After Maeve’s visit and that quick snack in an alley, he’d caught a flight to Heathrow, which had arrived at dawn. He lingered all day in a hotel, blinds drawn, chafing to be on his way. Fortunately, darkness fell early in the UK in December. Sebastian bought a heavy coat and a hat he could pull down to hide his face in case his eyes began to glitter. It was perfectly reasonable to wear gloves and a scarf, and both hid the pallor of his skin. He booked an express train to York, then a local train to the train station closest to Hadrian’s lair. By eleven that night, he had taken refuge in the pub closest to his destination, stymied as to how to complete the last stage of his journey.
And burning with thirst.
And irritable.
The small box Maeve had entrusted to him seemed heavy in his pocket, as if it became heavier the closer he came to his goal. Fucking magick. It was completely untrustworthy, which made him wonder whether he could rely upon Maeve to keep her word. That was a question to ponder.
Later.
He could walk to Hadrian’s lair, but he couldn’t keep himself from yearning for the days when mortals had kept horses and carriages. He did like to arrive in style.
There was little chance of that in this backwater. Why couldn’t the Pyr live in cities, preferably cities with limousines—and dark alleys where countless multitudes could vanish, unnoticed? This obsession with wilderness was tedious, although he could understand their desire for privacy.
He entered the pub, surveyed the few inhabitants, noticed the beautiful redhead behind the bar without interest, then headed for the table in the darkest corner.
“There are better tables,” she called to him, but Sebastian shook his head.
“I like it dark.” He sat in the booth without removing his coat, hat or gloves.
She followed him and he was surprised when she laughed. “So, it’s like that, is it? Can’t say as I blame you. I’ve been in a bit of a funk myself lately. Something to eat? The special tonight was steak and kidney pie, and there’s still a bit left.”
The prospect of cooked meat disgusted him. “No, thank you.” He could get by with steak tartare in a pinch, but this didn’t look like the kind of place to order raw meat with confidence.
“A drink, then?” she asked with a smile.
“You don’t have what I want.”
“You can’t know that unless you ask.” Her tone was mild and that irked him.
Anything would have irked Sebastian in this moment. He wanted to be with Sylvia, which could only lead to trouble, so he’d put an ocean between them, not told her he was leaving, and felt like an asshole as a result. He’d always been self-centered but it never bothered him.
Until now.
Until Sylvia.
The redhead was still waiting. He flicked a hostile glance her way. “What I would like is a glass of Château Latour Bordeaux Red Pauillac from 1929.” She winced. “Failing that, I’d like to find a cab that will drive me to this address.” He conjured the paper with Hadrian’s address from his pocket and put it on the table.
She looked down, frowned and paled. “You know Hadrian MacEwan?”
“I’ve come to see him.” Sebastian paused, assessing and took the chance. “Or actually, his mate.”
The redhead inhaled sharply and became taller. “He has a girlfriend already, does he? Wants some time alone. Doesn’t see that we have a future. No, there’s no one else.” She rolled her eyes, took off her apron and flung it in the direction of the bar. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride. I wouldn’t mind giving Hadrian a piece of my mind myself.”
“Aren’t you working?”
“I own the place.” She pivoted and raised her voice. “Eddie, go home to Tilda already!” she shouted at the last patron, an older man sitting at the bar. “I’ll not pour you another. That one’s on the house if you leave now.” Eddie thanked her profusely as he slid from his stool and tugged on his coat, obviously thinking that she might change her mind if he didn’t accept her offer quickly. She turned back to Sebastian and offered her hand. “I’m Lynsay Barnes. My car’s not fancy, but it’ll get us there.”
It wasn’t the most reassuring claim she could have made, but Sebastian was sufficiently curious to accept her offer.
Riding in her car had to be better than walking.
Once upon a time, there was a king who dearly loved his wife. Their marriage had been arranged to further the fortunes of both families, but they had fallen in love immediately and, each day, their love grew only deeper. The king’s realm was in the distant north, an empire of ice and wind and stone, but his beloved wife filled his palace with light, joy and warmth. The queen loved swans and the king admired her gentleness with them. She fed the birds as they migrated and he would often awaken and look out the palace window to see his wife, the wind in her hair, feeding wild swans by hand in the courtyard. During their courtship, he had changed his standard to that of a white swan in flight. Once she’d become his wife, he delighted in adding swans to every corner of the palace. The canopy over their bed was crested with a carved swan in flight. There were swans carved in stone and in wood, woven in tapestries and created in tiles on the floor. The queen was surrounded by swans and this gave her tremendous joy.
In time, the happy couple conceived a child but the queen died in the delivery of the daughter. The king was devastated. He cherished the child, at first because she was the fruit of his union with his beloved, and later because of her own nature. The princess was beautiful, inside and out, as gracious and generous a lady as her mother had been, clever, lovely and gentle as well. As she grew older, the king dreaded the day he would be compelled to surrender his daughter’s hand in marriage, for he would miss her company so much. He and his daughter agreed that she would wed for love and that she would choose her own spouse. The daughter, who loved her father as dearly as he loved her and lacked for nothing in life, didn’t rush to make that choice. They were happy, each in their own way, and disinclined to make a change.
