He glided to the edge of the growing circle around me and said, "May I touch the ring?"
I said the only thing that came to mind: "Yes."
CHAPTER 22
Usna's fingers slid over mine in a delicate, almost dainty movement until he came to the ring, and there he hesitated. He met my gaze with grey eyes that were neither dark, nor light, but terribly medium. The eyes should have looked ordinary, but the force of his personality burned out of them, so that it wasn't the color or shape of his eyes that made you stare, but just him. If he'd had beautiful eyes to match all that, it would have been totally unfair. He was charming enough without it.
"Cut the foreplay short, Usna," Onilwyn said, "the rest of us are waiting."
Usna moved those eyes to the other man, and the heat that had a moment ago been sensual was suddenly almost rage. The change had been instantaneous, as if sex and rage were but a blink away from each other inside Usna's head. The thought should have given me pause, but instead it tightened things low in my body, brought a small sound from my lips.
Usna's eyes flicked back to me, drawn by that small sound. The heat in his eyes slid into something between anger and sex—hunger. I didn't know if he was still thinking of killing and eating Onilwyn or of having me. It wasn't Usna's fault, but sometimes he thought more like an animal than anything human. It was there in his eyes now.
And that was the moment he chose to slide his fingertips across the ring.
It pulsed to life in a breath-stealing, skin-dancing wash that drew a cry of delight from Usna and nearly buckled my knees. I swayed, and he caught me automatically, which took his bare skin away from the ring. We held each other in a loose embrace, trying to learn how to breathe again. He laughed, and it was a joyous low chuckle, as if he was very pleased with himself, and me.
"The reaction wasn't that strong when the ring first went on her hand," Barinthus said. "It was just a flash of warmth."
"It's gotten stronger," Doyle said.
"My turn," Abloec said, and his voice was still clear even though he swayed ever so slightly.
Usna turned me in his arms, as if we were dancing, but that one graceful movement put me on the other side of him away from Abloec. Usna looked to Barinthus, and only after he had gotten a small nod from him did he turn me back toward Abloec.
He reached out a hand that was as steady as his voice, but Rhys interrupted, "You need to let her go first, Usna. You wouldn't want your fertility to reflect on Abloec, would you?"
Usna nodded, and spun me, as if he heard music I did not, passing me to Abloec, as if it were indeed a dance. Abloec fumbled, trying to catch me, and failing. He was too drunk for dancing. Too drunk for so many things.
I stepped far enough away that my hand barely reached him. I wanted my distance for several reasons: one, he smelled like he'd gargled with whiskey; two, he was drunk enough that I wasn't sure what his body would do when he touched the ring. If he fell, I didn't want him dragging me down with him.
He grabbed my hand, awkwardly as if he was seeing double, and wasn't sure which hand was mine. But it didn't matter that he couldn't see straight; once he touched the ring, it flared to life. It was like a wave of heat that rushed over my skin, and flung Abloec to his knees. Only the fact that I'd braced for it kept me on my feet.
I pulled my hand free of his, easily, because the magic had finished what the drinking had begun. He stayed on his knees in the fantastically striped mink coat because he couldn't have stood.
"Was the queen angry when he showed up drunk today?" Doyle asked.
"Yes," Barinthus said.
"He will be worse than useless in a fight."
"Yes," Barinthus said, again.
They stared down at the kneeling guard, and both their faces showed what they wanted to do with him. If the queen had not chosen him, he'd have been sent back to the court in disgrace, and never seen the press conference. But sadly, that wasn't an option.
Onilwyn stepped around the kneeling guard the way you'd step around garbage in the street. He held out his hand, wordlessly, and I didn't try to argue. The queen had sent him, and that was that. Besides, letting the ring touch him didn't put him in my bed. I was still hoping to talk the queen out of Abloec and Onilwyn. I'd have to keep at least one of the three of her choice, and strangely the best of the bunch was Amatheon. That he was the best of the three made me wonder what the queen was basing her decisions on. If I could think of a way to ask her that wouldn't be insulting, I'd ask.
