by Melissa Marr
Lily could allow that they might be wrong, but ten coordinated attacks were unlikely to be an accidental disaster. Thousands of people sickened and died, many of them children or the elderly, whose immune systems weren’t as strong, because their water supplies were tainted.
By Sleeper cells like the Black Diamonds.
Unfortunately, knowing that the queen was a terrorist wasn’t news—or a legitimate excuse to refuse her invitation to the Hidden Lands. If Lily refused, she’d be taken against her will. If she went . . . honestly, Lily had no idea what would happen if she went. Abernathy Commandment #13: Don’t ask questions when you’d rather not know the answers. The queen clearly had no compunction about killing. Would being a strong fae-blood be a strength or weakness in her eyes? The fae-bloods publicly claimed that being descended of the fae was a strength, a way to unify the two worlds if only humanity would stop polluting the earth. They were, in effect, radical environmentalists. Lily didn’t agree with their theory that peace was that simple, but she did agree that humanity needed to stop being so careless with the earth.
“Your door was unlocked,” Creed said softly.
She looked up to find him in the doorway to her bedroom. She hadn’t even noticed that he was there until he spoke. Now she couldn’t see anything else. She didn’t want to cause more problems than necessary, so she had avoided any private conversations with Creed for several days now.
“If you’re going to hide from me, at least admit you’re doing it.”
She shook her head and looked away from him. She had to. Whatever this pull was, it was strong and growing stronger. She couldn’t afford to give in to it. As much as she didn’t want to believe that she was anything other than who she’d always been—Nicolas and Iana Abernathy’s daughter—the queen had summoned Lily by name. That meant that she needed to think about protecting the people already known to matter to her—and not invite more people close to her heart.
She stared out the window of her bedroom, not wanting to look at Creed. Lily had always known her mother was fae-blood. As Lily had gotten older and developed multiple affinities, she had considered the idea that her mother was wholly fae, so that wasn’t that surprising either. But if she was one of the fae who had agreed to give over their children to be used as weapons, then why did she leave her stories for Lily? The answers Zephyr had offered simply didn’t make sense. There was too much unknown, and Lily wasn’t going to risk Creed’s life by getting closer to him.
The boy in question walked farther into Lily’s bedroom, and against her best intentions, she looked at him. His gaze was fastened on her like she would flee at any wrong move.
Admittedly, he wasn’t far off. She was poised for escape, even though there was no exit save for the one he was currently blocking. “Does Zephyr know you’re here?”
“I told him I was going to find Kamy.”
“She told everyone she was going into Belfoure this afternoon. You were there.”
“Oops.” Creed shrugged. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”
Lily shook her head. “You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be.”
He was directly in front of her now. “Really? I believe you are.”
His hands didn’t make direct contact with her skin, even though he raised them like he’d touch her. He didn’t. He stayed perfectly still, his skin millimeters away from her. She could feel warmth radiating from him.
Then he shut his eyes, and she realized what he was about to do, but that meager second of knowledge wasn’t enough to brace her for what followed. As he had in the gardens, he started to sing “Deadly Girl” using his affinity to reach out to touch her skin.
His voice was so low that she wanted to move forward to hear him.
She wouldn’t, couldn’t do that.
His breath was on her skin like a much firmer touch, like fingertips tracing her cheeks and jaw, like a caress on her lips.
She shivered.
“Run, my deadly girl,” he sang. The words weren’t part of the song. They were only for her. “Run to a distant shore. Run from the monsters that lie in wait.”
Creed’s words fell like a kiss on the base of her throat and slid lower, stopping at the top seam of her blouse.
“Run before it’s too late.”
Lily stepped backward. It wouldn’t change his ability to touch her with his voice, but it did give her the momentary illusion of control. “I’m not going to run from Endellion.”
“But you’ll run from me?” He gave her a sad smile. “Some would be flattered to be considered more terrifying than the Queen of Blood and Rage.” The lightness in his tone did nothing to hide the darkness in him as his voice once more made the air take form. He caught her chin and forced her to look at him; at the same time, his next words held her wrist like a vise. “I am not one of them.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Everything,” he said baldly. “But I’ll settle for honesty.”
For a moment, she thought about telling him her fears and worries—her suspicion that she wasn’t an Abernathy by blood—but she wasn’t going to be so selfish as to put Creed in more danger than he already was.
Abernathy Commandment #19: If your loved one’s life is in peril, break any commandment to protect her or him. She wasn’t sure she could love anyone, but she felt something strong for Creed. That meant keeping him away from her.
“You’re avoiding me,” he charged. “You said we were friends. It’s not what I want, but you offered me that crumb.”
“We are.”
“Why won’t you talk to me alone then? I see you alone with everyone else.” He inhaled, as if he needed to draw her scent in, reminding her that he was an air affinity and only air. The pain in his voice wasn’t hidden at all as he added, “Even Zephyr, Lily. I see you walk with him and talk to Roan and Will. You are alone with Vi or Kamy every day. It’s only me you reject.”
