Wicked Lovely

  “I will.” She slipped her hand into his, almost giddy with relief. Soon it would all be over.

  The throng cheered and laughed, raising such a din that she laughed too. Maybe they weren’t cheering for the same reason, but it didn’t matter: they echoed her rejoicing.

  One of the smiling girls with vines around her arms held out plastic cups filled with the sweet golden drink that most everyone seemed to be drinking. “A drink to celebrate.”

  Aislinn took one and sipped. It was amazing, a heady mix of things that shouldn’t have a flavor—bottled sunlight and spun sugar, lazy afternoons and melting sunsets, hot breezes and dangerous promises. She downed it all.

  Keenan took the cup from her hand. “May I have my dance?”

  She licked the last taste from her lips—like warm candy—and smiled. She was strangely unsteady on her feet. “With pleasure.”

  Then he led her through the crowd, spinning her in dances old and new, from a stylized waltz to modern moves without any choreography at all.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that something was wrong, but as he twirled her through the dance, she couldn’t remember what. They laughed, and drank, and danced until Aislinn no longer cared why she’d been worried.

  Finally she put her hand on Keenan’s wrist and gasped, “Enough. I need to stop.”

  He scooped her up in his arms and—holding her aloft—he sat back on a tall chair carved with sunbursts and vines. “Never stop. Only pause.”

  Where did the chair come from? All around them, faeries danced and laughed.

  I should go. The humans had all gone home. Even the bone girls—Scrimshaw Sisters—danced. Groups of Summer Girls spun by, swirling far too fast to ever be mistaken for humans.

  “I need another drink.” Sitting on his lap, Aislinn leaned her head on Keenan’s shoulder, breathing hard. The more she tried to make sense of her flashes of unease, the less clear they were.

  “More summer wine!” Keenan called, laughing as several young lion-boys tumbled over themselves to bring tall goblets to them as she sat in his lap. “My lady wants wine, and wine she shall have.”

  She took hold of one of the etched goblets, spinning it in her hand. Delicate scrollwork traced the surface, surrounding an image of a dancing couple under a bright sun. The colors in the wine spiraled and shifted like a tiny sunrise burned inside the cup. “Where’d the plastic cups go?”

  He kissed her hair and laughed. “Beautiful things for a beautiful lady.”

  “Whatever.” She shrugged and took another long drink.

  With an arm securely around her waist and a hand between her shoulder blades, Keenan dipped her backward. “Once more around the faire?”

  Her hair fell onto the dew-damp grass as she looked up at him—the faery king who held her in his arms—and wondered that she was having so much fun.

  He swung her back up and whispered, “Dance with me, Aislinn, my love.”

  Her legs ached; her head spun. She hadn’t had so much fun since…ever. “Definitely.”

  On every side, faeries laughed—dancing in ways that were graceful, wild, and sometimes shocking. Earlier they’d seemed sedate, like couples in old black-and-white movies, but as the night wore on, it had changed. When only the fey remained.

  Keenan swung her up into his embrace and kissed her neck. “I could spend eternity doing this.”

  “No”—she pushed him away—“no kissing, no…”

  Then they were moving again. The world spun by, a blur of strange faces lost in a cloud of music. The sawdust-covered paths of the carnival were hidden under shadows; the lights of the rides were darkened.

  But dawn was coming, light spilling out over the sky. How long have we danced?

  “I need to sit down. Seriously.”

  “Whatever my lady wants.” Keenan lifted her into his arms again. His doing so had stopped seeming strange several drinks ago.

  One of the men with skin like bark spread out a blanket by the water. Another brought over a picnic basket. “Good morrow, Keenan. My lady.”

  Then, with a bow, they left.

  Keenan opened the basket and pulled out another bottle of wine, as well as cheese and strange little fruit. “Our first breakfast.”

  Definitely not carnival food. Oops, faire food. She giggled. Then she looked up—behind him the carnival was gone. As if they’d never been there, all the faeries had left. It was just the two of them. “Where did they all go?”