I gave Onilwyn my hand, and the moment his fingers touched the ring, it flashed through me like a knife, a cut of pleasure so sharp, it hurt. Onilwyn actually jerked back from me and said, "That hurt. That actually hurt."
I rubbed a hand across my stomach, fighting an urge to touch lower, because it felt almost like a wound, and it wasn't my stomach that was hurt. "I've never had the ring hurt like that, not at first touch. Not ever."
Onilwyn's eyes were wide enough to flash the whites, like a frightened horse. "Why did it do that?"
"It seems to be acting differently with each man." Barinthus turned to Doyle. "Is that also something new?"
Doyle nodded.
Onilwyn backed away from me, cradling his hand. I wondered if it was only his hand that hurt, or if he, too, was fighting an urge to hold lower things.
"Carrow," Barinthus said, and motioned the other man forward.
Carrow didn't hesitate, coming to me with the same smile he'd been giving me since I could remember. He, like Galen, never had a hidden agenda, but unlike Galen, the only thing that showed on his face was a polite good humor. It was his version of Frost's arrogance, or Doyle's blankness.
"May I?" he asked.
"Yes." I held my hand out to him, and he took it.
His hand slid over the ring, and there was nothing. Nothing but the warm brush of his skin against mine. His hand was warm in mine, but that was all. The ring lay cold between us.
For just a second a disappointment showed through that smile, so bitter that it filled his eyes with a brown so dark it was as if night had fallen in his eyes. Then he recovered himself, closed long lashes over his eyes, and bowed, giving my hand a kiss. He made light of it all as he stepped back, but I had some idea what that casual act must have cost him.
All eyes turned to Amatheon, for he was the only one left. The look on his face was painful to see. The conflict inside him was painted across those handsome features. One thing was clear: He did not want to touch the ring. I don't think he wanted to know. He was male, and he had needs, and this was his only way out of the trap the queen had all of her guard mired in. But Onilwyn had said it best: For Amatheon to have his needs met with me, who represented almost everything he thought was wrong with the sidhe, was almost worse than forced abstinence.
"This is not the choice that either of us would make, Amatheon, but we must make the best of it." I walked toward him, and panic carved his face into harsh lines. He looked as if he wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere that the queen wouldn't find him. She was the Queen of Air and Darkness, and unless there was a land where night never fell, she would find him. Eventually, she found everyone.
I stopped out of arm's length, almost afraid to close the distance. The fear on his face, in the set of his shoulders, was horrible to see. It was as if even standing here was a sort of torture. "I would not force this on you, Amatheon, not if either of us had a choice."
His voice squeezed out from between clenched teeth. "But we have no choices."
I shook my head. "No, none."
It was as if he rebuilt himself before my eyes. He shoved the fear and conflicts down inside somewhere. He worked at it, until his face was smooth and arrogantly handsome once more. His hands clenched tight at his sides were the last thing he brought under control. He uncurled them one painful knuckle at a time, as if the effort were a mighty thing. And maybe it was. There are times when I think that it is harder to master yourself than any other thing on earth.
He let out a breath that shook only a little. "I am ready."
I held my hand out to him, as if I expected a kiss. He hesitated only a moment, then he took my hand in his, and the moment his finger brushed the metal, magic pushed across my skin like a warm wind.
Amatheon jerked back as if it had burned him. His eyes were wide and frightened, but it wasn't from pain. It had felt as good to him as it had to me. I'd have bet money on it.
"The ring has been satisfied," Barinthus said. "Let us have the woman back, and let her fuss with us. The queen wishes us to be perfect for the interviews."
"What of him?" Doyle asked, nodding at Abloec, who was still on his knees, smiling happily, if a little lopsided.
"We will put him to the far side away from the princess. Now, we have cloaks for those with wings." He watched both Sage and Nicca come forward and shrug out of their blankets as Usna brought the folded cloaks. "I look forward to hearing this explained in the queen's presence."
