With her eyes bright with delighted inquiry, the resemblance between her and her scholarly brother Marius was suddenly more pronounced. This was a side of her he’d never seen up close; Hetta had spent years studying magic, but she hadn’t returned to Stariel in that time, and the stories of her studies had come via letter.
“Sympathy and air magic,” he said. “I am fae; they are fae. Like calls to like. And I am a stormdancer: controlling the winds is our primary power.”
She practically glowed with excitement. “How do—hold that thought,” she said, giving herself a shake. “It’s hardly fair to quiz you when you’re like this. But we’re definitely going to try this again when you’re recovered.”
Wounds be storm-tossed; he pulled her into a one-armed embrace, ignoring the protest from his shoulder.
“You’ll start bleeding again!” she protested, but he didn’t care.
He kissed her because he couldn’t resist; because she was so lovely with her coral-pink lips; because she looked at him like he was rare and glorious; because he couldn’t help his heart from squeezing with agonised happiness at the sight of her; because he was sure it couldn’t last. He was falling, too hard and too fast, and he couldn’t stop it, didn’t want to stop it. The warm curves of her pressed against him, and his whole body thrummed like a struck tuning fork, pain fading to a mere background note.
I love you, he wanted to say but didn’t. It wouldn’t be fair; he couldn’t say that to Hetta and then leave her. And perhaps not saying it would make it somehow not true, when the time came. He gazed into the depths of her storm-coloured eyes. But probably not. After all, that didn’t work at any point in the last decade, did it?
“You’re a very disobedient patient, you know,” she said to him, a little breathily. She lifted her fingertips to his mouth, rubbed her thumb over his bottom lip, and held it up stained coral pink. “I forgot I was wearing lipstick. You’d better wipe that off or the next person to turn up will know exactly what we’ve been doing.”
He fished a handkerchief from his ruined coat and did so. The room was still a mess of dislodged books and broken glass, but far less morbid without the corpses of the lug-imps.
“Can you stand?” she asked.
“Are we planning to disappear without a word, leaving rumours to sprout in our wake?” he said, easing himself off the desk, stretching his wings out slightly for balance. His injured calf burned and wouldn’t bear much weight, but: “I am moderately certain I can limp out of here.”
“I know you like to be in control of things, but you can’t control everything, Wyn. Let them figure it out for themselves. I don’t particularly care what stories they tell so long as I’m standing on Stariel soil before nightfall.” She gave him an inscrutable look, and he realised suddenly what an odd picture he must present: bare-chested and bandaged, standing unsteadily with wings half-furled. Not human.
“I would like to see how Mr Thompson is doing first,” he said. “I hope the antidote worked, but I’d rather know for sure we aren’t leaving a dead bank manager behind. For one thing, that might make securing a loan substantially more difficult.”
Before Hetta could answer, the door pushed open again to reveal the maid with an older woman in tow. The maid held a bundled shirt.
Wyn reacted faster this time. Hetta’s illusion would probably be sufficient so long as he stayed still, but why take the chance? He pushed the image of himself in mortal form at both women’s minds. The effort left him sagging against the desk, wishing he hadn’t decided to stand up.
The maid looked around wildly for the lug-imps and seemed both reassured and worried by their absence.
“I burned the bodies,” Hetta explained. “It seemed like a good idea.”
“Oh,” said the maid faintly. Her gaze went interestedly to Wyn’s bare chest and stayed there, and he realised his usual aura of asexual reassurance had come completely unravelled. Bother. “I’ve brought one of Mr Stewart’s spare shirts—he likes to change after cycling to work.” The maid coloured and gingerly picked her way across the room, holding out the item of clothing. Wyn thanked her as he took it from her, and her flush deepened. She turned hurriedly back to the other woman, who was still standing on the threshold. “The doctor’s with Mr Thompson now, but this is Mr Thompson’s wife. She’s a—” The maid wrung her hands in a little gesture of helplessness.
“I’m a herbwoman, and something of an expert on the fae. I usually have dinner with my husband on Wednesdays,” the older woman said crisply. She clutched a large brown handbag firmly under one arm, and her eyes narrowed as she took in the scene before her.
