A Kiss of Shadows (34 page)

“Where is your sword?” Doyle asked.

Rhys looked at him. “The same place yours is. The queen says we do not need them tonight.”

Doyle glanced at Frost. “What of you, Frost?”

Rhys answered with a quick smile that made his lovely blue eye gleam. “The queen's weaning him a weapon at a time. She's decreed he has to be unarmed by the time she dresses to go to the throne room.”

“I do not think it wise to have her entire guard unarmed,” Frost said.

“Nor I,” Doyle said, “but she is the queen and we will follow her orders.”

Frost's handsome face closed down into tight lines. If he'd been human, he'd have had frown wrinkles by now, but his face was unlined and always would be.

“Frost's clothes are fine for a welcome home banquet, but why are you and Rhys dressed so . . .” I spread my hands helplessly trying to find a phrase that wasn't an insult.

“The queen designed my outfit personally,” Rhys said.

“It's lovely,” I said.

He grinned. “Just keep saying that as you meet the rest of the guard tonight.”

My eyes widened. “Oh, please. She isn't taking hormones again, is she?”

Rhys nodded. “Baby hormones and her sex drive goes into overtime.” He looked down at his clothes. “A shame to be dressed up with no place to go.”

“Very punny,” I said.

He looked up at me with a genuinely unhappy face. He hadn't meant the play on words to be funny. His sad face made the smile fade from mine.

“The queen is our sovereign. She knows best,” Frost said.

I laughed before I could stop myself.

The look on Frost's face when he turned made me regret the laugh. I saw those grey eyes unguarded for a split second, and what I saw in them was pain. I watched him rebuild his walls, watched his eyes close down, so that nothing showed again. But I'd seen what lay beyond his careful facade, his expensive clothes, his fastidious attention to detail—his rigorous morality and his arrogance. Some of it was real, but some of it was a mask to keep things locked away.

I'd never liked Frost, but having that one glimpse meant I couldn't dislike him anymore. Damn.

“We will speak no more of this,” he said. He turned and moved down the hallway, back the way they'd come. “The queen awaits your presence.” He walked away without looking back to see if we were following.

Rhys came up beside me. He slid an arm across my shoulders and hugged me. “I'm glad you're back.”

I leaned into him briefly. “Thanks, Rhys.”

He gave me a small shake. “I missed you, Green-eyes.”

Rhys even more than Galen spoke modern English. He loved slang. His favorite author was Dashiell Hammett; his favorite movie,
The Maltese Falcon
with Humphrey Bogart. Rhys had a house outside the mound city. He had electricity and a television set. I'd spent quite a few weekends at his house. He'd introduced me to old films, and when I was sixteen we'd gone to a film noir festival at the Tivoli in St. Louis. He'd dressed in a fedora and a trench coat. He'd even found me period clothes so I could hang on his arm like a femme fatale.

Rhys had made it clear on that trip that he thought of me as more than a little sister. Nothing we could get killed over, but enough that it was a real date. After that, my aunt made sure we didn't spend much time together. Galen and I teased each other unmercifully in a very sexual way, but the queen seemed to trust Galen, as did I. Neither of us quite trusted Rhys.

Rhys offered me his arm.

Doyle stepped up to my other side. I thought he would offer his own arm so that I would be wedged between them. Instead, he said, “Go down the hallway and wait for us.”

Frost would have argued or even refused, but not Rhys. “You are the captain of the Guard,” he said. It was the answer of a good soldier. He walked around the corner and Doyle moved, moving me with him, a hand on my arm, to watch him move far enough away not to overhear us. Then Doyle edged us back, out of sight of Rhys.

His hand tightened on my upper arm. “What else are you carrying?”

“You trust me to just tell you?” I asked.

“If you give me your word, I will take it,” he said.

“I left in danger of my life, Doyle. I need to be able to protect myself.”

His hand tightened, and he gave a small shake. “It is my job to protect the court, especially the queen.”

“And it's my job to protect myself,” I said.

He lowered his voice even further. “No, that is my job. The job of all the Guard.”

I shook my head. “No, you are the Queen's Guard. The King's Guard protects Cel. There is no Guard for the princess, Doyle. I was raised very aware of that.”

“You always had your contingent of bodyguards, as did your father.”

“And look how much that helped him,” I said.

He grabbed my other arm, drawing me to tiptoe. “I want you to survive, Meredith. Take what she gives you tonight. Do not try to harm her.”

“Or what? You'll kill me?”

His hands relaxed, and he set me down flat-footed on the stones. “Give me your word that that was your only weapon and I will believe you.”

Staring up into his so sincere face, I couldn't do it. I couldn't lie to him, not if I had to give my word about it. I looked at the floor, then back up at his face. “Ferghus's Balls.”

He smiled. “I take it that means you have other weapons.”

