Chapter Thirty-Nine
I ordered my soldiers to shoot the unseelie nobles who were standing. Cel was a prince of faerie. He was heir to a throne. He had diplomatic immunity. They shouldn't have taken my order, but we had crossed a battlefield together. I had saved their lives. My orders through their sergeant had kept us alive and unharmed. We were a unit, and as a unit they fired on my order.
I watched the nobles' bodies jerk and dance to the explosion of the bullets. The noise was deafening. They were wounded in a sort of silence, because the guns were so loud, and seemed to have nothing to do with the movement at the other end of the barrel. It was as if we fired, but they fell because of something else. But not all of them fell; most remained standing. I had to do something before they unleashed their hands of power on us all.
Blood leaked black in the moonlight, but it wasn't enough blood. I needed more, so much more. For the first time I felt no dread of my power, no pain at the call of it, just a fierceness that was almost joy. That fierceness poured over my skin in a wash of heat. It hit my left hand and poured out my palm.
Dawson yelled next to my ear. "What are you doing?"
I had no time to explain. I said, "The hand of blood." I pointed that hand, palm out, toward our enemies. I should have worried that I would hit Doyle, but in that moment I knew, simply knew, that I could do it. I could control it. It was mine, this power, it was me.
Blood fountained in black sheets from their wounds. They screamed, then Cel raised his hand. I knew what he meant to do. Without thinking, I stepped out from between my men, my soldiers, my people. Dawson grabbed for me to pull me back behind the shield of their bodies, but then Cel's hand of old blood hit us all, and Dawson's hand fell away. There were yells behind me, but I had no time to look.
I screamed "Mine!" There was pain. I could feel the nails in my arm and shoulder again; the knife wound I'd taken in a duel; claw marks in one arm and thigh from an old attack. It hurt, and I bled for him, but he could only make the wound as bad as it had been, and I had never had a blood injury that was near fatal.
"What did you do?" Dawson asked. "One minute we were bleeding, now we're not."
I had no space in my concentration to explain. Cel's hand might not kill us, but there were others at his side who could. It was a race now to see if I could bleed them to death faster than they could recover themselves.
I screamed, "Bleed for me!"
Blood geysered from them, and I could feel their flesh tearing under my power, their wounds like a doorway that my power could rip apart. The blood arched, black and shining liquid. The sound of it was like rain on the grass and trees around them.
The brilliant armor in all its rainbow colors began to turn black with blood and gore. They were screaming now, but what they screamed was "Mercy!" They called for mercy, but as I watched Doyle lay motionless at their feet, covered in black blood, I discovered that I had no mercy to give them.
I had never meant them to die for me. The thought came, "What did you think would happen if you sent soldiers against the Unseelie?" But even Cel wasn't supposed to be mad enough to fight the United States Army. I hadn't foreseen this, hadn't dreamed that he would be so out of control. But my lack of foresight didn't matter. I had asked for help, and my help was dying around me.
I stood there bleeding, staring across the yards of the frosted grass at my cousin's mad eyes. His helmet left his face bare save for a crosspiece down the line of his nose. His eyes burned with the color of his magic. He had called all his power, and I realized that it wasn't enough. It had never been enough.
The wind picked up the long blackness of his hair where it spilled free around his armor. He'd always worn it loose in battle. Too vain to hide his beauty, too bad a warrior to be willing to hide the hair that marked him as high court Unseelie. He would never braid it or put it back as Doyle did.
Cel was weak, evil-minded, and petty. Faerie would never accept him. I was going back to L.A. but I could not leave my people to him. I could not leave faerie in his inadequate hands.
I whispered onto the wind, "Bleed for me." The wind carried my voice, my magic, and where it moved it began to form into a whirlwind. A tornado formed of ice and blood and power. Faerie was the land, the land was faerie, and I had been crowned its queen. It rose to my word, my power, and my desire.
The nobles around him who could move, ran. Those who could crawl did so. They picked up their wounded and fled. Cel screamed at them, "Come back, cowards!"
His concentration had slipped away from me, and my old wounds were closed, as if by... magic.
Cel lashed out at his followers. Some fell in the winter-kissed grass, brought low by ancient wounds reopened by the man they would have made their king.
