“I see.” Beira nodded, crossed her ankles, and leaned forward—the picture of an attentive parent. “And did…you know, the last girlfriend approve of her?”
Without looking away from him, Beira motioned to the sprite, who promptly brought her a glass of something clear to drink. As Beira wrapped her hand around the stem of the glass, frost crept over it until the outside of the glass was entirely coated in a thin white layer.
“Donia agreed to her.”
Beira tapped her fingernails on the side of her glass. “Lovely, and how is Dawn?”
Keenan ground his teeth: Beira knew Donia’s name. After over half a century as Winter Girl, Donia’d been around enough that his mother’s feigned memory slip bordered on comical. “Donia is as she’s been for decades, Mother. She’s angry with me. She’s tired. She’s everything you’ve made her.”
Beira lifted her other manicured hand to examine it idly. “What I made her? Oh, do tell.”
“It’s your staff, your binding, your treachery that started this game. You knew what would happen to the mortals when they took your chill. Mortals aren’t made for—”
“Aah, sweetling, but you asked her to do it. You chose her, and she chose you.” Beira sat back in her chair, smug now that he was angry. She held open her hand, and the staff in question drifted into her grip, a reminder of the power she wielded. “She could’ve joined your little coterie of Summer Girls, but she thought it was worth the risk. She thought you were worth risking the pain she’s in now.” She tsked at him. “Sad, really. She was such a pretty girl, so full of life.”
“She still is.”
“Is she, now?” Beira lowered her voice to a stage whisper, “I hear she’s getting weaker and weaker”—she paused and feigned a pout—“just sick with it. It’d be a shame if she fades.”
“Donia’s fine.” He heard the edge in his voice, hated that she could anger him so easily. The idea of Donia becoming a shade—dying, but trapped and silent for eternity—was one that never failed to rouse his temper. Fey death was always a tragedy, for there was no afterlife for the fey. It’s why she mentions it. How his father had ever put up with Beira long enough for her to conceive was beyond him. The woman was infuriating.
Beira made a purring noise, almost a growl, deep in her throat. “Let’s not argue, dear. I’m sure Diane will be fine until the new girl can be convinced you’re worth such a sacrifice. Why with being so ill, she might not even work against you this time. Maybe she’ll encourage the new lovely to accept you instead of telling her all those awful tales of your wicked intentions?”
“Donia will do her part; I’ll do mine. Nothing changes, not till I find the Summer Queen.” Keenan stood up and stepped forward until he was looking down at Beira. He couldn’t afford to let her browbeat him, no matter that she still held all the power, no matter that she’d sooner kill him than help him. Kings didn’t grovel; kings commanded. His power might be bound—no more than a warm breath against her glacial cold—but he was still the Summer King. He still stood against her, and he couldn’t let her ignore that.
Might as well get it over with.
“You know I’ll find her, Mother. One of these girls will take the staff in hand, and your cold won’t fill her.”
Beira sat down her glass and looked up at him. “Really?”
I hate this part. Keenan leaned down and put a hand on either side of her chair. “One day I’ll have the full strength of the King of Summer, just as Father did. Your reign will end. No more growing cold. No more unchecked power.” He lowered his voice, hoping to hide the trembling. “Then we’ll see who’s truly stronger.”
She sat there for a moment, silent and still. Then she put one cold hand on his chest and stood, pushing him ever so slightly. Ice formed in a web growing outward from her hand, crawling over him until he ached so fiercely that he couldn’t have moved if the Wild Hunt itself were bearing down on him.
“What a charming speech. It gets more entertaining every time—like one those TV shows.” She kissed both of his cheeks, leaving behind a frostbitten trace of her lips, letting her cold seep under his skin, reminding him that she—not me, not yet—had all the power. “That’s one of the lovely things about our little arrangement—if I had to deal with a real king,
I’d miss our games.”
Keenan didn’t answer—couldn’t. If he were gone, would another fill his place?
Nature abhors a vacuum.
Would a new king, an unbound king, come into power? She’d taunted him with that—If you want to protect them, end it. Let a real king reign. But would another king ascend with full power if he failed? He had no way of knowing. He swayed on his feet, hating her, hating the whole situation.
Then Beira leaned in and whispered, so her icy breath blew against his lips, “I’m sure you’ll find your little queen. Perhaps you already have. Maybe it was Siobhan or that Eliza from a few centuries back. Now she was a sweet girl, Eliza. Would’ve made a lovely queen, don’t you think?”
Keenan shivered, his body starting to shut down from the cold. He tried to push the cold back, push it out.
I am the Summer King. She cannot do this.
He swallowed, concentrating on staying upright.
“Imagine, all this time, all these centuries, if she were right there in the bevy of girls too weak to risk it. Too timid to pick up the staff and find out.”
Several fox-maidens came into the room. “His room is ready, mistress.”
“The poor dear is tired. And he was so unpleasant to his mummy.” She sighed, as if it had truly wounded her.