“Who’s coming?” I press, but Titania grows limp in the arms of her helpers.
“Get her out of here,” Breena barks at the hesitant younglings. “Can’t you see this place is killing her? Get her into the trees!”
The Fae jerk to life, hoisting Titania’s frail body off the carpet. They vanish quickly through the doors.
“Herne isn’t back yet,” I whisper at Breena, although every Frithemaeg around knows what I’m saying.
“Then we’ll just have to fight without him.” My friend’s words are grave. “We should get the mortals somewhere easily defensible, like the cellars.”
The cellars. A dark place beneath the earth with only one way out.
“We’ll be blind there,” I argue, “and more cornered than we already are.”
“We will be on the perimeter,” she replies coolly. “If we need to retreat, we’ll end up in the cellars with the royals.”
Being apart from Richard. The idea makes me sick, cramps up all of my muscles so they feel spiked with steel. I look back to where he’s sitting, slicing through the pink middle of his beef Wellington. I see the empty chair next to him, my chair, and wish I could just go sit back down.
“It’s the best way,” Breena goes on, “and you know it.”
She’s right. Deep inside I feel the wild thing stir, testing the strength of my willful stitches. If, when, I have to let it out, Richard can’t be anywhere close to me. I can’t risk it. “I’ll tell Richard.”
Breena glances over at the princess. “I think it’s time we all unveil.”
“Yes,” another Fae pipes in. “They need to know so they won’t wander off and get themselves killed. We could always wipe their memories later.”
I shake my head, still staring at the long row of royals, so proper and laughing as they spear pieces of the third course from their plates. “If we survive, the divide won’t be necessary anymore. Our worlds are merging.”
Helene, Ferrin, and a few of the other younglings nod. Others just stare, blank. Most of them came into existence after the great taboo was set. They’ve never talked to a human or even thought it a possibility.
I turn back to Breena. “Just let me talk to Richard first so he can warn them. We don’t want to set them off into a panic.”
Her silence is my confirmation. I shed a layer of invisibility and walk over to Richard.
I keep my whisper soft, not wanting to startle him. “None of the others can see me. Just keep eating.”
He obeys, taking a long draw of his lemon-rimmed water.
“A Fae from Mab’s court just arrived. She’s in bad shape, but she says the Old One is coming. Soon. We need to get all of the royals down into the cellars, now.”
One of his eyebrows lifts in an unvoiced question: How?
“We’ve decided to reveal ourselves. But first we need you to prepare them for our appearance. Can you do that?”
The room plunges into darkness. The black only lasts for a second as the electric lights flicker back to life. My skin tingles. Somewhere beyond the gilded castle walls is a storm laced with vengeful, angry magic. The lights of Windsor won’t hold out for long.
“We need to hurry,” I urge him.
Richard stands and raises his glass high into the air, where it catches the unsteady, rainbow-tinged light of the chandeliers.
“I have a toast,” he begins. “Well, it’s more of an announcement really.”
The royals’ murmurs and exclamations fall silent, their faces turn to him. They’re all so different—wrinkled, smooth, scarred, and beautiful—yet so alike in their curious ignorance.
“Our world isn’t always as it seems. We sometimes think it’s so simple: living, driving our fancy cars, drinking our champagne, and giving to the less fortunate.”
He has their attention. Out of the corner of my eye I watch the other Fae flit close to the table, like so many moths drawn to a single light.
“But there’s another reality, and it’s taking place around us every day. That reality is magic.”
“The papers are right! He’s finally cracked,” one of the older, drunker dukes whispers loudly to his wife, who turns pink and stifles his mouth with a well-manicured hand.
“Magic—the force that shows up in so many of our legends and folktales—is real. It’s all around us. A few months ago I never would have believed it. But then came proof—living, breathing proof that magic exists, and it’s in our everyday lives whether we know it or not. That proof is Emrys.”
“Oh God, I am drunk.” Anabelle lays her forehead on the table.
