Gray and Graves: A Dark Fae Menage Urban Fantasy (The Three Courts of Faerie Book 1)

by C. M. Stunich

  “She can't stay here,” Corey growled under his breath. He stood directly in front of the stairs, arms crossed over his chest, while his green eyes glittered dangerously. He blamed Samael for our breakup. Not my infidelity, not his infidelity, nope, Samael. I sighed and gestured for Samael and Amadan to join me in the foyer. “I'm letting you stay here. I'm letting your boyfriend stay here. Don't make me the bad guy, George. Don't do it.” We locked gazes, mine just as harsh and unforgiving as his. I think it startled him, seeing me like that. He looked away first. I hoped it was because I'd just proven myself to him, proven that I couldn't be controlled the way he wanted to anymore, but in reality, I think he was just momentarily shocked.

  “She isn't safe at home, anymore, Corey. And she doesn't know what's going on. The only thing I can do is keep her here.” He spit at the floor and spun away on his heel, stalking off towards the kitchen. I followed him, unwilling to let up this time. If I was going to Faerie, I needed my mother safe and the best way to do that was to have her there whether I liked it or not.

  “She already found the stash of fae blood,” he said as he wrenched open the fridge, and I nearly ran face first into it.

  “Why didn't you lock the cabinet?” Corey slammed the door closed, put the bottle of wine he'd just retrieved on the counter, and opened the drawer labeled 'Miscellaneous Cutlery.'

  “I wasn't thinking straight, George. You had just broken up with me and Mai needed – ”

  “Aha!” I pointed a finger at him, a look that was half grimace, half triumph playing across my face. “You were too busy jumping into bed with a wraith.”

  “Too wrinkled, too rotten, I always say.” I gave Amadan a look as he scooted onto the bench that lined one side of the breakfast table. Samael joined us in the kitchen but remained standing, face stoic. I knew we were here on a more important mission, but I couldn't help myself.

  “As you can see,” Mai cooed, the screen door flapping behind her as she entered the room with a dramatic hand flourish. Lynna and Elizabeth weren't far behind. I wrinkled my nose. The three fucking stooges. “I'm neither wrinkled nor rotten.” She smiled a wicked smile, thin lips rouged red and twisted up at the corners, her eyes a sparkling blue, and her skin pale as porcelain. She was wearing one of my dresses. I clenched my fists at my sides.

  “Where is she?” I asked in reference to my mother. Things needed to be solved, true, but it wouldn't help anybody if I grabbed a knife from the block and stabbed Corey and Mai through their black, little hearts. “I'll go talk to her, and then we need to talk to you.” Corey ignored me and poured himself a glass of wine. It was probably something prim and proper, aged blah blah years, a fine delicacy.

  “Only pussies get drunk on wine,” I snarled, surprising everybody in that kitchen. What is happening to me? I was growing a spine. “Drink a beer like a real man.”

  Then I stormed out of the room and up the stairs.

  I found my mother in my bedroom, of course. Certainly, Corey couldn't have been put out by giving us separate rooms. There were only, what, seventeen, eighteen unused guest rooms in the house.

  She attacked me as soon as I opened the door.

  “Let me out of here, you necrophiliac!” A lamp smashed into my skull with force. I screamed, mostly from surprise, and stumbled backwards into the armoire. I hadn't even known my mother knew that word. If she were talking about Corey, it was kind of true though …

  “What the fuck?” I snapped back automatically. My mother dropped the lamp and put her hands to her face.

  “Georgette?” she asked, as if it wasn't obvious that it was me. I rubbed at my skull and was glad that I was a zombie and not a girl. She might've killed me.

  “Yes, mother,” I growled, sitting down hard on the edge of the bed. My head was spinning, and I had to debate leaving and getting a new glamour or staying there. I decided to fight through the pain and get this over with although my hands were still killing me. I watched as Annette French checked her fear behind narrowed eyes and pulled the mom card on me.

  “Don't you 'mother' me,” she snarled. “How dare you put me through that horrible scene,” she continued, and I had to squeeze my jaw tight to keep from screaming at her.

