The Witch King

by H. E. Edgmon

  She blinks robotically. “Is there a problem?”

  “Uh. No.” This is weird. I mean, I’m not used to flying, but the idea of having a chef make a full-blown meal for me while I am in the sky just seems bizarre. I look down at the menu, scanning the items listed. Jeez. Salmon? Steak? Roasted asparagus and mushrooms with fingerling potatoes?

  From a foodie standpoint, this is amazing. But I still find the whole thing sort of unsettling.

  “I’ll take the cheeseburger. And a Coke.”

  Her smile never wavers as she takes the menu from me and shuffles to the kitchen to put my order in.

  Emyr is studying me like he’s trying to see past a two-way mirror. Finally, he says, “I know you worried about leaving Briar, but I thought you would be in a better mood than this.”

  “Oh, yeah, because going to beg for forgiveness from two dramatic lesbians is exactly how I wanted my day to go.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. I know this was my idea, but why was this my idea again?

  He scoffs. “Perhaps you should’ve thought of that before you posted that video. I still cannot comprehend what the point of that was. And you have the audacity to call anyone else dramatic?”

  He...might have a point.

  “Whatever. Still don’t know why you thought I’d be happy to make this trip.”

  “You’re back in the human world. At least for the duration of this flight. And you certainly seem to prefer this one to your own.”

  “Okay, first of all, Asalin is not my world. It’s yours. I don’t get a world. Second of all, this? Not the human world.” I laugh. “I mean, okay, it is. But this isn’t, like, the universal human experience or anything. Trust me when I say one hundred chicken nuggets for seventeen bucks is way more relatable than a private chef cooking me a first-class meal on an international flight.”

  “Hmm.” Emyr settles back against his headrest, eyes flicking up toward the TV set in front of him. He raises his hand and drags his fingers against his chin. I can see the way his claws, even invisible, scratch little scuffs against his dark skin. “I’m sorry we didn’t stop for the nuggets, then.”

  The apology catches me so off guard I don’t know what to do other than stare at him. After a moment, I turn away, rolling the words around in my head.

  “So,” I say finally, running my tongue against one sharp canine tooth. “This is all you know about the real world? First class?”

  Emyr shrugs. “Other than traveling between the kingdoms, I’ve never needed to enter the real world.” I can hear his annoyance at my choice of words. “Except for when I was searching Laredo for you.”

  “You have to have some familiarity with humans, though. I mean...” I reach over and tap one nail against the book in his lap. “I don’t think this is fae-made.”

  “No...but this is not about humans. It is about aliens.”

  “Aliens, huh?” A graphic novel is not the same thing as a YouTube documentary. “Very much part of the collective human experience.” I narrow my eyes at him. “You know, when you think about it, the fae did come here from another planet. That kinda makes you an alien.”

  He glares at me. “And what would that make you?”

  “I dunno. Very cool?”

  “Hmm.” Emyr rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the book in his hands. “I do enjoy online shopping for books.”

  “Online shopping, also super human.”

  “Maybe I would like your world if I got to see more of it,” he muses.

  “Sure. Maybe Taco Bell could cater the wedding.”

  “Or perhaps we could take a...honeymoon. It isn’t traditional, but neither are we.” He smiles and flashes those dimples. “We could spend a few weeks eating as many drive-through chicken nuggets as you wanted. You could show me your world.”

  There is so much sincerity packed into his tone I don’t know what to do with it.

  My nails dig into the armrests and I finally pull my arm away from his wing.

  “Yeah, maybe,” I mumble, but the mood is gone.

  The flight attendant brings me my burger.

  Emyr and I don’t speak for the rest of the flight.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  LITTLE SHADOW

  “Where the hell are they?” I snarl, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. My heinous bad mood from earlier has returned in force. We’ve been standing in the Eirgard palace throne room for twenty minutes.

