Chapter 8
A Body to Curse
220 years ago
In the royal crypt beneath my palace, I stare at my father’s body. He’s laid out on a white stone slab, his body cleaned and dressed. Down here the fae lights glow weakly, making the arched marble walls around us glitter in the low light.
Even in death there’s something about his face that’s haughty, cruel, unconquerable. One look at him and you would’ve thought he’d been the victor of our duel.
I touch my forehead, where my crude bronze circlet sits. I refuse to wear Galleghar’s crown or any other, save this one. It’s a soldier’s crown—simple, unassuming, and most importantly, it doesn’t get in the fucking way if battle breaks out.
I’ve lived too long in the muck to develop a taste for fancy things.
I drop my hand. That last night of Galleghar’s life, the night I killed him, he’d known I’d take his kingdom from him. Even I hadn’t really grasped that. I’d assumed I could come in, finish him off, and disappear into thin air. Ruling had never been a part of my strategy. But even if I weren’t Galleghar’s son, killing kings is how conquerors come to power.
So here I am, reluctant to lead, but even more reluctant to abdicate and let one of Galleghar’s scheming sycophants inherit the throne.
I walk around my father’s body and rub my lower lip with my thumb. I hate that he’s here, lingering in this castle even now. I have no intention of letting him stay, but for the moment, there’s no other place for him to go.
It’s been weeks since I ran him through with my sword, and in all that time his body has failed to decay. The creatures won’t eat it—not the hounds, not the birds, not the fish, not even the monsters that live in the wilds of Memnos. Those were my first attempts to dispose of him—much to the shock and horror of all the haughty nobles. They’re more frightened of me and my barbaric ways than they ever were of my father.
When the creatures wouldn’t consume Galleghar’s body, I tried to bury him, only to have the earth spit him back out. I tried to set his body to sea, but the water refused to take him in. Not even fire would desecrate his flesh; the pyre burned to the ground, and once the last dying embers extinguished, Galleghar was still there, every hair on his head intact.
I study him now, my eyes narrowing. There are only four reasons a body fails to decay: One, the fairy is not dead. Two, a fairy is too powerful to kill. Three, a fairy is too pure of heart to return to the earth. And four, a fairy is so depraved that nature refuses to claim him.
This last reason sounds the most accurate.
My mouth thins as I look at the incorruptible body of Galleghar Nyx. Far above me, the last women of his harem are packing up their things and leaving. Of his hundreds of concubines—and by the end, there were hundreds—dozens upon dozens mourned his loss, some even going so far as to be openly hostile to me. He killed their children and yet they mourned him. I can’t wrap my mind around that.
Their living quarters will be converted into a weapons room, a library, and guest suites. All vestiges of the rooms’ previous use will be wiped away. It’s the least I can do to honor my mother’s memory.
And that’s what this all really comes down to: I killed Galleghar because he took the one person I’d ever loved from me. I’d called it justice, but this doesn’t feel like justice; my mother is still dead, I’m still alone, and this emptiness inside me is still there.
I give the Shadow King a final look. So many things I still have to say to him. So many ways I still want to hurt him.
I’ll never get the chance.
I grab his body and toss him over my shoulder. No matter. The king is dead, and tonight will be the last night Galleghar Nyx will haunt these halls.
220 years ago
It takes several hours to arrive in the Banished Lands. This barren, craggy wasteland is the one area of the Otherworld that’s ruled by none of the main kingdoms. If you committed some great sin and managed to avoid a death sentence, chances are you’ll be banished here, which for most fairies is about the same as a death sentence.
An open plain of sunbaked earth stretches out around me, devoid of life. The flat, arid landscape is only broken up by the steep, rocky cliffs that border me on either side.
It’s not simply that this place is empty of life. It’s that magic itself has been razed from the land.
Most of the Otherworld is steeped in power. It’s in the air, the water, the plants and animals—in the very earth itself. And it’s that power that gives us life
The story behind the Banished Lands is that, long ago, when the pantheon of gods came to rule the Otherworld, Oberon and Titania, the Mother and the Father, were the first to discover magic. It lay in the wild fields and the shining sea. It cast itself wide with the night and blossomed with the dawn of each day.
They found that they could strengthen themselves by drinking deep off the land, and so they did. The Mother and the Father, realizing the hearts of fairies always hungered, sought to temper their fellows’ appetites, and so they gave each god domain over one aspect of the Otherworld—night, day, land, sea, plants, animals, love, war, death. On and on the power was sectioned off and bequeathed until all had a little. Each god could draw power from the aspect they ruled, and from it alone. Only Oberon and Titania could draw magic from everything.
But fairies are hungry creatures, especially godly ones, and not so long after they were given the gift of magic, many of the lesser gods rose up against Oberon and Titania. A great battle was fought between these titans here in this part of the Otherworld. The gods stole magic from the air, from the earth, from the plants and animals that roamed the land. They pulled it from the streams and spun it from the stars and the shadows. All of this to fuel their monstrous power.
In the end, the Mother and the Father defeated their enemies and slaughtered them where they stood. But the damage had already been done. The land had been so overdrawn of its resources that it became magically barren. No amount of time and no amount of restorative magic could undo the damage.
