by Melissa Marr
“Did Gabe send for you?” She didn’t look around them. “Someone . . . else?”
“Why didn’t you tell me he visits?” Niall’s tone was more curious than hurt as he asked.
“Because I want you two to get along,” she admitted. “I want . . . I don’t know . . . I just like the idea that you are at peace with one another. That you can be there for each other.”
Niall gave her a curious look.
“What?”
He shook his head. “I’d move the court here if it made you come back to . . . either of us.”
“I know.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “And if he thought it would work, he’d be trying to manipulate you to do so. Sometimes I think he wants me in your life more than in his.”
Niall paused. “You’d be in both of our lives if—”
“I can’t.” Leslie’s voice wavered embarrassingly.
“So . . .”
She leaned in and kissed him. “So we take tonight for what it is, and then you return to our court, to him. You need him in your life. I can’t live my life in the Dark Court. That’s not where I belong.”
“Maybe there will be someone else who can be king.” He stroked her hair.
“How long was Iri the Dark King?” Leslie kissed his throat. “You know better.”
“I want to tell you to be with him,” Niall whispered. “He could keep you safe and you’d be away from the court . . . and maybe someday . . .”
“You need him with you, and I don’t want to be addicted to anyone.” Leslie wrapped her arms around him, leaned closer into his embrace. “Sometimes things simply aren’t meant to be. I’m not able to live in the Dark Court right now. I’d lose myself if I lived there. You might not see that, but I know myself.”
He pulled back and stared into her eyes. “What if—”
“If I thought I could live there, I would,” she interrupted. “Being there with both of you . . . it’s tempting. More so than I want to admit. I want to ignore the things that happen in the court, not be changed by what I remember. People die. Mortals were killed for sport. Violence is play. Excess is normalcy. I can’t live in that without changing in ways I don’t want to.”
Leslie felt relief at having this conversation finally. She’d expected that she’d be embarrassed by the admission that it wasn’t simple horror that stopped her. That she knew Niall would accept, expect even, but her real reason was less honorable. She could accept the cruelty and excess of the Dark Court, and that terrified her.
Niall frowned. “I wish I could lie to you. I want to tell you that none of the horrible things happen anymore.”
“They do. If you aren’t doing the worst of them, he is. Don’t think that he’s changed. He’d do anything to protect you . . . including protecting you from yourself.” Leslie kept her voice gentle. She knew that there was one time when Irial hadn’t been able to protect Niall, but it wasn’t something any of them discussed. “He will do whatever it takes to keep you happy, so if you aren’t able to do . . .” Her words faded as Niall looked away.
“I know that there are parts of being the Dark King that he still handles.” Niall’s expression clouded. “I hate being this . . . almost as much as I enjoy it. Some of the ugly things, though, deals and cruelties . . . I can’t.”
“So he does.”
Niall nodded. “There are things I don’t see. If we could make it so you didn’t see . . .”
She ignored that suggestion. “You know what happened with Ren?”
Niall didn’t answer for a moment. Then he nodded. “I do.”
“I want to be sorry. I want to be the sweet girl you think I am. I want to say I’m sorry that Irial”—she paused, trying to find delicate words for what she knew had to have happened—“got rid of Ren.”
For a moment, Niall stared at her. He didn’t speak.
“I’m not that girl,” Leslie admitted. “Any more than you’re Summer Court. You belong in the Dark Court. With Irial.”
“And you.”
“No.” She sighed the word. “The person I would become in the court isn’t who I want to be. I could be. I could be crueler than you are right now. There are reasons that Irial chose me, that I chose his tattoo, and even if you don’t see them. I do. If I stay away from the court, I can be something else too.”
“I’ll love you either way,” Niall promised. “He would too.”
“I wouldn’t.” She laced her fingers through his, and they stood there quietly for several moments.
He didn’t look away. Cars passed on the street. People walked by. The world kept moving, but they alone were still.
Finally, he asked, “So should I go?”
