A Kiss of Shadows

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  “Why now?” I asked. “Why after all these years?”

  “I do not know. All I know is that you are Princess of Flesh, and you have one more hand of power that has not manifested yet.”

  “It’s rare for a sidhe to have more than one hand of power. Why would I have two?”

  “Your hands had melted two of the metal bars on the bed. Two bars melted, one for each hand.”

  I stood and stepped away from him. “How did you know that?”

  “I watched you sleep from the balcony. I saw the headboard.”

  “Why didn’t you make yourself known to me?”

  “At that point you were in what amounted to a drugged sleep. I doubt I could have wakened you.”

  “Why not the night you used the spiders? The night at Alistair Norton’s?”

  “You mean the human who was worshiping the sidhe.”

  That stopped me. I stared at him. “What are you talking about, Doyle? When did Norton worship the sidhe?”

  “When he stole the power from the women using Branwyn’s Tears,” Doyle said.

  “No, I was there. I was nearly a victim. There was no ceremony invoking the sidhe.”

  “Every schoolchild in this country is taught the one thing that the sidhe were prohibited from doing when we were welcomed into this country.”

  “We could not set ourselves up as gods. We could not be worshiped. I got the lecture at home from Father, and at school in history class, government class.”

  “You are the only one of us ever educated with the common humans. I forget that sometimes. The queen was livid when she discovered Prince Essus had enrolled you in a public school.”

  “She tried to drown me when I was six, Doyle. She tried to drown me like a purebred puppy that came out with the wrong markings. I wouldn’t think she’d have given a damn what school I went to.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the queen so surprised as when Prince Essus took you, and his entourage, and set up housekeeping among the humans.” He smiled, a brief flash of white in that dark face. “Once she realized that the prince would not stand for your mistreatment, then she began to try and lure him back to court. She offered him much, but he refused for ten years. Long enough for you to grow from child to woman out among the humans.”

  “If she was so upset, why did she allow so many of the Unseelie Court to visit us?”

  “The queen, and the prince, feared that you would grow too human if you did not see your people. Though the queen did not approve of your father’s choices for his entourage.”

  “You mean Keelin,” I said.

  He nodded. “The queen never understood why he insisted on choosing a fey who had no sidhe blood in her veins as your constant companion.”

  “Keelin is half brownie like my grandmother.”

  “And half goblin,” Doyle said, “which you do not have in your background.”

  “The goblins are the foot soldiers of the Unseelie army. The sidhe declare war, but the goblins begin it.”

  “You’re quoting your father now,” Doyle said.

  “Yes, I am.” I was suddenly tired again. The short burst of humor, the amazing new possibilities of power, a return to the court—nothing could keep me from a bone-numbing weariness. But one thing I had to know. “You said Alistair Norton was worshiping the sidhe. What did you mean by that?”

  “I meant that he used ritual to invoke the sidhe when he set up the circle of power around his bed. I recognized the symbols. You saw no ritual because even the most uneducated human would know that he was not allowed to call on sidhe power for magic.”

  “He did the preparation ritual before the women came,” I said.

  “Exactly,” Doyle said.

  “I saw a sidhe in the mirrors, but I did not see a face. Could you sense who it was?”

  “No, but they were powerful enough that I could not break through. All I could send you was my animal, and my voice. It takes a great deal to bar me from a room.”

  “So one of the sidhe is allowing himself—”

  “Or herself,” Doyle said.

  I nodded. “Or herself to be worshiped, and they gave Branwyn’s Tears to a mortal to be used against other fey.”

  “Normally, humans of fey descent would not qualify for full fey status, but in this case, yes.”

  “To allow worship is a death sentence,” I said.

  “To allow the Tears to be used against another fey is to be condemned to torture for an indefinite period. Some would choose death over that.”

  “Have you told the queen?”

  Doyle pushed himself to his feet. “I have told her of the sidhe who is allowing him or herself to be worshiped, and the Tears. I need to tell her that you have the hand of flesh, and you are blooded. She must also know that it is not Sholto who is the traitor, but one who spoke using the queen’s own name.”

