by Melissa Marr
“I don’t want to be a pawn.” Tam tilted her head, staring at the faery who currently held Tam’s fate. First Irial. Now her. And, of course, there was the Summer King somewhere nearby, scouring the city. At least Beira wouldn’t turn her over to him.
“What shall I do with you?” Beira asked, her tone making clear that it was a rhetorical question. “Do I let my son choose you, knowing you’re just a Sighted mortal? Or do I stop him, just in case you’re more?”
Tam stared at the woman, feeling as helpless as she’d feared when she’d fled from Niall.
“I’m leaving here,” she swore. “I don’t want to be your son’s pawn either.”
When the Winter Queen smiled, it was the sort of look that made Tam hope that her blood wouldn’t be the next to spill.
“Come with me,” Beira said.
And Tam had no choice. Up until now, she’d felt like she had, but as Beira stood, the icy cage had vanished. The three women on goats, Rika with her massive wolf, and a collection of other creatures surrounded Tam and Beira.
As one they escorted her to the edge of a cemetery.
Beira waved her hand in the air, and a shimmering doorway appeared. “I am not welcome there, but tell the High Queen who you are.”
The High Queen?
“Tell her that Bananach spoke to you, that I did, that you were in the Dark King’s boudoir, and that my son seeks you.” Beira made a shooing gesture, and Tam stumbled backward as if she was tumbling off the dock.
Before she touched the water, she fell through the shimmering doorway into a vast moment of emptiness.
Irial
“Where is she?” Irial’s voice rang like a storm that stretched across time and space to strike his every follower. Dark faeries across the whole of New Orleans and beyond winced at the degree of sheer rage in their king’s voice.
In his Garden Street house, he was a terrifying sight to behold. Glasses, bottles, and objets d’art shattered. Walls bent and melted, and an entire set of stairs was lost in a storm of darkness.
“Thelma.” Irial roared her name as if there was any doubt. Vibrations of wrath raced along the tendrils radiating from him, careening along shadowed lines to every faery who had declared fealty to the Dark Court.
“Gabriel! I have need of a hunting party.”
He lifted a divan and tossed it through a window. In a moment, the whole of the Hunt came through that shattered window, fierce in ways that would make any but the one who summoned them quake.
The steeds were in various forms. Beasts and horses alike, green gusts of exhalations lighting the room the will o’ the wisp. A few of the steeds looked more mythical that others. One seemed to think it was a dragon, a chimera grinned from all three heads, while another steed stretched as if it was a great lindwurm. One very odd beast resembled the twisted offspring of a kelpie and lion.
“Our quarry?” Gabriel asked.
“Bring me Thelma Foy. Safe. Unharmed.” Irial watched his words spiral onto Gabriel’s flesh. “She is mine.”
“Iri—”
“She is the missing Summer Queen, and I declare her mine.” Irial’s voice was a roar that they’d not heard from his lips in a great many centuries. “What belongs to the Dark shall not fall to the Summer.”
Gabriel nodded once. His voice rolled out like a growing wave of terror over the city, the nation, and into the sea as he pronounced, “We hunt Thelma Foy. Let it be known. None shall stop the Hunt.”
The steeds shared nonverbal communication with their riders—and with the Hound who led them all. Everyone knew what Irial had said, and they understood the weight of the Hunt’s orders.
“I would ride, too,” Irial said, slightly less confident now. The Hunt could refuse his request; not even a king could command the Wild Hunt.
Gabriel started to answer, “We—"
A cackling of laughter drowned the words. As one, they looked to the sound. Standing in the wreckage of the house was Bananach. She was the embodiment of war, sister to the High Queen, and general force of Chaos. Hers was the battle and the blood.
“I did not know you were among us,” Irial said, voice drawn tight.
“I heard the whispers of conflict.” Bananach pirouetted over the glass, trailing blood in her wake.
“What have you done?”
“Shared whispers. Sparked violence. Secrets, Irial, make for weapons when spoken rightly.” Bananach danced over the glass and debris. The long feathers that spilled down her back fluttered and shifted in the breeze from the shattered window.
