“Thank you,” he said. Caroline was calmly wiping the forceps and packing up the first aid kit. She’d been the one to remove the iron ball with the steady hands of someone used to handling dangerous chemicals. Caroline worked as an assistant in a chemical research laboratory at Knoxbridge University in the South. Both her parents were academics, committed to open-minded liberalism but not the sort to believe in such old-fashioned things as fae. Caroline didn’t seem to know what to make of the situation, her expression carefully blank. Perhaps she was recalling their earlier conversation in a new light.
He began to struggle to his feet. “We need to get inside the bounds.” His balance was off with one wing bandaged tightly to his body. Would his injured leg bear his weight? It didn’t matter; he would hop if he had to.
Jack put a hand on his uninjured shoulder and stopped him. “Bloody hell, Wyn. Give yourself half a minute at least.”
“No,” he said. “I will take as many minutes as you like once we are a hundred yards down the road and safely inside Stariel. Help me up.”
Jack muttered something decidedly uncomplimentary under his breath, but he did as Wyn bid and hauled him to his feet. Wyn grit his teeth at the movement. It was hard not to think about how he must look when they were all so clearly unsettled by it, his inhumanness. Caroline’s eyes kept flicking up to his horns and then away, as if she were trying not to be rude.
Jack dealt with his disquiet by covering it with bluff humour. “Gods, you weigh half a tonne like this,” he said as Wyn leaned on him for balance.
“An exaggeration. But let us get me into the cart before your strength gives out. I don’t wish to overtax you.”
Jack lost his self-consciousness for long enough to glare at him.
Marius fluttered about, wanting to help but not quite sure how. Like Caroline, his gaze kept darting in and out, simultaneously fascinated and not wanting to stare. Oh, Marius, well-meaning and indecisive as always. Strangely it made Wyn’s mood lift. He knew how to deal with Marius when he was like this.
“If you get in the cart, I would appreciate a hand up,” Wyn said to him. Marius nodded, nerves settling a fraction, and moved with alacrity to follow the instruction.
It was an awkward and painful business, but their efforts ended with Wyn successfully on the wooden bench inside of the cart, hunched over and panting. Hetta scrambled up to sit beside him. He appreciated that she was trying to pretend his appearance didn’t bother her while in front of her relatives, and he almost slung an arm around her before remembering that he mustn’t.
Jack got the cart moving with a crunch of gravel. Wyn gripped the wooden bench tightly, his wings instinctively trying to flare out for balance. The small movement sent a jolt of pain ricocheting down his spine.
“All right,” Marius said. “Who shot you?”
“The bank manager’s wife shot me,” Wyn said conversationally. “For some reason, she thinks I am fae.”
Caroline made a small sound, a giggle quickly stifled, though her gaze didn’t lift from inspecting her feet, which she’d apparently decided was the safest way to avoid rudeness. Marius didn’t smile. His fingers stiffened where he held on to the rough wood of the bench, and he frowned at Wyn’s bandaged wing. “Will you be all right?”
“Unless something else unexpected happens, yes.”
“Where did you leave the car?” Jack spoke from the driver’s seat.
“Alverness,” said Hetta. “We were transported back here by magic.”
Jack took his gaze off the road long enough to frown at Wyn. “How is that possible?”
“DuskRose. Many of the greater fae of that court—the shadowcats—can teleport. Magically transport themselves from one place to another. It usually only works within line-of-sight. I didn’t know Princess Sunnika had the strength to shift multiple people over such a distance. She has grown in power. Before this I would’ve said only Queen Tayarenn had that capability.” It chilled him, knowing that Princess Sunnika had that kind of range. The innate ability to teleport was a rare gift amongst fae—hence the power wielded by the shadowcats. Unlike other types of translocation magic, it could be done without any prior preparation and didn’t depend on establishing a resonance link between locations, at least over line-of-sight distances. That flexibility made it deadly in battle.
Caroline was nearly vibrating with curiosity and blurted out, “DuskRose? Princess Sunnika? Who are these people?” Her gaze lifted, meeting Wyn’s for a second, and he caught the next question that she just managed to avoid verbalising: What are you?
