Wicked Lovely (21 page)

Some of them are benevolent…

Others are malevolent…

abducting
grown people, and bringing misfortune.

—
The Folk-Lore of the Isle of Man
by A. W. Moore (1891)

Keenan was shaken when he left Donia; he walked aimlessly through the city, wishing, wanting an answer. There wasn't one. Unless Aislinn was his missing queen and he was able to convince her to trust him, to accept him, there was nothing he could do. He simply wasn't strong enough to stand against Beira.

If I were…
He smiled at that thought: stopping Beira, maybe in time to save Donia. That was the only recourse they had.

But if Aislinn's Sight was that thing which the Eolas spoke of—and that would be in their nature—it was all for nothing.
Donia would die, and he would still be bound. The small trickle of summer that he could call was nowhere near enough to stand against Beira.

He rested his head against an oak tree, eyes closed.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Aislinn was different, perhaps different enough; perhaps she was the one.

But she might not be.

The Eolas' proclamation—which the fey had heard as a herald of the Summer Queen's discovery—could be nothing more than a revelation that she was
Sighted
.
She might not be the one.

He'd just turned toward the greener part of the city when he heard Beira's hags approach. They followed at an almost respectful distance until he reached the river.

At the river's side, he sat—feet on the soil, sun on his back—and waited.

Better here than at the loft.

The last time she'd visited, Beira had frozen as many of his birds as she could when he left the room. He'd returned to find them dead on the ground, or affixed to branches, hanging like awful ornaments at the tips of icicles. Unless he could stop her, one of these times it could be the Summer Girls or his guards who felt her temper.

Beira
stood in the shadow of a garish awning held over her by several of her nearly-naked guards—Hawthorn-people and one slick-skinned troll, all sporting fresh bruises and frostbitten skin.

"What, no hug?
no
kiss?" Beira held out a hand. "Come here, dearest."

"I'll stay out here." Keenan didn't bother getting up; he just glanced up at her. "I like the warmth on my skin."

She wrinkled her nose and made a little moue of distaste.
"Nasty stuff, sunlight."

He shrugged. Talking to her now—after seeing Donia, after all the doubts about Aislinn—was the last thing he wanted.

"Do you know that there's a market these days for SPF cloth?" She sat back on a blindingly white chair that the hags dragged up for her. "Mortals are such strange beasts."

"Do you have a point, Beira?" He never enjoyed her presence, but she'd threatened Donia—feigning civility was more of a struggle than usual.

"Is it so hard to believe I just wanted to visit with you? Chat with you?" Without looking behind her, she held out a hand; a collared wood-sprite slipped an icy drink into her outstretched fingers. "You so rarely visit."

Keenan reclined on the grass, relishing the strength of the earth's warmth seeping into his body from the soil.
"Perhaps because you're vicious and cruel?"

She waved her hand as if brushing away his comment. "You say potato; I say potahto…"

"I say integrity; you say deceit."

"Well, it's such a
subjective
idea, integrity." She sipped her drink. "Can I offer you
a refreshment
, dear?"

"No." He ran his fingers over the soil, sending his warmth down to the resting bulbs. Small flower sprouts rushed out toward his touch; delicate shoots poked up between his opened fingers.

"I hear you shared quite a bit of refreshment with the new Summer Girl. Poor dear was dizzy with it." She
tsked
at him with a censorious look. "Haven't I taught you better? Getting the poor lamb intoxicated to convince her to
you know"

"That wasn't what it was," he snapped. "Aislinn and I danced and celebrated her new life. It wasn't a seduction."

She stepped out from under her awning, sending her guards scurrying to keep it over her as she moved. If they failed, they'd suffer, regardless of whose fault it was.

As the shade blocked his comforting rays, Keenan was torn between waiting and simply setting the awning to flame. He stood to face her.

"Well, if you want my opinion, a mother's wisdom, I say she's not worth it." She glanced at the flowers; they froze in her sight. She stepped forward and—with a grating noise— ground them under her boot. "Poor Deborah shouldn't have any trouble convincing her to stay away from you. You didn't ask her to go easy on the mortal, did you?"

"It's Aislinn's choice. She'll either take up the staff or not." He wanted to tell her that threatening Donia wouldn't change anything, but he couldn't. "I spoke to Donia—which you so obviously know—about the Eolas' announcement."

"Oh?" She paused, wide-eyed as if she were surprised. "What announcement?"

"That Aislinn is special."

"Of course she
is,
sweetling. They're
all
special—at least the first few nights. After that, the"—she looked back at a cowering sprite—"novelty just isn't there, you know?"

He forced a laugh.

"Poor Delilah, I imagine she's bitter. It wasn't so long ago that she was the one dancing with you." Beira swayed as if she were dancing with an invisible partner, looking elegant even though she was alone. "Mortals are such fragile things. Just tender feelings walking around exposed in their delicate shells…Easy to crush."

His heart sped. The rules prevented her from contacting the mortal girl, and until now Beira'd never broken that rule—to the best of his knowledge—but she was already breaking other rules. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing, love."
She stopped and curtsied to him, pulled out a fan, and fluttered it in front of her face, sending cold air toward him. "I'm just wondering if you should pick another girl for the game; let this one join the rest of the other discarded girls. I'll even go girl-watching with you. We could pick up Delia and make a bonding experience of it."

He let all the bitterness he felt show in his voice and said, "Well, at the rate Donia's going, I may need to. Aside from one drunken dance, I'm getting nowhere."

