Prince of Air and Darkness (The Darkest Court)

I don’t even have to think to pull on my glamour and cast light. The Seelie are better at this, sun worshippers that they are, but the Winter Court’s underground sídhe is filled with dark tunnels and calling ghostlights is second nature. The orb flares into being, throwing its white beams around the garden, and the sanglin gives a final howl of agony. Its flesh sizzles, its eyes roll back, and it gives a last, violent shudder before it collapses lifeless to the ground.

There. Monster dead.

Time to check that it’s the only corpse in the vicinity.

Smith has staggered to his feet. He stumbles toward me, face set in that irritating stoicism he unconsciously wears when he becomes heroic. Idiot.

“Smith, stop moving. You’re likely concussed.”

He doesn’t hear me. Or pretends not to. Weaves to the left. The right. Wherever he thinks he’s headed, he’s not on a straight path there. His left knee keeps wobbling under his weight.

I hurry to close the last few steps between us. “Smith, it’s dead.”

My glamour braces for the sensation of his magick, but there’s nothing of note there. There’s just a low, gentle hum buried so deep I nearly miss it. Would have missed it completely, if not for Smith’s hands clamping down on my shoulders. I support his weight even as I lift a hand and grab hold of his chin, forcing his gaze to steady on me. “Did that fight destroy your hearing as well as your common sense?”

He blinks, a long, slow, hypnotizing movement. His pupils are blown out, nearly obscuring the thin ring of plain blue. Mesmerizing. Searching for me with an intensity that squeezes the breath from my lungs.

The ghostlight finally catches up to us, stalling and hovering behind my shoulder. Smith winces against the light, but his pupils don’t contract. Dammit.

I readjust my grip, turning his face into and away from the light. No reaction. Definitely a concussion.

“Did you hit your head?” I ask him, already looking him over for other injuries.

Mostly scratches and scrapes. He’ll be bruised, judging by the welts already darkening his skin. Idiot. My grip tightens.

He gives a muted whimper, but doesn’t pull away. Instead, his gaze steadies and he takes a shallow gulp of air. “Lyne,” he mumbles, words garbled from the way I’m squishing his cheeks, “wha are you doing?”

I have no idea.

We’re standing too close. I need to stop touching him.

I drop my hand from his chin and cross my arms over my chest. “Checking that you aren’t going to die before we get back to the apartment.”

He steps back first. The minuscule distance between us makes it easier to breathe and sets this awkwardness to rights.

“Why would I die?”

“You have a concussion.”

His expression is pure exasperation. “Yeah. Football player. Kind of know how they feel.”

“Brilliant.”

His eyes narrow and I can practically hear those rusty gears turning. “Why did you jump in? How did you know where I was?”

“I don’t care where you are,” I lie. “I was going back to the apartment. Lucky for you, I was passing by. We all know how difficult it is to escape creatures who are so delicate light can kill them in two seconds flat.”

“Fuck off, Lyne.”

Thank the Goddess. Escape at last. “Happily. If you aren’t home within the hour, I’ll send the satyr to search for your corpse.”

Ten minutes later when I’m showering, I hear the apartment’s front door open and close. Good. He made it back in one piece. I finish up, dry off, and wrap the towel around my waist. It’s a bit of a surprise to open the door and find him leaning against the couch, fiddling with one of the satyr’s knitted blankets and waiting his turn.

In the bright glow of the electric lights, he looks worse than I expected. He’ll be a walking bruise by tomorrow morning.

“You look half-dead,” I say, striding past him.

He flips me off and trudges toward the bathroom, dragging off his shirt on the way. The movement makes the defined muscles of his abdomen flex and curl, drawing attention to the nearly invisible trail of hair leading down to the sharp V of his hips. It’s enough to stop me in my tracks and I draw up my glamour so fast it makes me dizzy. Or maybe that’s what happens when I steal the moment to gawk at him as he walks past me.