  I widened eyes at him. “Are you saying that she sent just you, alone, against Sholto and the entire sluagh, when she thought he had gone rogue?”

  Doyle just looked at me.

  “Nothing personal, but you needed backup.”

  “No, she sent me to fetch you home before Sholto left Saint Louis. I arrived the night that I sent the spiders to help you. It was the next day that Sholto began traveling this way.”

  “So someone found out the queen wanted me home, and within twenty-four hours they’d made a plan to have me killed.”

  “It would seem so,” Doyle said.

  “You haven’t left the queen’s side in—what? six hundred, eight hundred years, except for assassinations?”

  “One thousand and twenty-three years to be exact.”

  “So if she doesn’t mean you to kill me, then why send you? There are other of her Ravens that I trust more.”

  “Trust more, or like more?” Doyle asked.

  I thought about that, then nodded. “All right, like more. This is the longest conversation we’ve ever had, Doyle. Why did she send you, her Darkness?”

  “The queen wants you home, Meredith. But she feared you would not believe her. I am her token to you. Her Darkness sent with her personal weapon in hand, with her magic in my body, to prove that she is sincere.”

  “Why does she want me home, Doyle? She sent you before I came into my power—which was a surprise to all of us. So what changed her mind? Why am I suddenly worth keeping alive?”

  “She never ordered your death.”

  “She never stopped anyone from trying either.”

  He gave a small bow. “That I cannot argue.”

  “Then what has changed?”

  “I do not know why, Meredith, only that she wishes it.”

  “You never did ask enough questions,” I said.

  “And you, Princess, always asked too many.”

  “Maybe, but I want an answer to this question before I go back to court.”

  “Which question is that?”

  I frowned at him. “Why the change of heart, Doyle? I need to know before I trust my life to the court again.”

  “If she will not share this information?”

  I tried to think about giving up faerie forever because of one unanswered question. It was too big a topic for me to wrap my mind around. “I don’t know, Doyle, I don’t know. All I do know is that I’m tired.”

  “With your permission I will use the bathroom mirror to contact the queen and make my report.”

  I nodded. “Help yourself.”

  He gave as much of a bow as the crowded bedroom would allow and moved toward the bathroom door, which was around the corner, out of sight from where we stood.

  “How did you know where the bathroom was?” I asked.

  He glanced back at me, face pleasant, unreadable. “I’ve seen the rest of the apartment. Where else could it be?”

  I looked at him and didn’t believe him. Either it didn’t show on my face, or he chose to ignore it, because he walked around the corner. I heard the bathroom door open and close.

  I sat on th
e edge of the bed and tried to remember where I’d put the sleeping bags. Doyle had saved my life tonight—the least I could do was make him comfortable. For my life, I guess I could have offered him the bed, but I was achingly tired, and I wanted the bed. Besides, until I knew exactly why he’d saved me tonight I was holding off on the big gratitude. There are things worse than death at the Unseelie Court. Nerys was a perfect example. The queen’s mark would not be violated by such a spell. So until I was certain down to the very fiber of my being that I was not being saved for some awful fate, I’d hold on to my gratitude. I found the sleeping bags in the small closet in the living room. I had them unrolled on the foot of the bed, airing, when I heard the shouting from the bathroom. Doyle’s voice was raised in anger. The queen’s Darkness and the queen were having a fight, or so it seemed. I wondered if he’d tell me what the fight was about, or if it would be just one more secret to keep.

  Chapter 18

  I WENT TO THE CLOSED BATHROOM DOOR. DOYLE’S RAISED VOICE WAS saying, “Please, my lady, do not make me do this.”

  I don’t know what else I would have heard, because he came to the door then and opened it a crack. “Yes, Princess?”

  “If you could stay in there a few minutes longer, I’m going to get dressed for bed.”

