Wicked Lovely (Wicked Lovely 1)

“You shouldn’t come here,” he grumbled as he opened the door and motioned to a boy with a lion’s mane standing just inside. “Tell the…tell Keenan that…” He looked at her.

“Ash.”

“That Ash is out here.”

The lion-boy nodded and scampered off, disappearing through a doorway. His glamour made him seem cherubic, his lion’s mane a wild twist of sandy-blond dreads. Of the fey around town, the lion-maned ones were among the few that never seemed to cause trouble on purpose.

The guard let the door fall closed with a thud. He picked up his magazine, but he kept glancing at her and shaking his head.

Her heart thudded. Trying to feign nonchalance, she glanced back at the street. Only a few cars had driven by so far; it wasn’t a busy area.

If I’m going to go for aggressive, why not start now? A practice run. The next time he looked back at his magazine, she said, “For what it’s worth, you’re sexier with the tusks.”

He gaped at her. The magazine hit the damp ground with a soft smack. “With the what?”

“Tusks. Seriously, if you’re going to go with a glamour, add bars in place of your tusks.” Aislinn gave him an appraising look. “Bit more menacing, too.”

His grin was a slow thing, like sunrise creeping over the horizon. He altered his glamour. “Better?”

“Yeah.” She stepped closer to him, not touching, but closer than she’d have believed she could get without panicking. Pretend it’s Seth. She tilted her head so she was looking up at him. “Works for me.”

He laughed, nervously, and glanced over his shoulder. The messenger wasn’t back yet. “I’m liable to get flogged if you keep doing that. It’s one thing to go for a mortal, but you”—he shook his head—“you’re off limits.”

She didn’t move, not closing that last little gap, but not backing up, either. “Is he that cruel? To beat people?”

The guard almost choked on his laugh. “Keenan? Hell, no. But he’s not the only player. The Winter Girl, Keenan’s advisors, the Summer Girls”—he shuddered, lowered his voice—“the Winter Queen. You never know who’s going to get pissy about what once the game’s in motion.”

“So what’s the prize for the game?” Her heart thumped so loudly now, she felt like she’d have chest pains any minute.

Keenan and Donia weren’t telling her everything; maybe he would. Donia might say she was trying to help, but she was one of the players.

The messenger was coming back, leading two of the vine-decorated faeries she’d seen in the library.

Focus. Don’t panic whatever he says.

He leaned down so his tusks framed her forehead and whispered, “Control. Power. You.”

“Oh.”

What does that mean?

She mutely followed the vine-covered girl, wondering if the fey ever gave a straight answer.

Aislinn—my queen, here—followed Eliza through the crowd; they parted for her as they did for him. She was lovely, a vision come true. The Summer Girls spun like dervishes. Winter fey sulked. And the dark fey licked their lips, as if in anticipation. Others—solitary fey and the rare high court fey who mingled in the crowd—looked on, curious, but not invested in the outcome. It was as if his life, his struggle, were nothing more than a tableau for their amusement.

Eliza stepped up, bowed her head. “Your guest, Keenan.”

He nodded, then pulled out a chair for Aislinn. She wasn’t smiling, not happy at all. She wasn’t here to accept, but to fight.

And everyone’s watching.

He felt curiously ill at ease. He’d always chosen the field of battle, always set the stage, but she was here—in his club, surrounded by his people, and he hadn’t a clue about how to deal with it.

She came to me. Not for the reason he’d like, though; her posture was proof enough that she was there to deny him. As strategies go, it was a good one. Even if she wasn’t the queen, she was the best game he’d had in a long time. If she weren’t so terrified of him, it would be a lovely start to the evening.

“Let me know when you’re done staring at me.” She tried to sound blasé and failed.

She turned away and flagged down one of the innumerable cubs that scampered around. “Can I get something normal that mortals drink? I don’t want any of that wine I had at the faire.”