"Has the queen forbidden you from asking such questions?" Doyle asked.
"No, but she has decreed that all such explanations must wait for her ears." The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he were fighting not to smile. "Queen Andais seems to think we are keeping things from her."
"Who is we?" I asked.
"All the court, apparently," he said, and the clear membrane over his eyes flicked into place again. Something had happened in the court, or was happening, that was making Barinthus very nervous.
I wanted to ask what, but couldn't. With Onilwyn and Amatheon there, it was the same as having Cel's ears on the walls. All that we said in front of them would find its way back to Cel's network of allies. Hell's bells, Onilwyn and Amatheon were his allies. What was the queen's purpose sending them to my bed? Was there a plan in her mind, or had her special brand of madness reached some new level? I didn't know, and I couldn't ask while we had people who would report back to her, or back to Cel's people. I could not afford for either side to hear me accuse the queen of being mad. Everyone knew she was, but no one talked of it. No one ever said it out loud. Not unless he was very, very sure he stood among friends.
I looked around the room at the new guards, and at my own men. Sage was being fitted into a golden wool cloak that made him look as if he'd been carved of thick yellow honey. His wings sprang from the back like a stained glass surprise. Sage was not mine. Sidhe, or not, he still owed allegiance to Queen Niceven, and she was not my friend. She was my ally, as long as I could keep her happy, but she was not my friend.
Amatheon would not meet my gaze. Onilwyn did, but only for a moment, before he hid his frightened eyes. He hadn't liked the bite of the ring, and truthfully, neither had I. Usna was helping fit Nicca into a rich violet-red cloak, setting it with a silver and opal brooch. He was too busy joking with Nicca about the wings to notice my glance. Carrow had drawn apart from the others, because he would not be permanent among us. The queen would not waste a guard who wasn't fertile on me.
With only Sage as a question, we could order him out of a room, but if Andais insisted on saddling me with more and more people I did not trust, we'd soon run into someone who would not go meekly from the room so we could plot. Or maybe that was her idea. She'd once tried to send a spy to me, a spy who was acknowledged as her spy. But he'd tried to assassinate me, and she hadn't picked anyone to replace him after he died. Maybe that was it. I looked at the three new guards whom Barinthus hadn't wanted to be here, and thought, yes, that was it. They were her spies. One or all of them were her spies. She'd sent three because she wanted to make certain at least one of them was chosen by the ring. How she would laugh when she found out that all her spies had passed the test.
CHAPTER 23
Half an hour later we were standing on a dais with three microphones standing in the middle of it. Madeline had rallied and gone back to her normal pleasure in being able to boss around some of the most powerful beings left on the planet. Of course, if Madeline Phelps were intimidated by the powerful, or even the scary, she'd never have survived seven years working for Queen Andais. Doyle and Barinthus had finally reminded her that we were on a tight schedule, and allowed her to exchange Galen's much-loved leather jacket for a tailored suit jacket. I'd known Kitto's Day-Glo coat would have to go, but I hadn't realized that jeans and a polo shirt were not acceptable. The problem in Los Angeles was that Kitto was too broad-shouldered for most boys' fashions, but not tall enough for most men's, so his shopping choices were limited. Apparently the queen had thought of that, and to complement the black slacks that we had been able to find, she supplied a jewel-tone long-sleeved silk shirt, but the black jacket she had sent did not fit. It was too broad through the shoulders and long in the arm. Madeline had finally admitted that the jacket looked worse than the shirt by itself. The other men, she had to admit, grudgingly, looked fine. Actually, there wasn't a man among them who ever just looked fine. Fabulous, handsome, amazing, but not fine.
