Cold Iron Heart: A Wicked Lovely Novel

by Melissa Marr

  Much like the fey.

  Tam counted her inhalations and exhalations, forcing them to stay slow. The fey might hear her heart if she were to get too agitated. She was never clear on that detail.

  Irial glanced her way, gaze sliding over the edge of that possibly poisonous blossom. “She’s more than the kingling deserves, more than any man deserves.”

  Tam ought not be excited by the way he looked at her. Whatever else she knew, that was a truth that was eternal: Do not stare at faeries.

  She had no idea what a “kingling” was. She was, however, certain that she wanted nothing to do with one. Slowly, she continued plucking a few bay leaves and assorted plants and fallen bark. It wasn’t the first or even the twenty-first time she’d pretended not to notice faeries that were this close.

  She could do this.

  “Are you going to tell Beira?” the muscular faery asked.

  Irial shook his head.

  “One of these years, they’re going to find out what all you knew. You realize you’re veering toward disaster.”

  “Dark Court,” Irial offered with a shrug.

  “Not going to save you from war.”

  “But not this year, Gabe.” Irial’s voice held a smugness, a surety that he could do as he wished.

  And as much as Tam had no fondness for the fey or for egotism, she was grateful for Irial’s arrogance. Whoever he was, whoever they were, it seemed that the unnamed kingling and this Beira were not her friends.

  Irial, though undeniably fey, seemed the safest of the three.

  Not that she intended to speak to him again.

  Not that she wanted to see him again either—despite his beautiful voice and body.

  Not that she noticed the ring he now wore on his hand.

  Don’t look; don’t respond; don’t speak.

  Wise women did not linger around the fey. They did not break those rules. They did not wish they could give in to temptations. They fled from them.

  As calmly as she could, Tam gathered her things and turned away.

  She walked toward the city, reminding herself that it was better to be safe than free. Did she dare ask him questions? Was it better to ask a known monster or face unknown threats?

  And why didn’t he seem like a monster?

  Irial

  Irial watched Thelma leave as quickly as she could without actually running. He was glad that she had the sense not to run. Some fey had a terrible time resisting a chase. Since she had the Sight, she undoubtedly had seen what happened when a mortal reacted and fled.

  He wanted to chase, to hunt, to have.

  Thelma could not hide what she was from him. The rest of the faeries in the mortal world could be deceived by her cast down glances and schooled stillness, but in a sea of mortals, she stood out to him like a gem glinting in a pile of straw. Half-fey creatures and Sighed mortals all glimmered in his vision. It made him notice them, assess them, and sometimes get to know them.

  Centuries ago, mortals like her were stolen away and brought to Faerie as a matter of habit. Sorcha, the queen of his opposing court, still so. They thought of Thelma being stolen away was only slightly less horrifying than the thought of her in the clutches of the Summer King or the mercy of the Winter Queen.

  If Thelma had been anyone but the destined Summer Queen, Irial would have pursued her by now.

  And had her.

  Irial twisted the ring on his finger. He was wearing a gift from the mortal. That simple act of gratitude had solidified his plans. Thelma gave a gift to him when she had so little money or possessions; she risked every fear that she held about being found out for having the Sight.

  What harm could come of one brief dalliance? He was still planning to leave the city. He’d rather avoid getting caught up in the rivalry between the Winter Queen and Summer King.

  “Iri?”

  Irial had completely forgotten the presence of his closest friend in the world.

  “I am going to stay,” he said mildly.

  Gabe’s mouth quirked into a grin.

  “Loose ends and whatnot,” Irial added.

  “Right.”

  “It’s not like they’re here yet.” Irial glanced in the direction Thelma had gone.

  Gabriel said nothing.

  Irial gestured around the bayou. “Would staying be a hardship?”

  “The Hunt is at home here.”

  Strange animals thrived here, and the very trees seemed otherworldly. Sap bubbled to the surface of injured trees like droplets of blood. Cypress knees bent out of the water, like fey things sitting in slowly moving waters. The trees weren’t fey, of course, but more than a few faeries could pass for cypress in the right light. The bayou was a peculiar place, one in peril as Beira’s extended winters grew longer and harsher.

