by Melissa Marr
As he made his way toward the velvet rope, Zephyr scanned the crowd for interesting faces. Finding no one extraordinary, he reached his goal: the VIP section where he knew he’d find at least one of his friends.
The bouncer at the rope nodded at Zephyr, but no conversation was needed. Being the oft-photographed Zephyr Waters was a good thing.
Alkamy and Creed both lounged in plush chairs, seeming exceedingly polished and wholly jaded. If he didn’t know better, he’d believe they were both nothing more than the budding addicts they appeared to be.
“Kamy.” He leaned down to kiss Alkamy, but she turned her head so his lips barely glanced off her cheek.
“Watch the face!” She pouted with the perfect mix of woe-is-me and aren’t-I-lovely. She was actually stunning. Her hair was a shade of black that made everyone assume it was dyed. It wasn’t. Nor did she wear colored contacts to get barely blue eyes. Her lips were naturally as ruby-red as they seemed, and her skin was so pale that she was luminescent in the dark. Alkamy was a living vision of a gloomier Snow White.
He straightened and murmured, “Yes, dear.”
Her smile transformed briefly into something genuine, and he matched it with one of his own. She might look icy, but she was sweet to him. In another life, they might’ve ended up something more, but in this life, any feelings were steadfastly buried. Even if Lilywhite wasn’t his future, Zephyr couldn’t let his feelings for Alkamy go in that direction. She looked so similar to him that he’d wondered if they were siblings in truth. That fear was reason enough to keep her at a safe distance. If he allowed himself to fall in love with her, he wouldn’t be able to let her go no matter what the queen decreed. More importantly, Alkamy wasn’t the sort to accept being told she couldn’t do something. Far wiser to stay friends, to keep a wall around those feelings, and plan for a future with Lilywhite.
Alkamy flashed another real smile at him as she took in his appearance. “You look perfect, as always.”
Creed snorted.
Zephyr dropped into one of the plush chairs, intentionally drawing eyes to him. The Row House was all about being seen. The club made no apology for it. The VIP section was demarcated by a scarlet and gold rope, but it was in the center of the club. There was a back wall that was shadowed if one wanted privacy, but the front of the room was open, and the left and right sides were clear glass. Being here was being on display—and that meant strict admission rules. Unlike some places where anyone with a generous budget for the night could get access, the Row House was old-school: invitation or status were the only ways to cross the line.
Being in the VIP section required looking like you were meant to be watched. They acted like it, and they dressed for it. Alkamy was wearing some sort of dress that appeared to be mostly transparent. Wide red straps covered her body in strategic places, but the rest of the dress revealed skin. In the hazy blue lights of the club, she looked otherworldly—but safely so. Creed, on the other hand, seemed to have put zero effort into his appearance. Artfully faded jeans, a T-shirt for some band, and heavy boots marked him as just another teen boy—except everything he wore was designer label and the jewelry that he’d added was undoubtedly worth more than most cars on the streets of Belfoure.
Creed’s shaved head, visible tattoos, and dark complexion made him far too likely to be hassled out in town, but by now, all of the lawkeepers were well aware of who he was and exactly how much of a fire storm they’d be in if he got wrongly arrested because of their overzealous racial profiling. Whether they thought he was African American or Seelie, he’d be a target because of his heritage. Of course, Zephyr had thought more than once that Creed hoped for a wrongful arrest. He thrived on conflict, far more than even Alkamy or Violet.
Pushing away thoughts that would lead to yet another argument, Zephyr motioned to one of the waitresses who usually looked after their needs.
When the girl came over, she already had the drink that Zephyr preferred—an alcohol- and caffeine-free concoction of fruit juices. He covered for his toxin-free drinks by paying the waitresses for their silence. He’d never once been drunk, and if he had his way, he never would.
“Yes, it’s organic,” the girl answered before he could ask.
Then she handed drinks to both Creed and Alkamy without comment. They didn’t need to pretend to drink alcohol. Zephyr could smell it from across the table as they accepted their glasses.
