A Kiss of Shadows mg-1

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  "The great Darkness, bowing out of a fight? Inconceivable. Or is it that I'm the one with the sword now?" Sholto moved the sword a fraction forward, touching the tip to the indentation in Doyle's upper lip. "A sword that can kill any fey, even a sidhe nobleman. Oh, I forget, you're not afraid of anything." There was a bitterness, a mockery, to Sholto's voice that said without doubt that I'd stepped into an old grudge.

  "I fear many things," Doyle said, his voice calm, neutral. "Death is not one of them. But the ring on your finger is something that I am wary of. How did you get Beathalachd? I have not seen it used in centuries."

  Sholto raised his hand so the dark bronze of the ring glimmered dully in the lights. It was a heavy piece of jewelry, and I would have noticed it on his hand if it had been there earlier. "It was the queen's gift to show her blessing on this hunt."

  "The queen did not give you Beathalachd, not personally." Doyle sounded very sure of that.

  "What is Beathalachd?" I asked.

  "Vitality," Doyle said. "It steals the very life and skill of your opponent, which is the only way that he bested me in a fight."

  Sholto flushed. It was considered a sign of weakness to need more magic than you had in your own body to defeat another sidhe. Basically, Doyle had said that Sholto couldn't win a fair fight, and had had to cheat. But it wasn't cheating-just less than chivalrous. Fuck chivalry, come back alive. It was what I'd told any man I'd ever loved, including my father, before every duel.

  "The ring proves that I have the queen's favor," Sholto said, his face still colored by his anger.

  "The ring did not come from the queen's own hand to yours," Doyle said, "any more than your order to kill the princess came from her mouth."

  "I know who speaks for the queen and who does not," Sholto said, and it was his turn to sound certain.

  "Really," Doyle said. "And if I had come to you and given you the queen's orders, would you have believed me?"

  Sholto frowned, but nodded. "You are the queen's Darkness. When your mouth moves, her words come out of it."

  "Then hear these words: The queen wants Princess Meredith alive, and back home."

  I couldn't read all the thoughts moving across Sholto's face, but there were a lot of them. I tried to ask the question he would not answer for Doyle. "Did the queen herself tell you to come to Los Angeles and kill me?"

  Sholto looked at me. It was a long, considering look, but finally he shook his head. "No," he said.

  "Who told you to come to Los Angeles and slay the princess?" Doyle asked.

  Sholto opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. The tension flowed out of him, and he stepped back from Doyle, lowering the sword to his side. "No, I will keep the name of the traitor to myself for now."

  "Why?" I asked.

  "Because Doyle's presence here can mean only one thing. The queen wants you to return to court." He looked at Doyle. "I'm right, aren't I?"

  "Yes," Doyle said.

  "She wants me to return to court?"

  Doyle moved so he could see both Sholto and me, his back to the empty bathroom stalls. "Yes, Princess."

  I shook my head. "I left because people were trying to kill me, Doyle. The queen wasn't stopping them."

  "They were legal duels," he said.

  "They were court-sanctioned assassination attempts," I said.

  "I did mention this to her," Doyle said.

  "And she said what?"

  "She gave me her mark to give to you. If anyone kills you now, even in a duel, they will have to face our queen's vengeance. Trust in this, Princess: even those who desire your death greatly will not want to pay that high a price for it."

  I looked up at Sholto, the movement made me slightly dizzy. Shock, definitely shock. "Fine, I'm going back to court, if the queen can guarantee my safety. What does that have to do with you not giving us the name of the traitor? Who used the queen's name to send you to execute me, when she didn't want me dead?"

  "I will keep that information to myself for now," Sholto said again. His face was that arrogant mask that he wore so often at court.

  "Why?" I asked.

  "Because if the queen allows you back to court, you don't need to bargain with me. You will be able to return to faerie, to the Unseelie Court, and I would bet my kingdom that she'll find you another sidhe lover. So, you see, Meredith, you don't need me. You'll have everything I could have offered you, and you won't be tied for a lifetime to a deformed monster."

  "You're not deformed, Sholto. If your hags hadn't interrupted, I'd have proved that to you."