“Bananach.” Gabriel moved to Irial’s side. His steed’s pit viper face watched the raven-faery. “Do you know where the girl is?”
Suddenly, Bananach’s visage shifted. She wore a glamour that made her feathers look like hair. Her face was a twin to Thelma’s.
“You were going to turn me over to them?” Bananach’s voice was her own, but the cadence was Thelma’s. She looked from face-to-face plaintively. “I had to run, you see. I discovered that I wasn’t safe if I stayed here with his lordship.”
Irial’s rage lashed out like a sword, slicing Bananach’s belly open. “The Summer King will abduct her, steal her humanity—"
“And you’ll fight for her.” Bananach opened and closed her mouth with an audible snap, as if she’d bite him. “And so, war will come.”
Gabriel, leader of the Hunt, growled. The others matched him.
“Oh, no, the puppies are upset!” Bananach scowled. “I have no use for yipping pups. I want the dogs of war. I want the Darkness to rage. Bring me blood.”
Irial took another step toward her, but then he heard Gabriel call, “We ride. Now.”
Another steed stepped forward. Wolf-like and predatory, it nudged Irial’s shoulder.
“If you are with us, mount.” Gabriel didn’t glance back to see if Irial was with him.
Gabriel looked to the shattered window, and the whole Hunt started to run. They would look like the thick of storm to mortal eyes. To the fey they were as one solid, writhing mass of teeth and claws flashing in green mist. Their unholy howls rippled into the city, and every mortal shivered at once without knowing why. The truly sensitive made signs to ward off harm.
Nothing, no creature, could hide from the Wild Hunt.
If Winter or Summer had gained the Hunt’s loyalty, the curse would’ve ended the moment the Hunt was loosed, but creatures that rode under their Gabriel’s command had no love for ice or sunlight. They reveled in the night, and that was the domain of the Dark Court.
Irial wasn’t ready to give her up. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready for that. In this, he knew Bananach was correct: Irial would start a war for Thelma. If Keenan found her, Irial would find a way. The Summer and the Dark didn’t need to be at odds.
But the thought of Keenan touching Thelma, kissing her, seeing her astride him made rage burn in the Dark King’s eyes. Thelma was his, not Keenan’s. The Summer King might have Niall at his side, but he wasn’t taking her, too.
The Hunt crossed the city several times. No Thelma. They entered the bayou, baying echoed among the cypress trees, hooves and claws slicing through the marsh soil. No Thelma.
“Where is she?”
Tam
Tam felt nothing behind her. No doorway. No tatters of cloth. No icy breeze from the woman who was the incarnation of winter. As Tam looked behind her, there was only air. She was not sure where she was, but this was not the dock in New Orleans.
She turned in a circle, taking in the sheer oddity of where she now stood. The ground was lush, wildflowers sprinkled over deep green grass, and willows stretched out as if to reach towering oaks or touch the columnar yew trees. It looked like a mish-mash of places, but it was the napping dragon in the field of poppies and daisies that made Tam very certain that she wasn’t in the real world.
“Am I dead?”
The sunset-hued dragon opened an eye and looked at her. The eye was a great swirling thing, as if the entire heavens were contained
in it. Stars and worlds of wonder glimmered in the scaled creature’s iris.
“Did I fall?” Tam pinched her wrist. “Am I in a bed unaware of the world?”
The dragon said nothing, simply stared at her as if she was no different than any forest creature. Then, as calmly as you please, it stood and shook from tip of tail to snout. When it was done shaking, a woman stood where the dragon had been.
“Sometimes things re-make themselves when I drowse.” She stretched. Hair the same hue as the dragon’s scales fell over her shoulders and chest. Then she blinked a few times, and the worlds in her eyes vanished.
She stared at Tam.
“Am I dead?” Tam asked. “I was talking to Beira and there was a doorway and . . . did I die? Is this the afterlife?”
The woman—faery—shook her head. “The dead do not create life.”
“I don’t—”
“Here.” The faery placed a hand on Tam’s abdomen. “Fey and mortal.”
