Edge of the Falls (After the Fall) (32 page)

He pulls at his hair, turning away, refusing to touch me. “I can’t change, Sabah,” he says, and his voice is empty, so empty. “I tried—the serum didn’t work on me.”

“I don’t care,” I say, and it’s the truth. He can hear it in my voice, and his head turns to me. “I love you,” I tell him, running a soft hand over his jaw. “This is what I’m choosing—you, however you might be.”

His eyes are pooling with tears, and I take a step closer, slowly, as though to avoid spooking an animal. “All my life, Berg told me stories. He always wanted to live one of them—a story about princes and princesses and magic and love.”

He makes a soft noise, as I thread my fingers in his hair, and pull him down. The ache in my chest seems to subside as I kiss him, and this time, he’s the one crying. I smile at him. “I never wanted one of those stories.”

“You didn’t?” he whispers.

I shake my head, and smile. “I never wanted them because I didn’t believe they were real. I didn’t believe love could make life perfect.”

He’s watching me, so still it is painful. I kiss him again, the familiar, misshapen lips. “But then, I met you. And you showed me that life isn’t perfect—love isn’t. But that it’s worth choosing. It’s worth fighting for.” I shrug, lightly. “You showed me that impossible stories could be true.”

Nazarea Andrews is an avid reader and tends to write the stories she wants to read. She loves chocolate and coffee almost as much as she loves books, but not quite as much as she loves her kids. When not writing, she can most often be found cooking, cleaning or texting while she plays princess with her kids. When she can’t be at the beach, she lives in south Georgia with her husband, daughters, and overgrown dog. And she loves hearing from readers on Twitter and Facebook.

All my stories come from my God, and writing is something I am grateful He gave me.

This is the story I've always wanted to tell, and writing it was largely a solo effort. Writing is that way.

Bringing it from its first awful draft to what you read now? That was so far from a solo effort, it's funny. So - some thanks:

My cheerleaders, Katie Swope, Lindsay Taylor, Renee Davison and Becca Jemison, who love my work even when it's awful and help me see what I missed. And get feisty when I don’t deliver stories quickly.

My cover designer, Stephanie Mooney, thank you so much for making Edge look so pretty! And my editor, Stephanie Lott, who fixed all my awful issues and asked the right questions.

The kid lit community is filled with such amazing people and I was so touched to have the excitement and support of so many talented friends and bloggers.

Special thanks goes to my mom--who listened to me babble about this book for years and supported me every step along the way. My in laws, who have always supported my crazy dream and read my books, who got mad for me when I had to be professional, and who keep my poor family fed and in clean clothes when I'm under a deadline. And Hailey and Serena, who babysat while I worked.

Michelle Zink, who has been an inspiration and a friendly ear in the past years. It’s been so appreciated.

Big hugs and thanks to Mandy and Kelly, who have helped me find a home in this industry, and who taught me enough that doing this self-publishing thing was a little less terrifying.

Then there are my critique partners—Liz and Auzy, who keep me laughing and fill my inbox with insanity and push my writing to be better. Kristen and Mel, with the questions I wouldn’t think to ask and enough distance to help me see what I’m missing. Brianna—with all the talks about characters and the Vampire Diaries, and the best grammar Nazi a girl could ask for—she came late to the party, but I’m super lucky to have her.

And in a class all her own is my critique partner and friend, Chanteé. Everyone needs a Chanteé in their lives--she made the entire process of self-publishing so much more fun and less tear-inducing. She was always honest enough to tell me what didn't work, and enthusiastic enough to convince me she loved it. She devoted hours of time into planning and marketing, editing and formatting, and generally keeping me sane when my computer did something crazy. I couldn't have done this without her. (Also, thanks to her long suffering husband and daughter who didn't complain when I had her working late into the night.)

To my amazing daughters, who were very patient when 'mommy is working' and who dragged me away from my work so I'd take them to the playground. I hope you read and love this one day. And Mike--thanks for all your patience and support. And for not complaining when you don't have matching socks. You inspire all the romance I write, babe.

Final thanks to you, lovely reader. For taking a chance on this. I’m so glad you did, and would love to hear what you think!

N~

I stood on the front porch, my eyes scanning the darkness as I listened to them move about the house. It was almost dawn, and our time was coming to its end. They had enjoyed the night, the hunt even if it had been disappointing.

They always enjoyed the hunt.

I didn’t move when Gil walked out and lit a cigarette. The demi-prince was standing too close, almost pressed against me, the smoke from his cigarette swirling about my head. I was reminded again that I was going to be forced to deal with him soon.

Gil was ambitious and cruel, and everything an Unseelie Fae should be. I was not in line for my father’s obsidian throne—as a daughter, I never would be—but I was still Lady of the Dark Court. Until my title passed to the new Lady, I would be sought after and wooed by fae like Gil.

He leaned over, blowing a stream of smoke in my face and I blinked, forcing back the nausea and rage. Gil chuckled—years serving me let him see through my calm, “So serious, little princess?”

“What would you prefer?” I asked, bored.

“For you to join the dance.” He paused, pulled on his cigarette, “You have not fed on anything more than the hunt in weeks, Lady.”

I sighed. He would recognize that. I gave him a look that spoke eloquently of my displeasure and he subsided, stepping away. I whistled, and Sorcha, my favorite hell hound, lifted her shaggy head, then trotted behind me toward the barn. I pushed open the door, and the shadows surged toward me. Liquid darkness with flashing white teeth. I stepped into the midst of them, and the fighting briefly intensified. The Hounds were vicious anytime, but when fighting over me, they were terrifying. Sorcha snapped at one who edged too close, pressing her body against my legs.

