by Melissa Marr
“Thelma?”
She stared at him, meeting his eyes.
“These are dangerous questions you’re asking me,” he whispered. “If you asked them of the wrong man, it would be deadly for you.”
“I see.” She drew away and walked faster, not quite racing to the river but moving faster.
At first Irial watched, far too entranced by the sway of her hips and the rhythm of her footfalls. She moved like music, as if attuned to the ebb and flow of the tides, caught by the moon’s pull much as any drowning pool. He could lose everything in her sway. The thought of it, of gambling so much, made him want to chase and flee all at once.
The rhythm broke. Tam paused and glanced back. She smiled as if she couldn’t help herself. Thelma wasn’t going to fall into Keenan’s arms or under Beira’s sway easily.
But she seemed eager to linger with him.
He kept a measured pace as he caught up with her. “You’re dangerous, aren’t you, Thelma?”
“No more so than you, I suppose,” she said glibly.
He laughed. “True.”
The girl was unexpected, and after a lifetime that spanned more centuries than he wanted to count, the unexpected caught Irial's attention the way a clever snare captures any wild creature.
"You're staring at me," she pointed out.
"I am." The thought of her looking at Keenan the way she had looked at him when he’d stopped following her made Irial growl aloud.
"And growling?" Tam smiled slightly after she said it, though, and her words carried no hostility. “Is that a goblin thing?”
“Indeed, it might be,” he allowed. It was always a peculiar pleasure to have a woman know that he was not human, to see the fey in shadows, and still have her want him. And she did. He could all but taste her desire. Almost unbidden, an admission spilled through his lips: “Perhaps, love, it’s just me. I find you maddeningly intriguing.”
Thelma had stopped at the side of the river, the Mighty Mississippi, the very thing that made this city so important to mortals. It was the gateway that lead from sea to the interior of the nation, powerful because of what it offered. In the currents, young water horses—kelpies—frolicked, unseen to most eyes.
"The way you look at me . . . it's not normal."
“Neither are you,” he pointed out.
Those rare humans with the Sight had always seemed magical to him. Maybe it was a consequence of his own nature, but he could always find them in the sea of humanity. When he saw them out the corner of his eye, they shimmered, as if they were not wholly in the world. They saw him as he truly was, through the glamour of mortality that his kind could wear. Unfortunately, they were also often terrified of faeries. Thelma wasn’t afraid of him.
"I was thinking of your appearance."
"I see," she said, staring at the dark water not at him.
"You're not remarkable." He told her truthfully. "Aside from your eyes."
Thelma appeared stunned by his words, and this time her words carried a sharp edge. "Too plain for you?"
"No." Irial felt a fool. He wasn't unaware of how to charm a woman. If anything, he'd typically have to work at being less than charming. "No," he repeated more stridently. "I watch for you. I see a parade of women, yet I look for your face."
"I see," she said again, sounding more confused than offended now.
"Why do you suppose that is?" he mused.
"Why . . . ?" she echoed.
"Why do I watch for you, Thelma?" He reached out, considered touching her cheek, but she stepped away.
"I have no idea." Thelma turned her back to him. She stared out at the river.
Boats and barges sailed in the waters of the Mississippi, carrying goods to sea or into the interior of the country. The tiny waves lapped at the banks, so different from the seas at home. Maybe that was it. Maybe he was simply drawn to the fact that the girl was Scottish by birth. Maybe it was that she had the Sight. Maybe it was that she had a touch of the fey to her because of the curse she’d been born under.
Irial had no idea.
"I fear that I will suffer if I get any nearer to you, Thelma," he whispered. "Doing so seems extremely ill-advised."
She glanced over her shoulder at him, frowned, and said, "Then perhaps you shouldn't.” She offered him a wry smile before adding, “Although I understand the temptation you face. I might share a comparable malaise."
