All That Glows

Nineteen

Mab’s sparrow soon arrives, a mess of mud-flecked feathers and parchment summoning me west, to the center of England.

After I tell Richard farewell, I ride high on the winds, taking hold of my new energy. The land passes flat beneath me, yellowed with long, waving grass. The plains of Albion. The heart of Britain, the place where many of my younger memories were formed.

Today the Faery queen’s court presides at Stonehenge, one of the few wells of deeper magic left to the south. A long time ago, it was a place where spirits flew up from the ground, an overflow of magic. More than a few Fae came to life here. But, like all of the other sites, Stonehenge’s womb now lies barren. There are no new spirits. Only us.

Mab and her attendants are planted in the middle of the aging circle, soaking in all the strength this jumble of stones offers. Their magic rattles through me as I land, careful to avoid the human’s fragile security system.

“Look at them gawking,” Mab says, pointing to the crowd of camera-toting mortals beyond the fence. “Nothing is sacred anymore.”

“They forgot what this place was for, Your Majesty.” I bow my greeting, hands folded in front of me. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse mercury hair, unbearably bright under so much daylight. It’s Titania, leaning against one of the upright stones, staring and staring.

The queen’s face stays solemn. “It’s almost not worth the trip down here with all of their contraptions clouding the air. Sooner or later they’re going to kill these stones. Then where will we be?”

“There’s always the crown, Your Highness,” I remind her gently. I focus my vision solely on Mab, as if blocking out the duchess’s glare will make her disappear. Under the open, seamless blue sky, the queen I’ve followed for so long looks almost small. Swallowed in the icy iridescence of her gowns and hair.

“For now.” Her mutter is so grim and quiet that at first I’m unsure of what I heard. I stand still. It’s been ages since I’ve seen Mab in such a horrible mood.

It takes the queen a minute to break free of her foul thoughts and remember my presence. Her clear, opal eyes refocus on me, startled. “Oh, Lady Emrys. Sit.” She waves at one of the nearby, collapsed rocks.

I sit on the lichen-laced stone, my smile weak and watery. A spell, one of Mab’s, envelops us. Our conversation, the words between us, is now secret.

“It’s my understanding that there have been no further incidents. Is this correct?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” I nod. “Everything has been quiet.”

“And the prince? How’s he?”

I concentrate on keeping my response normal and deliberate. “He’s doing better than before. There’s still sadness. But I think he’ll be all right.”

“The other Fae tell me he’s been spending a good amount of time alone.” I wait for Mab to say more, but she lets the sentence fade. Her eyes never leave me. They hardly even blink.

I clear my throat to dismiss what hangs unsaid in the air between us. It could be that Mab knows nothing. That she’s just fishing for signs of guilt. I mustn’t give her any. “It seems his grief is a very private thing. I’m sure a few more weeks will see him back to normal.”

Mab flattens her palm against the rock she’s sitting on, drinking in its ancient magic. It’s strength she’s saving. Strength for later. “And your investigations . . . have you found anything significant?”

“None of the Fae have shown any abnormal activity. If one of them is a traitor, they hide it well,” I say.

“Then you aren’t looking hard enough.”

“My queen, with all due respect.” My voice dips and breaks like a dolphin plunging for air. No matter how slowly I breathe, I can’t keep it steady. “There might not even be a traitor in the Guard. I think it would be best if we simply continue to guard the royals like we always have. Keep the scouts searching. We’ll find something eventually.”

“You’re too young, Emrys. Too trusting.” A slight, wry smile plays at Mab’s lips. “There’s a traitor. I know it. If you used your magic more than your head perhaps you’d feel it too.”

My jaw clenches at the queen’s little dig. “It’s dangerous to waste magic in the city, milady. It’s not so easy to recharge in London’s streets.”

“What’s important is that you stay on task,” she shoots back. “You haven’t done everything you can to seek out our Judas. I expect you to use any means possible—magical or otherwise—to uncover the identity of the collaborator. Report back next month.”

I blink, trying not to let my frustration breach any more than it already has. Emotions have no place in Mab’s court—they’re almost as despised as technology. “Yes, my queen.”

“Perhaps there will be no need . . .” the queen muses. “We’ve caught a trail. It’s faint, but a trail nonetheless. We’ve followed it here, down south.”

“She was here?” Goose bumps prickle my skin. “This close to the cities? I thought an Old One couldn’t be this far south.”

“Her movements are a bit freer than we expected.” Mab’s tiny shoulders slope up in a shrug. “But we’re closing in.”

The tingle grows, my muscles burn with a cool, eerie premonition. The Old One isn’t giving up without a fight.