A wave of blackness moved across the field, as if a different night moved in a line above the frost. This night was moonless, and darker than dark. I knew, before she materialized completely, who would be standing in the way of my cold wind and blood.
Andais, Queen of Air and Darkness, stood in front of her son, as she had always stood in front of him. She wore her black armor, carried her raven blade. Her cloak spilled out behind her, and it was darkness itself spun into cloth, and more. She held darkness around her, and I felt her power of air push back at my own.
The twister I had conjured with faerie's help stopped moving forward. It did not die or fade, but it stopped, as if its twisting front had hit an invisible wall.
I pushed at that wall, willed my power to move forward, and for a moment the wall softened. I felt the whirlwind move forward; then it was as if the air was drawn away from it, sucked out and sent whirling into the moonlight. She pulled the air from my whirlwind as she could pull the air from your lungs.
Lieutenant Dawson barked orders and the soldiers formed two lines, one standing, one kneeling, both pointing at her. Would I have fired on my queen? I had a moment of hesitation, and that was my undoing. Darkness poured over us, and we were blind. The next moment the air was heavy, so heavy. We could not breathe. We had no air even to call for help. I collapsed to my knees, my hands on the cold grass. Someone fell against me, and I knew it had to be Dawson, but I could not see him. She was the Queen of Air and Darkness, a goddess of battle, and we would die at her feet.
Chapter Forty
I was lost in the dark. Her blackness had taken the sky. Only two things remained, the ground under my cheek, and the body next to me in the choking dark. I no longer knew right from left, and only the frozen ground let me know up from down, so I did not know who lay pressed against me in the blackness. A hand found mine, a hand to hold while we died.
The frost crunched under my free hand, and I clung to the warmth of that other hand. The frost began to melt against my hand, and I wished for Frost, my Killing Frost. He had let faerie take him away because he thought I loved him less than Doyle. It broke my heart to think that he would never know that I had loved him too.
I tried to say his name, but there was no air left to spare for words. I clung to the melting frost and the human hand, and let my tears speak for me into the frozen ground.
I regretted the babies inside me, and I thought, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't save you." But part of me was content to die. If Doyle and Frost were both lost to me, then death was not the worst fate. In that moment, I stopped fighting, because without them I didn't want to go on. I let the dark and the choking wash over me. I gave myself to death. Then the hand in mine spasmed; it clung to me as it died, and it brought me back to myself. I could have died alone, but if I died there was no one left to save them, my men, my soldiers. I could not leave them to the airless dark, not if there was anything I could do to save them. It was not love that made me fight again, it was duty. But duty is its own kind of love; I would fight for them, fight until death took me silently screaming. The babes inside me, without their fathers to help raise them, were almost a bitter thing, but the soldiers who clung to me had lives of their own, and she had no right to steal them. How dare she, immortal that she was, take their few years away.
I prayed, "Goddess, help me save them. Help me fight for them." I had no power in me to fight the dark and the very air made too heavy to breathe, but I prayed all the same, because when all else is lost, there is always prayer.
At first, I thought nothing had changed, then I realized that the grass under my hand and cheek was colder. The frost crunched as my fingers flexed, as if the melting that my warmth had caused had never happened.
The air was bitingly cold, like breathing in the heart of winter when the air is so cold it burns going down. Then I realized that I was breathing a complete full breath of the frigid air. The hand in mine squeezed, and I heard voices saying, "I can breathe," or simply coughing as if they'd been fighting to draw a full breath all this time.
I whispered, "Thank you, Goddess."
I tried to lift my head from the grass, but the moment my face got more than a few inches from the ground, the air was gone again. Sounds in the dark let me know that I wasn't the only one who had discovered how narrow our line of air was, but it was there. We could breathe. Andais could not crush our lungs. She would have to come into the dark and find us if she wanted us dead.
