Moonlight silvered the room, painting the bed
in a hundred shades of gray, white, and black. The two men in
the bed were deeply asleep. So deeply, that when I'd
crawled out from between them, they'd barely stirred. My
skin glowed white with the kiss of moonlight. The pure blood
red of my hair looked black. I'd pulled on a silk robe,
because it was chilly. People can talk about sunny
California, but in the wee hours of the night, when dawn is
but a distant dream, it's chilly. The night that fell
like a soft blessing through my window was a December night.
If I'd been home in Illinois
there would have been the crisp smell of falling leaves, the
dry scittering of corn stalks, the first real breath of
winter, coming like a finger along your spine. The breeze
crawling through the window at my back held the dry, tang of
eucolyptus, and distant, the smell of the sea. Salt, water,
and something else, that indefinable scent that says ocean,
not lake, nothing usable, nothing drinkable. You can die of
thirst on the shores of an ocean.
For three years I'd stood on the shores of this ocean
and died a little bit every day. Not literally, I'd have
survived, but mere survival can get pretty lonely. I'd
been born Princess Meredith NicEssus, a member of the high
court of fairie. I was a real life fairie princess, the only
one ever born on American soil. When I vanished from sight
about three years ago, the media had gone crazy. Sightings of
the missing Elven American Princess had rivaled Elvis
sightings. I'd been spotted all around the world. In
reality I'd been in Los Angeles the entire time. I'd
hidden myself, been just plan Meredith Gentry, Merry to my
friends. Just another human with fey ancestry working for
Grey's Detective Agency, we specialized in supernatural
problems, magical solutions.
Legend says that when a fey is exiled from fairie they
whither and fade, die. That's both true and untrue. I
have enough human blood in my background that being
surrounded by metal and technology doesn't bother me.
Some of the lesser fey would literally whither and die in a
manmade city. But most fey can manage in a city, they may not
be happy, but they can survive. But part of them does
whither, that part that knows that not all the butterflies
you see are actually butterflies, that part that has seen the
night sky filled with a rushing of wings like a hurricane
wind, wings of flesh and scale to make humans whisper of
dragons and demons; that part that has seen the sidhe ride by
on horses made of starlight and dreams. That part begins to
die.
I leaned my back against the windows and the thick, hanging
smog. The day was as grey as my boss, but his color was a
cool, crisp grey, like clouds before a spring rain. What lay
outside the window felt heavy and thick like something you
would try to swallow, but you'd never get it down. It was
a day to choke on, or maybe it was just my mood.
I hadn't been exiled, I'd fled, because I
couldn't survive the assassination attempts. I just
didn't have the magic, or the political clout to protect
myself. I'd saved my life, but lost something else,
I'd lost the touch of fairie. I'd lost my home.
Now, leaning on my window sill with the smell of the Pacific
Ocean on the air, I looked down at the two men and knew I was
home. They were both high court sidhe, Unseelie sidhe, part
of that darkling throng that I might someday rule if I could
stay ahead of the assassins. Rhys lay on his stomach, one
hand hanging off the bed, the other lost under his pillow.
Even in repose that one visible arm was muscled. His hair was
a shining fall of white curls caressing his bare shoulders,
trailing down the strong line of his back. With the right
side of his face pressed to the pillow you couldn't see
the scars that had taken his eye. His cupid-bow mouth was
turned upward, half-smiling in his sleep. He was boyishly
handsome and would be forever.
Nicca lay curled on his side. Awake his face was handsome,
bordering on pretty, asleep he had the face of an angelic
child. Innocent, he looked, fragile. Even his body was
softer, less muscled. His hands were still rough from sword
practice, and there was muscle under the velvet smoothness of
his skin, but he was soft compared to the other guards, more
courtier than mercenary. The face did, and did not, match the
body. He was just over six feet, most of it long, long legs,
and slender waist with long, graceful arms that balanced all
that length. Most of Nicca was shades of brown. Most of his
smooth skin was the color of pale milk chocolate, and the
hair that fell in a straight fall to his knees was a rich,
dark true brown, not brunette, but the color of fresh turned
leaves that had lain a long, long time on the forest floor
until when stirred they were a rich, moist brown, something
you could plunge your hands into and come away wet and
smelling of new life.