He paused. What would happen if the missing mortal girl were to lie with the Dark King instead of the Summer King? Would I get his bound powers? The thought of it filled Irial with a strange, wicked glee. The Dark Court would be more powerful than any of the others. It wasn’t why he was drawn to her, but it was a rational reason to offer his court if they realize that he was indulging in flirtations that could draw the ire of two courts their way.
Slowly, carefully, the Dark King let the barest tips of his gloved fingers glide across the small of Thelma's back as she continued to look over her shoulder at him.
"Some risks are worth it," he assured her.
She stepped away then, even as his fingers felt like they burned despite the layers between them. Not the glove on his hand, her cheap woolen wrap, or the dress under that could make the sunlight hiding in this girl any less deadly. Both the Summer King and the Winter Queen would have Irial tortured if they knew the thoughts crowding his already wicked mind.
Thelma would not be theirs. Of that much, he was suddenly sure. The girl might still die, mortals did that, but it wouldn't be at the Winter Queen's hands. And she would surely be seduced, but not by the Summer King. Irial would do his best to keep her safe—and in his arms.
"The look of you just now frightens me a bit." Thelma no longer had the temptress smile she'd had when she'd walked away from him in invitation, but she was still not intimidated.
“I am often thought of as frightening, and for good reason,” he admitted. “But I’d rather not frighten you.”
"Do you mean to hurt me?" she asked.
"No," he said, pleased to be able to speak truthfully. "Pleasure was what I was pondering, love. Yours, in truth. Many hours of it."
"Oh. I . . . That's . . . I'm not an abandoned woman. If you thought I was, I . . . The city has those, but I'm not. I’ve never sold myself, and I don’t plan to do so. If you thought--"
"Excellent. Then my money shall stay in my holdings." He nodded. “A virgin, then?”
She gasped. “Of course!”
Her innocence was a bit of an obstacle, but it wasn't insurmountable.
"What I mean, sir, is that I am not seeking a man. Not as a protector or as a spouse. I'm an independent woman." She stood taller as she explained.
"So, I can't pay you for your affection, and you want no husband?"
"Correct." She nodded, smiling at him as if he were a pupil in a schoolroom who had just answered a difficult question.
"Then I shan't propose to you," he told her with his smile held firmly in check. "Not to be your protector or husband."
"I fear you're mocking me."
"No, love." He reached out, but did not touch her even as she leaned ever so slightly toward him. Then, in a quiet voice, he warned her, "I shall seduce you, though, just--"
"No! We could be friends, perhaps."
"Just as you are seducing me already, Thelma," he spoke over her.
She stared at him for a moment and then she began to laugh. It was a younger sound than seemed possible for a woman who had unknowingly challenged the Dark King and insisted that they would be platonic friends. Irial was immeasurably charmed. He stood watching her as her laughter turned to giggles and a few very unladylike snorting sounds.
Finally, several moments later, she composed herself. "I suspect I deserved that joke for thinking a man like you would want to marry me or take me as a mistress."
"You were rather serious."
"No one believes a woman can be powerful," she said. "We can sell our bodies for the wealth of our benefactors, or we can cling to men as w
ives. We move from our father's house to a husband's, and education is--" She stopped herself suddenly and glanced his way. "I'm a bit of a blue-stocking. It's rather off-putting to a great many people."
Irial shrugged. "I, too, have a few habits that are off-putting to a great many people."
Thelma's entire posture shifted. She relaxed and smiled warmly at him. “Perhaps two off-putting creatures ought to be capable of being friends then.”
"Let us walk together, and see what trouble we can create." Irial, mind resolved, offered her his arm.
After a brief hesitation, she tucked her arm into the fold of his and kept pace as they walked in companionable silence along the great river.
"Why New Orleans?" he asked as they ambled along the river.
Thelma looked at him with a wry look. "I was hiding."
Did she know what she was? Who she was? Had the mortal learned that she was the Summer Queen in hiding? That her mortal shell carried half of Summer itself?