“Don’t start,” Alkamy murmured. Her drink was as brightly colored as his, undoubtedly made of the same organic juice. Hers, however, had vodka in it too.
Creed said nothing. Even if Zephyr had commented, Creed wouldn’t back down in arguments about his lifestyle. Someday soon, they’d have to have that fight. The alternative was letting the Unseelie Queen know that Creed was a liability. For now, Creed lifted his glass in a mocking toast to Zephyr and downed half of it in one go. He caught the waitress’s hand and said, “Another. I’ll be ready for it before you’re back.”
Once she was gone, the three friends resumed pretending that they weren’t being watched like animals in a zoo. These sorts of clubs had perks, usually in the form of pretty, willing humans for a few moments of distraction.
“Which one caught your eye?” Alkamy asked drolly, making him realize he was staring.
Zephyr shrugged.
“Does it matter?” Creed asked, stretching his long legs out and slouching farther into his chair. “They’re interchangeable.” He started pointing at girls. “Ena, mena, mona, mite, which one will bite?”
Zephyr scowled. “Don’t be crass.”
Creed, as per usual, ignored him. He motioned a passing waitress over and said, “The girl in the aqua top. Tell her to meet me at the rope in”—he glanced at his watch—“exactly eighteen minutes.”
The waitress verified that they were describing the same girl, and then she left with his message.
“Really?” Alkamy asked.
He shrugged.
“You could slow down. Pretend to be with Kamy for a while,” Zephyr suggested.
“Is that an order?”
“No.”
Creed nodded. “Then go ahead and update us. I have an appearance to keep.”
“Lilywhite will be here tomorrow.” Zephyr paused to let them marvel at the pending change, but Creed simply nodded and Alkamy waited silently.
“This is it,” Zephyr continued, trying to impress upon them the significance of her arrival. “The start of a new stage of our lives. She is the beginning of . . . everything.”
“Right, then.” Creed lifted his glass, drained it, and held it out to the waitress who’d returned with his drink. “Let’s drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.”
Alkamy winced. “Creed—”
“Don’t,” he interrupted her. “Just fucking don’t, Kam.” He wrapped a hand around his new drink and walked away.
Zephyr watched him go. “Has something happened? He seems worse than usual.”
Alkamy lifted one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. She sipped her fruity drink and watched Creed, who was chatting up two girls at the bar. One of them shrieked in laughter, and the other pressed up against him. Typical. Even from here, though, anyone could see that there was something false in Creed’s smiles.
“They were in some film Vi dragged me to see,” Alkamy offered, as if Creed’s choice of girls mattered at all.
When Zephyr didn’t reply, she continued, “Flash in the pan, pretty things, no talent.” She wasn’t being vicious, merely echoing whatever Violet had told her. “They seem fun though.”
“Creed could do with less fun.”
“Not everyone is as sure as you,” Alkamy said gently. “Lilywhite is your intended. We don’t know if we mattered enough for them to even plan a future for us.”
Zephyr turned his attention away from Creed and focused on his best friend. She didn’t say “fae” ever if she could avoid it. It was what she was, what all the Sleepers were, but she never said it aloud, as if silence would change rea
lity. She’d only been with him in the Hidden Lands once, but it hadn’t erased her discomfort.
“Us. We are the same as them.”
“No, we’re not,” she said.
“I’d never let anything happen to you,” he promised her yet again. No one else understood him the way she did. Alkamy felt like his other half. He met her eyes. “Ever. I’d die before I’d let you get hurt.”
Alkamy sighed. “You’ll die for the queen’s cause; you’ll die for me . . . Maybe you should try finding something or someone to live for instead.”
“Is it so wrong to have a purpose?”
She didn’t answer. Instead she asked, “Did you see my new shoes?” She kicked her foot out so he was forced to catch her ankle in his hand or get a pointy-toed shoe in the face.
