Cold Iron Heart: A Wicked Lovely Novel

by Melissa Marr

  Years ago, she swore not to marry, not to risk passing on this curse or gift that allowed her to see a hidden world, but the task was easier than she liked to admit. No man drew her attention, sped her pulse, the way the faeries could. And no faery had made her tremble in fear and interest as Irial was doing. If she believed in soulmates, she’d think she’d found him. If that were true though, what did it mean that her soulmate was a monster?

  Run.

  Do not speak to him.

  Do not linger here.

  But here he was, bold as you please, walking past a new iron fence with curling fleur de lis and watching her, talking to her.

  This is dangerous. She knew that.

  It wasn't just that Irial was fey, but that he was pretending to be human, hiding so much in his dress and voice, aiming to deceive her. And there was no reason that Thelma should be of interest to Irial--unless he knew she had the Sight.

  Her mother had shared plenty of stories of what they would do to those who could see faeries when they opted not to be seen. Eyes gouged out. Lives cut short. The fey were notoriously private, not liking their affairs to be the business of mortals. Those who saw them knew not to speak to them, not to spend time with them, not to be near to them at all if possible.

  RUN.

  She knew what to do. She simply couldn’t.

  Irial didn't move any closer. “Fine weather,” he said mildly.

  Tam made a noise that was more gurgle than word.

  He leaned against a dark brick house. The oil light cast shadows that seemed to squirm to get closer, as if the darkness itself wanted to caress him.

  Tam took one step, and then another. She was doing the wise thing, the right thing. She'd stay away from the river, change her path. Stop whatever madness made her think that watching such a creature could be safe at all.

  "Twilight is not good for maidens," he said as she started walking past, trying not to glance his way.

  "I read that poem," Thelma blurted foolishly, steps halting in the instant. A man who quoted poetry was a rarity, indeed.

  "Of course, you did, love."

  Thelma considered replying further. He sounded mocking, like he doubted her. She had read it though, and she'd loved it. Some English lady wrote it and wrote about fey things, although she called them “goblins,” and it was published. It had made Thelma feel ordinary for a few moments, seeing truths in a book where people who didn't see the secret creatures could read about them.

  "It's not twilight . . . sir. Not now, at least." She didn't look at him. "Dawn is breaking."

  "I suppose you're safe with me then," he murmured.

  His word felt like a reassurance, not a simple continuation of the conversation, as if he knew she was doubting her safety.

  Am I safe?

  If he knew that she could see what he was, would he simply have watched her day after day? If he was the threat here, wouldn't he have already done something? Had she somehow revealed her secret?

  Thelma lifted her gaze to stare at his face. The only time she'd been this close to something so beautiful was when she stood at the edge of the sea during a storm. The sea that day had a wild beauty to it that made her suspect that some things could only pretend to be tame, that the power in them could rest, but it was never truly safe.

  After that day, she’d never looked at the sea the same way. Under the calmest of waters there were deadly currents and powerful waves waiting to pull a body under. The calm was an illusion to draw people near. The worst if it, though, was that she’d wanted to move closer to the sea because of the deadly, powerful force it could wield. She felt alive because the sheer ferocity of it felt like a thing she could lose herself in, surrender to; it called to something deep within her meat and marrow.

  This creature pulled at her much the same way. Her sense—or terror—grabbed hold, and Tam knew what to do.

  “Good morrow, sir,” Tam whispered, refusing to look back at him, hoping that willpower would grow and prevent any further foolishness.

  Then she pulled her coat closer to her and fled.

  Niall

  Niall watched the city come closer into view as the ship approached dock. The Summer Court might not be at full power, but all the courts were able to exist at the level of comfort that only the wealthiest of mortals could afford. They didn’t always do so, but when traveling, Niall was grateful for his court’s wealth. Thanks to the Summer Court’s money, Niall had a reasonably sized cabin on the ship compared to the masses of mortals in steerage.

