Wicked Lovely

Beira made a “come here” motion in the direction of the copse of trees.

  They came then: a trio of enormous shaggy black goats rounded the corner with three of Beira’s faithful hags astride them. Though they were withered things—looking like the mere husks of women—the hags were eerily strong, able to rend the limbs from even the eldest mountain trolls. They terrified Donia as they cackled like mad hens and paraded around the yard—as if they dared Keenan’s waiting guards to come closer.

  Donia stepped up to the porch rail, away from Beira, closer to the wretched women who served the Winter Queen. “Looking lovely, Agatha.”

  Agatha spat at her.

  It was foolish to taunt them, but Donia did it every time they came around. She had to prove, to herself and to them, that she wasn’t intimidated. “You do realize that it’s not you who keep the guards at bay?”

  Of course, it wasn’t her threat either that made the guards keep their distance. If Keenan said they should approach, they would. Her desires be damned. Their injuries and deaths be damned. Keenan’s will was all that mattered to them.

  The hags scowled at her, but they didn’t answer. Like Keenan’s guards, Beira’s lackeys kept their distance from her. No one wanted to anger Beira, except Keenan.

  Talk about dysfunctional families. Both Keenan and Beira protected her, as if the other one were a worse threat.

  When the hags refused to say anything, Donia turned back to Beira. “I’m tired. What do you want?”

  For a moment Donia thought she’d been too blunt, that Beira would lash out at her. The Winter Queen was usually as calculating as Keenan was capricious, but her temper was a truly horrifying thing when she did release it.

  Beira only smiled, a characteristically frightening smile, but less dangerous than anger. “There are those who’d see Keenan happy, those who want him to find the girl who’ll share the throne with him. I do not.”

  She let the full weight of her chill roll off of her; it slammed into Donia, leaving her feeling like she was being absorbed into the heart of a glacier. If she were still mortal, it would kill her.

  Beira lifted Donia’s almost-limp hand and wrapped it around the staff, under her own frigid hand. It didn’t react, didn’t change anything, but the mere touch of it brought back the memories of those first few years when the pain was still raw.

  While Donia was struggling to breathe, Beira continued, “Keep this one from taking the staff, and I’ll withdraw my cold from you—free you. He can’t offer you that freedom. I can. Or”—Beira traced a fingernail down the center of Donia’s chest in a perverse mockery of a caress—“if you’d rather, we can see how much cold I can push through you before it uses you up.”

  Donia might be able to direct the chill, but she couldn’t contain it. The cold poured out, answering Beira’s touch, making quite clear who had the power.

  In a ragged voice Donia said, “I know my place. I convince her not to trust him. I agreed to that when I took up the staff.”

  “Don’t fail. Lie. Cheat. Whatever. Don’t let her touch the staff.” Beira flattened her palm on Donia’s chest, fingers slightly curled, nails scraping skin through Donia’s blouse.

  “What?” Donia stumbled forward, trying to flee Beira without angering her further, trying to make her thoughts focus.

  There were rules. Everyone knew them. They sucked for Keenan, but they were there. What Beira suggested was far outside the rules.

  Beira let go of the staff and wrapped her arm around Donia, holding her up, and whispered, “If you fail me, it’s well within my power to take away this body of yours. He can’t stop me. You can’t stop me. You’ll be a shade, wandering, colder than even you can imagine. Think about it.” Then she let go.

  Donia swayed on her feet, upright only because of the staff she was still clutching. She dropped the staff, sick at the touch of it in her hands, remembering the pain the first time she’d touched it, the despair each time the newest mortal didn’t take it from her. Donia gripped the porch railing and tried to hold herself upright. It didn’t work.

  “Tootles.” Beira gave Keenan’s guards a finger wave and disappeared into the darkness with her hags.

  When Keenan woke, Beira sat in a rocker by the bed—a basket of scraps at her feet, a needle in her hand.

  “Quilting?” He coughed, cleared his throat. It was raw from the ice he’d swallowed when she’d frozen him. “Isn’t that a bit over the top, even for you?”

