Wicked Lovely

  Speaking softly, Keenan reminded him, “The hags cannot come in, but Beira can. Until we return, you must stay here. I would not want you at her mercy.”

  “Grams. Grams is alone,” Aislinn whispered, her eyes widening. Then she was out the door, running.

  Keenan paused only a heartbeat, glancing at Seth. “Stay here. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

  Seth nodded and shoved him toward the still-open door. “Keep her safe.”

  Outside, Niall was already sending guards after Aislinn.

  “Leave someone to watch over him,” Keenan instructed as he fled, following Aislinn, hoping that she worried for nothing, that Elena was safe.

  When Aislinn got there, the door was ajar. She went into the living room. The TV was on, but she didn’t see Grams. She stepped around the corner. “Grams?”

  Behind her, the guards spilled into the room.

  On the floor, eyes closed, lay Grams.

  Aislinn scrambled over to her, felt for a pulse, for breath. Grams was alive.

  “Is she…” Keenan pulled her to her feet and knelt beside Grams.

  “She’s hurt,” Aislinn said. “You all come with us to the hospital. If anyone comes near her, you will stop them.”

  Grimly Keenan nodded. “Your queen has spoken.”

  The guards bowed. One stepped forward. “We will do our best, but if it’s the Winter Queen herself…”

  Aislinn heard the fear in his voice. “Is she that strong?”

  “Only the Summer King—or the head of another court—could stand against her,” Keenan said. “If I had my full strength, if you had your strength, we could. If we go to the hospital, we are not much defense to Elena. But after the ceremony, we can protect her.”

  One of the guards lifted Grams gently. He held her carefully aloft. The others filed out the door.

  Aislinn swallowed, hating the idea of leaving Grams. “If we do this, and it’s her that hurt Grams…”

  “Even if it isn’t her, it was at her command.” Keenan scowled. “She has threatened you, Donia…”

  “Well, let’s go then.” She looked at Grams, motionless in a faery’s arms. Then she turned to Keenan. “Does it take long?”

  “Not too long.” He glanced at the guards. “Do whatever you need to do. We’ll be at the hospital as soon as we can. Go.”

  As the guards raced toward the hospital, Aislinn took Keenan’s hand, and they ran—faster than she’d known her body could move—toward Donia’s and the test that would change everything.

  CHAPTER 30

  Never was there any one so beautiful as [he]…. The wolves did not ravage, the frost winds did not bite, and the Hidden Folk came out of the Faery Hills and made music and gladness everywhere.

  —Celtic Wonder Tales by Ella Young (1910)

  Donia knew they were coming, but it still made her gasp when they came toward her—holding hands and moving at the blinding speed that only the strongest fey could manage.

  “Don?” He looked fevered in his excitement, face glowing, copper hair already radiating with the strange sunlight he carried inside.

  She forced a smile and stepped into the yard. The last time she’d been through the ceremony, the test, she was the one holding his hand, hopeful that she’d be his partner, his queen.

  All around the edge of the clearing were faeries—mostly Summer Court, but a few representatives of other courts. That alone stood as a reminder of how very unusual this particular test would be.

  Keenan came toward her. “Are you—”

  Aislinn interrupted with a gentle hand on his arm. She shook her head.

  He looked confused, but he stopped, staying farther away from Donia, not asking questions she didn’t want to have to answer. Donia caught Aislinn’s gaze and nodded; she couldn’t deal with his kindness, not as she prepared to give him over to another girl.

  Ash will be a good queen. Good for him, she reminded herself. Then she walked over to the not-yet-blooming hawthorn bush in the middle of her yard and laid the staff under it. Sasha moved to stand beside her, and she placed a hand on his head for support.

  “Aislinn,” Donia called from the center of the clearing.

  The girl stepped forward, already glowing, only barely mortal now.

  “If you are not the one, you will carry the winter’s chill. You will tell the next of his”—Donia inclined her head toward Keenan—“mortal loves how unwise this is. You will tell her, and any that follow while you carry the cold, how very foolish it is to trust him. If you agree to do this, I am free of the cold, regardless of the results.”

