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CHAPTER 1
Five Years Later ... Phineas
It's the nightmare, not an alarm that wakes me. I blink, staring up at my ceiling, while my mind processes how I'm no longer trapped in the Unseelie sídhe, strung up and bleeding. I'm not at Mab's mercy. I'm lying in my bed, safe in my apartment that sits on the edge of campus at Mathers's School of Magick. My mind may be grasping that fact, but until I clench my fists into my sheets, forcing myself to register the sensation of fabric beneath me, my body refuses to accept the truth.
The cheap cotton sheets steam from the combined effect of my panic sweat and the ley line's shivering heat. At least this time I didn't completely lose control and light my bed on fire. Small victories, right?
I wince and rub at the scars on my chest, trying to ease the old aches that never fully leave. They healed years ago, but sometimes, after the worst nights, I still feel the edge of the blade dragging over the bone. A shiver runs up my spine and I roll over, burying my head into my pillow, forcing my mind away from the memory. Another night, another nightmare.
A creak echoes through the darkness and I hold my breath, listening for other warning sounds. Roark Lyne, my royal pain in the ass faerie roommate, keeps strange hours. I can't expect much else from the Unseelie Court's Prince of Air and Darkness ... the PAD. God, he hates it when I call him that. He always bitches about my lack of respect for his royal title, one he inherited from his mother. Ignoring his title makes us more equal. It helps me forget who his mother is, and how her actions define our awkward stalemate.
He feigns ignorance about my nightmares and their cause. The closest he comes to showing any sign of remorse is knocking on the wall to wake me up before I light the room on fire. That hasn't woken me tonight, though. I strain to hear another sound, a sign of Roark's presence. No rustle of sheets, no footfalls on the floor, no grunt of irritation when he tries to fall back asleep. On the other side of the wall, Roark's room lies vacant, just like it's been for the past few weeks. He isn't back yet, I remind myself. He's never missed a grand entrance in all the years we've been stuck together and I doubt he'll change for our last year. He'll waltz in, show off his magickal power, and remind me again why humans like me aren't allowed to attend magickal universities like Mathers. Remind me I'm a freak and a fluke. As if his constant ridicule is necessary to remind me of my shortcomings on top of all the fucking monsters crawling out of the darkness to try to kill me.
After almost two weeks of recurrent nightmares, sleep deprivation may kill me first. The slow burn in my eyes warns that it's got to be an ungodly hour of the morning. There is no other reason why this bitch of a headache is setting in. Going back to sleep would be incredible, but getting up and downing some painkillers is the smarter choice.
A piercing ringtone decides my fate. I groan and fumble a hand over my nightstand until I find my phone. I wince against the bright light of its screen to check the caller ID.
Mom.
Shit. I let it ring out instead of sending it directly to voicemail — avoiding the questions I know she'd ask later about why I'm up so freaking early — and toss my phone back on the nightstand. At some point I'm going to have to answer. I can't avoid this conversation forever.
Painkillers. I need painkillers.
By the time I come back from taking a few, Mom's given up calling me directly. Instead, a notification lurks on-screen, promising a waiting voicemail. Funny how such innocuous details — the red blip of a voicemail, the single-page letter from a bank requesting a meeting to discuss the foreclosure, the subtle appearance of moving boxes in the garage — can upend your world. Unlike monsters or faeries or kidnappers, you never see these details coming. They don't draw blood or leave visible scars or bruises. You can't fight against them or use magick to fix them. You can only wait to see if you survive them.
It's too early to face her news, so I ignore the notification, abandoning my bed and waiting phone to move to my desk. A click of the lamp and the space is bathed in a warm, yellow glow. I push aside course texts and drag the heavy tome I borrowed from my Magickal Histories professor closer to the light. I've scoured the page of archaic calligraphy so many times I have the damn thing memorized.
Yef I may helpe ye to suffer this grete peyne, as god will that I haue suffered it, take my counseile —
"Rightio, Mr. Courtenay," I mumble, continuing to skim his advice as I set out the tools I'll need for this morning's practice. "Brothers in peyne and all that ..."
I obey the instructions to the letter as I channel the ley line. Every year it's gotten easier to sense the river of energy flowing in the earth beneath me, easier to connect with it. Controlling how much of the power to use ... that's a bit more complicated. Hence the medieval how-to guide written by a former ley line host, Henry V's bestie.
A guide which is apparently still full of shit, since the delicate feather I'm trying to lift from the aluminum pie plate has given up the ghost and transformed into a smoking pile of ash instead. Whatever. I'm going to be successful at least once before I have to leave for class. Emerging from the ley line when I'm this exhausted leaves magick clinging to my skin like hot wax, a distracting layer between me and the real world. I shake my head and pull another feather out of the stash in my desk drawer and try again. And again. And again.