  The layout of their kingdom—queendom? no one has ever accused me of having a strong grasp on the intricacies of the English language—reminds me of Asalin’s. The village is down the hill, a collection of hundreds of houses and a dozen or so businesses. The castle sits way at the top overlooking the surrounding populace. But that’s where the similarities begin and end.

  Eirgard’s village was alive with bustling people and energized music as Emyr and I rode through. The homes and businesses are beautiful here, brightly painted and built close together. I noted an eclectic mix of classic and newer cars parked all along the stone-paved streets between vendors peddling foods that made my mouth water. I also spotted more than one little old lady—fae and witch alike—with a string of rosary beads around her neck. Apparently, the people of Eirgard have less interest in Vorgaine than those of Asalin.

  Even the palace itself reminds me a little of a church, like those old-timey cathedrals made of stained glass and domed rooftops. Only there’s very little about the interior that screams old-timey. Everything has been renovated to reflect the most modern standards, from the fingerprinted keypad at each door requiring a waiting servant to let us inside, to the marble floors, to the rec room we passed where a cluster of witches and fae were gathered in front of a big-screen TV.

  Seriously, what kind of castle comes with a rec room? This place might be some kind of royal paradise if it weren’t for the fact that I’ve been standing around twiddling my thumbs for twenty godforsaken minutes.

  Seriously, has someone died? Was there a coup just before we got here?

  Emyr shrugs. He appears utterly unconcerned, which sort of makes me want to strangle him. “They’re probably hoping to make an entrance. Just be patient.”

  “I am being plenty patient,” I snap back at him.

  Another minute ticks by. I tap my toes against the gold floor.

  “Do you think this is their payback? Forcing me to wilt away here?”

  “I suppose it is entirely possible that they are surrounding us to take our heads as we speak.” Emyr could not possibly sound more bored if he tried.

  Another minute. I pace from one side of the room to the other.

  “You’re going to drive yourself over the ledge if you don’t learn to relax.” Emyr sighs.

  “You’re going to drive yourself over the ledge if you don’t learn to relax,” I repeat back at him in a high-pitched, mocking rendition. I hoist myself onto one of the bases for a marble pillar at the bottom of the stairs that lead to their matching plush, ornate thrones. My knuckles tap a frantic tune.

  Another minute. “You have got to be fucking kidding me!”

  The door to the throne room bursts open in a gust of green flames. I let out a panicked scream, falling off the base and hitting the floor with a thud. Black magic erupts from my body, a protective wall forming between me and the fire. Emyr’s wings spread out behind him and he turns toward the doors, gold magic defensively spreading across his arms.

  This is the second time this week someone has thrown fire at me. I’m unamused. What exactly is the universe trying to tell—oh, holy shit, what the hell?

  Seconds after the flame comes a flash of vibrant cyan scales. They shimmer in the low light of the throne room as a massive jaw and rounded head covered in row after row of spikes slowly appears. A huge jaw filled with hundreds upon hundreds of razor-sharp teeth parts just enough to let a red tongue flick out. Yellow eye
s with slits for pupils, the size of dining room tables, slowly blink at us.

  “That is a dragon!” I shout at the back of Emyr’s head. “An indoor dragon!”

  “Yes.” He turns his head over his shoulder, sighing. He holds out his hand for me, palm up. “I told you the queens would make an entrance.”

  What?

  The dragon bows its head, extending its long neck toward the ground. A woman slides down the length of it, her heels clicking against the floor when she lands.

  She looks soft, too soft to show up on dragonback. A swath of yellow covers her body, a shapeless, gauzy sort of dress that makes her look as if she’s covered in spun sugar. Her skin, as dark and flawless as fresh ink, shimmers with a fine layer of dusted gold body glitter that covers her curly hair, as well. Thin black horns, more like antennae than anything else, droop down from either side of her face to touch the long, sharp points of her ears. Pink and yellow wings, covered in a thin layer of fluff, rest against her back. Her baby-blue energy sparkles like the afternoon sky around her shoulders.

  “Paloma.” Emyr inclines his head.

