Wicked Lovely tf-1 Read online

  "I do want to. Trust me, Ash. Please?" Half smiling then, he added, "And I don't mind being groped. Perks for helping."

  "You should. Faeries are…" She shook her head again. He was joking about it. "You can't see what they look like."

  Without meaning to, she pictured Keenan. Blushing, she stammered, "Most of them are pretty horrible."

  "Not all of them, though?" Seth asked quietly, not smiling anymore.

  "Most of them" — she looked back at the three faeries outside, unwilling to look at Seth when she admitted it— "but no, not all of them."

  CHAPTER 3

  Faeries could make themselves seen or not seen at will. And when they took people they took the body and soul together.

  — The Fairy Faith in Celtic Countries by W Y. Evans-Wentz (1911)

  Aislinn closed her eyes as she finished describing the faeries who'd been stalking her. "They're court fey; I know that much. They move in the circle of a king or queen, have enough influence to act without consequences. They're too strong, too arrogant to be anything else." She thought about their disdain, their disregard for the fey watching them. These were the most dangerous sort of faeries: ones with power.

  She shivered and added, "I just don't know what they want. There's this whole other world no one else sees. But I do…I watch them, but they've never noticed me—not any more than they do anyone else."

  "So you see others that aren't following you?"

  It was such a simple question, such an obvious one. She looked at him and laughed, not because it was funny, but because it was so awful. Tears ran down her face.

  He just waited, calm, unflappable, until she stopped laughing. "I guess that was a yes?"

  "Yes." She wiped her cheeks. "They're real, Seth. It's not that I see things. There are faeries, creatures, almost everywhere. Awful things. Beautiful ones. Some that are both at once. Sometimes they're horrible to each other, doing really" — she shuddered at the images she didn't want to share with him—"bad things, sick things."

  He waited.

  "This one, this Keenan, he approached me, made himself look like a human and tried to get me to go with him." She looked away, trying to summon the calm she relied on when the things she saw got too weird. It wasn't working.

  "So what about this court thing? Could you talk to their king or whatever?" Seth turned the page.

  Aislinn listened to the soft whisper of paper falling, loud in the room despite the music, despite the impossibility of hearing such a soft sound. Since when can I hear a sheet of paper falling?

  She thought about Keenan, thought about how to explain that sense of strength he exuded. He'd seemed immune to the iron downtown—a terrifying possibility; at the very least, he'd been strong enough to hold a glamour around it. Deadgirl had seemed weakened by it, but it hadn't repelled her either. "No. Grams says court fey are the crudest ones. I don't think I could face anything stronger even if I could reveal myself, and I can't. They can't find out that I can see them. Grams says they'll kill or blind us if they find out we see them."

  "Suppose they're something else, Ash?" Seth was moving now, standing in front of her. "What if there's another explanation for what you saw?"

  She folded her hand into a loose fist as she stared at him, feeling her fingernails dig ever so slightly into the palm of her hand. "I'd love to believe there's another answer. I've seen them since I was born. Grams sees them. It's real. They're real."

  She couldn't look at him; instead she stared down at Boomer, who had twisted his entire length into a tight coil in her lap. She trailed her finger down the side of his head gently.

  Seth cupped her chin and tilted her head back so she was looking at him. "There's got to be something we can do."

  "Can we talk about it tomorrow? I need…" She shook her head. "I just can't deal with any more tonight."

  Seth reached down and lifted Boomer. The boa didn't uncoil as Seth carried him to his terrarium and gently lowered him to the heat rock.

  She didn't say anything else as Seth latched the lid to keep Boomer from wandering off. Given half a chance, Boomer found a way to slither outside if he was left home alone, and in most months the temperature out there could be fatal for him.

  "Come on, I'll walk you home," Seth said.

  "You don't need to."

  He crooked his eyebrow and held out his hand.

  "But you can." She took his hand.

  Seth led her through the streets, as unaware of the fey as everyone else they passed, but just having his arm around her made it seem less awful.

  They walked silently for almost a block. Then he asked, "You want to stop at Rianne's?"