  Something flickered over his face, rippling on the surface of his arrogance. "Yes, my hags." He turned those tri-yellow eyes on me. "I thought you had no hand of power, Meredith."

  "I don't," I said.

  "I think Nerys would argue with you on that."

  "I didn't know, Sholto, I didn't mean to..." I had no words for what I'd done to Nerys.

  "What has happened?" Doyle asked.

  "Black Agnes lied to the sluagh. She told them that if I mated with Meredith that I would become pure sidhe, and no longer be their king. She convinced them that they were protecting me from myself, protecting me from the wiles of the sidhe witch."

  I raised eyebrows at that.

  He looked at me. "But I have persuaded Agnes and the rest that you are not a danger to them."

  I met his eyes. "I saw the method of persuasion before I ran."

  He nodded. "Agnes said to thank you-she's never had better from me. She thinks it has something to do with your magic."

  "She's not angry about Nerys? "I asked.

  "She wants you dead, yes, but she's afraid of you now, Meredith. The hand of flesh like your father-who would have dreamed it?" There was something in his eyes besides careful arrogance. I realized with a start that it was fear. Fear peeking through his mask. It wasn't just Black Agnes who was afraid of what I'd done up in that room.

  "Hand of flesh," Doyle repeated. "What are you saying, Sholto?"

  Sholto held the sword out to Doyle, hilt first. "Take this, and come up to my room and see what our little princess has done. Nerys cannot be healed, so I request that you grant her true death before you escort Meredith home. I will see you both safely to a taxi on the off chance that my sluagh are not... perfectly obedient." His words, his body language all said that he was not happy with Doyle.

  With a small bow of his head, Doyle took the sword. "If it is a favor you need, then I am happy to oblige for the name of the traitor that sent you to Los Angeles falsely in the queen's name."

  Sholto shook his head. "I will not give up the name, not now. I will hold it until it is of use to me, or until I decide to deal with the traitor personally."

  "If you told us the traitor's name, it would help us keep the princess safe at court."

  Sholto laughed then, that strange bitter sound that passed for normal laughter for him. "I will not say who sent me here, but I can guess who wanted the message given, and so can you. Meredith fled the court because Prince Cel's supporters kept challenging her to duels. If it had been anyone else behind the attempts on Meredith's life, the queen would have stepped in and stopped it. Such an insult to the royal family would not have been allowed, not even to a mixed-breed magicless mortal. But it was her precious baby boy who was behind it, and we all knew it. So Meredith fled, and hid herself away, because she didn't trust the queen to keep her alive when Cel wanted her dead."

  Doyle met those accusing eyes with a tranquil face. "I think you will find that our queen is no longer so tolerant of the prince's... eccentricities."

  Sholto laughed again, and it was a painful sound. "When I left the court only days ago, I'd say she was still very tolerant of Cel's... eccentricities."

  Doyle's face was still peaceful, as if nothing the other man could do would upset him. I think that bothered Sholto more than any other reaction that Doyle could have given him. I think Doyle knew that. "One problem at a time, Sholto. For now I have the queen's promise, and her magic,
to ensure that the princess will not be harmed at court."

  "As you wish to believe, Doyle, but for now I would ask you to aid me in bringing death to one that I valued."

  Doyle stood easily, as if he hadn't been nearly strangled to death moments ago. I wasn't even sure I could stand. There is more than just immortality that I miss by taking after my human blood.

  They both reached out to me at the same time, and I took both hands. They nearly pulled me off my feet. "Easy does it, boys. I just need help standing, not flying."

  Doyle looked at me. "You are pale. How badly are you hurt?"

  I shook my head and pulled away from them both. "Not that badly. It's mostly shock, and... it hurt when I... did what I did to Nerys."

  "What did you do?" he asked.

  "Come see," Sholto said. "It is worth a look, or three." He looked at me then. "The news of what you have done will ride before you to the court, Meredith. Meredith, Princess of Flesh, no longer merely Essus's daughter."

  "It is very rare for a child to receive the same gifts as the parent," Doyle said.