  It was still difficult to cross the sea, more so because most of the great ships were wrought of iron. Iron and steel didn’t make him as ill as many fey, but it wasn’t pleasant to be trapped in the poisonous metal for roughly a week. Much of the Summer Court simply stayed in the Americas, but Niall and his fellow advisor, Tavish, were the unfortunate souls who would be sent as a forward party when their king thought the future queen was in this or that city.

  This time, though, they’d found a suitable ship. He made a mental note that they ought to purchase it for future trips. Keenan, the Summer King, was always resistant to things that implied there would be future journeys in search of his queen, but Niall was more practical.

  He had to be.

  He’d traveled to Northern Europe where the king had found Rika, the current Winter Girl. With the curse on the court, the world would grow colder and colder until they found the one mortal who—unbeknownst to her--carried sunlight within her body. But Keenan had been looking for her for centuries. The girl in Northern Europe, Rika, was just one of the dozens who weren’t the missing queen. Now, Rika was somewhere on this same ship--which was why the Summer King was not. He was in mourning over her. He’d had such hope that she was his queen--and so had Rika.

  The king would arrive on a separate ship, and Niall would be the one to comfort the Winter Girl, if she’d allow it. This, too, Niall did for his king.

  “Sir?” a young man called him closer.

  Niall carefully tucked his hands in his pockets, even though the common mannerism made him look like he ought not be able to afford the first-class passage he’d bought for himself and for Rika.

  “Your lady went overboard,” the young man said awkwardly. He looked down as if unable to meet Niall’s gaze.

  “She has difficulty with enclosed spaces,” Niall explained.

  The newest Winter Girl was temperamental on the best of days, and currently she was likely out seeking the young woman that had called Keenan to New Orleans before Niall even reached the shore. That was the way it worked: The Winter Girl would try to convince each selected girl to refuse Keenan, and he would try to make the new girl love him enough to risk the test to determine if she was his destined queen.

  “I appreciate you telling me that she has departed,” Niall added, smiling at the poor human who looked so distraught.

  “We are not . . . her body . . .” The man twisted his hands together. “We might not retrieve her body, sir.”

  Niall let out a long breath. “The lady is not dead.”

  “Sir!”

  With a gentle smile, Niall handed the man a generous tip. “I will attend to it.”

  Once he arranged for delivery of his luggage, Niall joined the first group of men and women departing the ship. Another city. Another mass of humanity unaware of the dangers they couldn’t see. For all of their finite beauty, humans were best served by being kept unaware. Some fey saw fit to mingle with them more than was strictly necessary, but Niall was one of the people who argued against such acts. Keeping only the barest contact with mortals was the safest path. He avoided them. He definitely avoided even shaking hands unless he could keep his hands gloved.

  He liked to think he would do so even if he wasn’t addictive to them.

  A wicked voice somewhere in the back of his mind, the Dark King’s ever-tempting voice, reminded Niall that he hadn’t always thought this way. Images of limbs entangled, more bodies than he could count, more pleasure than he
’d felt in years, flooded his mind. There was something precious in human passion, something that felt addictive to him, as well, but they weakened if he touched them.

  They died.

  Much as Keenan’s Summer Girls did if they left Keenan.

  Sex ought not result in the destruction of free will. Not for him. Not for the humans he’d touched. Not for the Summer Girls. Faeries were dangerous to mortals. That was a truth that was impossible to ignore.

  Still, Niall watched them as he walked through the city of New Orleans. He followed the mass of bodies and watched for the formerly-mortal Rika. Other faeries saw him and fled from his presence. Like him, they were invisible to mortals. From the look of the majority of the fey things he saw, the Dark Court was still settled in New Orleans.

  Memories of Irial weren’t things Niall allowed himself to recall. He shoved those away and concentrated on finding Rika—and then seeking out lodgings for the Summer Court.

