Desert Tales (15 page)

C
HAPTER
17

As Rika approached her house, Donia felt a twinge of envy. The former Winter Girl was holding the hand of a mortal boy. Like the Summer Queen and her mortal, Rika had someone at her side. Of late, even the Dark King had found a way to be reunited with the one he loved. It was only the High Queen and the Winter Queen who were without partners, and even the High Queen had found some affection. For her it was creating a son. So in reality, it was only Donia who remained without love, just as she had been when she was the Winter Girl. For a person who had risked everything for love, who had lost her mortality and then almost given her life for the one she loved, being deserted seemed an unreasonably cruel fate. It wasn't that Donia wanted any of them to lose
their
loved ones—she wasn't so heartless as her predecessor—she merely wished that she wasn't without her beloved. Keenan was and had always been the one faery she couldn't have, a faery who had only claimed his court because he'd found his rightful queen.
A queen who is not me.

Many years ago, Donia had dreamed that she was the one he sought. Like Rika and numerous others, she'd thought that loving Keenan would be enough to break the curse that bound him. She'd believed that love really could conquer all. Now, she knew better. Maybe for Rika or the other former Winter Girls, there would be happy futures. Donia hoped so.

She smiled as she stood in the open doorway with Sasha, her white wolf, beside her. She lowered her hand to caress her constant companion behind his ears. He leaned against her affectionately.

At the foot of the stairs to Donia's house, Rika stopped, let go of the boy's hand, and stepped forward. Even now, so very crushable in front of a regent, the former Winter Girl stood unbending. Donia smiled at how familiar Rika's posture was: that strength was what had enabled them both to survive the curse.

“Hello, Rika.” Donia's words were accompanied by a white cloud of frozen air.

“Sister,” Rika greeted. She ascended the steps and held open her arms.

The boy stayed on the sidewalk behind her. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and shivered, but his gaze didn't leave Rika.

“Sisters always,” Donia promised as she embraced Rika. They shared no blood, but as with the rest of the former Winter Girls, there would always be an affection between them that no one other than a former Winter Girl would understand. Carrying ice and snow inside a body not made for such pain wasn't something that could be explained—nor would those who'd experienced it
want
to try to describe it. Some experiences were not meant to be spoken.

When Rika stepped back, she said, “You look healthier.”

Donia shrugged delicately. “Ruling suits me better than . . . the other. Carrying the curse of Keenan's mistakes was unpleasant.”

Rika shook her head. “We both survived though.”

“And Beira didn't.” Donia felt the storms fill her eyes and knew that they were snow white. A gust of icy air radiated from her skin, causing the trees to shiver and snow to fall from their branches in a brief flurried snowfall. Being around the other former Winter Girls stirred memories and emotions that they'd all rather forget. She suspected that was why they so rarely saw each other. Beira's curse had made so many people suffer, and it was harder to deny those memories when the person in front of you had similar ones.

“I'm glad she's dead.” Rika shivered again.

Donia tried to keep her own chill reined in as she said, “She won't ever hurt any of us again. I'm the queen now.”

“Was it horrible? Her death?”

Truthfully, Donia hadn't expected
that
question, but she wasn't surprised. Beira had devastated a lot of lives, and few faeries mourned her passing. No one had sought Donia out for details, and few faeries would be so bold as to ask for details from the reigning queen.

“It was,” Donia said softly. She had lived for almost a century, but the day Beira had died and Donia had become Winter Queen was one of the memories that she still dreamed about more often than she'd like. Sometimes in the remembering, it felt like the moment was trapped forever in the now, as if—like the day when Donia had lost her mortality—it would never be an experience that she could relegate to memories.

 

The floor is already covered in spikes of ice; the furniture is well past broken. In the midst of the destruction, Beira stands like a beautiful nightmare. Despite the horror she has inflicted, Beira has always been lovely, dark hair and shocking red lips contrasting with the extreme pallor of ice.

She tilts her head inquiringly. “Do you think they'll be more upset if you're dead or still suffering?”

Donia is bleeding and exhausted, trying to rescue Seth—the mortal that the new Summer Queen loves. The boy is a strange one, brave in the face of the embodiment of Winter even after he's had one of his facial piercings ripped out. His dark hair falls over his face, hiding his expression in the moment.