And so the Banished Lands came to be.
Even the mortal world has more magic than this place. It’s every fairy’s nightmare. To be cut off from the sustenance that keeps us going … it can drive a fae insane.
Ahead of me, a cluster of rocks mark my destination. I stride to them, my father’s body still slumped over my shoulder.
I use my magic to roll away the largest of the boulders. Beneath it, a hole gapes in the earth. I drop down into it, lighting the cavern up with a bit more of my power. The fey lights I cast glow weakly as the land wrings out my magic and dries it up. Everything here takes a little more power for a little less payout.
The subterranean room I enter is nothing more than a pit carved from the earth, and the great king’s sarcophagus is merely a boulder crudely carved into a lidded casket. Using my power, I remove the lid, and then I dump my father into the stone coffin.
I can’t burn him, bury him, or feed him to scavengers, but I can banish him. I can let him lie where magic dies.
With another flick of my wrist, the lid lifts itself into the air and slides back onto the coffin.
The last thing I see is Galleghar’s face, and then the stone lid grinds over it, closing with a deep boom.
One by one, I let the fairy lights wink out. I pause before I leave, a wave of trepidation sliding over me.
Why won’t the Otherworld take his body?
It bugs me. Magic defies logic, but even it sticks to certain patterns.
I take one last look at my father’s tomb. Then shaking off my foreboding, I disappear into the night.
Chapter 9
All is Fair in Love
208 years ago
It’s been almost thirty years, but I’m back in the wilds of Memnos, searching for a prophetess whose name I don’t know.
“It’s a stupid idea,” Malaki said when I told him where I was going. “There are things there that don’t give a shit that you’re k
ing. They’ll eat you all the same.”
I slid my daggers into my belt. “Then I’ll make them fear me.”
He frowned at me.
“I need to talk to that woman,” I explained. “She has the answers I seek.”
“At least let me go with you,” he pleaded.
But I hadn’t let him join me. Malaki was the only one I trusted enough to rule in my stead.
So now I wander through the dark forest alone. The place is ominously quiet, save for a few unnatural howls every now and then.
I get the distinct impression that I’m being stalked, but by what, I have no clue.
Let them stalk me, I could use a fight.
“Where is she?” I ask the shadows now.
… Who? …
“The prophetess,” I say. I cast her image into the night. The darkness gathers around it, studying her features.
“Looking for me?” a voice purrs at my back.
I turn and face the woman herself. She’s just as I remembered. Her silver hair cascades to her waist, and her eyes are just a touch mad.
Those mad eyes rake over me. “Desmond Flynn, it has been awhile. Tell me, why has my king come to visit?”
Unlike the last time I met with her, it’s not a shock to hear my real name spoken from her lips. Now that I’m no longer in hiding—now that I’m king—it’s the name I go by.
I thought that I’d want to shake everything about my sad childhood, but I’m oddly sentimental about my name. It’s a reminder of my humble beginnings—and the mother who gave it all for me in the end.
“I think you already know,” I say. In truth, I’m not sure that the prophetess does. I don’t know how omniscient she is. But better to assume the worst.
She raises her eyebrows. “Oh do I now?”
I don’t respond.
Her gaze flicks to my war cuffs. “I see you followed my instructions.” Her attention floats up to me. “I’m curious,” she says, “did you enjoy killing him?” She smiles a little as she asks it.
The prophetess begins to walk around me, her skirts swishing with the movement. “I imagine you did.” She touches one of my arms, running her fingers lightly down it. “You had so much anger in your blood the last time we spoke. I wonder if it still burns as hotly …”
I lift a mocking eyebrow. “Is this the best reading you can do these days? It’s distinctly less impressive than I remembered.”
“Ah, the mighty king is finally coming into his own. I’ll try my best to meet your expectations.” She smiles at me, like she can see right through my bravado.
The prophetess halts back in front of me. “So you’re not here to end your father, and you already have the crown …” She lifts up her fingers. “Let’s see: revenge, power—ah, that leaves love.” She looks positively delighted. “You’re here about the human girl, aren’t you?” She throws her head back and laughs. “The mighty Desmond Flynn has been cut down by love.”
This is distinctly unamusing.
She clasps my cheeks in her hands, startling me.
“Say it,” she says.
“Say what?”
“Say that you’re here for her—the human girl. Say, ‘I’m in love with a slave I’ve never met.’”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“‘I’m in love with a slave I’ve never met.’”
She laughs again. “Say, ‘The thought of her gets my prick hard.’”
I’m dealing with a mad woman. I begin to pull away from her.
“Ah, ah,” she chides. Her magic lashes out, slashing open the skin along my neck.
I grab her by the throat as my blood begins to flow, slamming her back against a nearby tree. “You do realize it’s high treason to wound the king?” I say softly.
Perhaps I’ll get to fight tonight after all.
She reaches out and pats my cheek. “Come, now, Desmond, don’t be a poor sport. Prophecies don’t come freely.” As she speaks, the blood dripping down my neck begins to sizzle away. The prophetess collecting her payment.