Classes didn't go any better than my practice this morning, and my intramural football team's practice was too relaxed to work out my stress, so I'm practically vibrating when I walk into Thirsty Thursday at Domovoi's bar tonight. Domovoi's is a supernatural watering hole that lies a mere two blocks from Mathers's campus. Between the bar service, the full menu with plenty of exotic options, the dance floor, and the magickal spells and charms put in place to provide privacy and peace for those who want it, Domovoi's is everyone's favorite hangout. Its clientele is a mixture of broke students and other magickal beings, although tonight's crowd seems strangely subdued.
I excuse my way past the outer edges of the small crowd gathered near the bar. A raucous crow confirms the center of attention to be Robin Goodfellow, one of the faerie messengers between Courts. Most of the fae surrounding him and laughing are Unseelie, with only a few Seelie listening in as they wait for drinks.
I'm almost through the crowd when Goodfellow's voice soars above the surrounding noise. "Let me through! I've got a great one for him."
A moment later, Goodfellow stands across from me, a hand clamped to my shoulder, and a drunken grin twisting his mouth into the illusion of good humor. "Hey, man, can I tell you a joke?"
I hate Goodfellow. He's a prick and a petty shit and even Roark despises him. But he's popular and pissing him off can leave you the victim of practical jokes and unfortunate accidents for far longer than I'm willing to risk, so I let him support himself on me and say, "Sure."
"What's the best thing about humans?" Goodfellow asks. Behind him, the crowd watches us. I get the suspicion I'm not going to like his punch line.
"What?"
His grip tightens sharply and I fight to hide my wince. "They die!"
He throws his head back and guffaws. A few of the Seelie sitting at the bar look down at their drinks and snicker, but the majority of the Unseelie who'd been surrounding Goodfellow look down or away. Some are brave enough to shake their heads disapprovingly. A troll I had a class with steps forward and tugs at Goodfellow's arm.
"You've probably had enough to drink," he tells Goodfellow. When the faerie messenger allows another faerie from the crowd to lead him back to the bar, the troll glances at me and says, "Sorry about that, Finny. He's drunk."
"Yeah," I mumble, "'s fine."
No one else stops me as I head for more familiar and friendly company. My satyr roommate, Herman, and his demi-Gorgon girlfriend, Sue, have already claimed our usual table on the quiet edge of the dance floor. Sue's tucked against Herman's side in the booth, contentedly reading a book despite the noisy chaos surrounding us. Herman pushes an empty chair toward me with his hoof. "What happened back there?"
"Goodfellow was being a douche canoe, as usual."
Herman clicks his tongue and frowns. "I hate that guy. Don't worry about heading over there again. Gumba already went to grab the beer."
"Thank God." I glance over my shoulder, checking for the bridge troll in the crowd. Like most bridge trolls, he towers over everyone, except for some of the giants and minotaurs, so it doesn't take long to spot him. "If someone else gets it, I'll cover the next pitcher."
"Bad day?" Sue asks without looking up from her page.
"Not one of my best. Not one of my worst, though."
Herman and I watch the roving tentacles and hands of the nearest dancers in comfortable silence while we wait for Gumba to return. It doesn't take long. He uses his stony elbow to bump my shoulder as he rejoins us, rumbling a greeting as he sets down the tray filled with glasses and two pitchers of cheap pale beer.
I pour myself a glass and take a long swig before leaning back in my chair and grinning up at him. "You look good tonight. Any special reason?"
Gumba lifts a hand self-consciously to the thick layer of rich green moss covering his head, moss that looks carefully sheared. "No," he says.
"Liar." Sebastian, Gumba's roommate, slides into the chair beside me. "He's finally going out with Winnifred tonight."
Sue, who's already marked her page and set aside the book, smiles at Gumba. "That's great!"
"Took you long enough to make a move," Seb teases.
"Not all of us can charm our way through both sídhes."
I shake my head and focus on my beer, amused by the familiar argument. Gumba and Sebastian are both Unseelie, part of Queen Mab's Winter Court, but that's the only similarity between them, in looks and personality. Gumba's painfully shy and hyper-aware that his rocklike appearance can scare off others, despite it being proof of his specialized magickal talents. It's taken him two years to work up enough courage to ask Winnifred, a Seelie dew sprite, out. Sebastian, on the other hand, is openly friendly to almost everyone and doesn't take on the physical characteristics of his magick. Instead, he takes after the painfully attractive human appearance of other powerful faeries. Faeries like Roark.
Sebastian nudges me, derailing that train of thought. "You, on the other hand, look terrible. And it's not from your disgusting workout clothes. Did you cut the sleeves off that shirt yourself?"
"Someone woke up early again," Herman informs the table over Sebastian's fashion commentary.
Sue sets down her beer and shoots me a worried glance. "Is everything okay? Hasn't that been happening a lot?"
I shrug and rub at the back of my neck. "It's fine. Had to get in some practice for class anyway." Always look on the bright side, that's what my mom says.