I whistled a sharp command, and the fighting eased. The pack raced ahead of me to the stalls they slept in, snarling briefly over choice spots. By the time I arrived, they had settled themselves on the hay, and eyes were beginning to close. Sorcha lay down on my feet as I wrapped myself in my blankets and closed my eyes.

I was Lady of the Dark Court, and—to the Unseelie—the closest thing we had to a Queen.
And yet,
I thought bitterly,
I sleep in a bed of hay surrounded by the Hounds of hell.

There was a message waiting when I finally returned to the house. My Fae knew better than to attempt to disturb me when I slept with the Hounds. Last time one had tried to deliver a message from my oldest brother, a one of the young bitches had torn his throat out.

There was quite a bit of wisdom in the old adage: let sleeping dogs lie.

Gil handed it to me with my morning cup of mead and I gave him a quick look. He shrugged, called to the water sprites. I braced myself as they streamed past, flooding through the open door and sprinting for the forest and the streams that filled it.

A dryad was perched on the porch swing when I stepped outside, and I made a low noise that had her scurrying away. “Why so far from the forest, Ash?”

She shrugged, “Scavenging. There has been little in the way of food lately. The hunt was not as successful as it could be.”

Sorcha lifted her head, growling and I arched an eyebrow. “Saying that in front of a Hound is extraordinarily stupid.” I paused, gave her a brittle smile, “Even for you.”

She hissed, then pulled a glamour and faded. I could have found her, but I let her go. I wanted solitude to read Sloane’s message.

It had been three years since Father had turned me out of the Court. I was still its Lady, and there was nothing even he could do that would change that short of killing me. He did not like me, would not tolerate me in the Burrows, but there was no denying that he needed me—he needed a Dark Lady. And it seemed he would rather face one he knew, despite my temperaments, then replace me with someone of my choosing.

But he didn’t particularly care for me. It’s why I lived so far from the Burrows, on a run down farm in the Mortal world. Sloane made my life as miserable as he could. And when facing our enemies, Sloane sent me to deal with them more often then not.

I was beginning to think he hoped one
would
kill me and remove the problem from his hands.

I opened the letter, which was short and to the point:

The Atlanta Conclave has requested an emissary from the Unseelie Court. You will present yourself to the Head by weeks end. S-

I glared at the note. He knew I hated the cities. Atlanta was one of the worse—it was loud and crass and overcrowded. The air was impossibly dirty and reeked of iron. Sorcha was watching me, her black eyes curious.

“Sloane wants us to go to Atlanta.” I told her. She whined, and an image shifted in my head, one of a small black pug. I laughed, “No I don’t think you need go
that
far.”

She growled, and I reached down to fondle her ears. It was easy for the other fae to forget that the Hounds were just as intelligent and aware as any of us. They were fae, too, after all. But since only the Dark Lady could communicate with them, and they could only assume a canine glamour, the other fae were quick to dismiss them as inferior. Sorcha stood, shook herself. I grinned as I thought about her in the glamour of a pug.

Like all the Hounds, she had the height of a Great Dane, with the muscle and temper of a wolf. A predator, born for the Wild Hunt. She was my best friend, the only one who knew all my secrets. She nudged my leg, and I glanced at her, startled out of my wandering thoughts, “What?”

Another image formed in my head, more my memory then hers, of a perfectly formed face and ancient silvery blue eyes. I enjoyed the gaze for longer than I should before I finally pushed the thought away.

“No.” My voice was short when I snapped at her, “He won’t be there. The message says the Unseelie. He’d have no business in Atlanta.”

I can remember three times I should have died. Three times, I stood on that precipice and was snatched back from it. Three times, before Berg took me as his ward and gave me Citizenship.

Never, not in all my years Outside living in the Manor, not in the many times I should have died, and not in the decade I’ve lived as a Citizen, have I ever been this frightened.

The wind slips around me and I hear the uneven crush of footsteps. Without turning, I track his movements around our meager camp.

“Kaida.” He approaches, and I reach up, taking the coffee he’s carrying. “We have to pack up.”

Cedric stops without touching me. Close enough that I can feel the heat of his body and his tension, but too far away to
feel
.

For a heartbeat, I almost ask him to hold me.

“He’s running out of time.”

I swallow hard, and stand. “Did you look at the maptable?”

He gives me an impatient look and I clench my jaw to keep from snapping at him. Take a deep breath and swallow the rest of my coffee. It’s thick and grainy on my tongue, and I make a face. “Show me.”

He pulls the maptable out and steps close again.

“Berg said they follow the same paths. If he’s right, we should hit their campgrounds in the next day or so.” Cedric says. His long fingers trace the path on the maptable. I glance around again—the graylight is taking hold, pushing the ever present darkness back. I stand, brushing my pants off. “Let’s get going, then.”

He nods, slipping the maptable into the water proof bag. I pack up our clothing from the night before as Cedric starts collapsing our tiny tent.

“How much more food do we have?” I ask.

“Two days. And what he gave us to trade.” Cedric’s gray eyes flick to mine. “We should just use the pills today. Save the food.”

I nod, even though hunger is gnawing at my belly already. The pills don’t take away hunger pains.

Cedric stumbles a little as he swings the pack onto his shoulder, and I’m at his side instantly, shoving my shoulder under his. His weight is familiar, the heat of his body against mine almost scorching.

“I’m fine, Kai,” he snaps, pulling away.

“Why are you doing that?”