  She paused to allow Aislinn a moment to consider her words, and then she asked, “Do you accept all of this?”

  “I do.” Aislinn came forward, her steps slow and deliberate as she crossed the openness between them.

  Behind her Keenan waited, sunlight blazing from his skin, making Donia dizzy from looking at him. It’d been so long since she’d seen him glow so brightly, and she’d convinced herself that he wasn’t truly as beautiful as he’d seemed in her memories.

  She’d been wrong.

  She forced herself to tear her gaze away from him. “Please,” she prayed. “Please let Aislinn be the one.”

  Aislinn felt the pull, the insistence that she pick up the staff. She stepped forward.

  “If you are not the one I’ve sought, you will carry Beira’s cold.” Keenan’s voice wrapped around her like a summer storm racing through the trees. He eased closer. “Do you accept that risk?”

  “Yes.” Aislinn’s voice was too low to be heard, so she said it louder, “Yes.”

  Keenan looked feral as he walked toward her, so radiant that she had to force herself to look at him. His feet sunk into the almost-boiling soil as he moved. “This is who I am. What I truly will be if you are, indeed, the Summer Queen.”

  He stopped a few steps from her and added, “This is what you will be if the cold does not take you.”

  She felt her muscles tense, but she did not back away from him.

  Then Keenan, the King of Summer in all of his brightness, knelt before her and gave her yet another chance to turn away. “Is this what you freely choose, to risk winter’s chill?”

  The Summer Girls drifted into the clearing, watching. Beira’s hags and a great number of other faeries, some more familiar than others, stood around them.

  “Each mortal since Donia”—eyes wistful, he glanced briefly at Donia—“has chosen to stay in the sunlight. They would not risk becoming as she is.”

  Donia’s corpse-white fingers tightened on Sasha’s pelt as Keenan added, “You understand that if you are not the one, you’ll carry the Winter Queen’s chill until the next mortal risks this? And you’ll warn her not to trust me?”

  The rustling of trees roared around them, like a waterless storm, like voices crying out in a language she couldn’t remember.

  Donia reached out and squeezed Aislinn’s hand.

  “I do.” Aislinn’s voice was stronger then; she was sure this was right. Somewhere inside that knowledge waited; even if she hadn’t had any of the other proof, in that moment she was certain she’d still have known this was right. She let go of Donia’s hand and walked over to the hawthorn.

  “If she refuses me, you will tell the next girl and the next”—Keenan followed her, radiating heat—“and not until one accepts will you be free of the cold.”

  “There won’t be another girl.” Aislinn grasped the staff, wrapped her fingers around it, and waited.

  She watched them—the last girl who’d done this and the faery king who still loved her. She wished—for them and for herself—that it had been Donia, but it wasn’t.

  It’s me.

  The staff was gripped in her hand, but there was no cold to bring her to her knees. Instead that blinding glow was no longer coming only from Keenan: it flared from her own skin.

  The Summer Girls laughed and twirled in a blur of vines and hair and skirts.

  Donia—her white hair now
a soft blond, her cheeks now flushed with health—said in a surprisingly musical voice, “You’re truly her.”

  Aislinn looked at her hands, her arms, at the soft gold glow that covered her skin. “I am.”

  It felt like nothing she could’ve imagined before: the world made sense. She could feel the faeries all around her drinking in her happiness, reveling in the sense of security that she and Keenan gave them. It made her laugh aloud.

  Then he grabbed her in his arms, swinging her in the air, laughing. “My Queen, my lovely, lovely Aislinn.”

  All around them, flowers sprang to life, the air warmed, and soft rain fell from the bright blue sky. The grass under Keenan’s feet grew lush, as verdant as his eyes.

  For several moments she let him twirl her in the air—until she saw a wounded rowan-man struggling to reach them.

  “My queen,” he croaked as he crawled over the grass, bleeding but still trying to reach her.

  She paused, watching as her faeries—for they were truly hers now—carried him to her. Everyone paused. Keenan put a hand in the small of her back as he stepped up beside her.

