The Witch King

by H. E. Edgmon

  A compulsion. I’ve always wondered what it felt like to be a mated fae. To feel it from Emyr’s side, this connection we supposedly have. Witches, though fae in technicality, don’t experience that same need. He’d tried to explain it to me in the past, but always fumbled over his words, couldn’t seem to get it out right. I still don’t really understand what Emyr feels when he looks at me, except that he can’t seem to force himself to get rid of me.

  Still, what he feels doesn’t matter. “Yeah, no shit. You’re holding my literal death over my head to force me to marry you. That’s not just complicated, my guy, that’s right fucked up.”

  Emyr frowns. After a beat, he lowers his gaze to consider his claws, shrugging. “I suppose we could put off the wedding until you find yourself feeling more enthusiastic. I had hoped to go through with things as quickly as possible, but I can give you a little time, if that’s what you need.”

  “I don’t know if all the time in the world could make me want this.”

  “What are you asking me, really?”

  What am I asking him?

  Maybe I’m entertaining some really outlandish fantasies right now. But Emyr does care about me. At least, part of him cares about part of me, even if it’s involuntary. And he’s clearly feeling wistful about what we used to be. It’s possible he doesn’t want to hurt me. It’s possible he could be swayed.

  If I could convince him to let me go, I wouldn’t have to wreak any of the havoc Derek is suggesting. I could let my list of shenanigans lie. Things wouldn’t have to get ugly.

  “I don’t—” I hesitate, taking a deep breath. “I can’t leave the human world behind. I can’t just come back here and go back to living by fae rules. I don’t want this. I’m never going to be happy playing this game. So, knowing how I feel...would you consider going to the Court? Would you be willing to ask them to dissolve the contract?”

  Emyr stares at me. I stare back. Waiting. Waiting.

  And then his answer comes.

  “No.”

  The wind gets knocked right out of me. I feel like someone’s just run me over with a car.

  Here I am, convincing myself he might care about what I want. And there he stands, admitting without a hint of remorse that he would let me die by way of a blood oath before allowing me my freedom.

  As long as I’m in Asalin, I’m as good as his prisoner.

  “Please understand, I want you to be happy,” Emyr is saying quietly, though I’m not really paying attention to him anymore. “But I can’t lose you again. You don’t know what it feels like, being away from you. Not knowing if you’re safe or taken care of. I will find a way to make sure you’re happy here.”

  Derek Pierce is a traitorous creep whose greatest asset seems to be that he smells nice and could fuel another several years’ worth of late-night fantasies.

  Emyr North is a selfish, spoiled prince, intent on using our history to manipulate me into feeling better about being held here on threat of my own death.

  Neither of them deserve my loyalty. But to get what I want, I know what has to be done.

  “Good night, Your Highness,” I say, shaking my head and brushing past Emyr to escape the tower. I can feel his gaze on my back, but I do not stop.

  If he wants to play with fire, he should expect to get burned.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AND THE FIRE DOES NOT OBEY

  First thing the next morning, I pull the Justice card from my deck. Seems a bit on the nose.

  A servant arrives to lead Briar and me to the tribunal room, where I’m forced to sit trial. I’ve never been here before, never had any reason to be. It kind of reminds me of a British courtroom, at least from what I’ve seen on TV. There are rows of pews on all sides, each of them facing my seat in the center of the room, and probably fifty people staring at me.

  At the back wall, a raised table seats five members of the Guard, each of them with five red marks to indicate they’re the highest possible rank. Derek sits in the middle, their all-powerful leader, the eye of the storm.

  I guess it doesn’t go as badly as it could. I don’t even have to speak. Derek upholds his end of the bargain. “Upon counsel from the Throne, the Guard has decided to abandon the charges levied here today. It is our belief that what occurred that night was a tragic accident and no malice was intended. The weight of Wyatt Croft’s own loss shall suffice as punishment enough. That, along with a substantial fine for the property damage done.”