He was about to explain when copper bloomed on the back of his tongue and the hairs on his neck rose, with static rather than cold. He jerked and banged his bandaged wing painfully on the side of the cart. Aroset. Where was his sister’s magical signature coming from?
“Get us over the boundary, Jack,” he said urgently, scanning the surrounding fields. “Now.” Jack, bless him, didn’t argue, and clucked to the horse. The cart’s pace increased.
Wyn took a sharp breath as he spotted his sister. She must’ve stepped from a portal at that very moment, for her presence suddenly blazed to his leysight. When had she become so adept at portals? How had she located a resonance point so quickly? That faint feeling of charge increased, and Wyn gathered up his fraying magic. Could he divert a lightning strike if she made one? They were so close to the boundary, to safety, but Aroset was fast as a snake.
She didn’t strike though, in those few heartbeats of vulnerability, merely watched through narrowed eyes, crimson wings flexing with indecision. Father must have told her not to attack Stariel’s lord, he realised. She doesn’t want to risk hitting the others. But apparently whatever orders Father had given Aroset on that front weren’t a strong enough disincentive, for he saw her posture shift and felt the crackle in the air that signalled an attack. He braced, but between one breath and the next they crossed the boundary that marked safety, and Stariel hit him with the force of a wrecking ball.
Stariel was old and vast and so, so powerful, and the full weight of that power abruptly pressed down upon him. He gasped, throwing up shields instinctively, trying to make himself as small and insignificant as possible. That only angered Stariel further, and it ripped through his shields like tissue paper.
Hetta’s commandment reverberated to his bones.
He looked back, but Aroset was gone. He realised all his feathers were fluffed up and quickly un-fluffed them, slumping in sudden exhaustion. His blood still fizzed unpleasantly from the lug-imp venom, and the bullet wound ached dully, but at least they were safe. For now.
“Who was that?” Marius asked. “And what was that from Stariel just now?” His land-sense wasn’t strong, but apparently Stariel’s reaction had been such that even he’d felt it.
“My sister,” Wyn said. He was so tired, swaying to the rhythm of the cart. He wanted desperately to shut his eyes and let himself sleep. “She’s trying to kill me, but she can’t cross the boundaries without Hetta’s permission. And Stariel…”
Hetta came to his rescue. “I don’t know what’s gotten Stariel’s knickers in such a twist, but I intend to figure it out. Wyn can explain himself later—he’s had rather a bad day.” She began to tell them what had happened. Wyn shut his eyes, letting her words wash over him, his awareness narrowing to the warmth of her body so near to his.
He didn’t like the description of her meeting with Rakken. It was easier to think without the iron in him, and the conclusions he drew were everything he’d most feared: the fae using him as a bargaining chip against Hetta. Sunnika, though…the stormwinds knew what her motivations were. He doubted they boded well.
High King’s horns, but he needed to sleep. He’d made too many mistakes today already, and he feared making more through fatigu
e. He slit his eyes open to find Marius watching him grimly. Wyn couldn’t really blame him.
This road approached Stariel House from the north-east, and they had just come into sight of the building when Wyn marshalled his strength and changed. His tiredness increased tenfold, and he felt blind and deaf after so long in his fae form.
“I thought it took longer for you to heal in this form?” Hetta said under her breath. She still wore her hat, and it shadowed her face as she looked up at him.
“Hmmm,” he said noncommittedly.
“Well, you’re right that it’ll cause less of an uproar this way,” she agreed. “But I think you do them a disservice, assuming they won’t accept you if they know.”
“How do your wings heal if you magic them away?” Caroline asked suddenly.
Wyn smiled. “How do you know where your hands are when your eyes are closed?”
“Are they still there, then?” Caroline searched the space behind him as if expecting to see feathers.
“No. I’m a true shapeshifter.”
“Oh.” Caroline’s eyes burned with a thousand questions, but she abruptly realised he didn’t wish to answer them.