  She giggles—not exactly the reaction I was expecting. “Emyr, you’ve gotten so tall.”

  Another woman comes sliding down next, leaping from the dragon’s body halfway down its neck and landing with a clang next to her wife. Where Paloma is soft, this woman is hard. Her red leather dress clings to her olive skin, showing off the lines of her body. A black holster holding a long blade is strapped to each of her plush thighs. Her horns remind me of a Texas longhorn’s, her wings made of tawny and white feathers and pulled tight against her back. She smiles in a way that tells me she could kill me if she wanted. Her burnt-umber energy blows back and forth around her like a dust storm.

  “Maritza.” Emyr still hasn’t lowered the hand he’s holding out to me. “Thank you for having us.”

  “Of course,” Maritza answers coolly, eyeing me in a way that makes me distinctly uncomfortable. “Though I can’t imagine why little Wyatt would want anything to do with this meeting. Considering how he feels about the fae.”

  Emyr gets called tall. I get called little. That does not slip my notice.

  Still, I manage to swallow back any kind of retort and say, “I have no good excuse for that video. But believe me, it is not an accurate representation of my feelings today.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Paloma clicks her tongue, stepping away from the dragon just vibing in the doorway. She reaches out to brush her hand against her wife’s bicep. “I told you this would work out. Now, boys, shall we adjourn to the dining room? I’m sure you two are hungry after your travels.”

  Emyr looks at me. I take a deep breath, reaching out and finally putting my hand in his. He threads his fingers with mine, touch warm and gentle as he guides me after the queens.

  I guess we’re doing this.

  Whatever this is.

  * * *

  After sitting down to eat and begging the queens to please not murder any of us just because I am a gay little worm who makes terrible life decisions, I’ve determined two things.

  The first, everything is easier to handle on a stomach full of good food. I already knew this, but it’s nice to be reminded regularly. The plane food was okay at best, but whoever staffs the queens’ kitchen clearly knows how to cook. They serve a dinner of empanadas stuffed with dragon meat, phoenix ajiaco, and patacón that somehow leaves me about to burst and wanting more. Seriously, I love a Big Mac and some greasy French fries as much as the next guy, but this is incredible. Nothing, not even my ridiculous outfit, seems as bad once I’ve eaten.

  The second, Paloma and Maritza were clearly not as mad as they’d led everyone to believe. It didn’t take much ass-kissing on our parts to get them to forgive and forget. Which would make me angrier—and a whole lot more confused—if I didn’t think they were sort of...fun.

  They’re younger than I expected, probably in their thirties. Talking to them doesn’t feel like talking to authority figures, even though they’re the queens of their own queendom. A few times, I actually find myself accidentally laughing at Paloma’s jokes. It seems almost easy here, with them. Not what I expected at all.

  But maybe that’s the guaro they let me have with dinner.

  Things are starting to wind down, the sun having set some time ago through the open windows in their dining hall. It’s been a long day and I’m even more tired than I was before thanks to a full stomach and a little bit of alcohol, but I’m holding it together for now. Besides, I’m kind of enjoying their company.

  “So tell us,” Paloma says, leaning against the table, balancing her chin in her hand. “Do you two plan on bringing us beautiful little witchling babies soon?”

  Okay. Good mood immediately ruined.

  I open my mouth, knowing something bleak is about to jump off my tongue, but Emyr beats me to speaking.

  “Now, now, Paloma. You and Maritza haven’t had any children yet.” He chuckles, waving between the two of them. “Where are your beautiful babies?”

  “Oh, please.” Paloma rolls her eyes. “We are not having children. My poor mother. All her life she waited for me to find my bonded mate, and here we are—someone who can’t give me babies and wouldn’t even if she had the equipment.”

  “The two of you are fated mates?” I raise my eyebrows in Emyr’s direction, then flick my gaze back to Paloma. “How’s that work?”

  Because if the lessons I’ve always had shoved down my throat are meant to be believed, fated mates is all about genetics. Who’s best suited to procreate with each other. How would that work between two cis women?

