Prince of Air and Darkness (The Darkest Court)

At five, just as I crawled back into bed, I fielded a call from a panicked young hob. Some drunken Seelie mistook her room for theirs and tried to break in. Campus security disbanded the offenders quickly, but it took me an hour to talk the poor girl down. She only relented to stay when I reminded her that I was a phone call away. The issue seemed resolved.

Then, in the middle of my Ancient Sumerian class, I received a text message that the hob’s boyfriend, a boggart named Reginald, had taken it upon himself to teach those Seelie bastards a lesson. He found one of the supposed bastards playing croquet outside his dorm. After the punches started, he was joined by one of Ripthorn’s friends, an Unseelie pestilence faerie. The last message I got begged me to hurry because a crowd was gathering. Clearly they weren’t content as spectators, since I arrive to a brawl with only a vocal few trying to break it up.

I don’t bother to hold back my glamour as I stomp across the lawn and directly into the fray. Most of the crowd recognizes the bite of my magick and steps aside, fists dropping out of surprise or fear. A few try to keep the fight alive, but quickly abandon their efforts when I freeze their feet in place.

Ahead of me, the center of the mess. Reginald and his friend taunt their victim, who has managed to crawl to the shelter of other Seelie. The beautiful faeries’ eyes widen when they spot me, and they brace for an attack.

I appreciate their paranoia. It means the Unseelie instigators are completely unprepared when a jagged ripple of ice flings them onto the amphitheater stage. They hit with startled yelps of pain and scramble up. At least they start to until they see me. It’s almost amusing how quickly cowards can hit their knees.

“I thought I made Queen Mab’s orders quite clear,” I say over their rapid apologies, my fury growing. Their actions could now endanger a positive verdict for our Court, making Ripthorn’s suffering even more pointless than it already was. I refuse to talk over them; I refuse to listen to their poor rationalizations any longer. The flick of a finger freezes their tongues in their mouths.

The crowd around me murmurs, so I raise my voice and recite, “Let it be known that the Winter Court will do no harm to our Summer cousins. We will abide by the Accords and the rituals of the season. Anyone who challenges this edict, who allows fear and doubt to cloud their judgment, will be punished.” I take a step closer, until I could reach out and touch both the offenders. “What part of that is so fucking hard to understand?”

The two fae before me bow their heads. They’d look resigned to their fate if not for the trembling of their shoulders. At my back, the Seelie are silent, despite the panicked fluctuations of their glamour as they realize this isn’t a joke. The rest of my Unseelie stand in guilty silence. I take my time looking around the crowd, meeting the eye of every fae I saw throwing a punch.

“I should demand reparation from anyone wearing the blood of our Summer cousins.” They give a collective flinch at my quiet words. “However, the decision does not belong to me.”

I glance over my shoulder at the Seelie. The faerie Reginald attacked wipes blood from his upper lip and gives a half shake of his head. “Those two started it,” he tells me. “I can’t ask for more than that.”

I nod, already thinking through my options. Something quick, something showy. Something that the Pantheons will hear about before day’s end. Something that will allow me to keep my subjects’ respect and trust when this is all over. One final glance at Reginald and his friend to confirm my decision. Yes, that’s the only option.

I release the hex on their tongues. The crowd watches us and I’ve never felt such gratitude for their trust.

The two ringleaders hold my gaze and I offer them a grim smile. They swallow their whimpers and lift their chins. I rest a hand on top of Reginald’s head and settle my other hand between the pestilence faerie’s shoulders. “Blood for blood.”

They tremble, but manage to whisper back, “Blood for blood.”

It’s short, messy business. I turn to the Seelie—a boggart eye in one hand and a set of glossy wings in the other—and lift a brow at their pale faces. “It’s enough?”

They swallow hard when the blood drips from my hand to fall to the stage, but nod.

Shortsighted fools.

The true value of this little act lies within its practicality. Boggarts have three eyes and, if they rest properly, can regrow any of them within a few weeks. The pestilence faerie was close to molt and would have lost his wings within a month even if I hadn’t torn them out. While I may have hurt two of my subjects today, I’ve kept them from facing the Pantheons’ discipline. I regret their pain, but not my actions.

All is well. I’ve salvaged it. My people are safe now.

The magickal tension in the air twists. My glamour stretches to confront the furious hum, the sensation of magick racing toward me like a vibration down a taut wire. A quick glance around the crowd is unnecessary. Horrified dark blue eyes confront me from mere feet away.

Don’t, Smith. Not now. Let me finish this.

Hiding behind my glamour so I can keep a close eye on the bane of my existence, I finish with “So I mete out justice in the name of Queen Mab, with her full power and blessing.”

But before any of my subjects can respond, Smith blurts out, “Justice? You call this justice?” The horror’s given way to fury and disgust, and while I should be used to that, in this moment, I flinch as if Smith has struck me.

Our early years on campus, when Smith viewed me with mild disinterest, were bearable. But the passage of time, the crucible of proximity and observation, has led to something entirely different. Disinterest is something I can ignore. So is ill-advised physical attraction. The weight of Smith’s misconceptions, feeding him lies or half-truths to keep up the charade... Nothing in my royal training has helped make that sting any less.

“Stand down, Smith,” I say softly.

“What the hell are you doing to—?”

I don’t allow him to finish the question. I can’t allow it. A whisper on half a breath launched in his direction is enough. The curse hits him, binding him in place and leaving him little more than a living statue in the midst of the crowd.

“I am the Prince of Air and Darkness.” The reminder is as much for the rest of the crowd as it is for Smith. A declaration of my role and the indignities I refuse to suffer. “And this is the justice of my mother’s Court.”

No arguments. No coy glances. They offer me bowed heads and peaceful silence. Good.

“Leave me.”