  When Niall caught up with Rika, she sat, perched like a strange beautiful statue atop a grave in one of the city’s famous above-ground tombs. Rika wore a costume more suited to a farmer than a lady. On ship, her glamour was that of a proper lady: dress suited to the era, hair that spoke of elegance and class, and ladylike hand-tooled leather boots.

  In reality, Rika wore trousers, men’s boots, and the hair she still had was shorn not much longer than a sheep’s wool. She was mannish in all but her delicate features and birdsong voice. Those were unchangeable, but she’d removed every possible trait that Keenan had once praised.

  That was something Niall understood. He’d done much the same when he’d left the Dark Court.

  Rika kicked her feet in the air, staring at humans in the graveyard. “Sometimes I think it’s better this way.”

  “What?”

  “Being hidden,” she said softly.

  Niall stared at her, trying to think of something kind to say. He settled on saying, “I think you are more suited to this than you would be to joining the Summer Girls.”

  Rika quirked her lips in a seemingly genuine smile. “True.” After another longer than normal pause, she added, “I ought not like you, Niall.”

  “I like you,” he told her easily. “You risked your humanity and happiness to try to free the Summer Court.”

  “And lost. Don’t forget that part.” Rika hopped down from the grave.

  Her diminutive frame evoked an urge to protect her. She had lost her mortality, and she’d lost Keenan—whom she thought she’d loved—because of the curse. She was brave in a way that most people couldn’t fathom.

  “I’ll stop her.” Rika traced her fingertips over the face of a mausoleum, leaving frost flowers in her path. “I swore to devote myself to convincing the mortals he woes to refuse him, and I’ll do everything in my power to succeed--just as I did when trying to become the Summer Queen.”

  “I know.”

  They stood awkwardly silent again. He wanted to comfort her, to take her into his arms and offer her the only comfort he could. It wasn’t truly selfless. He was addictive to mortals--and Rika was no longer mortal.

  “Do you have lodgings? Need funds?” he asked gently.

  Rika turned and walked away.

  And Niall was left with the unenviable task of deciding if he ought to greet the other regent in the city or delay that inevitable conflict.

  Tam

  Tam was up early the next day. She was alive, her eyes still present, and those two truths strengthened her. Tam had spoken to the fey and survived the day. Today, God willing, would be another.

  She’d focus on her art, and she’d carry on. There was nothing else to do. To do that, she needed to go to the bayou. Better now when Irial was pretending to be mortal and seeking her in the city.

  Well, she’d simply be where he was not.

  As Tam left the city with its wrought-iron draped buildings, there were faeries aplenty. Most of them were the kind that seemed to keep to themselves, solitary creatures that looked like a piece of nature given the gift of movement. One seemed to be an animated tree, bark-like skin and mossy hair. Another seemed to be part-animal, cloven hooves and furred flanks.

  Others were the sort she’d read about in Keightley’s book. It had only published in London a handful of years ago, but she had dipped into her meager savings to acquire a copy in hopes of discovering truths. Keightley had collected tales a plenty—and some had a fair measure of truth—but he hadn’t Seen them. That was clear.

  To cast nature into metal for her work, Tam would brave these faeries as she had done since she began creating jewelry. The risk was worth the end. That was the way of art. She suspected the same was true of love. When something, art or lover, fills a heart to bursting, any risk was worthwhile.

  Either way, she set off toward the bayou.

  “Ah Maid Mary, where have you gone? The sea’s gone rough, and the men come home,” she sang as she walked.

  Two fey creatures began to dance, and Tam hid her smile. In this, at least, she found an odd joy. Fey things loved music and arts, and she couldn’t fault that.

  “Dear sister, Mary said, the waves came calling, but where could you be? I borrowed a ride into the sea,” she continued to sing. “And so I did dance until the dawn, with a fine fellow by the name of John.”

  Thelma watched the creatures that lingered in field and swamp. She knew they could be horrid, harassing woman and man, adult and child. But a fair number simply existed, living their lives in tandem with a world that would not notice or pay them much mind.