  But Paloma just shrugs. “Same way it works for anyone else, I suppose. And, really, can you imagine? Us? Mothers?” She shudders, as if that’s the most tragic thing she’s ever heard.

  “It’s true,” Maritza agrees, leaning back in her chair, arms resting gently at her sides.

  “How will you choose an heir?” Emyr frowns.

  Paloma shrugs, appearing unconcerned. “I suppose it will fall to my brother. Or perhaps there will be a war. Either way, we won’t be around to deal with it.”

  “That’s certainly one way of thinking,” Emyr agrees.

  “I would probably make a terrible parent, too,” I offer with a shrug. Am I trying to save Emyr from this conversation? No. That is not my responsibility. But he does look awfully uncomfortable with Paloma’s flippancy.

  “I don’t think that’s true, little shadow.” Paloma sighs dreamily. “I think you’re going to make a great father someday. And a wonderful king.”

  “This coming from the woman who doesn’t care if our kingdom falls to ruin once we’re gone,” Maritza reminds us, probably trying to make sure I don’t go and get a big head from Paloma’s compliments.

  Paloma chuckles, leaning over to gently tap her wife on the nose with the tip of one finger. “When we’re dead, we won’t have the time to care about what happens. We’ll be far too busy doing ghostly things, yes? But I think we’ve got another sixty or seventy years left in this life. Plenty of time for Wyatt to screw things up for fae everywhere and ruin our lives.”

  Something sparkles in Paloma’s eye and she shoots me a smirk. Maritza sighs, reaching out to run her fingers against the inside of her wife’s wrist.

  “But to be clear,” Paloma continues. “You are going to make a great king, Wyatt. Regardless of the petitions Derek’s followers have sent us and the plans they may have. Regardless of Kadri’s attempts at annulling your contract. Regardless of your own plans.”

  Something unsettling sweeps across the four of us. My hackles rise as the energy in the room shifts, Paloma’s magic sweeping like a fog overhead, Maritza’s rumbling like an earthquake at our feet. Emyr and I exchange a look.

  What the hell is happening here?

  “You were the ones who voted no on the annulment.” It isn’t a question.
A rough touch has slid into his voice. When they say nothing back, he asks, “Why? What do you know?”

  “We know nothing for certain.” Paloma shrugs. “But I’m a Feeler. I’ve seen things. I wanted to get you here in person to see with my eyes this time.”

  “What sorts of things do you mean?” I ask, sitting up straighter.

  Maritza nails me with a dark look. “I’m not sure you want her to say.”

  “That sounds almost threatening, Maritza,” Emyr growls.

  “Only almost?”

  “The future will come as it is meant to,” Paloma says. “All we can say for certain is this union is fated. The contract was not meant to be dissolved. What happens afterward is only speculation.”

  I think she’s lying.

  “I’m tired,” I say, instead of calling the queen of another kingdom a liar and starting another war. “Can we go to our room now?”

  Maritza chuckles in a way that sounds like an incantation, leaning back in her chair again and staring at me.

  Paloma smiles. “Of course. Mateo!”

  The door to the dining room opens and a young witch with a big smile stares at Paloma. “Yes, my Queen?”

  “Please, show our guests to their suite, my love.”

  Mateo flushes and turns his head to look at Emyr and me. “Come along, then.”

  I stand, pushing my chair back from the table. Emyr joins me.

  “Thank you for the lovely dinner.” He inclines his head at them. “We will see you in the morning.”

  Paloma’s smile is unwavering. “Sleep well.”

  The three of us travel in silence to an elevator, where Mateo presses the fifth-floor button. God, they’ve even got elevators here? We’ve got to get on this back in Asalin.

  We? As if I intend to stay there for much longer. Do I?

  No. I need to remember what my endgame here is. I need to remember I’m the bad guy, that I’m working on my own agenda, and all I want is to be free. Selfishly, blissfully free.

  I catch Emyr watching me and offer him a raised eyebrow.