“How is your husband, Mrs Thompson?” Wyn asked.
Mrs Thompson replied to Hetta rather than Wyn. “We managed to wake him briefly, but the wound required stitches, and he is vastly fatigued.” Her gaze flicked not to Wyn’s face but to the expanse of his wings. Her mouth drew a hard line. “Lord Valstar, might I have a word with you alone?”
Interesting, and much too coincidental; Mrs Thompson had the Sight, and that wasn’t exactly a common gift. She had to be the reason for Mr Thompson’s old-fashioned belief in the fae, and more than likely the source of the yarrow tea as well. But what had made the Thompsons suspect Wyn in the first place? He had a glum feeling that at the end of that thread would lie one or another of his relatives, though their motives remained opaque to him.
With enough power, he might be able to press against her mind sufficiently to force it to see only what he wanted her to see, slipping from mere glamour into compulsion, but he doubted he could do it without damage. A mind could only bend so far before it broke. Besides, he was weak as a day-old kitten just now.
“I’d rather not leave my steward alone just now, given his condition. I’m afraid you’ll have to speak to the two of us together,” Hetta said cautiously. “I assure you, he is eminently trustworthy.”
Mrs Thompson harrumphed. Then a sudden gleam of triumph came into her eyes, and she turned on Wyn. “For goodness’ sakes, boy, why don’t you put that shirt on?”
How in the High King’s name was he going to achieve that? Human clothing wasn’t designed for a being with wings, and she knew it, the bloody-minded matriarch.
He took a deep breath and changed. Usually it was hardly any effort at all to shift forms, but he automatically reverted to his fae one when his reserves were running low. He healed faster in full fae form, mainly because the energy currents were easier to channel. Going against that instinct was akin to battling a headwind, and he became acutely aware of the venom in his veins, of the damp puddle of yarrow tea in one corner of the room still jangling unpleasantly against his senses.
The shift, when it came, settled unsteadily, as if his wings lurked just beneath the skin, ready to unfurl at the slightest provocation. The room wobbled, and he was glad of the excuse to lower his head under the guise of wrestling with the shirt. His fingers moved thickly, and when he finally got his arms through the sleeves, he stared down at his chest and the long line of buttons in despair. I am a prince, he reminded himself. I will not be defeated by buttons.
An eternity later, he looked up to find Mrs Thompson watching him with a lot more uncertainty in her expression. Better than outright hostility, he supposed. He wagered she hadn’t before encountered a greater fae who could change shape rather than just concealing themselves behind glamour. Perhaps it would be enough.
Enough for what? he asked himself fuzzily, and then couldn’t hold his thoughts together well enough to answer.
“If you don’t mind,” Hetta said, “I’m in something of a hurry to be gone from here. I want to be back at the estate before nightfall.”
“Oh, but your steward must surely need to see the doctor?” Mrs Thompson squinted at Wyn, as if that would make his wings reappear. “He doesn’t look well. He may need stitches.”
Her words fell slowly in his ears, turning to meaning one syllable at a time. Stitches. Iron. Any needles the doctors used would be made of iron
. Nausea rose in his throat as he imagined the metal piercing him.
“No, no stitches,” he said, trying to lean as much of his weight against the desk as possible without being too obvious about it. The hard wood against the backs of his legs put pressure on the bandage, a dull ache. “I am fine. Hetta’s done a fine job patching me up.”
Both Mrs Thompson and the maid stared at him, and he realised he’d accidentally used Hetta’s pet name. He was woozier than he’d realised, to make such an error. But too late to take it back now.
“Would you leave us?” Hetta said to the maid. “For I’d like to hear Mrs Thompson’s words and be off as soon as possible.”
The maid nodded; her eyes were alight with curiosity as she left. Wyn considered whether he had the energy left to power an anti-eavesdropping spell and reluctantly concluded that he did not. Eavesdropping maids were a problem, weren’t they? Like Lottie the housemaid. Couldn’t blame them, though; he would eavesdrop too if he thought the information worth it. Grey mist danced on the edges of his vision, and feathers itched under his skin, straining for release. But he mustn’t. Why mustn’t he? It was becoming harder to remember.
