Seven Black Diamonds

  When Erik stepped back, he stared at her, and a prickle of nervousness slid over her, but then he nodded. They both took several steps toward the other. Erik lifted his left hand and simultaneously curled his right arm around her body. His hand rested on her back with a familiarity that the dance allowed.

  She took his hand and wrapped her free arm around him as well.

  “The rock star can’t take his eyes off of you,” Erik said as he pulled her closer to him.

  She rolled her eyes. “Daidí hired him.”

  Erik walked her backward, hip to hip. “I know you, Lily. You’re looking back at him.”

  Lily followed Erik’s lead, the hardest part of the Argentine tango for her. Being passive, even in a dance, didn’t come easily. Her skirt brushed against him, and she felt the material swish as they moved, reminding her how close they were.

  “He’s not one of us.”

  Lily stiffened in his arms. If Erik knew that Creed was more like her than he was, it would be dangerous. Still, she refused to lie to Erik—or to admit things that could lead to trouble.

  For a few moments, they danced in tense silence until Erik said, “I like you being in my arms like this, Lily. We could be more than this.”

  She frowned. “I thought you were seeing that girl, Amalie or whatever.”

  “She’s temporary.” Erik twisted his hips in a move a touch too familiar for in front of an audience. The speed of the music, Erik’s unexpected possessiveness, and the dance itself made for a display that revealed more about their relationship than she wanted. At least they weren’t alone on the dance floor now. People began to join them. It offered some degree of cover for the statement that Erik was apparently making.

  “We were wrong to think we shouldn’t unify our organizations,” he murmured. “I think we should reconsider.”

  “I haven’t even decided if I’m going on to university after I finish school or—”

  “You could still do that,” he interrupted. “Get a business degree or pursue law. Father and I discussed it. I would handle the businesses for both families if you choose to go to school.”

  “We wouldn’t suit that way, Erik,” she said softly.

  “We could suit.” He dipped her backward, and when he brought her up, his lips were all but touching the skin of her throat.

  “I can’t be like Señora Gaviria was. Your mother was lovely, but I’m not passive, Erik. Even if I loved you, I wouldn’t be able to be a silent partner. Daidí raised me to be in charge.”

  “I know,” Erik said. “I’ve discussed it with Father. For you, I would write new rules. We would. Together.”

  She stared at him as he removed her only logical objection. She wasn’t sure if she should be pleased or angry. Just then, she felt both in equal parts.

  “Say you’ll be my wife someday, Lily.”

  They danced for another few moments, and still she couldn’t speak. Finally, she managed to reply, “I can’t. I’m too young to think about this, and I’m not sure . . . of anything right now. I’m sorry.”

  “Then say you’ll at least consider it,” he insisted as the song ended.

  Lily wasn’t ready for the sort of decisions she was being asked to make. She wasn’t sure of where she wanted to be in the next year, much less forever. “I can’t even say maybe.”

  “I can wait a little longer if you’re at least willing to think about it, Lily.”

  The music switched to something that would be entirely wrong for a tango, even with Erik’s skill. Lily glanced toward the stage. Creed stared back at her, worry plain in his eyes, and she knew that the tempo change wasn’t an accident.

  Before she got caught looking at the fae-blood singer, she rested her cheek against Erik’s shoulder and said, “Nothing fancy, Erik. Just dance with me for a minute like we’re normal people.”

  Mutely, he complied, and they continued the next, much tamer, dance in silence. At the end of their second song, Erik leaned in and kissed the corner of her mouth, then he led her to her father’s side. No one—including their fathers or the fae-blood on stage—could have missed the possessive air of Erik’s actions tonight.

  As she reached her father, Daidí gave her a curious look, but she merely smiled at him in reply.

  Erik walked away, and she was left alone for a moment. There were guests to mingle with, smiles to wear, and myriad conversations she could join.