Silently, he slid the shoe off her foot, set it on the table, and gave her a foot rub. He was used to her not-so-subtle changes of subject, and it made for good pictures. No one needed to know that he and Alkamy were destined for a platonic relationship. That was one of the many secrets they hid—and most were far more deadly.
seven
EILIDH
Eilidh wasn’t surprised to see her mother striding through the assembled fae like a warrior. The queen was undoubtedly notified the moment Torquil’s foot touched the staircase. There were enchantments to protect Eilidh’s virtue woven into the very building that was her home. Had she been beautiful those enchantments would’ve been more necessary. As it was, Eilidh had never considered them, never had reason to, until this moment.
“What have you done?” she repeated for the third time, hoping for some graceful way out of the mess Torquil had created. They needed an answer before the Queen of Blood and Rage reached them.
Torquil stood, keeping her hand clasped in his. Gently, he tugged, leading her to the ground. He said nothing as they descended the stairs.
The queen stood there, her armor absent for a change. They’d obviously interrupted her at a better time than most. For all meetings and affairs of state, she wore her war attire. Right now, though, she was dressed in what passed for casual with the queen—a heavy brocade dress in blood red with black accents. Her midnight dark hair fell unbound. To anyone who didn’t look in her eyes, she might appear as a sister to Eilidh herself, but a brief glimpse of the queen’s eyes would end that thought, as would the weight of her voice.
“Explain yourself, son of Aden.” The queen regarded Torquil, one of the rare fae of Seelie origins who had earned her genuine favor, and her anger was thick in her every syllable. Right now, none of that esteem was in evidence.
“You directed that I take a bride,” he said levelly. He didn’t drop to his knees as he should, as he had every other time the queen had spoken to him, as every fae save the king, the three royal sons, and Eilidh did.
Eilidh tugged his hand, trying to remind him to kneel. He ignored her and watched the queen. He was declaring himself family to her in this action as well. If most fae attempted such a thing, Endellion was likely to kill them.
Behind Endellion stood Rhys, the queen’s son, the fae who would’ve been heir to the Unseelie throne if the courts had remained divided. Eilidh met his gaze, but he barely acknowledged her as he stood waiting to act if their mother had need of his blade. He knew well that the queen was as capable of wielding every blade known to faeries, but his chosen duty in this life was to protect his mother and bloody his weapons at her word. The king’s sons were frivolous things, but Rhys was devoted to the queen, and by extension, to her husband if necessary.
“You directed that I could wed anyone my heart chose,” Torquil continued, as if he wasn’t aware of the danger he faced from the queen and her son both. “There were no other rules spoken, no exclusions. By your word, I could select even those already wed.”
“Do not think to outmaneuver me, son of Aden,” the Queen of Blood and Rage said quietly. “Undo this.”
“You know as well as I do, my queen, that if she was unwilling, I couldn’t ascend the stair.”
Eilidh’s gaze shot to her mother. “Is that true?”
No one answered her. The queen prompted, “Would you take Torquil, son of Aden, to be your betrothed, daughter of mine?”
The real question was in there, but it wasn’t as simple as what was spoken. Eilidh had been raised under the guidance of the queen. She was meant to rule both courts if no other heir was born. That meant knowing how to hear what was unspoken.
Eilidh met her mother’s gaze unwaveringly. “If it pleases my queen, I will do so when and only when she decrees it wise.”
The Queen of Blood and Rage smiled at her, pride in her eyes, before she turned her attention back to Torquil. When she spoke this time, she raised her voice and said, “Then I will allow you my daughter’s hand, and you will lay with no other.”
“Of course! There will be no other in my arms.” He bowed his head deeply and then said, “We will begin planning our ceremony today.”
“There is no rush, son of Aden and soon to be my own.” The queen waited until he looked up and met her gaze. “I am not ready for nuptials. It could be a great long time until I am. My daughter is young still.”