“It would be a relief for this threat to be over,” I admit.

“All the more reason to root out any traitors in our midst.” Mab starts to stand. “If they find out their mistress has been defeated, they’ll grow rash. It would be best to prevent such tragedies.”

I nod, partly to camouflage my frown. The longer I’ve spied on my fellow Fae, the more I’ve come to realize I won’t find a traitor among them. There’s a better way to find answers, one that doesn’t require so much sitting and waiting.

It’s time to go hunting.

“Still, it would be prudent for us to have a backup plan if London doesn’t offer the protection Richard needs. Herne has agreed to let us use Windsor as a gathering point, in case a retreat is necessary. If the need arises, don’t hesitate to—influence the prince to take a holiday.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I fight back a shiver at the memory of Herne. Part of me is surprised that the jealous spirit granted Mab permission to gather on his land. Usually only a few brave Frithemaeg dare to accompany the royals on their holidays there.

“And tomorrow is Richard’s birthday, is it not?” the queen asks.

I nod. This week passed with Richard anxiously eyeing the calendar. Slash by red slash we’ve arrived at the eve of his accession. Tomorrow, whether he wants to or not, Richard will officially become Britain’s king.

“I expect then, that you’ll be extra vigilant.” The Faery queen is right. The moment Richard becomes king, he’ll be made even more desirable in the Old One’s eyes.

“Of course, milady. We’ll be on our highest alert,” I promise.

“Then may the Greater Spirit go with you, Lady Emrys.”

“And with you, my queen.” My many skirts rustle with my sudden curtsy. “I’ll resume the surveillance straightaway.”

“Good.” Mab nods. “I’m counting on it.”

I don’t go back to the palace. Instead I fly to the heart of the city, on the edge of the churning, muddy river just across from Parliament. Darkness is falling just as my feet land against the paving stones. The moon is already high, casting its blush into the Thames.

The evening is pleasantly warm and the sidewalks swarm with people. Some are hooked together at the elbow, the girls resting their heads on their partners’ shoulders as they saunter down the path. I stay still by the river’s edge, watching them pass. It’s too early. I must wait a while before I have a chance of snaring what I’m looking for.

Despite the bustle and life of the city—the street musician’s cheery steel drums and the gold-brown scent of sautéed onions over hot dogs accenting the roar of red double-deck buses—all I feel is the shadow of what will come. There’s no stopping it. The Old One has moved south—her fingers of assassins stretching into every corner of the city. Reaching always for Richard.

The possibility of losing him is thick, swallowing me whole with its terror. I can’t let it happen. Not because of failing Mab or doing my duty. Not because it would put a black mark on my career as a Frithemaeg. I can’t lose Richard for a single, undeniable reason.

I love him.

The truth is clear now. As clear as the evening sun spreading across the river waters. I love Richard. I always have. It’s only now that the thought has been so sure, so utterly cemented in my mind.

“Love,” I make myself say the word. Test it on the tip of my tongue. It tastes strange, but good. It makes the hole inside me shrink, the emptiness lessen.

But with it comes a fear that has nothing to do with the Old One or her minions. I’ve watched so many versions of the fairy tale. So much is uncertain, unmapped. Richard likes me . . . yes . . . but that means nothing when the stakes are this large. When immortality and death are tossed about like poker chips to the highest hand.

Is Richard willing to pay the price? Even if he does love me, if he says so, he’s still so young. Seventeen years. The blink of an eye. How can he know, truly know, if he wants to spend the rest of his days with me?

And me—could I die for him?

In dusk’s illuminating glow, the surface of the Thames looks less full of sewage and debris and more like the mighty brown god it once was. I stare down into the water, tracing all of its swirls and eddies as the current rips past. I let these thoughts drift off with it. I need all of my concentration set on the hunt.

The sky fades rapidly, its flashy neons diving into the melancholy blues of night. The city becomes an island of electric light; the rays of the streetlamps create a world of bone-white shapes and shadows. The places soul feeders, especially Black Dogs, love to skulk. It’s in these dark nooks and crannies that I must start searching if I want to find any answers.

I don’t expect to find anything so early, but when I approach the bridge I feel it. My fists curl into themselves as I edge closer to the beginnings of a tunnel under the bridge. Mortals avoid the dark underpass, choosing to hike up the steps and cross the street instead. That’s wise, considering what’s waiting there for them.

I duck into the walkway’s shadows and pause, glancing up nervously as the roof rattles and shakes beneath every passing vehicle. Something in the far corner springs to life. The sharp tap tap of animal nails fills the tunnel.

