Prince of Air and Darkness (The Darkest Court)

“I see.” He doesn’t frown. Edward never frowns. But his words are the closest to condemnation he’s ever come.

I refuse to bite and give him the opportunity to share his opinion. Instead, I take another sip of my rye whiskey, reveling in its burn. Mother was horrified when I requested it for the party, but since I’ve been threatening to miss the event, she wasn’t above using it as a bribe to ensure my attendance.

As if I could get out of tonight. It’s our last celebration before the real politickin

g begins. In a few short days, the Seelie will send an emissary to complete the Rite Hibernum. The monarchs of both Courts rely on the refined power shared back and forth each year; they are responsible for fueling all their subjects from this wellspring. The emissary serves as a living vessel for this power. We accept the Seelie emissary’s offer of sacrifice and reclaim our power as we’ve done for millennia, and when our seasons are done, we send an emissary of our own to the Summer Court. At least, that’s the plan.

Once the power between the Courts swings back to us, I’ll be able to breathe easier. Mother will make me her Knight. We’ll pull the rest of our people back into the safety of our stronghold. The war will withdraw to the realm of the fae alone, since no Seelie would be stupid enough to make another attack on Mathers with waning power. Good for my subjects, good for me, good for Smith. The sooner this blasted war returns to our world and abandons the world of humanity, the safer he’ll be.

“Is it true what they whisper?” Edward asks.

I glance at him, surprised by his boldness. The Edward I knew never would have dared bring up rumors. He would have considered that beneath him.

“What are they whispering?” I counter, intrigued by this new development.

He leans in closer, murmuring in my ear, “A new Knight will rise before the end of Samhain.”

Despite the alcohol, icy dread fills me. Fortunately, what little glamour I scraped together to cover my nearly healed nose for this event hides my reaction. “I never knew you to be interested in the Queen’s enforcer.”

His fingers slide down my spine, caressing me with a lightness belying his fear of discussing this. My skin crawls from his possessive touch. He presses on, “I wasn’t concerned until word reached me that you were to inherit the role.”

Edward’s glamour presses against mine, its weight cool and familiar. Familiar, but nothing like the electric buzz of Smith’s presence. I flinch, remembering how I reached for him this afternoon only to encounter...nothing. A void. The ley line was gone, and Smith was nothing but an empty shell. He said he turned it off because it hurt too much.

I did that. I hurt him that badly.

“My prince,” Edward murmurs. He must have read my flinch for some kind of confession of apprehension about my future role. “Don’t take on the mantle,” he pleads quietly. “I couldn’t bear to watch you lose yourself to it.”

I want comfort. I want whispered lies that my path could still veer in a different direction. But I don’t want them from him.

“You underestimate me, Edward.” Over my shoulder, I note the surprise and embarrassment he can’t hide fast enough. “And I am no longer your concern.”

His hand drops, but not immediately. “I had hoped, as someone who cares for you—”

“As someone who once cared for me,” I correct idly, finishing off my whiskey.

His hand clenches and he looks down at his feet. But his glamour shifts wildly, scratching against mine like unrefined wool. A small group near us glances over, distracted from their inane conversation by Edward’s emotional reaction.

Across the room, Mother flicks her gaze toward us. A tiny furrow appears between her brows. Dammit. Her attention is the last thing I need tonight.

“I will take your advice into consideration,” I say quickly, hoping to end this scene and escape before my mother reaches us. She’s already abandoned her conversation with a fermentation ogre to make her way through the crowd.

“Your Highness, please, I beg you for another chance to win your affection—”

“Too late, I’m afraid,” I interrupt. “Excuse me. I just remembered an important task I needed to complete.”

Humiliating as it may be, I flee. No one tries to stop me on my flight from the ballroom. I avoid the halls; too many alcoves filled with inebriated fae looking to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh on their night of triumph. Instead, I skim the nearby mirrored panel with my glamour.

Open.

Unlike some of its inhabitants, the sídhe itself is unwaveringly loyal. The royal family has unlimited power here, power to create, to destroy, to change. The chambers of our home are formed from magickal will alone and not all the rooms are accessible, even to the Queen.

Yes, the sídhe is loyal, but it’s also fickle. It obeys, but often only to the letter of the demand. I learned many years ago while escaping my older brother’s torments that the sídhe can be negotiated with. If it likes you, if it feels you appreciate it, it will come to your aid without hesitation.

It does that now for me. I push through the wall into one of the libraries. A cheerful fire crackles in the grate and the scent of ink and parchment and leather is so familiar I want to cry. This room has always been my safe haven. The fact that my home remembers that and offers it to me now, trying to comfort me as no one here has, strips some of my defenses.

On instinct, I move to the long table and the open tome sitting there. I blow off the thin layer of dust coating the cover and skim my finger over the rough-cut parchment pages. A quick flip, and the book falls open to the page I have memorized.

My finger traces the lines and whorls, the family tree extending like a cascade of leaves down to my mother. Queen Mab, Empress of the Gloaming and Winter, Head of the Unseelie, Lady of Air and Darkness. They never bothered to write in the names of her consorts. She’s outlived them all and stricken their names from all records. I trace the line further.