All That Burns (17 page)

A portrait of Anabelle seated at a grand piano flashes across the screen. Another picture fades in over it: me
leaping off Lord Winfred’s yacht. Braced for battle with the Kelpie.

“
Many are speculating that Emrys’s involvement in the royals’ disappearance is more than just coincidence. Meryl Munson uncovers more in an exclusive interview with one of King Richard’s closest friends.
”

The screen flashes over to Edmund. He’s suited in his polo gear, smiling at the pretty brunette reporter beside him.
“I never did like Emrys. Richard never was the same after she started showing up. Almost like he was possessed, like he’d been put under some sort of sick love spell.”

“Do you think this is the case?”
Meryl Munson leans in close.

“Definitely.”
Edmund nods.
“The Richard I knew was never into gingers.”

I sigh at the steaming plate of food the waitress shoved in front of me. Anabelle mumbles something about first-rate arses and stabs her fork into her jacket potato. Kieran stares doubtfully at the fish and chips he ordered for show.

“Ever had chips before?” The princess nods at the basket. Its newspaper lining is nearly translucent with grease spots.

“I don’t eat.”

“They’re best with vinegar on them.” Anabelle grabs a
bottle from the condiments stand, douses the greasy pile. Once the chips are thoroughly soaked, she shoves the basket closer to the Ad-hene. “Try it.”

To my surprise Kieran fishes out one of the larger pieces, gripping it between his fingers like a cigarette. His nose wrinkles as he shoves it between his lips.

“Delicious, right?” The princess grabs a couple of chips for herself.

The Ad-hene’s eyes turn to slits, his cheeks puff out like an angry fish’s. He nods anyway.

I can’t help but smile at the squeeze of distaste on his face. Anabelle doesn’t seem to notice. She’s too busy shoving past Kieran, out of the booth. Excusing herself for the water closet.

As soon as the princess is out of sight the Ad-hene grabs a napkin and spits out the chip. His handsome face is still crinkled as he downs half a glass of water, trying his best to drown out the taste.

“You didn’t have to try it,” I tell him.

“It’s a small thing.” Kieran shrugs, looks over his shoulder to where Anabelle’s hooded silhouette coasts past the bar. “If I hadn’t tried it, I would not have known how terrible it was.”

I snatch a chip of my own. Salt and vinegar swim
like cold fire across my tongue, through my nose. “Some things are an acquired taste.”

“Like mortality?” The Ad-hene pushes the entire basket across the table. Scar-silver glints through the elaborate burn of his shirt. Some of it has already changed, shifting to the color of flesh with the pattern of the Labyrinth’s tunnels.

Kieran glances down at the singe-mark. “You don’t trust me.”

“I never said that.”

“You don’t have to. It’s in your eyes.” His eyes meet mine—so steely, so beautiful—and for a moment I believe the mortals’ stories about the Ad-hene. Too evil for heaven. Too pure for hell. Forever in limbo, suspended on the earth. “You don’t trust me, but you need me.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

“Let’s say the Ad-hene are tricking you. Let’s say we did free the prisoner. Why would they send me to help you? What would I have to gain from you finding your king?”

I bite my lip, stare at the basket of soaking chips.

The Ad-hene pulls his arms off the table. “Stories of you traveled through the Labyrinth. How gifted you were in the art of your magic. You and I both know you could follow this trail yourself. If you truly did not trust me.”

“My magic is gone.” I say this with force. As much for myself as for Kieran.

“Is it? Beyond recall?”

I think of the day Herne’s gloved hand grasped mine. How my powers twisted out, leaving me grounded. I think of the night when I stood on Windsor Castle’s green and watched mortals and Frithemaeg dancing together. Laughing, happy. How I turned to Herne and asked without words. Bared the weakness of my soul under the Wild Hunt moon.

Not beyond recall. Not completely.

I could return to Windsor and accept Herne the Hunter’s offer. I could have power again: singing through me like a hurricane, some fearsome force of nature. The want I felt at the first touch of Kieran’s veiling spell returns. Swells through my insides with fearsome strength.

No more weakness. No more being pinned down like an insect while my heart is torn away.

But the cost . . .