“Not tonight. Can we pretend tonight? That you’re not the Dark King? That I’m not afraid of the things I learned about myself in your court? For tonight, can we just be two people who don’t know that tomorrow isn’t ours?” She felt tears on her cheeks. She wasn’t well yet, but she was sure that she couldn’t go back to the world of faeries without destroying all the progress she was making. Maybe if the two faeries she loved were of any other court, she could.
They aren’t. They never will be. And we would’ve never been together if they were.
“What are you saying?” Niall asked.
“I can’t return to the court, but I can’t pretend that you aren’t in my life. I see you. All of you.” Leslie didn’t move any closer to him, but she didn’t back away either. “I need my life to be out here—away from the courts—but I look forward to your calls, to his visits. I want to talk to him, and I want to . . .”
“What?” Niall prompted.
At the end of the block, Irial stood watching. She’d known he was there, known that he’d be closer if he could, and known that he had made this night possible. She was safe from Ren because of Irial. She was in Niall’s arms because of Irial.
She concentrated on the tendril of connection she had to him, trying to let it open. enough to feel him—and for him to feel her emotions. She wasn’t sure if it worked, but he blew her a kiss.
“Leslie?” Niall looked as tentative as he had when they’d first met. “What do you want?”
“I want you to come upstairs with me. Tonight.”
Irial smiled.
Niall stepped back, but he took her hand in his. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Give us tonight. Tomorrow”—she looked past him to let her gaze rest on Irial—“tomorrow, you go back to your court, and I continue my life. Tonight, though . . .”
“I can love without touching.” Niall looked behind him, as if he’d known where Irial was all along, and added, “I learned that lesson centuries ago.”
“Tomorrow you can love me from a safe-distance.” Leslie opened the door; then, she looked back at the faery standing in the shadows watching the two of them. “But it’s okay to stop time every so often to be with someone you love.”
Niall paused. “You make it sound so easy.”
“No.” She led him inside. “It’s not easy. Letting you go in the morning will hurt, but I don’t mind hurting a little if it’s for something beautiful.”
A shadow passed through Niall’s eyes.
“He wouldn’t ask you to change who you are, anything between you, if you stopped time there either.” Leslie started up the stairs, holding on to Niall’s hand as she did so. “But not tonight.”
“No, not tonight.” Niall kissed her until she was breathless.
And then they let time—and worries and fears and the rest of the things that meant they couldn’t have forever—stop for the night.
Love Struck
Despite it being at the beach, the party was lame. A few people were trying to turn noise into music: if Alana had been high or drunk, it might’ve been tolerable. But she was sober – and tense. Usually, the beach was where she found peace and pleasure; it was one of the only places where she felt like the world wasn’t impossibly out of order. But tonight, she felt anxious.
A guy sat
down beside her; he held out a cup, “You look thirsty.”
“I’m not thirsty” – she glanced at him and tore her gaze away as quickly as she could – “or interested”. Eye candy. She didn’t date eye candy. She’d been watching her mother do that for years. It was so not the path Alana was taking. Ever. Instead, she stared at the singer. He was normal, not-tempting, not-exciting. He was cute and sweet, but not irresistible. That was the sort of guy Alana chose when she dated – safe, temporary, and easy to leave.
She smiled at the singer. The bad rendition of a Beatles song shifted into a worse attempt at poetry… or maybe a cover of something new and emo. It didn’t really matter what it was: Alana was going to listen to it and not pay attention to the hot dreadlocked guy who was sitting too close beside her.
Dreadlocks, however, wasn’t taking the hint.
“Are you cold? Here.” He tossed a long brown leather coat on the sand in front of her. It looked completely out of place for the crowd at the party.
“No, thanks.” Alana scooted a bit away from him, closer to the fire. Burnt embers swirled and lifted like fireflies rising with the smoke.
“You’ll get cold walking home and – “
“Go away. Please.” Alana still didn’t look back at him. Polite wasn’t working. “I’m not interested, easy, or going to get drunk enough to be either of those. Seriously.”
