Wicked Lovely (Wicked Lovely 1)

ious.

She stumbled back until she bumped into the window frame.

“Stay away from me,” she said, letting all that anger she’d been feeling show in her tone.

Her skin began to glow as brightly as his had. She stared down at her arms, aghast. She rubbed her forearm, as if she could wipe it away. It didn’t change.

“I can’t. You’ve belonged to me for centuries. You were born to belong to me.” He stepped closer again and blew on her face as if he were blowing the head off a dandelion gone to seed.

Her eyes almost rolled back; every pleasure she’d felt under the summer sun combined into one seemingly endless caress. She leaned against the rough brick wall next to them. “Go away.”

She fumbled in her pocket for the packets of salt Seth had given her and cracked them open. It was a weak throw, but the salt sprinkled over him.

He laughed. “Salt? Oh my lovely, you’re such an exquisite prize.”

It took more strength than she thought she had, but she pushed away from the wall. She pulled out the pepper spray: it worked on anything with eyes. She flicked the safety off, exposing the nozzle, and aimed it at his face.

“Courage and beauty,” he whispered reverently. “You’re perfect.”

Then he faded away, joining the rest of the invisible faeries walking down the street.

He paused halfway down the block and whispered, “I’ll allow this round to you, but I shall still win the game, my beautiful Aislinn.”

And she heard it as clearly as if he were still beside her.

CHAPTER 23

[T]heir gifts usually have conditions attached, which detract from their value and sometimes become a source of loss and misery.

—The Science of Fairy Tales: An Enquiry into Fairy Mythology by Edwin Sidney Hartland (1891)

Donia knew who it was before she reached the door. No faery would dare pound on her door like that.

“A game?” Aislinn stormed into the room, her eyes flashing. “Is that what this is to you too?”

“No. Not in the same way, at least.” At Donia’s side Sasha bared his teeth and laid his ears back, welcoming Aislinn as he’d once welcomed Donia. He knew that—despite the waves of anger flowing off Aislinn—she meant no harm.

She stood there, glimmering as Keenan did when he was angry, and prompted, “How then?”

“I am a pawn, neither king nor queen,” Donia said with a shrug.

Anger gone as quickly as it’d come, Aislinn stopped.

As volatile as he is too.

Aislinn bit her lip, silent for a moment. “One pawn to another, will you help me?”

“Indeed. It is what I do.”

Glad to look away from terrible brightness hurting her eyes, Donia walked over to the old wardrobe and opened it. Intermingled with her daily wear were clothes she’d no use for: velveteen tops with impossibly beautiful embroidery, shimmering blouses that looked like nothing more than a net of stars, dresses fashioned of sheer scarves that bared as they concealed, and leather clothes of every cut a girl could want.

She held out a crimson bustier that Liseli said she’d once worn to the Solstice Ball, the year after she’d become Winter Girl. He wept, tears of sunlight, she’d told Donia. Show him what he cannot ever have.

Donia had never been able to be so callous, but she’d wanted to.

Aislinn’s eyes widened as she looked at the bustier. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you.” Donia hung the top back up and held out a strange metal halter, strung with black gems.