Desert Tales (16 page)

Matter resolved, Sionnach sat down and looked toward the mortal girl he'd grown to like.

Carissa walked back toward the table, accompanied by the waitress, who was carrying a slice of pie. Carissa slid back into the booth and snuggled up to him again.

The waitress smiled approving at Sionnach as she set the pie down in front of him. “Good riddance to them. That lot always starts trouble in here.”

“I'll speak to them about that.” Sionnach flashed her a quicksilver grin and then ordered a glass of milk for himself, as well as a burger, fries, and a soda for Carissa.

After the waitress walked away, Carissa was quiet for a minute before she asked, “Who's Keenan?”

“Rika's ex . . .” Sionnach felt weary. “He wasn't kind to her, and it's taken her years to even think about trusting again.”

Carissa squeezed his hand. “Will she be okay?”

“Yes,” Sionnach vowed. “We'll find a way to keep her free of him. Everyone will be fine. It's just a matter of finding ways to make it so.”

Carissa leaned against him. “You're a good person.”

“No, not usually,” Sionnach admitted. “But I do try to protect my own.”

 

A few hours later, Sionnach stood waiting for Carissa to meet him in the ghost town where he'd been sleeping of late. They'd separated after their meal, her to run an errand and him to take some time with the sand and sun to think. He liked that he didn't have to tell her that he couldn't ride inside her vehicle, that such machines made him sick. They'd been spending enough time together of late that she didn't ask questions when he made decisions that might otherwise seem peculiar. That, too, was a benefit of living in the desert. Out here, the sense of what was “normal” was wide and varied. Desert towns were the safe havens of mortals who didn't want to be trapped by society—and faeries who weren't willing to be a part of the courts. Peculiar was the norm here.

This ghost town had once been the only outpost in this part of the desert. It stood here when he first realized that Rika was living in a nearby cave. Back then, Silver Ridge was filled with mortals. Much like the ones living in the new desert town, those long-gone mortals were a mix of adventurers and lost souls. Some came to make a new life; others came to hide. They were all dead now, had been for decades. The town was dead too. It had been abandoned, and aside from the occasional photographer or hiker, the ghost town was Sionnach's very own space, his personal hideaway and one of his regular resting spots.

Some of the buildings were standing, but others were shells now. He liked it that way, with saloon doors standing in a frame with no walls to support them. Behind those doors was a sheer drop to a ravine. When the ground had crumbled, he'd always thought that there was something strangely poetic about the still-standing doors. The town was clustered along a street, but on the hill stood an abandoned mining shack and a partial bit of track, broken but still present.

Sionnach watched Carissa pull up in her faded red Jeep. Although she turned off the engine, she didn't get out of the vehicle. Before he'd met her, Sionnach had seen her out here with a group of people, drinking and dancing under the full desert moon. He liked the sense of freedom she reveled in that night, but he also appreciated the cautious way she looked around today.

He stayed invisible to her eyes until he reached one of the reasonably intact saloon-style buildings. Then, he turned to face her and became visible so it appeared as if he had just exited the building. He walked over the broken wood of the building's porch toward the front railing with the sort of grace he knew she admired. An older mortal might find his foxlike agility peculiar, but Carissa didn't question how or why he could move so quickly.

Carissa hopped out of the vehicle, watching him silently.

He knew better than to relax his rules too much, but he liked the intense way she studied him. He preened a bit under her attention, not quite revealing his Otherness, but not playing mortal as much as he typically would either. He allowed himself to be too sinuous as he leaped over the rail, too fast as he came to stand beside her in a bit of a blur, too different to truly be thought mortal.

She was wide-eyed and enthralled. “How did you—”

“Hello.” He took both of her hands in his, using them to pull her toward him—and away from the metal of the vehicle. Still holding her hands, he tugged her close enough to kiss. Some faeries were addictive to mortals; fox faeries weren't. The only danger to her from his kisses would be if he were unscrupulous, and although he was far from honest with the mortals he wooed, he didn't take advantage of them. He didn't even sanction lying with them; the risk of fathering half-fey children was too great. So, he kissed her until she was breathless, and then he pulled away.

For the rest of the day, they explored the buildings. They picnicked on a brightly colored blanket with bold lines that he kept here for just this reason. His objective was to show Carissa the beauty of the desert, to let her see it as he did. He found a beautiful Mojave rattlesnake, interesting rocks, and Joshua trees. He pointed out the tip of a cougar's tail on an outcropping, watching it vanish. He knew she would leave in the next few months, and—selfishly perhaps—he wanted her to remember him, to think of the desert as he knew it.

