by AJ Lancaster
“Besmirching your name as well,” he said grimly. “Hetta—”
“Don’t, Wyn. Don’t tell me you’re to blame for everything and that you should leave for my own good.” She pulled away and rose up on her knees to glare at him. “You’re not allowed to hypothetically ask me to marry you and then take it back. Stop trying to protect me!”
He might be an oh-so-tightly-controlled fae prince, but he was still very male, and few men could maintain detachment in the face of naked breasts. Heat sparked in his expression, desire and anger both.
“What if I said I’d marry you, non-hypothetically, the Spires, Queen Matilda, and the High King’s permission be damned? Would you marry me?”
She rocked back on her heels. “What happens if you marry without the High King’s permission?”
He followed her movement, reaching out to clasp her hips, as if he couldn’t stop himself. “Why? Are you trying to protect me from the consequences of reckless decisions?”
Oh, that was unfair. “It would fracture your power again, wouldn’t it?” she guessed. His narrowed gaze told her she’d guessed right. “Me having to deal with gossip isn’t the same, and don’t try to pretend it is.” She leaned forward and put her palms flat against his chest. “I can handle scandal, but if you’re going to give up on us so easily, you can get out of this bed right now.”
He skimmed his hands up, slowly, and little pinpricks of sensation shivered through her.
“Hetta,” he said, her name a caress. His voice had gone deep and husky, but there was still a hitch of amusement in it. “In that case, I am definitely not giving up.”
40
The Morning After
Wyn woke to a flood of glorious awareness. Where there had been only a numb void, the background magic of the world’s leylines now shimmered against his skin as it should. He leisurely extended his senses, like a cat stretching in a pool of sunlight. And to think I assumed I was doing a fine job of playing human for all those years. Mortals didn’t feel as if they were missing a limb without magic, did they?
The differences between fae and mortals are greater than I realised. A memory bubbled up from a few months before: Marius, sitting in the library’s windowseat, a book resting on his knees, his gaze heavy. “How do you expect us to accept you if you can’t accept yourself?” he’d asked, in his characteristic fashion of cutting right to the heart of your vulnerabilities without warning.
Hetta was curled against him, still asleep, the coverlet loose around her waist. She didn’t wake as he snaked an arm over her side and splayed his hand possessively over her stomach, or as he shaped his body to the curve of her spine and kissed the top of her head, tucked beneath his. Her hair smelled floral from her own soap—and his, he thought with a grin, remembering the clouds of honeysuckle-scented steam from the bath the night before. She made a sleepy “mmmfff” and burrowed further into the pillow.
He’d loved her so deeply and for so long that he hadn’t thought it possible to feel any further increase in intensity, but something made of a thousand razored edges grew in his chest as he watched her. He’d touched the outer edges of the Maelstrom, and the power of it had shredded his wings. And yet, the terror he’d felt then was nothing to what he felt now, contemplating the possibility of losing this woman.
He should think of how to resolve things with the mortal queen, of what he should do regarding ThousandSpire, of the identity and motivations of his hidden enemy in this mortal city, and how in the high wind’s eddies he was going to find the High King.
Instead, he thought of Stariel.
This was the longest he’d been away from the estate since his arrival there. The new housekeeper was competent but inexperienced. Had she managed to keep Buddle from bullying her over the correct procedures? Had the thatchers sent in their quote for the cottages? He and Jack had discussed trialling some new seed varieties on the Home Farm, with Hetta to adjust the drainage slightly. Would the soil be warm enough yet to try? How had the new sheep from Penharrow been received? How were the repairs to the Dower House proceeding?
The hotel was quiet, and the bright light edging over the top of the curtains told him it was after dawn. He’d slept later than usual, but then he’d had an unusually tiring few days. And nights, he thought wryly, watching the rise and fall of Hetta’s chest.
