The plane had straightened but was still shuddering as wind buffeted it from every side. A rough flight. "Are you bored yet?" I asked.
"Anything you say will be most fascinating until we reach the ground in safety."
"You know, you're cute when you're scared."
He did the open eyes to slits, glare, close eyes again. "Please continue."
"Gran bore two beautiful twin girls. Uar's curse was ended, and Gran was one of the ladies of the court-Uar's wife, as a matter of fact, because she'd borne him children. To my knowledge, my grandfather never touched his 'wife' again. He was one of the fine and shining gentlemen. Gran was a little too common for him now that he was curse-free."
"He is a powerful warrior," Doyle said, eyes still closed.
"Who?"
"Uar."
"That's right; you must have fought against him in the wars in Europe."
"He was a very worthy opponent."
"Are you trying to make me feel better about him?"
The plane had actually flown straight and relatively smoothly for about three minutes. It was enough for Doyle to open his eyes completely. "You sounded very bitter just now."
"My grandfather beat my Gran for years. He thought if he hurt her enough he'd drive her away from court, because legally he couldn't divorce her without her permission. He couldn't put her aside because she'd given him children."
"Why did she not simply leave him?"
"Because if she were no longer Uar's wife she would no longer be welcome at court. They would never have allowed her to take her daughters with her. She stayed to make sure her children would be safe."
"The queen was most puzzled when your father invited your mother's mother to accompany the two of you into exile."
"Gran was his lady of the house. She oversaw the household for him."
"She was a servant, then," Doyle said.
It was my turn to glare. "No, she was... she was his right hand. They raised me together for those ten years."
"When you left the court this last time, so did your grandmother. She opened a bed-and-breakfast."
"I've seen the write-ups in the magazines: Victoria, Good Housekeeping. Brownie's Bed-and-Breakfast, where you can be waited on, cooked for, by an ex-member of the royal court."
"Have you not spoken with her since you left three years ago?" he asked.
"I haven't contacted anyone, Doyle. It would have endangered them. I disappeared. That means I left everything and everyone behind."
"There were jewels, heirlooms, that were yours by right. The queen was amazed that you left with nothing but the clothes on your back."
"Any of the jewels would have been impossible to sell without it getting back to the courts; same with the heirlooms."
"You had money that your father had put away for you." He was watching me now, trying to understand, I think.
"I have been on my own for three years, a little over. I have taken nothing from anyone. I have been a woman on my own, free of obligation to anyone of the fey."
"Which means you can invoke virgin rights when you return to court."
I nodded. "Exactly." Virgin in the old Celtic ideal was a woman who stood on her own, owing nothing to anyone for a space of time. Three years was minimum for claiming it at court. To be virgin meant that I was outside any old feuds or grudges. I could not be forced to take sides on any issue, because I stood apart from all of it. It was a way of being in the court, without being of the court.
"Very good, Princess, very good. You know the law and how to use it for your benefit. You are wise as well as polite, a true marvel for an Unseelie royal."
"Being virgin allowed me to make hotel reservations without risking the queen's anger," I said.
"She was puzzled as to why you did not wish to stay at the court. After all, you want to return to us, do you not?"
I nodded. "Yes, but I also want some distance until I see just how safe I'm going to be at court."
"Few would risk the queen's anger," he said.
I looked at him, searching his eyes so I would catch whatever he thought of my next words. "Prince Cel would risk her anger, because she's never seriously punished him for anything he's ever done."
Doyle's eyes tightened when I mentioned Cel's name, but nothing more. If I hadn't been watching for it, I wouldn't have noticed any reaction at all.
"Cel is her only heir, Doyle; she won't kill him. He knows that."
Doyle gave me empty eyes. "What the queen does, or does not do, with her son and heir, is not for me to question."
"Don't give the party line, Doyle, not to me. We all know what Cel is."
"A powerful sidhe prince who has the ear of the queen, his mother," Doyle said, and the tone in his voice was a warning to match the words.