  She held up the patches she’d sewn together. “Do you think so? I’m rather good at it.”

  He pushed himself upright. Thick furs—some still bloody—were piled over him. “It’s a far sight better than your real hobbies.”

  She waved a hand in a gesture of dismissal, letting go of the needle. It still darted in and out of the cloth. “She’s not the one, the new girl.”

  “She could be.” He thought of Aislinn’s obvious control of her emotions. “She’s the one I dream of….”

  A fox-maiden brought in a tray of hot drinks and steaming soup. She left them on the low table alongside his bed.

  “So were the other ones, dear.” Beira sighed and settled back in her chair. “You know I don’t want to fight with you. If I’d known what would happen…You were conceived that very day. How could I know this would happen when I killed him? I didn’t even know you were yet.”

  That didn’t explain why she’d bound his powers, why she’d used their common blood to have the Dark Court curse him. She never offered explanations for that, only for the origin of his mantle, not for the way she’d bound him.

  Keenan took a steaming cup of chocolate. The warmth felt wonderful in his hands, even better on his throat. “Just tell me who she is,” he said.

  When Beira didn’t respond, Keenan continued, “We can compromise. Divide the year, divide the regions, like it used to be with Father.” He finished the cup and picked up another, just to feel the heat in his hands.

  She laughed then, setting a tiny snow squall spiraling around the room. “Give up everything? Wither like a hag? For what?”

  “Me? Because it’s right? Because…” He swung his feet to the floor, wincing when they sank into a small snowdrift. Sometimes the old traditions were the worst, lines they’d exchanged like a script for centuries. “I have to ask. You know that.”

  Beira took the needle back in hand, jabbing it into the cloth. “I do. Your father always asked too. Followed every rule right down to the line. He was like that”—she scowled and picked up another patch from the basket—“so predictable.”

  “The mortals starve more every year. The cold…crops wither. People die.” Keenan drew a deep breath and coughed again. The air in the room was frigid. Now that he was weakened, the longer he stayed in her presence, the longer it’d be until he recovered. “They need more sun. They need a proper Summer King again.”

  “That’s really not my concern.” She dropped her quilting in the basket and turned to leave. She paused at the door. “You know the rules.”

  “Right. The rules…” Rules made in her favor, rules he’d been trapped by for centuries. “Yeah, I know the rules.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The sight of a soutane [priest’s cassock], or the sound of a bell, puts [the faeries] to flight.

  —The Fairy Mythology by Thomas Keightley (1870)

  On Monday Aislinn woke before the alarm went off. After a quick shower, she dressed in her uniform and went to the kitchen. Grams was at the stove, fixing eggs and bacon.

  Leaning over to give her a peck on the cheek, Aislinn asked, “Special occasion?”

  “Brat.” Grams swatted at her. “I just thought I’d cook you a good breakfast.”

  “Are you feeling okay?” Aislinn put a hand on Grams’ forehand.

  Grams smiled wanly. “You seem tired lately. Thought you could use something other than yogurt.”

  Aislinn poured a small cup of coffee from the half-full carafe and added a couple generous spoonfuls of sugar before she came to stand
beside Grams.

  “SATs are coming up soon, didn’t do as well as I wanted on the last English essay”—Aislinn rolled her eyes as Grams shot her a disbelieving frown—“well, I didn’t. I’m not saying I did badly, just that I could’ve done better.”

  Grams scooped the eggs onto the waiting plates and went to the tiny table with them. “So it’s a school thing?”

  “Mostly.” Aislinn sat down and picked up her fork. She pushed the eggs around, staring at the plate.

  “What else?” Grams asked in that worried tone. Her hand tensed on her coffee mug.

  And Aislinn couldn’t tell her. She couldn’t say that court faeries were following her, that one of them had donned a glamour to talk to her, that it took everything she had not to reach out toward him when he stood beside her. So she mentioned the only other person that made her feel so tempted. “Umm, there’s this guy….”

  Grams’ grip on the cup relaxed a little.

  Aislinn added, “He’s wonderful, everything I want, but he’s just a friend.”

  “Do you like him?”

  Aislinn nodded.