“Yes, but I can't be here unarmed, Doyle. I can't.”

“You will have one of us with you at all times tonight—
that
I can guarantee.”

“The queen has been very careful tonight, Doyle. I may not like Frost, but to an extent I trust him. She's made sure every guard I meet is one I either trust or like, but there are twenty-seven queen's guardsmen, another twenty-seven king's guardsmen. I trust maybe half a dozen of them, ten at the outside. The rest of them frighten me, or have in the past actively hurt me. I am not walking around here unarmed.”

“You know I can take them from you,” he said.

I nodded. “I know.”

“Tell me what you have, Meredith. We'll go from there.”

I told him everything I was carrying. I half expected him to insist on searching me himself, but he didn't. He took me at my word. It made me glad I hadn't held anything back.

“Understand this, Meredith. I am the queen's bodyguard before I am yours. If you try to harm her, I will take action.”

“Am I allowed to defend myself?” I asked.

He thought about that for a moment. “I . . . I would not have you killed simply because you stayed your hand for fear of me. You are mortal and our queen is not. You are the more fragile of the two.” He licked his lips, shook his head. “Let us hope that it does not come down to a choice between the two of you. I do not think that she plans you violence tonight.”

“What my dear aunt plans and what comes to pass isn't always the same thing. We all know that.”

He shook his head again. “Perhaps.” He offered me his arm. “Shall we go?”

I took his arm lightly, and he led me around the corner to the patiently waiting Rhys. Rhys watched us walk toward him, and there was a seriousness to his face that I didn't like. He was thinking about something.

“You'll hurt yourself thinking that hard, Rhys,” I said.

He smiled, lowering his eye, but when his gaze came back up it was still serious. “What are you up to, Merry?”

The question startled me. I didn't try to keep the surprise off my face. “My only plan for the evening is to survive and not get hurt. That's all.”

His eyes narrowed. “I believe you.” But his voice sounded uncertain, as if he really wasn't sure he believed me at all. Then he smiled, and said, “I offered her my arm first, Doyle. You're cutting in on my action.”

Doyle started to say something, but I got there first. “I've got two arms, Rhys.”

His smile widened to a grin. He offered me his arm, and I took it. As I slid my hand over his sleeve, I realized it was my right—the one the ring was on. But the ring didn't react to Rhys. It lay quiet, just a pretty piece of silver.

Rhys saw it, eyes widening. “That's . . .”

“Yes, it is,” Doyle said, quietly.

“But . . .” Rhys began.

“Yes,” Doyle said.

“What?” I asked.

“All in the queen's good time,” Doyle said.

“Mysteries make my head hurt,” I said.

Rhys did his best Bogart impression. “Then buy a bottle of aspirin, baby, because the night is young.”

I looked at him. “Bogart never said that in a movie.”

“No,” Rhys said in his normal voice. “I was ad-libbing.”

I gave his arm a little squeeze. “I think I missed you.”

“I know I missed you. No one else at court knows what the hell film noir means.”

“I most certainly do,” said Doyle.

We both looked at him.

“It means dark film, correct?”

Rhys and I looked at each other and started to laugh. We walked down the hallway to the echoes of our own laughter. Doyle didn't join in. He kept saying things like, “It means dark film, doesn't it?”

It made the last few yards to my aunt's private chambers almost fun.

Chapter 27

 

ONCE THE DOUBLE DOORS OPENED, THE STONE CHANGED. MY AUNT'S
chamber, my queen's chamber, was formed of black stone. A shiny, nearly glasslike stone that looked as if it should shatter at a heavy touch. You could strike it with steel and all you got were colored sparks. It looked like obsidian, but it was infinitely stronger.

Frost stood as close to the door leading into the room as he could, and as far away from the queen. He stood very straight, a shining silver figure in all that blackness, but there was something about the way he held himself that said he was near the door for a reason—a quick getaway, maybe.

The bed was against the far wall, though it was so covered in sheets, blankets, and even furs that it was hard to say whether it was a bed or merely a gigantic pile of covers. There was a man in the bed, a young man. His hair was summer blond, cut long on top and short half way down, a skater's cut. His body was tanned a soft gold from the summer or maybe a tanning bed. One slender arm was flung outward into space, hand limp. He seemed deeply asleep and terribly young. If he was under eighteen, it was illegal in any state, because my aunt was fey and the humans didn't trust us with their children.

The queen rose from the far side of him, emerging slowly from the nest of covers and a spill of black fur that was only a little blacker than the hair that swept back from her pale face. She'd pulled the hair atop her head until it seemed to form a black crown, except for three long curls trailing down her back. The bodice of the dress looked very much like a black vinyl merry widow with two thin lines of sheer black cloth that graced her white shoulders more than covered them. The skirt was full and thick, spilling behind her in a short train; it looked like shiny leather but moved like cloth. Her arms were encased in leather gloves that went the entire length of her arm. Her lips were red, her eye makeup dark and perfect. Her eyes were three different shades of grey, from charcoal, to storm cloud, to a pale winter's sky. The last color was a grey so pale that it looked white. Set in the dark makeup, her eyes were extraordinary.