The frost thickened under my hand until it was like touching a young snow. The air was so cold that each breath hurt, as if ice were stabbing me. Then the frost thickened more, and moved under my hand. Moved? Frost didn't move. There was fur under my hand, something alive, growing out of the very ground. I kept my hand on that furred side, and felt it go up and up, until my hand was stretched tall to follow the curve of something. I stroked my hand down that furred but strangely cold side, and found the curved haunches of something. It was only as my hand followed the curve of the leg to find a hoof that I thought I understood. The white stag had formed out of the frost. My Killing Frost was here, beside me. He was still a stag, still not my love, but it was still him in there somewhere. I stroked his side, felt him rise and fall with breath. The stag's head had to be far above mine, and if he could breathe, so could I. I rose slowly to my knees, keeping one hand on the stag's side and the other in the hand that still clung to mine. The hand moved with me, and its owner got to their knees.
It was Orlando, next to me, who said, "I can still breathe."
I didn't answer. I was afraid to talk, as if my words would frighten the stag, make it run like the animal it was. My hand found the rapid beat of its heart against my palm. I wanted to wrap my arm around its neck, hold it tightly, but I was afraid that it would climb to its feet and run. How much of my Frost was in there? I had seen him watching me, but did he understand, or had the Goddess just sent the stag to help us?
I whispered, "Oh, Frost, please, please hear me."
The stag shook, as if something that it didn't like had touched it, and it got to its feet. My hand was just on its leg as I struggled to my feet in my long coat, with no hand to help me hold the hem, but I was afraid to lose my grip on either warmth that my hand touched. The stag because it was the closest I'd been to Frost since he had vanished, and Orlando's hand because it had been that touch that had made me fight. A human hand that had made me realize that a queen does not despair as long as her people are in danger. You fight, you fight even if your heart is broken, because it's not just about your happiness anymore. It's about theirs, too.
I stumbled on the hem of my coat, and Orlando's hand steadied me as I righted myself by the stag's side. It shifted nervously, as if getting ready to bolt. I knew he was a stag, and I knew he wasn't really in there, but this was the closest I had come to him, and I wanted him to stay. This curve of fur and warmth was all I had left of him.
The stag began to walk. I kept my hand on its side, and pulled Orlando with me. I felt a tugging, and thought that Orlando had someone else by the hand. The stag pranced nervously, and I felt the presence of someone else on its other side. We touched the stag, and held hands like children, as it led us forward in the dark.
It was Sergeant Dawson who said, "Weapons off. Safe. When we can see again, fire. Don't give her a chance to use her magic again."
Andais was queen and my aunt. My father had refused to kill her and take her throne. That bit of mercy had probably cost him his life, because once the rebels offer you a throne, even if you don't take it, there are those who fear that you will. He had loved his sister, and even his nephew. I realized in that moment that I did not. They had both made certain that there was no love between us. Some would say I had a duty to my queen, but my duty was to the men crowded around me in the dark. My duty was to the stag who led us forward, and what was left of my Frost. My duty was to the children inside me, and anyone who would steal them away was my enemy. War in the abstract is a confusing thing. War on the ground, in the middle of a battle, is not. When someone shoots at you, they are your enemy, and you shoot back. When someone tries to kill you, they are your enemy, and you try to kill them first. War is complicated, battle is not. She was going to kill us, even knowing I held the grandchildren of her brother inside me. In that moment I had only one duty, for all of us to survive.
If she used her magic again there might not be a second miracle to save us. Goddess helps those who help themselves. We were armed with automatic weapons; we'd help ourselves.
I felt the soldiers around me shifting, and thought they were readying their guns. Orlando squeezed my hand one last time, then took his hand into the dark. He was getting ready to kill my queen. Would she still be where we'd left her? "The queen may not be standing where we last saw her," I said.
Dawson gave orders for the men to cover a circle around us, because there was no cover save the darkness that held us. Once free of that, we would be naked to the view of all.
We stepped into the moonlight, and it seemed unbearably bright, bright enough to make me blink. I was still blinking into the brightness when the first gunshots exploded around me. It made me jump, but the stag jerked so violently that for a moment I thought he had been hit. Then he bounded away, a blur of white, streaking away from the noise, the guns, the violence.
I yelled his name. I could not help it. "Frost!" But there was no one inside that body to answer the sound of human words. The stag vanished into the tree edge, and I was alone again.
Dawson yelled beside me, "Field of fire, the black area. Suppressive bursts with rifle, squad weapons, give me ten seconds of raking fire. She's hiding behind it."
