out; even if she didn't see the girls, she was sure they were there. Better to be just friends than one of his throwaway girls. She didn't want to talk about Seth, so she asked Leslie, "Who's going tonight?"
Trying to keep unpleasant thoughts at bay, Aislinn half listened to Leslie go on about the party. Rianne's cousin had ' invited some of the guys from his frat.
Glad we're skipping it, Seth would hate that crowd.
When Leslie's brother walked in, Seth came back over and put his arm around Aislinn's shoulder, almost territorially, while they talked.
Leslie mouthed, "Deaf."
Aislinn leaned on Seth, ignoring Leslie, her brother's comments about scoring some X, the faery in the back room, all of it. When Seth was beside her, she could keep it together. Why would she be stupid enough to risk what they had, to risk him, for a fling?
Chapter 4
"When you will be King of Summer she will be your queen. Of this your mother, Queen Beira, has full knowledge, and it is her wish to keep you away from [her], so that her own reign may be prolonged."
— Wonder Tales from Scottish Myth and Legend by Donald Alexander Mackenzie (1917)
On the outskirts of Huntsdale in a gorgeous Victorian estate that no realtor could sell—or remember to show— Keenan hesitated, hand lifted. He paused, watching silent figures in the thorn-heavy garden move as fluidly as the shadows that danced under the icy trees. The frost never melted in this yard, never would, but the mortals passing on the street saw only the shadows. They looked away, if they dared look at all. No one—mortal or fey—stepped on Beira's frigid lawn without her consent. It was anything but inviting.
Behind him, cars drove by on the street, tires grinding the frozen slush into a dirty gray mess, but the sound was muted by the almost tangible chill that rested like a pall over Beira's home. It hurt to breathe.
Welcome home.
Of course, it'd never felt like home, but then again, Beira had never felt like a mother. Inside her domain the air itself made him ache, sapped the little strength he had. He tried to resist it, but until he came into his full power, she could send him to his knees. And she did—every single visit.
Maybe Aislinn will be the one. Maybe she'll make it different.
Keenan braced himself and knocked.
Beira flung open the door. In her free hand she held a tray of steaming chocolate cookies aloft. She leaned forward and kissed the air near his face. "Cookies, darling?"
She looked as she had for the past half century or so when he stopped in for these damnable meetings: a mockery of a mortal epitome of motherhood, she was clad in a modest floral dress, frilly apron, and single strand of pearls. Her hair was twisted up in what she called a "chignon."
She waggled the tray a little. "They're fresh. Just for you."
"No." Ignoring her, he walked into the room.
She'd redecorated again—some modern nightmare, complete with a sleek silver table; stiff, awkwardly shaped black chairs; and framed black-and-white prints of murders, hangings, and a few torture scenes. The walls alternated between stark white and flat black with large geometric patterns in the opposite color. Selected images on the hanging prints—a dress, lips, bleeding wounds—were hand painted red. Those splashes of luridness were the only true color in the room. It fit her far better than the costume she insisted on wearing when he visited.
From behind the wet bar, a badly bruised wood-sprite asked, "Drink, sir?"
"Keenan, sweetheart, tell the girl what you want. I need to check on the roast." Beira paused, still holding the tray of cookies. "You are staying for dinner, aren't you, dear?"
"Do I have a choice?" He ignored the sprite to walk over to a print on the far wall. In it a woman with cherry-red lips stared out from the platform of a gallows. Behind her were craggy dunes that seemed to go on endlessly. He glanced over at Beira. "One of yours?"
"In the desert? Darling,