  Keenan held out the goblet again, filled with the same liquid sunrise. “It’s just us here. Later, after you’ve rested, we’ll talk. Then we can dance every night if you will it. Travel. It’ll all be different now.”

  She didn’t even see the invisible faeries that always lingered at the river. They were truly alone. “Can I ask a question?”

  “Of course.” He held a piece of fruit up to her lips. “Bite.”

  Aislinn leaned in—almost toppling over as she did—but she didn’t bite the strange fruit. Instead she whispered, “Why don’t all the other faeries glow like you do?”

  Keenan lowered his hand. “All the other what?”

  “Faeries.” She gestured around them, but it was as empty of faeries as it was of humans. She closed her eyes to try to stop the world from spinning so madly and whispered, “You know, fey things, like the ones dancing with us all night, like you and Donia.”

  “Fey things?” he murmured. His copper hair glittered in the light that was creeping over the sky.

  “Yeah.” She laid down on the ground. “Like you.”

  It sounded like he said, “And soon, like you…” But she wasn’t sure. Everything was blurry.

  He bent over her where she lay on the ground. His lips brushed hers, tasting like sunshine and sugar. His hair fell onto her face.

  It’s soft, not like metal at all.

  She meant to say stop, to tell him she was dizzy, but before she could speak, everything went dark.

  CHAPTER 18

  They are not subject to sore Sicknesses, but dwindle and decay at a certain Period…. Some say their continual Sadness is because of their pendulous state.

  —The Secret Commonwealth by Robert Kirk and Andrew Lang (1893)

  Early the next morning, Donia awakened on the floor, Sasha’s body between her and the door. No one had brought her a message from Keenan. No guards had knocked on her door.

  “Has he forsaken me?” she whispered to Sasha.

  The wolf laid his ears back and whined.

  “When I actually might welcome his presence, he’s not here.” She wouldn’t weep, though, not for him. She’d done enough of that over the years.

  She’d expected him to hear of Agatha’s death, to come demanding she accept his help. She couldn’t, but it would’ve been easier—safer—than what she’d have to do now.

  “Come, Sasha.” She opened the door and motioned Evan to her. At least he’s here waiting.

  The rowan-man joined her, keeping a respectful distance, standing in the withered grass in front of the porch until Donia said, “Come inside.”

  She didn’t wait to see if he’d follow. The idea of inviting one of Keenan’s guards into her home—even Evan, whose presence had been steadfast the past few decades—unsettled her.

  Gesturing to the seat farthest from her, she asked, “Has Keenan been told about Agatha?”

  “He was out when Skelley arrived at the loft. One of the others went to the faire to find him.” Evan cleared his throat, but his stare was bold. “He was preoccupied with the new queen.”

  She nodded. So it’s truly her. Beira would be furious, a force to fear.

  It’d been so long since Donia had much to truly fear. Between Keenan and Beira, she was cosseted, safer than most any fey or mortal.

  “I’d ask that you allow a few guards closer.” Evan dropped to his knees, showing a respect his kind rarely offered any fey other than Keenan. “Let me stay here with you.”

  “Fine,” she murmured, ignoring both hi
s brief look of shock and her irritation at it. I can be reasonable. Then she said the words she’d never said to any of Keenan’s guards: “Tell Keenan I need him to come. Now.”

  It didn’t take long for Skelley to summon Keenan—not long enough for Donia to prepare for the pain of seeing him in her home. When Evan led Keenan in, she stayed in her rocking chair—curled into herself, arms folded tightly over her chest, feet tucked up beneath her.

  Before Evan had closed the door behind him—returning to the guards outside—Keenan was across the room, standing beside her.

  Sasha moved closer, pressing his body against her, trying to soothe her. Donia absently petted his head.

  She glanced at Keenan and said, “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  In a strange mimicry of Sasha’s position, Keenan dropped to the floor. “I’ve waited decades for you to want me around, Don, begged to be in your presence.”

