by Melissa Marr
Maybe Aislinn will be the one. Maybe she’ll make it different.
Keenan braced himself and knocked.
Beira flung open the door. In her free hand she held a tray of steaming chocolate cookies aloft. She leaned forward and kissed the air near his face. “Cookies, darling?”
She looked as she had for the past half century or so when he stopped in for these damnable meetings: a mockery of a mortal epitome of motherhood, she was clad in a modest floral dress, frilly apron, and single strand of pearls. Her hair was twisted up in what she called a “chignon.”
She waggled the tray a little. “They’re fresh. Just for you.”
“No.” Ignoring her, he walked into the room.
She’d redecorated again—some modern nightmare, complete with a sleek silver table; stiff, awkwardly shaped black chairs; and framed black-and-white prints of murders, hangings, and a few torture scenes. The walls alternated between stark white and flat black with large geometric patterns in the opposite color. Selected images on the hanging prints—a dress, lips, bleeding wounds—were hand painted red. Those splashes of luridness were the only true color in the room. It fit her far better than the costume she insisted on wearing when he visited.
From behind the wet bar, a badly bruised wood-sprite asked, “Drink, sir?”
“Keenan, sweetheart, tell the girl what you want. I need to check on the roast.” Beira paused, still holding the tray of cookies. “You are staying for dinner, aren’t you, dear?”
“Do I have a choice?” He ignored the sprite to walk over to a print on the far wall. In it a woman with cherry-red lips stared out from the platform of a gallows. Behind her were craggy dunes that seemed to go on endlessly. He glanced over at Beira. “One of yours?”
“In the desert? Darling, really.” Blushing, she looked down, giving him a coquettish smile and toying with her pearls. “Even with the lovely chill I’ve had growing these past few centuries, that place is still off limits. For now. But it’s sweet of you to ask.”
Keenan turned back to the print. The girl stared out at him, seeming desperate. He wondered if she had truly died there or was merely a model for a photographer.
“Well…you get comfortable. I’ll be back in a jiff. Then you can tell me all about your new girl. You know I do look forward to these little visits.” Then, humming a lullaby from his childhood—something about frozen fingers—Beira left to check on the roast.
He knew that if he followed her, there’d be a bevy of unhappy wood-sprites bustling about her restaurant-sized kitchen. Beira’s cloyingly sweet act didn’t include actual cooking, just the image of the sort of mother who would cook.
“Drink, sir?” The sprite carried over two trays—one with milk, tea, hot cocoa, and a variety of prepackaged nutritional drinks; the other had carrot sticks, celery, apples, and other equally mundane foods. “Your mother is most insistent you have a healthy snack.” The sprite glanced in the direction of the kitchen. “It’s not wise to anger the mistress.”
He took a cup of tea and an apple. “You think?”
Growing up in the Winter Court had made him far too familiar with what happened to those who angered—or even irritated—the Winter Queen. But he would do his best to anger her; that’s what he’d come to do, after all.
“Almost ready,” Beira announced as she returned. She sat on one of the awful chairs and patted the one nearest her. “Come. Tell me everything.”
Keenan sat in the chair across from her, keeping his distance as long as he could.
“She’s difficult, resisted my initial approach.” He paused, thinking of the fear in Aislinn’s eyes. It wasn’t the response he usually elicited from mortal girls. “She didn’t trust me at all.”
“I see.” Beira nodded, crossed her ankles, and leaned forward—the picture of an attentive parent. “And did…you know, the last girlfriend approve of her?”
Without looking away from him, Beira motioned to the sprite, who promptly brought her a glass of something clear to drink. As Beira wrapped her hand around the stem of the glass, frost crept over it until the outside of the glass was entirely coated in a thin white layer.
“Donia agreed to her.”
Beira tapped her fingernails on the side of her glass. “Lovely, and how is Dawn?”
Keenan ground his teeth: Beira knew Donia’s name. After over half a century as Winter Girl, Donia’d been around enough that his mother’s feigned memory slip bordered on comical. “Donia is as she’s been for decades, Mother. She’s angry with me. She’s tired. She’s everything you’ve made her.”
