With effort, Seth ignored both Aislinn’s and Niall’s calls all day. Niall had stopped in. They’d shared a tense cup of tea that ended when Seth asked, “Where does Sorcha live?”
Niall set down his cup. “She’s unreachable to mortals. Hidden.”
“Right, I’ve heard that. Where?” Seth kept his voice fairly steady, but he knew that his irritation was obvious to Niall. “Just take me to her.”
“No.”
“Niall—”
“No.” The Dark King shook his head, stood, and left.
Seth stared at the door in irritation. Aislinn wouldn’t help if she knew; Keenan wouldn’t help. Niall wouldn’t even discuss it. That left Donia or research.
He flicked open his cell and pressed number six. One of the Scrimshaw Sisters answered the Winter Queen’s phone. “Mortal?”
Seth shivered at the husk-dry voice. “Can I speak to Donia?” he asked.
“Not tonight.”
He closed his eyes. “When?”
“She’s busy. I’ll take your message.”
“Ask her to call me?” He began collecting his folklore books—including volumes he’d acquired from Donia and Niall. “Whenever she can?”
“The message will be conveyed,” the Scrimshaw Sister rasped. “Good-bye, mortal.”
Seth grabbed a legal pad from his bin of miscellaneous things and sat down in the middle of the stacks of books. “Research, it is.”
When the phone rang several hours later, Seth scrambled for it, hoping it was Donia. It wasn’t. But he hoped, against logic, that it might be help when he saw Niall’s number.
Instead, the Dark King reiterated, “It’s a mistake.”
“It’s not.” Seth hung up on him. He didn’t want to hear what anyone else thought. He didn’t want to hear Aislinn’s explanation that it wasn’t possible or Niall’s guilt-heavy objections. He knew what he wanted: he wanted to be a faery, to have eternity with Aislinn, to be strong enough to be safe in the world where he now lived. Being human wasn’t cutting it. He didn’t want to be weak or finite or easily overwhelmed. He wanted to be more. He wanted to be her equal again.
He just needed to figure out how to find Sorcha and then convince the High Queen to help him.
No problem. Seth scowled. He could just imagine she’d be willing to pass that gift out without hesitation. Sure, I’ll give you eternity, little mortal.
He looked at the books he’d searched and found useless. He looked at the few notes he’d made. Reclusive. Logical. Does not mingle with the other courts. Devlin. It wasn’t helpful.
His careful control of his temper slid away. He stood and swept everything from the counter. It was a satisfying clatter.
Better than meditating.
He was in love, healthy, had plenty of money, a friend who was like a brother…but because he was mortal, he could lose it all. Without her, he’d have to sever ties with all faeries. There would be no more riverside concerts. There would be no more magic. He’d still have the Sight: he’d see everything that he couldn’t actually have. Losing Aislinn meant losing everything.
If she left him, it didn’t matter if he was healthy. And if she didn’t leave him, he wasn’t strong enough to be in her life and be safe. And even if he was strong enough, he’d grow old and die and she’d move on.
The books were all over the room. None of them had answers.
Everything is wrong.
He walked into the kitchen.
It’s useless.
Every dish he owned, except the two teacups and the teapot Aislinn had bought him, went smashing into the wall. Then, he punched the wall until his knuckles were bloodied. It didn’t help, but it felt a helluva lot more satisfying than anything else he could think to do just then.