  “I’ve bought a house in the city,” Irial announced.

  Gabriel raised his brows and said, “I see.”

  The truth was that he likely did see. They’d been side-by-side for centuries. The hound had joined in brawls with humans and fey, plucked Irial out of a few prisons and dragged him from more than a few beds. Gabe had even tolerated that awkward business of Irial falling in love with Niall ages ago. The Hound knew Irial better than most anyone in either this world or in Faerie.

  Gabriel sighed loudly. “This is a bad idea.”

  “Most likely,” Irial agreed.

  “But you’re not changing course, are you?” Gabriel asked.

  Irial lifted one shoulder in a shrug. He hadn’t truly indulged in his fondness for mortals in ages, and this one was intriguing. Better yet, she was forbidden. One couldn’t be the head of the Dark Court without appreciating the sheer danger of pursuing this particular mortal woman.

  “I suppose it could be guilt,” Irial suggested. “I helped make the curse, and almost every year another mortal loses her mortality.”

  “Fey don’t make enough babies. Your curse adds a lot of women to our kind,” Gabriel stroked the face of his steed, petting the vicious creature. He did much the same when the beast was hidden under a glamour in the guise of a horse and carriage.

  “Do you think Beira planned to add to the summer court?” Irial asked.

  “Maybe?”

  Every human that Keenan chose started becoming fey. Most bonded to the Summer King, wilting like flowers deprived of light if they left his court.

  Being glimpsed by Keenan would mean that Thelma would either end up his queen or a wilting Summer Girl. Unless he saw her, no one but Irial would know who she was, but the king would dream. Details, images, and he’d describe her, and the whole of his court would seek her out. Over time, he’d begun to get closer and closer. The right nation, the right city, a distant relative of the girl. The curse was fading.

  Thelma’s odds of being found were in the king’s favor. Not hers. Not Irial’s. The best plan for her was if Keenan never set eyes on her.

  The danger wasn’t just Keenan, either. Once he identified the potential, Beira would work to stop him. She couldn’t outright murder the mortal, but she wouldn’t be the first ruler to cry out: “Will no one rid me of this creature?”

  “The sea keeps calling, and what shall I do?” Irial sang softly. “Oh, what shall I do?”

  “Raise a little trouble, I suspect,” Gabriel muttered as his steed shifted into a handsome horse-drawn carriage, one fit for nobility--or the American equivalent of it.

  “Well come on, then.” Gabriel climbed aboard and took the reins.

  “No horseless carriage then?” Irial teased.

  “Bah.”

  Irial laughed at his friend. They never agreed on the advances of technology. What was the point in immortality if one continued to live as if it were centuries past?

  As the steed swept by the girl who was walking toward the city, Irial wished he could pull her to him. It was foolish. A wise man would vacate the city, ignore the mortal, stay as far from the quarrel between Beira and Keenan as he could.

  “She’ll be mine,” I
rial swore. “Even if only briefly.”

  It was damned foolish. Bodies were bodies. In the moment of passion, all women were beautiful, and Irial had sampled enough over the centuries to believe that what mattered was how confident she was, how interesting, how clever. So far, she seemed to be all three.

  “I’m not going to lecture you, Irial.” Gabriel grinned, all teeth and menace, and added, “You’re more use to the court when you’re not pouting.”

  Irial made a crude gesture at his closest friend and added, “I was not pouting, Gabriel.”

  “One of these days your impulsiveness is going to get you killed.”

  “Better to live in passion than die in fear,” Irial said.

  And at that, his best friend nodded. That was the thing that defined the Dark Court above all else—not the excess, not the cruelties, but the passions.

  It was time Irial let himself remember that truth.

  Tam

  Tam sat at the makeshift jewelers bench she had assembled in her home. Atop it sat a handsaw for cutting metal, files, steel stamps, a small misshapen anvil, and assorted hammers. Next to those were flat sheets and poured shapes all made of scraps she’d gathered, melted, and re-shaped.