Beira lifted her other manicured hand to examine it idly. “What I made her? Oh, do tell.”
“It’s your staff, your binding, your treachery that started this game. You knew what would happen to the mortals when they took your chill. Mortals aren’t made for—”
“Aah, sweetling, but you asked her to do it. You chose her, and she chose you.” Beira sat back in her chair, smug now that he was angry. She held open her hand, and the staff in question drifted into her grip, a reminder of the power she wielded. “She could’ve joined your little coterie of Summer Girls, but she thought it was worth the risk. She thought you were worth risking the pain she’s in now.” She tsked at him. “Sad, really. She was such a pretty girl, so full of life.”
“She still is.”
“Is she, now?” Beira lowered her voice to a stage whisper, “I hear she’s getting weaker and weaker”—she paused and feigned a pout—“just sick with it. It’d be a shame if she fades.”
“Donia’s fine.” He heard the edge in his voice, hated that she could anger him so easily. The idea of Donia becoming a shade—dying, but trapped and silent for eternity—was one that never failed to rouse his temper. Fey death was always a tragedy, for there was no afterlife for the fey. It’s why she mentions it. How his father had ever put up with Beira long enough for her to conceive was beyond him. The woman was infuriating.
Beira made a purring noise, almost a growl, deep in her throat. “Let’s not argue, dear. I’m sure Diane will be fine until the new girl can be convinced you’re worth such a sacrifice. Why with being so ill, she might not even work against you this time. Maybe she’ll encourage the new lovely to accept you instead of telling her all those awful tales of your wicked intentions?”
“Donia will do her part; I’ll do mine. Nothing changes, not till I find the Summer Queen.” Keenan stood up and stepped forward until he was looking down at Beira. He couldn’t afford to let her browbeat him, no matter that she still held all the power, no matter that she’d sooner kill him than help him. Kings didn’t grovel; kings commanded. His power might be bound—no more than a warm breath against her glacial cold—but he was still the Summer King. He still stood against her, and he couldn’t let her ignore that.
Might as well get it over with.
“You know I’ll find her, Mother. One of these girls will take the staff in hand, and your cold won’t fill her.”
Beira sat down her glass and looked up at him. “Really?”
I hate this part. Keenan leaned down and put a hand on either side of her chair. “One day I’ll have the full strength of the King of Summer, just as Father did. Your reign will end. No more growing cold. No more unchecked power.” He lowered his voice, hoping to hide the trembling. “Then we’ll see who’s truly stronger.”
She sat there for a moment, silent and still. Then she put one cold hand on his chest and stood, pushing him ever so slightly. Ice formed in a web growing outward from her hand, crawling over him until he ached so fiercely that he couldn’t have moved if the Wild Hunt itself were bearing down on him.
“What a charming speech. It gets more entertaining every time—like one those TV shows.” She kissed both of his cheeks, leaving behind a frostbitten trace of her lips, letting her cold seep under his skin, reminding him that she—not me, not yet—had all the power. “That’s one of the lovely things about our little arrangement—if I had to deal with a real king,
I’d miss our games.”
Keenan didn’t answer—couldn’t. If he were gone, would another fill his place?
Nature abhors a vacuum.
Would a new king, an unbound king, come into power? She’d taunted him with that—If you want to protect them, end it. Let a real king reign. But would another king ascend with full power if he failed? He had no way of knowing. He swayed on his feet, hating her, hating the whole situation.
Then Beira leaned in and whispered, so her icy breath blew against his lips, “I’m sure you’ll find your little queen. Perhaps you already have. Maybe it was Siobhan or that Eliza from a few centuries back. Now she was a sweet girl, Eliza. Would’ve made a lovely queen, don’t you think?”
Keenan shivered, his body starting to shut down from the cold. He tried to push the cold back, push it out.
I am the Summer King. She cannot do this.
He swallowed, concentrating on staying upright.
