by Melissa Marr
Keenan didn’t even flinch. “Once the mortal girl is chosen, there’s no way to un-choose her, Elena. I’d have taken care of her, even after the baby was born. I waited, stopped seeking her when she was with child.”
Grams was weeping now. Her tears rolled over her cheeks, but she made no move to wipe them away. “I know.”
“Then you know I didn’t kill her.” He turned to Aislinn, his eyes pleading with her. “She chose death by her own hand rather than joining the Summer Girls.”
Grams stared at the wall where the few existing pictures of Moira and Aislinn were. “If you hadn’t hunted her down in the first place, she’d be alive.”
Aislinn turned to Keenan; her voice came out half strangled when she said, “Go.”
Instead he crossed the room, coming toward her, walking past the portraits of her mother without even a glance. He put a hand under Aislinn’s chin and forced her to look up at him. “You’re my queen, Aislinn. We both know that. We can talk now or later, but I cannot let you turn away from me.”
“Not now.” She hated how her voice shook, but she didn’t back away from him.
“Tonight then. We need to speak to Donia, arrange for your guards, and”—he looked around the apartment—“decide what you’ll want to move, where you want to live. There are other, lovelier places we can live.”
This was the faery who’d stalked her—confident and compelling. As quickly as lightning across the sky, he’d gone from pleading to demanding.
She stepped behind Grams’ chair, out of his reach. “I live with Grams.”
Smiling beatifically, Keenan dropped to his knees in front of Grams. “If you want to join her in our home, I’ll have your things brought over. It’d be our honor.”
Grams said nothing.
“I am sorry that Moira was so afraid. I’ve waited so long, I’d almost given up. If I’d known that Moira would be the mother of our queen”—he shook his head—“but all I knew was that she was special, that she drew me to her.”
The whole time he’d been speaking, Grams had not moved: she’d clenched her hands in her lap and glared at him.
Aislinn reached over and gripped Keenan’s arm. “You need to leave. Now.”
He let her pull him to his feet, but the look on his face was awful. Gone were all traces of kindness, of pleading, of anything but raw determination. “You will come to me tonight, or I will find you—find your Seth. That isn’t how I want to do this, but I’m running out of choices.”
Aislinn stared at him as his words registered. She’d begun the day prepared to reason with him, to accept the inevitable, and he was threatening her. He was threatening Seth. She made her voice as cold as she could, “Don’t go there, Keenan.”
He ducked his head. “It’s not what I want, but I—”
“Leave,” she interrupted him.
She grabbed his arm and led him to the door.
“We can talk later, but if you think for a minute that threats are going to help”—she broke off as her temper flared—“you really don’t want to threaten me.”
“I don’t,” he said softly, “but if I have to, I will.”
She opened the door and shoved him out. She took several deep breaths, leaning on the now-closed door, and started, “Grams, I—”
“Run before he comes back. I can’t protect you. Get your Seth, leave, go somewhere far away.” Grams went to the bookshelf, brought down a dusty book, and opened it. It was hollowed out in the middle. Inside was a thick stack of bills. “It’s running-away money. I’ve been saving it since Moira died. Take it.”
“Grams, I—”
“No! You need to go while you can. She didn’t have money when she ran; maybe if you do…” She went into Aislinn’s room and pulled out a duffle bag, resolutely shoving clothes into it, ignoring everything else—including Aislinn’s repeated attempts to talk to her.
CHAPTER 28
They are said to have aristocratical Rulers and Laws, but no discernible Religion.
—The Secret Commonwealth by Robert Kirk and Andrew Lang (1893)
Keenan heard Elena’s statements as clearly as if she were beside him, but he didn’t stop. What good would it do? He couldn’t go back inside.
He stepped onto the almost-barren walk outside their building and waited for Niall, who was sprawled on a bench across the street, to cross to him.
“I said not to follow me.”
