---
The Morrigan's hounds part like water around the girl and they race alongside of their prey, backs high as her hips, whip-sharp tails lashing the air, slaver dripping from their muzzles, teeth silver in the moonlight, gums blood red. They're hungry and the air is hot with it.
The stallions are hungry, too, their sharp teeth clattering against the bits. They're rarely allowed so close so quickly.
Aine shivers, inhales her stallion's steamy breath like sucking in summer or hell, tastes his hunger, feels the echoing of it in her own belly. Fionn looks wild as the hounds as he reaches for the girl.
This hunt victory will not be his. Aine won't let him have it. Only one of them can sit Maeve's throne when she departs and Aine will not let him have the advantage of bringing the girl back. She yanks her mount at his and the stallions both veer away from the girl, so close that she stumbles. The girl's hand touches the ground, her frantic run now staggering and flailing as she tries to keep from falling beneath the feet of the other stallions.
The lords and ladies of the hunt race by them and Aine pulls her mount in a tight circle, back toward the girl. Fionn swears and fiery comets of light explode in the air around him, spiral up into the trees and down to the wet grass. The light matches the girl's hair.
Aine leans over her mount's neck and her brother is right beside her. They both reach, stretch, and his arms are longer. He yanks the girl up by the arm and she screams. Fionn's smile makes Aine sick to her stomach, but this is not the end. She won't let it be the end.
Cries and cheers from the lords and ladies of the hunt follow them back through the hunt lands, back into the shadows, down the pine-needle road home.
"You rode well, sister dear." Fionn holds the girl across his saddle, across his lap. Her hair curls at the stallion's shoulder like blood.
Aine searches for grace and patience but only manages to take hold of one of them. "We shall see who is better-ridden by the time the night is over." She spurs her mount past his, races hard for the stables. There is still time, and there is so much left to do. Let him celebrate, she thinks. Let him eat and drink and find complacency in the others who will already be proclaiming him the next on the throne.
The night is not over. The stone has not spoken. He has not won. Not yet.
Aine's stallion slows, stops outside the stables and she slides to the ground, tosses the reins at one of the ladies of the hunt. She unbinds her hair as she stalks toward the fountain.
"You thought it might happen this way."
Aine pauses, looks through shadow into Oona's eyes. "Of course."
"He's a better rider than you are."
"He'll not sit the throne."
Oona laughs. "Shall I tell him you said so?"
Aine cups Oona's cheek, tilts her head to one side. "Tell him what you will. You always have."
Oona leans forward, brushes her lips against Aine's, a kiss like a rose, a kiss like her brother's kisses, soft and sharp. "You know I prefer you to him."
"Do I?"
Oona laughs like spring. "Let me bathe you and dress you and brush your hair."
"Fine."
As they walk to the fountain, Oona's hair turns red, the straight blondeness becoming thick curls. "You mock me," Aine says.
"I tempt you, m'lady."
"Aye. You always have."
---
Oona sprawls across Fionn's lap in the great hall, he at the foot of his mother's throne and he pays Oona as much attention as Aine paid her earlier in the evening. Aine watches Tara, though. Wild emerald eyes and wilder red hair. She doesn't touch the food in front of her, as though she remembers the fairy stories told by her mother or grandmother. This abstinence will not save her; the dance and the fire and the hunt are in her blood, and her blood will answer the call of them before the night is over. The Dannan is trapped inside of her and it will be freed. One way or another.
Oona uncurls from Fionn's lap as the harps begin, holds her hand out to him. "Dance with me, m'lord?"
Fionn shakes his head. "There is only one dance for me tonight."
Oona shrugs and looks at Aine, hand still outstretched. Aine shakes her head, unconscious mimicry of her brother's gesture. "I'm in no mood to dance right now. Perhaps later tonight." And she tries to put as much meaning into those words as she can, though she won't care to dance with anyone beneath the silks tonight if Fionn has his way. And if he doesn't, there will be only one dance for her and she will not waste that dance on Oona, no matter how lovely she looks tonight nor how much Aine once desired her.