  He acknowledged it with a nod. He did not invite me in to see my aunt through the mirror. He did not try to explain the fight. He simply closed the door. I could hear their voices but faintly now. No more yelling. They didn’t want me to know what the fight was about. I was guessing it had something to do with me. What did Doyle not want to do so badly that he’d argue with his queen?

  He didn’t mean to kill me, and, beyond that tonight, I wasn’t sure I cared. I turned the overhead light off, and switched on the small Tiffanyshaded lamp beside the bed. The overhead light always seemed too bright for a bedroom. The fact that I was willing to turn off any light meant I was feeling better. Calmer at least.

  My usual sleepwear runs high to lingerie. I like the feel of silk and satin against my skin. But it seemed almost cruel to Doyle.

  It was the royal’s privilege to sleep with her bodyguards, her Ravens, until one of them made her pregnant; then she wed that one and didn’t sleep with the rest. Andais could have freed them to have other lovers, but she chose not to. Unless they slept with her, they slept with no one. They’d been sleeping with no one for a very long time.

  I finally settled for a silk nightshirt that fell to my knees; it had short sleeves and revealed only a thin V of skin high up on my chest. It covered more than anything else in the drawer, but without a bra my breasts pressed against the thin material, showing my nipples like thumbs pressed against the thin cloth. The silk was a vibrant royal purple and looked very good against my skin and hair. I was trying not to flash Doyle, but I was vain enough not to want to look frumpy.

  I stared at myself in the mirror. I looked like a woman waiting for her lover, except for the cuts. I raised my arms to the glass. Nerys’s claws had traced my forearms in angry red lines. The gash on the left forearm was still seeping blood. Did it need stitches? I usually healed without needing them, but it should have stopped bleeding by now. I raised the nightshirt up enough to see the wound on my thigh. It was a puncture wound, very high up. She’d been trying to pierce the femoral artery. She’d meant to kill me, but I’d killed her instead. I still felt nothing about her death. It was a vast numb place. Maybe tomorrow I’d feel bad, or maybe I wouldn’t. Sometimes you just stayed numb, because anything else was not helpful. Sanity relied on numbness, sometimes.

  I stared at myself in the mirror, and even my face was empty. My eyes held that dull startled look that had more to do with shock than anything else. The last time I’d seen this look on my face had been after the last duel, when I knew finally that the duels would never stop until I was dead. The night I’d made my decision to run, to hide.

  The invitation to return to faerie was only hours old, and already I looked like a shell-shock victim. I raised my arms again and stared at the claw marks. In a way I’d paid the price for my return to faerie. I’d paid in blood, flesh, pain: the coin of the Unseelie Court. The queen had invited me back and given me her promise of safety, but I knew her. She’d still want to punish me for running, for hiding, for defeating her best efforts at hunting me down. To say that my aunt is not a graceful loser is an understatement of universe-shattering proportions.

  There was a knock on the bathroom door. “May I come out?” Doyle asked.

  “I’m trying to decide that now,” I said.

  “Excuse me?” he asked.

  “Fine, come out,” I said.

  Doyle had draped the straps of the sword sheath over his bare chest. The hilt rode upside down, slightly to one side of his ribs, like a gun in a shoulder holster. The straps seemed loose, as if he’d taken off something that had been helping hold it in place.

  I’d never seen Doyle when he wasn’t covered from neck to ankle. Even at high summer he rarely wore short sleeves, just lighter cloth. He had a silver ring in his left nipple. It was a startling thing against the utter blackness of his skin. The wound rode above the swell of his left pectoral muscle. The scarlet of the wound looked almost decorative against his chest, like some elaborate makeup meant to tease the eye.

  “How badly are you hurt?” he asked.

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “I carry no mortal blood, Princess. I will heal. I ask you again how badly are you injured?”

  “I’m wondering if I need stitches on the arm, and . . .” I started to raise the nightshirt on the puncture wound, but stopped in midmotion. The sidhe are comfortable around nudity, but I’d always tried to be more circumspect around the guards.