Marius, however, had no such compunctions. “What do you mean, a true shapeshifter? And why—”
“Oh, leave him alone, Marius,” Hetta said. “And give him your coat.”
Wyn was about to protest that he didn’t need it—he wasn’t cold—but Hetta poked him gently in the ribs before he could say so. The two siblings glared at each other across the cart, genuine irritation on both sides. Usually the two of them were close, and Wyn would be damned if he came between them. “Hetta, I don’t need—”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Wyn, stop being such a martyr,” Marius snapped, shrugging out of his coat and passing it across.
Wyn’s gambit had worked to defuse the tension between Marius and Hetta, the only downside being that now Marius’s ire was firmly redirected back at Wyn. He eased himself into the coat, praying that he wasn’t about to wreck a fourth article of clothing for the day. It was hard not to feel like the universe had taken a pointed and personal dislike to him donning human attire. He was broader in the shoulders than Marius, particularly when bandaged, and the material pulled tightly at his back. Hetta was right though; it did give him a marginally more respectable appearance, which he now realised had been her intention.
The rest of the journey was almost peaceful. The air seared with the weight of meaningful looks and unspoken words, but no one was sinking their fangs into him or trying to shoot him, and for this little space of time he could relax. He ought to be thinking of what to do when they got to the house, but he knew without asking that Hetta would take care of it, and he was tired enough to let her. And surely he could defer deciding what to do about the fae until he’d slept, at least?
You are weak, Hallowyn. It was weak, to pretend he didn’t already know what he must do now that his father had set things in motion. His hourglass had run dry.
Their arrival created a minor uproar. A gaggle of Hetta’s relatives waited at the entrance to the house, framed by the two stone creatures that guarded the front steps. They were, ironically, statues of lowfae, though none of the Valstars would know the live equivalents. Perhaps that would change, now the Iron Law was no longer in place.
Hetta muttered to Jack, “Wonderful job at sneaking off quietly. Just wonderful.”
“Don’t blame me! You’re the one who set Stariel in a dither! You’re bloody lucky I got away with only these two!” Jack jerked his head back at Caroline and Marius. “I’m sorry if I was more worried about saving your skin than being discreet.”
There was a pause.
“I’m sorry, Jack, that was horribly ungrateful of me.” A quiver of wry amusement laced Hetta’s voice. “I’ve just realised that half my relatives weren’t here last time we explained the whole the-fae-are-real business. Well, at least I shall have more support this time. Just think, eventually we may get to the point of being able to shout ‘wicked fae have attacked!’ without having to stop and explain ourselves. What a marvellous concept.”
“I’m not sure I look forward to shouting ‘wicked fae have attacked’ on multiple future occasions,” Wyn couldn’t help saying. He thought of the maidservant in Alverness and of Mrs Thompson. “But you are right—better to explain now than wait for rumour to catch up.”
Hetta’s voice was soft. “Does that include you?” Alarm thrilled through him. He couldn’t make himself confirm either way, but she read his lack of answer for what it was and sighed. “It’s all right. This is your secret, Wyn, and I won’t make you reveal it.”
Self-loathing dug sharp claws into his chest. He was being unfair to Hetta, to all the Valstars. But he was so tired, and he shied from the thought of the uproar that revealing his identity would cause. Besides, he would be leaving anyway, so what was the point?
There was a hubbub of voices as they approached, and the Valstars crowded around the cart as Jack drew up.
“What in Prydein is going on, Henrietta?” Aunt Sybil, Jack’s mother, demanded.
“Wicked fae have attacked, I’m afraid, Aunt,” Hetta said airily.
Aunt Sybil pulled herself to her full height. Since she had a tendency to dress all in black, the effect wasn’t dissimilar to a crow puffing up. “What did they want?”
This caused a ripple of reaction in those Valstars who hadn’t yet been informed of the fae’s existence.
Before Hetta could answer, her half-sister Alexandra cried out, “What’s wrong with Wyn? Are you all right?” She looked both very young and very earnest as she pushed her way forward. Her brother Gregory, her elder by two years, echoed the question, though suspicion lurked in his expression. Both knew of Wyn’s nature, but their different experiences with the lesser fae Gwendelfear had made Gregory leery of all fae and Alexandra too trusting.
