All That Glows

Fifteen

In the end, I can’t stay the night. Whips of worry spur me south, under the moonrise, back toward Richard’s London and all of its machines.

The heavens are still black as I wait for Herne on the borders of his forest, a nervous, unwilling messenger. I’m eager to be done with this particular errand—encounters with powerful free spirits like Herne aren’t something I relish. Their magic is too unrestrained, above any law or crown.

A whistle leaves my lips, forlorn and low, infused with pieces of Herne’s ancient name. Leaves rustle against the force of the summons, their edges curling in response to such close magic. The ground grows uncertain beneath my feet, trembling with the shake of horse’s hooves. A magnificent stallion, its coat lusty with dark and starlight, bursts through the trees, a flash of rolling eyes and gaping teeth. Wild magic sears off its flank, although I don’t need an aura to know that the creature isn’t mortal. Its rider is proof enough for that. A being, perhaps as tall as the horse itself, sits proud in the saddle. Though most of him resembles a man, his flare for the dramatic emerges in the twin antlers wreathing out of his skull. They twist all the way into the shivering branches, their sharp points even impaling a few unfortunate leaves.

“Who summons me?” Herne halts on the border of the trees. His horse stamps the ground, ready to be off again.

“I bring a message from Queen Mab.” I wave the envelope like a banner of surrender above my head.

Herne stays motionless in his saddle. Something of a flame flickers behind his shadowed gaze, sending sheaths of frost down my spine. I struggle not to shudder. It’s better not to show fear around creatures like Herne.

“I will not cross the borders of my forest,” the spirit finally says. “Bring the letter to me, youngling.”

I step out, wary as prey, holding the envelope as an offering.

“Hurry up,” Herne snaps. “I don’t have all night. There are things to hunt.”

My stride jolts to life with the fear of his words. I stop just before the borders of his forest. Only the envelope breaches the invisible boundary. Herne snatches it up like a magpie gleaning silver things. He tears—careless—into the seal and glances through the lines of Mab’s spidery script.

“So—Mab wants me to allow large numbers of immortals into my forest. Wants Windsor to be a safe haven, I expect. Can’t blame her, with what’s stirring up north.” He looks up, eyes boring full force into my body. Their effect is similar to nausea. “Does your queen require a response?”

“I’m on my way back to London. You should send a sparrow.”

“One of the Guard, eh? Perhaps I’ll see you here at Windsor—I always welcome the company of a pretty, young Fae.”

I back away, my smile weak. “Yes, perhaps.”

The roar of Herne’s laughter rattles the air even after he gallops away, far into the reaches of his forest.

Morning’s early hours greet the world with an eerie, thistle-blossom glow as I land outside the palace gates. This time the sickness is only an aftershock, weak and secondary. I ignore it; push down the pain as I step past the bars of solid iron and pause for the two younglings who sidle up to me.

“State your name and rank!” The first of the new security is harsh, excited with her words.

“I’m Lady Emrys Léoflic—Prince Richard’s Frithemaeg.” Richard’s Frithemaeg—these words feel sinful, their hidden meaning threatening to explode like fireworks in my aura, my face. Startling spark and neon. Showing all.

But the younglings aren’t really listening. What I couldn’t hide from Mab is easier to conjure out of their attentions.

“We need to see your signature,” the other Fae says, her voice calmer.

I hold up my right hand. Magic seeps like nectar, sweet and gold, from my fingertips. Light stretches out, ebbing and molding into the form of a regal bird as it glides around the guards’ heads. It’s a mark of who I am, a piece of my essence no other can imitate. Satisfied that I’m no soul feeder in disguise, the younglings step back.

Although Mab’s direct order was to spend these three days in surveillance, I have to visit Richard first. Worries of treason and assassins in corners shadowed and sharp have taken over me. Grown like mold, ruining everything. Only seeing Richard, taking him in with my own two eyes, will put this to rest.

I cross the courtyard’s brick-red gravel in the calmest manner I can manage. The entire border Guard is watching me, fixed on my every move. I can’t betray my true eagerness at seeing the prince, or my new distrust in his Guards. If the corruption’s as widespread as Mab implies, then no one should even suspect an investigation.