  As Lily scanned the ballroom, she saw Shayla. She was almost to her when Creed’s speaking voice drew her attention. “I’m going to take a break, but the orchestra will keep you entertained during my pause.”

  He hopped down from the stage with the sort of ease that made clear that ceremony wasn’t his habit. He looked graceful, but very much out of place in her father’s ballroom. It wasn’t that he didn’t have the wealth to wear what the most ostentatious of them did. It was that he didn’t seem to care—not about wealth or status or any of the trappings of it.

  And right now, he was watching her with what looked like challenge in his eyes.

  Lily, however, wasn’t going to change her path, despite the fact that he was now standing beside Shayla. She kept her smile in place and walked toward them.

  “You were as wonderful live as on your albums,” Lily said as she reached him.

  “I try.”

  Shayla met Lily’s eyes and said, “He has one more set after his break.”

  Then she abandoned Lily to her fate.

  Once she was gone, Creed said, “I’d ask you to dance, but I couldn’t compete with your . . . what is he?”

  Lily laughed. “You have a different girl with you in every picture. How can you possibly sound jealous?”

  Creed shrugged. “None of those girls are my girlfriend.” He paused before offering, “I want to sing for you. Just you. Take me to your garden, and let me.”

  Her back was to the rest of the guests, but Lily still needed the tension in the air between them to vanish. Erik had already noticed. So had her father, and undoubtedly, so had Shayla. She could see them all watching her, as were a lot of the guests.

  Abernathy Commandment #14: Blending in helps you seem less memorable should you need an alibi at some point.

  In a light voice, Lily said, “Is that what you say to girls to lure them away?”

  His laugh was self-deprecating. “Most of them need no bribes. Only you have needed convincing.” He reached out for her hand.

  “No gardens.” She took his hand and started toward the dance floor. “No private concert, but you could dance with me, Creed. That’s allowed.”

  Getting involved with a fae-blood was too risky. She couldn’t do it, but for the next several minutes, Lily let herself be held by the boy who had been her fantasy before she’d even known he was a fae-blood like her. After this, she’d return to the life she knew and understood. For a few moments, though, she was going to enjoy herself.

  four

  ROAN

  Roan waited in the alley behind the Paragon hotel for his closest friend and ally. If anyone asked, he was her date. It was a convenient cover for their meetings—and for the fact that he had about as much interest in girls as he had in joining a country club. Roan had given his heart away several years ago, and the only people who believed otherwise were the ones who didn’t know him at all. Violet Lamb knew him as well as anyone in either world could.

  He shivered a little. The filthy water pooled in gutters behind the hotel made him feel vaguely queasy. There was no way around it though: meeting Violet in the lobby was sure to lead to other problems. She was here filming some sort of action film, and the photographers and fans were all but camped out in the lobby. The hotel allowed it tonight, which gave her a better shot at slipping out through the service elevator without being seen.

  It was a familiar routine. Roan waited until he spied her sidling along the building. Her flame-red hair was tightly bound in a braid, and she had a long leather coat with an oversized hood pulled up to further hide the spill o
f red curls that everyone thought came from a salon. Like him, Violet was fae—specifically, born of the Seelie. Those of the so-called “better” fae court were what was traditionally called “sun-burnished.” For centuries, the descendants of the Seelie fae had been mistaken for African Americans, Latin Americans, or people with Middle Eastern ancestry. Violet’s mother was from the Southern Continent, so she played up the illusion of Hispanic blood whereas Roan and Creed both had human families who were visibly African American. Being even slightly fae-blood would result in imprisonment, so they all had been raised to encourage not only the misconception that they were simply darker-skinned humans, but also that they made themselves appear more attractive by way of cosmetics or other chemicals.

  All fae or fae-blood—those who were descendants of the fae, but not true fae—had to simply pretend to be shallow enough to care about appearance. Some, like Violet, had an easier time of it because of the role they took in this world. Vi was an actress, one who loved her job and the primping that came with it. Tonight, though, she was dressed to hide in the shadows: over-large black sunglasses, her standard tall leather boots, black jeans, and her black leather coat. He teased her once about the leather, but she pointed out that everything else held the scent of smoke too easily.