On his side in the moonlit dark I couldn't see his back,
or even the tops of his shoulders clearly, most of him was
lost under the sheet. It was his back that held the biggest
surprise. His father had been something with butterfly wings,
something not sidhe, but still fey. Genetics had traced his
back with wings like a giant tattoo, except more vibrant,
more alive than any ink or paint could make it. From his
upper shoulders down his back across his buttocks flowing
over his thighs to touch the backs of his knees was a play of
color; buff brown, yellow tans, circles of blue and pink and
black like eye spots on the wings of a moth.
He rested in the dark drained of color so that he and Rhys
were like two shadows wrapped in the bed, one pale, one dark,
though there was darker things to be had than Nicca, much
darker.
The bedroom door opened soundlessly, and as if I'd
conjured him by my thoughts, Doyle eased into the room. He
shut the door behind him, as soundlessly as he'd opened
it. I never understood how he did that. If I'd opened the
door it would have made noise. But when Doyle wanted to, he
moved like the fall of night itself, soundless, weightless,
undetectable until you realized the light was gone and you
were alone in the dark with something you couldn't see.
His nickname was the Queen's Darkness, or simply
Darkness. The Queen would say, where is my Darkness, bring me
my Darkness, and some one would bleed, or die. But now,
strangely, he was my Darkness.
Nicca was brown, but Doyle was black, not the black of human
skin, but the complete blackness of a midnight sky. But he
didn't vanish in the darkened room, because he was darker
than the moonlit shadows, a dark shape gliding towards me.
His black jeans and black t-shirt fit his body like a second
skin. I'd never seen him wear anything that wasn't
monochromatic except jewelry and blades. Even his shoulder
holster and gun were black.
I pushed away from the window to stand as he moved towards
me. He had to stop gliding at the foot of the king-sized bed,
because there was barely room to squeeze between the bed and
the closet doors. It was impressive simply to watch Doyle
slide along the wall without brushing the bed. He was over a
foot taller than I was, and probably out-weighed me by a
hundred pounds, most of it muscle. I'd have bumped into
the bed a half dozen times, at least. He eased through the
narrow space as if it were easy, and anybody should have been
able to do it.
The bed took up most of the bedroom, so when Doyle finally
reached me we were forced to stand nearly touching. He
managed to keep a fraction of distance so that not even our
clothing brushed. It was an artificial distance. It would
have been more natural to touch, the very fact that he worked
so hard not to touch me, made it the more awkward. But
I'd stopped arguing with Doyle about his distance. It
bothered me, but when questioned, he only said, I want to be
special to you, not just one of the mob. At first it had
seemed noble, now it was just irritating. The light was
stronger here by the window, and I could see some of that
delicate curve of his high cheekbones, the too sharp chin,
the curved points to his ears, and the silver gleam of
earrings that traced the cartilage all the way to small hoops
in the very pointed tops. Only the pointed ears betrayed that
he was a mixed blood like myself, like Nicca, he could have
hidden the ears with all that hair, but he almost never did.
His raven black hair was as it usually was in a tight, tight
braid that made his hair looked clipped and short from the
front, but the braid's tip hung to his ankles.
He whispered, "I heard something." His voice was
always low and dark like thick candied liqueur for the ear
instead of the tongue.
I stared up at him. "Something, or me moving
around?"
His lips gave that twitch that was the closest he usually
came to a smile. "You."
I shook my head, hands crossed over my stomach. "I have
two guards in bed with me and that's not protection
enough," I whispered back.
"They are good men, but they are not me."
I frowned at him. "Are you saying you don't trust
anyone but you to keep me safe?" Our voices sounded
quiet, peaceful almost, like the voices of parents whispering
over sleeping children. It was comforting to know that Doyle
was this alert. He was one of the greatest warriors of all
the sidhe. It was good to have him on my side.
"Frost . . . perhaps," he said.
I shook my head, my hair had grown out just enough to tickle
along my cheeks. "The Queen's Ravens are the finest
warriors that fairie has to offer, and you say no one is your
equal. You arrogant . . ."
He didn't so much step closer, we were standing too
close for that, he merely moved, pressing close enough that
the hem of my robe brushed his legs. The moonlight glinted
off the short necklace he always wore, a tiny jeweled spider
hanging from the delicate silver chain. He bent his face down
so that his breath pushed against my face. "I could kill
you before either of them knew what had happened."
