All That Glows (7 page)

He sits close in the car, only inches from me. Heat from his body fringes into mine, making it hard to ignore his presence. I watch out the window for soul feeders and Fae alike, my shoulders tense as we turn onto London’s knot of busy streets.

Richard’s long fingers brush against my hand—a sudden, unexpected touch. Their warmth and the magic of his blood rush up my arm, sending an eerie tingle across my scalp. When I look over I find his hand splayed across the leather, invading the no-man’s-land of the middle seat. His fingers show no sign of movement. No sign that only seconds before they’d hovered over mine.

I cross my arms and wait for the prickle beneath my skin to die. It stays much longer than I’d like, all linger and burn, reminding me of that empty space between us.

Six

T
he day is hot, with the promise of rain swelling the air. It’s not long before beads of sweat gather on spectators’ faces, dripping past designer sunglasses despite the constant waving of programs. The Ham Polo Club is crowded, its bleachers spilling over with girls clad in the runway’s finest. Most of them giggle when Richard rides onto the field on a striking, all-muscled bay. Their whispers slither and curl to the sidelines, where I’m standing guard.

I keep them at my back, leaning against the white picket fence that lines parts of the field. The air tastes of freshly mown grass and horse—scents that remind me of the countryside. I take them in slowly, allowing the smells to soothe the sickness in my gut, and watch the prince’s game play out.

Richard is a gifted rider and player. His horse bears him well. They flow across the field as a single, fused creature, weaving in and out of the other players with effortless grace. In the hour-long game, the prince scores several goals—summoning large bursts of applause from the female spectators. Some of these mortal girls are quite pretty, revealing even more leg and bigger smiles every time Richard looks toward the crowd.

But his eyes find me every time.

The game ends without interference—both mortal and not. I follow Richard and his team to the stables. They’re flushed with sweat and smiles as they hand their horses off. I hang back at the entrance, half hidden by the door while Richard dismounts and unclips his helmet. His eyes rove through the swarm of glistening horses and busy grooms, searching.

“That game was bloody brilliant, mate!” One of Richard’s teammates—a pale young man with sharp, shoe-polish black hair—claps the prince on the back. “Definitely worthy of a celebration. Eh?”

The hit seems to jolt Richard out of his private world. “What was that, Edmund?”

His friend frowns. “I was saying we need to round up some of the gang and celebrate. You know, get a few pints. And a few girls.” Edmund winks and jabs his elbow into Richard’s arm. “The old game. I know London’s not as fun as Eton—but we’ll make do.”

The prince wipes the sweat off of his brow, adding another stain to the sleeve of his polo uniform.

“The old game?” The words fumble in his mouth, sludgy and slow, like he’s saying them for the first time.

“Yeah,” Edmund goes on. His thick, charcoal eyebrows rise almost to his hairline. “Did you take a mallet to the head? You’re acting a bit slow.”

“I’m fine. Just thinking.” Richard isn’t looking at his teammate. He’s still searching, eyes wandering the smooth concrete floors of the stables, where flecks of hay and dirt clods wait to be swept by the grooms. “Mind if I bring a friend along?”

“S’long as it’s not that prat McCrady.” Edmund’s nose scrunches into the rest of his painfully white face. “God, I can’t stand him.”

“Not McCrady.” He finds me. It was only a matter of time before Richard rooted out my hiding place, tearing back the shadows placed by the door. I don’t know if he’s relieved or terrified at the sight. “Someone . . . else.”

“You can bring whoever the hell you want, Mr. Four Goals. Nine o’clock. The Blind Tiger.” Edmund’s hand falls on the prince’s back with another smack. “Be there.”

I stay still by the door, waiting for the prince to make his way to me.

“I guess you heard all of that.” Richard’s long arm waves to where the scene played out. Edmund is on to the next cluster of teammates. His cursing and jostling echoes off the arched ceiling, making every soul in the stable acutely aware of his presence.

“It was a bit hard to miss,” I admit. It’s all I can do to keep the dread out of my face, my sentence. Another night out. More drinks, more dancing, more soul feeders. More awful, pounding machines.

But I can’t say no. Whether I’m visible or not, this is still Richard’s life. I’m just an accessory, part of the backdrop. Where he goes, I go. That’s the way it works.