What had happened last night to break the dismae? Did I lose control, or was that something else? Was such a surge of power at such a time normal, for greater fae? Reluctantly, he considered that there were two greater fae in the city who might know the answer to that question. Am I brave enough to ask Catsmere whether her own powers changed so dramatically as she aged? Or when she experienced physical intimacy for the first time? Catsmere had always been fondest of him, of all his siblings. She might even tell him, though she would definitely tease him first. He frowned, wondering suddenly where his other siblings were. Why wasn’t Irokoi with the twins? At least Wyn knew he was alive, based on that strange astral projection. That’s three out of five accounted for. Torquil ought to be safest of all of them, under the protection of a foreign court.
He abruptly realised why his thoughts had drifted to family. On cue, Marius knocked sharply on Hetta’s door, the sound amplified in the morning quiet. What had brought him here at this hour? Marius wasn’t a naturally early riser.
“Hetta? Are you awake? I’ve news!” Marius knocked again. “Let me in!” Hetta must’ve given him the key to her suite, since he was knocking on the internal door between her bedroom and the sitting room. Oh dear.
“Hetta, love,” Wyn murmured. “Wake up.”
Hetta grumbled her way to consciousness as Marius repeated his hammering. He sounded excited rather than alarmed. Wyn sighed and slid out of the bed, to Hetta’s general disapproval.
“Can’t we just pretend we haven’t heard him?” Hetta said in an undertone.
Marius knocked again. “Hetta? Is everything all right?”
Wyn just raised his eyebrows. “How well do you know your brother?” He stalked off to find his trousers. His ruined shirt he’d have to do without, since they’d left it in the sitting room, but Marius would melt into the ground with embarrassment if Wyn appeared without any clothing at all. He found his trousers still on the floor of the bathroom and reluctantly pulled them on.
Hetta followed his progress and made an unhappy sound when he reappeared half-clothed. “I suppose you’re right.” She raised her voice. “I’m coming, Marius!” She slipped out of the bed and hunted around for her dressing gown.
“Under the bed,” Wyn said, voice still low enough that Marius wouldn’t hear. “Do you want me to hide?” He would not use glamour on Marius. It would be a breach of trust, given their history. Though I’m not sure Marius will understand the finer points of honour in this precise situation.
Hetta paused, considering and then discarding the idea. She shook her head. “No. Either this is trivial enough that I can send him away without letting him in, or serious enough that you need to hear what he has to say too. And I’m tired of living my life worrying about offending my relatives’ sensibilities.”
Hetta retrieved her dressing gown while he found her pyjamas. Once dressed, she nodded decisively and strode to the door. Wyn slunk sideways, out of its line of sight, hoping that Hetta’s first supposition was correct and that it was something trivial. Marius would be hurt if he found Wyn here at this hour in this state, hurt for more complicated reasons than worrying about his sister’s reputation.
“Were you asleep?” Marius said when Hetta opened the door. Her expression must have spoken volumes. “Sorry,” he said in a rush. “But the twins are back, and His Royal Featheriness said he could sense Wyn’s presence! He’s nearby!”
Wyn felt a sharp surge of irritation at his older brother. Damn Rake. He’d wager quite a lot that Rake knew exactly what he’d sent Marius to interrupt; he’d think it extremely funny. Wyn should’ve paid more attention in his early morning musings. He reached out now
and found, sure enough, the blaze along the leylines that signified the presence of greater fae. Rakken and Catsmere had left their presence unmasked deliberately, for the blaze snapped out as he touched it.
“Why aren’t you excited?” Marius said. Wyn heard him suck in a breath of intuition. “You already know he’s back.”
“Yes,” Hetta said. She sent Wyn a resigned glance as her brother pushed his way into the room.
Marius was already dressed in his day clothes. A mass of tension fell from his shoulders as he caught sight of Wyn.
“Thank the gods. You’re all right!” And he strode over and embraced him briefly, heedless of Wyn’s bare-chested state. “You’re all right,” he repeated, pulling back and frowning at the fading scar on Wyn’s abdomen. “What happened?”
Guilt and fondness fought for primacy. Marius had been worried about him, and Wyn had extended that worry longer than necessary. Stormwinds, but he’d been a terrible friend of late.