As if on cue, another clip of Richard flashes on the screen. It’s from the same night as the red carpet. I know because this time I’m still in the frame. His eyes are on me: smiling, full of light. Our arms are hooked together as we walk to the boat. I’m smiling too.

Another emptiness rears inside, the pain of him gone. It’s a wonder I can sit here at this table. Swallow vinegar and chips, talk like a normal person.

“I can’t.” Take my magic back. Give Richard up. Go back to living the way I was before.

“I saw the look on your face in Trafalgar Square. You want it,” Kieran presses. He’s speaking in that sly voice of his—sowing words and ideas into the folds of my brain. To seed and sprout and grow. “You were never meant to live this way.”

“There are some things I want more. I made my choice,” I say again. “Some love is worth death.”

“Is it worth him dying?” Kieran nods at the television, where Richard is still guiding me to the yacht ramp. The words
TAINTED LOVE
:
KING RICHARD
’
S FATAL MISTAKE
? scroll across the bottom of the screen.

I want to tell him his question is ridiculous. Pointless.

But it’s not. And we both know it.

Anabelle returns, pushing Kieran to the far end of the booth. Worry is all across her pretty face. She nods at the screen. “We might want to eat quick.”

The television blares, extra loud:
“This just in. There’s been a fresh attack in Trafalgar Square. Emrys Léoflic and an unidentified male were sighted, just before a brutal spell was unleashed on authorities.
Princess Anabelle was also seen with them, apparently as a hostage.”

A shaky camera shot shows my hair, streaming so very red behind me like a banner as I drag Anabelle across the square.

My hand drifts up to my new cap. A dead giveaway.

I steal a glance over to the bar. The football match is gone, the bartender’s remote flicking all the screens to the news report. The man who gave us that first side glance is looking over his shoulder. His pint is half-empty and his cheeks are ruddy, but his eyes stay keen. Straight on me.

“A
hostage
?” Anabelle straightens, the worry on her face twists into indignation. “That’s ridiculous!”

How did the truth get so warped? So out of focus?

The man at the end of the bar stands, drains the rest of the beer from his glass. His eyes don’t leave our table.

I might not know where I’m going, but I know it’s time to leave.

I
half expect to wait out the night huddled in an alleyway. But Anabelle walks us straight to a house in Chelsea, asks Kieran to magic the locks open, and punches the correct string of glowing numbers into the security system pad.

“What is this place?” I gape when she flips the crystal chandelier on. We’re standing in the foyer of a grand house. With polished hardwood floors, marble busts, and gold-framed oil paintings, this place could almost be Buckingham Palace itself.

“My friend Bridget lives here.” The princess walks around the room, loosing all the voluminous curtains from their ties. “Her family’s in Thailand on a rather lengthy holiday. I used to come here and hide out after nasty fights with Mum.”

The place does look closed up for the winter: every piece of furniture is covered in white sheets to ward off dust. I glance out the last uncovered window. Dusk is gathering. A
flock of starlings coasts through the firelight sky.

I need to find a sparrow to send Titania, before the birds go to roost for the night.

Almost as if they read my thought, the murmuration of birds washes over the rooftops, disappears altogether.

I’m running out of time.

The sparrow isn’t hard to find. I grab a canister of gourmet Italian breadcrumbs from the pantry and climb all the way to the rooftop. Like the rest of the house it’s packed away for the winter. The shrubbery is covered in thick plastic sheets and the lounge chairs have been stowed in a frost-covered corner.

I kneel down in the center of the roof patio, spread the crumbs out like a blanket of wares, and wait. They come—feathered and fearless—skipping just by my boots, chirping between bites. I choose one of the smaller ones.

The parchment is short, cramped with my blunt, handwritten sentences. Their letters angled tight with abandonment:

Found trail with Ad-hene. Black Dog’s aura is tainted. Question it further. —Emrys

I wind the paper around the sparrow’s leg, weave the sending spell through its wing feathers. Even this small
magic leaves me winded, but it seems to be enough. The bird hops out of my palms with purpose, launches over the moon-slanted rooftops into its long flight across Albion.

The horizon is a collection of cookie-cutter silhouettes: houses, trees, bats, and the last stubborn cling of leaves. I stare at it until my eyes start to burn with tears.