When evening fell, Sionnach walked Carissa back to her Jeep. Above them, the sky seemed to go on forever, and the distant sight of the cliffs and cacti in the dusk was gorgeous. Heat shimmered close to the earth as the warmth in the ground and the cool air of evening connected. Usually, he would be happy to be in the desert on his own, but tonight he wanted someone to share it with; he wanted the sort of union that he'd never had—one he couldn't have until he was able to be with his true mate. He wouldn't have relations with a mortal, but a night spent kissing and touching under the stars was tempting. In some quiet part of his mind, he could admit that Carissa would only be standing in for the one he wanted, but tonight, he simply didn't want to be alone. In a moment of weakness, he blurted out, “I'm camping out here tonight. Maybe you could stay.”

She paused, kissed him, and said, “Well, if we were inside one of the buildings . . . I mean snakes wouldn't get into the sleeping bag, right?”

“You'd stay? Really?” He pulled her into his arms again, torn between guilt and hopefulness. “With me?”

She laughed, not coquettishly but as if surprised. He had been the one keeping their kisses tame; he had been the one not pushing the lines.

“In a heartbeat . . . but . . .” She glanced at her watch. “I'm already going to be late.” She bit her lip, and then after a moment, she offered, “I could call my father on the way home tomorrow and say I had a flat or something.”

Sionnach brushed her hair from her face. He knew better than this. He was the Alpha here, the one tasked with setting the rules that the other solitaries followed. “But?”

“I'll be grounded probably.”

“And they'd worry all night. . . .” He rested his forehead against hers. “Waking up with you beside me would be beautiful, but I don't think either of us is ready for the costs of that.”

“Either of us?”

He pulled back to stare into her face and half answered her question: “I like seeing you. If you're grounded . . .”

“Oh.” She blushed and ducked her head. “
That
cost. I thought you meant there was something else wrong.”

Faeries don't keep mortals,
he thought quietly to himself
. What would you say if you saw what I am? What if things went too far and there were a child?
That thought reinforced his resolve. Half-fey children were dangerous to birth, and the courts stole them away if they were discovered. He wouldn't wish injury to Carissa or cope with the loss of any child of his. He smiled at her and opened the door of her car. “Go home, Carissa, before my morals flee again.”

She climbed into the Jeep, and Sionnach hid his hand behind his back so she couldn't see that touching the steel of the door bruised it. He kissed her lightly and stepped away.

“See you soon?” Carissa asked hopefully.

“As soon as possible.”

She nodded and drove away into the desert, leaving him to ponder his weaknesses.

C
HAPTER
19

Donia invited Rika and her mortal into the least formal of the sitting rooms. She suspected that the last Winter Queen had intended to have this room renovated, but the shabbiness of it was oddly comfortable. The rug that covered the hardwood floor was almost threadbare, although the muted greens and golds still somehow seemed opulent. More than once, Donia had thought that the rug was more suited to a museum than daily use. Delicate snow globes lined a shelf on the wall, proof perhaps that the dead queen had possessed a sense of humor. The only vibrant thing in the room was the bright crimson chair where Donia now sat with her bare feet curled under her. The rest of the furnishings were all muted with age, reminding her of the cottage where she'd lived when she was the Winter Girl. She felt like this room wasn't as tainted by her predecessor's often disquieting taste. The rest of the house she'd been slowly changing, but here she felt at peace.

Rika's mortal, Jayce, sat on a faded floral divan. Rika, however, was pacing angrily as she said, “Keenan is trying to force allegiances.”

“With your solitary desert faeries?”

“Yes!”

“Which is unacceptable,” Donia said.

“I can't let him force the desert under his control.” Rika paused in the middle of the rug and caught Donia's gaze. “
I
won't be under his control, not again, not ever again.”

Donia remained motionless. “I see.”

“The Summer King is too focused on strengthening his court.”

“That hasn't changed.” Absently, Donia smoothed her skirt over her ankles, thinking about the long-gone days when she'd needed boots in the cold winter. Now, the cold radiated from her very skin, and footwear was a nuisance.

“It
won't
change, and others will continue to pay the price. Maybe not like we did, but it's still all about him.” Rika folded her arms over her chest.

Donia knew that the price they both had paid for Keenan's single-sighted attention to his goals was high, but it appeared that they were both again being caught in the machinations of the Summer King. It was his actions that had led to Donia's being made queen—trying to remake a court that had thrived on violence and unchecked power for centuries. Ruling wasn't without its benefits, but it was not the freedom she'd dreamed of one day having, nor was it a union with the only faery she'd ever loved. No, in his pursuit of his queen, Donia had been left injured. Her choices had been death or becoming the embodiment of Winter, and with it, being unable to touch the Summer King without pain to them both.

“Now that he's stronger, I need help,” Rika said, drawing Donia out of her reverie. “He's working with solitaries who shouldn't have power. They are vile to mortals. One stabbed the desert Alpha, Sionnach. . . .”

“And you?”