  Sholto walked toward the door, tying the grey trench coat in place as he moved. Blood soaked into the cloth where the cut tentacle pressed against it. "Come, Doyle, Bearer of the Painful Flame, Baron Sweet-tongue, come and see what you think of Meredith's gifts."

  I was familiar with the first title, but not the second. I asked, "Baron Sweet-tongue - I've never heard you called that."

  "It is a very old nickname," he said.

  "Come, Doyle, you are too modest. It was the queen's pet name for him, once."

  The two men looked at each other, and again there was a weight of old grudge in the air. "The name is not for what you assume, Sholto," Doyle said.

  "I assume nothing, but I think the sobriquet speaks for itself. Don't you, Meredith?"

  "Baron Sweet-tongue does have a certain ambiance," I said.

  "It is not for what you think," Doyle repeated.

  "Well," Sholto said, "it is certainly not because of your honeyed words."

  That was true. Doyle didn't go in for long speeches, and he was not an accomplished flatterer.

  "If you say it's not sexual, then I believe you," I said.

  Doyle made a small bow to me. "Thank you."

  "The queen doesn't give out pet names except for sex," Sholto said.

  "Yes, she does," I said.

  "When, and for what?"

  "When she thinks the nickname will bother the person bearing it, and because she enjoys being irritating."

  "Well, the last is certainly true," Sholto said. He had his hand on the door handle.

  "I'm surprised no one barged in on us," I said.

  "I put a small spell of aversion on the door. No mortal would want to pass it, and few fey." He started to open the door.

  "Don't you want your... limb? They might be able to reattach it."

  "It will grow back," he said.

  I must have looked as disbelieving as I felt, because he smiled in a half-superior, half-apologetic way. "There are some benefits to being half nightflyer-not many, but a few. I can regenerate any lost body part." He seemed to think about that for a second, then added, "So far, anyway."

  I didn't know what to say to that, so I didn't try.

  "I think the princess needs to get some rest, so if we could see your friend..." Doyle said.

  "Of course." Sholto held the door for us.

  "What about the mess?" I asked. "We're just going to leave bits of tentacle and blood all over the floor?"

  "The baron made the mess, let him clean it up," Sholto said.

  "Neither the body parts nor the blood belong to me," Doyle said. "If you want it cleaned up, I suggest you do it yourself. Who knows what damage a talented witch could do with a body part left lying around?"

  Sholto protested, but in the end he slipped the severed tentacle in his coat pocket. They left the body-sized one where it lay. If I were Sholto I would definitely be overtipping the cleaning staff, just to make up for whoever had to do the bathroom.

  We rode back up in the elevator, and Doyle knelt on the floor studying what was left of Nerys the Grey. She was a ball of flesh about the size of a bushel basket. Nerves, tendons, muscles, internal organs all glistened wetly on the outside of that ball. They all seemed to be functioning normally. That lump of flesh even rose and fell with breath. The sound was the worst: a high, thin screaming, muffled because her mouth was now on the inside of her body, but still she screamed. She shrieked. The shivering that had been growing less, grew more. I was suddenly cold standing there in my bra and pants.

  I got my shirt from the floor where I'd left it, and slipped it on, but knew that mere cloth wasn't going to take care of this particular kind of cold. It was more a shivering of the soul than the body. I could pile myself with blankets and it wouldn't help.

  Doyle looked up at me, kneeling beside that pulsing, screaming ball. "Most impressive. Prince Essus himself could not have done better." The words were a compliment, but his face was so empty I couldn't tell if he was pleased or not.

  I actually thought it was one of the most horrible things I'd ever seen, but I knew better than to share the observation. It was a powerful weapon, the hand of flesh. If people believed I'd use it easily, often, it was more of a deterrent. If they thought I feared it, then the threat would be less. "I don't know, Doyle, I saw my father turn a giant inside out once. Do you think I could do something that large?" My voice was dry, interested, but in an academic sort of way.

  It was the voice I'd cultivated at court. The voice I used when I was trying not to have hysterics or run screaming from a room. I had learned to watch the most awful things and make dry, urbane comments.