“A nightwyrm happened,” he said. “But I am better now.”
Marius’s initial relief was fading, replaced by suspicion. He looked to Hetta, who had sunk down onto the edge of the bed. “How long, exactly, have you been here, Wyn?” he said slowly. A flush crept over his cheeks and made a bid for his ears as he took in the full scene: the rumpled bed, Wyn’s bare chest, and Hetta’s dishevelled hair. His horrified gaze caught on Hetta’s neck, and Wyn realised with a thrill of shame that there was a very incriminating love-bite blooming just above her collarbone.
There was a long silence.
Marius screwed up his face as if in pain. “No,” he said. “Please tell me what I think is happening is not happening.”
“Honestly, Marius, don’t be such a prude,” Hetta said matter-of-factly, though her own colour was high. Should Wyn try to draw Marius’s ire or was it better to let the siblings sort it out between them?
Marius opened his eyes but seemed unable to find anywhere to look that didn’t increase his embarrassment and eventually settled on the ceiling. “Dash it, Hetta! We’re in a hotel with spies outside looking for Wyn and half of Meridon already spreading malicious talk about you. And you’re not married yet!”
“This may surprise you, but marriage isn’t actually a mandatory prerequisite,” Hetta said acerbically. “And you’ve only yourself to blame for barging in here at this hour!”
“Where are my siblings, Marius?” Wyn asked. But this only reminded Marius of his presence, and he whirled on him, equal parts self-righteous fury, horror, and embarrassment.
“You! Are you going to try to pretend you don’t know exactly how inappropriate this is?”
“I’m aware of mortal customs,” Wyn said. “Though I don’t always agree with them. Why does it matter if we’re married or not? Particularly since I intend to marry Hetta eventually?” He shook his head. “But I fear no good can come of pursuing this line of conversation.”
But Marius was not to be shifted. “What do you mean, eventually? There’s no eventually about this; you’ll marry her as soon as we can arrange it.”
Hetta stood, sparkling with anger. “I’m not chattel to be married off at someone else’s command! Especially hypocritical ones. If I was a man, you wouldn’t give a damn what I did with who!” Marius went white, and Hetta made an impatient sound. “Oh for goodness’ sake, I didn’t mean it that way! Not everything is about you!”
“I actually can’t marry her yet, Marius,” Wyn said, hoping to distract him. He was so very sensitive about his proclivities. Understandable, in a mortal society that was so against them. There were few things Wyn preferred about the fae courts over the Mortal Realm, but that was definitely one of them. “I need the fae High King’s permission to do so, since I am fae royalty, but I intend to seek it.”
“Well, you should have bloody thought of that before!” Marius spluttered, still beet red.
Wyn sighed. “I’m prepared to accept a certain amount of recrimination from you, but do you mind if I fetch a clean shirt first? I would prefer to be dressed if either the queensguard appears to fetch me or my sister sends further monsters to kill me.”
Marius folded his arms with a huff. “Oh, very well. But don’t think this means I’m finished yelling at you.”
Wyn had about five seconds’ warning between hearing rapid footsteps approaching and Alexandra bowling into the room. Hetta’s sister pulled up short, immediately absorbing the general atmosphere of awkwardness if not its specifics.
“Wyn?” Alexandra said. “You’re back! Are you all right? What happened?” She took in his half-dressed state and blushed.
“He can explain later,” Hetta said firmly. “And you can all show yourselves out while I get dressed. Wyn, go and find a shirt.”
“As you wish, my Star,” Wyn said, unable to stop from smiling, and slunk out of the room.
He met Aunt Sybil in the corridor on his way to his room and pulled up a glamour without compunction, struck with a strong urge to laugh. He met no other obstacles as he navigated the hotel, but his leysight told him trouble was waiting ahead.
He contemplated his door, noting that the wards he’d originally set up had been dismantled. A petty jab at him, or something more sinister? He took a deep breath, pulling cool air over his skin, and opened the door.