“I can hold order against even the strongest solitaries. I've just not been interested”—Rika glanced at Jayce—“but things change. I'm willing to keep order, with or without the current Alpha, but I need something—
someone—
to spare me from Keenan's meddling. I need a regent who will allow me to keep most of my autonomy. . . .”

Donia nodded. “You want me as a buffer between you and Keenan.”

Rika dropped to her knees on the rug in front of Donia. “I would offer you my fealty. I would be your subject—not his.
Never
his.”

“Pledging your support would mean fighting should I ask it of you. It could mean moving or surrendering anything I ask of you—” Donia glanced meaningfully at Jayce.

At that, Jayce said, “I'll offer you my loyalty too if you accept a human's fealty.”

Donia smiled at his unexpected offer, and a shower of ice crystals like falling stars appeared in the air. “Mortals don't generally pledge to a court, as they don't even know we exist, but I'd offer you my court's protection if you love my sister enough.”

Jayce knelt beside Rika and took her hand in his. “Done.”

Rika bowed her head and vowed, “I vow to obey you, Donia. I will fight at your word, hold your friends as my own, and your enemies as my own.”

Jayce echoed her words.

“Your vow”—Donia reached a hand out to touch Rika and Jayce's entwined hands—“is accepted. The Winter Court proclaims you
both
as our own.”

“Not just sister, but Queen,” Rika whispered. Then with a small smile, she came to her feet and embraced Donia.

And Donia tried not to think of what Keenan's reaction would be when he learned what she had done. There weren't many times that she had stood against him yet. It was the nature of their courts to be in opposition, but hers was still so much stronger that she had no need yet to be cruel. This, though, he would see as an insult. She sent a messenger to tell his faeries what she'd done, to invite the inevitable conversation to happen in her territory.

 

Hours later, they had moved to the Winter Garden to await Keenan's arrival. Donia knew he'd come soon, and she'd rather not destroy the house with the inevitable argument that would accompany his appearance. She was more comfortable out here in the frost-heavy grass. It was one of the spots where she came for solace now. Inside, there were faeries awaiting her orders, seeking favors, or trying to make sense of their new queen. In the garden, there was silence. Wooden benches—fitted together by a craftsman's skill, no screws or bolts anywhere in them—were tucked among the trees and shrubbery. Bird feeders and winter plants invited animals to find nourishment, and a few tamed creatures crept from their dens to seek her company. Beside the bench slept one such creature, an arctic fox. Only its dark eyes and nose showed in the snow bank. The rest of its body blended with the stark white ground. Absently, Donia ran her bare toes over its back.

Rika and Jayce were cuddled together on another bench. They had heaps of furs wrapped around them like blankets, and Donia smiled at the way Rika stroked the pelt across her lap. It was good to see her less angry at the past she'd known. For years as the Winter Girl, these same furs were what they'd had for blankets. When Rika had been freed, she'd cast off most everything that reminded her of the life she'd been living. When Donia became the Winter Girl, she hadn't realized the extent of Rika's anger. Over time, she'd seen through the illusion that Rika had created to protect Donia. Rika had been far more furious than she'd admitted. Once Donia realized that, Rika stopped visiting, as if she couldn't bear to see reminders of the curse. Now, though, Rika finally seemed closer to
actual
peace. Her time in the desert had mellowed her—perhaps her mortal had helped too.

A red-eyed Hawthorn Girl alit from the tree branches; her wings glittered as if the frost clung to her. “The Summer King is here.”

“Let the games begin,” Donia murmured.

Rika reached for Jayce's hand.

Donia smiled. “Rika?”

She looked up at her queen, a question plain in her eyes.

“Nothing has changed . . . not truly. I won't silence your voice,” Donia said. “I owe you too much for that.”

The look Rika gave her was one of extreme gratitude and relief. Some of the tension left her body. “You are kinder than I could ever be.”

Keenan strode into the garden, glowing brightly enough that Rika darted forward to shield Jayce with her body. “Turn off the glow. There's a mortal here.”

The light blinked out, but the heat was still oppressive. The garden was in a fast melt. Water poured from the trees where ice had covered the branches a heartbeat before—it looked like a waterfall crashing to the ground and rushing away.

Two of the Hawthorn Girls pulled Jayce toward the house in a flash of movement. By the time Keenan stood staring at Donia, Jayce was safely out of reach. Rika felt foolish for even bringing him, but now wasn't the time for such thoughts.

“What have you done?” Keenan snapped. Earth was boiling at his feet, bubbling up in black ooze.

“It's good to see you too.” Donia pointedly lowered one bare foot to the earth, holding her skirt up just a bit so her bare ankles and calves were visible. Snow spread from her foot over the earth in a thickening blanket.