“Decision, decisions,” Beira murmurs as she walks over blades of ice, slowly and gracefully, as if she were entering the theater. She looks at Donia and Seth, trying to decide whom to torture next.

After a moment, she pulls Donia up by her hair and kisses both cheeks. Her frigid lips leave frost burn on Donia's skin. Being the Winter Girl gives her some tolerance of the ice, but Beira
is
Winter. Since the last Summer King died over nine hundred years ago and the then newborn king was cursed, no one has been able to stand against her.

“I believe I already told you what would happen to you, dearie,” Beira whispers, and then she seals her lips to Donia's. The ice pours from the angry queen's lips into Donia's mouth. In moments, she will be frozen alive.

She doesn't see Seth until he throws himself at Beira.

The furious Winter Queen drops Donia, but she doesn't understand why until she sees the rusty iron sticking out of Beira's neck.

With surprising strength for a mortal—especially an injured one—he's attacked Beira, and the Winter Queen is not amused. She lashes out at Seth with a burst of ice and cold; the force of it slams him into a wall. Beira follows him in that too-fast-to-follow way.

“Do you think that little trinket will kill me?” She digs her fingers into the skin of his stomach and—using his ribs as a handle—jerks him to his feet.

He screams over and over, awful sounds that make Donia tremble, but she can't help him. She can't even lift her head from the floor. The mortal has risked his death to help her, but even that seems too little, too late. She feels the ice that Beira has exhaled into her body. It's killing her.

Beira removes her bony fingers from Seth's stomach, and he slides down the wall, slumping in a boneless pile.

Donia struggles to crawl to him as the ice slides down her throat, choking her, filling her lungs. She's not sure what she can do, but she wants to save him.

Beira doesn't attempt to stop her, but she doesn't need to. Donia has barely managed to move. Her vision blurs, and she closes her eyes.

Donia has no idea how long she is motionless on the floor. She opens her eyes when a burst of heat stirs her.

Aislinn is there. The girl is no longer mortal. She's the queen that Keenan sought, and she's at his side now. They're both glowing so brightly that it hurts to see them. The newly ascended Summer Queen is holding Beira's arms as Keenan leans closer, his lips almost touching Beira's mouth.

Then he just breathes.

Sunlight pours onto her like some viscous fluid.

The Winter Queen struggles to turn her head and can't. She's held in place by the sunlit hands of the Summer King and Queen as she chokes on sunlight. The heat burns through Beira's throat; steam hisses from the cut.

When finally she is limp in their hands, Keenan steps away, and Aislinn lowers Beira's body to the floor.

The faery for whom Donia had long ago surrendered her mortality has killed the Winter Queen. He's broken the curse, found his queen and claimed his power. As he kneels at Donia's side, she wants to flinch from the heat of him even as she wants to kiss him one last time before death claims her. Instead, she becomes the new Winter Queen.

“Yes, Beira's death was horrible,” Donia said. A tiny snow shower formed around her. Snowflakes fluttered to the ground like butterflies—slow and gentle in contrast to the remembered anger filling her now. She would say more, but not in front of a mortal.

“Good.” Rika's expression held the sympathy that told Donia that the faery heard more than the words Donia had uttered. Then Rika added, “Now, if Keenan suffers a bit, all will be well.”

When Rika turned to her mortal, Donia fell back to the memories. The moments after the last Winter Queen's death were the hardest part of that day.

Keenan kneels on the floor and pulls Donia into his arms.

She has to cough before she can speak. “Beira really dead?”

He smiles, looking like every dream she's denied having. “She is.”

“Seth?” It hurts to talk, her throat raw from the jagged pieces of ice she's swallowed.

“Seth's injured, but not dead.” Keenan strokes her face, gently, as if she's something delicate and precious, as if she's the one who will share his throne. Sunlit tears run down his cheeks and drip onto her face, melting the ice that still clings to her. “I thought I'd lost you. I thought we were too late.”

 

Even after all that had happened, Donia still believed that the Summer King was worth the pain, worth the curse, worth the death she thought she'd know that day. She had believed that for decades, but loving Keenan didn't mean she was blind to his faults. He was the careless, forgetful Summer. Even when he wasn't being willfully manipulative, he was still the embodiment of a season that thought first of pleasure and rarely of consequence—and whatever he'd done now had sent one of the former Winter Girls to Donia's doorstep.

