Mistral's Kiss (Merry Gentry #5)(14)

I was blinded with white light. I dug my nails into my thighs to remind myself where I was, and what I was doing. I wanted his release to be everything he wished. But finally, I had to collapse to the ground, had to let my legs unbend. I lay on the dry ground, panting, trying to relearn how to breathe.
He collapsed on top of me, still inside my body. His heart was beating so fast that it felt as if it would spill out his body and touch me. Rain began to fall, gently.
His first words were breathless. “Am I hurting you?”
I tried to raise my arm to touch him, but still couldn’t move. “Nothing hurts right now,” I said.
He let out his breath in a long sigh. “Good.” His heart began to slow as the rain fell harder. I turned my face to the side so the drops wouldn’t be hitting me full on.
I’d thought the weather inside the cavern would stop with Mistral’s orgasm. But though the storm had ended, there was still a sky above us. A cloudy, rainy sky. It had not rained underground in faerie for at least four hundred years. We had a sky and rain, and we were still underground. It was impossible, but the rain on my face was warm. A spring rain, something gentle, to coax the flowers out.
He raised himself up enough to pull himself out of my body and lie by my side. I felt moisture on his face, and thought at first that it was rain. Then I realized it was tears. Had the rain come because he cried, or did one thing have nothing to do with the other? I did not know. I only knew that he cried, and I held out my arms to him.
He buried his face against my breasts, and wept.
CHAPTER 7
ABELOEC, MISTRAL, AND I GOT TO OUR FEET IN THE SOFT SPRING rain. It took me a moment to realize that there was light now. Not the colored shine of magic but a dim, pale light, as if there were a moon somewhere up near the stone roof of the cavern. I couldn’t see the ceiling anymore. It was lost in a soft mist of clouds where the stone had been. 
“Sky,” someone whispered, “there’s sky above us.”
I turned to look at the other men who had been held outside the glowing circle of Abeloec’s magic. I turned to find out who had spoken, but the moment I saw the others, I didn’t care. I didn’t even care that it was raining, or that there was sky, or some phantom moon. All I could think was that we were missing people: a lot of people.
Frost and Rhys were white shadows in the dimness, and Doyle a darker presence by their side. “Doyle, where are the others?”
It was Rhys who answered. “The garden took them.”
“What does that mean?” I asked. I took a step toward them, but Mistral held me back.
“Until we find out what is happening, we cannot risk you, Princess.”
“He is right,” Doyle said. He walked toward us, gliding graceful and nude, but there was something in the way he moved that said the fight wasn’t over. He moved as if he expected the ground itself to open up and attack. Just watching him move like that scared me. Something was horribly wrong.
“Stay with Mistral and Abe. Frost with Merry. Rhys with me.”
I thought someone would argue with him, but they didn’t. They followed him as they had followed him for a thousand years. My pulse was thudding in my throat, and I didn’t understand what was happening, but I was almost certain in that moment that the men would never obey me as they obeyed him. I understood, as he stalked over the softening ground—with Rhys like a small, pale shadow at his side—why my aunt Andais had never made love to Doyle. Never given him a chance to fill her belly with child. She did not share power, and Doyle was a man whom other men followed. He had the stuff of kings in him. I had known that, but I hadn’t been certain until this second that the other men knew it, too. Maybe not in the front of their heads, but in the very bones of their bodies, they understood what he was, what he could be.
He and Rhys moved toward a fringe of tall trees, their branches stark and dead against the soft, rainy twilight. Doyle was looking up into the trees, as if he saw something in the empty branches.
“What is that?” Mistral asked.
“I don’t see…,” Abe began; then I heard his breath draw in sharp.
“What, what is it?” I asked.
“Aisling, I think,” Frost whispered.
I glanced at Frost. I could remember some of the other men who had been touching the trees. Adair, for example, had climbed a tree. I remembered seeing him up in the branches in the middle of all the sex and magic. But I didn’t remember seeing Aisling after the magic hit us.
“I saw Adair climbing a tree, but I don’t remember Aisling,” I said.
“He vanished once we entered the garden,” Frost said.
“I thought he had been left behind in the room with Barinthus and the others,” I said.
“No, he was not left behind,” Mistral said.
“I can’t see what Doyle is looking at.”
