Prince of Air and Darkness (The Darkest Court)

Faeries rarely scar. Our skin never tells a story of a life well-lived and hard-won. I’m torn between regret for his pain and jealousy at the proof of his strength, because Smith is a fucking masterpiece.

His body is functional, a marriage of brutal muscle earned from athletics and wiry strength gained from a lifetime of farm work. His skin is crisscrossed with scars, markers of the battles he’s survived, like the jagged zigzags of claw marks across his back from fighting hellhounds. As distracting as his back is, his hands and arms form the most diverse canvases of his body.

The delicate carpet of light blond hairs of his forearms is continually interrupted by blemishes. Paper-thin lines from sharpened blade edges. Tiny, puckered craters from burns caused by dripping dragon and chimera saliva. Larger slashes that seem silver in certain light, the calling cards of claws and fangs. His hands are worse: calluses and beat-up knuckles hardened and patched with scars. After summers at home, he returns with circles of pink, freshly healed skin from blisters. His right hand and wrist already had the dark indentations of bite marks; he’ll add the sanglin’s tail punctures atop those.

Years of fantasizing about those hands. Of memorizing the lines and curves of the muscle and bone. Of imagining how his skin would slide over mine if he were ever to reach toward me, touch me—

“Hey, Lyne—”

He turns back and the bathroom light catches over the long laceration across his ribs, a multitude of smaller lines near it. Injuries I know intimately. A gift from my mother, and by extension, me. It doesn’t matter who wielded the blade; I failed to stop his pain. Repulsed by the reminder, I focus on his face.

“What?”

He won’t look at me. Instead, he keeps his head down, gaze stuck on the floor, hands twisting and turning his shirt. “You were serious back there? It only takes light to kill one of those things. Like, even a flashlight would have worked?”

“Yes, Smith.”

He frowns. Shakes his head. His shoulders tighten. “What do you say we don’t tell anyone what happened.”

A command, not a request. I’m a prince of the Unseelie Court. I could eviscerate him, verbally and physically, for daring to give me an order. But I’m exhausted, and tomorrow will be hellish enough as it is.

“Fine, Smith. My lips a

re sealed.”

He’ll argue it. He always argues when I agree with him. He assumes I’m setting him up or simply being sarcastic. Most of the time, I am. Not tonight, though.

It goes to show how deep his own tiredness runs when he merely nods. “Thanks.”

And on that unexpected and nearly cordial note, we part ways for the night.

Chapter Five

Phineas

It’s been almost a week since the fight in the garden, and while my injuries are healing, my connection to the ley line still feels sunburned. I can channel the power more easily, but my control is even spottier than before. It’s bad enough that Professor Yaga stopped me after Intermediate Charms and asked if I had looked into finding a tutor to help me. And then she suggested Roark.

It took all I had to politely disengage from the conversation and flee the classroom. Pushing through the doors and back into the sunshine helps a little bit, though I can’t run away from the pulse of the ley line. The throb of it tingles up through me, delicate needle pricks of sensation in my feet, my legs, rising higher into my chest and out into my arms. I stuff my hands deeper into my pockets, fighting the urge to dip into that power and light something on fire with a cascade of raw energy.

It’s the busy part of the day. Students mill around between academic buildings, a small café, and the temptation of sun-warmed lawns. Minotaurs and Valkyries debate the latest Heavy Weapons class lecture. A small herd of hinky-punks hop toward the café. I take a deep breath and focus on the normality of it all.

I hurry down the building steps, only to find my escape cut off by a group of Seelie faeries deep in conversation about the upcoming Seelie party. It’s a yearly event, more of a ball than a kegger, and a last hurrah before the Seelie Court’s power shifts back to the Unseelie Court. One of the faeries—Dixie? Trixie? Sebastian dated her for so little time I can’t actually remember her name—smiles when she notices me standing awkwardly behind them.

“Hi, Finny,” she chirps before shooing her friends far enough that I can get down to the sidewalk. “You’re coming to the party, right?”

I freeze. I don’t dislike the Seelie, but they’re the shinier, more polished, smooth-as-fuck cousins of the Unseelie. If I can barely handle Roark, I don’t know how I’d fare for an entire night in a room of faeries who are legendary for stealing humans away for centuries just to party. “Um—I don’t know if—”

She lets me stammer on helplessly for a moment before laughing. “Come if you can. No pressure, I promise.”

“Thanks.” I nod and hurry past her. “See you around.”

I’m too flustered to check the caller ID when my phone rings. Instead, like a dumbass, I answer on instinct.

“Finny?”

The ley line’s furious energy dies and for the first time today, I feel the knots in my shoulders and neck loosen. Mom’s voice is balm and bane at once. The sound of my name sends me hurtling back to the years she’d stay up with me, brushing her hand over my hair while I sweated and shook after a magickal incident, soothing me with stories. No matter how chaotic our lives got because of me, she and Dad were always there. Avoiding her call is a shitty way to show how much I love them back.

“Hey, Mom. Sorry I didn’t call sooner.”