The King of Faerie (Stariel Book 4)

by AJ Lancaster

  She panted, staring at him with an expression that unsettled him; it had too much in common with the lords and servants earlier.

  “Unnatural,” she muttered, a flash of her sharp teeth showing. She’d called him that once before; it didn’t hit any more pleasantly now.

  Wyn returned his own mirthless smile. “You are welcome.” Because unnatural or not, she’d clearly benefited from his magic too. “And thank you.”

  He suspected the lesser fae had done it only to make it clear she owed him nothing for defending her to Lord Arran, but he didn’t care what her reasons were, not when his leg lay smooth and straight and blessedly, blessedly unbroken.

  Although he did look quite ridiculous now, missing a trouser leg and a boot. He pulled the remaining one off, deciding that matching bare feet were slightly more acceptable than being lopsided.

  “Yes, thank you, Gwendelfear. Or do you prefer Gwen?” Hetta frowned between the two of them.

  Gwendelfear looked to Wyn, a slight movement of her eyebrow conveying her outrage.

  “Names do not have the same weight, for mortals,” he reminded her. Gwendelfear bristled like an angry cat.

  “I know that, Hallowyn,” she spat.

  He couldn’t help it; his power snapped out at the insult, and she sucked in a breath and took a step back before he managed to wrest it under control again.

  “Miss Gwen is acceptable, Lord Valstar,” Gwendelfear said through clenched teeth.

  Irokoi entered the room, and Wyn swung off the settee to full alertness.

  “The good news,” Irokoi said, “is that Set isn’t anywhere nearby. The bad news is that she is indeed in the Mortal Realm once again. Somewhere to the south, I think.” His feathers shifted. “Where did you say your older brother was located, Lord Valstar?”

  35

  Marmalade

  They took the kineticar back to Stariel, except Irokoi, who flew. Jack drove, which Hetta was privately grateful for, since a deep, foggy tiredness had descended over her. Part of her couldn’t help thinking longingly of the quiet hush of the High King’s library, where she’d only had to deal with herself, Wyn, and Irokoi, and she’d had the luxury of a simple, if fraught, goal: escape. Now that she was back, complications were rushing back in, not least worry for Marius.

  At least he’s got Rakken with him. Not a statement she’d ever expected to find comfort in, but so it was. At least, from what she’d gathered, Gregory was safely back within the bounds, though she didn’t quite understand why yet. From the way Jack had refused to meet her eyes, she suspected it was somehow her fault.

  “Rake left me a message-spell to activate to let him know when we’d returned,” Wyn said softly. His tall frame was levered awkwardly into the front passenger seat. “It’s in my room.”

  Whether it was Stariel’s recent alarm or Jack’s precipitous exit from the house that had warned them of something amiss, all of Hetta’s relatives currently in residence awaited them at the entryway. Hetta knew she needed to tell them…something, but her brain felt too exhausted to determine what.

  Fortunately, Irokoi chose the moment they arrived to descend from the sky in a whirl of black feathers. His bare feet crunched on the gravel, and Hetta was struck by how out of place he appeared. Rakken hadn’t hidden his fae side, but he’d had a veneer of civilisation. But Irokoi—with his long silver hair hanging loose to his waist, whipped into disarray by the wind, and the scar running down one side of his face—well, his appearance was very far from civilised.

  “This is Wyn’s brother, Prince Irokoi,” she told her family.

  Irokoi beamed as if he hadn’t noticed the way Aunt Sybil was gaping at him.

  “Valstars!” he said happily. “How very exciting to meet you all. Will you tell me your names? Or perhaps you should wait for us all to set our appearances to right first. We are all rather messy, aren’t we? In our defence, it has been quite a busy day.” He looked to Hetta, expression guileless. “May I borrow a bathing chamber, Lord Valstar?”

  “Yes, of course.” Hetta had no idea of the exact arrangement of bedchambers presently, but Wyn would know.

  “Wyn—your foot! Are you well?” Lady Phoebe made a faint motion towards Wyn’s bloodied bare feet, the cut-off trouser leg.