I turned and looked at the battlefield. I turned and looked at my aunt and my cousin and the nobles from the court I was supposed to be fighting to rule, and I cared more about the stag leaving than about them dying.
Andais had called darkness, like a mist to hide herself and Cel and the other nobles. Dawson and the rest were firing into it. If they were still there, the bullets would find them, but there was no way to tell what lay in the dark. Had she fled?
I looked behind us, and found that the men who had been given the job of watching the back of the circle were doing just that. They were letting the others fire into the dark, but they watched to see whether the darkness was a trick, whether our enemies were trying to sneak up behind us.
What could I do to help them?
"They're behind us!" someone yelled, and I turned with that yell.
I had time to knock the rifle to point at the ground, and move myself into the line of fire. I could have tried yelling, but watching the Red Caps move out of the darkness, I knew that words wouldn't have kept the men from firing on them. The Red Caps were small giants, seven to twelve feet tall, and all of them wore close-fitting caps on their heads that bled fresh blood down their faces and bodies. Before magic returned to faerie, their hats were dry, and only fresh death helped them wet them again. My hand of blood had given them back their own blood magic. But there was no time to explain all that in the middle of battle. I did the only thing I could think of; I stood between the two groups with my hands outspread. It kept the soldiers from firing and gave Dawson time to turn around and give orders.
I yelled, "They are allies, friends!"
"Fuck that," someone said.
I couldn't blame them for the fear in those words. It looked like every Red Cap the goblin kingdom could boast was coming toward us across the field. There were dozens of them, armed to the teeth, covered in blood, and coming for us. If I hadn't been certain they were on our side, I'd have shot them too. Shot them, and run for my life.
When I was sure that my people wouldn't shoot them, I walked to meet the Red Caps. Jonty was in the front. He was nearly ten feet tall, with scaly gray skin, and a face nearly as wide as my chest. His mouthful of jagged teeth and nearly lipless mouth had become something more human, more... handsome. My magic had changed the Red Caps to something more Seelie, though I had not done it on purpose. Jonty wasn't the largest of them, but my eyes went to him first. Maybe it was because I knew him and he me, but the other Red Caps let him be ahead of them without arguing. Goblins are all about strength, the ultimate survival of the fittest, and Red Caps are the most violent, the most wedded to power and strength. For them all to fall back and let him lead them said that it wasn't just my eyes that saw the power in Jonty. Of course, I sensed it; the Red Caps had probably made him fight for those few feet of respect.
Dawson was beside me when Jonty and I met in the field. The wizard trusted me, but he had brought soldiers with guns, just in case. Jonty smiled down at me through his mask of blood. I tried to see that smile the way Dawson and the other humans must see it. Frightening, I supposed, but I could not see it that way. It was Jonty, and the blood flowing down him called to my hand of blood, so that I held that hand out to him. He put his large fingers against my palm, and magic jumped between us, tingling and rushing, like warm champagne with a little electricity in it.
"What was that?" Dawson asked, which meant he'd felt something, too.
"Magic," I said.
The blood ran faster, thicker, from Jonty's cap, so that he had to wipe his hand across his forehead to keep his eyes free of blood. He laughed, a great, rumbling, joyous sound. The other Red Caps began to crowd around, to touch the blood on him. Those who touched bled more.
"What is happening?" one of the other soldiers asked.
"I carry blood magic, and the Red Caps react to it."
"She is too modest," Jonty said. "She is our mistress. The first sidhe with a full Hand of Blood in centuries. We felt her call to our blood, and we came to join the battle." He frowned then. "The other goblins did not feel the call of blood."
"I have a treaty with Kurag. He should have still sent men."
"The goblin king knew who you fought, and he would not stand boldly against the queen."
"Coward," one of the other Red Caps muttered.
"You went against your king to come here," I said.
Jonty nodded. "We cannot go back to the goblin mound."
I looked at them, dozens of the most dangerous warriors that the goblins could boast. I tried to picture them permanently stationed in Los Angeles. I couldn't quite picture it. But I couldn't leave them homeless. They had shown more loyalty than most of the sidhe to me. I would reward that, not punish it.
Orlando called out. "The darkness is fading."
