Prince of Air and Darkness (The Darkest Court, #1)

by M.A. Grant

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.

And there, like a freaking cherry on an evil sundae, the sharp twist of the lips that’s the closest he ever gets to smiling. Apparently, superpowered magickal villains don’t need to smile.

“You’re a menace,” Roark says, staring hard at one of the burning piles of what used to be a ferret. “Six years, and you still can’t control your magick. They should have expelled you after the hydra.”

This is what love does to us. What fools we are.

In order to win someone to your side, you must know what they’re unwilling to lose and promise they can keep it.

I love flame. Watching it consume is like looking in a mirror. Primitive hunger, raw power, and a continual search for that next fix. Anything the flame wants and gets, it devours, until there’s nothing left but ash and dust. Sometimes it will kill itself in its efforts to consume everything it can. There is never enough to fill it, and I understand that emptiness all too well.

“You hurt my son because you lost control of your ley line.” I can’t tell if she’s processing the information or genuinely angry. “Yes,” I whisper. Roark’s eyes are pale and I’ve grown used to their weight on me. Mab’s eyes are dark, iris and pupil nearly indistinguishable, and her gaze is as timeless as the winter sky. “Why would you presume to control it at all?”

She makes a noise that’s not quite assent. More like acknowledgment. That’s some progress. “Not directly, I agree. But indirectly... There’s also the issue of the human.” Her dark gaze turns to gauge my reaction to the abrupt change of topic. “He’s a complication.” A polite word she’s used for centuries to refer to assassination targets. “Only because he was remarkable enough for you and Sláine to take a personal interest,” I fire back. “There’s little other choice than to live here and keep an eye on him, after you both broadcasted his worth to all of Faerie.”

He came back for me, protected me instead of running away. Love burns sharper than his magick did.

I can’t stop thinking about the way my scalp tingled when he gripped my hair. How his chest flexed and how his thigh quivered when I pressed against him. The sparks that shot behind my eyelids when his hips nudged mine, disassembling me completely—before he abruptly rose and vanished into the night.

“Roark, will you bring him here when I ask?” Not if I ask, only when I ask. As though Smith’s role in our war is inevitable. She never intended to let him go free, despite my interference. She assumes I’ll obey this time, that I’ve learned my lesson from our prior argument. She assumes I’ll cleave to my familial duty. She forgets that is no longer my sole concern. I have no intention of handing over Smith. Of letting anyone else near him. I want to make her bleed for asking.

The Prince of Air and Darkness is living up to his moniker today. Black knit cap, black shirt under a worn, black leather jacket. Tight black jeans leading to heavy black combat boots. A man of the people.

The flickering of the ley line’s magick searching for my glamour serves enough advanced warning that I don’t jump when Smith raps at my door frame.

Roark lifts his hand, the backs of his fingers tapping gently against my pec, a movement somehow protective and territorial at the same time. “After all, Cockweb, that is what would happen if any harm came to Smith.”

He ignores me. “Smith isn’t under the Winter Court’s protection,” he repeats. “He’s under mine.”

His claim binds my heart with impossibly light chains, even though there’s no romance to be found in his words.

But that means I’d have to let go of him. Funny how such simple tasks can become so impossible when skin touches skin.

Finn is flawed and desperate and blameless and so beautifully human. His soul and all his good intentions shine from him. He’s a lantern, and now I understand why all those monsters from the Wyld realms come for him.

Until I can watch that flush bloom over his chest when I make him tell me exactly what he wants me to do to him in very descriptive, very foul language. Until I do all those things and more, over and over until we’re too exhausted to move from my bed. Not until then.

“Herne and the hunters, I thought drinking would make you meaner. Instead you’re even more infuriatingly friendly. You’re a golden retriever.”

Mother has the grace to let me struggle through a few more bites before she says, “The public ceremony can be delayed for a short time. The transfer of power does not rely on the ceremony. We could complete it tonight, if you prefer.” What little desire I had left to eat vanishes. Alcohol is the better choice. “How fortunate. We may as well start now, so we can be finished before dessert. Should I eat this course slower so you have time to go change into the proper mourning garments?”

“Well, whenever it happens, make sure you use protection. Safety first, that’s what all the sites say.” “You haven’t been researching this, have you?” “I guess I should tell you how relieved I am to know you aren’t going to be bringing home any little surprises anytime soon.” He raises his eyes toward the sky. “All those high school years spent worrying for no reason. Years off my life, Phineas.”

Sláine, High Prince of Earth and Ruin, Lord of the Sídhe. Roark, Prince of Air and Darkness, Lord of the Ravens. Lugh, Prince of War and Chaos, Lord of the Wild Hunt.

It’s his final offer. An opportunity for me to walk away from the full darkness of his role and leave him to his suffering. It would be easier. But I’ve never taken the easy path. I will never understand his duties and how he shoulders them, but I don’t have to because they aren’t my burdens to bear. And it doesn’t mean I can’t be there to help carry him.

He starts to undo the first button, the one near his collar, when I figure it out and ask, “Can I—?” He hesitates, but only for a second. The air between us thickens and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth because I want this so badly. Want him to let me help him, even if the task is minor.

I lean forward, still fascinated by the contrast of his undeniable masculinity with the smooth skin all faerie possess.

Run toward hope. Even if hope is a fae asshole who really needs to learn how to communicate better.

In my panic, I didn’t even pay attention to the car’s license plate. Or what the men looked like. Or anything useful. Years’ worth of crime TV shows did nothing to prepare me for that moment.