Once upon a time, the queen had been able to dress herself in spider-webs, darkness, shadows—bits and pieces of things she governed over would form clothing at her will. But now she was stuck with designer clothes and her own personal tailor. It was just one more sign of how far we'd fallen in power. My uncle, the king of the Seelie Court, could still clothe himself in light and illusion. Some thought it proved the Seelie Court was stronger than the Unseelie Court. Anyone who thought that was careful not to say it in front of Aunt Andais.

Her standing had revealed a second man, though he was sidhe and not mortal. It was Eamon, the royal consort. His hair was black and fell in soft, thick waves around his white face. His eyes were heavy-lidded either from sleep . . . or other things.

Frost and Rhys hurried to the queen's side. They each took a leather-clad hand. They braced her at hand and elbow and lifted her over the blond man. The black skirt swirled around her, giving a glimpse of layers of black petticoats, and a pair of black patent leather sandals that left most of her foot bare. As they lifted her and set her gracefully on the floor, I half expected music to begin and dancers to appear from nowhere. My aunt was certainly capable of the illusion.

I dropped to one knee, and my dress had enough give to make the gesture look graceful. The material would spring back into place once I stood, which was one of the reasons I'd chosen it. The garter was pressed in outline against the material, but all you could tell under the burgundy cloth was that I was wearing at least one garter—the knife didn't show. I didn't bow my head yet. The queen was putting on a show. She wanted to be watched.

Queen Andais was a tall woman even by today's standards: six feet. Her skin glowed like polished alabaster. The perfect black line of eyebrows and the thick black of her lashes were an almost startling contrast.

I bowed my head at last because it was expected. I kept my head bowed low so that all I could see was the floor and my own leg. I heard her skirt slither across the floor. Her heels made sharp sounds as they passed from throw rug to stone floor. Why she didn't get wall-to-wall carpet escaped me. The petticoats crinkled and hissed together as she walked toward me, and I knew they were crinoline, scratchy and uncomfortable next to the skin.

Finally, a spill of black skirt showed on the floor at my foot. Her voice was a low, rich contralto. “Greetings, Princess Meredith NicEssus, Child of Peace, Besaba's Bane, my brother's child.”

I kept my head bowed, and would until told otherwise. She had not called me niece, though she had acknowledged our kinship. It was a slight insult not to name my familial relationship to her, but until she named me niece I couldn't name her my aunt. “Greetings, Queen Andais, Queen of Air and Darkness, Lover of White Flesh, Sister of Essus, my father. I have come from the lands to the west at your request. What would you have of me?”

“I've never understood how you do that,” she said.

I kept my gaze on the floor. “What, my queen?”

“How you can say exactly the right words with exactly the right tone of voice and still sound insincere, as if you find it all terribly, terribly tiresome.”

“My apologies if I offend you, my queen.” That was as safe an answer to the charge as I could make because I did find it all terribly, terribly tiresome. I just hadn't meant for it to show so clearly in my voice. I stayed kneeling, head bowed, waiting for her to tell me I could stand. Even two-inch heels were not meant for prolonged kneeling in this position. They made it hard not to wobble. If Andais wished, she could leave me just as I was for hours, until my entire leg fell asleep except for a point of agony on the knee where nearly all my weight rested. My record for kneeling had been six hours after I'd broken curfew when I was seventeen. It would have been longer, but I either fell asleep or fainted, I really wasn't sure which.

“You cut your hair,” she said.

I was starting to memorize the texture of the floor. “Yes, my queen.”

“Why did you cut it?”

“Having hair nearly to your ankles marks you as high court sidhe. I've been passing as human.”

I felt her lean over me, her hand lifting my hair, running her fingers through it. “So you sacrificed your hair.”

“It is much easier to care for at this length,” I said, voice as neutral as I could make it.

“Get up, niece of mine.”

I rose slowly, carefully in the high heels. “Thank you, Aunt Andais.” Standing, I was woefully short compared to her tall slender presence. With the heels she was over a foot taller than me. Most of the time I'm not that aware that I'm short, but my aunt tried to make me aware of it. She tried to make me feel small.

I looked up at her and fought not to shake my head and sigh. Next to Cel, Andais was my least favorite part of the Unseelie Court. I looked up at her with calm eyes and fought very hard not to sigh out loud.

“Am I boring you?” she asked.

“No, Aunt Andais, of course not.” My expression had not betrayed me. I'd had years to practice the polite blank expression. But Andais had had centuries to perfect her study of people. She couldn't truly read our minds, but her awareness of the slightest change in body language, breath, was almost as good as true telepathy.