  “I’m no longer injured, my lady, but I agree with my brother that we are sorely in need of cleaning up.” He smiled at the Valstars, and despite their astonishment, several smiled back. Wyn had a singularly charming smile. “Come with me, Koi,” Wyn said softly. He met Hetta’s gaze, a silent longing there that she shared, but the chances of her being allowed to follow him uninterrupted back to his room were nil. She had to be satisfied with a mere nod as he led Irokoi into the house.

  “I need to change as well. I’ll see you all momentarily. Jack can answer questions in the meantime.” She delegated ruthlessly. Jack shot her a dirty look. Hetta ignored it and fled.

  A few minutes later, she sat on her bed, curling her fingers into the mattress, and breathed a deep sigh of relief. It wasn’t only that standing on Stariel lands, she could protect the portion of her family already here, nor the magical sense of homecoming settling in her bones. It was the unwinding of a tightness she’d been carrying the entire time they’d spent in Faerie. Nothing had been safe or predictable there, even if parts of it had been astonishingly beautiful. Here she could be certain that butterflies were only butterflies.

  Except Wyn is certainly not a butterfly. She brooded over the image of Wyn lying on Angus’s sofa, pale and bleeding and still pretending so desperately hard to be human. They were going to have some meaningful words about that. She reached out, just to reassure herself that he was safe, felt the spark of him flare in response from his draughty attic.

  Her hand went automatically to the heartstone at her throat. The colour had darkened considerably, now the rich deep blue of lapis. How many shades of blue between lapis and black? She tucked it back under her blouse, just as her stomach rumbled an interruption. For some reason, the tang of marmalade rose to mind, and abruptly it was all she could think of.

  Well, there’s sure to be marmalade in the kitchen. This is a one-time thing, she told herself as she called up an image of the kitchen door. Not a habit I plan to get into.

  Translocation was followed by immediate regret; she hadn’t taken into account the slightly different space Stariel House occupied compared to the rest of the estate. She swayed and grabbed at the open doorframe for support.

  “My lord!” The cook’s—Mrs White’s—eyes widened. “Are you well?”

  The delicious smell of freshly baked bread wafted towards her, and Hetta’s stomach gave another grumble. “Just hungry,” she admitted, looking around. The kitchen was otherwise empty. “Do you mind terribly if I beg some bread and butter off you now? And maybe marmalade? I’ve a sudden craving for it.”

  “Not at all.” Mrs White ushered her to the kitchen table, and Hetta found herself in rapid possession of thick slices of still-warm bread set next to the requested condiments.

  “Don’t let me put you out,” Hetta said when Mrs White wavered, as if uncertain whether she should ignore the lord in her kitchen or not. “You shouldn’t have to rearrange your morning just because of my sudden marmalade craving.”

  “Ah, well, they say denying a babe-in-womb begets a petulant babe-in-hand,” she said knowledgeably. Then she froze, her eyes wide as a startled deer’s.

  Hetta paused in the act of spreading butter. She really oughtn’t to be surprised, but still! How dare her family get up in arms about her shaming the family name when they couldn’t keep their own tongues from wagging!

  “So I’ve heard,” Hetta said with a calmness she didn’t feel. At least there hadn’t been any condemnation in Mrs White’s expression.

  Mrs White took a sharp breath as Hetta focused intently on the texture of the bread. After a beat, Mrs White returned to her work.

  There was a small sound from the entryway. “Good morning, Mrs White. I’m hoping you m
ay know the location of a misplaced lord—ah, my Star.” Wyn had managed to change in a remarkably short time, every inch the human butler. His colour was better as well, and he didn’t seem to be limping. Hetta was warming more and more to Gwendelfear’s presence on the estate, since Wyn seemed to end up bleeding rather more than was reasonable.

  Mrs White gave Wyn a look that was a great deal franker than the respectful way she’d treated Hetta. A lot of unspoken things went into the look, and to Hetta’s surprise, Wyn flushed. What would the cook say if Hetta wasn’t here?

  “You should be more careful of her,” Mrs White said eventually.

  A bit of hauteur sharpened Wyn’s features, but he didn’t argue with the rebuke.