I, on the other hand, needed a shorter skirt. She supplied one that was a fringe of black pleats that barely covered my upper thighs. My penchant for wearing thigh-high hose under any skirt meant that when I moved, the lacy tops flashed. If I wasn't careful how I walked on the raised dais, I'd flash a hell of a lot more than the tops of my hose. I was glad that I'd worn nice black underwear, with no peekaboo lace or holes. If I flashed, at least all they'd see would be solid black satin. Of course with a different skirt, I needed different shoes. Madeline had brought a pair of four-inch spike patent-leather heels. I'm good at it, walking in heels, but I made her promise that I could change before I went out into the snow. Spike heels are not made for snow, unless you want to break an ankle.
I stood on the dais against the wall with Frost on one side and Doyle on the other. The rest of my guards ranged on either side. It was a little like standing in line before a firing squad—though the police stood in a semicircle at the base of the dais, to make sure that it didn't become a real firing squad. Truthfully, unless the queen was keeping big secrets from us, I think the police were there mainly to keep the reporters from rushing the stage. Or maybe that was just my level of discomfort with this many media in one room. It was a near-claustrophobic sensation, as if they were breathing too much of my air.
I'd been doing events like this since I could remember, but ever since my father's death, and the press coverage of his assassination, I'd not been as comfortable with the media. During the most painful event of my life, they had kept asking me, How do you feel, Princess Meredith? My father, whom I adored, had been slaughtered by unknown assassins. How the hell did they think I felt? But the queen didn't allow me to say that to anyone. Not the truth. No, Queen Andais, with her own brother dead, had made me face the media and be royal. I don't think I'd ever hated the fact that I was a princess more than during that year. If you're royal, you aren't allowed to mourn in private. Your pain is paraded across the evening news, the tabloids, the daily papers. Everywhere I looked I saw my father's picture. Everywhere I looked I saw his dead body. In Europe they'd published pictures that the American papers wouldn't touch, and it had been bloody. My father's tall, strong body, reduced to a red ruin. His hair spilled out across the grass like a black cloak, the rest of him nearly unrecognizable.
I must have made some sound, because Doyle touched my arm. He leaned in and whispered, "Are you well?"
I nodded, licked my freshly lipsticked mouth, and nodded again. "Just remembering the first press conference I ever saw this full."
He did something in public that he had never done as the Queen's Darkness: He hugged me, albeit one-armed, so he still had some chance of getting to his weapons. I leaned in against his leather jacket and the solid warmth of him underneath. I ignored the burst of flashbulbs, tried not to think that the image was being captured in every medium known to man, or woman. I needed the hug, so I took it, and tried to let go of my gloom. We were here to discuss my search for a husband, a prince, a future king. It was a happy occasion, and the queen would want us smiling.
Madeline took the first question while I was still leaning against Doyle. It was for me, of course.
Doyle gave me a last squeeze, and I sashayed, smiling, on my four-inch spike heels. The question was one I'd had before; most of them would be. "Princess Meredith, have you chosen a husband?"
"No," I said.
The next reporter stood up to ask his question. "Then why this visit home? What have you come to announce?"
The queen had told me how much truth I could tell. "My uncle, the King of Light and Illusion, is throwing a ball in my honor."
"Will you be taking your guards?"
That was a tricky question. If I just said yes, then they could print that I didn't feel safe in the Seelie Court without bodyguards. Which was actually the truth, but we couldn't let them know that. "My guards go everywhere with me —" I hesitated, and Madeline came in close enough to whisper, "Steve," to me. I finished, "— Steve. It is a dance, after all, and I wouldn't leave my best partners home twiddling their thumbs, would I?" Smile, smile, and move on.
A woman asked, "Queen Andais announced that there will be a dance tonight in your honor at her court. When will you be going to the Seelie Court?"
"It's planned for two nights hence," I'd added planned for in case something awful happened and we decided it was too dangerous to go. The hence was because the media liked it if we put in an archaic word now and then, or even just a word that they thought was archaic. I was a faerie princess, and some people were disappointed that I talked like a Midwestern native. So occasionally, I tried to sound the way people wanted us to sound. Most of the men still held at least an edge of their original accent. It was just me who sounded like the American girl next door. Well, me and Galen.
"Are the courts going to reconcile?"
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