Richard ignores his sister and the rapidly growing glances of skepticism from across the table. “Emrys, the lovely redhead you’ve acquainted yourselves with over the past few days, is my guardian Faery. We all have one.
“I’m telling you this because our lives are in danger. There are spirits out there who’ve decided they don’t like the way we’ve run things. They think our deaths will be an answer to their problems. Our Faery guardians want to keep us safe, but they need our help to do so.”
The faces are stunned, outraged, uncomprehending, and any number of emotions. But all of them are silent. Now’s the time to unveil.
One by one we appear. When my veiling spell drops, Anabelle screams and shrinks back in her seat. Her wineglass tips, shatters against the glossy tabletop. But her reaction is mild compared to the others. Duchesses scream and leap from chairs, then scream more when they see the other Fae ringed around the table. One of the oldest—Richard’s great-aunt—slumps over the side of her chair in a sloppy faint. Some of the men clutch at knives and forks, anything they might use as a weapon. One even lunges for the heavy metallic vase at the center of the table, spraying a chaos of food and broken glasses into the laps of his relatives. The older, drunker duke simply curses and throws back the remainder of his wine.
The younglings don’t move. They watch the chaos, puzzled and separate, like demigods.
“It’s all right! They’re not going to hurt you!” Richard is shouting next to me, but his words are lost to the impressive, combined lung power of the royal line.
“Stillaþ.” With a single word from Breena the room stops. The mortals are stretched, suspended in motion. Only their eyes can move, spinning crazy with terror.
I frown at my friend’s magic, but I don’t undo it. This is the only way they will listen. “It’s all right. We’re here to help you.”
All eyes that can, shift to me. Blue, brown, green—most shine bright with manic fears. Only Richard’s stay steel-edged and straight.
“There’s a Faery, a very old force of magic, who’s on a mission to destroy the crown and spill your blood. We’re your Frithemaeg, your guardians, and we’ve sworn never to let that happen. We want you to see us because we can’t protect you without your cooperation. The Old One is coming very soon, and we’ll need to place you in the most defensible area. We’d like to ask all of you to move into the cellars now.”
The scene stays frozen, like some elaborate tableau. I start to speak again, but my words are sliced short by a second power surge. This time, the earth shakes. Forgotten dust lodged in crevices showers over heads and half-eaten food. The crowd’s agonized faces look twice as pale under the failing lights.
“We don’t have much time,” I say when the lights return to a steady, weakened state. I grab Richard’s shoulder. “Help me get them downstairs. Please.”
Breena releases her spell, and the scene turns into chaos again.
The king waves his arms, howling alpha shouts into every freed ear. “Didn’t you hear what she just said? Everyone needs to get to the cellars. Now!”
The stampede of humanity somehow grows organized, a swell of frizzing hair and pastel skirts rushing toward the doors. Staff and royals alike. Chairs tumble onto the lush carpet. Passersby skip over them with panicked energy. Younglings struggle to keep up with their wards.
“Go straight into the cellars,” I roar above the crowd. “Don’t tr
y to grab your jewels or valuables. There’s no time!”
Richard stays by my side, watching his stunned relatives fight and pour through the dining room doors.
“You have to go with them, Richard.” I’m clutching his arm and pushing him away at the same time, wanting two irreconcilable things.
His feet are planted firm in the scarlet carpet. My shove does nothing more than sway him. “I want to stay here with you. I want to fight.”
“There’s nothing you can do. . . . These spirits that are coming, they’re powerful. They’ll eat you alive. You have to hide.” My voice wilts into a plea. I’m not beyond spelling him into obedience if I have to. His life is worth it.
“I want to help.” There it is. That flash of defiance in his eyes. I might have to spell him.
Or not. An idea pops into my head. “Are there weapons here?”
Richard frowns and scans the walls—nothing but mirrors and aged art. “Kitchen knives. I think there are some ornamental swords in the Lower Ward. Oh, and lots of bows and arrows. Dad loved archery.”