  He took her hand when she was in reach and led her toward the car he’d left in the next street over. No words were spoken until they were both inside the nondescript dark sedan he’d borrowed for the weekend.

  “Are you okay?” she said once they were safely out of range of any possible listeners.

  “Is there another choice?” he asked. If he were to tell her he couldn’t handle the job, she’d do it for him. She had done so, more than a few times, but there was a limit to how much he was willing to let her take on for him. The fact that they were cheating by doing his mission together was enough risk.

  “You know there is.” Her tiny hand landed on his, and he could feel the heat even though she was containing it. Violet’s affinity was fire, the precise opposite of his. She had great control over it—at least she did when there was a crisis—so he wouldn’t want anyone else at his back.

  He turned his hand over and squeezed hers briefly. “Not this time. You’ve done more than enough for me . . . and for Will.”

  She shrugged. “Family, right?”

  “Always.” With Violet or Will, Roan could let his guard down. He could admit that he wasn’t as laissez-faire as everyone believed. With them, he could admit that he hated what they were tasked with doing, hated the way it made him feel, and sometimes in words never spoken too overtly, he admitted that he hated the Queen of Blood and Rage. With Violet or Will, Roan didn’t need to be anything but honest.

  “I’m glad Will isn’t here,” he murmured.

  “One of these days . . .” Violet let the words die before she spoke them. Some of the Sleepers had been tasked with easier things, but both Violet and Roan had gone on several missions that ended with human deaths. Will, Creed, and Alkamy had all been spared that awful experience so far.

  Both Roan and Violet lapsed into silence as he drove them to the train station. There were times when he’d been able to pretend, to try to keep up some sort of banter as they set out to commit murder. After two years of such missions, his ability to feign indifference was no longer worth the energy it stole—and Vi didn’t require it of him.

  Once they arrived at the station, Roan pulled into the lot and cut the engine. They sat in continued silence for several more moments.

  “Let me do this,” she urged.

  “No. Smoke only,” he stressed. “That’s what we agreed. If they’re unconscious, maybe the water won’t . . .” His words faded. He didn’t know whether it would hurt less to die of drowning or smoke inhalation. Being burned sounded like the worst option. That much he was fairly sure of.

  Violet said nothing as she opened her door and stepped into the lot. The upside of her career was that it provided cover and alibis. The downside was that she was far too recognizable. Alkamy, who was just as beautiful, coped with the issue of recognition by only releasing one album—and avoiding tour. It gave her some ability to hide.

  Creed simply didn’t care if he was killed or caught; he was all but taunting death these days. Violet, on the other hand, genuinely loved acting and didn’t want to get caught—but she couldn’t refuse orders. None of them could.

  Roan closed the car door softly. The order wasn’t hers. This was his mission, his responsibility.

  “Maybe you should stay here,” he blurted when he reached her side.

  “As if.” Violet bumped into him lightly. “Come on. We’ve got this.”

  The walk toward the metro station was silent, but when they started descending, she looked over her shoulder and reminded him, “I need electrical shortages. No video footage, just in case it’s live feed.”

  They were halfway down the escalator when he started pulling droplets of water from the air and dowsing electronics. The escalator shuddered to a stop when they were two-thirds of the way to the bottom. Violet didn’t miss a beat. She continued walking forward as if the escalator had always been mere steps.

  He followed, barely pausing when the escalator erupted in flames behind him. It was necessary, if cruel. There would be no retreat that way, not for any of the people in the tunnel ahead of them currently awaiting trains.

  Her hands seem to glow as if embers writhed under the surface. Trickles of flames slid over her skin, as if she was coaxing them out. Clouds of smoke grew and billowed from her body and rolled forward. The air grew thicker and thicker with smoke.