Surely, she couldn't. Mortals knew little of the business of the faeries, especially that particular business. Finding her was nigh on impossible. If he did say so himself, it was a clever curse. He hadn't intended it to be quite so unbreakable when he'd helped craft it.
With any luck, though, it would stay unbroken a touch longer.
Abruptly, he reached in a pocket and withdrew a calling card. It wasn’t a thing he’d often had use of, but pretending to be a mortal business man meant he sometimes needed them.
“If you need to find me . . .” The card, thick with a swirl of black ink, felt like a commitment to this dangerous path when he extended it to her. On it was his name and address.
Thelma looked at, read his Garden District address aloud, and noted, “No surname?”
Irial shrugged with one shoulder. “My name isn’t a common one.”
Thelma laughed, another flurry of joyous giggles that made him glad he’d offered her his address. She was joyous, and he could see the hint of summer in her. "Are you familiar with the French Market doughnuts, Irial?"
He glanced at her. Thelma shimmered before him, reminding him that she surely must know he wasn't human, that she undoubtedly knew the fey had a fondness for sweets. Anyone who'd lived in this city longer than a moment ought to have encountered the pastries that were akin to what the French called "beignets."
"They sell them three to a plate along with delicious coffee with chicory and warm milk," she added conspiratorially. "I treat myself to them monthly."
"Only monthly?"
Thelma glanced his way. "I intend to be an independent woman, Irial. That requires a budget."
Glibly he promised, "As long as I'm here in your life, I shall buy you pastries and milk weekly." He flashed her a cheeky grin and added, "No intimate favors required, simply a gift for a new friend."
The giggle he'd hoped for came quickly, and not long after that, they were sharing a sugar-coated square of fried dough. The far-too-innocent joy she took in the dessert was a sharp contrast to the thoughts that followed in his mind as she daintily licked the sugar from her fingers.
Promises that he wouldn't require intimate favors did not, fortunately, mean that he couldn't imagine them—or plan to convince her to offer them. They simply weren’t required.
Tam
Before their dessert was gone, Tam was fairly convinced that even if this was a terrible idea, she was going to pursue it. She had only a few casual friends, but life was difficult for those who left their family behind. It was equally so for those who worked jobs rather than marrying gentlemen. Sometimes—not often, mind you, but every once in a weary moon—Tam wished for someone who would support her interests, but wouldn’t ask her to bear his young.
Sexual relations lead to children, and any children she had would likely see the fey. Perhaps if there were a reliable way to control reproduction, it would be different, but as it stood, Tam couldn’t imagine the challenge of keeping a child’s Sight secret—and as she was terrified of the fate of any child of hers. Consigned to a madhouse or tortured by the fey, what hellish fates were those to offer a child?
“Do you want children?” she asked gracelessly as they were strolling away from the river toward Jackson Square.
Irial paused. “It’s a difficult question, I’m afraid.”
“Because?”
“I fell in love once, but my beloved found reason to hate me. Good reason, I fear.” Irial looked away, and Tam could see shadows creeping from the edges of buildings like they would caress him. “Even if my love weren’t gone from me, we were not . . . suited to reproducing together.”
Tam wondered then if perhaps he was prone to affection for mortals. A sheep couldn’t breed with a horse, so perhaps that was true of mortals and fey, too. Her hand was on his arm, so it seemed only natural for Tam to squeeze his arm.
Whatever grief he was holding was tucked away again. “And I’m not sure I’m father material. I look after my responsibilities, but my duties take so much time that I doubt I could be a proper father. I travel. It’s essential for the things I do.”
“Such is the nature of goblins,” she teased, wanting to chase back the shadows that lingered near Irial.
He laughed. “Indeed.”
Tam leaned closer. To be honest, the thought that she could perhaps experience carnal pleasure without risk of pregnancy did little to calm her interest in him. To know such joy, but not have the risk. . . It was enough to excite her, but to think—even for a moment—of knowing Irial intimately, that was dizzying.
After a few moments, Irial asked, “Would you trust me with your well-being, Thelma?”