  In truth, that was how she’d often felt.

  “Maid Mary, m’ gal, I’m coming for you,” Tam sang, giving a little twirl as she did. The air, the joy, the song made a body want to dance.

  If there were money in songs, Tam might try her luck at it, but for now, Tam made do with hiding from faeries, creating her jewelry, and working other jobs when she had to, so she could—one day, God willing—have a wee house of her own. She’d like a small tree in the front, maybe a willow, or oak, or ash. Perhaps, a small library of her own inside.

  She stopped wool gathering and began humming to herself as she paused at the edge of the bayou, pulling her skirts higher than she would in city streets.

  Nature had its rhythms and its rules. Fey things were a part of that nature. They perched in trees like cantankerous birds. They lazed in the sun. They squabbled in the frost that seemed to linger longer and longer each year. She could ignore all of it.

  But then a voice rang out. “Maid Mary, m’gal, I’ll capture the sea, and the wave, and the sky. Whatever else I do, I’ll be marrying you.”

  Irial.

  Here.

  Tam told herself it was nothing to worry herself over. He was singing a match to her song, no more, no less. He certainly wasn’t singing to her. He wasn’t even visible this time.

  And he definitely wasn’t thinking of marrying her.

  But all manner of creatures looked at him as if he was the last drink before all the water turned brine. Irial ignored them. Instead he stared at her with shadows slithering along his skin.

  Tam dropped her gaze and steadied her hands before anyone could see the trembling that threatened to overpower her.

  “Pretty thing,” one of the thorn-covered faeries said.

  “Meh. Mortals,” another said. She had feathers where hair ought to be and eyes as dark as pitch.

  “Wee creature,” another whispered, its fingers twining in Tam’s drab brown curls.

  “Leave her,” Irial said.

  The others all paused, those near to her and those that had been tucked in the boughs of cypress trees.

  “Not yours,” he added with a bit of a lilt to his voice. “Hands and claws off this one.”

  They stared at him as if he might injure them, but their expressions were such that Tam wasn’t sure if they wanted that or feared it.

  A faery that looked more muscular than any of the others spoke. “Is that her?”

  Irial nodded. />
  They all stared.

  Her? Tam wasn’t sure who they thought she was. What fate awaited a mortal that drew their gazes?

  “The--” She started to sing the next line, but then caught herself. She needed to keep on as if the faery called Irial hadn’t sung a word. She repeated the next line as if he hadn’t sung it already: “Maid Mary, m’gal, I’ll capture the sea, and the wave, and the sky. Whatever else I do, I’ll be marrying you.”

  The powerful faery growled, and the fey scattered, vanishing into the shadows of the swamp.

  “The sea keeps calling, and what shall I do?” she sang, not flinching as his voice joined hers on the next line: “Oh, what shall I do?”

  The only invisible beings who remained were Irial and his guard, who let out a whistle.

  A massive, black, red-eyed horse thundered toward them. It stood taller than any horse Tam had seen, muscles thick enough to use like ridges if a person had to scale it. No human could swing a leg over such a beast. It stood like something carved of a starless night. It nudged the larger faery with its head, lipping the faery’s cheek a few times as if it were either tasting or kissing him.

  Tam had to glance away to resist smiling.

  “What are you going to do about her?” the large faery asked. Now that he was speaking sentences rather than a mere word, Tam could hear shadows and gravel. Something very akin to a terror resonated in his voice.

  “Absolutely nothing, Gabriel,” Irial said cheerily. He leaned down and plucked a Cardinal Flower, twirling the orchid-like blossom. “I am not duty-bound to do a single thing.”

  Gabriel sighed loudly; his steed echoed the noise. “Going to end up at odds with both their courts one day, Iri. What then?”

  “Eh.” Irial brought the plant to his face.

  Tam schooled herself, breathing carefully to keep panic at bay. She concentrated on the flower. Poisonous. Useful. The Cardinal Flower was multifaceted, much like the bayou itself.