She stepped to the side to allow Rika and her mortal to enter the house. She looked out into the street beyond her yard, where the world looked like summer. It was a visible demarcation, the line between the two seasons. Out in the world summer was growing, but within her yard it was always winter. He had his Summer Garden, and she had her Winter Garden. Their courts still needed a home when the other held sway over the world. Donia took a moment's comfort in the beautiful landscape—frost-covered lawn, trees bowed under the weight of snow and ice, unmarred fresh snow glistening.

Love doesn't mean being under his control. It doesn't mean giving in to his every whim or wish.

A former Winter Girl, especially one who had fled to the desert years ago, wouldn't come here to the home of the reigning Winter Queen without serious reason. Donia focused her attention on the summer street, and her wintery climate expanded beyond her yard. New buds on the trees froze as she looked upon them.
I won't surrender all of my power for you, even now,
she silently swore to the Summer King, who would no doubt be darkening her door soon.
I am your equal now, Keenan. Come fight with me.

Then with the solemnity of early winter mornings, Donia turned away and resolutely closed the door.

C
HAPTER
18

Far from the Winter Queen's home, Sionnach walked slowly through town with Carissa. He had spent several hours looking for Rika, checking all of her usual hideaways, but had been forced to admit defeat. She'd never been this angry with him, and he could admit—quietly, to himself—that he would be angry if he were in her position. Of course, he manipulated people and faeries as easily as he breathed, so he wouldn't end up in her position. Still, he could allow that she had grounds for her ire. He'd simply wait for her to calm down and return, and while he waited, he'd enjoy a date with the mortal girl . . . and try to ignore his injuries.

Carissa was, like so many young mortal women, full of dreams and passions. It's why faeries found them so alluring. Something about the impermanence of mortals seemed to make them crave living intensely. Things that would pass in a blink for those who lived for centuries were
urgent
to mortals. It was beautiful.

As Carissa and Sionnach walked toward the tiny diner he liked, he offered her his arm. He tried to move slower with her, careful in his movements so he didn't slip and reveal his Otherness.
Technically,
a faery shouldn't ever reveal his true nature to a mortal. Exceptions were only to be made in extreme circumstances—a detail Sionnach used to justify giving so much information to Jayce. Sionnach considered the well-being and safety of the desert just such a circumstance; he simply hadn't quite verbalized how Jayce fit into his plans before allowing the mortal boy such rare access. Rika's anger over Sionnach's lies of omission made sense, but once she calmed down, she'd see that his plan had been the only solution left to him at that moment.

She has to.

As Carissa snuggled close to Sionnach, he pushed his anxieties away to focus on her. “I've missed you lately,” he told her.

“I worried that you were”—she blushed—“bored with me.”

“For some reason, I don't find you at all boring.” He rubbed his cheek against her hair, before nuzzling his face against her throat to smell her. Then he kissed her neck, partly so she didn't notice that he enjoyed sniffing her.

She giggled.

“I like you,” he said simply. “I missed you, but it wasn't a good time to see you. I had things I needed to deal with.”

Then, before she could ask questions he couldn't answer honestly, he gave her a proper kiss. She looked dazed when he pulled back.

“Okay,” she whispered.

He grinned at her before opening the door of the diner. “After you, lovely . . .”

Sionnach learned years ago that mortals appreciated it when his manners were theater-elegant. She might not be in pearls and velvet, but she was beautiful and should be treated like it. He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and was rewarded with another adoring look.

A few steps in, she stopped and said, “You realize that we're at a total
dive,
right?”

He looked around with feigned shock. “This? My staff tells me this is a prime establishment.”

He led her to a booth and brushed crumbs to the floor. The seat had a visible gash in it, and the tabletop was carved with former patrons' names. The table tilted just a bit as he put a hand on it. But, like so many places in the desert, there was a defiance in the beauty of the old diner that glimmered just under the surface.

“Your seat, my dear.”

She slid into the booth and looked up at him curiously.

He ducked his head in a flare of instinctive shyness—fearing that he was wrong about her, worrying that she would hate it—and looked up at her through the hair that fell over his eyes. “Is it too awful for you?”

“No.” She reached out and caught his wrist, tugging him until he sat beside her. “I'm with you, so it's
perfect.
”

Somewhat embarrassed, he admitted, “My finances are lacking.”

