by Ron C. Nieto
“Do you believe Winter can only be Unseelie?”
“Can’t it?”
The Queen’s smile became wicked. “Do you not see, Herald, that there would be no need for two names if Winter and Unseelie were one and the same? The day will come when you understand.” She turned, dismissing Lily and gliding back into the garden. After a few paces, she tilted her head to call back over her shoulder, her perfect profile sharp under the soft light reflected by her entourage of butterflies. “We trust you shall escort her safely?”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” said Troy’s voice.
Lily spun, her pulse a hammer in her throat and her mouth dry, and saw him standing at the edge of shadows, his clothes—or perhaps his glamour—melting his figure, turning him nigh invisible if not for his vibrant eyes.
“Of course. We look forward to hearing your council on the morrow as well, Kelpie. Do not be late.”
“I would never dream of such a thing.” He smiled, showing teeth, as he advanced to Lily’s side. The words and the tone reflected nothing but respect and truth, but she got the distinct feeling Troy would, in fact, dream of being late.
Out of nowhere, she was struck by the realization that he might even attempt to shirk the meeting, unless told in as many words to be there.
Troy arched an eyebrow, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking and dared her to comment, and offered her his arm.
Biting the inside of her cheek to quell an inappropriate giggle, Lily settled her hand on the crook of his elbow and let him guide her out of the labyrinth, choosing not to ask how he had found her, or how long he had been there.
C H A P T E R XII
“I can’t believe I survived that,” Lily said when the garden was far behind.
“If you recall my words, I said you would come to no harm.” Troy smiled. “I am, however, quite surprised to learn you did not bargain your life away.”
She didn’t think. She just laughed and smacked his arm. “You!” she said between chuckles.
Her laughter froze when she realized what she had just done.
“Sorry,” she said, regardless of where they stood. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Troy shook his head. “I daresay you were not thinking much, if anything. Still, that is no reason to apologize.”
“No, I meant . . .” Lily trailed off and gestured between them, attempting to illustrate either the physical gesture or the whole situation.
He understood, even when she seemed to be unsure herself, and regarded her without his usual amused curiosity.
“Do you believe me incapable of jest?” he asked.
“I believe mortal sense of humor doesn’t translate all that well,” she said. “Besides, you don’t seem to care much for touching.” Of course, Lily knew he had let her near in any number of occasions, but always there had been a point. Running for their lives, guiding her, putting on a show for the Courts . . . She could only recall one spontaneous moment of contact. She had hugged him out of the blue, and he had gone painfully rigid.
“Is that so.” He reached up, a hand gently cupping the side of her face for a moment before sliding down the side of her neck, skimming her shoulder, and falling to grasp her fingers.
“Oh.” She stammered, even with that one silly word, and a playful smirk pulled at his lips.
It was true, of course, that Lily could pinpoint dozens of moments like this one. Troy, amused and wicked, delivering one tantalizing, spine-tingling caress with no goal beyond touching her in some innocent-yet-sexy-as-sin way.
It’s mind-boggling.
Except it isn’t, is it?
Gambling, Lily raised her free hand and settled it on his chest, feeling the warm pumping of his heart beneath cool skin and wet fabric. Troy didn’t pull back. Instead, he stood very, very still while his smirk faded into a look of puzzlement complete with a small crease between his brows and a tilting of his head.
Bingo. Lily smiled.
“Let me rephrase,” she said. “You don’t mind touching—you even enjoy it. You don’t care for being touched, though.”
Troy laughed, shaking his head, and the sound kept surprising Lily. Monsters really shouldn’t sound that carefree, that happy, she thought. But then, lightning fast, he twisted their linked hands and used them to trap the one she had on his chest. The movement left her flush against his side, unable to pull back and forced her to crane her neck if she wanted to look into his eyes.
She wished she hadn’t tried to hold his gaze. She really did. They were too close, the green depths shimmering with far too much amusement, and it didn’t feel safe.
As it turned out, looking down wasn’t safe either. It left her tucked under his chin, curled into his body.
Heat crawled up her neck, bringing a burning blush with it, and Troy let out a soft chuckle, the sound more felt than heard this time.
“You are a very interesting mortal, did you know that?” he said.
“I thought I was a hopeless mortal bound to bargain us into failure?”
“You are. And yet, you also notice the most peculiar things.”
So I was right, and he’s not even trying to hide it.
“Why?” she asked, games forgotten. “Why does it bother you? Something happened?”
“Something happened?” he mused, his words stirring the hairs at the crown of her head. “You have called me a man-eating monster before,” he continued, in an apparent change of topic. “How much do you know of it?”
“Only what you told me.”
Troy stood silent for a moment and Lily realized she had relaxed against him at some point. With a shiver, she tried to pull back in token resistance and he let her.
“Come with me,” he said, stepping back and starting down a different corridor. “You might understand after all.”
Lily didn’t ask where they were going. She just followed through an unending set of corridors that wound away from where she thought the Great Hall might have been, each passage near identical to the one before. Perhaps, if pressed, she might have said that the vaulted ceilings had more angles in this area, that the marble was a darker, earthier shade of pink, and that the light wasn’t quite as brilliant.