“Perfect. See if you can gather all of them. I might be able to try and spell them so that you’re not completely defenseless.”
“I’ll help.” Anabelle springs out of my peripheral vision. Her face is sharp and serious, showing none of the panic that threw her against the back of her chair. The Faes’ appearance seems to have sobered her up.
“No, Belle.” Richard looks at the door. The dining room is mostly empty now, a wake of chipped plates and disemboweled flower arrangements. “You go with the others.”
“Like hell I am,” she huffs. “You don’t just get to tell me I have a flipping Faery godmother and that we’re being attacked by some old thing and then go traipsing off into God-knows-where. I’m coming with you.”
“She can go,” I say. “It’s easier for us if you stick together.”
“Will you go with them? Or should I?” Breena steps around an overturned chair toward us.
“I’m going outside to get a feel for our situation.” I swallow hard, steal a glance at Richard. Though I trust Breena beyond anything, it’s hard to leave him, especially now. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“We’ll meet you at the cellars then.” Breena herds her new protégés together. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Wait in the cellars,” I tell Richard. “I’ll come for you.”
“I’ll see you soon.” He pulls me close for a quick tease of a kiss. The mark lingers— soft on my lips—long after he’s gone: a reminder that, whether in life or death, we’ll soon be together again.
Thirty-One
I’ve seen many storms in my life, but none quite as menacing as this. The northern sky is black with night, the light of its stars leeched dry by some powerful, unyielding force. A magic different from Herne’s squalling tang rises in the air. It’s old, and in many ways familiar, like some irritably snatched memory. At some point in my existence, I met this magic, experienced it in the flesh. But the details of this encounter, the Old One’s name and face, don’t appear to me. I nearly bite my lip through trying to think of it. Was she one of the ancients I tried to hunt and exterminate after London’s electric lights first whirred to life? Or was she some force I whisked past when I myself was bodiless, unaware?
Wherever she is, she’s close. Accents of lesser magic punctuate my senses as her followers ring in. There are hundreds, maybe even thousands. It’s hard to tell in a sky so clouded with danger and dark.
These obsidian heavens stir, break open with the smallest movement. A bird—a magpie—wings its way to the castle walls, its few white feathers spearing through the unseeable. I hold out my arm and wait. The bird circles and finally lands, its claws digging without mercy into my forearm. I ignore the sparks of pain, dislodge the paper from its leg.
The Old One offers terms of surrender. First, all mortals of royal blood must be handed over to her. Second, all those participating in the Guard must go into exile on the Isle of Man. If these terms are met, the Old One promises to let you live.
“And the mortals, what will happen to them?” I grit my teeth, trying to keep a good grip on my bucking anger. I know the answer. It’s the same one I gave Richard in his drawing room the night we first officially met. The family would be sacrificed, all of them slaughtered like lambs for the magic in their veins.
The magpie cocks its head against the question. I toss the bird back into the air. It squawks, angry, and wings back over the wall.
I glance down at my arm and wipe away the six pinpricks of blood left by the bird’s talons. The piece of paper in my hand crumples under my grip. I look back at the southern sky, where the stars still fight against the inky black, and the moon’s fullness conjures shadows from every corner.
“Come on, Herne.” I try feeling for the woodlord’s magic, but the Old One’s aura is too overwhelming, taunting me with its familiarity. “Don’t fail us.”
“Lady Emrys?”
My gaze falls back down to earth to find Helene, hovering a few paces away. She’s a portrait of starkness; her dark hair melts into the air around us, edging sharp against creamy skin. The only grayness is under her eyes. I can tell that, despite the proximity of the woods, she’s tired. We all are.
“Yes?”
“We’ve set up the defenses along the perimeters, and the mortals are all safely in the cellar.”
I look skyward again, but this time my eyes don’t drift over the horizon. They scan the rooftops instead, picking out the tall black shapes of tense sentinels. They line the untouched battlements like archers, peeking through gaps in the stone. Night air shivers, grows tense as they ready their young, supple magic.
It isn’t enough.