  “You asked me to come and get you,” I reminded her, trying to be gentle, trying to be understanding. She sniffed and turned away.

  “I was talking about the car ride here,” she continued. “You manhandled me, bruised my arms.” She flashed me her pale skin as proof. I didn't see anything, but I could only imagine what sorts of tricks Amadan had played while traipsing around in my skin. A couple of hours can do a lot of damage with my mother. “And then your horrible boyfriend tried to tell me that he had bottles of blood,” she spat the word like it hurt her to say it. “In his office because he was diabetic. That doesn't make any sense.” I tried not to roll my eyes, that would only make things worse. Corey, you're a terrible liar. I tried to calm my features and respond as nicely and rationally as possible. I had to come up with some reason for her to stay here.

  “Mom,” I began, but she wasn't ready to listen to me. She was fluttering her hands around her face and tearing up. I continued anyway. “After all that happened at the hospital, I think it would be best if – ” She cut me off mid-sentence. Nothing new. I was used to it.

  “Your sister is in an emotional state, George. Having a baby is hard. She's understandably upset. I'm sure all of that at the hospital was just a misunderstanding.” I stared at her, eyes wide. Was she going crazy? How could she write off all that she had seen as just a misunderstanding?

  “Mom,” I began slowly. “You're not well; you should lie down.” I stood up and held out a hand to touch her shoulder. She slapped it away with a ferocity that surprised me.

  “Listen to me, Georgette!” she screamed, and I cringed. How old did little girls have to be before their parents shouts failed to bother them? “Don't you ruin this for me,” she continued, leaning forward, eyeballing me, trapping me. I tried to remind myself that I was trying to be stronger. That, only moments ago, I had chastised Corey, challenged him. I was in charge; I made my own decisions. “Don't you drive your sister away like you did your father,” she snapped, and I felt my insides go cold. I didn't drive Daddy away. Daddy disappeared. Daddy was probably dead.

  “How could you even say that to me?” I asked her and watched as she turned her nose up at my emotions and failed to admit that what she had just said had cut her daughter deep. A daughter she was supposed to love. I watched her cold face and wondered if she even did.

  “Get me a phone. I want to call your sister.”

  I stood up, eyes full of unshed tears and stormed to the door, pausing with my hand on the knob.

  “You know,” I said, feeling a warmth in the pit of my stomach, that spot where my new magic sat coiled, angry, ready to fight. “I don't care if you don't love me. I don't. But I'm still going to protect you because that's what I have to do. For me. To feel like I accomplished something.”

  And then I slammed the door in her face and locked it.

  Nobody asked how things had gone with my mom. They knew, had probably heard, and the lump on my head and the broken glass in my hair couldn't have been helpful signs.

  “Just leave the door locked,” I said. “She likes to go to bed at eight, so bring her food sometime after that. She usually sleeps with reruns of Dick Clark on.” I paused and rubbed my head. “And be careful.” I looked Amadan square in the eye. “I'm trusting you with this,” I said.

  “Of course, My Beatific Lady of Gray,” he touted with a showy bow.

  “Why is he taking care of her?” Corey asked, lounging on the couch in nothing but plaid pajama pants. Lynna and Mai were wrapped around him like leeches, sucking the life from him and he didn't even know it. Elizabeth was sitting on my favorite chair, tiny hands wrinkled in her dress, and a scowl across her face. No matter what she did, she would never be invited to Corey's bed. Never. I smiled at that. “Where are you off to that you can't
do it?”

  I glared at him, but Samael spoke first.

  “He wants to be the Dotair i Anamie, the Doctor of Drifting Souls.” I turned around and caught Samael's lavender eyes with mine. They were angry but hopeful. Whatever this title was that Corey wanted, he didn't want to give him, but he would, if he had to.

  What is that? I asked, watching Samael's dark brows climb with surprise. I was talking to him, willingly, and he liked that.

  The faery doctor appointed by the Gray Court, the one in charge of all beneath him. I frowned and spun back to Corey, nibbled my lip and pretended to think about it. Let him believe that I knew what I was talking about.

  Why would he want that?

  Ask him why he believes one trip is worth such an esteemed title. I smiled. So we'd play good cop, bad cop, I liked that.