Lily thought back to Zephyr’s warnings, to the thought of the queen targeting Creed because of something Lily did, and she met Creed’s eyes. “They aren’t pursuing me like you are. None of them tell me that my friendship is a crumb.”
“Are you trying to say that you don’t want my attention? That you only want friendship?”
“That’s what I’m trying to say,” she told him. It wasn’t a proper lie. She was trying to say she wasn’t interested. If she had said she wasn’t interested, that would be a lie, but her words as she’d uttered them were truth.
Creed laughed. “Oh, my beautiful liar.” He traced her lips with one finger. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I’ll have your proof of what we are tomorrow,” he clarified. “Then, we will discuss what happens next.”
“We don’t need to discuss it,” she started, the words burning her tongue to even utter.
The way Creed watched her was frightening in its intensity. As much as she wanted his attention on her, it also made her want to run. If the queen asked for her by name, if Creed and Zephyr were right about what they all were, there were reasons aplenty to stay away from them all. It was Creed, though, who made her dare to believe that love could be true. It was Creed she already wanted to protect.
“You can refuse me, but don’t try to lie to me,” he chastised with a shake of his head. “I’m not some human boy who will be misled by your clever omissions. You feel this as much as I do, Lilywhite Abernathy, and I’m not giving up on the first girl who gave me reason to hope.”
Lily was silent as he called her out by her full name as if they were true fae. As she knew it had been done for centuries before they’d either one drawn breath, the act of calling her out by her whole name made the words have a weight that was just shy of a vow. If he knew her secret name—one known only to her father, one that all acknowledged fae-blood had—Creed could trap her with such words.
And for an awful too-honest moment, she wanted to tell him that secret, to let him bind her to him, to ask
him his secret. She knew he’d tell her, but wanting a thing doesn’t make it wise. Lily kept her lips tightly closed and dropped her gaze.
“We can’t,” she forced herself to say.
“You’re wrong, Lily. You’ll see,” Creed said gently, and then he left her there with tears on her cheeks and a lie still burning on her lips.
twenty-four
EILIDH
Eilidh was in the courtyard outside the queen’s quarters when she saw her brother watching her. She wondered how often he’d done so without her awareness, but she wasn’t so foolish as to think Rhys would answer that question if she posed it. He kept rooms in the queen’s section of the royal palace, as did the king. Eilidh technically had rooms there as well. While her father and brother used theirs, Eilidh hadn’t ever lived there.
“Why do I need to stay in the tower, Mother?” eight-year-old Eilidh asked.
“You are their future.”
“It’s lonely.”
The queen looked at her, and the usual chill in her eyes vanished for a moment. “You are a symbol, child. That means you must be above the emotions that weaken you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You need to prove that you are worthy, that you are the queen they need, that you exist to serve your people.” Endellion held out an ivory-handled dagger. “You are not like any of them.”
“Even my brothers?” Eilidh took the dagger in her hand.
“Rhys is a good example for you,” the queen allowed. “There is no weakness in him. Your father’s sons . . . do not count you as a sibling. You cannot trust them.”
“Yes, Mother.”
The queen nodded. “Keep that with you always, even after you master your affinities.”
“Yes, Mother.” Eilidh nodded and looked at the weapon in her hand. It was pretty for what it was, but it wasn’t a doll. A lot of the fae had dolls. “Could I have a dolly too? Just one? I could practice being a mother, like you.”
The queen cupped Eilidh’s face in her palms. “There will not be talk of being a mother or of loneliness. You are above all of that. They will doubt your worth, and your duty is to prove that you are not weak . . . or your blood will soak into the sand.”
At the time, Eilidh wasn’t entirely sure if her mother was suggesting that she would kill Eilidh for weakness or if weakness would kill her. Either way, she didn’t repeat her request to live near her mother. She did as she was expected to do: trained, studied politics, and watched her brothers—both her father’s sons who wished her ill and the one sibling her mother loved.
And she started to study ways to reach a different future from the red-soaked one Endellion would have them lead. Eilidh wasn’t afraid to take a life if she needed to do so, but it wasn’t something she wanted. She trained to kill, but hoped she would avoid that fate.
Silently, she walked to the wall of weapons and selected a bow she liked. Her hand fell on the quiver of arrows when Rhys spoke up. “Would you care to spar, sister?”
Eilidh looked over her shoulder and met his gaze. He’d never offered to cross blades with her. He’d spoken to her tutors, but he’d never unsheathed his own weapons to train with her.
Behind her she heard murmurs. In this, as in all he did, Rhys clearly had a reason. Joy rolled through her like a wave as he walked toward her. His hand was on the hilt of his sword, and he ambled across the courtyard as if they didn’t have an audience.
“I’m not sure I’d be much challenge,” she admitted, her voice loud enough to carry to the watchers. “I’ve watched you fight too often to think myself capable of offering you any sport.”