“Good. It’s good,” I say, trying to smooth the shakiness out of my voice. “Any word on Titania?”
“They’re still in the woods. That’s all I know.”
A terrible sound, like steel screaming apart, murders the sky. My mouth drops open, hands fly to stop up my ears. In the edges of my vision, I see Helene doubling over. It’s their war cry.
As soon as the noise dies, I glide up to the battlements. My sisters stand there, faces strangely blank. I feel the fear shredding through each and every one of them.
“Prepare your countermagic,” I call down the line, and gaze out into the darkness.
Treetops and shingled houses shudder in the strengthening wind. I feel the Old One, hanging just beyond the fringes of town. She must be fighting the sickness. It won’t hold her back for long. If a spirit wants something bad enough, the sickness becomes secondary. Herne’s presence in his wood and our long days in London are proof of that.
The second spell—a scathing white light—rushes in, consumes the castle whole. I throw together several defensive spells before it reaches me. Other Fae do the same, but a few aren’t quick enough. The rest of us watch, helpless behind our curtains of magic as the unshielded Frithemaeg thrash. Their movements grow sluggish; soon they stop moving altogether. The light vanishes, leaves us blinking wide against the dark. I stare at the nearest fallen youngling. She’s sprawled on the battlement stones, eyes open. Nothing enters or leaves their glazed surface.
“They’re using dark magic!” Helene hisses beside me. She too is studying the strange, living corpse. “She’s gone.”
Is she? I fight the temptation to reach out and feel the Fae’s aura. It could be a trap. I’ve never seen this spell before—whatever it is, the Old One means business.
“Set up a shield around the entire castle,” I shout to the survivors. “We can’t let them keep picking us off like this!”
Threads of defensive magic twist up from every Frithemaeg. These streams of light meet over our heads, weaving into one giant blanket of a spell. It stretches like liquid, dripping over battlements and coating Windsor’s walls of stone. Like the other defenses, this spell is patchy, but it’s strong enough to carry us through at least one more major assault.
We wait. First the
y’re like shadows flickering in the corner of my eye: there one moment, gone the next. Then, through the glow of our magic, I see them. Some are flying, leering carrion circling until there are enough bones to pick. Others race across the ground, leaping over houses and trees in their race to the castle.
The Black Dogs are the first to reach our shield. Their leader rushes headfirst into the overwhelming light, giving a terrible howl before it bursts into flame. Its followers slow to a halt, their noses almost touching their defensive spell. Their new leader, a dog much larger than the rest, paces along the light’s edge. His nose twitches as he sits on his haunches. The other dogs do the same.
They howl. The leader’s notes rise above the rest, his magic like a saw’s edge. Alone the dog’s rough music wouldn’t worry me. But the pack’s collective power makes our shield waver. Sweat sprouts on my hairline, pours down my face in beads. The strain of holding our defense shows on the other Fae as well. Faces flush, hands tremble.
Then I see the next wave, racing fast in shades of emerald and night toward our flaming shield. We won’t be able to hold back the Banshees and Green Women.
“Drop the shield!” I scream my sudden decision. “Focus on beating them back! Unmake everyone you can! Show no mercy!”
The Frithemaeg pull back their energies and the light above us vanishes, breaks open to hostile skies. I waste no time, showering spells over our attackers. The dogs keep howling and howling; my head throbs with their subtle magic. The beautiful heralds of death draw closer.
Magic hurtles by. The spell brushes so close it singes the ends of my hair. I duck closer to the battlement and peer through the gaps in the stone. The Green Women and Banshees are fast, riding the air like ragged witches. My spells whistle through the sky like tightly strung arrows. One strikes a Green Woman straight in the chest, knocking her to the ground several meters below. Three more soul feeders fill the space she emptied.
I pick them off, one by one, but my spells aren’t enough to hold them back. They fall from the sky, a swarm of vengeful locusts. I stop trying to aim my spells. My magic goes left and right, striking any creature unfortunate enough to stray into my path.