“I didn’t follow you. I followed her”—Niall inclined his head toward Aislinn’s building—“the queen. I thought it prudent after the Winter Girl’s visit.”
“Right.” Keenan sighed. “I should’ve sent extra guards over there.”
“You were distracted. Anyhow, it’s what we do—look after you. Might as well start looking after the queen.” His words were nonchalant, as if their queen had already said yes.
She hadn’t. And as much as Keenan hoped she wouldn’t run, he wasn’t certain.
As he’d waited there in the hallway—knowing his queen lay with another, knowing that she’d die if she didn’t accept him, knowing that Donia would die when Aislinn did accept him—he’d faced the ugly reality of the situation. He had to do whatever necessary to win. There wasn’t time to wait. He couldn’t force her, but he could use faery persuasion, offer her too much wine, threaten Seth…Aislinn would accept him. There were no other choices.
“How did it go?” Niall asked as they started up the street, the guards trailing them. “You seem better than last night.”
“It—” he started, but promptly stopped himself. “I don’t know. Moira was her mother.”
“Ouch.” Niall winced.
Keenan took a steadying breath. “But there are ways to convince her—things I don’t want to do.”
Niall prompted, “The things Tavish spoke of?”
Even though Niall’s tone was harsh, Keenan kept his face blank. “It’s business. I could bring her mortal to the loft, let the girls have him, let her see him smitten and senseless.”
“It’s not our way. Not the Summer Court.” Niall made a signal to the guards, and they shifted directions, slowly steering him down another street.
“There will be no Summer Court if Beira kills Aislinn,” Keenan said. He didn’t like the options, but was the fate of all the summer fey and mortals worth the upset of one girl?
“True.” Niall turned between two storefronts, cutting through a narrow alley. “I know Tavish believes it necessary to be expedient—regardless of the cost—but I’ve been with you as long as he has.”
“You have,” Keenan said slowly. He knew Niall was even more sensitive to questions of volition.
Niall’s expression clouded, leaving him looking near sick. His voice was raw as he said, “Don’t cross those lines, Keenan. Not if there’s any way to avoid it. You’ve never been tolerant of that—if our king does it, why should any of the fey do otherwise?”
Niall stopped, putting his hand on Keenan’s arm.
In the shadows of the alley before them, several thistle fey had cornered a wood-sprite, her back to a wall. She pleaded with them. They weren’t touching her, but she was trapped—by Keenan’s own guard. His rowan-men had blocked the opening to the alley, letting no one in or out.
Her skin was already striped with bleeding cuts where the dark fey’s thistle-covered hands had touched her. Her tunic was all but shredded, exposing her bloody stomach.
“Is this scene for my benefit?” Keenan asked as he turned slowly to face Niall.
“It is.” Niall lowered his voice, but the look on his face was brazen. He straightened his already-stiff shoulders. “I cannot sway you with the paternal influence as Tavish can, or with the Winter Girl’s melancholy love.”
“So, what, you stage an attack?” All the rancor Keenan had ever felt toward the atrocities of the dark fey seemed to flood him as he looked at his advisor—his friend—and then at the scene orchestrated before them.
“I had the guards find them and relocate them here. This�
��—Niall motioned to the three in the alley—“is what the Dark Court does. It’s never been our way.”
At Niall’s signal, the guards between the dark faeries and sprite stepped back, leaving the sprite at their mercy.
The dark fey laughed as they caught the sprite.
The sprite’s tunic was gone, leaving her topless. She shrieked and begged, “Please.”
One of the fey pierced the sprite’s arm, pinning her to the wall behind her, leaving her trapped and defenseless.
“We’ll share,” the dark faery called as he licked the sprite’s bleeding wrist.
In an anguished voice, Niall asked, “Would you be able to do it? Watch them hurt the queen’s mortal? Would you want your court doing that? Look at them”—he pointed at the dark fey, one of whom was licking his lips as the sprite tried to kick his legs out from under him—“is that what you’d turn our court into?”
