All That Glows (5 page)

But it won’t be the same . . . not if I’m sent back with this failure, this black mark on my record. The queen might think I’ve lost my talent. Or that I never had any to begin with. My position in the court would slide back so far it might take me hundreds of years to reclaim it. Maybe even thousands.

And Breena—she needs me, veiling spell or no. She has enough to deal with, running the Guard and shouldering the weight of the raven’s prophecy. I can’t make her burden heavier.

So my choice isn’t really even a choice. I have to stay here. I have to guard Richard. Even if this means I have to let him see.

Would it really be so wrong for the prince to know of my existence? The other Fae don’t have to know. . . . Maybe it would even be
better
if Richard knew about us, the secret world so thickly entangled with his own. If he’s aware of the threats, he might be more careful.

These excuses rattle inside me, flimsy, shattering to pieces under the laws I’ve followed for years upon years. Every shard is sharp, goading me toward the foolish. The inevitable.

They rain down, fleck harder and harder, like glassy hail, until I can no longer bear it.

By the time Richard finally turns to the door, my decision has been made. I let go of the frantically pieced spells, breaking into his reality before I can change my mind.

“Bloody hell!” he yells, and steps back into one of the chairs. He falls in a tangle of long limbs, stubbing his pinky toe on the lion’s foot at the base.

I keep still, afraid that if I move or step forward, the prince will start yelling again. Richard stays sprawled, all knots in his chair, watching me with narrowed, appraising eyes. I stare back.

“You—you’re the girl from the garden,” he says a few seconds into our gaze. “Who are you? How’d you get in here?”

It’s best to just be honest with him. To let everything out. If things go wrong, I can always wipe his memory.

“My name is Emrys Léoflic. I’m the Fae who guards you,” I say the words slowly, carefully—gauging his reaction.

At first, it’s bewilderment that soils Richard’s sharp features. Then he straightens up and stands. His eyes turn snakelike, slit and suspicious. “Edmund put you up to this, didn’t he? How much did the bugger pay you?”

“It’s not a joke,” I tell him.

“Right.” He laughs. The sound carries all the way up to the vaulted ceiling, where the Greek god Jupiter hovers over his human lover—the pair is as bright as they were when William Kent first painted them. “Look, I don’t know how you managed to get in here, but you should leave. Security’s a bit tight around here. If they catch you, you’ll be in heaps of trouble.”

If only he knew how true his statement really was.

“No, really. I’m your Frithemaeg. . . . Your . . .” I scour my brain for an interpretation, a term he might be able to fully understand. “Your Faery godmother.”

Richard eyes me. Wariness has settled behind his stare, as if he’s having second thoughts about my mental state. “Right. And I’m Father Christmas. Look, I’ll give you one more chance, but I’ve got to call security if you don’t leave.”

Words aren’t enough. I’ll have to show him. I push myself away from the door frame and begin to weave a spell. It’s a small cast, so insignificant that none of the other Fae will be able to sense it. “Inlíhte.”

A Faery light appears, pulsing an otherworldly blue above our heads. Part of me is all relief. There’s no hitch to this spell. It seems that the rest of my magic still functions fine.

So what’s wrong with my veiling spell?

The prince watches the aqua light only a few seconds before he looks away. His face is pale, whited out like a window looking into a blizzard. His shoulders give the barest of shakes.

I let the spell unravel.

“I won’t hurt you,” I begin. “It’s my job to protect you, to keep you safe.”

Richard blinks and his face starts to thaw. “That—that was magic you used? Real magic?”

“Yes,” I say slowly.

“Shit. I’ve gone crazy,” he mutters, and rakes his hands through his hair. A slightly maniacal laugh escapes him as he turns away from me, hands still gripping the top of his head.

“You’re not. Crazy, I mean. I’m quite real.”

Richard stands motionless for a long minute, his back still to me. Without the veiling spell or a crowd between us, I feel naked. Exposed.

“You’re a
Faery
? But where did you
come
from?” He finally turns and lets his arms fall. “I mean, aren’t you supposed to have a wand and wings or something? And aren’t you supposed to be an old lady?” Richard pauses, looking me up and down, like he’s really seeing me for the first time. “You’re quite beautiful.”