“You can come,” he offers as if there was some possible scenario in which I might leave him behind. “As your real self, I mean. So Edmund and the others can see you. It would be nice to have a little more solid proof for my sanity.”

My real self.
These words slide a knowing smirk across my lips. My real self, my core. The Emrys before mortals. The Emrys without body, without name. She’s a wild, feral thing. All power, magic, and fierceness. Richard and his friends don’t want to see her. They can’t. The creature I used to be—that deep, deep down inside I still am—might kill them.

No, they want what the prince can see now. The thing of fire and grace stitched into the form of a girl: speaking mortal languages, holding human memories. They want the diluted, pretty face I’ve been for a long time now. It’s the only side of me they might be able to understand. The side meant solely for their world.

“Don’t worry,” I say, checking my voice against its weariness. “I’ll be there.”

The night starts early. The molten sun is just diving behind the skyline, creating blackened silhouettes of Saint Paul’s Cathedral and the looming skyscrapers. Despite this, the pub is crowded. Tightly dressed women wobble like newborn colts in their stilettos as they make a path through the bodies, holding their glasses high above their heads. The men eye them with appreciation, taking long draws from their own pints and yelling across the room in booming, flustering syllables.

As soon as Richard steps in, his razor shirt casually paired with jeans, a lull falls over the pub. He ignores the hushed attention, pulling me back through throngs of people. I feel their stares on me, relentless. Every woman at the bar is picking me apart: each orange strand of hair, my oval face, my flowy turquoise dress. The attention is petrifying. I try not to think of how many people are looking at me. How many possible ways this appearance could get back to Breena or the others.

I want to pull my hand away, to sever the connection between us, but I can’t. Richard’s fingers are an anchor, the only thing to keep me going straight in this collection of machinery and tight bodies. As soon as we walked through the door, the sickness lurched back into a vengeful status—the same as it had during my first day in London. It’s all I can do not to double over onto the pub’s beer-stained floor. All of my energy, my entire concentration goes into following the steady tug of the prince’s hand.

We go all the way to the back, where Edmund and several other guys sit at one of the few round tables. A few of the boys I recognize from the polo team. There’s the lad with the corkscrew brown curls and an extra lump on the bridge of his nose. And the redhead whose chin is so square it looks like you could whet a blade on it. I’ve never seen the other two boys before—but Richard knows them well enough. They leap up before he reaches the table, clapping hands and bumping chests with primal grunts.

Edmund stays in his chair, jaw tilted back in the most casual of greetings. It isn’t until his shined brown eyes fall on me that he comes to life.

“Damn, Rich. When you said you were bringing a friend, I thought . . .” He doesn’t bother finishing his sentence. I hate the way he’s looking at me, all slow and squinty, like he wants nothing more than to get his fingers on the zipper of my dress. “What runway did you get her off of? And where can I get one?”

Britain’s heir is a mess of emotions: his aura flickers between the relief of having my existence confirmed and a sudden bristling at his friend. Richard stiffens, shifting his body ever so slightly to come between me and Edmund. “Her name is Emrys. And you should treat her with a bit of respect.”

“Woah, mate, take it easy. I’m just playing around.” Edmund winks it off, like it’s all a big joke. But the leer in his eyes—fed by the three drained pint glasses at his elbow and an ego the size of London Bridge—says otherwise.

He stands, balancing his weight on the table, and makes his way over to me. His hand is a dead thing, all cool and clammy as he picks up mine. There’s no spark or zap of nerves at his touch. Only an intense desire to pull away. “A pleasure to meet you, Emrys. I’m Edmund Williams the fifth.”

I snatch my hand from his just before he can bring it to his lips. “Likewise, Edmund Williams the fifth.”

The corner of Edmund’s mouth twitches up. Annoyance I think, from the soured curdle of his aura. Disguised as impishness.

“Another round then,” he says, and returns to his seat. “You’re late, Rich. Had to get started without you.”

I’m not the only female at the table. Corkscrew Curls has his arm around a girl with pin-straight, mousy hair cut in a rather severe bob. A wispy blonde sits evenly between Edmund and the ginger-haired polo player. Her chunky black eyeliner becomes almost a solid blob as she peers in my direction.