Oona leaves them, picks a lording who will share the dance with her and Aine leans against her brother, brushes her lips against his ear. "She plays both of us, you know."
Fionn raises an eyebrow. "And why shouldn't she?"
Aine laughs low in her throat. "You tell me, brother."
He glances across the hall at the girl; he still doesn't know her name. He laughs equally low, cups his sister's cheek and their silver-black gazes meet. "She is already mine."
Aine smiles, says, "And if everyone saw you ride up with her across your saddle, why do you suppose Oona still plays us both as though the question remains unanswered?"
Fionn's laughter sours and Aine draws away from him. "She's a fool," he says.
Or she knows more than you do, brother mine. Aine sips her wine and watches the cloud settle over her brother's brilliant features; not even a kiss from his favorite hunt lord is enough to dispel that cloud.
---
They look like lovers sitting so close, sharing secrets and laughter, sipping wine from the same silver cup in the shadow of an ashen queen. Like lovers. Or twins. Tara wants to look anywhere but at them, but the rest of the hall is filled with more disturbing figures in midnight silks and starlight leathers so she looks at the plate in front of her: dripping-sweet fruits, flowers, leaves, all on a silver plate beside a silver cup filled with blue liquid shot through with something that glitters in the candlelight. Her mouth waters and her stomach grumbles. She skipped dinner so she could wrap up her project before they walked her out the door. The temptation to put something in her mouth is nearly overwhelming so she looks up from the plate, watches the raven lover twins across the hall.
The woman stands, leaves her lover/brother looking unhappy in spite of the lordling who strokes his neck and ear. She walks across the floor of the great hall, dancers spinning around her like starshine and snowflakes and she never has to stop, never has to step left or right. The music guides everyone on the floor, pulls them like they are puppets on strings.
She sits on the cushion across the table from Tara and Tara's world narrows, becomes the silver-black hair and nearly-white skin of the woman across from her. And the woman's eyes. "You have a fortunate name." Her voice is nearly as mesmerizing as her presence.
Tara shakes her head, asks, "How would you know?" The first words she's spoken since she was yanked from the ground, as if this woman, in speaking to her, has somehow broken a spell of silence.
The woman laughs, leans forward. "It is in my best interest," she says. "And it is in my best interest that no one else knows it, so I hope you'll forgive my forwardness." She leans across the table, grabs Tara by the hair and kisses her.
Tara hears her name whispered in her head in the woman's voice. Hears another name, and another: Aine, Fionn, Oona, others. Flashes of faces to go with each of them, black hair, antlered half-crowns, pale sharp cheeks, but the image of Aine is the strongest flash, the one that burns the back of her eyes and brain, leaves her breathless. She leans into the kiss, discovers the flavor of Spring on Aine's lips, then the flavors of Summer, Autumn, Winter.
---
The lordlings guarding the girl should have stopped Aine, pulled her away. Neither she nor Fionn is supposed to touch her yet, and they'll have to bathe the girl again. They should have pulled Tara away from Aine before their lips touched, particularly if they were her brother's men, whether they suspected what Aine was up to or not
. Perhaps he is not favored by as many of the lordlings as he thinks.
Aine drinks in the memory of Tara's name, savors it, swallows it and continues kissing her simply for the pleasure and novelty of tasting something mortal, something human.
Fionn comes across the floor like a storm, scattering dancers, disrupting the music. He takes Aine by the shoulder, pulls her back from Tara and Aine presses her lips tightly closed, swallows the last hint of Tara's name before she faces her brother. "Yes, brother mine?"
"What have you taken from her?"