  “We tried,” the rowan-man said, more blood coming to his lips with every word he spoke. “We tried as we would’ve if she’d come for you. The mortal boy…”

  If it weren’t for Keenan catching her, she’d have fallen. “Seth. Is he…” she couldn’t finish the words.

  The guard closed his eyes. His breathing was labored, and when he coughed, shards of ice spilled out of his mouth. He spat them onto the grass. “She took him. Beira took him.”

  Donia had slipped away, unable to bear watching Keenan with Aislinn. It was one thing to know he’d finally found his missing queen; it was another to feel the emotions that came with the knowledge. This was what needed to happen, what was best for everyone.

  It still feels like a freshly reopened wound. She wasn’t the one, had never been the one for him.

  Aislinn is.

  And Donia couldn’t stay to watch them rejoice.

  She wasn’t far from her cottage when Beira’s guard found her. That didn’t take long.

  She’d known Beira would be true to her word, known that her death wouldn’t be far past Aislinn’s ascension. Without the winter’s chill to defend herself, she was almost as helpless as a mortal in their hands.

  The guards weren’t as rough as the dark fey, but not for lack of trying. When they tossed her at Beira’s feet, the Winter Queen said nothing. Instead she kicked Donia in the face, flipping her backward with the force of her attack.

  “Beira, how nice to see you,” Donia said in a voice much weaker than she’d have liked.

  Beira laughed. “I could almost like you, darling. A pity”—she lifted one blood-spattered hand, and manacles of ice formed around Donia’s wrists—“you aren’t reliable.”

  Donia had thought the weight of Beira’s chill had ached before, but as she struggled against the freezing manacles, she realized she had no idea of how cold Beira’s ice could truly be.

  As Donia turned to answer the Winter Queen, a coughing-choking sound distracted her.

  Crouched in the corner was Seth, trying to get to his feet, legs buried under several feet of snow. His chest was half exposed, his shirt in tatters from something’s claws.

  Beira bent down. Her icy breath brushed Donia’s face; her frost gathered in Donia’s hair. “You were to help me. Instead you were consorting with the enemy.”

  “I did the right thing. Keenan is—”

  With an ugly noise, Beira clamped her hand over Donia’s mouth. “You. Betrayed. Me.”

  “Don’t make her angrier,” Seth called weakly as he struggled free of the snowdrift. His jeans were in the same condition as his shirt. Blood trickled onto the snow around him. One of the bars in his eyebrow had been ripped out, and a thin line of blood ran down his face.

  “Pretty, isn’t he? He doesn’t scream like the wood-sprites, but he’s still entertaining. I’d almost forgotten how easily mortals break.” Beira licked her lips as she watched Seth try to stay upright. He shivered violently, but he kept trying.

  Donia said nothing.

  “But you, well, I know how much more pain you can take.” Beira cupped Donia’s face, driving already-bloody fingernails into Donia’s cheek and throat. “Shall I let the wolves have you when I’m done? They don’t mind if their toys are already a little used up.”

  “No,” Seth said in a strangled voice, proof that he’d already met the lupine fey.

  Beira turned toward him and blew. Razor sharp spikes of ice jutted up from the floor where he was now trying to crawl. Several sliced into his legs.

  “Persistent, isn’t he?” Beira asked, laughing.

  Donia didn’t speak, didn’t move. Instead she rolled her eyes.

  For a heartbeat, Beira just stared at her. Then she smiled, as cold and cruel as the worst of the dark fey.

  “Well. It would be more fun if you play. That’s what you want, right? As if you can trick me, so you can run”—Beira slapped her, knocking Donia’s head into the floor so hard that she felt nauseous—“but you won’t get to run.”

  The manacles melted then, leaving frostbitten skin as the only proof they’d been there.

  Donia scrambled over to Seth, ignoring the shards that drove into her feet, and helped him up. She couldn’t actually beat Beira, but she was still a faery—strong enough to lift a mortal, strong enough to withstand more pain than him.

  “The door’s that way,” he muttered as she half carried him forward.

  “How darling!” Beira gushed. “The tragic lovers of the damnable Summer Court working together. It’s just so sweet.”