He laughed. Her serious Unseelie brother laughed. “For your age, you would. For my age? Few other than our queen mother would be a genuine contest.”
“And my father,” Eilidh added quietly.
Rhys didn’t reply to that assertion beyond saying, “The king is a skilled fighter. Mother declared that we do not duel though.”
Eilidh gestured at the bow she held. “Best of three?”
Rhys took his hand from the hilt of one of the swords at his side and walked over to grab a bow she’d seen him practice with in the past. “Not my weapon of choice, little sister.”
“I know. That’s why I selected it.”
He laughed again and gestured toward the row of targets as he came to stand at her side. There was something more here than she realized, but she also knew that her brother was offering to fire arrows at her side. It was something he didn’t do with anyone but the queen herself or the rare fae the queen sent to him for instruction. Training with Rhys was a boon not easily granted.
“You honor me, brother.” She nocked an arrow, lifted her bow, and let loose. The shaft hit the first target mere millimeters from dead center. She glanced at him and added, “That doesn’t mean I won’t try to beat you.”
He glanced at the target, flicked his eyes back toward her, and released an arrow while watching her. “Good.”
They gathered a sizeable audience as they competed in marksmanship. She didn’t best him, but no one expected her to do so. The queen’s son and guard was the acknowledged champion with most all weapons in the Hidden Lands. He preferred sharp things, especially the longsword, but he was as happy with bashing as stabbing. Be it rapier or falchion, poignard or dirk, Rhys was always deadly. Eilidh understood, as few could, that he had no other choice. The queen was acknowledged as the best fighter in the Hidden Lands, and he was her only son. Her first daughter, Iana, was dead, and Eilidh was fragile. Rhys had to prove that the queen’s get were not all worthless. Eilidh understood that urge, even though she’d never equal her brother’s skill with so many weapons.
After another hour, they had gained the one watcher whose favor mattered most. The queen strode across the well-trod ground with barely a glance to her left or right. No one attempted to catch her attention. Seeing the queen at the courtyard was always a treat. For all of the doubts that the fae sometimes had in the silence of their homes, none among them ever doubted her prowess in a fight. Her daily armor was on, the leather appearing closer to ruby than midnight in the sunlight. Even here, she cut a figure that inspired awe.
“How is she?” Endellion asked.
“I would stand beside her on the field of battle,” Rhys said. He bowed to their mother, even though he technically didn’t have to do so.
Eilidh followed his example.
“Indeed?” Endellion murmured.
“She is not as fast as I am, but her arrows all fly true. Every one has been a kill shot.” Rhys gestured to the targets. “She is your daughter.”
“And with a blade?”
Eilidh’s brief moment of pride faded. She didn’t have the strength to fight her brother and fare as well as she needed to do in front of their people. She opened her mouth to apologize, but Rhys replied before she could, “I’ve not yet tried her. I have observed her often enough to know that for her age she is skilled.”
Endellion nodded at her. Then she looked away from her daughter and announced, “I have need of exercise.”
The queen was already drawing her sword. It was a thing of darkness, the blade etched with runes and symbols so ancient that no one understood all of them. It was blackened, as if fire had touched it often, and sometimes glints of red flickered in that strange metal. If there existed a blade that were strengthened by blood, this would be the one.
Eilidh didn’t want to ask what truths hid in those softly spoken stories. There were questions best left unanswered, especially where the queen was concerned. All that truly mattered was that her mother was a warrior who had earned respect, and Eilidh was resolved not to fail her.
Although Eilidh wouldn’t leave the courtyard, her time in practice was clearly at an end. She lowered her bow and walked to the wall to put it away. She would watch her mother demonstrate the skill that she herself couldn’t master satisfactorily.
Before she was three steps away, Rhys said, “You do your family proud, sister.”
Eilidh looked back at Rhys as he bowed his head deeply and said, “I meant no slight.”
Endellion attacked. Her sword was a two-handed one, made for larger warriors. The harsh black blade was heavy in the air, and Rhys barely had time to stop its swing. The clang of metal on metal was loud.
Rhys drew his second weapon, a shorter blade to stab as he blocked with his sword, and with a ferocity none save the king would even dream to dare, he attacked the queen.
The clash of steel and grunt of exertion continued as the two warriors crossed blades time and again. At several minutes in, Rhys lost his sword. It hit the ground with a thunk. He was left only with a poignard, and that shorter blade wouldn’t do as much good against a weapon with long reach like the queen’s claymore.
But within another ten minutes, the queen had a cut on her shoulder.
“Tired, Mother?” Rhys teased.
“Momentarily distracted by worry that you are only half armed,” she countered with a wide smile.
“As if.” Rhys angled so that he was moving closer to the wall of weapons. “Your reach is absurdly far with that beast.”
“Some of us aren’t worried about pretty fights,” she returned, slashing at her only son with the kind of force that made the fight look far too real.