The room swayed gently, the carpet curiously unstable under his shoes. Glass shards glittered in the fibres. It would be a nightmare to clean them up—the poor maid. Why did he keep thinking about maids?
Mrs Thompson was rummaging in her handbag. “I’m afraid you have been deceived, Lord Valstar.”
13
Mrs Thompson
Hetta didn’t have much patience for the bank manager’s wife—she was too worried about getting Wyn back to the estate before his siblings sent their next lot of monsters. Why had he changed back to his mortal form, taking her illusion with it? She wished he’d stayed sitting on the desk; he swayed like he might faint, looking much worse than a few moments ago. Blood had seeped through the bandages on his forearm, spotting the new shirt red.
“Lord Valstar!” Mrs Thompson recalled her attention.
“Sorry, Mrs Thompson. Do go on.” How long would it take them to make it down to where the kineticar was parked? Maybe that’s why Wyn had changed—he definitely wouldn’t fit in his fae form.
“Your steward is not as he has presented himself. He’s not a mortal man at all, but a fairy!” With this proclamation, Mrs Thompson drew forth a container from her handbag and marched forward to fling the contents over Wyn. The liquid splattered onto his face and shirt, smelling strongly of herbs.
Time froze, followed by everything happening at once. Wyn’s eyes widened. Then he lost control of his form, wings spiralling free with a great whoosh of air as he crumpled. Hetta tried to catch him, but Wyn was a tall man, and the breadth of his wings made him bulky as well as heavy. Hetta managed only to help him fall to the floor in a controlled fashion.
“Wyn!” What had Mrs Thompson thrown at him? Tiny dark flecks shimmered on his skin and the wet remains of his clothing: iron filings. The pressure of his wings had largely shredded the shirt. Again.
Wyn’s pupils had shrunk to pinpricks, and he shivered like a nervous horse, rubbing violently at the wetness on his face.
“Quickly, Lord Valstar, get away from the creature!” Mrs Thompson snapped.
“What was in that mixture—” Hetta began, trailing off as Mrs Thompson pulled an ornate pistol from her bag and aimed it steadily at Wyn. It happened so quickly that Hetta didn’t have time to react. Wyn shoved her away, wind and magic stirring, and the gunshot rang out, deafening in the small space. Acrid gunsmoke filled Hetta’s nostrils, but she took no notice of it, flying across the room to bat the weapon out of Mrs Thompson’s hands.
The woman smiled with grim satisfaction, but it faltered in the face of Hetta’s anger. “It’s for your own good, my lord. They can enchant the mind! He’ll lose his hold on you once he’s dead.”
“Get out!” Hetta snarled. Fire ran in little rivulets down her arms, pooling in her hands, and she let it blossom into hovering fireballs. At least she’d left her gloves in her pocket when she’d run here from the pub, or they’d be a scorched mess by now. “Get out!”
Mrs Thompson turned and fled, but Hetta knew she’d be back with reinforcements.
Hetta let the fire snap out, fear spiking as she turned back to Wyn. The bullet had hit him on the upper curve of his wing, and blood ran thick and fast from the wound, staining white feathers dark red and dripping into the carpet.
“Cherries!” he gasped, trying to rise.
This comment was so extremely odd that it jolted Hetta out of her rising panic. She pulled off her scarf and rushed forward, trying to stem the flow. Scrabbling one-handed around on the desk, she found the leftover bandages. Then she looked helplessly down at the wing under her scarf. Where would she even start bandaging? The feathers were tightly interlocked, but perhaps she could wind the bandages between them somehow?
“Cherries!” he said again to Hetta. “Candles!”
“You’re not making any sense,” she told him, heart pounding. Even if she got his wing bandaged, how could they escape before Mrs Thompson returned? How would Wyn fit in the kineticar in this form?
Wyn shook his head like a dog shedding water. “I can smell her magic,” he said, gritting out each word. Frustration burned in the russet of his eyes, and she knew he was having as much difficulty making his words coherent as she was deciphering them. “She’s here.”