Tam’s mouth opened, but no words came. The woman hummed a lullaby of some sort as she placed her other hand on Tam’s now curving belly.
“A child to Dark Court,” the faery said, eyes still closed. “I was wondering when you would appear. The threads shifted.”
“Who are you?”
“Sorcha. Twin to Bananach. The first of our kind.”
“The first . . . faeries?” Tam’s hands covered her now-larger belly. It was large enough to have space for Sorcha’s hands and her own.
She glanced down.
Her stomach looked like she was halfway into a pregnancy. Under her hands, she felt movement. A child. A child was growing in her body.
“How?” Tam spread her fingers wide on either side of the sudden expansion. “We . . . last night . . . I had never until this week . . . how?”
“You rejected your fate, Thelma Foy. Chose Darkness over the Summerlight inside you.” Sorcha offered a beatific smile at Tam’s nearly full-term pregnancy. “Fate must continue, and so you will pass your sunlight to another girl. A stronger one because her father is Darkness made flesh.”
And despite having no desire to have a child until this very moment, Tam knew that she would kill or die for this baby. Her daughter. Irial’s daughter. She caressed her own abdomen and confessed, “I wanted no children.”
“But you wanted to stay mortal, choose your own lover,” Sorcha offered a shrug very reminiscent of Irial. “There are always choices, but there are also consequences for each choice.”
“The Summer King can’t take my daughter.” Tam stepped backward. “I’ll kill him.”
“Summer?” Sorcha tilted her head. “You would kill Summer and thus every living being? All mortals—including her—and all faeries? You would kill Irial? Me? Bananach? Gabriel?”
“No, but—”
“Summer will find his queen, Thelma Foy. He will not take this child, but her daughter—”
“I’ll warn her, then. No men. Ever.”
Sorcha’s laugh was like breaking glass. “And tell me, child, how did that decision work for you?”
“I’ll keep her home, and—”
“Fate will find a way.” Sorcha caught a tear that slid down Tam’s face. In a gesture, it was a diamond, glimmering in the palm of the faery’s hand. As Tam wept, more diamonds joined the one in Sorcha’s palm. “You will resist your fate. Mortals are fascinating that way.”
She poured the diamonds into Tam’s hand. “You will want these when you return to the world.”
Tam looked at the handful of precious stones. “If I return, stay with Irial, maybe . . .” She glanced at the faery, who was watching her with a bemused look. “Don’t you ever want to resist fate?”
She smiled at Tam again. “I see all the potential fates, the futures that might be. They shift, shatter, renew. Sometimes, you can change the world. This is a truth I accept, but sometimes, Thelma, there are no answers that are exactly right.” She touched the full weight of the pregnant belly. “You resisted, and so you found love and—”
“He doesn’t—" Her words caught in her throat. “I don’t--”
“You are changed by the child.” Sorcha kissed her forehead. “You cannot lie until the babe is born because she is half-fey.”
“Elena.”
Sorcha laughed again. “You name the daughter of the Darkness ‘shining light’? No wonder he loves you. Such impertinence must be irresistible to Irial. His heart must be breaking.” She stared into the distance before adding, “You will see him again.”
“If he loves me, I’ll . . . live with him. He’ll protect our daughter.” A pain in her belly made her muffle a cry.
“Come, Thelma,” Sorcha urged, voice gentle and soothing. “Let us welcome Elena of the Darkness into Faerie.” She wrapped a surprisingly strong arm around Tam’s low back and steered her along a path into a forest that hadn’t been there until now. “We shall bring the child into the land of her father. Once, he reigned here, too. The courts, as you must realize, are divided, but we balance. Irial is my opposite. My—”
“Do you mean him harm? Or my daughter?”
“No,” Sorcha assured her. “Nor you.” She directed Tam to a cottage, one that definitely wasn’t there a moment ago. “I urged him to be in that world, where he can thrive around mortals, where he can frighten Summer and Winter.”
Another pain made Tam’s knees weak.
