If only Cruce had lived. I never thought I’d think that.
We’d made a Compact, he and I. I pledged to give him the queen’s power once we saved our world, and he pledged in return to remove the Fae from our planet and never disturb us again.
If only.
Initially, I’d hungered to divest myself of the reign. It hadn’t taken me long to realize ruling the Fae would be a never-ending, dangerous job and, as with any job I tackle, if I had to do it, I’d become obsessed with doing it well. Goodbye, humanity. I’d have no time for it.
What I’ve discovered leaves me no reason to remain sequestered here.
I’m all I can be without being Fae. Admittedly, I could spend another few thousand years in here reading files, but they may or may not teach me anything of use, while more time will pass in the human realm.
Disengaging from my internal study, I direct my gaze outward and push up from the sofa, stretch and twist, bend and turn, reacquainting myself with my body. God, it feels good to move, to be a living, breathing, hot-blooded woman again.
Speaking of hot-blooded.
Barrons.
The quiet burn of his nearby presence kept me sane. I recently felt Ryodan’s and Dani’s as well. Dani’d been troubled, so I’d projected a quick text onto the screen of her phone. Having suspended Barrons Books & Baubles in the clouds, I’ve felt little else. This chamber mutes what lies beyond.
Abruptly, I can’t wait to grasp the knob of the door, feel it with my hand, yank it open, rush out of here, be corporeal, be part of Dublin again. I hope I haven’t missed too much. I have no idea how long I’ve been in here in mortal time and that concerns me deeply.
I stand, readying myself. I must never let anyone discern what I’ve learned about my limits or that I have no idea how to use the Song. I must convincingly feign that I have access to all of the True Magic and make the Seelie believe I am their deadly-to-displease High Queen. Ruling with kindness, fairness is not an option. Mine is a cruel, avaricious, jaded species. How is one to command savages without savagery?
There’s only one thing capable of keeping the Light Court in check: fear. If they catch the faintest whiff of weakness, they’ll descend on me like a pack of anorexic Shades.
I must be cruel. Monstrous. Merciless.
Do the things I’ve learned to do, that will make them cringe like whipped dogs at my feet. Things that will make me want to cringe, although I dare not.
MAC.
The word explodes in my skull, roared by Barrons with urgency in his voice I’ve heard on precious few occasions.
Those times he believed I was dying.
I’m not.
For Barrons to roar in such a voice—to risk interrupting what he thinks I’m still doing here—that means someone else is in mortal danger.
And whoever it is matters deeply to me.
4
I am immortal
I have inside me blood of kings
CRUCE
“It is done, my liege,” the prince said as he entered the laboratory.
“You did as I requested?”
“Of course.”
“Did you encounter any difficulties with your task?”
“None.”
“And how was your first solo journey into the realm of mortals?”
Masdann smiled, dark eyes glittering in a face MacKayla Lane would recognize should it visit her in dreams—and it certainly would, but only in nightmarish romps through her subconscious. It amused Cruce to employ this particular genetic stamp for his Morpheus prince, and it would prove a powerful weapon. Humans and Fae alike always responded favorably to the face and form—with both desire and fear—and Cruce wanted the best the world had to offer his children.
“Far more intriguing than Faery, when I switched the Cauldron with your replica. More daring even than releasing the damhan-allaidh into their world. The mortal realm is more abundant and exotic than I imagined,” Masdann said. “So many slumbering, so many doors from which to choose.”
Doors into their subconscious minds. Cruce envied the ability he’d given his prince, command of a realm none had ever mastered, few could even walk within without succumbing to madness. He himself had successfully navigated only the outer perimeter of it for a short time, long enough to bed a certain sidhe-seer. He considered Masdann his finest creation, a prince capable of slipping in and out of the Dreaming, of altering the underlying currents of another’s psyche in that unpredictable no-man’s-land of ever-shifting terrain.
The Dreaming was fashioned of cosmic matter even more mysterious than the Song of Making. Logic and physics flowed differently there. What took place in the Dreaming—if tampered with properly, in what mortals called “lucid dreams”—could have lasting physical and emotional impact on the dreamer in the Waking, undermining convictions, confusing the heart, even ending a mortal’s life.
He’d given each of his princes powers that were inordinately useful to him, his to if not possess, at least command. “And you enjoyed Chester’s?”
Masdann’s eyes glittered. “It was a veritable feast. Drunk, they succumb swiftly to slumber; their minds are malleable and weak.”
“You saw Ryodan?”
“I did.”
“And he believed you were Jericho Barrons?”
The prince inclined his head. “He did.”
Cruce laughed softly. The devil was in the details, and he’d captured the nuances of personality unique to the owner of the arrogant, savage face he’d purloined to perfection in the simple yet defining inclination of his head; the tight slice of negation, always to the left, the way he stood and moved, the precise nuances of his eyes and voice. Dressing him was simple: the prototype favored expensive Italian suits, crisp shirts, and ties.
The original was his enemy, which made being served by a copy that obeyed his every wish and called him king even more enjoyable. One day, they would meet, face-to-face, original and copy, and, on that day, Barrons would know he’d been beaten by Cruce, all spoils to the victor.
Including the woman.
Cruce was feeling celebratory. His plans hinged upon Masdann’s ability to pass as Barrons to those in MacKayla’s inner circle; today had been a crucial test. “That is all for now. You may go.”