"He has only one hand of power, and his other abilities are not that great."
"He is the Prince of Old Blood, and I for one would not want him using that ability on me on the dueling ground. He could bring every bleeding wound I have had in over a thousand years of battles on me at once."
"I didn't say it wasn't a frightening ability, Doyle. But there are others with more powerful magic, sidhe that can bring true death with a touch. I've seen your flame eat over a sidhe, seen it eat them alive."
"And you killed the last two sidhe that challenged you to a duel, Princess Meredith."
"I cheated," I said.
"No, you did not. You merely used tactics that they were not prepared for. It is the mark of a good soldier to use the weapons available to him or her."
We looked at each other. "Does anyone but the queen know that I have the hand of flesh now?"
"Sholto knows, and his sluagh. It will not be a secret by the time we land."
"It may frighten any would-be challengers," I said.
"To be trapped forever as a shapeless ball of flesh, never to die, never to age, merely to continue; oh, yes, Princess, I think they will be afraid. After Griffin... left you, many became your enemy, because they thought you powerless. They will all be remembering the insults they heaped upon you. They'll be wondering if you have come back holding a grudge."
"I'm invoking virgin rights-that means that I have a clean slate, and so do they. If I acknowledge an old vendetta, then I lose my status as a virgin, and I'll be sucked right back into the middle of all this crap." I shook my head. "No, I'll leave them alone if they leave me alone."
"You are wise beyond your years, Princess."
"I'm thirty-three, Doyle, that's not a child by human years."
He laughed, a small dark chuckle that made me think of what he'd looked like last night with half his clothes gone. I tried to keep the thought out of my face, and I must have succeeded, because his own expression didn't change. "I remember when Rome was merely a wide spot in the road, Princess. Thirty-three years is a child to me."
I let what I was thinking into my eyes. "I don't remember you treating me like a child last night."
He looked away, not meeting my eyes. "That was a mistake."
"If you say so." I looked out the window, watching the clouds. Doyle was determined to pretend that last night never happened. I was tired of trying to talk about it, when he so obviously didn't want to discuss it.
The flight attendant came back. This time she knelt, skirt tight across her thighs. She smiled up at Doyle, magazines spread in a fan across one arm. "Would you like something to read?" She laid her free hand on his leg, slid her hand along the inside of his thigh.
Her hand was an inch from his groin when Doyle grabbed her wrist and moved her hand. "Madam, please."
She knelt closer to him, one hand on either of his knees, the magazines partially hiding what she was doing. She leaned in so that her breasts pressed against his legs. "Please," she whispered. "Please, it's been so long since I was with one of you."
That got my attention. "How long has it been?" I asked.
She blinked as if she couldn't quite concentrate on me with Doyle sitting so close. "S
ix weeks."
"Who was it?"
She shook her head. "I can keep a secret, just don't deny me." She looked up at Doyle. "Please, please."
She was elf-struck. If a sidhe has sex with a human and doesn't try to tone down the magic, they can turn the human into a sort of addict. Humans that are elf-struck can actually wither and die from want of the touch of sidhe flesh.
I leaned close to Doyle's ear, close enough that my lips brushed the edges of his earrings. I had a horrible urge to lick one of the earrings, but I didn't. It was just one of those wicked urges you get occasionally. I whispered, "Take her name and phone number. We'll need to report her to the Bureau of Human and Fey Affairs." Doyle did what I asked.
The flight attendant had tears of gratitude shining in her eyes when Doyle took her name, number, and address. She actually kissed his hand and might have done more if the male flight attendant hadn't ushered her away.
"It's illegal to have sex with humans without protecting their minds," I said.
"Yes, it is," Doyle said.
"It would be interesting to know who her sidhe lover was."
"Lovers, I think," Doyle said.
"I wonder if she always flies the L. A. to St. Louis run?"
Doyle looked at me. "She might know who'd been flying back and forth to Los Angeles often enough to set up the cult that's worshiping them."