Keenan couldn’t look away from the weeping sprite, who was fighting desperately despite the odds, despite now being pinned to the wall by both arms. “It’s not the same.”
Using her legs, the sprite clutched a rowan-man around his middle and pulled him in front of her like a shield. The guard looked positively ill as he disentangled himself from her.
“It’s not?” Niall prompted in a tone that made no secret of his disgust. “You’d do that in our court?”
Keenan let go of his temper and swung at Niall, knocking him down. Blood trickled from Niall’s lip where it had grated over his teeth.
None of the guards moved or looked away from the sprite.
Another of the dark faeries said, “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
The other dark fey laughed.
Keenan didn’t look away from Niall, who was crouched on the ground. “I will do what I must to stop Beira. And if I must…use something other than words with Seth or Aislinn, I will make sure that it’s not violent.”
Although he hated even thinking it, he couldn’t let his distaste for it condemn them all. Aislinn might despise him, but he could not let her turn away. In time, she’d come to understand. If not, he’d do his best to make up for it.
“It doesn’t matter. Not to her. You told me about what she said after the faire, how she worried”—Niall bowed his head, showing submission in his posture even though his words were defiant—“if you force her or allow the girls to use him, you will lose. There was a time when that would not be seen as a violation. Today, it is.”
Temper barely contained, Keenan said to his guardsmen, “Free her. Get them out of here. Now.”
Looking relieved, the guards—who far outnumbered the dark fey—quickly pulled the sprite free and dispatched the still-grinning dark faeries.
The sprite wept, clinging to one of the guards who’d shed his jacket and draped it around her.
“It’s not the same,” Keenan insisted. He wiped Niall’s blood from his knuckles and held a hand out to him.
“With all due respect, my king, it is exactly the same, and you know it as well as I.” Niall accepted Keenan’s hand and rose. He inclined his head toward the bloodied sprite. “That one isn’t weeping over the bruises on her skin. Beira wounds them far worse, and they stay silent. She weeps in fear of what could have been. She fought to prevent what they would’ve done to her.”
Niall wasn’t saying anything Keenan hadn’t already thought, but there simply weren’t any other options if Aislinn continued to refuse him. She needed to agree, and he didn’t know how to persuade her to do so. She wasn’t interested in him romantically; her dislike of the fey was a huge obstacle. Her entanglement with her mortal was another deterrent, and now the revelation about Moira seemed certain to eliminate any sliver of a chance he might have had.
After several of his guards gently escorted the sprite away, Keenan resumed walking. Quietly he asked, “If the choice is that or her death, our death, which would you have me pick?”
“Maybe you need to ask her.” Niall motioned behind them.
Keenan turned, and there she was: Aislinn, his reluctant queen.
Niall bowed; the remaining guards bowed.
Keenan held out his hand, hoping.
She ignored it, shoving her hands into the pockets of the too-large leather jacket she had on. It wasn’t hers, and he knew without asking that it belonged to her mortal.
She glared at him. “I thought we were to going to take a walk and talk about things. I had to ask one of your guards to help me find you.”
Keenan blinked, baffled by her unpredictability. “I hadn’t understood that you were—”
“Grams wouldn’t talk. She gave me money to run away. I don’t suppose I could get far”—she stepped close enough to him that his breath stirred the tendrils of hair around her face—“could I? Could I get away from you by running?”
“I doubt it,” he said, half wishing he could answer as she wanted him to.
“It didn’t work for my mother, did it?” she whispered as she stared up at him, an unfathomable expression in her eyes. “So talk. You seemed insistent enough, threatening me.”
For the first time Keenan felt like stepping backward, away from her. He didn’t. Earlier, in her home, he’d felt more assured. Now, with Niall’s admonishments and the sprite’s shrieks fresh in his mind, with Aislinn staring at him with shadowed eyes, he had to struggle to regain his balance.
She didn’t move back, but she glanced at the guards who stood—invisible still—around them. “Can they give us some space?”