  To my left, Briar gives an elated cry. I glance over and see Jin’s curled their fingers over her mouth to keep her quiet. Both of them are grinning. Clarke flashes me a thumbs-up and a wink. The Committee member from yesterday is sitting next to her, looking as dour as I remember him.

  He is not the only one who appears unimpressed with the Guard’s ruling. The audience grumbles, sharp whispers and hard stares erupting as they begin to stand and stomp their feet. Another of the Guard members slaps a clawed hand against the wooden tabletop in front of her, demanding that everyone be quiet and get on with their lives. I remain seated, glancing rapidly between the rest of the room and my own twisted fingers, my heart in my throat.

  How many of these people would kill me themselves if they had the chance?

  Eventually, most of the room clears. I stand and turn toward Briar and the others. Emyr has joined them, the group of five standing in front of the pews and watching me. Has he been here the entire time? I didn’t notice him. But then, I’d tried pretty hard not to look at anyone for fear of what I might find looking back at me.

  If he’s here, are his parents? A quick glance around the room tells me no, not unless they’ve slipped out with the rest of the crowd. I didn’t expect them to be, though.

  How shameful it must be for the royal family to be tied to a criminal.

  “Good job not dying, kiddo.” Jin smiles, slinging an arm around Clarke’s shoulders.

  Briar steps to my side and folds her elbow with mine. Her denim dress rustles against her thick thighs. “I knew everything was going to work out.”

  Emyr is looking at me. I know because I can feel his gaze, heavy and insistent, pressing into my throat like fingertips choking me, but I can’t force myself to look back.

  “Wyatt, do you remember my brother, Wade?” Clarke asks with a smile, placing her hand on the Committee guy’s chest.

  Oooooh. Wade!

  I knew he looked familiar the day he plucked Briar and me from the dungeon, but I couldn’t figure out how I knew him. That’s because, before coming back to Asalin, I’m not sure when the last time I got a good look at Wade was. Most of my memories of him involve only catching glimpses while he snuck around the woods, creeping like some sort of overgrown shadow, not wanting to be seen or to see anyone else. He’s a Feeler, and supposedly an incredibly attuned empath. People used to say he hid in the woods to get away from everyone else’s feelings. Which, like, fair.

  This Wade certainly appears as if he wants to be seen. Not for the first time, I note the slight changes to his uniform to allow for maximum fashion, the dangly earrings, the man bun. And he’s joined the Committee now, the branch whose entire purpose is taking care of people. I guess he must’ve learned to manage those emotions.

  Lucky him.

  He’s looking at me in a way that sets my teeth on edge. Studying me like I’m an insect and he’s got a microscope. Suddenly, he asks, “They really missed the mark when they decided you’d grow up to be queen, didn’t they?”

  Beside me, Briar tenses.

  Jin’s happy smile doesn’t fade, but their eyes shift uncomfortably to Wade and then back to me.

  Clarke smacks his chest, hard. “Hey!”

  I take it, by all of their reactions, I’m supposed to be offended.

  But, uh... “What? He’s not wrong.”

  Clarke frowns at me, opening her mouth as if she’s going to
argue, then pursing her lips.

  “I’m not ever going to be a queen.” I shrug. “Like, for starters, I’m a dude?”

  Wade flicks his wrist and gives an agreeable half nod.

  As everyone takes that in, I finally let myself look at Emyr. He’s staring at me, as I’d anticipated, dark gaze intent, sharp features settled into a stony mask. He’s wearing what appears to be a Hawaiian shirt under a formfitting blazer, which, okay, then. The gold of his aura slithers closer to my own. My black magic snaps at it, hissing out a warning.

  Jin and Clarke both eye the unspoken energy exchange with visceral discomfort.

  I wonder what Emyr is thinking. Does he regret his decision to bring me here yet? Does he feel bad about what he said to me in the tower? Is there a part of Emyr that wants to go back in time and stop himself from befriending me when we were little, from ever laying eyes on his abominable witch?

  Maybe not yet. But there’s time for him to change his mind.

