Prince of Air and Darkness (The Darkest Court)

“Heard a lot about you after that ball,” Goodfellow muses. “Seems like you’re getting a lot of attention in the Courts. Still, I’m not sure what they see in you.”

He tosses me a piece of popcorn. I catch it, holding it between thumb and forefinger, and let the ley line swallow it with a tiny burst of flame. “Neither do I,” I say, tossing the destroyed kernel back to him.

He catches it, turning it this way and that as he examines what’s left. His grin chills me to the bone.

Roark returns with his satchel. He’s changed back into what I’m starting to recognize as his Court attire: slacks, a dress shirt, tie, and jacket. The constrained lines match the rigid control he maintains over his emotions, his body, even his voice. Masterful in his ennui, he waves a hand toward Goodfellow. “Tell Mother I’m on my way.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

I jump when Goodfellow disappears without a word, only the outline of his toothy smile hovering for a half breath longer.

“Don’t fuck with him,” Roark warns me, checking his bag and tugging at the lapels of his jacket.

“I try to avoid him.”

Final inspection done, Roark swipes a hand through his hair. “Good. He’s not one of ours. Unaffiliated with either Court. I can’t put a leash on him. We only put up with him because he’s an excellent messenger.”

“He’s also a jackass.”

“You have no idea. He’s the one who told my mother the rumors about your power.”

“Well, shit.” Probably shouldn’t have shown off said power.

The silence between us weighs heavier than it has in days.

“Planning on being gone long?” I ask, gesturing at his bag.

“Maybe. If she sent Goodfellow for me, it’s serious.”

Roark tries to hide his unease, but I know the lines of his body now. He isn’t as calm as he appears, no matter the glamour he’s employing. He reaches into his pocket and fiddles with something.

He pretends to be composed, but holds himself too tightly for me to touch him the way I want. If I reached out to brush his hair off his forehead, or clasp his neck, or lean into him, the barely tethered misery would be loosed. He’s going to face Mab; he can’t afford such a loss of control. I reach out and brush the backs of my fingers against his.

He lets out a breath. It shudders past his ribs and his shoulders curl in.

“Hey,” I say softly, “it’s you and me here.”

Some of the tension leaches from him. “I know.”

He reaches for me now. The ley line curls against his skin, calming itself as we touch. I trace my fingers down his forearm, sliding over the delicate curve of the bones in his wrist. I rub my thumb over the steady beat of his pulse, wishing I could help him somehow.

“What do you think she wants?” I ask as I circle the inside of his wrist. Slow, steady, over and over.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Probably something to do with the war preparations. Maybe with Sláine.”

He shuts down, staring at my fingers, still braceleted around his wrist.

“He’s your brother,” I say.

Roark fights something in himself and the battle works its way out, leaving his glamour trembling. “My older brother,” he finally says. “This is all his fault.”

I wait. I can’t help; I’m too stupid and human and mortal to do much. But I can offer him this, a chance to divest himself of this weight before he goes to face his mother.

“Sláine went to the Accords. Instead of ensuring the peace treaty continued, he defected to the Seelie Court without warning. And now I get to clean up his mess.”

His bitterness worries me. “Is it that bad?”

He finally looks up, holds my gaze. “No,” he says. Gathers his resolve. “No. It’ll be fine. I know what I have to do.”