  She took up a sheet of brass, stared at it, and relinquished it. She repeated the process with a shining piece of hammered steel. It felt like it wanted to be a bracelet, and if she could, she’d fashion the two together.

  But as happened when she was feeling overwhelmed, Tam could not focus long enough to create. There was no pressure to do so when she had the funds to pay the rent and put food on her table. Her mind was cluttered with the things that she did not know.

  Going against all that she’d been taught about the fey was a fool’s business, and Tam hadn’t ever been a fool.

  Until now.

  Allowing herself to think about a faery—any faery really—was dangerous. They weren’t the sort of thing a mortal ought to trifle with, and they definitely weren’t the sort of creature that a woman with the Sight should think on.

  Tam dressed for the day, decided to treat herself to a beignet and coffee, and set out into the city. This early in the day, not too far into morning but well after the rising of the sun, she wouldn’t encounter quite so many drunkards.

  She was strolling through Jackson Square, enjoying the splash of nature in the city, and then she saw him. Irial. Her body felt like she’d caught lightning in her hand.

  He walked toward her, crossing the green space, seemingly unaware of both mortals and faeries staring at him.

  "Are you going to run again?" Irial asked gently as he reached her.

  "I suspect I should keep walking, sir, but I don't know how." Her face flushed at the honesty of it, at what she'd just admitted. Tam might not be the most proper of girls, but she wasn't so brash typically.

  He laughed, and she heard a thousand promises writhing in the sound. Every last one of them sounded like a brilliant idea in that moment. Tam closed her eyes against the onslaught. He truly was made of darkness, crafted of temptation and longing.

  “I felt much the same when I saw you the first time,” he said with no apparent artifice. He met her gaze. “I’ve thought of you often. Looked for you in the city’s corners.”

  “In truth?”

  “In truth,” he agreed.

  Her own brashness seemed less horrifying at those words. Faeries cannot lie. That, she hoped, was as true as she’d once been taught—not for the reasons she’d learned that and a dozen other rules, but because she wanted to believe that the strange, beautiful creature standing with her was as enchanted as she felt.

  After a long quiet moment, he asked, "What is your name, lovely?"

  "Thelma." She opened her eyes and stared up at him, fighting the temptation to give him her full name. Some thought that names held power. Thelma wasn't sure if it was true, but he had enough of that already without having her name. "I'm guessing you know that, but I’ll answer anyhow. My given name is Thelma. Mostly people call me Tam."

  He reached out as if to take her hand, but she drew back quickly.

  She glimpsed the ring she’d given him. Her breathing caught, and her heartbeat seemed to run away, galloping at his proximity.

  With a self-deprecating smile, he removed his hat with practiced grace, bowed his head briefly, and said, "Irial."

  Unbidden, a flow of the words of the English lady's poem came to her. Fast on the heels of that was every warning from every lesson: No good came from lingering with fey things. No good came of accepting the attention of what the poem called “goblin men” and Tam knew as fey things. This was when she ought to go. Maybe she ought to pack her things and go farther than simply home.

  Instead she swallowed her fears and smiled tenuously at Irial.

  "Is today a holiday for you, fair Thelma? A day off work?" Irial stepped closer.

  Mutely, she nodded. Her gaze dropped to that ring again. He had to know she’d recognize it.

  Warning filled her mind yet again. Do not watch the fey. Do not speak to them. Do not attract their attention. She, Thelma Moira Foy, was breaking every rule there was.

  "Will you walk with me?"

  "Why?" she blurted out.

  He smiled again, looking as if there was a laugh only moments from escaping, and then said, "Would you believe me if I said I could find no company in your city?"

  "I certainly would not." She folded her arms and found the strength to meet his gaze. Without blushing too much, Thelma looked at him from eyes to toes and back again. "I would wager that there are plenty of women who would spend time with someone who looks like you."