“You may not wish to,” Abe said. “I know I don’t.”
“Don’t treat me like a child. What do you see? What’s happened to Aisling?” I pulled away from Mistral. But he and Abe were still between me and the line of trees. “Move aside,” I said.
They glanced at each other, but didn’t move. They would not obey me as they obeyed Doyle.
“I am Princess Meredith NicEssus, wielder of the hand of flesh and blood. You are royal guards, but not royal. Don’t let the sex go to your heads, gentlemen—move!”
“Do as she says,” Frost said.They glanced at each other, but then parted so I could see. Unlike Frost, Doyle would have known not to help me, because now they weren’t obeying me. They were obeying Frost. But that was a problem for another night. This night, this night, I wanted to see what everyone else had already seen.
There was a pale shape hanging from the tallest branch of the tallest tree. I thought at first that Aisling was hanging by his hands, dangling from the branch on purpose; then I realized that his hands were by his sides. He was dangling from the branch, yes, but not by his hands. The rain started to fall harder. “The branch…,” I whispered, “it’s pierced his chest.”
“Yes,” Mistral said.
I swallowed hard enough that it hurt. There weren’t many things that could bring death to the high court of faerie. There were tales of the immortal sidhe standing up after a beheading, still alive. But there were no stories about living on after your heart was gone.
Some of the other guards hadn’t wanted Aisling to sleep in the bedroom with us, feeling he was too dangerous. To look upon his face had once been to fall instantly, hopelessly in love with him. Even goddesses and some gods had fallen to his power, once, or so the old stories said. So he had voluntarily kept most of his clothes on, including the gauzy veil that he wore wrapped around his face. Only his eyes were left bare.
He was a man so beautiful that all who saw him, loved him. I had ordered him to use that power on one of our enemies. She had tried to kill Galen, and almost succeeded. But I hadn’t understood what I asked of him, or what I condemned her to see. She had given us information, but she had also clawed out her own eyes so she would no longer be under his power.
He had been afraid to even take off his shirt in front of me, for fear that I was too mortal to look upon his flesh, let alone his face. I hadn’t been bespelled, but staring at the pale form, hanging lifeless, lost to twilight and rain, I remembered him. I remembered his skin, golden, golden as if someone had shaken gold dust across his pale, perfect body. He had sparkled in the light, not just with magic, but the way a jewel catches the light. He had glittered with the beauty of what he was. Now he hung in the rain, dead or dying. And I had no idea why.
CHAPTER 8
THE GROUND WAS SOFT UNDER OUR FEET AS WE WALKED toward Aisling’s body. The sharp, dry vegetation had melted into the softening earth. Much more of this downpour and it would be mud. I had to shield my eyes with my hand to gaze up at the body in the tree.
Body, just a body. I was already distancing myself from him. Already I was making that mental switch that had allowed me to work murder cases in Los Angeles. Body, it, not he, and absolutely not Aisling. The it hung there, with a black branch thicker than my arm sticking out through the chest. There had to be two feet worth of branch on this side of the body. Such force it would have taken to pierce the chest of any man like that, a warrior of the Unseelie Court. A nearly immortal being, once worshipped as a god. Such beings do not die easily. He hadn’t even cried out…or had he? Had he cried his death on the air, and I been deaf to it? Had my screams of pleasure drowned out his cries of despair? 
No, no, I had to stop thinking like that, or I would run screaming.
“Is he…,” Abe began.
None of the men answered him or finished his sentence. We all stared up, wordless, as if by not saying it, we’d keep it from being true. He hung so limp, like a broken puppet, but thick, and meaty, and more real than any doll. He was utterly still and limp in that heavy-limbed way that not even the deepest sleep can duplicate.
I spoke into that rain-soaked silence. “Dead.” And that one word seemed louder than it actually was.
“How? Why?” Abe asked.
“The how is pretty apparent,” Rhys said. “The why is a mystery.”
I looked away from what hung in the tree, out into the twilight of the gardens. I wasn’t looking away from Aisling, but rather looking for the others. I tried to ignore the tightness of my throat, the speeding of my pulse. I tried not to finish the thought that had made me turn and search the dimness. Were there other men dead, or dying, in the dimness? Who else was pierced through by some magical tree?