  “That was before her.” She felt foolish for it, but as much as she wanted Aislinn to take up the staff, she was jealous. Aislinn was the one; she’d spend eternity with Keenan.

  “Things are different now.” Donia tried to keep all of her emotions out of her voice, but she failed.

  “I’ll always come when you want me. How many times have I told you that?” he whispered, his words carrying that warm breath of summer. “That won’t change. Ever.”

  She reached out, putting her hand over his lips before he could say anything else. A thin layer of frost formed where she touched him, but he didn’t complain.

  He never does.

  She didn’t pull away, although his breath burned her. “I heard the news from the faire, that she’s the one.”

  When Evan had told her, she’d almost wept, imagining eternity in this pain, alone, watching them dance and laugh. Unless Beira kills me.

  “Don…” His lips moved against her fingers, gentle even as they hurt her—just like the words he’d say if she didn’t stop him.

  When there were no witnesses, he’d let himself be the person he’d been before she knew he was a king—the person she fell in love with. It was why she avoided being alone with him.

  “No,” she said, not wanting the gentle side of him, not now. Today she needed him to be the Summer King, to set aside the person he could be without the crown. She needed him to be arrogant and assured, able to do what needed doing.

  Steam rose against her hand as he exhaled, the breath of summer melting her frost. Sometimes, in secret dreams she’d never tell him, she wondered what would happen if her frost and his sun truly clashed, if they touched as they had in those few weeks before she became the Winter Girl, when he was pretending to be a mortal for her. Would she melt away? Burn up?

  She shivered—excited at the thought—and felt the cold well up inside her as her emotions raged like a blizzard. If she didn’t keep calm, she’d need to let that awful cold out.

  “Beira was here last night. You need to know what she’s doing.”

  He nodded, weariness on his face, as she told him almost everything—about Beira’s initial visit when Aislinn was chosen, about the attack on Aislinn outside the library, about her belief that the attack was at Beira’s behest, about Agatha’s death, about Beira’s threats, about her insistence that Aislinn not lift the staff.

  Donia kept quiet about Seth’s research—fearing for the mortal’s safety—but beyond that, she was more honest with Keenan than she’d been in a very long time. When she stopped talking, he stared at her, silent and struggling to contain the temper he rarely freed.

  She clenched her hands so tightly that icicles formed on the tips of her fingernails. Now comes the hard part.

  “Let’s go.” He looked over at Sasha, then past the wolf to the tiny mementos handed down by the other Winter Girls. “The guards will bring your things. We can turn the study into a private chamber and—”

  “Keenan,” she interrupted before she could be tempted.

  He’d see the logic of what needed to be done if he thought clearly; she needed to assure that he did so. She opened her hand. Icicles fell and shattered at her feet. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “You can’t stay here. If something happened to you”—he bowed his head, letting his forehead rest on her knee—“please, Don, come with me.”

  Where is the Summer King? But it wasn’t the king who laid his head in her lap, pleading.

  She didn’t move away. It burned her, froze him, but she stayed still. “I can’t come with you. It’s not my place. I’m not the one you’re looking for.”

  He looked up at her, an ugly frostbitten bruise forming where his skin had touched her knee. “I’m not strong enough to stop her, but I will be soon. Stay with me until we get this sorted out.”

  “And what would she do to me when I left?”

  “I’ll be strong soon.” He was almost frightening in his insistence. His eyes darkened to that unearthly green hue she still dreamed of; if she stared long enough, she’d see flowers blooming there, a promise of what he could become once his queen freed him.

  She couldn’t look away.

  He whispered, “Stay with me. I’ll keep you safe.”

  “You can’t.” She wished he could, but it was impossible: there was no winning, not for her. “I want you to win. I always have, but I still have to try to convince Aislinn not to believe in you, that you’re not worth the risk. Those are the rules. I gave my word when I lifted the staff. We both did.”

  He put a hand on either side of her, his fingertips burning her skin through her clothes. “Even if it means Beira wins? Even if she kills you? We can work together, find a way.”