Aine laughs, her fingers still tangled in Tara's hair; the girl hasn't moved. "I've stolen a kiss, nothing more." She looks at Tara; such a bewildered girl, so confused, and yet so accepting in her confusion. The Dannan knows, even if the girl doesn't, drags her through the night like a marionette. "I think she liked it." Aine draws Tara forward, fingers in her hair, nails pressing against her scalp. "Have you kissed another woman before?" Tara blushes, tries to look away and Aine tightens her grip on the girl's hair. "No, I don't think you have."
Fionn pulls Aine away, his fingers pressed tightly against her bare arm. He's so warm for someone so cold as he often is. "What else did you take from her?" His mouth is close to Aine's; his breath smells of starlight wine and berries.
Aine smiles. "Nothing she wasn't willing to give me." She reaches behind her, finds a piece of fruit with her fingers, the flesh slick and tender. "Fruit?" she offers, and before her brother can kiss her and steal the lingering hints of Tara's name from her mouth, Aine slips the sweetness between her lips, washes the last of the name out of her mouth and off of her tongue.
"I'll have it from your lips," Fionn says. "One way or another."
Aine laughs and shakes her head. "No you won't. I don't think you want to know what death tastes like."
Fionn loosens his grip on Aine's arm, turns away, but not quickly enough to hide his disgust from her.
Turning back to Tara, Aine asks, "Do you have any idea what's going on, precious?"
Tara shakes her head.
Aine smiles sadly and sighs. "He won't tell you, either." This time, the lordlings brush her hand away when she reaches for Tara, half-hearted effort, but she lets them, walks back across the hall and out into the moonlight.
---
Tara closes her eyes, touches her fingers to her lips. Did that count as eating? Was she damned forever to dance among these people? These beautiful, terrible strange people?
Something in her heart whispers to her, tells her that she was damned to that life when Fionn snatched her from the ground and carried her back to this place.
She licks her lips, tastes the lingering flavors of the seasons, watches Aine leave and then closes her eyes. The music starts again, harps, all harps, and yet it sounds like a whole symphony. Her fingers and toes itch, the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet. She wants to dance, though she never once got out onto the dance floor when her friends dragged her to the Vogue or convinced her to come to the Merc; she so out of place in those dark clubs with their darker music, clubs where she clung to the bar and drank rather than be embarrassed to be out among the raven-haired beauties.
And tonight? She draws a deep breath, retreats into the safety of habit, and drinks from the silver cup. Light explodes inside of her head at the first sip, a cascade of stars and galaxies born in the flavor of the liquid.
She drinks, drinks again, and then tastes the fruit. There is no salvation for her tonight.
---
The lordlings take Tara away when Aine returns to the hall; they lead the girl away, no doubt for another bath. Tara looks back over her shoulder and Aine meets her gaze.
Fionn sits stiffly beside Aine. The cloud over his features lingers, darkens his eyes, matches the tone of his skin closer to Tara's: peaches-and-cream rather than starlight. He's angry, in pain, and she caused both of them. The memory of Tara's name lingers, though the flavor is gone from her mouth. Chased away by wine and fruit, though neither was so sweet as Tara's lips.
"The night isn't over yet," Aine says, though whether she is trying to reassure herself, or her brother, she isn't certain.
He looks at her, brings a peach to his lips, darts his tongue over it and then nods. "Not yet." Challenge and resentment all in those two words. He'll walk with her into the dance, but only because it means that while they spin, he may be able to run faster than she can, that he may be able to reach farther and take hold of Tara, snatch her from under Aine's nose again.
Aine stands, steps backward toward the dance floor, holds her hand out to Fionn. "Dance with me, brother mine. Like when we were young." And they were young so very long ago, she wonders if he'll remember.
He stands, takes her hand, and the tempo of the harps changes.
---
The lordlings bring Tara to a room. She's been bathed again. Cleansed. They've taken Aine's touch from her skin, but they cannot take it from her memory. They take her to a room and take her clothes from her, leave her there alone with only the echo of the harps for company.
She walks around the emptiness, imagines furniture and fixtures, touches the things that aren't there, and then there's a voice behind her.