He laughed, seeming not insulted but genuinely amused. “Are you sure?”
“Leave.”
“It’d be easier this way…”
He moved closer, putting himself between her and the fire, directly in her line of view.
And she had to look, not a quick glance, but a real look. Illuminated by the combined glow of the firelight and moonlight, he was even more stunning than she’d feared: blond hair clumped in thick dreadlocks that stretched to his waist; a few of those thick strands were kelp-green; his tattered T-shirt had holes that allowed glimpses of the most defined abs she’d ever seen.
He was crouched down, balancing on his feet. “Even if it wouldn’t upset Murrin, it’d be tempting to take you.”
Dreadlocks reached out as if he was going to cup her face in his hand.
Alana crab-walked backward, scuttling over the sand until she was just out of his reach. She scrambled to her feet and slipped a hand into the depths of her bag, past her shoes and her jumble of keys. She gripped her pepper spray and flicked the safety switch off, but didn’t pull it out of her bag yet. Logic said she was overreacting: There were other people around; she was safe here. But something about him felt wrong.
“Back off,” she said.
He didn’t move. “Are you sure? Really, it’d be easier for you this way…”
She pulled out the pepper spray.
“It’s your choice, precious. It’ll be worse once he finds you.” Dreadlocks paused as if she’d say something or change her mind.
She couldn’t reply to comments that made no sense, though – and she surely wasn’t going to change her mind about getting closer to him.
He sighed. “I’ll be back after he breaks you.”
Then he walked away, heading toward the mostly empty parking lot.
She watched until she was sure he was gone. Grappling with drunk or high or whatever-he-was guys wasn’t on her to do list. She’d taken self-defense and street-defense classes, heard countless lectures on safety, and kept her pepper spray handy – her mother was very good about that part of parenting. None of that meant she wanted to have to use those lessons.
She looked around the beach. There were some strangers at the party, but mostly the people there were ones she’d seen around at school or out walking the reef. Right now, none of them was paying any attention to her. No one even looked her way. Some had watched when she was backing away from Dreadlocks, but they’d stopped watching when he left.
Alana couldn’t decide if he was just messing with her or if someone there really posed a threat…or if he was saying that to spook her into leaving the party so she’d be alone and vulnerable. Usually, when she walked home, she went in the same direction he’d gone, but just in case he was lurking in the parking lot, she decided to go farther down the beach and cut across Coast Highway. It was a couple blocks out of the way, but he’d creeped her out. A lot. He made her feel trapped, like prey.
When she’d walked far enough away that the bonfire was a glow in the distance and the roll of waves was all she could hear, the knot of tension in her neck loosened. She had gone the opposite direction of danger, and she stood in one of the spots where she felt safest, most at peace – the exposed reef. The ground under her feet shifted from sandy beach to rocky shelf. Tide pools were spread open to the moon. It was perfect, just her and the sea. She needed that, the peace she found there. She went toward a ledge of the reef where waves crashed and sprayed upward. Mussel shells jutted up like blunt black teeth. Slick sea lettuce and sea grasses hid crabs and unstable ground. She was barefoot, balancing on the edges of the reef, feeling that rush as the waves came ever closer, feeling herself full up with the peace Dreadlocks had stolen.
Then she saw him standing in the surf in front of her, staring at her, oblivious to the waves that broke around him. “How did he get here first?”
She shivered, but then realized that it wasn’t him. The guy was as defined as Dreadlocks, but he had long, loose dark hair. Just a surfer. Or Dreadlock’s friend. The surfer wasn’t wearing a wetsuit. He looked like he might be …naked. It was difficult to tell with the waves crashing around him; at the very least, he was topless in the frigid water.
He lifted his hand to beckon her closer, and she thought she heard him say, “I’m safe enough. Come talk to me.”
It was her imagination, though. It had to be. She was just freaked out by Dreadlocks. There was no way this guy could’ve heard her over the breaking of waves, no way she could’ve heard him.