  "Why?" Aislinn walked a little faster as the wolf-girl who'd given chase earlier started circling predatorily.

  "Her party? The one you told me about?" Seth grinned, acting like they were okay, like the whole faery conversation hadn't happened.

  "God, no. That's the last thing I need." She shivered at the thought. She'd taken Seth to a couple parties with the Bishop O.C. crowd; by the second one it was pretty clear that the mixing of the two worlds was typically a bad plan.

  "You need my jacket?" Seth pulled her closer, attentive as always to the slightest detail.

  She shook her head no, but leaned closer to him, enjoying the excuse to be held by him.

  He didn't object, but he didn't let his hands brush anywhere they shouldn't, either. He might flirt, but he never made a move that was anything other than just-friends.

  "Stop at Pins and Needles with me?" he asked.

  The tat shop wasn't out of the way, and she wasn't in any hurry to be away from Seth. She nodded, and then asked, "Did you finally pick something to get?"

  "Not yet, but Glenn said the new guy started this week. I thought I'd see what his work looks like, what styles, you know."

  She laughed. "Right, wouldn't want to get the wrong style."

  Mock scowling, he tweaked a strand of her hair. "We could find one we both like. Get a matched pair."

  "Sure, I'll do that—right after you meet Grams and convince her to sign a consent form."

  "So, no ink for you then. Ever."

  "She's nice." The argument was an old one, but she hadn't given up yet—or made any progress.

  "Nope. Not going to risk it." He kissed her forehead. "As long as she doesn't meet me she can't look at me, and say, 'Stay away from my girl.»

  "Nothing wrong with how you look."

  "Yeah?" He smiled gently. "Would she think that?"

  Aislinn thought so, but she hadn't been able to convince Seth of it.

  They continued in silence until they reached the shop. The front of the tat shop was almost all windows, making it seem less intimidating to any curious ink seekers, but unlike the tattoo parlors she'd seen when they went up to Pittsburgh, this was not a glossy shop. Pins and Needles retained some of the grit of the art, not catering to the trendy crowd—not that Huntsdale had much of a trendy crowd.

  The cowbell on the door clanged when they walked in. Rabbit, the owner, peeked out of one of the rooms, waved, and disappeared.

  Seth went to a long coffee table against the wall that had portfolios piled on top of it. He found the new one and sat down with it. "You want to look with me?"

  "Nope." Aislinn went up to the glass case where bars, rings, and studs were laid out. That's what she wanted. She only had a single hole in each ear, but every time they came in, she considered getting a piercing. Nothing in her face, though, not this year: Bishop O'Connell High School had strict rules about facial piercings.

  One of the two piercers stood up behind the cabinet. "You ready for a labret yet?"

  "Not till I graduate."

  He shrugged and went back to cleaning the glass.

  The bell clanged again. Leslie, a friend from school, walked in with a heavily inked guy, far from the sort she dated. He was beautiful: close-cropped hair, perfect features, blue-black eyes. He was also fey.

  Aislinn froze, watching him, feelin
g the world tilt under her. Too many faeries wearing human faces tonight. Too many strong fey.

  But this faery barely looked her way as he went to the back room, trailing his hands over one of the steel-framed jewelry cabinets he passed.

  She couldn't look away, not yet. Most faeries didn't walk downtown; they didn't touch iron bars; and they sure as hell didn't walk around able to hold a glamour while touching poisonous metal. There were rules. She'd lived by those rules. There were a few exceptions—the rare strong fey—but not this many, not at the same time, and not in her safe spaces.

  "Ash?" Leslie reached her hand out. "Hey. You all right?"

  Aislinn shook her head. Nothing is right anymore. Nothing.

  "I'm good." She looked toward the room where the faery waited. "Who's your friend?"

  "Tasty, isn't he?" Leslie made a noise somewhere between a moan and a sigh. "I just met him outside."

  Seth put the book down and crossed the room.

