Prince of Air and Darkness (The Darkest Court)

“Hand-to-hand,” I tell him. And to provide him the excuse I know he’ll need, I add, “Goddess knows you need the practice.”

The next half hour of grappling against him gives me plenty of time to stew. The more time we spend together, the more Smith lets me see how much our practices wear on him. It may be a show of trust on his part, but witnessing his vulnerability leaves me off-kilter. Worse, every time he falters or attempts a messy combination, my irritation only grows, until I can’t contain it any longer.

“Watch your guard,” I snap when his elbow drops again.

He adjusts without argument, but the concentration required to fix his form means he drops his hold on the ley line’s power. He needs to master how to bolster his attacks with magick. His rapid improvements mean nothing unless he can take this next step.

He throws another punch. His fist makes a meaty slap when it collides with my palm.

I ignore the sting. “Mediocre. Try to put something behind it this time.”

A flicker of something in his eyes. His lips press together, but he doesn’t complain. He just punches again.

The threat of the ley line’s power hangs in the air, arcing intermittently with small signs of Smith’s exasperation, but I can’t feel it when our skin meets. The whole point of teaching him hand-to-hand was to make up for his poor spellcasting. If he can’t throw the ley line into these moves, he’ll be in even greater danger. No protection at a distance, no defense in close quarters. He won’t stand a chance if anyone comes for him, and as soon as I take on the mantle, I won’t be around to help—

I swear and wrench my hand away, rubbing at the back of my neck as if I can physically dislodge the thought. My future’s closing in and I can’t seem to run fast enough to escape it. My sudden retreat is abrupt enough Smith stumbles forward a step before he can catch himself.

“Someone is in a mood,” he mumbles. “What set you off this time?”

“You,” I bite out. “For Herne’s sake, use your damn magick or I’ll walk out. I don’t have time to waste on an idiot who can’t even trust himself to—”

My bare arms tingle and my glamour’s shield shudders and bows in without warning. One moment, I’m glaring at him, the next I’m wondering why I’m staring at light fixtures. I try to sit up, but every attempt to contract my muscles sends tiny lightning bolts coursing under my skin.

“Fuck! Roark, are you okay?”

Smith looms over me, brows pinched with worry. He reaches down and pulls me up off the mat. My knees are too weak and my spine flashes now and then with strange bursts of sensation.

“I’m sorry.” His hands skim over my shoulders, the back of my head, and tangle gently in my hair while he checks my eyes. “I’m so sorry, Roark. I didn’t mean to... Well, actually I totally meant to hit you, but I thought you were just baiting me and that you’d protect yourself and—”

“This is exactly what I wanted.” Smith gapes at me. A flush spreads from his collarbones up to his neck and higher, settling in his cheeks. I reach up and grip one of his wrists, hope-drunk and fiercely proud.

His blush deepens, and the fingers against the nape of my neck curl a little tighter. “Um, it is?” His gaze fixes on my mouth.

“Of course...” His confusion makes me trail off to review what I just said to him. When it clicks, I release his wrist in a fit of embarrassment. We both take an awkward step back. “Not that. I meant—”

He scrubs a hand over his face. “No, I get it. You meant the punching and the magick and all.”

“Yes.” I relax my weight and lift my fists, hiding behind my glamour so he doesn’t see my hands trembling. “Try again. This time, don’t hold back. We’re so close.”

“Okay,” he murmurs. He pauses to look at me and whatever he sees makes him duck his chin. His arms come up and his feet shift into a wider stance. “We’ll get it this time.”

* * *

There’s unexpected comfort in listening to Smith and his friends chatting in the living room before they leave for Domovoi’s to party after the end of term. I can’t begrudge his happiness after the improvements he’s made in the past few weeks. At least one of us still has a future left to celebrate. At least he’ll survive longer than me.

This is good. This is what I want for him. He’ll be able to stand on his own when I’m no longer at his side.

I repeat it again and again as I tackle the pile of paperwork Mother sent this morning. After receiving my note about the large number of Seelie students who have withdrawn from campus, she wanted a list of names. That task alone would take me some time, yet she threw even more at me. Page after page of blueprints, careful renderings of various suits of the Knight’s armor. She ordered I provide my feedback and measurements so the blacksmiths can start working. Writing notes in the margins of the pages feels a bit like planning my funeral suit. I can only bear to work through the first two designs before I toss the pages on my desk to finish later.

I’m not trying to avoid the responsibili

ties of the mantle as much as delay them. The term’s finals may be over, but I’m sure I can claim some other reason I can’t return the information as quickly as Mother requested. In the end, she’ll still get what she wants, and I’ll still lose.

The flickering of the ley line’s magick searching for my glamour serves enough advanced warning that I don’t jump when Smith raps at my door frame. He’s a welcome distraction, freshly showered and changed for a night out on the town. Broken-in jeans cling to his hips and thighs just enough to hint at what’s underneath, and his loose, soft sweater still ends up stretching across his chest and biceps. He grins and some of the ice in my chest thaws at the sight.

A few weeks shouldn’t have made such a difference to us, considering the ugliness of our past, but something’s shifted. Smith seeks me out every spare moment. And when he’s not looking for me, I find myself reaching out with glamour to try to find him. I’m constantly waiting for the brush of his magick’s heat and the low-level shock that’s starting to feel more and more like home.

Even now it reaches out to butt up against my glamour and the knots in my shoulders loosen. “Need something?”