  “Well,” Jin says breezily, recovering from the uncomfortable moment. “It’s a good thing Emyr’s always been a little gay. Otherwise, the discovery that he’d been bonded to a boy all this time could have been very awkward.”

  “Hmm. Are you a little gay, though?” Wade turns to look at Emyr, thick, perfectly sculpted brows rising over those keen eyes.

  “What exactly do we mean by being a little gay?” Briar asks, tucking her fingers beneath her chin, thoughtful. “Like, I’m bi and ace, but I’m still extremely gay. What, is Emyr one of those people who’s only gay on Saturdays?”

  “Do those people exist?” Wade drawls.

  “Why Saturdays?” Jin blinks.

  “I guess it’s possible Emyr will become gayer after the wedding,” Clarke proposes, innuendo thick in her airy tone. “I had no idea how gay I could be until I met Jin.”

  “The answer, if you’re wondering, is very gay.” Jin wiggles their eyebrows and winks at me, as if we’re sharing some kind of secret.

  Wade’s expression is one of alarm. “That is my sister.”

  “Right, totally, let’s go back to talking about your cousin instead.” The way Jin nods manages to look sarcastic.

  “Let’s not.” Emyr rolls his eyes at them.

  “Oh, no,” Clarke suddenly gasps. “What if Wyatt isn’t gay?”

  “No, no, Wyatt is very gay,” Briar assures her quickly. “A huge homosexual in a tiny package.”

  “I’m so glad we cleared all that up,” I offer without inflection.

  I’m about to tell Briar I’m beyond ready to go when someone interrupts me from behind.

  “You know, I thought you were dead.”

  A thousand tiny needles prick their way across my body.

  My sister’s voice has always sounded eerily like my own. On the surface, our similarities run deep. Growing up, I was always told Tessa was who I would have been if I’d been born fae. If I’d been born right. But where my throat has learned to twist its words like a snarling dog, she coats her tongue in wind chimes. She forces softness where softness does not exist, delicate beauty to hide the ugly, ugly thing that lurks beneath the surface.

  We have always had more in common than she would like the rest of Asalin to believe.

  In the past, when Tessa spoke, I would hear half-assed apologies roll from her mouth like rotten fruit dropped into a trash can, as if she was always being forced to apologize for things she wasn’t sorry for at all. I heard my deadname, hissed like a curse she was desperately trying to manifest, always a few ingredients short of making magic. When Tessa spoke, I wanted to claw the skin off my body and pick my bones from my muscle and become nothing, because she couldn’t hurt me if I was nothing.

  There is a part of me that has always loved my sister so much it makes me sick. There is another part of me that has always hated her just as much. They war inside me until neither exists at all, until the only thing I feel as I stand in front of her now is guilt.

  I could drown in it.

  All eyes have moved over my shoulder by the time I turn to face her. I flinch the moment I see her face. I can’t not. It’s jarring because it’s her, and it’s jarring because it’s almost me. Her upturned button nose. Full pink mouth. Long lashes framing green eyes, one infinitesimally darker than the other. Honeyed hair, though hers is kept long and pulled into a bun at the top of her head, two strands falling down to frame her soft face. We are exactly the same height, two monsters trapped in too-small cages.

  But where I make every effort to conceal my skin, Tessa seems to have no problem showing hers. A white lace crop top with a high neck is settled over what appears to be some kind of weird copper metal bra. Her tiny brown leather shorts are tucked beneath a floor-length, sheer white skirt. At the waistband of her pants, by the dip of her pelvis a few inches below her naval, she has had something intentionally scarred into her skin. Scarification is popular among the more traditional fae. Hers spells out something in the Old Language, though I can’t read it.

  Her wings have always reminded me of a dragonfly’s, two sets of the thin, shimmering appendages jutting out from her back. And her lavender energy has draped itself over her body completely, curling up against her skin and settling there like pastel armor.

  It never occurred to me that anyone might think I hadn’t survived the fire. That my own sister might think I’d died that night. I open my mouth to say something, anything. An apology? A nasty retort? I don’t know. At this point, my tongue has a mind of its own.