She entwined her fingers with his. “Don't worry about it. There's no real jobs here . . . or places to go or . . .” She looked out the window at the partially lit signs, scrubby plants, and cracked asphalt. “This whole place is awful. As soon as I can, I'm out of here.”

Sionnach tensed. He wasn't surprised at the vehement tone in her voice, but he didn't see the world the same way she did. He wanted her to see it as he did, to maybe stay here a while longer. “It can be wonderful here too. Beautiful. There are treasures here that I haven't found anywhere else . . . and we have fun, don't we?”

She turned to smile at him. “It's not awful with
you
here, but it was before.”

As Carissa snuggled into Sionnach's embrace, he glanced down at their entwined fingers. She might be a mortal, but he'd miss her. If he were a mortal, he'd follow her for a time to whatever place she fled to, but he wasn't. He wouldn't ever be. The desert was always going to be his rightful place, and she was—like all mortals—a lovely distraction and fleeting moment in his eternity.

Outside the window, four solitary faeries rushed up and pressed their faces to the glass. They were his responsibility, but he'd told them previously that they weren't to intrude when he was with human girls. Although Carissa couldn't see them, she obviously felt him tense beside her because she asked, “Are you okay?”

“How could I be anything else? I'm with you,” he assured her. He hadn't actually answered the question, but overt lies were impossible. Luckily, like most people, Carissa didn't notice simple misdirection.

When she looked away, scanning the room for their server, Sionnach scowled at the faeries. He subtly tilted his head upward in a gesture that clearly conveyed that they should depart. Instead of obeying, they mocked him—one swept another into an exaggerated dip, a second folded his hands and clutched them over his heart with a moony expression. They weren't doing anything horrible, but he didn't want an audience. He didn't want them to bring their reminders of his responsibilities and challenges into his rare time at pretending to be free.

“Go away,” he mouthed silently.

Carissa glanced at him. “Are you sure you're okay?”

He smiled reassuringly before he said, “I was merely thinking.”

“About?”

“Well . . .” He leaned in close to her as if he were going to say something serious and then whispered, “
Food
.”

Carissa laughed.

A waitress dropped a menu on the table with a
thunk
.

“How almost kind!” Sionnach gave her an irritated look and lifted one of the sticky menus to hold it out to Carissa. As he reached for the other menu, he saw that his disobedient faeries had donned mortal glamours and were walking into the restaurant. Gone were their tails and thorns. Instead, they now looked like standard desert-living teens. Their clothes were all a little worn, but their overall appearance was that of a rowdy group of potential troublemakers rather than absurdly long-living creatures who needed to be kept in check by their Alpha. It wasn't that they were
bad
in the mortal sense of right and wrong; faeries were merely less cautious, more mischievous, and often unmindful of the breakable nature of more finite creatures.

Sionnach didn't want to deal with their testing of his rules—not here, not in front of her—but they came up to the booth. One dragged a chair over to the booth. Two others slid into the bench facing Sionnach and Carissa. The fourth stayed standing.

“Shy?” Carissa looked at them warily.

“It's fine.” He kept an arm around her.

The waitress, who had been watching them with a pronounced scowl, headed back over to the table. She stopped just behind the standing faery and announced, “No orders, no seats.” She paused and glared at Sionnach before adding, “Your friends need to order or get out.”

“They aren't staying.” He looked at them one by one, hoping that they'd walk away.

They grinned unrepentantly.

“We could order food,” one said.

“And pay for it,” the waitresses said sternly.

“Sure,” another faery replied.

“No.” Sionnach gave them a look that was more bared teeth than actual smile, warning them that they were treading on shaky ground. “You need to leave.”

The faery on the chair asked, “Where's Rika? I didn't see her around. Did she go back with Keenan?”

“Who?”
Carissa tensed and started to pull out of Sionnach's embrace.

“Tsk. Tsk. You didn't tell her about Rika?”

“Rika is my family,” Sionnach murmured to Carissa as the faeries flashed mock innocent looks. Then, his gaze still on the faeries: “She'll be home soon, and she would
not
like you attempting to stir trouble in her absence.”

Carissa started, “Your family? Is she your sister or—”

“My family . . . more or less adopted her. It's like she was born one of us now.”

“Oh.” Carissa sounded relieved, and then instantly a little hurt. “Why haven't I met her? Or heard about her? You've never even mentioned her.”

“What terrible manners!” the faery standing beside the table said with a gasp. “Carissa, darling, you ought to come with us instead.”