  “The puncture wound on my thigh, I’m wondering how deep it is.” I let the purple silk fall back into place without pointing out the wound. It was very high up on my thigh and I was still not wearing underwear. I often didn’t to bed. Habit. Now I wished I had put some on. Even though Doyle couldn’t tell what I was or wasn’t wearing under the nightshirt, I felt suddenly underdressed.

  I’d have teased Jeremy, but I wouldn’t have teased Uther, and I wouldn’t tease Doyle, for very similar reasons. They were both cut off from that part of themselves. Uther because he’d been exiled and there were no women of his stature. Doyle on the whim of his queen.

  He picked up the sleeping bags and laid them on the floor between the bed and the wall, then he sat on the end of the bed. “May I see the wound, Princess?”

  I sat down on the edge of the bed beside him, smoothing the nightshirt down around me. I held my left arm out to him.

  He used both his hands to raise the arm up, bending it at the elbow, so he could see the wound better. His fingers felt larger than they should have, more intimate than they were. “It is deep; some of the muscles are torn. It must hurt.” He looked at me when he said the last.

  “I can’t seem to feel much of anything right now,” I said.

  He laid his hand on my forehead. His hand felt so warm, it was almost hot. “You are cool to the touch, Princess.” He shook his head. “I should have noticed earlier. You are in shock. Not severe, but it was careless of me not to notice. You need healing and warmth.”

  I took my hand back from him. The feel of his fingers sliding along my skin as I drew away from him made me look away so he wouldn’t see it in my face. “Since neither of of us can heal by touch, I think I’ll have to settle for some bandages and the warmth.”

  “I can heal by magic,” he said.

  I looked at him. His face was very careful, unreadable. “I’ve never seen you do it at court.”

  “It is a more . . . intimate method than the touch of hands. At court there are healers much more powerful than I. My own small abilities in the area of healing are not needed.” He held his hands out toward me. “I can heal you, Princess, or would you prefer a trip to the emergency room and stitches? Either way the bleeding must be stopped.”

  S
titches are not my favorite thing. I laid my hand in his. He bent the arm at the elbow again, clasping his hand in my hand, entwining our fingers. My skin looked shockingly white against his darkness, like polished jet next to mother-of-pearl. He placed his other hand just in back of my elbow. My arm was held gently but firmly in place. I realized that I couldn’t move away from him and I didn’t know how his healing worked.

  “Will it hurt?”

  He looked at me around the edge of my arm. “It may, a little.” He began to bend toward my arm as if to lay a kiss on the wound.

  I put my free hand on his shoulder, stopping his forward movement. His skin was like warm silk. “Wait—how exactly are you going to heal me?”

  He gave that small smile. “If you would wait but moments you would see.”

  “I don’t like surprises,” I said, hand still on his shoulder.

  He smiled and shook his head. “Very well.” But his hands stayed at my hand and arm. I was still being held, as if he were going to heal me whether I agreed or not. “Sholto told you that one of my names is Baron Sweet-tongue.”

  “I remember,” I said.

  “He implied that it was sexual, but it is not. I can heal your wound, but not with my hands.”

  I stared at him for a few heartbeats. “Are you saying you’re going to lick the wound closed?”

  “Yes.”

  I kept staring at him. “Some of the court dogs can do that, but I’ve never heard of a sidhe having the ability.”

  “As Sholto said, there are benefits to not being pure sidhe. He can regrow a severed body part, and I can lick your wound until it is healed.”

  I didn’t try to keep the incredulity off my face. “If you were any other guard I’d accuse you of looking for an excuse to put your mouth on me.”

  He smiled, and this time it was brighter, more humor in it. “If my fellow Ravens were trying to trick you into this, it would not be your arm they were wanting to touch.”

  I had to smile. “You’ve made your point. All right, get the bleeding stopped if you can. I really don’t want to go to the emergency room tonight.” I dropped my arm from his shoulder. “Proceed.”