“Don . . .” He raked a hand through his hair. “
Why?
”

“She came offering fealty.” Donia was motionless, winter-still. The only movement was the ice and snow crackling out over the ground. Water droplets froze mid-fall, forming icy spires under the tree, sharp, jutting angles that looked menacing in direct contrast to the calm on her face and in her tone. “This is a Winter Court matter, between a queen and her subjects.”

“You
know
. . .” He growled in frustration. “She told you I offered her my protect—”

“I refused. Several times,” Rika interrupted. She shivered in the icy blast of Donia's temper.

Keenan ignored Rika.

“She's a desert-dweller,” he said.

“Strong enough to be Alpha, as I understand.”

“You can't even walk there, Donia. Even at the height of the last Winter Queen's power, she couldn't take the desert.” Steam sizzled around him as the snow approached him like a white wave. It melted as fast as it grew. The ice didn't recede from the garden, but the area around him had become verdant. Plants were flowering at his feet, and a morning glory vine was twined around his leg, blossoming.

“I don't want to
rule
it, Keenan, but allies . . . perhaps it's good to have allies, especially when Summer is trying my patience.” Donia schooled her features to keep her less regal emotions hidden. He was beautiful, and the anger on him only heightened that. This wasn't the time for such thoughts. She would let Rika have her words with Keenan, and then . . . then Donia would enjoy the sight of the Summer King.

 

As the two regents exchanged words, one of the Winter fey reached for Rika, but she wasn't done yet. She'd brought this problem to Donia's court, sought intervention, but all three knew that Keenan's actions were what had pushed her into needing to do so. He wouldn't be returning to the desert now, and although she was grateful that she'd not see him again, she wanted to say her piece before leaving.

“You pushed me,” she said, interrupting the silence between Keenan and Donia. “You made the mistake of thinking I was yours to manipulate. . . .”

“So you swore loyalty to my
opposing
court? I offered to protect you, to strengthen the safety of the desert, and you do
this
?” Keenan's voice made clear that his emotions were riding high.

“It would be neutral territory if you hadn't tried to bully me,” Rika told him.

He stared at her with hurt plain on his face. Once that hurt would've made her agree to anything he asked. Now she held his gaze unflinchingly.

Air so hot that it was hazy beat against her as he stalked forward. The greenery around his feet extended with him. The Summer King unbound and angry was a daunting thing, and Rika had a brief moment of gratitude that he hadn't been so forceful when he'd visited her in the desert a few weeks ago.

Sweat formed on Rika's face, but she stood her ground.

A tree branch overhead burst into bloom so forcefully that the ice launched from it like an explosion. He looked sad, as if the shattering of ice had transformed his temper into sorrow. His volatility hadn't decreased with his being unbound. If anything, in this moment, she would say that it had grown worse. Back when she was a girl he was trying to woo, she hadn't seen his moods. Then, she saw only the charm. Later, when she tried to convince girl after girl not to trust him, she'd seen his temper and his sorrow. Even then, his sorrow worked on her more than his anger ever would.

He stopped in front of her, his eyes filled with loss and longing, and said, “I am not your enemy, Rika.”

Unwilling to let him have even a moment of victory, Rika pointed out, “You are not my friend either. You never were. You were my almost lover, my biggest mistake, my opposition, but you were never my friend. Friends don't turn away when someone is lost and hurt, when someone is
freezing . . . literally freezing
for trusting the wrong person.”

Behind her, she knew Donia waited, the cool flow of arctic air pushing forward, easing the unpleasant sting of heat, and Rika was surprised to find the cold momentarily comforting.

Keenan opened his mouth, but before he could utter a misdirection or perhaps an apology, she said, “The fey in the desert have their freedom now even though it cost me mine. That is the choice I made. This time I chose to sacrifice my freedom knowingly, not as a result of lies.”

“Faeries can't l—”

“Shading the truth is the same as lying, Keenan. Failing to tell dozens of girls what they are truly risking is the worst kind of lie.” She felt tears on her cheeks. “Don't pretend that faeries are truthful. I
am
one now. I know exactly what we are capable of doing.”

For a moment he said nothing, and she had a sliver of softening in her anger. Then he spoke. “You rage that the ice was so horrific that you retreated to the desert for
years
, yet you chose Donia's court. Wouldn't you rather have the sunlight? We can work this out. Offer your fealty to me instead. . . .”

Even now, he focused only on what he wanted. She shouldn't be surprised, not really. She'd said for years that he'd never change. Rika looked over her shoulder to see Donia. The Winter Queen didn't look worried. She knew Rika too well to think that Keenan's words would convince her.

“Keenan,” Rika started.

He reached for her wrist.

“No.” She pulled her hand to her stomach to avoid his touch, and then flung it forward and up to strike his face.

Keenan captured her fist in his hand and kissed her knuckles. “You've made a bad choice.”