by Melissa Marr
Beira shrugged. “I believe my darlings and I are off to Chicago. Do let me know when you’re ready to ruin another life, my dear boy.” She glanced at Niall. “Coat.”
He tossed it to her in silence.
Once she’d left, Keenan said quietly, “She killed the girl.”
“One day, you’ll be unbound. Then you can protect mortals, fey, and yourself from her,” Niall said, trying to comfort his king.
Unbidden, the thought whispered over him: Who comforted Irial? Keenan mourned a what-might-have-been, but Irial actually knew the woman. Thelma Foy, whether or not she was the missing queen, had been remarkable enough to attract strong emotion in three regents. It was impressive—although, in her case, it also had apparently led to her sudden demise.
Irial
Several weeks passed. The Hunt had no luck finding her, and Irial’s temper was remarkably unstable. Even Bananach had seen the wisdom in avoiding a drunk, angry Dark King.
When Beira arrived with her hags, each of the three hags had brought a mortal woman who resembled Thelma in some way.
“A gift.” Beira motioned to them.
“Beira.” Irial lifted his glass in her general direction. He wasn’t sober by any stretch, and standing seemed irrational.
“You’re quite the disaster, Irial.” Beira swept her hand to the side, and a gust of icy wind cleared everything from the room so it was gathered into a heap against the wall. Snow covered all of it, and then lifted into elegant, overly ornate furniture to fill the space that was emptied of debris.
“That’ll be a mess later.”
“It was a mess already.” Beira motioned to the three mortals who were quaking and whimpering. “I have brought you replacement mortals.”
Irial shook his head. “Doesn’t work like that.”
“I could kill them. Or you could.” Beira created a series of swords and knives of ice. “Would that improve your mood?”
“You are a kind woman sometimes,” Irial assured her, although he was fairly certain that “kind” was entirely the wrong word. “I am not in any condition to torture, maim, or seduce.”
The Winter Queen stared at him. “No one recalls it, and I am loath to speak of it, but I do understand the madness of love.”
“I remember, Beira. You and Miach were besotted in ways that”—Irial shuddered—“defy logic.”
Beira smiled, and for a brief moment, she looked young, happy, and almost unfamiliar. “We were. I sometimes wish I hadn’t killed him. Pregnancy made me more emotional, you realize.”
Irial nodded.
“Faery children change a woman’s essential nature. Women start to behave erratically, in some cases before even knowing they are with child. . .especially if the child is not of their own court or kind.” The Winter Queen stared at him as if to impress truth upon his mind through her will alone.
When Irial nodded and drank, Beira frowned. “Are all men as stupid as this, or am I merely beleaguered by those with lower intellects?”
“Hard to say, snowflake, hard to say.” He was vaguely aware that the Winter Queen hated nicknames, but especially that one. Miach had used it.
She walked over and said, “You need to think clearly, Irial. Trying to enrage me is not the solution.”
“Pretty, pretty snowflake . . .”
Beira sighed, dripping ice and snow over him. Then she called to the hags, “See him and the mortals to his bed.” She stared down at Irial. “They’re Sighted. Where does one send Sighted mortals, Irial?”
“Sorcha.”
“So, either keep them or take them to her,” Beira said.
“I don’t—”
The Winter Queen punched him.
When he woke, he knew. He knew in a way that would have been instantly apparent if Thelma were anything other than mortal. There was one place the Hunt had not sought her, a place where they were not welcome, where the Sighted mortals were often taken.
“Sir?” One of the three mortals stared at him.
They were dressed and looking at him with more interest than fear. He sighed. Beira had delivered a reason, a motive to go to Faerie, just in case his alcohol-soaked brain still hadn’t thought of the answer.
“I’ll take you to a place you’ll be safe,” he told them. “I mean you no harm.”
They still watched him warily. Doing so was a good instinct. In truth, he thought they would be safe, but on occasion, the High Queen was a fan of removing the eyes of Sighted mortals. Of late, she only did that to those who demanded to return to the mortal world.
As Thelma likely would . . .
Irial quaked at the flicker of a thought that Sorcha, the High Queen, had carved out Thelma’s eyes. How could she create her art without her eyes? Sure, he’d given her a jeweler’s shop, and the income from it would sustain her if she was still alive, but her eyes . . .
But worry over her eyes was pointless if she was dead. Beira seemed to think she was in Faerie, and although trusting Winter was never the first impulse for anyone who’d met Beira, she obviously felt like she had a reason to help him. He tried to pull up memories of their conversation, but he’d been at a level of drunkenness that he hadn’t reached since Niall had left him.
Irial whispered orders that the Hunt should raise hell to stir up fear and anger, emotions to nourish the Dark Court. Then, he walked into the dusk of the city with three mortal women and found a gate to Faerie.
It was the only answer left. If the Hunt could not find her, Thelma was dead or had found her way to Faerie.
Inside the land that had once been his home, he found the High Queen weaving a rainbow into the sky. The three mortals were staring at Sorcha and the peculiar world of Faerie in open-mouthed shock.
“Is she here?” Irial asked.