Conversation meanders around various topics as we settle in and get comfortable. At some point, Sebastian goes off to dance with William, a rot faerie from one of our agriculture classes, leaving the rest of us to continue jawing. Moments like this have a funny habit of catching me off guard. I never once thought I'd be sitting in a dimly lit bar, surrounded by beings I'd read about in fairy tales, talking about how much my Advanced Potions and Antidotes test sucked weasel balls, or how Herman's Fundamental Circuitry with Cosmic Couplers is the most fascinating thing since he discovered tits, or how Gumba's working on getting legislation passed to secure water rights for his clan's watershed.
Before being invited to attend Mathers all those years ago, my life's course seemed etched in stone. I'd have graduated from a local college I attended thanks to a football scholarship. I'd be back on the farm in Iowa, helping my dad. There wouldn't be other options. There wouldn't be much except a lifetime of hard work spreading out ahead of me.
The ley line awakening in me gave me freedom. It opened up doors to opportunities — to fucking worlds — I never imagined could be real. It made me unique, one of the few human hosts in history to have access to this kind of power, and my need to learn control over it is what pushed the world's magickal governments, the Pantheons, to give me a full-ride scholarship until I finish my master's.
No matter what happens in the future, no matter the irrevocable physical cost of channeling this kind of power, it will have been worth it if I can use the ley line to help my family before ... well, before I can't help anyone.
"Finny, seriously, what the fuck's wrong with you?" Herman asks, forehead wrinkling in concern. "Did something bite the back of your neck?"
I drop my hand, surprised to be caught in the motion again. "No, I just ... Something feels off," I explain lamely. "Prickles and shit. It's fine."
And, upon uttering those fateful words, the door of Domovoi's slams open. A dark, floating figure hovers in the doorway. Green flames blaze where its eyes should be and shredded cloth hangs from its lanky, decomposing form. Under the partially exposed ribs, a grey, shriveled pair of hearts beat arrhythmically.
A low whisper of adrenaline mixes with the flip of nausea in my stomach. This thing doesn't look interested in doing body shots, but maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it's also having a shitty night and is here to relax.
Domovoi's goes silent, even Robin Goodfellow, who never stops bragging about his sucky middle-management gofer job.
"The fuck is that?" Herman whispers.
Gumba tilts his head and inspects the interloper. "Wraith, I think."
The wraith — or whatever the hell it is — takes in a deep, wheezing breath. "I smell," it says with a slow, hissing exhalation, "power."
The entire freaking bar turns and looks at me. Makes sense I can't catch a break.
"Sorry," I mumble, giving a sheepish wave and standing. Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I look up toward the wraith. "Hey, man, mind if we take this outside?"
It makes a noise, some high, keening wail, one that sets my teeth on edge and causes the people nearest it to cry out in pain.
"Later," I tell my friends, and hop the railing separating our table's platform from the dance floor proper. I mutter apologies as I bump my way past a few people, until the rest simply move out of my way.
My friends are up and following after me, but I don't have time to wait for them. Removing the undead thing screaming behind me is my top priority.
I know where the emergency exit is. Just like I know that if I take six running steps up the stairwell immediately outside the door, I can skip the last stair and be in the alley before the wraith can find its way around the side of the building. Another twenty-one steps to hit the half fence in the alley. Thirteen steps and a hard right and I'll be on the street across from the city park that meanders its way into Mathers.
Not that I've had to do this a few times or anything.
It all goes according to plan until I jump the fence. Some idiot fuckstain put a pile of trash on the other side. It'd be fine, except the trash isn't wrapped up in neat little bags. Nope, nothing but flimsy cardboard boxes.
I stagger out of the alley with a foul, rotten milk slush clinging to my jeans. A patch of coffee grounds and partially dried spaghetti sticks to my shin. But it's the used condom stuck to the bottom of my shoe that really adds class to the whole thing.
Another wail from behind me. Damn. The wraith isn't as dumb as I'd expected. It didn't bother to chase me down the alley, like the harpies or yeti or river dragon did. Nope, it went around the block.
My feet pound against the pavement as I book it toward the park. I really don't want the fight to break out there; Mathers has charms in place to prevent normal people from seeing the weirdness that is our campus. Anyone who drives through thinks they're viewing a ritzy private college. The park's outside the university's jurisdiction.
There are only two options. I can stick to the paths that lead onto the campus, which are partially hidden by the large trees overhead, or cut across the lawn and take the shorter, but more exposed, route.
Before I can decide, there's the warning sensation of magickal power in front of me. Robin Goodfellow appears out of nowhere, drunken smile in place and glass of beer in hand. I let out a squawk of surprise when I run into him, which he finds amusing. He lifts his glass and wraps an arm around my shoulders. "Phineas Smith ... That's your name, isn't it? Your friends were pretty worried about you."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Prince of Air and Darkness"
by .
Copyright © 2019 M.A. Grant.
Excerpted by permission of Harlequin Enterprises Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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