And when he was wrong, Rika was the result. Another life destroyed because of the curse. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time, the queen would be found, and the freezing years would end. The alternative, eventually, was death for them all.
Irial
Irial had lingered after Thelma had fled. He wasn’t used to having such feelings. The last time he had let anyone into his heart, it ended badly. The Dark King used to think he fell in love easily and often, but a thousand or so years ago, he’d let himself believe that love was a thing that could last for longer than a few decades or centuries. He’d thought about forever—and learned that his court wouldn’t tolerate such weakness.
They’d scarred his beloved inside and out, and there was no way to atone. Irial had not been celibate or anything so very maudlin afterwards, but he’d kept careful watch over his heart. Thelma was the first person in centuries to come close to making him forget caution.
One of his faeries, Jenny Greenteeth, slipped from the waters of the river where she’d accepted his gift of a man to drown. Her algae-covered hips swayed as she ascended the bank to join him. Her skin was deep green, and her hair was a beautiful twist of seaweed.
“Jenny,” he said in a warmer than usual voice.
She was a hag of some repute. Like the rest of her kin, Jenny could slide between the faces of a lovely lass and a wrinkled crone as the mood or need demanded. And Irial was fond of her for her uncommon honesty; when he failed, Jenny was quick to question him. When he succeeded, she was quick to offer him a freshly slaughtered sheep or some other token of her kindness.
“The water folk say a ship is coming.” Jenny motioned east, in the general direction of their long-ago and future home. “Trouble on the mist.”
“And blood?”
Jenny flashed her deep green teeth at him in a look of fear and joy. “Always, m’lord.”
Irial nodded at her wisdom. It wasn’t exactly a “thank you” for the man he’d tossed into her reach, but it was payment in kind. Jenny Greenteeth and her sisters were the measure he used to determine the way and weight of the future. When Jenny saw peril, trouble for him and his court was bound to follow.
The trick Irial had found was to be where trouble wasn’t.
“So, we shall pack our frippery and set out,” he said in a more cheerful voice than he felt.
“We can stay and fight.” Jenny’s hands clenched as if a sword was in reach. “A little slaughter. Feed the fields.”
Irial paused. He wasn’t sure he wanted to fight, but running would mean leaving Thelma before he’d even begun to properly seduce her. That stung.
“The court is already filled from the suffering that Winter causes,” Irial said mildly. “They’re nourished.”
“But are they happy?” Jenny met his gaze with a clear-eyed look that told him more than enough about his court’s mood. Then she added, “Bananach comes ever near.”
“War?”
Jenny punched a passing mortal woman who stumbled and looked around. She quickly blamed a man who was staring at her and slid a delicate knife from her pocket.
The green-toothed faery steered Irial toward the river. “She comes, Irial. She wants violence that she’s not finding on the other side of the veil.”
“Faerie is where she belongs. Not here. And not in our court.” Irial let Jenny lead him into the river.
Jenny sighed, as if the sound pulled the Mississippi into her body. Her hag wrinkles and sags faded away until she was as firm and voluptuous as a maiden ready to be debauched.
“Nourished is not sated, Irial,” she reminded him. “We are the dark, some of our court are like leeches eager to drown ourselves in blood. Until we burst, recover, and begin again. Have you forgotten?”
Her hands cupped his face, and he was reminded of algae and sea weed as her skin slid over his.
Jenny pressed her lips to his, drawing strength from him until he shoved her away from him and into the water. She caught herself with her hands on the jagged rocks. They were bloodied as she pushed to her feet.
“If you mean to keep us pleased, my king, you will let us take our pleasure before they chase us to another city,” Jenny advised him. She outlined her lips with her bloodied finger, and pulled a glamour over herself to make the blood look like lip rouge and her tattered dress seem like the finest silk.
Irial matched her guise, appearing like a perfectly pressed mortal man, as he extended a hand to her.
“Take me to your house of sin, sir,” Jenny murmured, no longer seeming fey at all.
“Do you mean to work there?”
“Seduce the mortals? Leave them dying for another kiss from my lips?” Jenny’s voice was raw honey and sex. “Yes, kind sir, I think I shall.”
They walked in companionable spirits as he escorted her to one of the brothels in the city. They paused at the door, and he took her face in his hands in a mimicry of the kiss she had given him.
“Winter is stronger and stronger, my king, and if you do not give them reminders of who we are, rebellion will come. Bring us violence, Irial.” Jenny kissed him, deep and long, and then she said, “We will not serve a weak king.”
He rapped on the door.
When his mortal madam opened the door, he ordered, “Genevieve speaks little English.” He took Jenny’s hand and spun her round. “A virgin. Auction her to the highest bidder.”
Jenny glanced at him with widened, falsely innocent eyes. She’d destroy a man that night, and the mortal man in question would empty his coffers for the poison of her touch.
“I know who I am,” he whispered in her ear. “But I am ever glad for your counsel.”
He patted her derriere and turned away.
If Irial was going to suffer, he would seduce the lovely Miss Thelma Foy.
Irial made his way to his solicitor and check on the arrangements to buy the jeweler who’d made Thelma weep. The girl would have her art in front of people, and she’d no longer need to debase herself to do so. He had no intention of telling her that just yet—perhaps ever—but if he was going to wear her ring, he was going to pay his debt to her.
“I want Onyx Jewelers,” he explained to his solicitor a short while later. They were seated in an office that would not be out of place in London or New York. “The shop, the contents, everything but the staff. Those we will decide on when the new manager arrives.”
“Sir—”
“They have a month to vacate,” Irial pronounced.
“But sir, the shop isn’t for sale. They said--”
“I will buy it.”
“There are other shops. I spoke to them as you requested, but they declined.”
“Mr. Saunders, he will sell, or I will send my people.” Irial let a trickle of terror glide into his voice. He might not summon that as easily as he did lust, but he was the Dark King. He was capable of eliciting every dark urge that mortals hid. “Do you understand me? Do you see the decision he must make? You can impress upon him that the store will be mine. He offended my lady, you see, and a gentleman such as myself cannot let an insult stand unanswered.”
Saunders nodded. “I see, sir.”
“Make sure he does as well,” Irial said as he stood to take his leave. “Pay a fair price, but if he does not sell, there are other avenues I will be forced to explore. It would be best that he come to understand the gravity of this offer.”