We turned, and found that he was right. The darkness was fading like some polluted mist. Andais was gone, and so were Cel and several of the other armored figures, but not all. Had she left them as a punishment or because she could not transport all of them? She had gained in power like most of faerie, but not to the point that she had once been, when she could make entire armies of the Unseelie appear and disappear. Andais might try to make a reason for leaving some of Cel's allies behind, but in the end, I knew she had left them because she wasn't strong enough to save them. For she would be certain that any left behind would be killed. It's what she would do.
In truth, there was only one figure on that side of the field that I cared about. Whether the rest lived or died was nothing to me. Only Doyle mattered. If he lived, then it was all good; if he was... not alive, then I wasn't sure what I'd do. I couldn't think past the need to cross the field and see if his heart still beat.
Dawson stopped me from taking the lead, and put some of his men in a line of guns pointing at the wounded sidhe. Jonty stayed at my side, and the Red Caps came at our backs. I started to say that we should put the Red Caps in front. They were a lot harder to kill than humans, but we were almost there. I didn't want to do anything to delay touching Doyle. In that moment, I was not a leader of men, I was a woman who wanted the man she loved. In that moment, I understood that love is as dangerous as hate. It will make you forget, make you weak. I did not push the soldiers aside and run for Doyle. That took all the control I had left. Beyond that, there was nothing but the fear that crushed my chest tight, and the ache in my hands to touch his skin. If he were dead, I wanted to touch him while his skin still felt like him. A body doesn't feel like your loved one once it grows cold. It's like touching a doll. No, I have no words for what it feels like to touch someone you love once their body has given up its warmth. All the wonderful memories of my father, and the one that haunts is his skin under my hands, cold and unyielding with death. I did not want my last touch of Doyle to be like that. I prayed as we closed that distance. I prayed for him to be alive, but something made me pray for warmth too. Did that mean I already knew the truth? Did that mean he was already gone, and I was simply bargaining for what that last caress would be like?
There was a pressure building inside my head, pushing at my eyes. I would not cry, not yet. I would not shed tears when he might still live. Please, Goddess, please, Mother, let him be alive.
The wounded sidhe cried out, "Mercy, mercy on us, Princess. We followed our prince, as we would follow you."
I didn't answer, because I simply didn't care. I knew they had betrayed me, and they knew I knew it. They were painting the best picture they could because we had filled them with bullets, had injured them until they could not flee. Their queen and their prince had left them to my mercy. They had nothing else to count on but the possibility that I was my father's daughter. He would have spared them; such gestures of mercy were what made everyone love him. His mercy was also the thing his assassin had most likely used to lure him to his death. In that moment, for the first time, I saw my father's mercy as weakness.
"Move away from Doyle," I said, and my voice was choked with emotion. That I could not help. I wanted to run to him, to throw myself on him, but my enemies were too close. If Doyle were dead, then my death and the death of our children would not bring him back. If he still lived, then a few minutes of caution would not change that. Part of me screamed inside, hurry, hurry, but there was a larger part of me that was strangely calm. I felt icy, and somehow not quite myself. Something about tonight had stolen me away, and left a colder, wiser stranger in her place.
My father once said that as a ruler shapes a country, so the people of a country shape a ruler. The nobles on the ground, who were crawling, limping, and dragging their wounded away from Doyle's still form, had helped bring me to this cold stranger. We would see how cold my heart would stay.
Jonty said, "Princess Meredith, we would protect you from their magic."
I nodded.
"We are protecting the princess," Dawson said.
"They can put their bodies between me and the hands of power of the nobles here. They would kill or maim you, but Red Caps are a tougher lot, Sergeant. They can be our shields."
Dawson looked up at the towering figures. "You'll be our meat shields?"
Jonty seemed to think about it, then nodded.
Dawson glanced at me, then shrugged as if to say, "If they're willing to take the hit, better them than my men."
"Okay" was what he said out loud.
The Red Caps moved around us so that they shielded both me and the soldiers. The humans were a little nervous, and several of them asked, "They're on our side, right?"
Dawson and I assured them that, yes, Jonty and the rest were on our side. I wasn't as reassuring as I might have been, because most of my attention was on the glimpses of Doyle that I kept getting as everyone moved around us. In that moment, I wasn't sure I cared about anything, or anyone else. My world had narrowed down to that spill of black hair on the frost-rimmed grass.