“Whose magic?” But then she could smell it too—cherries, just on the peak of ripeness before they tipped into rotten. Cherries and, strangely enough, beeswax. The only magic she knew that had a taste was fae magic. Hetta pressed her scarf more firmly against Wyn’s wings and grimly let her pyromancy simmer up.
Cherries, full and sweet, flavoured the air so strongly that Hetta could almost taste them. The air warped slightly and, with a faint pop, a fae woman stood in the room with them.
She was short, with the kind of ample hourglass figure and lazy sensuality that made men stop and stare. Her smooth, flawless skin was a shade or two paler than Wyn’s, and she had hair that began at its roots as inky black and ended as cherry-blossom pink at her waist. But it wasn’t her extraordinary hair colour that marked her as fae, nor her unnaturally symmetrical features. No, it was the black, cat-like ears that peeked through her hair, and the long furry tail that curled out from her spine in a skewed question mark.
Midnight-dark eyes swept over Hetta and Wyn. There was something feline about the angle of them—or maybe that was just the general effect of the ears and tail. Paired with full lips and a dainty nose, they gave her a mesmerising kind of beauty.
Wyn’s magic rose, mingling with the cherry and beeswax, until the air smelled like a wet orchard. Even Hetta, with her lack of familiarity with fae magic, could tell there was something wrong with Wyn’s.
“Settle your feathers, Prince Hallowyn. I am not here to harm you,” the fae woman said. Her voice was low and sultry, amusement tinging her words. “My, you are having a bad day. Though you’ve grown since I last saw you.” Hetta didn’t like the proprietary way her gaze ran over Wyn.
A sudden wind rustled the discarded paper strewn around the room, though it didn’t lift a single glossy strand of the fae woman’s hair. Hetta’s skin tingled, and that sense of approaching storm increased.
“If you can even summon lightning in the state you’re in, you’re far more likely to kill your lover than me,” the fae woman remarked coldly.
“Who are you?” Hetta demanded, resisting the urge to stand protectively between Wyn and the woman. “What do you want?”
“I am here to do you a favour,” said the woman, teeth flashing in a sudden smile. She moved swiftly, faster than Hetta could follow, her fingers abruptly digging into Hetta’s wrist, her other hand resting just below the injury on Wyn’s wing. “You may thank me later.”
Darkness exploded, the world turning inside out. Time lost meaning, and it might have been five minutes or five seconds later when light returned, leaving Hetta dizzy and disorie
nted.
When the world had righted itself, she stared in disbelief. They were next to the road just outside Stariel’s borders, beneath the naked branches of a roadside cherry tree. Wyn lay in a crumple of feathers and blood, eyes blazing with fury. The fae woman was nowhere to be seen.
“Who was that?” Hetta asked, though she already knew. There was really only one person it could be.
“That,” said Wyn, his voice tight with pain and anger, “was my fiancée. Princess Sunnika.”
14
Unusual Communications
Hetta knew about Wyn’s engagement and knew that breaking it was why he was hunted by two courts. But the tale had been so fantastical—warring fae, princesses, and so on—that she hadn’t given much thought to the actual physical woman he’d been engaged to. Wyn had also failed to mention his former fiancée was spectacularly beautiful. That shouldn’t matter, in the grand scheme of things, but it somehow did.
It was going to be hard not to dwell on it later, but she didn’t have time for it now, not with Wyn bleeding into the muddy verge. She hurried to his side, trying not to slip on the soft ground. He made an incongruous picture of broken elegance, the sunlight glittering in his hair and feathers. She’d thought his wings pure white, but now she noticed a line of bright blue feathers close to his spine, sparkling like sapphires where they weren’t obscured by blood.
Before she reached him, Wyn winched his wing in and tied Hetta’s scarf around the entire thing. So that’s how one bandages a wing. The scarf had originally been a periwinkle blue design patterned with intricate white flowers. Now it was mottled dark with blood.
“How did we get here?” she asked, dropping to her knees beside him.
“Teleportation. The greater fae…of DuskRose…have that gift,” he panted. Mud and grass smudged his primaries, and blood smeared the remains of his dripping shirt. The scarf-wrapped wing gave him a lopsided appearance.
The Prince of Secrets Page 12