I try a faint smile at both of them as I take a seat on the far side of the table. Only Mousy Hair’s lips flicker in response. Eyeliner turns her attentions to Edmund, nudging in close to his shoulder and saying something I can’t hear over the muffled roar of the pub’s other patrons and the music that’s starting to pump through the sound system’s speakers.

Pain starts its inevitable rise. In my stomach. Everywhere. My teeth grind together like millstones.

When Edmund doesn’t respond, Eyeliner aims her focus across the table, where Richard is sliding into the seat next to mine. “You were so good at the match today. So . . . fast.” The last word leaves her in a breathless giggle, so clearly rehearsed.

“Thanks.” Richard’s response is vague, unrooted. He scoots his chair a little closer to mine.

“So what’s the plan, mate?” Edmund asks. “A few more drinks here? Maybe we can meet up with Brick and his mates at The Green Fairy.”

The word sets Richard on the edge of his chair. He nearly knocks over the fresh round of pints the server is trying to balance close to his head.

The stench of so much alcohol and malty wheat swirls up and into my head. The smell of food and drink, the smell of anything at this point is enough to wake the deeper sickness in my bowels. I clutch the bottom of my chair, my fingers digging, digging into its wood. This helps takes some of the edge off.

“Whatever sounds good,” the prince says, recovering his composure.

The waiter sets a drink in front of me. Some kind of soda mixed with a sappy sweet liquor. I try my best to shove it away without anyone noticing.

The pub swarms around us like a hive, drones and worker bees shuffling and mingling on what soon becomes the dance floor. Drinks keep flowing. Somewhere between his third and fourth pint, Richard slides his arm around my chair. I don’t have the heart to push it away. Eyeliner shoots daggers from the other side of the table.

The rounds ordered to our table soon evolve from pints to straight whiskey. The prince’s breathing is already heavier and his movements a bit freer as he reaches for the glass.

Something magical, something other, smothers the air around us. The buzz of electronics in my head goes flat, dampened by whatever has walked into this pub. It’s a soul feeder.

My fingers close around Richard’s wrist just as the first douse of whiskey wets his lips.

“I think you’ve had enough,” I yell above the music, and pry the glass out of his hands. I scan the crowd, searching every designer dress and every inch of skin for signs of my enemy.

“Hey, now,” the prince starts to protest, groping for his lost drink.

I shove it far out of his reach.

“Buzzkill!” Edmund hollers across the table at me, and claims the condemned drink as his own. He finishes the entire thing in one swallow. “You’ve got to learn to loosen up, love! Live a little!”

“Careful, Ed! Emrys can blow your brain into bloody bits!” the prince bellows back, his words slurred and slightly sloppy.

There she is. A vision of raven hair and skin of porcelain white, ebbing and flowing through the crowd, searching for flesh. A dress of gray gauze floats around her—making her look ghastly and otherworldly even to mortal eyes.

A Banshee. Strange that she should be here, picking through such thriving nightlife. Their main draw is death: funerals, deathbeds, fresh graves. Someone must have died very recently in this pub, or somewhere nearby. Otherwise she wouldn’t be interested.

“We should go—” I try to tug Richard’s arm, but he isn’t paying attention. Like every other man at the table, he’s staring at the hauntingly beautiful, dark-haired woman approaching our table.

The woman who’s staring straight at me.

The Banshee presses her slim hips up against the table’s edge, cutting through the space between Edmund and a very flushed Eyeliner. “Hello, gentlemen. Ladies. Sister.” She says the last word very clearly and carefully at me. “Care if I take a seat?”

“This is your sister?” Edmund blinks at me, trying to reconcile our very different appearances.

“Don’t talk to her. She’ll eat you!” I snap, and then turn the bulk of my fury at the deadly spirit. “You. Leave. Now. We wouldn’t want things to get ugly.”

“Eat me?” Edmund looks back up at the Banshee, his eyebrow cocked in his signature fashion. “I like the sound of that.”

“Don’t worry, woodling. I’m not here for your precious prince. His friends are meaty enough.” Her fingers slide, thin and frail as spider legs, over Edmund’s shoulder. “You’re under no obligation there.”

“Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.” Fear becomes everything on Richard’s face as he realizes exactly what’s unfolding in front of him. “Ed, you
really
don’t want to get involved with that . . .”