My hands tingled with the need to touch him, long before Dawson and Jonty felt that it was safe. Finally, the way was clear, and I was able to hold up the leather skirt and run to him. I collapsed beside him, the skirt protecting me from the winter-rough grass. I reached for him, then hesitated. It seemed ridiculous that a moment before all I had wanted was to touch him, and now that I could, I was afraid. I was so afraid I could barely breathe through the tightness in my throat. My heart couldn't decide if it was beating too fast, or forgetting to beat, so that my chest hurt with it. I knew that it was the beginning of a panic attack, not a heart attack, but a tiny part of me wasn't sure I cared which it was. If he was dead, and Frost was lost, then...
I fought my breathing until it came more smoothly. I fought until my breath was deeper, more even. I would not lose control of myself. Not in front of the men. Later, in private, if...
I cursed myself for a coward and made myself reach out those last few inches to that long, black hair. The hair was thick and rich and perfect as it moved under my hands, so I could find his neck, and check his pulse. My fingers brushed something hard. I moved back and stared at the smooth line of his neck, exposed to the moonlight. There was nothing there but the collar of the designer suit that Doyle had borrowed from Sholto.
I shook my head and reached for his neck again. My eyes told me I was touching skin, but my fingers told me there was something in the way. Something hard, but cloth-covered, something... There was only one reason that my eyes and my fingers weren't telling me the same thing.
I fought down the first flutter of hope, squashed it flat, and had to calm myself for a very different reason. Positive emotions can blind you as surely as negative ones. I had to see the truth, had to touch the truth, whatever it might be.
I closed my eyes, for they were what was being fooled. I reached for the side of his neck, and found that hard cloth again. With my eyes closed, I could feel it better, because my sight wasn't arguing with my sense of touch. I pushed past whatever piece of clothing it was, and found the neck. The moment I touched the skin, I knew it wasn't Doyle. The skin texture wasn't his. I searched for the big neck pulse, and found none. Whoever was under my fingertips was dead; still warm, but dead.
I kept my eyes closed and moved my hands upward, to find very short hair, and the roughness of the beginnings of stubble, and a face that was not the face I loved. It was illusion, really good illusion, but in the end, it was magic, not reality.
I had a moment of relief so complete that I half fell onto the body. It wasn't Doyle. He wasn't dead. I let myself collapse onto the body. I hugged it to me, my hands searching for the uniform, the weapons they hadn't even bothered to remove. Such disdain, such arrogance.
Dawson knelt on one side of me, and Jonty came to the other. "I am so sorry, Princess Meredith," Dawson said, touching my back.
"The Darkness was a great warrior," Jonty said in his deep voice.
I shook my head, pushing myself up from the body. "It's not him. It's not Doyle. It's an illusion."
"What?" Dawson said.
"Then why are you crying?" Jonty asked.
I hadn't even realized I was crying, but he was right. "Relief, I think," I said.
"Why are they holding the glamour in place to make it look like Darkness?" Jonty asked.
Until that moment I hadn't thought about it, but he was absolutely right. Why would they not drop an illusion guaranteed to make me angrier at them if they were truly giving up? Answer: they weren't giving up, and they hoped to gain something through the trick. But what?
Jonty helped me to my feet, his hand so large that it encircled my upper arm with his hand almost in a fist, as if he could have wrapped his hand around me over and over.
He kept moving me over the frozen ground away from the glamour-hidden body. "What's wrong?" Dawson asked.
"Mayhap nothing, but I do not like it."
I started to say "Jonty," but never got it out. It wasn't the sound of the bomb that hit first; it was the physical push of the explosion. The rush of energy hit us before the sound so that we had a moment of being hit. Then Jonty was cradling me, hiding me against his body, and only then did the sound hit, a sound that rocked the world and deafened me. It was like getting hit twice by something huge and angry. I'd heard stories that giants could be invisible, and this was like that. It seemed wrong that something so powerful could be so unseen. That something so destructive could be merely chemicals and metal. There was something so alive about it, as it drove us to the ground, and smashed the world around us.