  "You ready to go?" He slid a steadying arm around Aislinn's waist. "I can—"

  "In a sec." She glanced at the faery with Rabbit; their voices were barely more than a whisper. Forcing her paranoia aside, she turned her attention to Leslie. "You're not taking him to Ri's, are you?"

  'Trial? What, you don't think he'd be a hit?"

  "He's certainly different than your usual" — she bit her lip and tried to act like everything was normal—"vie—…I mean, partners."

  Leslie shot him a longing look. "Unfortunately he doesn't seem interested."

  Aislinn held in the sigh of relief that Leslie wasn't going to try to pursue the faery. Life was already complicated enough.

  "I wanted to see if you're coming to the party." Leslie grinned—somewhat viciously—at Seth. "Both of you."

  "No." Seth didn't elaborate. He tolerated Leslie, but tolerate was the best he could do. Most of the girls who went to Bishop O.C. weren't people he willingly hung with.

  "Something better going on?" Leslie asked in a conspiratorial voice.

  "Always. I only go to those fiascos if she insists." Seth gestured toward Aislinn. "You ready?"

  "Five minutes," Aislinn murmured, and then felt guilty immediately: it wasn't like they were on a date or anything.

  She didn't want to make Seth wait, but she didn't want to leave a friend alone with a faery strong enough to touch iron. She certainly wasn't leaving a friend alone with one wearing a human guise that would make even the shyest girls pant. And Leslie definitely wasn't shy.

  Aislinn glanced back at Seth. "If you want to head out, I can go with Leslie…"

  "No." He gave her a briefly irritated look before he wandered away to look at the flash on the walls.

  "So what are you doing?" Leslie asked.

  "What?" Aislinn looked back at Leslie, who was grinning. "Oh, nothing really. He's just walking me home."

  "Hmm." Leslie tapped her fingernails on the glass case, oblivious to the piercer's glares as she did so. Aislinn knocked Leslie's hand off the case. "What?"

  "And that's better than a party?" Leslie linked an arm around Aislinn and whispered, "When are you going to give the poor thing a break, Ash? It's sad, really, how you string him along."

  "I don't…we're friends. He'd say something if he" — she lowered her voice and glanced back at Seth—"you know."

  "He's talking, girl. You're just too thick to hear it."

  "He's just flirty. Even if he meant it, I don't want a one-nighter, especially with him."

  Leslie shook her head and sighed melodramatically. "You need to live a little, girl. There's nothing wrong with a little quick love if they're good. I hear he's good."

  Aislinn didn't want to think about that, about him with other girls. She knew Seth went out; even if she didn't see the girls, she was sure they were there. Better to be just friends than one of his throwaway girls. She didn't want to talk about Seth, so she asked Leslie, "Who's going tonight?"

  Trying to keep unpleasant thoughts at bay, Aislinn half listened to Leslie go on about the party. Rianne's cousin had invited some of the guys from his frat.

  Glad we're skipping it, Seth would hate that crowd.

  When Leslie's brother walked in, Seth came back over and put his arm around Aislinn's shoulder, almost territorially, while they talked.

  Leslie mouthed, "Deaf."

  Aislinn leaned on Seth, ignoring Leslie, her brother's comments about scoring some X, the faery in the back room, all of it. When Seth was beside her, she could keep it together. Why would she be stupid enough to risk what they had, to risk him, for a fling?

  CHAPTER 4

  "When you will be King of Summer she will be your queen. Of this your mother, Queen Beira, has full knowledge, and it is her wish to keep you away from [her], so that her own reign may be prolonged."

  — Wonder Tales from Scottish Myth and Legend by Donald Alexander Mackenzie (1917)

  On the outskirts of Huntsdale in a gorgeous Victorian estate that no realtor could sell—or remember to show— Keenan hesitated, hand lifted. He paused, watching silent figures in the thorn-heavy garden move as fluidly as the shadows that danced under the icy trees. The frost never melted in this yard, never would, but the mortals passing on the street saw only the shadows. They looked away, if they dared look at all. No one—mortal or fey—stepped on Beira's frigid lawn without her consent. It was anything but inviting.