  For several minutes she watched them as they tried to cross the growing barrier of ice, cheering at each bit of progress and adding more obstacles as she cheered.

  Donia didn’t speak, saving her energy to try—unsuccessfully—to reach the door with Seth.

  Finally Beira motioned the hags closer. “Did the rowan-man finally manage to crawl to my foolish son?”

  When the hags nodded, Beira clapped. “Lovely. So they’ll be here soon. What fun!”

  Then she tilted her head inquiringly and asked Donia, “Do you think they’ll be more upset if you’re dead or still suffering?

  “Decision, decisions,” Beira murmured as she walked over the blades of ice, slowly and gracefully, as if she were entering the theater.

  “Just to be sure, let’s go for one of each, hmm?” Beira said as she pulled Donia up by her hair and kissed both cheeks. “I believe I already told you what would happen to you, dearie.”

  Seth slipped to the ground, reaching for Donia as he fell, but a wall of ice formed between them.

  Then Beira sealed her lips to Donia’s.

  Donia struggled as the ice slid down her throat, choking her, filling her lungs. Then she saw Seth throw himself toward Beira. In his hand was a rusty iron cross. With surprising strength for a mortal—especially an injured one—he jammed it into Beira’s neck.

  Beira let go of Donia with a shriek and lashed out at Seth, slamming him into a wall.

  “Do you think that little trinket will kill me?” Beira asked as she followed him in that too-fast-to-follow way. She dug her fingers into the skin of his stomach and—using his ribs as a handle—tugged him to his feet.

  He screamed over and over, awful sounds that made Donia tremble. But she couldn’t help him; she couldn’t even lift her head from the floor.

  Aislinn heard Seth’s screams as she came through the door. When she saw Beira holding him by his stomach, she had to grab Keenan’s arm for support.

  Midway across the room, Donia was sprawled motionless on the floor, her lips glistening with shards of ice just like those the rowan-man had choked up. There wasn’t time to stop to check on her, not with Beira driving her hand through Seth’s skin like that.

  Keenan was still moving, pulling Aislinn past everyone and everything, toward Beira and Seth.

  Once they were beside
her, Keenan grabbed the piece of metal that jutted out of Beira’s neck and slashed it forward like a knife.

  “I wondered if you’d ever get here.” Beira dropped Seth onto the ground.

  Seth’s eyes rolled back as he blacked out. He was still breathing, though, his chest rising and falling unsteadily.

  Even with blood dripping down her neck, Beira seemed undaunted. She reached up and tugged the metal free. After a cursory glance at it, she dropped it on the floor in disgust. Blood rolled away in the puddles from the melting ice.

  “It doesn’t have to be like this.” Keenan’s voice was low, pained. “We can work it out—like it should’ve been before. If you’ll agree…”

  Beira laughed, eddies of frigid air swirling from her lips. “Do you know that’s exactly the sort of thing your father said before I killed him?”

  She lifted her hand and gestured. A thick wall of ice formed between Aislinn and Keenan—leaving Seth with Aislinn, and Keenan alone on the other side of the wall with Beira.

  “Aislinn,” Keenan called as he put his hand on the ice.

  She followed his lead and put hers on the other side of the wall, mimicking his position. Between them the ice hissed and popped as their touch slowly melted it.

  Beira just watched for a moment. Her face was a distorted mask, more horrible through the thick ice. Her voice, however, was perfectly clear as she asked Keenan, “How long do you think it will be until there’s another Summer King?”

  “There won’t be another Summer King,” Keenan snarled at her, reaching out to grip her arm.

  “Ah, ah, ah, sweetling.” She put her hand on his chest and pushed him away from the ice wall separating him from Aislinn.

  The ice on Keenan’s chest melted as soon as it formed, leaving him soaking wet and steaming. He was stumbling, though, unable to stand steadily on the sheet of ice that crept over the floor.

  Seth moaned and briefly opened his eyes.

  Several of the hags walked into the room, and without even glancing at them, Beira said, “Kill the Winter Girl, and the mortal.”

  They moved toward Donia.