Then again, she might have been imagining things.
Troy stopped at last in front of a set of double doors carved in pale winter oak. They were almost as large as those to the Great Hall, certainly wider than any other set they had passed. There was a quality to those doors, to whatever hid behind them, that made the silence thicker, tangible, despite the fact they were alone in the empty corridors.
“Where are we?” Lily asked, afraid to speak above a whisper.
“A place of knowledge.” With a push, the doors slid open on silent hinges, revealing—
Books.
Thousands upon thousands of books. The bookcases rose three stories tall in an open space, twisting into fantasy and natural designs that made the room come alive, as if it were a drowsy beast.
“This place is magical,” she breathed, unable to hide the awe in her voice.
“I believe everything you may find in a fay Court would be considered magical by mortals.” Troy smiled and stepped aside.
“Yeah, but this is special.”
It was. Marble columns supported the vaulted ceiling, hidden among the shelves, the pink stone chased by dark wooden filigrees to create a complete architectural integration. The books created nooks and crannies, paths of wonder surrounded by ancient leather-bound tomes, but still the room was open and airy, light, inviting. A few tables and plush chairs were arranged in discrete corners, luring the reader to find solace and never come out again.
Hogwarts library wishes it could ever be this big, this otherworldly, this incredible.
“What do faeries read about?” Lily asked, tip-toeing to the closest shelf and tracing the spines with her fingertips.
“Ourselves, of course.” Troy pulled one of the tomes free and opened the cover to show the title page. Queen Ma
b, it said in Gothic calligraphy. By Percy Bysshe Shelley.
Lily gaped. “That’s—that’s—”
“Considered a classic, I have been led to understand.”
“No. I mean, yes, it is, but that’s not what I was going to say.” She ran a finger over the old, crisp ink. “I meant to say, a mortal wrote this.”
“Yes. Fay have little concept of time, and so they find little reason to record the mundane happenings of their existence. However, we do encourage mortals to feed our vanity from time to time.” He gestured to one wall. “The work of the fay-touched is stored here. Some of it has been lost, but I believe your human collectors have done a fair job of conserving most titles. There are other books written by mortals, never meant for the mortal eye to read.” He nodded to a smaller shelf, the books there equally cared for but older-looking, despite being stored in a timeless place. “And some were written by fay. I doubt you would be capable of understanding those, but there might be a title or two in Modern English if you care to seek it out.”
Lily turned around, her eyes chasing the books up the shelves, following the marble pillars toward the dome. The asymmetric design teased the eye, making it seem as if the room kept changing, redesigning itself. Like a kaleidoscope. Step by step, trying to absorb everything, she made her way to one of the many bookcases Troy had pointed out, up a set of winding stairs. The spines there were cracked by use, broken in some cases, and the leather binding had the lustrous shine gained by time and much, much handling.
Picking up a random title, she peered at the pages. Handwritten with chicken scrawl, and it looked to be in verse.
“What sort of books are written by mortals but aren’t meant for mortals?” she asked, sliding the book back in place.
“All sorts,” said a voice from on high. “Commissioned histories, plays for the game, craft, and resources such as the one you have just misplaced.”
Lily followed the voice and found a faerie standing in an alcove, invisible from the ground level. He was clearly a sidhe, that much was plain to see even though he was giving her his back—he faced the shelf and perused a book so old it seemed to be on the verge of falling apart. His straight, white-blond hair fell to the middle of his back, and his tall figure managed to be both imposing and delicate, covered in a deep cherry robe that draped over well-defined shoulders and gave him a regal look.
Sidhe. No doubt about it.
“I put it back in its place,” she told him.
He closed the book with care, somehow giving the gesture a rather final, snappish feel, and turned to stare at Lily down his nose. It was a long, Roman nose, a perfect fit for a dramatic face that was sidhe, yes . . . but oh so very different from the features of Marast or the other courtiers. There was nothing gentle or ethereal about it—thin lips, deep-set eyes, darker brows set in a scowl, and razor-edged cheekbones defining the sharp angle of his jaw came together to create a stunning image.
Currently, it was glaring with enough force to make Lily step back.
“The place of a read book in any library is the table designated for the purpose of holding it before it is returned to its proper place, by the proper people,” he said, dripping hostility and pointing to such a table, on the ground floor.
It was pristine and empty.
“There’s no need to create a mess when the place I took it from is so obvious, and right there.”
“That is for the librarian to decide.”
“Giving him extra work is mean,” Lily said, refusing to back down or to believe she had done anything wrong.
The sidhe reared back, as if she had physically struck him, and Troy laughed out loud. The noise of his guffaw drew the attention of the sidhe, and he raised his hands in defeat when the full power of the disapproving, angry glare focused on him.
“Peace,” Troy said, still smiling. “Librarian, meet the Herald. I trust word of her has reached you already?”
The Librarian ignored the introduction. “Kelpie,” he said, voice dripping sarcasm through cultured tones. “The Court has been a peaceful place in your absence. How delightful of you to come back and remedy it.”