“Imagine, all this time, all these centuries, if she were right there in the bevy of girls too weak to risk it. Too timid to pick up the staff and find out.”
Several fox-maidens came into the room. “His room is ready, mistress.”
“The poor dear is tired. And he was so unpleasant to his mummy.” She sighed, as if it had truly wounded her.
With one finger under his chin, she tilted his head back. “To bed without dinner again. One of these times, you’ll be able to stay awake”—she kissed him on the chin—“maybe.”
Then everything went dark as the fox-maidens carried him off to the room Beira kept for him.
CHAPTER 5
These Subterraneans have Controversies, Doubts, Disputes, Feuds, and Siding of Parties.
—The Secret Commonwealth by Robert Kirk and Andrew Lang (1893)
Donia knew Beira approached when the wind shifted, bringing a wave of biting cold over the cottage.
As if it would be anyone else.
No one visited, despite the location of Donia’s cottage—outside the iron-laden city, in one of the few wooded areas in reach of Huntsdale. When Keenan had chosen Huntsdale, they’d all followed him and settled into their homes to wait. When she picked the cottage, she thought—hoped—the fey could have their revelries among those trees, but they didn’t. They wouldn’t. No one got too close to her, as if Keenan still had a claim. Not even the representatives of the other fey courts came near her: only the heads of the Summer and Winter Courts dared approach.
Donia opened her door and stepped back. No sense pretending I don’t know she’s here.
Beira blew through the doorway, posing like some old vampy actress on the threshold. After air kissing and artificial pleasantries, she stretched out on the sofa, crossing her ankles, dangling her dainty feet off the edge. The femme fatale image was ruined only by the crude staff she held lightly in her hand. “I was just thinking about you, darling.”
“I’m sure.” The staff wasn’t any danger to her—not now—but Donia walked away. She leaned against the stone wall by the hearth. Warmth seeped into her skin, not enough to assuage the cold that slithered over her, but better than sitting near the source of that awful chill.
The cold never bothered Beira; she was of it and could thus control it. Donia carried it inside her, but not in comfort, not without yearning for warmth. Beira didn’t seek warmth; she reveled in the cold, wearing it like a cloud of icy perfume—especially when it made others suffer.
“My baby stopped in this evening,” Beira said in her usual deceptively casual voice.
“I figured he would.” Donia tried to keep her voice even, but despite decades of practice the edge of concern slipped out. She folded her arms over her chest, embarrassed that she still worried about Keenan.
Beira smiled at Donia’s reaction and let the pause grow uncomfortably long. Then, still smiling, she stretched out her free hand as if a glass would materialize in it. It didn’t. With a long-suffering sigh, she looked around. “Still no servants?”
“No.”
“Really, sweets. You simply must get a few. The wood-sprites are an obedient sort. Can’t stand a brownie, though.” She made an unpleasant face. “Terribly independent lot. I could lend you a few of my sprites, just to help out.”
“And spy on me?”
“Well, of course, but that’s really a minor detail.” She fluttered her hand airily. “The place is…squalid, truly. It’s worse than the last one. That other little city…or was that another of my son’s discarded lovers? It’s so hard to remember.”
Donia didn’t take the bait. “It’s clean.”
“But still so blah. No style.” Beira trailed her fingers over the sandstone carvings on the rough-hewn table by the sofa. “These aren’t from your time.”
She picked up a bear fetish—its right paw raised, miniature claws exposed. “This was Liseli’s work, right?”
Donia nodded, though an answer wasn’t necessary. Beira knew exactly whose it was. It irritated Beira that Liseli still visited Donia—and Keenan. She hadn’t done so in a few years, but she would again. Since she’d been freed from the burden of carrying Beira’s cold, she wandered the world—often choosing desert regions where there was no chance of seeing Beira or her ilk. Every few years she showed up to remind Donia that the cold wouldn’t last forever, no matter how many times it seemed as if it would.
“And those awful ragged pants you insist on wearing?”
“Rika’s. We’re the same size.”