The threat sped my pulse faster. I knew he wouldn't harm
me. I knew it, and yet . . . any yet. I'd seen Doyle kill
with his hands before, empty of weapons, only his strength of
flesh and magic. Standing, touching in the intimate darkness,
I knew beyond certainty that if he wished me dead he could do
it and not I, or the two sleeping guards behind me would be
able to stop him.
I couldn't win a fight but there were other things to do
when pressed together in the dark, things that could
distract, or disarm, as well, or better, than a blade. I
turned minutely towards him so that my face was pressed into
the curve of his neck, my lips moved against his skin as I
spoke. I felt his own pulse speed pressed against my cheek.
"You don't want to hurt me, Doyle."
His lower lip brushed the curve of my ear, almost, but not
quite a kiss. "I could kill all three of you."
There was a sharp mechanical sound from behind us, the sound
of a gun being cocked. It was loud enough in the stillness
that I jumped. "I don't think you could kill all
three of us," Rhys said. His voice was was clear,
precise, no hint of sleep in it. He was simply awake,
pointing a gun at Doyle's back, or at least I assumed
that's what he was doing. I couldn't see around the
bulk of Doyle's body. Doyle, as far as I knew, didn't
have eyes in the back of his head, so he had to guess what
Rhys was doing, too.
"A double action handgun doesn't need to be cocked
to fire, Rhys," Doyle said, voice calm, even amused. But
I couldn't see his face, to see if his expression matched
his tone, we'd both frozen in our almost embrace.
"I know," Rhys said, "a little melodramatic,
but you know what they say, one scary sound is worth a
thousand threats."
I spoke, my mouth still touching the warm skin of
Doyle's neck. "They don't say that." Doyle
hadn't moved, and I was afraid to, afraid to set
something in motion that I couldn't stop. I didn't
want any accidents tonight.
"They should," Rhys said.
The bed creaked behind us. "I have a gun pointed at
your head, Doyle," Nicca's voice, but not calm, no,
a defiant thread of anxiety wove his words together.
Rhys's voice had held no fear, Nicca's held enough
for both of them. But I didn't have to see Nicca to know
the gun was trained nice and steady, the finger already on
the trigger. Afterall Doyle had trained him.
I felt the tension leave Doyle's body, and his raised
his face just enough so he was no longer speaking into my
skin. "Perhaps I couldn't slay you all, but I could
kill the princess before you could kill me, and then
you're lives would mean nothing. The Queen would hurt you
much more than I ever could for allowing her heir to be
slaughtered."
I could see his face now, even by moonlight he was relaxed,
his eyes distant, not really looking at me anymore. He was
too intent on the lesson he was teaching his men, to care
about me.
I braced my back against the wall, but he paid no attention
to the small movement. I put a hand in the middle of his
chest and pushed. It made him stand up straighter, but there
really wasn't room for him to go anywhere but on the bed.
"Stop it, all of you," I said, and I made sure my
voice rang in the room. I glared up at Doyle. "Get away
from me."
He gave a small bow using just his neck for there wasn't
room for anything more formal, then he backed up, hands out
to his sides to show himself empty-handed to the other
guards. He ended between the bed and the wall with no room to
maneuver. Rhys was half on his back, gun pointed one-handed
as he followed Doyle's movement around the room. Nicca
was standing on the far side of the bed, gun held two-handed
in a standard shooters stance. They were still treating Doyle
like a threat, and I was tired of it.
"I am tired of these little games, Doyle. Either you
trust your men to keep me safe, or you don't. If you
don't then find other men, or make sure you, or Frost, is
always with me. But stop this."
"If I had been one of our enemies your guards would
have slept through your death."
"I was awake," said Rhys, "but truthfully I
thought you'd finally come to your senses and was going
to do her up against the wall."
Doyle frowned at him. "You would think something that
crude."
"If you want her, Doyle, then just say so, tomorrow
night can be your turn. I think we'd all step aside for
an evening if you'd break your . . . fast." The
moonlight softened Rhys's scars like a white gauzy patch
where his right eye should have been.
"Put up your guns," I said.
They looked at Doyle for confirmation. I shouted at them.