Reluctantly, I release the woman.
She rubs her neck, her eyes going distant. “Your human mate is going to drive you half insane before you find her, and even more so once you do.”
The prophetess’s gaze sharpens once more. She backs away, and I think this is just part of her restless nature until I realize she’s leaving.
I stride after her. “Wait, that’s it?”
I touch the healing wound along my neck. I gave her much more of my blood this time than I had before. Surely she has more for me than a single sentence’s worth of a prophecy? Especially one that I could’ve told her myself.
She gives me a puzzled look. “Have I displeased you, my king?” The corner of her mouth curves up just the slightest.
I want to shake this woman. “That wasn’t a prophecy,” I growl.
“It was,” she says, “it just wasn’t the one you wanted.” She gives me a wry look. “You thought finding her would be easy? That somehow the Fates should go easy on you because her life thread is so much shorter than ours?” She touches my chest, right where my heart rests beneath flesh and cloth. “Love costs even more than power, even more than revenge or hate.”
The prophetess drops her hand and backs away. “I do hope you find her. Best of luck my king,” she says, and I think she means it.
With that, she melts into the forest. And I’m no better off than I was before.
Chapter 10
On to Earth
174 years ago
I adjust my strange clothes, staring at my reflection in one of the mirrors that line the palace halls. My outfit is far coarser than what I’m used to. I can practically feel the calloused hands and the hours of toil that went into spinning the cloth, then weaving it, then meticulously dyeing it, cutting it, shaping it, sewing it.
It reminds me of a time I’m better off forgetting, a time when I had to pretend I wasn’t bursting at my seams with power.
I hear the soft pad of footfalls as someone turns down the corridor.
“Desmond!” a fae woman calls out.
I glance over in time to see Harrowyn, a noblewoman, heading toward me, her cheeks rosy and her lips dewy.
I rub my hand over my mouth. Never should’ve bedded the general’s daughter. But in my defense, she should know by now—they should all know by now—that I’m not good for more than a night or two of fun. The trouble is, every woman believes she’s the one that’s different. That she’ll be the fairy to break the dastardly King of Night of his bad habits. That she’ll wear his crown and carry his kids.
Never going to happen.
I run a hand over the coarse fabric I wear. Need to stop putting this off. I don’t have time to let Harrowyn down easy. I need to leave now, or I won’t leave at all, and this is the closest I’ve come in decades.
Steeling my nerves, I turn on my heel and head towards the back of the palace.
Harrowyn calls out to me again, her voice growing fainter as she realizes that I’m not going to talk to her.
Once a bastard, always a bastard.
I leave the fae woman and the castle behind me, crossing the royal grounds towards the circular portal house that looms ahead of me. I fling my magic at it, and its huge doors swing open. Inside, the air wavers, looking like a mirage. I stare at the portal.
I’m really doing this.
For the first time in years, my heart begins to thunder.
Your mate could have already lived and died. You might never find her.
I hesitate, my own long-buried insecurities nipping at my heels.
A deeper, more primal part of me crushes my insecurities with one simple statement—
I must try.
The need to find her has become almost an obsessive thought of mine.
I take a deep breath, staring at the wavering air of the portal, and then I step through.
Lands flash by me, worlds turn. I watch it all pass as I move down the ley line. I reach my hand out, a
nd the vortex around me ripples. Snow-capped mountains and blistering deserts zoom by. I stare at it all in wonder until I find the exit I’m looking for.
I step off the ley line, the world snapping into focus. I straighten the hem of my coat as I take a good look around me.
Earth.
I’ve been here a few times. Never for long, but always long enough.
The land is painted in sad, somber shades of grey, and on the horizon I can just make out London. I try not to grimace. I can already all but see the tired, desperate faces of its inhabitants, can already smell the manure and human excrement that lines the muddy streets. I can hear the hacking coughs of people living too closely together.
What a miserable place. And here I am, ready to join them.
Because somewhere, somewhen, my bride will be amongst them.
Chapter 11
How the Bargainer Came to Be
155 years ago
My booted heel digs into the shapeshifter’s neck. Of all of earth’s supernaturals, shapeshifters might be the shittiest fuckers out there. This one posed as a mangy street dog to hide from me.
“Aw,” I say, cocking my head, “did you think I wouldn’t find you?”
All around us the sounds of Calcutta drift in. Unfortunately for the man I’m grinding into the ground, no one’s going to stop in this back alley.
“Please—”
“You know what your problem is?” I ask casually, boot still on his neck. “It’s that all your kind think you can outwit me.” The shadows of this realm are particularly disloyal. It doesn’t take much to get them to talk.
I lean down and pull Edgar Worthington’s wrist back. One crude, black line is inked into the shapeshifter’s forearm.
“You have a debt to pay.” This is what I get for giving criminals a loose leash.
“I was going to pay it!” he says, his voice rising with the lie.
“You still are going to pay it,” I say. “Only now, you have additional interest.” On his forearm another black line begins to appear next to the first.
The Emperor of Evening Stars (The Bargainer Book 3) Page 9