Rika hadn’t visited in more than two decades, but she was a strange girl: more at ease with carrying the cold than with the idea of being Keenan’s queen. They were different, every one of them. All that the Winter Girls had in common was a strength of will. Better that than sharing traits with the vapid Summer Girls, who followed Keenan like children.
Beira waited expectantly as Donia tried not to show her impatience.
Giving in, Donia asked, “Do you have a reason for visiting?”
“I have a reason for everything.” Beira came to stand beside her; she rested her hand on the small of Donia’s back.
Donia didn’t bother asking Beira to move her hand; doing so would only encourage her to put it there more often in the future. “Are you going to tell me what it is?”
“Tsk, tsk, you’re worse than my son. Not as temperamental, though.” Beira moved closer, sliding her hand around Donia’s waist, digging her fingers into Donia’s hip. “You’d be so much prettier if you dressed better. Maybe do something more flattering with your hair.”
Donia stepped away, ostensibly to prop open the back door, letting the growing cold out. She wished she were as “temperamental” as Keenan—but that was the nature of the Summer King. He was as volatile as summer storms, moody and unpredictable, as likely to laugh as he was to rage. But it wasn’t his power that flooded her; it was Beira’s cold power that had filled Donia when she’d lifted the staff so long ago. If it hadn’t, if she’d been immune to the Winter Queen’s chill, she would’ve joined Keenan, had eternity with him. But the chill that rested inside the Winter Queen’s staff had filled her—consumed her until she was little more than a breathing extension of the Winter Queen’s staff. Donia still wasn’t sure whom she resented more: Keenan, for convincing her he loved her, or Beira, for killing that dream. If he’d truly loved her enough, wouldn’t she be the one? Wouldn’t she be his queen?
Donia stepped outside. The trees were reaching toward the gray sky, gnarled limbs seeking the last bit of sun. Somewhere in the distance she heard the huffing of the deer that wandered through the small nature preserve that abutted her yard. Familiar sights. Comforting sounds. It should’ve been idyllic, but it wasn’t. Nothing was peaceful when the game began.
In the shadows she saw a score of Keenan’s lackeys. Rowan-men, fox-faeries, and other court soldiers—even those that looked almost mortal were still somehow strange to her after decades of their presence. They were always there, watching her, carrying word of her every move back to him. No matter that she told h
im innumerable times that she wanted them gone. No matter that she felt trapped by their watching and waiting.
“It’s the order of things, Don. The Winter Girl is my responsibility. It’s always been so.” He tried to take her hand, to wrap those now-painful fingers around hers.
She walked away. “Not anymore. I mean it, Keenan. Get rid of them, or I will.”
He hadn’t stayed to see her weep, but she knew he’d heard. Everyone had.
He didn’t listen, though. He’d been too used to Rika’s cooperation, too used to everyone kowtowing to him. So Donia had frozen a number of the guards during the first decade. If they came too close to her, she let a thick rime cover them until they couldn’t move. Most had recovered, but not all.
Keenan merely sent more. He didn’t even complain. No matter how awful she was to him, he insisted on sending more of his guards to keep watch over her. And she kept lashing out, freezing them until eventually he told the next round of guards to stand in the safety of the furthest trees or perch in the boughs of the yew and oak. It was progress of a sort.
Beira stepped up to stand shoulder to shoulder with her. “They still watch. Obedient little pawns he sends to watch over you.”
“They saw you arrive. Keenan will know.” She didn’t look at Beira, staring instead at a young rowan-man who never kept his distance as well as the others.
He winked. In the past decades he’d rarely left his post outside her house. The others rotated in and out, staying constant in number, but not in face. The rowan-man was different. Although they never spoke more than a handful of words, she almost regarded him as a friend.
“Undoubtedly. But not now”—Beira laughed, an awful sound like ravens squabbling over carrion—“poor dear’s out cold.”
Pretending she wasn’t worried never worked; showing concern never worked, so Donia looked toward the thicket, trying to change the topic before she asked how badly it had gone for Keenan. “And where are your lackeys tonight?”