  Doyle took the question at face value. "I don't know, Princess, but it will be interesting to discover the limits of your power."

  I disagreed, but I let the comment stand, because I couldn't think of anything dry and urbane enough to cover the situation. The muffled shrieks continued as fast as the ball of flesh could draw breath. Nerys was immortal. My father had once done this to an enemy of the queen's. Andais kept that ball of flesh in a trunk in her room. Periodically, you'd find it sitting around her bedchamber. To my knowledge no one ever questioned what it was doing out of its trunk. You just picked it up, put it back, locked it away, and fought down any visuals that came to mind when you found it sitting in the queen's bed.

  "Sholto asked that you grant Nerys death. Do it, so we can get out of here." I sounded disinterested, even bored. I thought if I had to stand there and hear that thing screaming for much longer, I'd join it.

  Still on his knees, Doyle held the sword up to me, hilt first, the blade lying on his hands.

  "It is your magic-let it be your kill."

  I stared at the bone hilt, the three ravens and their jeweled eyes. I didn't want to do it. I stared at the blade for a minute more, trying to think how to get out of this without appearing weak. Nothing came to mind. If I got squeamish now, then Nerys's torment was for nothing. I would have gained a new title but not the reputation that went with it.

  I took the sword, and hated Doyle for offering it to me. It should have been easily done. Her heart was trapped and pulsing on the side of the ball. I thrust the blade into it. Blood poured black, and the heart stopped beating, but that thin screaming didn't stop.

  I glanced at the two men. "Why isn't she dead?"

  "The sluagh are harder to kill than the sidhe," Sholto said.

  "How much harder?"

  He shrugged. "It's your kill."

  In that instant I hated them both, because I realized finally that it was a test. It might be that if I refused the kill they'd leave her alive. That was not acceptable. I couldn't leave her like this, knowing that she'd never age, or heal, or die. She'd just continue. Death was mercy; anything else was madness, hers and mine.

  I stabbed the sword into every vital organ I could find. They bled, shriveled, ceased to function, and still the screaming went on. I fina
lly raised the sword in a two-handed motion above my head and just started stabbing. At first I paused between stabs, or slices, but every time the screams just went on and on, trapped inside that ball of meat. Somewhere around the tenth blow, or the fifteenth blow, I stopped pausing, stopped listening, and just kept stabbing.

  I had to make the screaming stop. I had to make her die. The world narrowed down to the pounding of the blade into the thick meat. My arms raised and lowered, raised and lowered. The blade bit into the flesh. Blood sprayed across my face, my shirt. I ended on my knees beside something that was no longer round, no longer whole. I'd hacked the thing into pieces, unrecognizable pieces. The screaming had stopped.

  My hands were soaked with blood, crimson to the elbows. The sword blade was scarlet, the bone hilt was solid blood, and still the hilt fit my hand well, not slippery at all. The green silk shirt I'd put back on was black with soaked blood. My slacks had gone from purple to a violet black. Someone was breathing too fast, too ragged, and I realized it was me. Sometime during the butchering there had been a fierce satisfaction, almost a joyfulness in the sheer destruction. Now I stared down at what I had done and felt nothing. There wasn't enough of me left to feel anything about this, so I felt nothing. I was numb, and it wasn't a bad way to be.

  I got to my feet using the edge of the bed. The bed was already spattered with blood-what was one more handprint? My arms were sore, the muscles shaking from too much exercise. I offered the sword to Doyle as he'd offered it to me. "Good sword, the hilt never got slippery." My voice sounded as empty of emotion as I felt. I wondered if this was what it was like to be crazy. If it was, it wasn't so very bad.

  Doyle took the sword and dropped to his knees, head bowed. Sholto echoed him, kneeling, bowing his head. Doyle saluted me with the bloody sword and said, "Meredith, Princess of Flesh, true royal of the blood, welcome to the inner circle of the sidhe."

  I stared down at both of them, still echoingly numb. If there were ritual words to answer with, I couldn't think of them. Either I'd never known them, or I just couldn't make my mind work right now. The only thing I could think to say was, "May I use your shower?"

  "Be my guest," Sholto said.