Prince of Air and Darkness (The Darkest Court)

What should we do? the ley line asks. It’s so impatient.

Roark’s ghost sits beside me, whispering, “Wait for me.”

Wait for him to destroy my trust. Wait for him while he carves into another fae’s flesh to prove he deserves to carry his mother’s title. Wait for him while he transforms completely into Mab’s Prince of Air and Darkness.

The ley line expands, filling that empty space behind my ribs. We will transform, too. We will multiply.

Yes. Focus, Finny. Pods heavy with beans, the look of joy on my parents’ faces when our crops double.

The image shifts against my will, rippling until it’s Roark there, pride in his eyes when I tell him of my success.

A twinge in my chest.

He isn’t here.

He lied.

He made his choice, and it wasn’t me.

I think I understand now why people melt into the ley line, let it burn them out of existence. The pain stops.

But life must go on. Without him, without me, it doesn’t matter. It must go on.

I focus on that thought, feeding it in an endless loop to the ley line, until it scorches every atom of my being. I tip my head back, digging my fingers into the earth, and release the energy. It cuts its way out, a sharper burn than Queen Mab’s ice knife ever caused. Around me, the world echoes its passing.

I pull out my phone and text Roark. I tried.

I sit in that damn field until the sun shows its face and the energy of the ley line burrows itself wholly into this section of the crop. Once that hum vanishes, I stand, brush dust and chaff off my pants, and head back toward the house.

I’m nearly there when the reality of what I’ve done hits me. I’m not sure how long it will take the ley line to do its work. I’m not sure if I was successful. All I know is that I feel empty and drained, and it has nothing to do with the magick I used.

I don’t want to go back to the house to face my parents yet. So I let my feet lead me to a familiar tree and sit down beneath it.

Mom must have seen me from the kitchen window because she joins me a short time later, when the sun slants its rays over the fields. I can’t feel the ley line, haven’t since I forced it to obey me earlier. I didn’t push myself too far this morning, but now I worry that’s a sign of my failure. Maybe the price to save this land for my parents was higher than what I actually paid. Maybe I’ve only made things worse.

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Couldn’t sleep.” It’s not a complete lie. I get to my feet and ignore the way the dew has soaked into my pants.

“I’m still not sure why you came up here to think instead of sitting on the couch like you normally do.” She wraps her jacket tighter around her and looks over the small memorials at the base of the tree. She’s laid out fresh sunflowers, and the pop of yellow against the grass makes this place look happy instead of sad.

“It made sense at the time.”

She bends down and straightens one of the flowers leaning against a cross. Once she’s content, she rises and takes my hand in hers. We look down at our family history in silence.

Markers for lives lost too early. Markers for hopes and dreams taken away from those who deserved them most. Markers of the bitterest grief, a grief I can barely understand even though it haunts my parents still. I could have been any of them. Instead, I stand here beside my mother and her ghosts, thinking of balance and cost and the price of being another cross on a hill.

“You know, we almost lost you,” she says quietly.

In all my years of hearing their story, this was never part of it.

“Really?” I glance over at her, surprised to meet her steady gaze.

“We had tried so many times before and when this pregnancy took, it seemed like a miracle. We waited five months before we told anyone. The day we told your grandparents that a baby was finally coming, your father went to the store. He came back hours later with safety locks for the cabinets and a miniature football. No diapers, no wipes, no clothes. I’ve never seen him so proud.”

Her hand trembles and I rub my thumb over her knuckles in silent encouragement. “A week later, I started bleeding. Finny, I’ve never been so scared. They said you weren’t in distress, but they couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Four days in the hospital, in the middle of planting, and your father running himself ragged here before driving back to town to spend the night in my hospital room. But you held on. And when your father brought us home and turned down our road, you started kicking and pushing. You’d never done that before. You were part of this farm before we ever met you.”

She looks around us, taking in the fields and the house. The lights are on, so Dad must be moving around now. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you sooner. We needed to get our heads on straight and before we knew it, you were back at school and it didn’t seem the right time. I suppose there’s never a right time for bad news.”