I peer into Richard’s window, but the glare of breaking morning beats off the glass—all yellow and amber—hindering my sight. It takes nearly a minute for me to make out the shapes of his bedroom. Ghastly wads of T-shirts and slacks flung upon chairs appear alongside the stretched, pale faces of some eclectic band on the opposite wall. A lamp lies sideways on a marble-topped table, a hairline crack snakes through one of the windowpanes. Signs of a struggle?

A sharp jolt twists my stomach as I study the bed’s hovel of sheets and blankets. Richard isn’t there.

Panic, pure and throaty, shatters all my years of disciplined training. I don’t even bother opening the window, my hands burst through like hurled stones. Diamond glass rains across the outside sill, piercing my palms and knees as I push myself into the jagged hole.

“Lady Emrys? What are you doing?” It’s Helene. Her hair is askew, the edges of her eyes puffed pink. Something isn’t right.

“Where is he? Where’s Richard?”

There’s a faint groan from the other side of the room. Richard’s groan. My neck snaps back at the sound. He’s slouched in a corner chair, wearing the same clothes I left him in. His shaggy head rests on a small writing table. On the desk’s edge, nested in the papery carcasses of his new speech, is a decanter for whiskey. Clear and very empty.

Richard’s moan grows louder; he begins to twitch. An eye, its specks of cool gray green and gold shot with crimson, cracks open before I can pull away.

“Embers?” My nickname is mumbled along with an incoherent string of vowels.

“Slæpe,” I whisper at him. The spell slips, light and silvery, into his temple.

The sleepy gibberish fades from his lips as my magic drags him back into dreams. I study his rumpled features: the hot, tangled mess of his hair, that half-unbuttoned shirt and the jarring sting of his breath. Alcohol.

I turn back and face the other Fae. Their faces are pale with confusion, as if they aren’t certain whether or not to blame me for this mess of glass and spells.

“What happened last night?” I hear my voice rising, but I can’t stop it. My anger swells like dough riddled with too much yeast.

“Some of his Eton buddies came over for a couple of drinks. . . .”

Edmund. I should have known the drought of his calls and pub invites wouldn’t last. He must consider Richard’s mourning period over.

Helene’s dark, liquid eyes don’t flinch from mine. “I thought you weren’t due back for three more days. What are you doing here?”

I buy time with my response by fixing the shattered window. Tiny shards of glass fly back into their puzzle parts, glinting rainbow light across the younglings’ faces. They’re both staring.

“I received a warning that there might be an attack. I came back to check, and when I didn’t see the prince in his bed I broke the window,” I explain as if it had been the most rational reaction in the world. “Anything to keep Richard safe, yes?”

“Everything’s been quiet,” Gwyn tells me with a frown. “The soul feeders are lying low.”

I clear my throat and gather what’s left of my dignity. “Well, I guess there’s no need for me to stay. I’ll be back in three days.”

This time I leave through the doorway. I try not to look back at Richard’s crumpled slumber as I walk out of the room. A foot, angled and odd, pokes into my vision, igniting a new wave of anger.

After all the warnings . . . everything I’ve told him, showed him, Richard still decided to put himself in danger. He laid himself out like a lamb for slaughter, drunk and open throated. An assassin would barely have to try.

Something dangerous, lethal writhes inside me. It’s beyond anger, although there’s plenty of that shooting through every vein. It’s myself as I was in the beginning: spirit unsoiled by the sugarcoated trappings of humanity, unbound by Mab’s laws. Snarling, carnivorous magic. Magic that, with the right trigger, is meant to destroy.

I stop walking, lean against the hallway’s art-smothered wall. It takes more than a few drawn-out breaths to clear my head, silence the rage inside. With great will, I force the creature I once was back to where she’s long slept, beneath years of civilization.

I shut my eyes, imagining Richard’s face behind the darkness of my lids. My insides are a mess, puddles of anger and sorrow swirling together, making me sick. I hate that it hurts so much. That I let him get to me.