  Hetta reluctantly left the sanctuary of the kitchen. To her surprise, Wyn didn’t lead her straight to the hall or one of the sitting rooms. Instead he pulled her through the nearest side door and into a broom closet, hugging her against his chest. Hetta squeaked, though she wasn’t exactly displeased. There was something undeniably appealing about him overcome with strong emotion, and she could feel him trembling.

  “It’s not going to add to my reputation to be seen emerging from broom closets, you know. Not that I apparently have any reputation left to lose. Even the cook apparently knows what’s going on now.”

  “Hetta.” His embrace tightened. “I—” He swallowed, piecing his self-control back together. “I’m glad we’re home.”

  She lifted her head to meet his eyes. “Me too.”

  “I sent the message to Rakken.”

  36

  The Earl of Wolver

  Marius itched with sheer proximity as the train drew into Pickering Station in Meridon. Rakken was unsettling at close quarters and alone—the latter because Rakken had given everyone else who would’ve joined their carriage a look and they’d gone elsewhere. It hadn’t exactly been compulsion, but that kind of nudging Rakken did with his aura wasn’t a whole lot better.

  But Marius was almost grateful for Rakken’s…Rakken-ness, under the circumstances. It gave him something to focus on other than what they were travelling towards. Gods. The earl. His stomach twisted into knots, remembering the last time they’d met and how the earl had looked at him with such contempt.

  Rakken said something.

  “Pardon?” Marius said, coming out of his dark musings with a start.

  Rakken gave a theatrical sigh. “I asked if there was a reason you were scowling at me—”

  “General principle.”

  Rakken’s mouth curved, but he continued without pause. “—but I gather that you were in fact not thinking of me at all. How lowering.”

  “It’s good for your ego, remember.”

  Rakken chuckled, low and smooth as sin, and Marius swallowed and looked away.

  “I was thinking of what to say to the earl, if you must know. I hope you’ve come up with some sort of plausible explanation for accompanying me, since I’m planning to disavow all responsibility for you.”

  “I intend to tell the truth,” Rakken said drily. Well, a selection of it.

  Marius snorted despite himself. Though he was glad that Rakken was with him, and what had the world become that that was so? But Marius knew that Rakken wouldn’t be fazed or self-conscious even if Marius himself dissolved into an inarticulate puddle of nerves—sadly probable—and having Rakken inflicted upon him was the least of what the earl deserved.

  The train ground to a halt, and Marius sprang from his seat.

  Rakken changed from mortal to fae as he stepped onto the platform, no longer confined by the carriage space. Marius couldn’t pinpoint how he was so certain of this, since Rakken still appeared completely human and Marius had yet to puncture the glamour Rakken used on his wings with either experimental mixtures or headache-inducing staring. But he knew Rakken generally preferred his fae form whenever possible, and there was something in the way he moved when he was winged that made Marius sure of it.

  Rakken raised his eyebrows, and Marius realised he’d been staring.

  He jerked into motion. “We can walk to Fairway from here.”

  The suburb was where everyone who was anyone lived, including the Earl of Wolver. The wide, airy Regent’s Park separated the palace from the affluent suburb. They could take a hackney, but Marius desperately needed to discharge some of his nerves before the interview.

  Rakken didn’t object, and they threaded their way through the crowded station. Rakken was doing something again, because the Meridon public were never this respectful of personal space in the crowded train station when it was only Marius. He shot Rakken a narrow look, which Rakken pretended not to notice.

  Passing a newspaper stand, Marius couldn’t help scanning the headlines, wincing at the number relating to fae. Or Valstars. They weren’t too different to the ones in Knoxbridge, which someone always made sure to put in his pigeon-hole just in case he’d missed one. No wonder Greg had been so easy to provoke, if he’d been receiving the same treatment before word of his brawling had reached the wrong ears and seen him sent down. Thinking of that injustice sparked a low anger, and Marius held the feeling close, needing the extra motivation. Anger was better than anxiety.

  This meeting with the earl was going to go just fantastically, wasn’t it?

  As they walked, a headache germinated at the base of his skull, fighting with the knots in his stomach for discomfort. Marius rubbed his head with the heel of his hand, willing it to go away. Not today, please, of all days! The only thing that could make confronting a man who hated him worse would be doing it with a splitting migraine. He tried to block out the sounds of the station; sometimes that helped. Sullenly, the headache eased.