  “Then he’s an idiot. You’re smart and pretty, and if he turned you down—”

  Aislinn interrupted, “I didn’t actually ask him out.”

  “Well, there’s your problem.” Grams nodded with a self-satisfied look. “Ask him out. Stop worrying. When I was a girl, we didn’t have the sort of freedom you do, but…” And Grams was off, talking about one of her favorite subjects—the progress in women’s rights.

  Aislinn ate her breakfast, nodding in the right places and asking questions to keep Grams talking until it was time to leave for school. Far better to let Grams think that boys and school were the source of her worries. Grams had faced enough worries in her life: Grandpa had died when she was still a young mother, and she’d had to raise a daughter and then a granddaughter with the Sight on her own. And if Grams found out how strange the fey were acting…well, any chance of Aislinn keeping her freedom would be quickly quashed.

  By the time Carla knocked on the door to walk to school, Aislinn and Grams were both smiling.

  Then Aislinn opened the door and saw three faeries standing in the hallway behind Carla. They kept their distance from the door—no doubt uncomfortable because of the wrought-iron curlicues that covered the outside of the door. Grams had needed special permission to install the new door, but it was well worth it.

  “Wow,” Carla quipped when Aislinn’s smile faltered. “Not trying to ruin your mood.”

  “Not you. It’s just”—she tried to rein in the force of her scowl—“Monday, you know?”

  Carla looked to be sure Grams wasn’t in earshot and asked in a soft voice, “You want to ditch?”

  “And get further behind in Calc?” Aislinn snorted. She grabbed her bag and waved to Grams before stepping into the hallway.

  Carla shrugged. “I’ll tutor you if you want. There’s a sale down at the electronics shop….”

  “Not today. Come on.” Aislinn ran down the stairs, past several more faeries. They didn’t usually come into the apartment building. It was one of the safer areas, no greenery in sight, steel security bars on the windows—not a bad neighborhood, but far from the dangerous trees and shrubs in the suburbs.

  As they walked the few blocks to school, Aislinn’s good mood vanished entirely. Faeries crouched in the alcoves, walked behind them, murmured as they passed. It was beyond disconcerting.

  And like an echo as she walked, she remembered Deadgirl’s comment: “Run while you can.” Aislinn didn’t think she could actually run, but if she knew what she was running from, it might at least ease the panic that she couldn’t seem to end.

  Then one of the lupine faeries sniffed her, crystalline fur clattering like tiny glass chimes as he moved, and Aislinn trembled. Maybe knowing wouldn’t be enough to ease the panic.

  As Aislinn went through her day, she pushed the morning’s worries to the back of her mind. It wasn’t like she could tell Father James she wasn’t paying attention because faeries were following her. The Church might caution against the dangers of the occult, but finding a modern priest who believed in anything supernatural—other than God himself—was about as likely as finding one who’d suggest women should be able to be priests too.

  Actually, she thought with a wry smile as she headed toward her last-period English class, there might be some priests out there more likely to suggest female equality, just not at Bishop O.C.

  “Did you finish the reading?” Leslie asked as she yanked her bag out of her locker and slammed it shut.

  “Yeah.” Aislinn rolled her eyes. “Othello was an ass.”

  Leslie winked and said, “They all are, sweetie. They all are.”

  “How was the party?” Aislinn asked as they slipped into the room.

  “Same as always, but”—Leslie leaned across the aisle—“Dominic’s parents are away all week. Fun to be had, trips to take, guys to make…”

  “Not my scene.”

  “Come on, Ash.” Leslie checked to be sure no one who shouldn’t hear stood nearby—glancing up and down the aisle furtively—before she added, “Ri’s friend at the music shop got her that extra package she ordered, too.”

  Sometimes Aislinn wished she could smoke a little, drink a little, but she couldn’t. Once in a while she indulged if she planned to crash on Seth’s sofa, but she couldn’t risk walking through Huntsdale with her defenses down.

  “I don’t think so,” she said more firmly.

  “You could come along. You don’t need to party, just hang with us. It’s not like I get lit. Just a little relaxed.” Leslie tried again. “Some of Dom’s cousins are going to be there.”

