Prince of Air and Darkness (The Darkest Court)

black tie, all cut to accentuate his athleticism and fencer’s frame. The black reminds me of armor donned before a battle, an efficient outfit rather than an attractive one. It doesn’t matter. He makes no effort and still stands out more than any man here. He’s always stood out.

For the first time in years, I don’t feel any shame for noticing. Maybe because I’m trying to reclassify the Roark in my head with my new knowledge of Roark acting as Prince Lyne. This small reframing of his role makes me question my view of him in more memories than I’d like. He’s no longer just my asshole roommate, or Mab’s dangerous disciple. He’s also a diplomat committed to protecting his people at any cost.

Judging from his expression, it might be too high a cost. We’ve lived and fought together long enough for me to recognize the small tells that warn how badly this conversation is going. The minuscule downward twist of his lips. The slight narrowing of his eyes. The way he leans back and tries to earn himself an inch more space. He’s angry and frustrated and I’m surprised Aileen hasn’t picked up on that yet.

It isn’t my place to intervene. I misread a situation before and ended up hurting both of us. Probably better for me to beat a hasty retreat and squeeze past the underclassmen squad instead. I pop out the door, but they’re still there, louder thanks to a new set of friends who apparently just found them. Crap. I’ll have to try to sneak through the dignitaries’ room after all.

I’m almost to the rear door of the room, the one that opens out into the hallway behind the current blockage, when Roark’s shoulders stiffen. This close, the fabric of his jacket pulls taut from the movement and I can’t help but admire the image for a fleeting moment.

Not fleeting enough. Like he senses me creeping around behind him, he turns abruptly in mid-conversation. Those ice-shard eyes fix on me. Widen slightly. “Smith? What the hell are you doing here?”

Roark

This evening’s useless. I suspected it would be, but the confirmation is still upsetting. I could have used tonight to catch up on my work, to try to sleep, to read for pleasure, something I haven’t been able to do in ages. Anything that would have granted me a few precious hours of solitude. Instead, I voluntarily threw myself into the political quagmire and have nothing to show for it.

Aileen continues to drone, rehashing her plan for our “partnership” for what feels like the hundredth time. If I get Mother to have the Pantheons lift some sanctions, she will ensure the safety of my Unseelie subjects on campus. It isn’t worth pointing out the fatal flaw in her plan: Attacks on the Unseelie are already forbidden. I won’t give her such a coup in exchange for something I already possess. She doesn’t even have news on Sláine’s status in the Summer Court. A total waste of a night.

“Would meeting next week give you enough time to talk to your mother?” Aileen asks me.

A faint buzz down my neck into my spine. I stiffen, hoping the intrusive sensation will fade, only to find it growing stronger. Aileen says something else, but I don’t care because this feeling is so familiar and it can’t be. Not here...

I spin away from Aileen, positive I’m imagining things and needing to prove it to myself. But I’m wrong. He’s there. Phineas Smith stands by the back door of the room where the student leaders and pseudo-diplomats of Mathers gather to forge new deals and partnerships with the tacit approval of their Pantheons. He commands the space without conscious effort thanks to the way his shoulders fill out the blue-grey suit that matches his eyes and the intoxicating warmth of his magick.

Damn him.

“Smith?” I call. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He glances at the door, then back to me, clearly undecided whether to flee or stick around. I take a step toward him, but Aileen puts her hand on my arm and says, “Prince Lyne, we should finish this discussion before—”

“I’m afraid this discussion was over a while ago,” I counter, slipping my arm free. I don’t drop eye contact with Smith, willing him to stay put until I get to him. “We have no ability to sway the Pantheons. Therefore, I cannot accept your terms. I appreciate your goodwill and wish you a good night.”

“I see.” From the corner of my eye, I catch the way Aileen inspects Smith. I’m not sure what the perusal teaches her, but she gives a single nod before saying, “I’ll leave you to it, then. Good evening.”

The moment her glamour vanishes, I stop holding my own at rigid attention. Apparently Smith can read that small change because he takes it as an invitation. His cautious approach ends with both of us leaning against a bookcase against the back wall, looking out at the rest of the people in the room. The silence should be awkward, especially after our confrontation the other day; Smith hasn’t tried to speak to me since Mother showed up and scared him out of the apartment. There’s nothing awkward about this, though. The low hum of his magick is familiar and comforting and I stretch my glamour over him, doing my best to keep us inconspicuous.

After a small eternity, during which time the population of the room changes several times, he remarks, “It’s weird to see you here.”

“It’s weird to see you here, too, Smith. I didn’t know you were a fan of the Seelie.”

“I’m not. But Seb was coming and I wanted to make sure he had someone to watch his back.”

Seb... Ah, the half-Seelie faerie who hangs out with Smith’s group.

“I didn’t think you were a fan of them either,” he adds with poorly disguised curiosity.

“An act of diplomacy, I assure you.”

Smith stuffs his hands in the pockets of his slacks and rearranges his broad frame into a slightly more relaxed vertical sprawl. “Is that what you and your mother were planning during her visit?”

“No. It may be shocking to you, but my collapse prompted her maternal concern.” If he can act casual, so can I. After a final check that my glamour’s illusion remains strong enough to keep us hidden from prying eyes, I loosen my tie and pop the top button of my shirt. It’s a wicked liberty to stand amidst all the Pantheons’ best, imperfect behind a perfect mask.

“How did she know?”

“The Court’s monarch is responsible for distributing power evenly among their subjects. I tapped my glamour too strongly and she felt it. It wasn’t spycraft, Smith, so stop worrying.”

“You almost burned out,” he says.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I protest, but he waves it off.