“And you, Thelma, were there. He was always destined to find love with a mortal. It is what his kind does. It is what he was fated to do.” She helped Tam onto a bed. “From that love, there will be a child. Your descendent will free Summer, and balance will come.”
The pain came again. Sooner, this time. And almost instantly, it washed over her so sharply that she cried out.
“Rest, Thelma, and when you wake, Elena will be in your arms.”
This was not, of course, how birth was to work. Tam knew that. Childbirth was grueling, bloody, painful—and slow. Then, again, a pregnancy was to last longer than a moment.
Tam forced herself to stay alert a moment longer. “Why so quickly?”
Sorcha stroked Tam’s forehead. “Because I want him to know his daughter for a moment. He deserves a gift, Thelma, for this great service he is doing to the world. You both do.”
And then there was no more. Pain pulled Tam under, and she did not resist.
Niall
Keenan paced the confines of the house they’d rented. It was, like all of his spaces, elegant and filled with more plant life than houses usually wore. Things sprouted and grew near the Summer King, and since he’d been in the city, the plants from the courtyard had steadily stretched into the house. Magnolia blossoms as big as Niall’s hands had appeared that morning, and several birds of paradise had followed suit. The blossoms on them were the shape of vibrant orange birds’ heads, and the fiery color always made them a particular favorite in the Summer King’s houses.
Keenan stood near a bower of blossoms and repeated, “Tell me again.”
Niall described the mortal once more: “Irish, red hair, average height, dark eyes. Thin.”
“What was her name?”
“Tammy? Tara? I don’t know.” Niall shrugged. Honestly, the details to describe mortals were limited. What made them remarkable was the way they lived and moved. In this case, the woman hadn’t been memorable to him. His attention had been elsewhere.
On Irial.
On the way he felt seeing a mortal in Irial’s arms. It wasn’t sheer jealousy. He was far too fey for that. The moment of seeing her in Irial’s arms had overwhelmed Niall because she was a mortal. That stirred far too many memories.
“She was the one. She must have been.” Keenan dropped his head. “My future queen. She was here. I felt her, dreamed of her, but . . . when I search for her now, she’s gone.”
Whatever method the Summer King used to locate the women he wooed, it wasn’t yielding any results now.
“I felt her here. I did.” Keenan absently kissed a Summer Girl who twir
led through the room. “How could she be gone now?”
Niall felt guilt wash over him. He’d been in the room with her, watched Irial kiss her senseless—and despite everything, he’d felt a flicker of envy. He remembered such kisses. In fact, he dreamed of Irial when he was recovering from the Winter Queen’s attack. When he woke, Niall could swear he tasted shadows on his lips.
“And Rika met her?” Keenan prompted.
“Yes.” Niall straightened, shoving thoughts of the Dark King away. “And Beira was already seeking her.”
The Summer King dropped to his knees in despair. Keenan’s sorrow created a flash of rain in the house, and Niall winced at the destruction. “Has she died?”
To that, Niall had no answer.
“You need to fight back.” Niall glanced at his king, feeling more irritation than empathy. “See Rika. Find answers.”
Keenan sighed. “I am never going to find my queen if Beira has begun to kill the potentials before—"
“She is not.” Niall’s voice was harder than usual, but being Keenan’s advisor sometimes meant functioning as a father-figure. “The curse has terms, Keenan. Think.”
Keenan pushed to his feet.
“There are rules. If you didn’t select her yet, Beira wouldn’t kill her.” Niall pushed away a nagging doubt about the other reason Beira would notice the girl.
Could Irial have known she was the destined queen?
“We will summon Rika.” Keenan’s arms were suddenly full of giggling Summer Girls, oblivious to the drama and knowing only that their king was with them and needed cheering.
“You want Rika to come here?”
Keenan shrugged. “She’s been here before.”
Niall stared at his king; although he was Keenan’s advisor, he was sometimes stuck silent by the sheer callousness of the Summer King. There was more of his mother in him than not, or perhaps that was his father. Miach saw no issue with frolicking with any and all who were willing. That was why Beira had murdered the last king.