  She shook her head. For all his centuries—far more than she’d ever see—he could still be so reckless. It usually infuriated her. Today she found it saddening. “If she wins, she won’t kill me. It’s only if you win that I’ll die.”

  “Then why tell me? I need to win.” He looked awful, pale and sickly like he’d been skewered by iron spikes. He moved farther away from her—crouched on the floor, head bowed—where they couldn’t touch. He sounded as broken as he looked. “If you stop Aislinn, I lose everything. If you don’t, you die. What am I to do?”

  “Hope I lose,” she suggested softly.

  “No.”

  She stood up and walked over to him. “I’m terrified of Beira, but I truly do hope that Ash is the one. For both of your sakes.”

  “You’ll still be a shade. That doesn’t fix anything.”

  Where is the Summer King? She sighed as she watched him struggle between what he wanted and the inevitable. Not all dreams come true. If it’d make things easier, she’d be cruel. It wouldn’t help, though.

  She leaned over him, holding her hair back so it didn’t fall against him. “It fixes a lot of things.”

  “It…”

  “Make me lose, Keenan. Convince her you’re worth the risk”—she kissed his cheek—“because you are.” It was easier to say it, knowing Beira would kill her, knowing she wouldn’t spend eternity with him knowing she still loved him.

  “I can’t….”

  She put her hand over his mouth. “Convince her.”

  She pulled her hand away and—lips firmly closed to keep the icy air from his mouth—kissed him. “Then kill Beira.”

  CHAPTER 19

  [Faeries] are partly human and partly spiritual in their nature…. Some of them are benevolent…. Others are malevolent…abducting grown people, and bringing misfortune.

  —The Folk-Lore of the Isle of Man by A. W. Moore (1891)

  Keenan was shaken when he left Donia; he walked aimlessly through the city, wishing, wanting an answer. There wasn’t one. Unless Aislinn was his missing queen and he was able to convince her to trust him, to accept him, there was nothing he could do. He simply wasn’t strong enough to stand against Beira.

  If I were… He smiled at that thought: stopping Beira, maybe in time to save Donia. That was the only recourse they had.

  But if Aislinn’s Sight was that thing
which the Eolas spoke of—and that would be in their nature—it was all for nothing. Donia would die, and he would still be bound. The small trickle of summer that he could call was nowhere near enough to stand against Beira.

  He rested his head against an oak tree, eyes closed. Breathe. Just breathe. Aislinn was different, perhaps different enough; perhaps she was the one.

  But she might not be.

  The Eolas’ proclamation—which the fey had heard as a herald of the Summer Queen’s discovery—could be nothing more than a revelation that she was Sighted. She might not be the one.

  He’d just turned toward the greener part of the city when he heard Beira’s hags approach. They followed at an almost respectful distance until he reached the river.

  At the river’s side, he sat—feet on the soil, sun on his back—and waited.

  Better here than at the loft.

  The last time she’d visited, Beira had frozen as many of his birds as she could when he left the room. He’d returned to find them dead on the ground, or affixed to branches, hanging like awful ornaments at the tips of icicles. Unless he could stop her, one of these times it could be the Summer Girls or his guards who felt her temper.

  Beira stood in the shadow of a garish awning held over her by several of her nearly-naked guards—Hawthorn-people and one slick-skinned troll, all sporting fresh bruises and frostbitten skin.

  “What, no hug? no kiss?” Beira held out a hand. “Come here, dearest.”

  “I’ll stay out here.” Keenan didn’t bother getting up; he just glanced up at her. “I like the warmth on my skin.”

  She wrinkled her nose and made a little moue of distaste. “Nasty stuff, sunlight.”

  He shrugged. Talking to her now—after seeing Donia, after all the doubts about Aislinn—was the last thing he wanted.

  “Do you know that there’s a market these days for SPF cloth?” She sat back on a blindingly white chair that the hags dragged up for her. “Mortals are such strange beasts.”