  “Thought they were all asses?” Aislinn asked with a smirk.

  “Sure, but his cousins are asses with hot, hot bods. If you aren’t going to do anything about Seth”—Leslie gave her a lascivious grin—“a girl’s got needs, right? Just think about it.”

  Sister Mary Louise came in, saving Aislinn from declining again.

  With her usual flourish, Sister Mary Louise paced across the front of the room, eying them from behind her patently unattractive glasses. “Well, what can you tell me?”

  It was one of the many reasons the class was Aislinn’s favorite: Sister Mary Louise didn’t simply launch into a lecture. She got them talking, and then she slipped in her points, revealing every bit as much information, but with more style than any of the other teachers.

  Before anyone else could speak, Leslie announced, “If Othello had trusted Des, it would’ve all gone differently.”

  Sister Mary Louise rewarded her with an encouraging smile and then turned to Jeff, who objected to most of Leslie’s comments. “Do you agree?”

  The class quickly turned into a debate with Aislinn and Leslie on one side and Jeff’s lone male voice on the other side. A few other people joined in periodically, but it was mostly her and Leslie against Jeff.

  Afterward Aislinn left Leslie at her locker and joined the crowd surging to the door. In all, her mood was a good one. Ending the day with her favorite class wasn’t quite as good as starting with it—instead of starting with the torture that was Calculus—but it was a close second.

  Then Aislinn stepped outside the main door. The fear she’d stifled that morning came flooding back: outside, seated on the back of the wolf, was Deadgirl—looking every bit as terrifying as the other faery, Keenan, had at Comix.

  CHAPTER 7

  The fairies, beside being revengeful, are also very arrogant, and allow no interference with their old-established rights.

  —Ancient Legends, Mystic Charms, and Superstitions of Ireland by Lady Francesca Speranza Wilde (1887)

  “Hello?” Leslie snapped her fingers in front of Aislinn’s face, her silver nail polish catching Aislinn’s attention. “Are you coming or not?”

  “What?”

  “To Dom’s.” Leslie sighed, a familiar look of irritation on her face.

  Beside th
em, Carla smothered a laugh.

  Leslie exhaled noisily, blowing her too-long bangs away from her face. “You weren’t listening to a word I said, were you?”

  “Hold up,” Rianne yelled as she ran down the steps. Like Leslie, Rianne already had her blazer off, but she also had the top two buttons of her blouse undone. It was all show, but it was a show that led to lectures from more than a few of the faculty at Bishop O.C.

  From the side of the building, Father Edwin called, “You’re still on school property, ladies.”

  “Not now.” Rianne stepped off the curb into the street and blew a kiss to him. “See you tomorrow, Father.”

  Father Edwin tugged his Roman collar, his version of clearing his throat. “Try to stay out of trouble.”

  “Yes, Father,” Leslie said obediently. Then she lowered her voice. “So are you coming, Ash?” She didn’t pause, walking toward the corner, expecting everyone to follow her.

  Aislinn shook her head. “I’m meeting Seth at the library.”

  “Now, he’s yummy.” Rianne gave an exaggerated sigh. “You holding out on us? Les said that’s why you bailed the other night.”

  Across the street, listening to everything they said, was Deadgirl. She followed them, her wolf loping down the street, keeping pace with them.

  “We’re friends.” Aislinn blushed, feeling more embarrassed than usual with the faery eavesdropping.

  Aislinn stopped, bent down, and pulled off her shoe as if there were something in it. She glanced back: Deadgirl and her wolf lingered in the shadows of the alley across the street. Humans walked past—oblivious as always—talking, laughing, completely unaware of the unnaturally large wolf and its feral rider.

  “Bet you could be more.” Rianne linked her arm through Aislinn’s and urged her forward. “Don’t you think, Les?”

  Leslie smiled, slowly and deliberately. “From what I hear, he’s got enough experience to be a prime candidate for the job. Trust me: for your first, you want someone with finesse.”

  In a throaty voice, Rianne said, “And I hear Seth’s got finesse.”