"Put up the guns. I am the princess here, heir to a
throne. He's the Captain of my guard and when I tell you
to do something, you will by Goddess, do it."
They still looked at Doyle. He gave the smallest of nods.
"Get out," I said, "all of you, get out."
Doyle shook his head. "I don't think that would be
wise, princess."
Usually I tried to get them all to call me Meredith, but I
had evoked my status. I couldn't take it back in the next
sentence. "So my direct orders don't mean anything,
is that it?"
Doyle's expression was neutral, careful. Rhys and Nicca
had put up their guns, but neither one was meeting my eyes.
"Princess, you must have at least one of us with you at
all times. Our enemies are . . . persistent."
"Prince Cel will be executed if his people try and kill
me while he's still being punished for trying to kill me
last time. We have six months reprieve."
Doyle shook his head.
I looked at the three of them, all handsome, even beautiful
in their own ways, and suddenly I wanted to be alone. Alone
to think, alone to figure out exactly who's orders they
were taking, mine, or Queen Andias's. I'd thought it
was mine, but suddenly I wasn't so sure.
I looked at them, each in turn, Rhys met my gaze, but Nicca
still wouldn't. "You won't take my orders, will
you?"
"Our first duty is to keep you safe, princess, and only
second to keep you happy," Doyle said.
"What do you want from me Doyle? I've offered you my
bed, and you've refused."
He opened his mouth, started to speak, but I held a hand up.
"No, I don't want to hear anymore of your excuses. I
believed the one about wanting to be the last of my men, not
the first, but if one of the others gets me with child
according to sidhe tradition that person will be my husband.
I'll be monogamous after that. You'll have missed
your chance to break a thousand years of forced celibacy. You
haven't given me a single reason good enough for that
kind of risk." I folded my arms across my stomach,
cradling my breasts. "Speak truth to me, Doyle, or stay
out of my bedroom."
His face was almost neutral, but an edge of anger showed
through. "Fine, you want truth, then look at your
window."
I frowned at him, but turned to look at the window with
it's gauze white drapes moving ever so gently in the
breeze. I shrugged, arms still held tight. "So?"
"You are a princess of the sidhe, look with more than
your eyes."
I took a deep breath, let it out slow, and tried not to
respond to the heat in his words. Getting angry at Doyle
never seemed to accomplish anything. I was a princess but
that didn't give me much clout, it never had.
I didn't so much call my magic, as drop the shields I had
to put in place so that I didn't travel through my day
seeing mystical sights. Human psychics, and even witches,
usually had to work at seeing magic, other beings, other
realities. I was a part of fairie and that meant that I spent
a great deal of energy not seeing magic, not noticing the
passing rush of other beings, other realities, that had very
little to do with my world, my purpose, but magic calls to
magic, and without shields in place I could have drown in the
everyday rush of the supernatural that played over the earth
every day.
I dropped the shields and looked with that part of the brain
that sees visions, and allows you to see dreams. Strangely,
it wasn't that big a change in perception, but suddenly I
could see better in the dark, and I could see the glowing
power of the wards on the window, the walls. And in all that
glowing power I saw something through the white drapes.
Something small, pressed against the window. When I moved the
drapes aside, there was nothing on the window, but the play
of pale color from the wards. I looked to one side, letting
the edge of my sight, my peripheral vision, look at the
glass. There, a small hand print, smaller than the palm of
hand, etched into the wards on the window. I tried to look
closer at it, and it vanished from sight. I forced myself to
look sideways at it again, but closer. The hand print was
clawed and humanoid, but not human.
I let the drape fall shut, and spoke without turning around.
"Something tried the wards while we slept."
"Yes," Doyle said.
"I didn't feel anything," Rhys said.
Nicca said, "Me, either."
Rhys sighed. "We have failed you princess. Doyle's
right, we could have gotten you killed."
I turned and looked at them all, then I stared at Doyle.
"When did you sense the testing of the wards?"
"I came in here to check on you."
I shook my head. "No, that's not what I asked. When
did you sense that something had tested the wards?"
He faced me, bold. "I've told you, princess, only I
can keep you safe."
I shook my head again. "No good, Doyle. The sidhe never
lie, not outright, and you've avoided answering my
question twice. Answer me now, for the third time, when did
you sense something had tested the wards?"