41
Obsidian
Rakken lounged in the armchair next to the window in a position that declared he considered Wyn’s quarters his to use as he wished. Wyn wasn’t particularly attached to his hotel room, but the deliberate insolence irritated him nonetheless. It had probably been Rakken who’d dismantled his wards. An old but familiar feeling crept over him: that of being the youngest of six siblings who were constantly trying to get under his skin.
Still, he chose to take it as a good sign that Rakken was simply trying to irritate him rather than anything more sinister, since it was clear his brother was absolutely furious beneath his mask.
But it wasn’t Rakken that concerned him the most. Catsmere stood next to the mantelpiece in the wide-legged stance she tended to fall into as a default—a position she could hold for hours, or, alternatively, from which she could attack with the speed of a peregrine falcon.
Both the twins were dressed in Spires fashion, though they were in their mortal forms. It had been a long time since Wyn had seen Cat with her softer human face, and for a moment it made it difficult to tell what she was thinking. His heart beat very fast as despite himself he looked for some sign that she was glad to see him. She wore an ensemble in dark green leather with a softer shade of over-tunic, which meant she thought violence was possible but not guaranteed; otherwise she would have worn black.
She took in his appearance, lingering a moment on the healing wound from the nightwyrm. Her stance did not change, but she eventually said, “Hello, little brother.”
“Will you let me embrace you?” he asked, remembering Marius’s greeting and wishing for a moment that his own family were more demonstrative.
She canted her head to the side, but a smile curved her lips. “Still so sentimental? But if you wish.”
Rakken snorted, and Wyn ignored him as he strode forward and hugged his sister. It was strange not to feel feathers as he did so. She smelled very faintly of cinnamon, one of the signatures of her magic. The other was the salty tang of the sea in storm.
“You reek of sex,” she said when he released her, wrinkling her nose. Amusement sparked in the depths of her green eyes.
Rakken plucked idly at the leather buttons on the armchair. “Yes, I hope you satisfied Lord Valstar, Hollow, given the relationship with FallingStar seems increasingly important in this new world we find ourselves in.”
“Neither of you is as funny as you think you are,” Wyn told them.
“Didn’t you enjoy your welcome party this morning?” Rakken said, levering himself off the armchair in a single swift motion. His outfit was more ornate than Cat’s, a pattern of twining serpents tracing their way from his high collar down his sleeves.
“Was that bit of pettiness truly necessary?”
Rakken’s smile sharpened, but that was the only warning Wyn got before he attacked. Wyn had been living at human-speed for too long; he’d forgotten how fast fae could move. Old training kicked in, and he blocked the first blow, aimed at his head, but missed the second. Rakken’s jab hit him just under his ribs. Pain exploded, and he stumbled backwards, but before he could try to retaliate, Rakken had him pressed against a wall, an obsidian knife to his throat.
Wyn went very still, the blade cold against his skin. Rakken wanted the Spires, badly. And he’s thought about killing me for it. That knowledge sat between them as he met his brother’s eyes, and a chill went down his spine. But there was no scent of magic in the air, and Catsmere had made no move to back her twin up, though Rakken was as furious as Wyn had ever seen him, emerald eyes ablaze with it.
He gambled. “Your move, brother. Are you going to cut my throat?”
The green fire in Rakken’s eyes flared, and he snarled. “You can’t even defend yourself. Pathetic.”
Wyn’s temper bristled. He knew what was behind Rakken’s anger, if not his actions, but it was neither Wyn’s fault nor his desire that ThousandSpire prefer him over his brother. And as for defending himself? Rakken was older and stronger than Wyn, a talented sorcerer, and regularly sparred with one of the Spires’ greatest warriors. Wyn had spent the last decade as a human butler. What did Rakken expect, truly? But he did not care for the disdain in his brother’s voice. His father’s voice came back to him, telling him he was weak and sentimental, a disgrace to his court.
His power stirred. “Let me go, Rake.”
“Make me,” Rakken sneered.
Wyn only dared do it because Rakken was a stormdancer and, as such, largely resistant to elektrical charge. He drew the lines up like unspooling yarn until they writhed in anticipation.