At that, Sionnach's patience expired. He stood in a move almost too quick for mortal eyes. The faery who was standing and the one who'd dragged the chair over both jumped and promptly scurried backward. Calmly, Sionnach said, “Carissa, would you go up to the counter and ask our waitress for a piece of pie?”

“Sure.” She stretched the word out. “And how long do you need me gone in search of this pie?”

Sionnach flashed her a toothy smile. That was part of her charm: she didn't ask questions he couldn't answer or expect him to behave like he was completely civilized. “Just a few minutes,” he assured her. “Your patience is kind, Riss.”

“In case your lips are bruised later . . .” She slid out of the booth and kissed him full on the mouth.

He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her while they kissed. When he pulled away, he turned and lowered her feet; in the process, he moved her away from the other faeries. “Never too bruised for you,” he whispered. “Go on now.”

She walked away laughing with a swish in her steps. Unlike Rika, Carissa didn't question him when he asserted his dominance. If anything, she seemed excited when she glimpsed it.

As soon as she was at the counter, her back to them, Sionnach turned to face the faeries. His words were low as he ordered, “Leave. Now.”

The faery who had remained standing was suddenly very serious. “There is taking of sides. There are words, Sionnach. There are rumors that Maili has invited Keenan to—”

“He is not welcome in my desert.” Sionnach pulled his shoulders back. His tail—which the faeries could see although mortals, fortunately, could not—was held high and to the side in an aggressive posture. He flashed his teeth.

One of the seated faeries stood and raised a hand as if he'd strike Sionnach. “Maybe it's not
your
desert after all.”

Sionnach punched him, an uppercut to the face. “You forget yourself.”

The waitress called out, “Fights
outside
. Not in here.”

“There is no fight,” Sionnach answered without taking his attention from the faery staring at him.
“Is there?”

“If you can't keep us safe, maybe there
should
be,” the faery said.

“Do you challenge me?”

Several heartbeats passed as they all waited.

The faery looked down and took a step back. “No. Not me.”

The other faeries didn't move, but they all lowered their gazes to the ground submissively.

The one faery who had remained seated stood finally. Like Sionnach, he was a fox, but his tail was tucked between his legs. Quietly, he said, “Rika ran because
Keenan
's coming here. The Summer King.
Here!
” He looked around worriedly, lowered his voice further still, and said, “He'll change everything. Even
Rika
is afraid. She left because—”

“Rika didn't run from Keenan.” Sionnach felt a wash of exhaustion. He'd hoped that no one had noticed her absence, figured that with the way she hid in her cave they'd assume she was tucked away, but she'd obviously been seen. Gently, he said, “I'm sure she'll be back.”

From beside him, the faery with the bruised face prompted, “And the rest?”

“We'll fix it. Rika intends to . . .
talk
to Maili.” Sionnach's tail swished behind him. “And if you are wise, you'll want seats to watch. Rika is not pleased that Maili invited Keenan into our desert. He has no right being near her ever again. We will not allow him here, and we
will
keep you safe.”

“But—”

“Have I failed you yet?” Sionnach looked at each of them in turn.

“No,” several said simultaneously.

“I told you I'd find a way to have Rika help me keep you safe. I
did
.” Sionnach let them see his affection for them for a moment.

“Rika will come back?” the twitchy faery asked.

“This is her home,” he said. Hoping they didn't notice that he'd avoided the question, he quickly added, “If I fail you, you have every right to anger, but I will
not
fail. I have not.”

“Rika will stand beside you? Keep him out?” the fox faery asked nervously. “I like it here, but I don't want a king. Kings aren't . . . good. We're solitary and—”

“I will keep us all safe,” Sionnach interrupted him. “I always do. Trust me.”

After a quiet moment, all four faeries left. Sionnach let out a whoosh of breath. He needed Rika to come back, to forgive him or at least ignore her anger to look after the solitaries here. He was mostly certain she would return, but a niggling doubt remained. She'd held on to her anger at Keenan for decades. Grudge holding was something of an art for her.
This
, he rationalized,
wasn't a major offense though. Surely she could see that! A harmless omission, a few nudges toward what she already wanted, and some gentle manipulation . . .
Among fey, these weren't even worth noticing. He'd give her the day, and after that, he'd have to find her. If she wanted to rage at him later, she could, but right now, they had the safety of the desert to consider.