“Cyspe!” My binding spell shoots out, wraps around the beast’s char-black, barrel chest.

The Black Dog howls as the spell seizes its limbs, collapses it to the floor. Under the light of my magic I see just how large this scavenger has become. It’s almost the size of a small pony, engorged on all of the innocent lives it sucked away.

I bend down and grab the beast by its haunches. It snarls and thrashes as I drag it closer to the white-tiled walls.

I look around to the dim entrances of the underpass and whisper a blocking spell. Any mortal with courage enough to enter the poorly lit tunnel won’t be able to resist my repelling magic.

I kneel back down in front of the dog, far from its snapping teeth. I can’t bind its mouth. To answer my questions, the Black Dog needs to be able to speak.

“What’s your name?” I ask the spirit.

The dog growls, its custard-yellow canines glow beneath the scant light.

“Blæc.” The name blends in perfectly with the rest of its rumbles, caught only by my sharp hearing.

“I won’t hurt you, Blæc, unless you give me a reason,” I add. “I just want to talk.”

The snarls die. Poison-bright eyes roll back to look at me.

“You’re a London soul feeder. You must be aware of what’s going on at Buckingham. Tell me, who’s doing all of this? Who has your kind allied with?”

The Black Dog shakes its head; a high keen of a whine leaves its muzzle. “I don’t know. I don’t bother with events beyond my territory.”

I twitch my finger. The binds on the animal’s legs clench tight, drawing out a yelp.

“You’re lying,” I say. “I know the howls that travel at night bring news between your kind. You must have picked up some tidbits from those.”

Sounds of begging and pain become a mumble of gravelly words. “She doesn’t come here, doesn’t speak to us. We do not know her name!”

“Then how do you receive orders?” I feel the anger, my own monster, stirring. My teeth grit against it. I need to keep the dog alive if I want answers.

“There are those she speaks with: messengers, leaders,” Blæc pants. He’s twitching, squirming under every cruel, white lash of my spell.

“Who? What are their names?” Now I’m getting somewhere.

But the Black Dog’s muzzle snaps shut—a row of zipper-tight teeth and twisted black lips. Its eyes paint over with a familiar sheen. Blæc is afraid.

The savageness inside me wants to pull, winch his bonds tighter and pour more pain into his haunches, but something else in the creature’s eyes stops me.

“I’ll erase your memory,” I promise. “No one will find out what you’ve told me. You’ll be safe.”

Blæc whimpers, unsure of my proposal. The dog is walking a dangerous line, caught between immediate pain or the possibility of another spirit’s wrath.

“I swear it,” I hiss into his cathedral-arched ear. “I swear it by the Greater Spirit.”

His uncertainty wavers, mists apart like windswept smoke. “There are two the Old One speaks with. Two that I know of—Jaida, a Green Woman, and Cari. She’s a Banshee. All of the orders go through them.”

I lean back on my heels, eyeing the animal as I commit the names to memory. A Banshee and a Green Woman. Together. Though it’s something unheard of, I know the dog’s telling the truth. There’s no deception curled around its grooved, tire-black lips.

“And where might I find them? Jaida and Cari?”

Blæc’s head shakes, causing the rest of its body to shudder. “I don’t know.”

Another truth. This creature doesn’t know much. It lies at the bottom of the totem pole, a hulking scavenger of souls in the lamp-flecked London night.

“Very well. That’s all I need to know.” My finger sinks deep into the clumped, matted fur of the creature’s forehead. “Forgiete.”

While the spell permeates layer after bewildered layer of the beast’s mind, I sever its bonds and all but run for the closest entrance. Once the memory spell settles, the Black Dog will become its old, snarling self, ready to tear into any creature that steps foot in its territory. Sure enough, when I reach the end of the tunnel, the creature is howling. The sound curls the end of every hair, tugs at my heels. I drag through it, step decidedly through my blocking spells. If the dog wants food, it’ll have to venture out of its miserable underpass, into the tangled city streets.

My mind races, but I keep walking down the riverfront at a steady pace. Jaida and Cari. A Banshee and a Green Woman. Defending Richard against their powers is one thing, but being an aggressor is another thing entirely. It’ll be much harder to wring information out of those two soul feeders than it was to subdue Blæc—a lone wolf of a spirit. I’ll need help in my hunt. I’ll need Breena.

Mab’s warning forks like lightning through my thoughts: trust no one. Including Breena. I pick up my pace, nearly barreling through a slow couple in front of me. Breena isn’t the traitor. I have to trust her. If I can’t, then there’s no one else for me to depend on to keep Richard safe.

And if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that I can’t do this alone.