"One man doesn't constitute a cult," I said.
"You told me the woman mentioned a handful of others, some of them with ear implants, or perhaps even sidhe themselves."
"That's still not a cult-it's a wizard with followers, a sidhe-worshiping coven at best."
"Or a cult at worst. We have no idea how many people were involved, Princess, and the man who could have answered the question is dead."
"Funny how the police didn't mind me leaving the state with a murder investigation hanging over my head."
"I would not at all be surprised if your aunt, our queen, made some phone calls. She can be quite charming when she wants to be."
"And when that fails, she's scary as hell," I said.
He nodded. "That, too."
The male flight attendant took care of first class for the rest of the flight. The woman never came near us again, until we were getting off the plane. Then she took Doyle's hand, and said, voice urgent, "You will call me, won't you?"
Doyle kissed her hand. "Oh, yes, I will call, and you will answer every question that I put to you honestly, won't you?"
She nodded, tears trailing down her face. "Anything you want."
I had to drag Doyle away from her. I whispered, "I'd take a chaperone with me when you go to question her."
"I had not intended going alone," he said. He looked at me, our faces very close because we were whispering. "I learned very recently that I am not unaccessible to sexual advances." His look was very frank, open, the look I'd wanted on the plane. "I will have to be more careful in the future." With that he raised up, so that he was too tall for whispering, and began to walk down the narrow hallway toward the airport proper. I followed him.
We left the noise of engines behind and walked toward the sound of people.
Chapter 20
THE PEOPLE WERE A LARGE MURMUROUS NOISE THAT SWELLED TOWARD me and over me, as if I were being swallowed in a sea of noise as I walked down the concourse. The crowd walked back and forth at the opening like bits of multicolored debris, a wall of people. Doyle walked just ahead of me like an advance guard, which was exactly what he was.
Our gate was in line with the broad hallway that led deeper into the airport. Doyle was at the opening of the concourse, standing to one side, waiting for me. Then through the crowd I saw a tall figure come striding toward us. Galen was dressed in layers of green and white: pale green sweater, paler green pants, and an ankle-length white duster coat floating out behind him like a cape. The sweater matched his hair, which fell in short curls to just below his ear, except for one long thin braid. His father had been a pixie, whom the queen had had killed for the audacious crime of seducing one of her handmaidens.
I don't believe the queen would have killed the pixie if she'd known he'd begotten a child. Children are precious, and anything that breeds, that passes the blood along, is worth keeping around.
I was happy to see him but knew if he was here, then a photographer wasn't far behind. Frankly, I'd been surprised we hadn't stepped out into a barrage of media. Princess Meredith had been missing for three years, and now she was coming home, alive, well. My face had been plastered across the supermarket tabloids for years; sightings of the Elven American Princess had rivaled Elvis sightings. I didn't know what had been done to save me from the media frenzy, but I was grateful.
I dropped my carry-on bag beside Doyle and ran to Galen. He swept me up in his arms and planted a kiss on my mouth. "Merry, good to see you, girl." His arms curved around my back, holding me a foot above the ground with ease.
I've never liked my feet dangling helplessly. I wrapped my legs around his waist, and he transferred his hands from my waist to my thighs to support me.
I'd been running into Galen's arms since I could remember. After my father's death he'd been my defender among the Unseelie more than once-though being a half-breed like myself, he didn't have much more clout than I did. What he did have was six feet of muscle and trained warrior to
back up his threat.
Of course, when he swept me up in his arms at age seven, it was minus the kiss and other things. At just a little over a hundred, Galen was one of the youngest of Andais's royal guard. A mere seventy years between our ages-among the sidhe it was like growing up together.
The V neck of his sweater cut low over the swell of his chest, showing a curl of chest hair that was a darker green than his hair, almost black. The sweater was pettably soft, clinging to his body. His skin was white, but the sweater brought out the undercast of pale, pale green so that his skin was either pearl white or a dreamlike green depending on how the light hit it.