"There'll be other girls, darling." Beira sighed, but her eyes glimmered with
a sheen
of ice—a sure sign she was pleased.

But they aren't the Summer Queen, are they?

"Perhaps I just need to try harder," he said as he sent a hot breath toward Beira's awning—catching it on fire— then he walked away, leaving her there shrieking at the guards to keep the sunlight away from her.

Someday I'll truly be able to stand against her.

For now, he took pleasure in the moment.

Keenan wandered the city, up

That's what this is all about: these mortals and his summer faeries.

"Keenan?"
Rianne stepped out of a music store and all but ran into him. She gaped at him. "What's up with your hair?"

In his distraction, he had been walking around plainly visible, his hair its normal shade, reflective copper.

"Dye."
He smiled at her, lightening his hair until the metallic glimmer was gone.

She reached out and caught a few strands, holding it up to the sunlight, moving it from side to side. "For a minute it almost looked like strips of metal."

"Hmm."
He pulled back, freeing his hair from her hand. "Have you seen Aislinn today?"

She laughed.
"Nope.
Thought maybe she was still with you."

"No." He looked beyond Rianne, to where several of the Summer Girls were flirting with an off-duty rowan-man. "I escorted her home this morning."

"Morning, huh?"
She shook her head, still smiling. For all of her posturing, she smelled like innocence to him, untouched and sweet. Her words were at complete odds with her attitude. "I knew you were a good bet."

"We were just dancing."

"It's a start, right?" She glanced around, looking down the street and back inside the shop. For a moment her illusory lasciviousness vanished, and her genuine personality slipped through. "Between you and me, Ash could use a bit more fun in her life. She's too serious. I think you'll be good for her."

Keenan paused. He hadn't thought about
that
very much; all that mattered was that she was good for him, for the summer fey.

Was he good for her?
Between the sacrifices she'd need to make and difficulty of what stood before them if she were the true queen, he wasn't sure.
Probably not.
"I'll try to be, Rianne."

"You've already got her out till dawn dancing: sounds like a good start to me." Rianne patted him on the arm, consoling him for something she couldn't begin to grasp. "Don't worry so much."

"Right."

After she walked away, Keenan faded back to his normal state—invisible to mortals—and resumed walking to the loft. If there was ever a time when he needed the wisdom of his advisors, this was it. Keenan felt the music before he even walked into the loft. He took a deep breath and stepped inside, a false smile on his face.

After only a cursory glance at him, Tavish removed Eliza's arms from around his neck and went toward the study. "Come."

At times like these, Keenan felt as if having Tavish's presence was almost like having a father. The older faery had been the last Summer King's advisor and friend; he'd been there waiting when Keenan had come of age and left Beira's household. While Tavish would never presume to act like a father, he was far more than a servant.

Noticing their movement, Niall opened his mouth.

With a brief shake of his head, Keenan said, "No. Stay with the girls."

"If you need me …"

"I do.
Always."
Keenan squeezed Niall's shoulder. "Right now, I need you to keep everyone out here."

This wasn't the place to talk. If word got out that he suspected Beira of trickery or maliciousness, if rumors spread that Aislinn had the Sight, it could go badly for all of them.

As he wound his way through the room—embraced by the Summer Girls who were spinning dizzily with off-shift guards—Keenan kept his face clear of any doubt.
No hint of problems. Smile.

By the time he reached Tavish, he was ready to bar the door for the rest of the day. He believed the girls and his guards were trustworthy, but one never knew, not really.

Tavish poured a glass of wine. "Here."

Keenan took the glass and sank onto one of the heavy leather chairs.

After Tavish settled on an opposite chair, he asked, "What happened?"

So Keenan told him—about Aislinn's Sight, about Beira's threats, all of it.

Tavish stared into his glass like it was a reflecting mirror. He spun it by the stem. "She may not be the queen, but Beira fears her. To me, that is reason enough to keep hope—more reason than we've had ever before."

Keenan nodded, but did not speak yet. Tavish was rarely direct in his points.

Instead of looking at Keenan, Tavish let his gaze drift around the room, as if he were reading the spines of the books that lined every wall of the study. "I have waited with you, but I've never suggested that one of the girls was
her.
It is not my place."

"I value your opinion," Keenan assured him. "Tell me what you think."

"Do not let Aislinn refuse the challenge. If she is the one, and she does not…" Tavish's gaze stayed on the heavy books behind Keenan. "She
must
accept."

The older faery had been somber so long that his vehemence was disquieting.

Keenan asked, "And if she refuses?"

"She cannot. Make her agree." Tavish's eyes were as black as pools in shadowed forests, eerily captivating, when he finally held Keenan's gaze. "Do whatever you must, even if it is …
unpalatable
to you or her. If you heed only one word I ever say, my liege, make it this one."

[They offered] him drink…after, the music ceasing, all the company disappeared, leaving the cup in his hand, and he returned home, though much wearied and fatigued.

—
The Fairy Mythology
by Thomas Keightley (1870)

When Aislinn woke—the clock's red numbers proclaiming it past 9:00—the evening's events came crashing down on her.
The weird drinks, dancing, telling Keenan she knew what he was as they watched the sunrise, him kissing her.
That was the last thing she remembered.
What else happened? How did I get home? When?
She bolted out of bed, barely making it to the bathroom before she threw up.
Oh my God.