  “You think one trip to Faerie is worth all that?” I asked, tilting my head to the side. Corey's fingers tightened on the stem of his glass, almost imperceptibly. But we'd been together almost constantly for the last seven months; I knew what I was looking for.

  “Don't try to pretend that you're a fucking expert all of a sudden,” Corey said, scowling. Lynna licked his nipple, and he shoved her head away, pretty violently. It pissed me off.

  “Don't touch her like that,” I growled, surprising myself. Back and forth like a fucking seesaw, Georgette. Get a hold of yourself, get consistent. Stay strong. Mom had tried to shatter my spine; Corey wasn't going to. Lynna smiled at me, actually smiled. And for an instant there, I saw the girl that had walked into the wrong church at the wrong time, not the vampire with the bad dye job and a touch of Stockholm syndrome.

  “A year ago, you didn't even know Faerie existed. Now, I'm supposed to believe you're an expert on court hierarchy?” Corey looked past me and at Samael. “I'm offering more than one trip. I'm offering my services indefinitely. I won't bargain for just one trip; it isn't worth it for me. All or nothing.”

  Corey, you idiot, never bargain with the fae.

  A wicked smile bloomed on my face. Sharp, said the memory dancers as they spun on pointe, sharp like a nightblossom. Bleed what you want from him. Take it.

  Samael continued. I'm not sure if you have the skill to perform all of the duties. Can you perform a sending on a misplaced liath?

  I repeated the information much to the astonishment of Corey.

  “Not a problem,” he barked roughly, face heating. I like this feeling, I thought, glancing back at Samael. I like this a lot.

  Get used to it, Your Majesty, he replied, as his face shifted to match my own, nice and wicked, hungry. Let's get him, trap him, before he realizes he has an advantage over us; he has control of your body. For a moment there, I had almost forgotten that Corey was still my necromancer. Time to close this deal. I didn't let my sudden worry show on my face.

  “I don't know if I believe him,” I said, hands on my hips. My blisters cried angrily, begged me to stop, but I held my position, chin up. It was one of strength. It felt right and wrong at the same time.

  “I think we should accept his offer,” Samael said, rubbing his chin, pretending to think.

  “But if he fails,” I continued, watching emerald eyes burn with anger. “Then he'll have broken his end of the bargain.”

  “We'd be free to do with him as we wish … ” Ask him this. Samael fed me the instructions.

  “Corey, if we agree to appoint you as Dotair i Anamie, then you agree to be bound and abide by the rules governing said position. One of which is to grant us free passage between the World Above and the Other Place. Is it a deal?”

  Corey narrowed his eyes at me, pushed Lynna and Mai off of him, and stood up. He swigged the last of his wine and twisted his mouth in a crooked smile. He thought he was getting something good. I glanced back at Samael. We were getting something better.

  “It's a deal.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  SEELIE

  “The Seelie Court is known by many names: The Light Court, The Summer Court, and The House of Hands And Hearts and Hair to name a few. Ruled for several centuries by Queen Aife, they have long been known as 'the good people.' However, the Seelie are only nice to those who they consider 'beautiful.' If you have a crooked smile or perhaps a misplaced mole, be wary. The cruelty of the Seelie is a thousandfold greater than that of their darker counterpart.”

  “That was pretty brilliant,” I said to Samael as we stood in the library and his purple gaze swung from shelf to shelf, absorbing, admiring, appreciating.

  “I couldn't have done it without you,” he replied, voice back to that silky sex operator tone. I shivered and pretended I was cold, snatching a throw from the back of one of the antique armchairs. Things were happening fast, almost too fast. I wasn't getting time to process and that scared the shit out of me. I had hated him only days ago and now … I took a deep breath and tried the question that might drive a wedge between the tentative threads of our new relationship.

  “What did Rachel do?” I asked, voice soft, swallowed by yellowing paper and fading ink, drowned in leather bindings and old glue. Samael's expression hardened and he turned away, running a hand through his violet hair. “Because calling us there wasn't a crime and you know it. There's something else. Something you're not telling me.” He shook his head.