  Behind him, cars drove by on the street, tires grinding the frozen slush into a dirty gray mess, but the sound was muted by the almost tangible chill that rested like a pall over Beira's home. It hurt to breathe.

  Welcome home.

  Of course, it'd never felt like home, but then again, Beira had never felt like a mother. Inside her domain the air itself made him ache, sapped the little strength he had. He tried to resist it, but until he came into his full power, she could send him to his knees. And she did—every single visit.

  Maybe Aislinn will be the one. Maybe she'll make it different.

  Keenan braced himself and knocked.

  Beira flung open the door. In her free hand she held a tray of steaming chocolate cookies aloft. She leaned forward and kissed the air near his face. "Cookies, darling?"

  She looked as she had for the past half century or so when he stopped in for these damnable meetings: a mockery of a mortal epitome of motherhood, she was clad in a modest floral dress, frilly apron, and single strand of pearls. Her hair was twisted up in what she called a "chignon."

  She waggled the tray a little. "They're fresh. Just for you."

  "No." Ignoring her, he walked into the room.

  She'd redecorated again—some modern nightmare, complete with a sleek silver table; stiff, awkwardly shaped black chairs; and framed black-and-white prints of murders, hangings, and a few torture scenes. The walls alternated between stark white and flat black with large geometric patterns in the opposite color. Selected images on the hanging prints—a dress, lips, bleeding wounds—were hand painted red. Those splashes of luridness were the only true color in the room. It fit her far better than the costume she insisted on wearing when he visited.

  From behind the wet bar, a badly bruised wood-sprite asked, "Drink, sir?"

  "Keenan, sweetheart, tell the girl what you want. I need to check on the roast." Beira paused, still holding the tray of cookies. "You are staying for dinner, aren't you, dear?"

  "Do I have a choice?" He ignored the sprite to walk over to a print on the far wall. In it a woman with cherry-red lips stared out from the platform of a gallows. Behind her were craggy dunes that seemed to go on endlessly. He glanced over at Beira. "One of yours?"

  "In the desert? Darling, really." Blushing, she looked down, giving him a coquettish smile and toying with her pearls. "Even with the lovely chill I've had growing these past few centuries, that place is still off limits. For now. But it's sweet of you to ask."

  Keenan turned back to the print. The girl stared out at him, seeming desperate. He wondered if she had truly died there or was merely a model for a p
hotographer.

  "Well…you get comfortable. I'll be back in a jiff. Then you can tell me all about your new girl. You know I do look forward to these little visits." Then, humming a lullaby from his childhood—something about frozen fingers— Beira left to check on the roast.

  He knew that if he followed her, there'd be a bevy of unhappy wood-sprites bustling about her restaurant-sized kitchen. Beira's cloyingly sweet act didn't include actual cooking, just the image of the sort of mother who would cook. "Drink, sir?" The sprite carried over two trays—one with milk, tea, hot cocoa, and a variety of prepackaged nutritional drinks; the other had carrot sticks, celery, apples, and other equally mundane foods. "Your mother is most insistent you have a healthy snack." The sprite glanced in the direction of the kitchen. "It's not wise to anger the mistress." He took a cup of tea and an apple. "You think?" Growing up in the Winter Court had made him far too familiar with what happened to those who angered—or even irritated—the Winter Queen. But he would do his best to anger her; that's what he'd come to do, after all.

  "Almost ready," Beira announced as she returned. She sat on one of the awful chairs and patted the one nearest her. "Come. Tell me everything."

  Keenan sat in the chair across from her, keeping his distance as long as he could.

  "She's difficult, resisted my initial approach." He paused, thinking of the fear in Aislinn's eyes. It wasn't the response he usually elicited from mortal girls. "She didn't trust me at all."

  "I see." Beira nodded, crossed her ankles, and leaned forward—the picture of an attentive parent. "And did…you know, the last girlfriend approve of her?"

  Without looking away from him, Beira motioned to the sprite, who promptly brought her a glass of something clear to drink. As Beira wrapped her hand around the stem of the glass, frost crept over it until the outside of the glass was entirely coated in a thin white layer.