“I have been most adequately bandaged,” Wyn assured them both.
“He needs to be in bed,” Marius disagreed. “Hetta will explain. I’ll help you into the house, Wyn.”
Hetta gave her oldest sibling a speaking look but sighed. “Yes, you do need to rest, Wyn, before you fall over.” She turned her gaze towards the minor horde before her and declared, “You had better all come with me into the hall, for I’ve something to say to you all.”
Curiosity cut through the crowd like a pike, but they didn’t immediately follow Hetta’s direction. Instead, they fluttered around Wyn as Jack and Marius helped him out of the cart, interjecting concerns and suggestions for his well-being, as if they truly considered him one of their own. It filled him with a soft and oddly painful sensation.
On the ground, he leaned against the cart, testing his wounded leg with a barely repressed grimace. Hetta scrambled out of the cart to stand beside him.
“Throwing me to the wolves, Hetta?” he asked her in an undertone, eying Jack and Marius.
“If I wanted to do that, you would be the one about to spend the next hour arguing with my entire family,” she shot back. “I have every confidence in your ability to handle yourself.” She didn’t touch him, not here with all her relatives watching, but her eyes softened. “Don’t let your martyrish tendencies get the better of you. Go and collapse somewhere. You look terrible.” She raised her voice and addressed her various relations more generally. “No, Marius and Jack are quite capable of helping Wyn into the house, and he doesn’t need you all here as an audience. Come along!”
It was a relief to be away from the scrutiny of all those eyes, but it did leave him at the mercy of Marius and Jack, neither one of them particularly kindly disposed towards him at present.
“I’ll get a cane for you,” Marius said after a pause. By the time Jack had helped Wyn up the entrance stairs, he’d emerged with one of cousin Ivy’s spare walking sticks. Ivy had been born with a malformed limb that gave her an occasional limp. The stick was a little short for him but still helped greatly with his balance, though he wobbled like a new-born kit
ten. The venom was slowly losing its potency, only murmuring in his blood now, but negating its effects had sucked his reserves dry.
Jack and Marius exchanged glances. “You’ll never get up all the stairs to your room,” Jack said matter-of-factly.
Wyn shook his head. “I will. I would rather be in my own room. I will hobble up there by myself if need be.”
“Aye, and go through the pair of us as well if we try to stop you?” Jack said dryly.
“Well, I would prefer not to.”
Jack muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath, but the two men walked with him as he made his painstaking way into the house, each of them ready to lend a hand if Wyn faltered.
In a more formal house with more staff, there might have been stricter rules about who lived where. But Stariel House had been understaffed for years, and for nine-tenths of the year it was underpopulated as well, with the Valstars spreading out to pursue their various interests elsewhere. The current stress on bedroom availability had more to do with rooms being in good repair than in existence. This meant that Wyn had had a relatively open field when it came to selecting a room. His was the only occupied chamber on his floor, in the high attics of the old west wing, too cold and draughty to attract much interest from anyone else.
“I’ve never understood why you choose to room in that draughty garret,” Jack grumbled as they made their way up the entrance stairs one slow step at a time. Wyn found it easiest to progress with one hand on the banister and the other leaning on the walking stick, transferring his weight up each step in undignified hops. Each jolt made him grit his teeth, and he had to stop halfway and rest.
“I don’t mind the cold,” Wyn said truthfully.
“It’s the fact that it has a balcony,” Marius said suddenly. “You like knowing you can escape if need be.”
Wyn smiled. He found Marius’s complete inability to prevent himself from blurting out his intuitions as he had them at turns exasperating and endearing, but the familiarity of it just now steadied him. “I do like having access to the sky,” he agreed softly. Even though he hadn’t flown for years before recent events had necessitated it—a denial he wasn’t sure he could repeat, with the glorious memory of soaring above the Indigoes still fresh in his mind, untainted even by his ungainly, unpractised landing.
The Prince of Secrets Page 14