His eyes were a green the color of new spring grass, more human than the liquid emerald of my own. But the rest of him-the rest of him was too unique for words. I'd thought that since I was about fourteen, except he wasn't who my father had promised me to. Because Galen was too nice a guy. He didn't play politics well enough for my father to feel confident that Galen would live to see me grown. No, Galen spoke when silence would be wiser. It was one of the things I'd loved about him as a child and feared about him as I grew older.
He danced me around the hallway to some music that only he could hear, but I could almost hear it as I looked into his eyes, traced the curve of his lips with my gaze.
"I am glad to see you, Merry."
"I can tell," I said.
He laughed, and it was a very human laugh. Nothing but Galen's mirth to make it special, but that had always been special enough for me.
He leaned in close, whispering against my ear. "You cut your hair. Your beautiful hair."
I laid a gentle kiss on his cheek. "It'll grow back."
There were only a few reporters, because they hadn't had enough notice to plan a large-scale assault. But most of them had a camera. Pictures of sidhe royalty, especially if they were doing anything unusual, could always find a market. We let them snap their pictures because we couldn't stop them. Using magic against them was infringement on freedom of the press. So the Supreme Court had decreed. Reporters who routinely covered the sidhe were often psychics in their own right, or witches. They knew when you were using magic on them. All it took was one report and you could be in civil court. Let's hear it for the First Amendment.
The fey took two different tacks about the reporters. Some were very decorous in public, never giving anything of interest to the paparazzi. Galen and I were of the school that you give them something to photograph. Something unimportant so that they won't dig for more sensational stuff. Give them something positive, upbeat, and interesting. This was encouraged by Queen Andais. She'd been on a kick to give h
er court better, more upbeat publicity for the last thirty years or so. My lifetime. I'd been paraded with my father on spring outings. There'd been a public engagement ceremony between myself and Griffin. There was no private life if the queen decreed it public.
Someone cleared their throat and I looked past Galen to find Barinthus. If Galen looked unique, Barinthus looked alien. His hair was the color of the sea, the oceans. The turquoise of the Mediterranean; the deeper medium blue of the Pacific; a stormy greyish-blue like the ocean before a storm, sliding into a blue that was nearly black, where the water runs deep and thick like the blood of sleeping giants. The colors moved with every touch of light, melding into each other as if it wasn't hair at all. His skin was the alabaster white of my own. His eyes were blue, but the pupils were slits of black. I knew for a fact that he had a clear membrane like a second eyelid that came up over his eyes when he was underwater. When I was five he taught me to swim, and I'd loved the fact that he could blink twice with one eye.
He was taller than Galen, nearly seven feet tall, as befit a god. He was wearing a royal blue trench coat open over a black designer suit, but the shirt was blue silk with one of those high round collars that the designers are trying to sell so men don't have to wear ties anymore. Barinthus looked splendid in it all. He'd left his hair loose and flowing free around him like a second cloak. And I knew that someone else, probably my aunt, had picked his clothes for him. Left to his own devices Barinthus was a jeans-and-T-shirt- or less-man.
Galen and Barinthus had been two of the most frequent visitors to my father's house, out among the humans. Barinthus was a power among the sidhe; he was pure Old Court. The sidhe still whispered about the last duel he'd fought, long before I was born, in which a sidhe had drowned in a summer meadow miles from any water. Barinthus, like my father, never agreed to fight a duel unless mortality was invoked. Anything less was not worth his time.
Galen let me slide to the ground. I went to Barinthus, holding out both my hands in greeting. He drew his hands out of his coat pockets carefully, keeping them in loose fists until my own hands could be placed in his. He had webbing between his fingers, and he had been sensitive about it ever since a reporter in the fifties had called him "the fish man." Hard to believe that someone once worshiped as a sea god could be embarrassed by a twentieth-century hack, but there it was. Barinthus had never forgotten that little bit of publicity.
A Kiss of Shadows mg-1 Page 23