  "She finds me attractive at least," he murmured as if there were others nearby.

  Tam looked to the shadows beside Irial. There were no hidden faeries lurking in the darkness there. Relieved, she glanced back at him--only to find him staring where she'd just looked.

  "What do you seek in those shadows?"

  "Monsters," she admitted cautiously. "Every city has a few."

  Irial nodded. "Indeed, they do. Shall I tell you I'm not a monster?"

  "Could you tell me that without lying?"

  After a moment, he gave her an enigmatic smile. "I'm capable of a great many things with the right motivation."

  Despite every sound bit of logic, Tam wanted to be that motivation. She wanted any manner of things that she ought to resist. No good would come of this. She was certain of it, but as she turned and walked away, Tam gave in to her own worst impulses and said, "I'm going to the river. What you do is of no consequence to me."

  His laughter followed her, and after a moment, so did he.

  It should've frightened her, inviting a faery to follow her. It should've made her run, luring something inhuman to join her. Instead, she looked back over her shoulder and smiled, hoping she looked as wicked and tempting to him as he was to her. Maybe her friend Deirdre was right; maybe Tam was more beautiful than she’d thought.

  The powerful faery beside her seemed intrigued. Tam knew faeries were drawn to the unusual, and Tam’s independence was odd for a woman. She had no complaints about her appearance, but in the moment, Tam felt more powerful, beautiful, and thoroughly in control than she had in most of her life.

  It was an illusion, of course. Much as the fey things that peered from the edge of the river, that dangled in the tree boughs alongside garish carnival decorations, Irial was immeasurably intriguing. But the fey could skirt the edge of lies with a skill that was close enough to lies to deceive the wisest women. Tam was not wise enough to play such games.

  He was, in fact, a monster.

  And she’d invited him to walk with her.

  Irial

  Irial followed Thelma—at her invitation. The sheer peculiarity of following was remarkable to the Dark King. It wasn’t that he’d never been led, but it didn’t happen often. Gabriel would lead, of course. The Hound who led the Wild Hunt often appeared to forget that he was not in charge of Irial. The other regents might try.
Neither the Winter Queen nor the High Queen bowed to him, and the Summer King, despite his weaknesses, stood as an equal. Ultimately, however, the peril of being a king was that most creature were unwilling to be genuinely assertive, and Irial--for all that he enjoyed having power--appreciated those who took command.

  “I mean you no harm,” he announced, more bluntly than he typically spoke.

  Thelma glanced at him. “Could I get a vow from you on that?”

  “A vow?” He stared at her with increased interest. Guileless she wasn’t, but that didn’t mean he was eager to make binding promises. Lingering with her as he’d wanted was dangerous enough. Being beholden to her was positively deadly.

  “Are vows so very useful these days?”

  “For some.”

  “Gentlemen, you mean?” He gestured at his suit. It was a well-cut cloth, fashionable without being mundane. His hand was bedecked by the small ring she’d fashioned, and an elegant timepiece adorned his wrist.

  “Something like that.”

  He reached out toward her cheek, not touching but close enough that he could feel the heat of her skin in the palm of his hand. “Do you mean another thing then, fair Thelma?”

  She froze. Humans were often skittish things, especially those with the Sight. He knew better, but the metaphoric sands that slid through his fingers had made him clumsy. Time was often a languid thing for those that lived for a near eternal stretch, but his time with any mortal was finite. His time with this one was more fleeting than with most.

  “Some people keep their vows,” she demurred, as if she’d been innocently trying to ask for meaningless words. A binding vow was never meaningless.

  “Like goblin men?”

  Thelma’s breathing sped slightly. “Are you a goblin, Irial?”

  “Why ever would you ask that?” He stared at her mouth, luscious thing that it was. Was it truly so unwise to offer some small promise? If it resulted in taking that mouth with his own, he might be agreeable.

  They stood, her like a deer about to leap into an absent forest and him wondering if he ought to taunt the coming hunters. Nothing about their finite moment was wise. Absolutely nothing.