Andais stared down at me, a small frown forming between her perfect brows. “Eamon, take our pet and have him dress you for the banquet, in the other room.”

The royal consort pulled a purple brocade robe from the tangle of bed clothes, slipping it over his body before he climbed out of the bed. The sash had been tied behind the back of the robe so it no longer closed over his body. His hair fell in a tangle of black waves nearly to his ankles. The dark purple of the robe didn't so much hide his body as act as a frame for the pale glimpses you got as he moved across the floor.

He gave a small nod as he passed me. I nodded back. He laid a gentle kiss on Andais's cheek and walked toward the small door that led into the smaller bedroom and bathroom beyond. One modern convenience that the court had adopted was indoor plumbing.

The blonde sat on the edge of the bed, naked as well. He stood stretching his body in a long tanned line of flesh. His eyes flicked to me as he did it. When he realized I was watching, he smiled. The smile was predatory, lascivious, aggressive. The human “pets” always misunderstood the casual nudity of the guards.

The blonde stalked toward us putting a swing in his step. The pun was intended. It wasn't the nudity that made me uncomfortable. It was the look in his eyes.

“I take it he's new,” I said.

Andais watched the man with cool eyes. He had to be very new not to realize what that look meant. She was not happy with him, not happy at all.

“Tell him what you think of his display, niece.” Her voice was very quiet, but there was an undertone to it that you could almost taste on your tongue like something bitter in among the sweet.

I looked him over from his bare feet to his fresh haircut and every inch in between. He grinned as I did it, drifting closer to me, as if the look were an invitation. I decided to take the smile out of his step.

“He's young, he's pretty, but Eamon is better endowed.”

That stopped the mortal and made him frown, the smile returning to his face but uncertain now.

“I don't believe he knows what ‘endowed' means,” Andais said.

I looked at her. “You never did choose them for their intellect,” I said.

“One does not talk to one's pet, Meredith. You should know that by now.”

“If I want a pet, I'll get a dog. This . . .” I motioned at the man, “is a little too high-maintence for me.”

The man was frowning, looking from one to the other of us, obviously not happy and also confused. Andais had broken one of my cardinal rules for sex. No matter how careful you are, you can end up pregnant. That's what sex is designed to do, after all. So, never sleep with someone who's mean or stupid, and ugly is a judgment call, because all three may breed true. The blonde was cute but not cute enough to make up for the frowning puzzlement on his face.

“Go with Eamon. Help him dress for the banquet,” Andais said.

“May I come to the ball tonight, my lady?” he asked.

“No,” she said. She turned back to me as if he ceased to exist.

He looked at me again, and there was a sullen anger there. He knew I'd insulted him but wasn't quite sure how. The look made me shiver. There were people at court a lot less pretty than her new “pet” that I'd have slept with first.

“You disapprove,” she said.

“It would be presumptuous of me to approve or disapprove of the actions of my queen,” I said.

She laughed. “There you go again, saying exactly what you should say but making it sound like an insult all the same.”

“Forgive me,” I said and started to drop back to one knee.

She stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Don't, Meredith, don't. The night will not last forever, and you are staying at a hotel tonight. So we haven't much time.” She withdrew her hand without hurting me. “We certainly don't have time to play games, do we?”

I looked at her, studied her smiling face, and tried to decide if she were sincere or if it was a trap of some kind. I finally said, “If you wish to play games, my queen, then I am honored to be included. If there is business to be done, then I am honored to be included in that, as well, Aunt Andais.”

She laughed again. “Oh, good girl, to remind me that you are my niece, my blood kin. You fear my mood, distrust it, so you remind me of your value to me. Very good.”

It didn't seem to be a question, so I said nothing because she was absolutely right.

She looked at my face, but said, “Frost.”

He came to her, head bowed. “My queen.”

“Go to your room and change into the clothes that I had made for you to wear tonight.”

He dropped to one knee. “The clothes did not . . . fit, my queen.”

I watched the light die in her eyes, leaving them as cold and empty as a white winter sky. “Yes,” she said, “they did. They were literally tailor-made for you.” She grabbed a handful of his silver hair and jerked his face up to meet her gaze. “Why are you not wearing them?”

He licked his lips. “My queen, I found the other clothing uncomfortable.”

She put her head to one side the way a crow looks at a hanging man's eyes before it plucks them out. “Uncomfortable, uncomfortable. Do you hear that, Meredith? He found the clothes I had made for him uncomfortable.” She pulled his head backward until his neck was a long exposed line of flesh. I could see the pulse in his neck jump against his skin.

“I heard you, Aunt Andais,” I said, and this time my voice was as neutral as I could make it, bland and empty as a new penny. Someone was about to get hurt, and I didn't want it to be me. Frost was a fool. I'd have worn the clothes.