  They passed a zealous-faced man attempting to thrust pamphlets at passers-by. Marius ignored the proffered document, but surprisingly, Rakken didn’t. He came to a complete halt, leaving Marius walking alone for the few strides it took him to notice. He turned, about to remind Rakken that they had an appointment to make, when the pamphlet Rakken was holding up struck him. Printed in large letters was the headline: REJOICE! THE WINGED GODS RETURN TO US!

  “Is this supposed to be about fae?” Marius burst out, incredulous.

  “The winged gods have many names!” the pamphleteer told him happily. He had a Northern accent, and an unsettling light kindled in his eyes. “We are blessed to have them walk among us once more!”

  The man believed it utterly. Marius stared at him, head starting to pound again. “How can you believe that? They’re not gods! What about all the newspaper headlines?”

  “Lies spread by their enemies!” the man said staunchly.

  Rakken’s voice grew soft and persuasive. “Tell me, have you ever met a greater fae?”

  “The Storm Queen is gracious!”

  All the hairs on the back of Marius’s neck rose. Storm Queen. There was only one person that could mean: Aroset.

  A faint hint of storms and citrus, but Rakken’s tone remained low and smooth as velvet. “And are there more of you? Other ‘wing worshippers’?”

  “The Storm Queen will reward those who worship her! We are blessed!”

  The scent of Rakken’s magic strengthened, and the man sagged as if someone had cut his strings. He blinked at them and then down at the pamphlets in his hand.

  “I… Who are you?” He bristled. “What’s this about? You’re one of them! You’re one of them!” Panic spiked in his eyes, and he drew back his arm to throw the pamphlets in Rakken’s face but froze before he could complete the motion. His eyes glazed over.

  “Be calm. Feel unconcerned with the fae and return to your home. Do you remember where that is?”

  The man shivered. “I…”

  “Remember.”

  A sharp jerk of breath. “I remember.”

  “Go there. Now.”

  Rakken’s power released with a snap, and the man dropped his pamphlets, whirled, and made a dash away through the station. Passengers turned to see the source of the disturbance, wrinkling their
noses as they dodged the drift of pamphlets now strewn across the floor.

  Rakken stared in the direction the man had taken, expressionless, but Marius could tell he was furious.

  “I detest clumsiness in spellwork, and Set hacked through that man’s mind with all the subtlety of a mace. I pieced back together what I could, but I don’t know if he will ever fully recover.”

  “She’s here?”

  Rakken shook his head. “His memories were useless, a single shining point of adoration centred on Set, but the binding was old. He hadn’t been in recent contact with her, but clearly she’s been in this city at some point.” Anger flashed in his expression. “She bound him and set him loose without a care towards his eventual fate.”

  “And you care?”

  Rakken’s eyes were hard emeralds. “I don’t care for pointless waste, and one owes a duty of care to lesser creatures, particularly those one takes under one’s wings.”

  Lesser creatures. Marius’s hands fisted, and he turned and stormed away from Rakken and the crumpled pamphlets. Unfortunately, Rakken’s legs were just as long as his were—longer, actually—and he caught up within a few strides.

  Marius couldn’t speak as they left the station, afraid that if he began, he wouldn’t stop until he was shouting. The day was overcast, and the air had a heaviness suggesting imminent thunderstorms.

  “I won’t pretend to be other than I am, Marius Valstar.”

  Marius couldn’t tell if Rakken was trying to apologise—badly—or justify his actions. Sometimes he knew with unerring certainty what Rakken was thinking, but other times, like now, he had no idea.

  “Humans aren’t lesser creatures,” he hissed.

  “Ah, I thought that might be it. I will concede then, that not all of them are. But that man was weak and searching for someone to tell him what to believe long before my sister got hold of him. That is why she targeted him, of course. It is easiest to sway those inclined to fanaticism. The compulsion sticks better. Setting a long-lasting compulsion in direct opposition to someone’s normal personality is nearly impossible.” Though perhaps not for me, Marius could swear he felt Rakken silently add.