I know I’m attractive—most Fae are—but to hear Richard say it feels strange, off-key. “One of us is always here with you. You just can’t see us.”

“Always? So, like, an invisible stalker?”

I clear my throat. The process does sound a bit creepy when I explain it out loud. “It’s for your protection.”

“Protection? Protection against
what
?” The prince looks around the room, eyeing the maroon drapes as though some mysterious predator might leap out of their rich folds.

“Soul feeders. Green Women, Banshees, Black Dogs . . .” I stop the list short. Best to keep the explanation simple, so Richard doesn’t become more confused than he already is. “Basically any immortal that feeds off of death. They get their strength from hunting down mortals.”

“This has to be a joke.” There’s panic in his voice, in his aura. The prince starts moving closer to me, in the direction of the door.

“Where are you going?”

He doesn’t stop at my question, only calls over his shoulder as he enters the hallway. “Well, I suppose if you actually have to follow me everywhere then you’ll find out.”

I have to walk twice as fast to keep up with the prince as he jets down the corridor. He strides furiously, blindly—tearing past rich oil paintings and priceless ornamental statues. I scan the halls anxiously as I keep up, looking out for any other Fae. It wouldn’t do for them to see Richard speaking to me.

But we don’t cross paths with any other immortals. Much of the palace is empty at this hour. The only other soul we pass is a maid, her feather duster dancing over one of the many marble busts.

Richard doesn’t slow until he’s wheeled his way into the kitchen. The room is empty and dark. The prince doesn’t bother switching on a light as he starts opening cabinets.

“Where is it?” I hear him muttering through the clash of stainless-steel pots.

In contrast to most of the palace, the kitchen is all modernity. Gleaming metal appliances and black tile floors. The only evidence of the Old World lies in its Italian marble countertops. I lean against one of these and fold my arms to watch the show. Did I expect anything less of a mortal so far removed from Camelot? In their minds, my kind is a thing found only in movies and children’s tales. It will take more than my word and a bobbing light to convince him otherwise.

The cacophony of pots and pans only grows louder as Richard moves to the next cabinet. He’s almost waist deep when the room’s lights suddenly flicker on.

“Can I help you find something, Your Highness?” The maid we passed in the hallway stands in the doorway, feather duster planted in her hand.

There’s a curse and another loud crash as Richard pulls himself out of the storage space. He wipes his hair out of his face and pulls off a charming smile—the kind reserved for press and paparazzi. “Oh—er—hello, Marie. I was looking for some refreshments for me and my friend here.”

“For who?” the maid looks around the kitchen, not bothering to hide her frown. Her eyes glaze right over me.

Strange. I have no trouble staying out of her senses. It’s not my veiling spell that’s the trouble. It’s my veiling spell for the prince.

But why him?

Richard freezes. “You can’t see her? She’s right there!”

The creases of the maid’s chin multiply as her frown deepens. “Your Highness, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The horrible silence lasts a few seconds before Richard’s grin reappears. He laughs, a sound that, if I didn’t know otherwise, would be entirely convincing. “I’m just fooling around, Marie. I know there’s no one there. I was, however, serious about the refreshments. Do you know where they are?”

The old lady shakes her head. “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t help you. You know what your father would do if he knew.”

“Right. Well. I hereby absolve you of all responsibility. I’ll find it myself. Have a good night.” Richard waves and stands up from the cabinets. A clear dismissal.

The maid edges out of the door, giving the prince one last strange look before she vanishes into the hallway.

“Why can’t she see you?” His question is a hiss, so low even I have trouble hearing it.

I uncross my arms. “I already told you. I’m a Fae. The only reason you can see me is because I’m letting you.” The back of my throat goes dry at this half-truth. What am I doing? I should have reported this minutes ago. . . . But I can’t leave Breena alone here. I can’t return to Mab’s court with this failure under my belt.

“Or I’m seeing you because I’ve gone delusional. Dementia has sprung up on Mum’s side of the family before.” Richard rolls his sleeve even farther over his elbow and starts pinching his smooth forearm. “Maybe I’ve just fallen asleep. That’s it. I’m dreaming.”