“There is no peace where the game is played,” Troy countered, gesturing for Lily to get down from her perch and back to the ground floor. “My comings and goings have little to do with that.”
Lily rushed down the stairs at the same time as the sidhe did, her retreat clumsy when compared to his billowing robes and gliding strides. He’d been further up, but they both reached Troy at the same time.
“The other players have the good taste of leaving their petty bickering at my doorstep,” the sidhe said. “You are crass enough to bring trouble in.” The Librarian held out a limp hand to Lily, not even looking her way. “I am the Librarian,” he declared.
Librarians have a reputation for being funny in the head. I’m guessing that applies to faerie librarians as well.
She shook his hand and said, “They call me Herald.”
The Librarian finally spared her an arch glance and pulled his hand free. “Charmed, I am sure,” he said before turning back to Troy. “And this time, your bit of trouble does not even have good manners. Wherever did you find it, Kelpie?”
“A review of the evolution of manners might serve you well,” Troy said, smirking and not looking in the least offended. “Ring-kissing lost popularity to hand-shaking a few generations ago.”
“Did it? How typical. Mortals will always choose the most disgusting of any two habits.”
“The Librarian believes all things not set in parchment are disgusting and uncouth,” Troy told Lily in an exaggerated aside, complete with stage whispering, that shook her to the core.
Not because of what he said, or of the strange sort of friendship he seemed to have with the Librarian, but because at that moment he felt absolutely human—just a man joking with his friends. With her.
“And because I rule over my library, you should remember that my preferences are law, above the fancy wants of fashion,” the Librarian said, as if he were reciting the lines of a script played often.
“Your house, your rules,” said Lily, fascinated by the exchange. “It’s fair.”
“See, Librarian?” Troy cut in before the sidhe could reply. “She is even willing to learn.”
“No small accomplishment. Most mortals refuse to see the error of their ways.” The Librarian smiled wryly. “And I have an inkling that is your true purpose in coming here. Is it not, Kelpie? Lovely as this visit has been, you always have a motive.”
Troy nodded, not bothering to deny it. “There are a great many things to be learned in your halls,” he said.
“Why would you have her learn them?”
“She is kin of the Doctor.”
“Ah, I see.” And maybe he did because the Librarian turned around with a sigh and swept to the depths of his library. “Come then, Herald. There is knowledge here that belongs to you by rights, if you wish to take it.”
After shooting a quick glance to Troy to check it was okay, Lily followed the billowing robes of the sidhe.
“Of course I want it,” she said. “But I don’t understand why it would belong to me.”
The Librarian stopped in front of a huge spiraling bookcase that soared upwards in a shape reminiscent of a seashell. “As Kelpie graciously pointed out, there are many kinds of works to be found here. These are works written by mortals, not meant for all mortal eyes.” He smirked. “Fay lore.”
C H A P T E R XIII
“I thought—I was told it wasn’t safe to write about the fair folk.”
“It is not. None of these books were meant to be displayed in the Unseelie Library when they were written, Herald. Would you care to guess how they came to be here?”
“Do you know? For all of them?”
“I am the Librarian,” he said, scoffing and picking up a slender tome. The covers were sewn together with rough hemp and the pages were crumpled and stained, but still readable. “This one was acquired and do
nated by a selkie, from the Isle of Mann, some two or three centuries ago by mortal reckoning. The woman who wrote it thought to make a good profit from her knowledge, for in it she gave the instructions for a mortal lord of the land to acquire a selkie bride. However, while she told of how to capture and subdue a bride, she neglected to mention the lord must word his commands most carefully.”
“So . . . she killed the lord?”
“No. He was not so stupid so as to leave her such a loophole.” The Librarian drummed his fingers on the old book, a fond smile passing over his stern features. “She did kill the woman who wrote and sold her secret, though.”
“How did she escape the lord?” Lily asked, engrossed despite herself.
The Librarian shrugged. “She did not. She outlived him. Of course, her rightful mate did wreak havoc on the lord’s village—not a ship could sail from his dock without tempest, and every single one of his legitimate sons was lost to sea . . . But that is another tale,” the Librarian said, replacing the book.
That’s a chilling story . . . but somehow not as revolting as it should be.
What does it say about me, when I don’t feel sorry for an entire family line being killed off?
Lily shook her head and picked up another volume to ward off that train of thought. It was thick, bound in pale blue, and the buttery parchment of its pages had aged well, if at all. “What about this one?” she asked, cracking the spine to peruse the neat writing inside.
“A treaty on omens, whether they represented good or ill fortune, and how to avoid the future they announced. Salvaged from the house of a faerie doctor of old by a pack of bogeys after the mortal was burned by his equals.”
“Can you do that?”
“Collect the personal belongings of a faerie doctor upon his demise?”
“No. Escaping an omen.”
The Librarian took the book from Lily’s hands and paged through, stopping at the start of a chapter marked by an elaborate title illuminated in green and sepia. “On the truthfulness of omens,” it said. He gave the book back for Lily to read.