  Roan could see people in the tunnel as the smoke engulfed them. He told himself that they were all monsters, actively destroying the earth, poisoners who would kill him for his heritage. He told himself they deserved to die. He tried to recall every cruel thing that his childhood handler had taught him about humanity, to summon every reason why the queen’s war was just and good.

  Then people began yelling.

  “We need to reach the other opening of the tunnel before they escape that way,” Violet said, spurring him forward, reminding him that this was planned chaos.

  “I know.” Even opening his mouth to speak those two words made his throat burn. The fog-like air had the tinge of wood fires and ash, and Roan tried not to cough at the taste in his mouth. Minutes passed as they walked forward in silence. When they reached the other end of the platform, Violet sent a wave of fire to close off the mouth of the tunnel. No train could enter. No one could exit.

  Then, the screams began in earnest.

  Roan reached out with his affinity, not to pull droplets of water from the quickly drying air, but to find the pipes that he knew ran nearby.

  People started running toward them, passing them as they tried to reach the wall of fire. Others tried to run toward the escalator. Both exits were sealed.

  Reflexively, he started to warn them, “Wait, you can’t—”

  “Don’t,” Violet snapped, cutting him off, reminding him of his mission. Saving them wasn’t it.

  The heat from her body grew stronger, and sweat trickled down the back of his shirt.

  “Focus, Roan,” she said in a less harsh tone.

  “I . . .”

  He heard the yelling, the screams, grow louder, and he must’ve said something else because Violet started to glow brighter. She gripped his hand in hers tightly enough that he winced. He knew that if he didn’t act that wall of fire would surge toward them. Everyone not being touched by Violet would be incinerated.

  “I have this,” he insisted, as he summoned the water, the force of his call breaking the pipes and driving the water toward the people on the platform, drowning them as they tried to flee the smoke and flames.

  He didn’t look at them. He didn’t listen to them. He did his job.

  Violet’s fire retracted at some point when he was concentrating. All that was left was haze and ash. “We need to go,” she said, her voice rough in that way t
hat told him that the smoke was covering tears.

  He nodded, but couldn’t speak.

  “Just don’t look,” she said.

  And then her hand was in his, and they were walking toward the charred mouth of the tunnel.

  five

  EILIDH

  Eilidh slipped back into the Hidden Lands. She’d been moving between worlds since she was old enough to walk. Back then, she didn’t know that it was not authorized for the fae to travel. Back then, she didn’t know that the queen had ordered an end to all contact between the worlds. She knew now, and it made her cautious.

  . . . but obviously not cautious enough. Her only true friend among the fae sat on the branch of a dead tree. He was twice her age, but among the fae—whose lives lasted for centuries—that made them both children.

  “You’ll get caught one of these times, Patches,” Torquil said. His tone wasn’t quite lecturing, but it was close enough that she made a rude gesture.

  He laughed and dropped to the ground in front of her, close enough that she felt the warmth radiating from his skin. Even though he was as dark as the night itself, Torquil still glimmered in the shadows of the Hidden Lands like a small star made flesh. Hair so pale it was merely a moment darker than white framed a face that sculptors could only dream of. Some fae could never walk among humans, could never hide their Otherness. Torquil was one of them. Sometimes Eilidh thought it was part of why he seemed so young, despite the years he’d lived before her birth.

  She scanned the area, although she knew he undoubtedly had already done so. “I’m as careful as you.”

  “Careful isn’t the same for you, now is it?” His voice felt like music to her after the harsh sounds of the mortal world.

  “Because I’m so memorable?” Eilidh twisted her hair up to expose the myriad lines and fractures that earned her the nickname only Torquil and Lilywhite ever used.

  “No.” He traced a finger over her wrist, following one of the lines to her elbow. If she was any other fae, she’d think it was flirtatious, but Torquil was her childhood friend—despite the dreams she often had of him. “Because the queen worries about you.”