“Carry on then,” I tell him. “I’ll be here when you’re finally ready to talk.”

Nearly a dozen tiny, red welts appear on the prince’s skin before he gives up. They stand in a neat row, like notches chalked onto the wall of a prison cell. He sighs and looks at me. This time his gaze is earnest, calm, taking all of me in.

“So—you’re my Faery godmother?”

“Your Frithemaeg,” I correct him, wishing I hadn’t used the first term. “I don’t turn pumpkins into carriages. And I’m not that frumpy.”

“I noticed.” There’s a smirk, short and sweet, before the prince becomes all seriousness again. “But you’re my guardian?”

“One of many. We’re Fae who’ve sworn to protect the crown. One of my kind is always near you—we always have been, ever since you were born. We’re watching you, keeping you safe.”

Richard tries a third cabinet. This time he emerges with what he’s hunting for—a bottle of whiskey and a weighty crystal glass. “What do these other immortals want with me? Why are they trying to kill me?”

I watch as he unscrews the lid and pours the liquid in a twisting amber stream. It smells of many things—aged wood, faint fruits, buttery caramel—but mostly alcohol. The fumes sting my nostrils and the back of my throat, even from this distance. “Some immortals feed off death. A long time ago, before I existed, all of us gained our powers from the earth. But when the men came—some spirits found power in their deaths. These are the soul feeders. The carnivores. Their magic is different. It lasts longer and it’s less susceptible to the machines.”

“Machines?”

“Technology hurts our magic. I’m far less powerful here than I would be in the wilderness. Only younger spirits can enter the cities without going insane.” I cringe as I think of all the old Faery nobility who unraveled and disappeared at the dawn of the Industrial Revolution. Sometimes the machines weren’t enough to destroy them—teams of youngling scouts had to put them down in order to preserve both man and immortals from their terrible, unstable strength. Sometimes they were even without bodies: all spirit, raw power. A maelstrom of magic destroying all in its path.

“There are spirits whose powers are strengthened by a mortal’s death. These are the soul feeders. They like to hunt in the cities, usually at night. Nowadays they lie low, but in older times they were a huge problem. The humans were terrified of them—people could hardly leave their houses without coming across some kind of immortal.” I pause for breath.

Richard sips his whiskey, and the fire of the drink cuts across his face. “Sounds petrifying.”

I go on, ignoring both the drink and his comment. “King Arthur the Pendragon was the one who finally came up with a solution. I was very young then, but I still remember a lot of it. . . . Back then, magic ranged freely in the land. Even some mortals learned how to wield it. The crown of Camelot held some sort of higher power, one that we immortals held in great curiosity and envy. Arthur offered the Fae access to his magic, his blood right, as long as we swore to keep the soul feeders in check and to guard those who wear Albion’s crown. Many of us forged an alliance, sealed with unbreakable magic. We’ve been Frithemaeg ever since. King Arthur was the one who gave us the name. Every king and queen since his rule has been under our protection, whether they knew it or not.”

“Wait—” The prince sets his glass down on the swirled, smoky marble. “King Arthur was
real
?”

My thoughts trail back to those long-faded days, when I was only a few decades old. I can still see the grime on the monarch’s face and smell the stale sweat beneath the armor he wore to seek out our queen’s favor. He knelt at her feet, his hair mussed and golden like some wild mane. If he was a lion, then Mab was a gazelle—all slender grace and marked beauty as she looked down on him, her eyes shifting through every color in existence. I remember the bright flare of magic which bound Arthur’s and Mab’s oaths together, sealing the fates of the royals and the Frithemaeg until the crown would fall. An oath we could never break.

“As real as you and me.”

“I’m still debating that point,” he says, and lets out a deep breath. Air hisses out of a tiny hole in his lips like a deflating car tire. “So you’re saying that I have, like, special powers? Or something?”

“Your blood has magic in it, yes, though I doubt you could learn how to use it. Mortals stopped practicing magic several centuries ago. But your blood and the blood of your family is a huge asset to the Fae. That’s why we guard you—to protect one of the more reliable sources of magic we have left. The machines are spreading so fast. . . . I don’t know how much longer my kind will survive on the old ways. We need you. And you need us to protect you. It’s symbiosis.”