He looked half uncomfortable, half angry. "When I was
whispering in your ear."
"You saw it through the drapes," I said.
"Yes." One clipped, angry word.
Rhys said, "You didn't know that anything tried to
get in, you just came through because you heard Merry moving
around."
Doyle didn't answer, but he didn't need to it, the
silence was answer enough.
"These wards are my doing, Doyle. I put them up when I
moved in to this apartment. I redo them periodically, but it
was my magic, my power, that kept this thing out. My power
that burned it so that we have it's . . . finger
prints."
"Your wards held because it was a small power,"
Doyle said, "something large would still get through any
ward you could put in place."
"Maybe, but the point is that you didn't know
anymore than we did. You were just as in the dark, as we
were."
"You're not infallible," Rhys said, "nice
to know."
"Is it?" Doyle said, "is it really? Then think
on this, none of us knew that some creature of fairie crept
to this window and tried to get in tonight. None of us sensed
it. It may have been a small power, but it had big help to
hide this completely."
I stared at him. "You think Cel's people risked his
life tonight, by trying to take mine again."
"Princess, don't you understand the Unseelie court
by now. Cel was the Queen's darling, her only heir for
centuries. Once she made you co-heir with him, he fell out of
favor. Which ever one of you gets with child first will rule
the court, but what happens if both of you die? What happens
if you are assassinated by Cel's people and the Queen is
forced to execute Cel for his treachery. She's suddenly
without heir."
"The Queen is immortal," Rhys said, "she's
only agreed to step down for Merry or Cel."
"And if someone can plot the death of both Prince Cel
and Princess Meredith, do you really think they will stop at
the death of a Queen?"
We all stared at him. It was Nicca who spoke, voice soft,
"No one would risk the queen's anger."
"They would if they thought they wouldn't get
caught," Doyle said.
"Who would be that arrogant?" Rhys asked.
Doyle laughed, a surprised bray of sound, that startled us
all. "Who would be arrogant enough? Rhys, you are a
noble of the sidhe courts, the better question would be who
would not be arrogant enough?"
"Say what you like, Doyle," Nicca said, "most
of the nobles fear the Queen, fear her greatly, fear her much
more than Cel. You have been her champion for eons, you
don't know what's it like to be at her mercy."
"I do," I said. They all turned to me. "I
agree with Nicca, I don't know anyone but Cel who would
risk his mother's anger."
"We are immortal, princess, we have the luxury of biding
our time. Who knows what trickery serpent has been waiting
for centuries until the Queen was weak. If she is forced to
kill her only son, she will be weak."
"I'm not immortal, Doyle, I can't speak for that
kind of patience or cunning. All we know for certain is that
something tried the wards tonight, and it will bear a burn on
it's hand, or paw, or whatever, a mark. It can be tracked
just like fingerprints."
"I've seen wards set up to harm something that tires
to break them, or even mark them with a scar, or burn, but
I've never seen anyone take imprints before," Rhys
said.
"It was clever," Doyle said. Which from him was a
great compliment.
"Thank you." I frowned at him. "If you've
never seen anyone do something like this with a ward, how did
you know what you were seeing through the drapes?"
"Rhys said that he had never seen anything like it, I
did not say that."
"Where else did you see it?"
"I am an assassin, a hunter, princess, tracks are a very
good thing to have."
"The print on it's hand will match this, but it
won't leave tracks as it travels."
Doyle gave a small shrug. "A pity, it would have been
useful."
"You can make a creature of fairie leave magical
tracks?" I asked.
"Yes."
"But they would see them with their own magic and ruin
the spell."
He shrugged. "I've never found the world big enough
to hide quarry that I had tracked."
"You're always so . . . perfect," I said.
He glanced past me at the window. "No, my princess, I
fear I am not perfect, and our enemies whoever they may be,
know that now."
The breeze had become a wind, billowing out the white drapes.
I could see the small clawed print frozen in the glittering
magic. I was half a continent away from the nearest fairie
strong hold. I'd thought L. A. was far enough away to
keep us safe, but I guess if someone really wants you dead
they'll catch a plane, or something with wings. After
years of exile I finally had a little slice of home with me.
Home never really changed. It had always been lovely, erotic,
and very, very dangerous. END CHAPTER.