But that didn’t change her suspicion that somehow they had just spoken.
Primal fear uncoiled in her belly, and for the second time that night, she backed away without looking. Her heel sliced open on the edge of a mussel shell. The sting of salt water made her wince as she walked farther away, unable to ignore the panic, the urge to run. She glanced back and saw that he hadn’t moved, hadn’t stopped watching her with that unwavering gaze. And her fear turned to fury.
The she saw the long black leather coat slung carelessly on the sand; it looked like a darker version of the coat Dreadlocks had offered her. She stepped on it and ground her blood-and-sand-caked foot on it. It wasn’t smooth like leather should be. Instead, the material under her foot was silk-soft fur, an animal’s pelt, a seal’s skin.
It was a pelt.
She pulled her gaze away from that dark pelt and stared at him. He still stood in the surf. Waves curled around him like the sea had formed arms of itself, hiding him, holding him.
He smiled again and told her, “Take it. It’s yours now.”
And she knew she had heard his voice that time; she’d felt the words on her skin like the wind that stirred the water. She didn’t want to reach down, didn’t want to lift that pelt into her arms, but she had no choice. Her bleeding foot had broken his glamour, ended his manipulation of her senses, and she knew him for what he truly was: a selchie. He was a fey creature, a seal person, and he wasn’t supposed to exist.
Maybe it was fun to believe in them when she was a little girl sharing her storybooks with Nonny, but Alana knew that her grandmother’s insistence that selchies were real was just another type of make-believe. Seals didn’t just walk on land among humans; they didn’t slip out of their Other-Skins. They were just beautiful myths. She knew that – except she was looking at a selchie who was telling her to take his Other-Skin.
Just like the one at the bonfire.
She stood motionless as she tried to process the enormity of what had happened, what was happening right now.
Two selchies. I met two freaking selchies…who tried to trap me.
And in that instant, she understood: the fairy tales were all wrong. It wasn’t the mortals’ fault. Alana didn’t want to stay there looking at him, but she was no longer acting of her own volition.
I am trapped
The fishermen in the old stories who’d taken the selchies’ pelts hadn’t been entrapping innocent fey creatures: they’d been entrapped by selchie women. Perhaps it was too hard for the fishermen to admit that they were the ones who got trapped, but Alana suddenly knew the truth that none of the stories had shared. A mortal could no more resist the pull of that pelt than the sea could refuse to obey the pull of the moon. Once she took the pelt, lifted it into her mortal arms, she was bound to him. She knew what he was, knew the trap was sprung, but she was no different from the mortals in the stories she’d grown up hearing. She could not resist. She took the pelt and ran, hoping she could foist it off on someone else before he found her, before Murrin followed her home – because he had to be Murrin, the one Dreadlocks was talking about, the one that the creepy selchie had told her was worse.
Murrin watched her run, felt the irresistible need to follow her. She carried his skin with her: he had no choice but follow. It would have been better if she hadn’t run.
With murmured epithets over her flight, he stepped out of the surf and made his way to the tiny caves the water had carved into the sandstone. Inside, he had his shore-clothes: woven sandals, well-worn jeans, a few shirts, and a timepiece. When his brother, Veikko, had gone ashore earlier, he’d borrowed the soft shirt Murrin had liked so. Instead, Murrin had to wear one that required fastening many small buttons. He hated buttons. Most of his family didn’t go shore-walking often enough that they needed many clothes, but Murrin had been on land often enough that the lack of a decent shirt was displeasing. He barely fastened the shirt, slipping a couple of the tiny disks into the equally tiny holes, and went to find her – the girl he’d chosen over the sea.
He hadn’t meant for her to find his Other-Skin like this, not yet, not now. He’d intended to talk to her, but as he was coming out of the water, he’d seen her – here and not at the party. He watched her, trying to figure how to walk out of the surf without startling her, but then he felt it: the touch of her skin on his pelt. His pelt wasn’t to be there. It wasn’t to happen like this. He’d had a plan.