  “Gadrael had hold of her from the very beginning, sweetness. I don't know when exactly but before Amadan found you. Her request for a favor had a more sinister note, I'm sure.” I frowned at him.

  “You know this or you're just guessing?”

  “I'm inferring.”

  “He raped her,” I snapped, watching as Samael twisted in, closed down. No! That wasn't what I wanted, but I had trouble stopping myself. I had trusted Rachel fully and completely. I was having a hard time believing this. “Why would she side with him?”

  “I never said she did it willingly,” Samael whispered back, the metal of his armor glinting in the glow of the yellow lamps Corey had placed artfully around the room. If there was anything he was good at besides necromancy, it was interior design. “She was enthralled. I believe she fought it as best she could. Gadrael isn't the easiest man to resist.”

  “You know that he's your father, right?” I asked. I had said it on impulse, to clarify, to get that answer that I was searching for. It shut Samael down completely. We had just blended so well together in the living room, like we were made for each other, and here I was, testing the limits of that relationship. It was a habit of mine, I admit. And it wasn't the first time I had ever done it. The only person I hadn't tested like that was Char.

  “I do.” That was it, just those two little words. Things were suddenly awkward.

  “When are we leaving?” I choked out, trying to change the subject. It was too late. We had taken two steps forward and three back.

  “I was in a hurry to go, but since Gadrael's avatar has retreated back to Faerie, I think it would be best to wait. Once he sends a new reaver out, we'll go. It will buy us some extra time for the Places Between. Tomorrow, I'd guess. I might as well gather extra supplies with the time we have.” I swallowed and held my palms out in front of me. I had switched glamours, and they were whole again. I'd need a whole lot of vials to take with me because I was certain, certain to need them. Things were only going to get worse, to get scarier, after we crossed the Veil.

  “I'm going out,” I said. I didn't ask permission, not this time. Samael frowned.

  “It's dangerous,” he whispered. “I would prefer if you didn't.”

  “You said you'd never tell me what to do.” There I was, testing him. Again. Shields, once put up, are hard to take down. Besides, nobody had ever proven to me that I should. He sighed.

  “And I won't. If you do decide to go, perhaps you could take myself or … ” He grimaced. “Or Amadan with you?” I shrugged, loosely. I wasn't going to, of course. “Georgette,” he breathed and I almost reconsidered. In that moment, I almost threw myself at him and sobbed. But I had promised I wouldn't do that, n
ot anymore. “If there's anyone else that you care about, like your mother, or your sister … I would suggest you don't spend any time with them.”

  “Why's that?”

  “Because,” he continued and his voice cracked, like he was remembering someone that had been taken away from him. Maybe he was remembering me. “It could end up killing them.”

  Sometimes, when we get freedom for the first time, we abuse it. We rebel. Like teenagers sent away to college, untucked from their childhood bedrooms and their parents' rules, we explode into this new idea of self-control by having none of it. I was just like that. Like a closeted kid sent out into the world with no knowledge of how it worked. I was naive, foolish, and never good at taking advice. So I went to see the one person who had always made me feel whole, feel happy, had never tried to take advantage of me.

  Char had this thing for Safeway. It was her go-to store for just about everything food related and since I was essentially using her as my version of a sand and sun ocean side get away, I didn't feel I had a right to complain about her choice of venue.

  “They have amazing cheesecake,” she told me enthusiastically as we drove past yet another local bakery in favor of the giant grocery chain. I gazed out the window and waved a mental goodbye to the bright blue and white exterior of Lisa's Cakes and Confections. They had amazing cheesecake. “And,” she wiggled her eyebrows at me and tried to elbow me affectionately, nearly running over a homeless man with a shopping cart. He shouted some obscenities at us as we turned into the dimly lit parking lot and pulled into one of the empty spaces in the front row. “And,” she said, huffing and glancing in the rearview mirror as if she expected the homeless man to come rumbling across the street towards us, his dirty Santa hat flapping in the wind and his red plastic shopping cart glinting with the Christmas lights that he had wired to a car battery. She smiled when he merely scowled at us, flipped us the bird, and then proceeded across the street, nearly getting crushed by a green SUV in the process.