Sorcha smiled. “You are on time. The threads were constant on this, but you are always more unpredictable than the others, Dark King.”
“Is Thelma here?”
“Today? Yes. She mustn’t stay too long, but”—Sorcha extended a hand to him, and he dutifully took it—“for today and several more, she can rest. She was in need of rest after speaking with Bananach and Beira.”
She turned to the women. “Follow this path, and ask questions of the man you will find at the end.” In a blink, a path—one that included random circles—stretched out and led toward an open meadow of flowers.
Once they left, Sorcha turned back to Irial.
He escorted the High Queen along another path, one that appeared to be made of turtles. The High Queen might be the embodiment of logic, but there was a whimsical side to her at moments. “Does she have her eyes?”
“Do mortals lose them often?” Sorcha asked.
“No.” He let out a sigh. “You gouge them out, Sorcha. Thelma has the Sight.”
“And you should be grateful.” Sorcha nodded as if she was agreeing with sentences he couldn’t hear.
Typically, he didn’t mind, but today, he was impatient. “So, she is uninjured?”
“Yes,” was all she said.
They walked on the turtle-made path into a medieval castle. When last he’d visited, it was something else, but the High Queen rebuilt the world around her often. It was disconcerting at the best of times.
“Where—"
“The girl must go to the mortal world, Irial.” Sorcha gave him a terrible sorrowful look. “I am sorry for you, but there is no other option. The curse requires that she be in the world where Keenan can find her.”
“She’s mine. Thelma will never choose him.”
“True, but the future Summer Queen must be there when the time comes.” Sorcha shrugged.
Her words made no sense. If Thelma wouldn’t become Keenan’s bride, what did it matter where she was?
“Thelma could stay, but the girl must go back. I don’t believe they will separate, though.” Sorcha glanced away, seeing the future, and then added, “They will not.”
Irial was not going to attempt to reason with cold logic herself, ev
en though she made no sense whatsoever. He bowed his head. “May I see Thelma?”
Sorcha summoned a servant, a mortal one, and said, “Take the Dark King to the village.”
And then, anxious and hopeful, Irial was left alone with an unknown mortal to lead him to Thelma.
Tam
Tam opened the door of the cottage and saw him standing there. Suddenly, everything else melted away. The world she’d known until this day had done nothing to prepare her for seeing a fairy tale creature standing in the small forest outside her tiny thatched cottage. But there he was, standing on the ridiculously cute path of smooth river rocks. Daffodils and foxgloves had popped up, spots of bright in the rich green yard.
“Thelma.”
They stood like that, and her heart ached at the turn life had taken. There’d been no quarrel, simply fear blossoming from doubt and rash choices. She looked at him, and he looked as if he hadn’t slept since the night she’d last curled into his arms.
“I should’ve spoken to you.” She met his eyes, and that was all it took. He was kissing her. “I panicked.”
“You’re alive.” The shadowed wings that were usually invisible were full and stunning now. Black as India ink. They looked as if shadows had grown solid and stretched out behind him like a shield.
“I am. The High Queen gave me a place. I have almost everything I could need or want.” Tam couldn’t move. It had been only a few days, but everything had changed.
“And what are you missing, Thelma?”
She felt the boldness she’d learned under his caresses come flaring to life. “A man.”
“A particular one? Surely there are men in Faerie.”
“I want only one man.” She stepped closer, ending the distance between them. “Only you, Irial. My body will only ever be touched by you.”
He wrapped his arms around her then, holding her as if she was precious, as if the world beyond them did not exist. It did, and it would make their time brief.
Today, though, she could enjoy his company, be near him; Tam could have all of the things she wanted if she stayed in Faerie—all save one. She’d realized that already, but then he arrived. Irial. Here.
She knew he wouldn’t stay, but she would if she was allowed. Here she was safe from harm. She could not go back there, risk her daughter. Tam had every intention on growing old as a spinster, just as she had before Irial. The queen had already delivered jewelry making supplies. She would live here, raise her daughter, create. There were no bills. Food was free. Shelter was free. All she’d needed, all she’d craved, was one person.
And he was looking at her now.
They kissed, and it was everything she’d remembered. He stole her breath, her sense, her restraints.
“Come inside,” she whispered after pulling back only far enough to speak. Her words were a warm breath of air between their lips. “I have missed you.”
“You left. I would have kept you at my side for as long as we had.” He sounded hurt, and she couldn’t blame him. No one liked to be rejected.
But before she could explain, a cry from inside drew her attention. She pulled back before her milk let down and embarrassed her.
“Hold on.” She tugged him inside the cottage. “I need to see to her.”
She had her dress open, and their daughter was drowsily eating when she heard Irial come into the room behind her. Her back was to him still.
“Who is this? Are you minding some--”
She turned.
He stared at the baby, and every bit of teasing vanished as he gazed upon the nursing child. “Thelma . . .”
“I didn’t know. When I ran, I didn’t know.” She stared at him, pleading for his forgiveness. “I don’t know that I’d have done anything else, but I like to think I would have told you.”
“Is she . . .?” He stared at his daughter. “Is she mine?”