"I'll make you what you want to be," the voice purrs, salty and sweet against her cheek, over her ear. Somehow, in the emptiness, Fionn is there. His tongue follows his words and she shudders. "What I want you to be. What you can be. Everything you can be."
"What is that?"
He shakes his head, cheek rubbing against hers. "You'll find out."
And the question echoes in her mind, But who am I? In the quiet of the room, she's afraid. So afraid. Because she doesn't know who she wants to be or what she wants to be. Before that evening, she could have said. Could have pointed to the computers and the magic on-screen and said, "That. I want to be that."
But now? What does she want to be?
Loved? The air asks her.
Yes, she wants to be that. But by whom?
Fingers rake through her hair, whether in reality, or only in her memory, she doesn't know. But those fingers hold on tight, draw her back and expose her throat. A tongue plays against her flesh, and the hand-hold on her hair draws her back even farther. "Sit."
She has no choice. The chair is warm and liquid leather against her bare thighs.
"Be still," the voice whispers, a mingling of Aine's and Fionn's and she knows now that they are twins and lovers. Or were lovers, once, a hundred years ago, or a thousand, before Oona came between them. Before the dying queen came between them. Lovers and siblings and now rivals. "Be still until you can't help but move."
And then the hand is gone and she is free.
She wants to run, the terror from the hunt building again in her belly. Wants to scream, but she stays, heart thick in her chest. Slow. So slow.
Even more, she wants to run. Run away from the darkness. And when she can't stand it anymore, thinks she might go crazy with nothing but that smooth, soft leather beneath her thighs, a thin sheen of sweat making it slick, making her physically uncomfortable to match her mental discomfort, light comes on.
She winces away from it. Tiny candles, and where did they come from? She doesn't know. Doesn't want to know. There are so many things she doesn't want to know and so many questions begging to be answered.
Who is he?
And a voice says, in her head, This isn't about him.
Aine and Fionn dance, but it isn't a dance, it's a struggle. They touch each other like lovers or assassins, trying to please and hurt at the same time.
Aine fears one of them will not survive the night, and this isn't how it is supposed to be. If one of them was killed before this moment, the other would dance with Tara now, here on the floor in front of the lords and ladies.
Both their nails grow longer, their hair wild as a storm around them, hiding them from the eyes of the lords and ladies watching.
Aine would rather this dance go on without their supervision, but it must be watched.
---
It's not about me, Tara thinks. It can't be.
A figure appears. Smooth. Black. Draped in silver and black and burgundy gauze. She looks but can't tell if it is a man or a woman. The chest is flat, the waist waspishly thin. Face? It doesn't have one; just smooth silver-blackness. Featureless. Tara whimpers, cringes into the leather beneath her.
Everything you want to be. She trembles.
A long, slender arm stretches out to her, silver metal fingernails curl, beckoning with light-streaks through the dim air. Tara's seen that gesture before: Oona tempting Fionn and then Aine to dance with her.
There is only one dance tonight.
Tara shakes her head.
Everything you might be. It beckons again, flows closer to her.
Stay still until you can't help but move.
Tara prays for the leather to close around her, for the world to open up and drop her into her bed where she'll be safe from the genderless breathing mannequin in front of her.
The harps grow louder, more insistent. The candlelight dances with the music. How are the harps so loud when she is so far away from the hall where they must be playing still?
This isn't about them, that voice whispers again. Licking her mind, twisting through her thoughts with intimate familiarity. A lover. But it isn't Fionn. It isn't Aine, either.
Everything you might be.
But what am I?
---
"You took something from her," Fionn whispers against Aine's cheek. "Give it to me."
Aine laughs, spins across the floor, tempting him to follow her, to stay here instead of going there. "You'll have to take it from me, brother mine."
"Don't think I won't, Aine." He knows her name. They're twins. They share a name in their hearts.
Aine continues the dance, plays with fire. "Then catch me."
So Fey: Queer Fairy Fiction Page 13