In that area, there was a family of swan shifters who were considered royal. A terrible plague had come upon the swan shifters and the eldest son of the swan-king was the last of his kind. He visited the king’s palace to see the wonders he’d heard described, hoping to diminish his loneliness. While he admired the many depictions of swans, it was the king’s daughter who stole his heart away. With one glimpse, he was smitten—but when he presented his proposal to the king, the king forbade the swan-prince to even speak to the princess. The king feared the mingling of their kinds and wished his daughter to wed a man, not a changeling. The swan-prince was disappointed, but true to his promise to the king, he neither spoke to the princess nor remained at the palace. He left and wandered, hoping to find another woman he could love somewhere in the world, but the memory of the princess burned bright in his heart.
There was a brigand on the king’s borders, though, one who grew increasingly bold with every passing year. This warrior was a thief and a killer, treacherous to his marrow, and disinterested in anything beyond his own desires. The first time he saw the king’s palace, he wanted it for his own. The first time he rode close to the king’s palace and glimpsed that man’s lovely daughter, he swore that she would belong to him. He sent word to the king of his demand, but the king declined even to speak with him.
This brigand was not a man to be put aside. He began to raid the villages on the borders of the kingdom, leaving only destruction and death in his wake. Each time he attacked, he sent his request to the king and, each time, the king refused to hear of such a marriage for his beloved daughter. The brigand used his stolen riches to hire mercenaries and his army swelled in numbers and power. He was a pestilence upon the king’s realm, slaughtering and stealing so that eventually there was only the palace left. The brigand made his demand again and was rebuffed for the last time. He besieged the castle, killing all who opposed him and forcibly seizing the princess. The king tried to defend her, but the brigand cut down the king before her very eyes. He then cla
imed the castle and kingdom, and married the princess by force. He consummated their match before all in attendance, then locked her into the king’s chambers, where only he could visit her. He went to her every night without fail, claiming her until she begged for mercy.
He told her that the price of mercy was a son.
The princess prayed that she would conceive the son of the monster who held her captive. She sent messages from her window to every wise woman she knew, asking for their council in the rapid conception of a son and heir. She endured her husband’s attentions, hoping that the ordeal would not last long.
Within two moons, she knew she was with child.
The mercenary, to her relief, considered the matter resolved. He left her locked in the chamber, forbade all to visit her, and vowed she would be released with the safe delivery of his son and heir. For nine months, the lady lived alone, had no maid to tend her and no friend with whom to converse. For nine months, her meals were surrendered to her through a hole cut in the door, a hole too small for her to use for escape. For nine months, she endured the restraints put upon her by her husband, knowing he pillaged the holdings of their neighbors, piled his ill-gotten gains in what had been her father’s treasury, and indulged his gluttony each night in her father’s hall. Her hatred of him distilled until it was as brittle and hard as an icicle, or a diamond forged in the core of the earth. And then, on midwinter’s eve, she delivered his son.
The boy was tall and strong, a robust babe who yelled with vigor when he entered the world. The brigand came to look upon his son and heir, but instead of pronouncing himself pleased, he demanded another.
“Life is full of uncertainty,” he informed his lady wife, even as he took the boy from her breast. “You will grant another son unto me with all haste.”
The lady cried out when her son was taken away from her, but the brigand decreed that the babe would have a wet nurse—so that his wife would be able to conceive more quickly again. She was not to see the child at all until she was pregnant again.
The lady thought she could not have despised her husband more but on that dark morning, she learned she had additional capacity for hate. Again she prayed and again she strove to do his will, and again—in three moons’ time—she conceived a child. Just as before, the brigand vowed she would remain locked in the royal chamber alone until the child was born and hale.
He lied about allowing her to see her oldest son, for he did not bring the boy or let any other bring him. The lady’s heart began to harden yet more.
Once again, the lady endured her solitude. Once again, her hatred of her husband grew. Once again, on midwinter eve, the lady delivered of a healthy son. If anything, he was stronger and larger than the first boy. She was certain she would have a reprieve and had just put the babe to her breast, thinking of what she would do first when she left the confines of her chamber, when her husband arrived. As before, he took the child from her. As before, he demanded another son. As before, the lady was left locked within the chamber, her son was given to a wet nurse, and she was compelled to endure the attentions of her cruel husband each night until she conceived.
And so the tale repeated nine more times. Each midwinter night, the lady delivered of a healthy son and her sentence was renewed again. Her hope steadily dwindled until it died. Her husband never noticed that the spark died in her eyes, that her hair lost its luster, that she no longer had any ability to smile.
When the lady was round with her twelfth child, her hatred of her husband had grown to the point that she no longer cared about her survival. It was no life, to her thinking, to be confined to one room. She had no one to love, for her sons were lost to her and her husband was a man she could never love.