Torquil’s smile grew pinched, but he said nothing. Most fae were betrothed at birth; many others were already wed at Eilidh’s age. The whispers around them grew loud enough that Eilidh knew that the assembled fae were thinking exactly that.
“Of course, my queen,” was all he finally said.
The only rush would be in producing an heir, and that would require her to take him to her bed. Such things often happened when betrothed couples developed feelings, but Eilidh wasn’t so foolish as to think that his selection of her as his wife was anything personal. All he had done was take himself off the marriage block—and sentence himself to celibacy. After a time, he would accept that the queen would only allow Eilidh to be wed if there were no other choices left to secure an heir for the Hidden Throne. He would, in the end, set her aside and take a wife who could carry a child.
“Mother, would you rather we were not betrothed? If you will it, we can end . . .”
Endellion paused imperceptibly. Eilidh doubted that anyone other than her and Rhys even noticed. They had learned to notice. The queen had never raised a hand to her, never would. Whether they were Seelie or Unseelie, children weren’t struck in anger. That didn’t mean that Eilidh had avoided the chill in her mother’s voice or the refusal to give her the smiles she coveted like most fae coveted sweets.
“I offered Torquil his choice of partners. He chose you.” The queen almost smiled at her. “He will cherish you as he should, or he will learn from his foolishness.”
Eilidh curtsied before her mother and said, “I am yours to command.”
The queen smiled, a real smile this time. It was the closest to laughter she ever came. “Of course you are,” she said.
And, in that instant, Eilidh was certain then that her mother knew more than she’d admitted about her heir’s trips to the human world . . . or one of the myriad other secrets Eilidh kept.
“Speak to your soon-to-be-brother, Rhys,” Endellion added. “Be sure he is well aware of my expectations. I need to see the king.”
Then, with as little notice as when she had arrived, the Queen of Blood and Rage turned to leave. The assembled faeries scattered as she turned. They might love and respect their queen, but that affection was tempered by fear. She was their greatest strength, but she was also the nightmare that they spoke of in whispers. All from the eldest to the youngest fae were raised to know that their queen was wrought of darkness.
Rhys gestured toward the glass tower.
Silently, Torquil took Eilidh’s hand in his, and they led her half-brother into her home. Her unease increased further.
None of her siblings ever visited her. Her aesthetically inclined Seelie siblings were understandable. Nacton tolerated her, but averted his gaze when they spoke. Calder, however, despised her for more than her scarred appearance. Not even t
he king could order him to be polite to her. Her Unseelie brother was more complex. The Unseelie were not put off by scars, but they were perhaps even less at ease with emotions. Rhys had behaved as Unseelie did, typically seeming wholly indifferent, but he’d also comforted her more than once when she’d wept.
Their silence was unbroken until they reached the first floor of the tower. It was a sitting room designed to allow her the privacy of conversation without offering easy access to her bedchamber. The faeries milling around outside could see them all clearly. Awkwardly, Eilidh gestured to the uncomfortable but lovely guest chairs.
Rhys gave her a chastising look that spoke loudly and motioned toward her own divan. He was too court-familiar to sit before her. Torquil, likewise, had stayed standing. By right of rank, he and Rhys were equal now. Rhys was the queen’s son, but Torquil was the heir’s intended.
Eilidh blushed as she realized her faux pas. “Sorry.”
Once she sat, Rhys and Torquil exchanged a tense look, neither willing to admit a lesser rank and sit last, but neither wanting to clamber into a chair gracelessly to insist on higher rank.
“Is this necessary?” she prompted after the two fae stood awkwardly for several moments. “We’re in my home, not in front of the queen.”
Reluctantly, both faeries simultaneously sat.
“May I speak freely?” Rhys asked.
“Always,” Eilidh promised. She had wanted a closeness with her siblings for years. Only Rhys seemed remotely capable of that. If this horribly unplanned betrothal elicited sibling affection, she was ready to declare the whole thing a fine idea . . . even if she wasn’t pleased at the idea of Torquil’s unexpected political machinations.