“Forever?”
He paused, angling so he was looking into her face. “Perhaps, but in this moment, I would settle for the next few hours.”
Tam nodded. It was all she could do. When he looked at her, she didn’t feel friendly. She felt unfamiliar longing, as if the one thing she most wanted was to press her lips to his. She swallowed, forcing traitorous urges to quiet, and said, “I am yours for now.”
The smile that came over him at her words made Tam want to say or do whatever it took to elicit a million more smiles.
“‘For now’ will have to do, I fear,” Irial whispered.
He led her to an almost nondescript building on the edge of the French Quarter, nothing on the outside to indicate what was inside. One man stood at the door, as if he was merely resting against the building. However, when Tam looked at him, she saw that he was one of the cheery lion-maned fey that lingered near musicians as if they were drinking the very sound.
“Are the hosts in?” Irial asked.
The lion-maned faery looked at her, then. His glamour was that of a Creole man, but under that, Tam could see his lustrous mane of hair. She marveled at his leonine nose and sharp teeth.
“For both of you?”
“She is under my care,” Irial draped an arm over her shoulders in a very familiar way.
“A moment.” The lion-maned faery went inside.
Tam felt much like she’d felt the first time she’d seen a viper. She stayed perfectly still, terrified that the wrong move could be perilous—not because she was a mortal facing a faery, but because Irial’s hand on her shoulder was very intimate.
“Love?”
Tam’s voice was squeaky when she said, “Yes?”
“You’re safe with me,” he whispered in her ear. “No one, no person, will injure you when I am at your side.”
“And . . . the goblins?” she asked, hoping against hope that their seemingly clear metaphor was as clear to him as it had been to her. “Am I safe from them as well?”
He hesitated, exhaled so that his breath was hot against her ear. The feel of it made her knees weaken. Then he whispered, “My vow, Thelma. I will do all that is in my power to do to protect you from goblins, from men, from any creature that seeks to harm you or take you from my arms.”
She turned her head in shock. The motion meant that Irial’s lips brushed the cor
ner of her eye.
“As long as it’s in my power,” he added, and then he kissed the edge of her eyelid.
There were words she ought to say, as well as a great many of them that she ought not say. A faery, a Dark Court faery if her understanding was correct, had offered her his protection. A vow. Moreover, he’d expressed fondness for her, as if having her in his arms was something remarkable to him, too. It felt impossible.
Faeries didn’t protect humans. She’d seen men drown in the river, their bodies held under the surface by blue-scaled arms. She’d seen kelpies kick the water to froth and send boats toppling. She’d watched the same beasts offer rides to children, and their tiny bodies would show up lifeless in the water. No, there were reasons enough that she ought not trust a faery, and just as many reasons that one would not offer a mortal his protection. Both violated everything she’d learned.
“Why?” she asked.
But the lion-maned man returned, and the doors were opened to them, and they were ushered inside posthaste. Irial had her arm again, and she was grateful for his steadying support as she stepped from the bright sun into the dim interior of the building.
Inside, tables were spaced apart with the minimum possible distance, except for one which was set off to the side. Tam glanced at the floor; circular spots where table and chair legs ought to be made clear that other tables had been present, presumably only moments earlier. The solitary table was near the wall; no one would be able to step behind them stealthily.
“Come.” Irial directed her to a chair, pulled it out for her to be seated, and then took his own seat. “Here is not a place to discuss private matters.”
Tam looked around. Not shockingly, considering the faery man at the door, the dim room was filled with faeries. A few glowed like slivers of sunlight were trying to find a way to break free. Others made bits of ice cover the table. Still others were taking tables to themselves, steadfastly separate from everyone in the room. Typically, fey creatures seemed to gather in clusters, like to like, not dissimilar from the citizens of New Orleans. Here, though, they were mingling with faeries unlike themselves. She marveled at it, wondering if she ought to ask, and equally aware that she ought not even be in such a place.