The sparrows are gone. It’s just me here on the rooftop. Alone.

Gone.
That’s what the bird cries sound like as they weave through the stark naked tangle of the trees.
Gone. Gone. Gone.

I grip the rooftop’s ledge. The sun’s final light catches against my ring. Reminds me of Richard’s promise. The life we wanted to lead . . .

I thought we could have a fairy-tale ending. A happily ever after. But perhaps that’s not how our story was supposed to end. Perhaps I was better off as Richard’s guard. Perhaps I was never meant to be in his arms, in his heart. Perhaps I really was his fatal mistake.

Maybe we’re Guinevere and Arthur all over again—a Faery and a mortal king: a doomed love—tragedy on the brink of legend. Our Camelot going up in flames.

I thought I knew myself. I thought I knew the path I’d chosen.

When I lost my magic Richard was my north. Without him I’m a compass sans magnet. Drifting through questions without direction.

You were never meant to live this way.

Then how was I meant to live?

You are not powerless.

Then what is my power?

And through it all, Richard. The ache of missing him—a hurt deeper than marrow, more violent than blood—soaks through me, creeps into old wounds. I can’t help but think of the secrets. The gap we both knew was there. How there was so much distance even when our lips touched, when our skin grazed like velvet. There are still worlds between us. A life I haven’t fully been able to surrender, even when it was no longer in my grasp.

Magic. I never really let it go. Not in my deepest of hearts. And I still want it, still yearn.

Richard or magic.

I can’t keep holding on to both.

Something has to give.

The emerald flare of my ring recedes with the glow of the sky. The dark is swallowing everything, but there are no stars yet. I’m beginning to think they’ll never shine again.

Just as this thought crosses my mind, a new light appears at my side. Kieran’s arm stretches out just a breath from mine, his mark showing through his thermal. I don’t move or speak. He doesn’t either. Moments pass: still and cold.

“You sent the message?” he asks finally.

I look over, where Kieran’s face is painted in two lights. Dying sun and silver dream.

“The sparrow should reach Titania’s court in a few hours.” Whether or not the Faery queen responds is a different question altogether. A fear I don’t have the strength to entertain right now.

“So now we wait?” the Ad-hene asks.

“It’s probably best to stay low for a while. After that little news cameo we had today.” I can’t help but look back down at Kieran’s mark. Every second the twilight plunges darker, it pulses brighter.

“This city is so strange. I thought I would be able to withstand it, but it seems I am only my old strength in the Labyrinth.” His eyes are a mixture of hard and sorrow as he watches the west. Where, far off and away, his island home is still languishing in the last remnants of daylight. “How do you bear it? Being away from everything you know?”

“Sometimes I don’t.” My truth slips out into the cold air. Saying it aloud feels like sin or blasphemy, yet I don’t stop. “It’s easier when Richard is here. But even then . . .”

The sun is completely gone. Kieran’s light flickers, star soft. My words settle and I realize how much lighter my chest is for saying them. So I say more.
Slip, slip
goes the truth.

“The mortals think I’m a monster and the Fae think I’m weak. The only other soul like me in the world is insane and locked away in a prison cell. And Richard is gone and Queen Titania is gone, and . . .”

I can’t go on anymore. My fingers feel frozen to the ledge. Gripping as if I’m holding on to life or Richard or something else I can’t bear to part with.

“You’re not alone, Emrys. You have the princess. You have me.” Kieran shifts and his arm presses into mine. My skin prickles: a warmth too solid to be just magic.

I pull away, but the Ad-hene doesn’t seem to notice. That he touched me. That I felt something.

I pretend not to notice either.

“We’ll find your king.” Kieran pushes off the ledge and starts to drift back to the doorway.

“Kieran?” I call out, and the Ad-hene pauses. He looks
like the statue of some garden god, stowed away between the blanketed plants.

“Thank you for leaving your home. For helping us. It—it means a lot.” I’m lying. Him being here doesn’t just mean a lot.

It means everything.

The Manx spirit plays his statue role well—as if my gratitude has wintered his very bones. Finally he gives a stiff nod and disappears back into the house. I rub my arm and watch the space he left.