. Fifty-some years had passed since she’d had the right to look at him with these feelings. Half a century of being the fallback prize stung.
“You know I—”
“No.” Donia stopped and glared at him. “We talked about this. I will not hear those lies. Not again.”
Keenan, as predictable as seasons once were, said, “We can’t lie. You know that, Don.”
Her breath was coming out in angry puffs that undoubtedly caused him pain, but instead of backing up, he reached out so his hand was near—but not touching—her cheek. “There is no one I have to romance today. So, why can’t I be here with you?”
“Because there will be.” Donia looked away from him, before she let herself give in. “I’m not her, Keenan. I will never, ever be the one you want.”
“You will always be the one I want,” he argued. “I want you, Donia. Now. Before. Later. That’s not going to change.”
“Fate disagrees,” she pointed out.
“The curse not selecting you isn’t about what I want.” He moved so she was looking at him again. “I can’t undo the curse, but if I find her, you and I will both be free. The Summer Girls will. The world will thrive again. I have to find my queen for all of us.”
“When we met, you offered me everything, but look at my life . . .” She shook her head. “I understand why you do it. I do. I just don’t want to be the second-choice, too.”
“You’re not!”
She exhaled a plume of frigid air. “The curse says otherwise.”
“The curse is about the girl who has my sunlight. She’s a vessel.” Keenan ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “That’s not fated love.”
“It is fated matrimony,” Donia snapped. “And you always love them. How can you say you won’t with the one who will be your queen? Arranged or not, once you find her, you are forbidden to me. I will not be someone’s mistress!”
Keenan took a breath, visibly restraining his temper and sunlight. “Have I found her?”
“No.”
“Then I am free to romance you, am I not?” The Summer King gave her a smile that made logic and restraint vanish, and she hated him a little bit for it.
At the end of this, whether the next mortal or several mortals from now, he was going to be belong to another woman. How was she to let her heart begin to heal if Keenan wouldn’t let her go?
“Don, please?” Keenan knelt in the snow and stared up at her. “Let me have more time with you.”
“Give me peace for now,” she half-ordered, half-asked. “Speak to me again when we are moved.”
He smiled, hearing her acquiescence. Over and over, he broke her heart, and Donia had no idea why she couldn’t resist.
One day, she swore, I will refuse for good.
Irial
Irial couldn’t explain why he felt so drawn to this town. He walked around Huntsdale, Pennsylvania as if there was something that would jump out and answer the anxiety plaguing him.
The main street of this little town was a mix of buildings that hadn’t seen better days in longer than even he could fathom. Humans were so peculiar. Why did they stay here? Why did they let poverty and disease eat them alive instead of moving somewhere with work? The simple idea of permanence in misery confused the Dark King—and he and his kind fed on the ugliest of emotions. If he could feed on humanity’s misery instead of only fey pain, he might set up a home here.
He couldn’t, though, so why did he feel like he wanted to stay here?
Irial summoned the Wild Hunt, sending his summons out of the bond he had with the leader of their nightmarish crew. “Come to me.”
As he walked, invisible to mortal eyes, Irial studied facades that were presumably once attractive, but
now bore telltale signs of age and decay. Stubborn weeds sprouted from cracked sidewalks and half-abandoned lots. It was a mundane town, steel tracks and abandoned train cars. There was nothing magical here. Sure, there was a portal to Faerie, but he was the Dark King. He could always find entry there.
The Summer King and Winter Queen had both relocated there, and as much as he tended to try to stay clear of their drama, this was one of the times he couldn’t.
He was standing under a building, staring up at it, when Gabriel drove the Hunt through the streets of the steel town.
The Dark King inhaled the roil of terror and panic that accompanied their arrival before he turned to watch them. Cars, motorcycles, and beasts surged through the city. In Faerie, forever ago now, these steeds could wear whatever form they wanted all of the time. When invisible, they sometimes still did, but as centuries slipped away they became increasingly likely to take forms of machine over creature. A few skeletal horse-like steeds exhaled noxious clouds as they panted from whatever speed they’d used to reach him quickly.
Near the front of the mass of writhing, straining creatures and machines, stood the faery who was as close to a brother as Irial had in either world. Once he would’ve used that word for the long-dead Summer King, Miach, but he was centuries dead now. And while the Dark King wouldn’t admit to Gabriel that he was always relieved to see the Hound uninjured, Irial still allowed himself a moment of thanks that his oldest living friend was here.
“Getting slower with age,” Irial said in greeting.
The massive Hound snorted and swung a meaty fist toward Irial. The laughter it elicited in all of them eased the worst of Irial’s anxiety. They were neither slow nor easily countered.
“Why am I called to you?” Gabriel grumbled.
Irial studied him. “Busy?”
“Later,” Gabriel muttered, glancing back at his mate.
As Irial looked over the assembled group, he noticed the increased presence of piercings. The toxic metal caused them pain, as it did all things fey other than royal or unusual exceptions. The Dark Court fey had developed a recent predilection for piercings that were popular among mortals, as if creating their own pain was pleasure. Admittedly, they tended toward silver, but Irial saw a few scattered Hounds with a steel ring or stud in his or her skin. They’d switch out, but Irial couldn’t help but appreciate the pain-pleasure he drew from them.