“Indeed.” Keenan motioned to the guards, glad to be dealing with a more familiar problem. He often found the guards’ proximity stifling.
They moved away, expanding the perimeter of their protective circle.
One hand on her hip, Aislinn tilted her head and looked at Niall, who’d remained behind him. “You too, Uncle…”
After a broad smile, Niall stepped up and bowed deeply. “Niall, my lady, court advisor to our king these last nine centuries.”
“Give us space, Niall,” she said with that same edge in her voice, sounding quite comfortable issuing commands already.
“As you wish.” Niall faded to invisible and joined the guards.
Once he was farther away, presumably unable to hear them, Aislinn narrowed her eyes and said, “Threatening me or Seth is really stupid.”
“I—”
“No,” she snapped, cutting him off before he could offer anything in his defense—not that he had anything in his defense that she would find acceptable. “Don’t fuck with me. Don’t go near my Grams or Seth. That’s the first thing we need to get straight if we’re going to talk at all.”
“Oh?” He did step back then. Aside from Donia and Beira, no one took that sort of tone with him. He might be a bound king, but he was still a king.
“Yeah.” She shoved him with both hands. “You need me to get your juice back from the Winter Queen, right?”
“I do,” he agreed, dragging the words out slowly.
“So if something happens to me, you’re out of luck? Is that about right?” Her chin tilted up.
“It is.”
“If you think threats are going to make me cooperate, you’re a fool. It won’t.” She nodded once, as if she were reaffirming her words. “I won’t let you use me as an excuse to hurt anyone I love. Got it?”
“I do,” he said after clearing his throat.
She walked away then, setting a fast pace.
The guards sped up to keep up with her furious stride, as did he.
After a few tense moments, he asked, “So, what do you, ah, propose? You are the Summer Queen.”
“I am,” she said softly. “I believe that, but the thing is—you need me far more than I need you.”
“So what do you want?” he asked cautiously. He had never met a mortal—or fey, for that matter—so far outside his expectations.
She looked wistful for a moment. “Freedom. Not to even know faeries exist. To be mortal. But none of that is a choice.”
He
wanted to reach out to her, but he didn’t. She was as unapproachable as when he’d first met her—not out of fear, but out of determination. “Tell me what you want that I can give you. I need you to rule alongside me, Aislinn.”
She bit her lip again and then—so softly it was almost a whisper—she said, “I can do that. It’s not what I want, but I don’t see how I can turn away if it really is what I am.”
“You’re saying yes?” He gaped at her.
She stopped walking and caught his gaze—the fierce look back on her features. “But I will not live with you or be with you.”
“You’ll still need a room at the loft.” He didn’t say “when trouble arises,” but there’d be time to address that later. Royalty could be murdered: his mother had proven that. “There will be times that meetings may run late or—”
“My own room. Not with you.”
He nodded. He could afford to be patient.
“I will not stop going to school either,” she added.
“We could arrange tutors—” he began.
“No. School, then college.” She sounded determined, fierce.
“College. We shall find one that suits you then.” He nodded. He might not like her insistence on independence—when he had first begun to search for her, women were more docile—but clinging to the mortal world wasn’t unreasonable in her circumstances. It might even benefit their court.
She rewarded him with an almost friendly smile then, looking deceptively cooperative. “I can do this if it’s a job, you know?”
“A job?” he repeated.
“A job.” She had a strange tone in her voice then, like she was musing on it as she said it.
He didn’t say anything to fill in the silence that hung at the end of her words. A job? His consort viewed their union as a job?
“I don’t know you. You don’t know me.” She gave him another strangely intimidating look. “I can work with you, but that’s all I can be. I’m with Seth. That isn’t going to change.”
“So you’re asking to keep the mortal?” He tried to keep his voice even, but it hurt. He knew she was implying it earlier, but to say it made it seem so much more real. His queen—his destined partner—was planning to be with another, with a mortal, not him.