Tam nodded. The awe in his voice made her unable to speak. She’d worried, feared he would not accept a child, especially after the High Queen of Faerie had done whatever magic she’d had to accelerate the pregnancy.
He stepped closer, and the expression of wonder on his face made her knees weak.
“The queen sped up my gestation.” Tam watched Irial gaze at their daughter. “She knew you were coming and said she wanted you to know her.”
It seemed as if storm clouds filled Irial’s already-dark eyes, but whatever thought he had then, he didn’t share. Instead, he whispered, “I want to hold her.”
Tam laughed. “Your daughter has a temper, Irial. Separating her from my breast is not advisable.”
“She’s smart, then.” He gazed at her, tenderness and desire both obvious in his expression. After several moments, he asked, “What have you named our daughter?”
“Elena.”
“Radiant light?” He grinned. “The princess of the Dark Court, named as if she was the very queen of the High Court.”
“Do that mean you like it?”
“I’d like any name she wore, and she was born here so it’s fitting.” He walked over to the sofa in the room, and Tam followed.
Tam nestled in his arms, and he watched their daughter nurse. Absently, he stroked the baby’s cheek and dark hair.
“She looks like me with the dark hair and eyes.” He looked at her legs and feet.
Irial was marveling at her; he was enraptured. There was no other way to explain the reaction he was having. The Dark King was astounded with the minutest details of the child nestled in her arms. Tam understood, of course, for she felt the same.
“She’s perfect.”
“I think so.” Tam looked down at Elena as the babe finished her meal.
Then, as carefully as possible, so as to not wake her, she moved her to Irial’s arms.
“I never expected to have a child.” Irial looked rapt, gazing at her as if every possible dream he’d had was true and in his grasp. Tears welled in Tam’s eyes at the beauty of it.
And she slipped out of the room to allow him these moments with their newborn daughter.
Irial
Sorcha’s words when he arrived now made a horrible sort of sense: “The girl must go to the mortal world, Irial. I am sorry for you, but there is no other option. The curse requires that she be in the world where Keenan can find her.”
Her words had made no sense at the time because he hadn’t known about his daughter. The rest of the warning floated into his mind: “Thelma could stay, but the girl must go back. I don’t believe they will separate.”
The words of the High Queen, pronounced after she studied the threads of fate, were impossible to deny. His daughter was cursed, now. His daughter.
Irial gazed down at her beautiful, sleeping face. He’d cursed his own child. It was bad enough that his curse had fallen on Thelma, but now, his daughter.
He thought of how he’d have to protect her, with guards at all times. Perhaps he could rescind his throne, find a remote island, and move there with the mortal he loved and their child. The longevity of mortals was less than a century, but Elena . . . she could live for centuries.
Keenan would have literal centuries to stalk her unless she had a babe who would carry the curse. The thought of that, of his granddaughter also being cursed, filled him with self-loathing. But what child of his would be content to live a life in hiding for centuries? What child of Thelma’s? Between them, they’d likely gifted their daughter with more brashness and stubbornness than any child needed.
She would not stay hidden.
His daughter, wed to the king of Summer . . .
Irial had the pressing urge to kill Keenan, rip him limb from limb. He was a regent. He could, in fact, do so. As he sat there, holding his sleeping daughter, he fantasized about murdering the man who was seeking her—the missing Summer Queen--unaware that she was Irial’s daughter or currently a baby.
Elena smiled in her sleep.
“I would destroy the world for you,” he swore to her.
But this is, quit
e literally, what he would be doing. He would sentence the world to continue freezing, mortals and fey eventually dying, as he protected his daughter. In time, she would suffer, too, as would ever faery in his court.
There was no answer to this dilemma. He could not, simply could not, contain his need to protect her from harm. If he hid her, eventually it would harm her. If he didn’t, that would harm her, too.
When Irial had placed his daughter in her cradle, he went to see Thelma. She was standing in the open door, sunlight streaming onto her face, and Irial admitted that she would be incredible as the Summer Queen. He felt no regret for the choices he’d made—even if such a thing were easily felt for a Dark King, Irial would not feel it.
She turned at his approach.
And Irial considered postponing this, kissing her until they were both satisfied, but secrets were why she’d run.
“I have things to say,” he began.
Thelma nodded.
“I went with the Summer King that night because he came seeking my help.” Irial watched her, surprisingly anxious at what he was about to say. Not all humans had evolved to understand that love was not restricted by gender. “My first love was injured and—”
“Niall? That’s his name.”
“Yes.” Irial watched her face, and he found no disgust there. Just to be sure, Irial stressed that Niall was a man’s name as he added, “He was injured. I am no longer in his good graces, but when he is injured severely, the Summer King allows me to heal him.”
“And Niall has no idea that you do this?”
“He does not. No one does. It is a secret. Niall would not allow it, and Keenan hates that I can heal one of his court, and I . . .” Irial looked down in shame. “I would rather have these scraps, these moments of seeing him and helping him than nothing.”
“Bananach implied that you were with Keenan because of me,” Thelma said, still at the doorway as if she might flee.
Every sound logic said she would not abandon her child, their child, but he was still afraid. “Come inside, love. Please?”