It was in that year that her husband began to train his sons in the courtyard beneath the queen’s window. If he meant to impress her with their prowess, his choice did the very opposite: the lady despaired to see that her sons mirrored their father in every way. She hated that she had been the means of eleven more brigands coming into the world to pillage and slaughter. She sickened then, that autumn, and did not care whether she lost the child. So ill was she that even her husband noticed, and he tried to rouse her by complaining that her illness might affect the child in her womb. The lady did not respond.
On midwinter night, she delivered of a boy once more. This boy was smaller and more slender, but his kick and cry were just as robust as those of his brothers. If anything, she loved him more because of his size, and she tenderly put him to her breast, wishing she could nurse him for more than a moment. The brigand came to see his son and was less pleased than before. He thought the boy weak and unworthy. He decided his wife’s womb had exhausted its bounty.
“I want a daughter,” his wife said, rebellion in her eyes, and he recognized that she was prepared to fight him. The brigand didn’t care what his wife desired. He had younger and more beautiful women to bed, and he had twelve sons.
“Nurse this one then,” he said with scorn. “Make your daughter out of him. I make sons out of the other eleven.”
“I will leave this chamber,” she said when he had turned away.
“So another can bed you? I think not, lady wife. Here you have been for thirteen years, and here you will remain until your dying day.” With that, he left and locked the door against them both.
“Asshole,” Balthasar said when Alasdair stopped for breath. He considered the pizza, then took another slice, leaving three for Hadrian as they’d agreed.
“I wonder what this has to do with anything,” Alasdair said, glancing at the cover of the book again. “Sara must have thought it important to send it overnight.”
“Then we’ll get to it,” Balthasar said.
“Is there anything to eat?” Hadrian demanded from the doorway of the bedroom. His hair was rumpled, but Alasdair grinned at him all the same.
“We saved you some pizza,” he said, then stared at the ring on Hadrian’s hand. He’d noticed it earlier and had meant to ask. The single stone set in it glowed with that pearly radiance and it seemed to be even brighter than before. “Where’d you get that?”
“From my mate. She wore it on a chain around her neck.”
“Where’s it from?”
Hadrian shrugged. “She said she’d always had it, but the glow was new.”
Alasdair frowned, wondering.
“Keep reading,” Balthasar advised and Alasdair did, because his instinct was exactly the same.
Rania didn’t know where she was. She stood in a cool breeze and turned in place, wondering where she’d ended up. Had she managed to stay with the salamander? It seemed to be twilight, wherever she was, but there were no stars overhead. It wasn’t overcast either, and she couldn’t see the moon. Was she in Fae? She couldn’t hear any music or see the red glow of magick anywhere. She looked.
She realized then that she was in the middle of a stone circle, thirteen tall stones emanating a steady chill around her. At her feet, in the middle of the circle, there was a cairn. A hole, darker than dark, led into the ground.
That glittering salamander appeared suddenly from the opening and perched on the crest of the highest rock in the cairn. He was watching her, his eyes and scales sparkling as his tail flicked. She was glad she’d managed to follow him through the realms and wondered why he had brought her to this place.
If she’d thought he might tell her, she was to be disappointed.
Suddenly, the salamander darted across the ground, heading for the rocks on the perimeter of the circle. Rania followed him, not wanting to lose track of him now. He circled the base of the largest stone, the one that towered over her, pointing to the sky. On the outer side of the stone, the salamander stopped beside a dandelion in full seed, the flower head round and white. The weed was growing at the base of the stone, its roots lodged in the narrow crevice between the stone and the ground. The salamander coiled around the flower stem so that it swayed slightly, then gave her an intent look. When he bared his teeth, Ra
nia guessed what he was going to do and what he wanted from her. She bent down and held the stem while the salamander bit into it.
Rania lifted the dandelion flower, straightening slowly so she wouldn’t disturb the perfect sphere of white seeds. Why did he want her to have this?
The salamander watched, his manner expectant. What should she do with the dandelion? She thought then of children blowing the seeds and making a wish. She pursed her lips as if to blow, wondering, and the salamander nodded vigorously.
Rania understood that she should exhale the toxin of the kiss of death to blow the seeds. Maybe that was a way of making a wish. Maybe that was one way of dispersing it. She nodded, and he scurried to one side, still watching.
What should she wish for? That was easy: Rania wanted her brothers to be freed. She wanted Hadrian to live. She wanted to be rid of Maeve’s curse herself. She wanted the Others to be safe from the Dark Queen’s wrath. She wanted a second chance to get it right, to have the chance to trust Hadrian, to satisfy the firestorm and even to have Hadrian’s son. Her wishes had wishes, it seemed.
She began to blow, surrendering all the malice and poison that she’d pulled out of Hadrian. The seeds took flight, one at a time, floating into the distance. For a long time, it didn’t seem that the flower had any fewer of them. Maybe there were enough seeds for all of Rania’s wishes to come true. She blew and blew and wished until there was no more toxin inside of her.
With her final breath, the last seed took flight.
She was left holding only the stalk of the flower, the seeds floating higher and higher as they drifted away from her. When she glanced down, her companion beckoned to her. She followed as the salamander pursued the stream of dandelion seeds, each on its own herbal parachute. There was a long ribbon of them stretching into the distance, dancing on that gentle breeze.
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