  But again, I can say nothing before she cuts me off.

  “I wish you were.”

  Oh.

  Well, maybe I deserve that.

  * * *

  The air around me curdles thick with smoke as Asalin is ravaged by flames. I can’t stop them. Couldn’t if I wanted to. Do I want to? Is there any part of me that wants to pull back, to relinquish my hold on this place? To stop it from turning to ash at my feet?

  Maybe the part of me that still loves Emyr. But that part of me is small and flickering, embers of a fire that have been dying for a long time now. He would never understand. He’s one of them. He doesn’t see the world the way I do. He doesn’t see Asalin for what it really is.

  This place is a curse. A prison. This place has been my personal hell. Every single witch in Asalin would be better off if it were torched to the ground. And every single fae might finally learn their lesson.

  I am not your punching bag. I am not your charity case. I am not a pawn in your chess game, or a pretty face to look good next to you, or a warm body to put your hands on. I am a whole person. I am a person. I am a person, I AM A PERSON, I AM A PERSON, I AM A—

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” My father’s voice shakes the earth like a dragon’s roar.

  I jerk my head toward the sound in time to see his big body lumbering toward me through the clouds of smoke. Icy fear washes over me, replacing some of the heat from the fire. I stumble back, tripping over cobblestones, nearly falling flat on my ass.

  He doesn’t let me, though. One big hand jerks out and wraps around my neck, yanking me to my feet. His palm presses down hard against my trachea, threatens to crumple my windpipe like paper.

  This is not the first time he’s put his hands on me for acting beyond his control. But this is the first time I do not sink to some hidden place within myself to hide. The first time I rise instead. More flame erupts from my skin, jutting from the space beneath my jaw this time and curling around his wrist as if an actual hand has shaped itself from the fire.

  My father bellows again, only this time in pain and not rage. He releases me from his grip and I sink to the ground, stones digging sharply into the backs of my legs. He swats uselessly at the fire as it crawls up his arms to his face, his torso, engulfing him as his bellows turn into mewling, helpless screams. And all I do is sit there on the ground and watch, too afraid to flinch, or blink, o
r breathe.

  “STOP THIS!” comes my mother’s voice, and suddenly she appears at his side in a flurry of red energy that nearly matches the red of the fire itself. “STOP! YOU’RE KILLING HIM!”

  I try to raise my hands, but I can’t. Try to pull back the fire, but I can’t. It’s beyond me now. Outside of my control. It has a mind of its own. It ravages its way down Asalin’s main street, relishing in the screams of the fae it chases from their homes, as it eats my father alive, and it feels nothing. All I can do is stare in horror.

  My mother seems to realize this at the same moment I do. She comes for me, raising one clawed hand, and I feel it. Feel her Influencer magic work its way into my chest, snatching the air from my lungs. I feel it as my ribs begin to tighten, threatening to puncture me from the inside out.

  “I tried so hard to love you.” She says the words as if talking to herself. “I wanted so badly to believe I’d been saddled with a child like you for a reason. That your life would have a purpose. But I see now I was an arrogant fool. You should have been left to the woods.”

  She is going to kill me. To save the rest of Asalin, she is going to rip me limb from limb. This is nothing new. I have always known this.

  But today, I am not going to let her.

  Around the three of us, the fire suddenly burns hotter. The flames flick from orange and red to blue, brilliant, bright, terrifying blue. They crash over my mother like a wave in an ocean, drag her down against my father’s side. Her screams join his own. And in an instant, everything goes black.

  I am not going to die. They are.

  No! No! What am I doing?

  This isn’t right! I can’t do this! They’re my parents! What have I done?

  Or is it me at all? My magic is hungry. Disused, left to rot in some deep, secret part of me, it has long been aching to burn out of control. And now it is. I don’t know how to stop it, don’t know how to pull it back now that it’s escaped me, like a wild creature slipping its leash. And now, in the pitch-black around me, I can’t even see the extent of its damage.