Feversong (Fever #9)(134)

A chaise appeared and he waved his hand toward it.

I moved in silence, sank down onto it, and he joined me there, took my hand and knit his fingers with mine.

We said nothing for a long, strange time. Just held hands, and I looked at him and he looked at me.

And I realized something. If you look at someone long enough, it’s as if their face sort of peels away. You start to notice tiny things you never noticed before.

Whether the lines on their face tell a story of laughter and love or dissatisfaction and envy.

Whether their eyes are filled with life and emotion, or flat and empty.

With a Fae, it’s a little trickier because they can don glamour, but I was the Fae queen, and I was a sidhe-seer, so I sought my inner lake and demanded it show me what was true. Did Cruce feel, as his eyes indicated, or was he empty inside? Could I reach him? How fine was his finest?

My lake wasn’t there.

It took me a moment of inner reflection to realize I’d never found my lake. That inky, water-filled grotto had always been the Sinsar Dubh’s abode, not mine. My lake wasn’t dark, it was clear ten feet down to a shade the color of tropical surf, and the surface glinted with sun. My lake wasn’t filled with shadowy figments and tendrils of dank moss and relics I couldn’t identify, it swam with brilliant runes and wards and all kinds of knowledge I’d never known I possessed.

Again I said, Show me what is true.

And again I saw the same thing. Cruce wasn’t one of the bad guys. I’d tasted monstrosity. It was the Sinsar Dubh.

“If I’d met you first,” I said softly.

“You might have loved me,” he finished for me. “And if you had loved me,” he said, and stopped.

“You might have changed.”

He gave me a bitter yet beautiful smile. “You did not even try to summon me. Not once did you look up at the ceiling or sky and call my name. That is how little you thought of me.”

“It was that simple? You were merely waiting for me to ask?”

“It took you too long. Now it will cost you.” His golden gaze rested on my lips and his eyes narrowed. “I can die and—for however long sentient life continues—go down in history as the bastard that doomed the entire universe. Or I can die a martyr and go down in history as the champion that saved it. When nothing is left but your legacy, it begins to matter. Either way, very soon, my history will be written. It is all that is left to me. My name.”

“You were never going to let us die. You planned to come back.”

“You were supposed to ask me!” he snarled, then collected himself and was again the imperious, mighty War.

“I did. I’m here,” I said quickly. Our peace was fragile. One wrong move and it would be broken. I could feel anger rolling off him in thick, suffocating waves. I could feel his sorrow, his despair, the fragility of his commitment to die our champion.

But it was there.

He cupped my jaw, tipped my face up and stared down at me.

“Neither of us is getting what we want, Cruce,” I said quietly. “You know I have no desire to lead the Fae race. I’ll hate this. But I’ll be a good queen, I promise.” Until I found some other Fae I believed could handle it. And if he really gave me the song, it might be a small eternity before I found a Fae I felt I could trust to wisely use such enormous power.

“Better a bad day in Hell than no days at all,” he said bitterly.

I agreed with him on that score. “What must I do to persuade you to give me the other half of the song?”

“Be less impatient for it. These are my final hours. What would you want in yours?”

Wariness flickered in my eyes. He shook his head and gave me a chiding look. “Harming you was never my desire, MacKayla. I wanted you at my side while I ruled my people. I would have led them well.”

I agreed that he would have made a fine leader, and told him so.

“The bargain price for half a song is a kiss. One kiss that convinces me utterly that, were circumstances different, you would have chosen me. A single kiss that evokes the finest within me. That and your word that you will not wield the song for four human hours from the moment we part.”

“Why?”

“Sh.” He placed a finger to my lips. “Because I said so. Is that not what your Barrons used to say to you so often? Cede me the same respect. What did you say to him that day? ‘Because I asked you to, Jericho, that’s why.’ Trust me, MacKayla.”

I exhaled deeply.

Then I slid my hands around his neck and leaned in. As my eyes began to close, he said, “Eyes open. I am not your Barrons and will never be. Nor would I wish to. I am Cruce of the Tuatha De Danann, High Prince of the Court of Shadows. And you are MacKayla Lane O’Connor, Queen of the Court of Light. Convince me on another day you would have chosen me as your consort.”

I convinced him. I’d kissed him many times before, taking his True Name into my tongue. I saw things so clearly now: good and evil didn’t exist, there was only power and choice. Power went where you willed it, wrong or right, dark or light.

And before he vanished, he passed me the other half of the Song of Making, as he’d said he would, leaving his final words lingering in the air.

Tell the world the legend of Prince Cruce of the Court of Shadows. Omit the kiss, and paint me majestic. Lead my people well, MacKayla.