Rhys got to his feet and saluted Kitto with his own bloody sword, then turned to what was left of the goblin. “You have made a mess of her,” Kurag said, “but she will not die for you.”
Rhys held his sword loosely in one hand, the other hand held out toward the main body that was left. He touched her furred back with his finger, and spoke one word, his voice clear and ringing like a soft bell. “Die,” he said, and the body stopped moving. The pieces on the floor that had been wriggling lay still. It was as if Rhys pressed a button. He said, Die, and she died.
Doyle made a sound like a quiet hiss, and I forgot to breathe for a second or two. No sidhe could kill by just a touch and a command. Our magic didn’t work that way.
“Consort bless us,” Frost whispered.
There were hushed oaths from the younger goblins, but Kurag’s voice when it came was deep with weariness. “The last time I saw you do that, it was before the last great war, white prince,” he said.
Rhys stood there in his bloody terry-cloth robe, splattered with gore, and said, “Why do you think the goblins almost won that one?” There was a look on his face, a set to his body, that I’d never seen before. It was as if he took up more room than his physical form; as if he were taller than the room could hold, and his presence filled everything for a moment. It was as if all the air had become Rhys’s magic.
The moment passed, and I could breathe again, and the air felt sweet and cool, and better than it had a moment ago. I leaned against Doyle’s body for support, as if my knees were weak. A second ago I’d been angry with him for forcing Kitto to fight alone; now I huddled against him. I think I would have clung to anyone in that moment. I needed the touch of other flesh, other hands.
Once the goblin was dead, the corpse fell into pieces on either side of the mirror. The mirror was whole again. The goblins agreed to everything we wanted. Rhys blanked the mirror and turned, his robe more red than white. The blood had stained his white hair and skin, like red ink sprinkled on him. Where the blood touched his skin and hair, the red seemed to glow. That shining blood began to vanish, as if his very skin absorbed it, until he stood straight and clean, and untouched, except for the bloody robe. His blue eye was a whirl of colors, like looking into the center of some sky-colored storm.
Doyle used the sword sheath in his hand to salute, and Frost drew his long sword. They both touched their foreheads, but it was Doyle who said it. “Hail, Cromm Cruach, who slew Tigernmas, Lord of Death, for his pride and his crimes against the people.”
Rhys raised his bloody sword, saluting them in turn. “It’s good to be back.” His solemn bloodstained face broke into his usual grin. “Blood makes the grass grow, rah, rah, rah.”
“I always thought it was sex that made the grass grow,” Galen said from the doorway, and we all turned around to look at him. Except for Kitto, who seemed lost in the blood-covered aftermath of his powers coming online.
Galen moved into the room just enough to lean against the wall. He looked tall and cool, from the top of his short, curling pale green hair—with its one tiny braid that played over his shoulder like an afterthought—to his broad shoulders, slender waist, and hips in their cream-colored suit. The white open-necked shirt brought out the slight green tint to his skin so that he looked more like the fertility god he would probably have been, had he been born a few hundred years earlier. His long legs in their loose slacks ended in brown loafers worn without socks. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a smile shining from his face that lit his grass-green eyes like jewels, not from magic, but from sheer goodwill—sheer Galen. He looked cool and pleasant, like some pale green liquid that you knew would quench whatever thirst you had.I went to him, partly to bestow a welcoming kiss, and partly because I could rarely be in a room with Galen and not touch him. Touching him was like breathing; I’d done it so long, I didn’t remember how to stop—not and live. The fact that he and I had been lovers for a month and I’d just finished bleeding our hopes of a child away had been both painful, and a relief. I loved Galen, had loved him from the time I was twelve or thirteen. Unfortunately, now that I was all grown up I finally realized what my father had tried to tell me years ago. Galen was strong, brave, joyous, my friend, and he loved me, but he was also the least politically savvy sidhe I’d ever met. Galen as king would be a disaster. I’d lost my father to assassins when I was young. I didn’t think I could live through losing anyone else to them, especially not Galen. So part of me wanted to have him in my bed forever, my lover, my husband, but not my king. But my king would be whoever got me pregnant. No baby, no marriage; it was the way of sidhe royalty.
I wrapped my arms around Galen, sliding my arms underneath his jacket, where it held the warmth of his body, pulsing against my arms even through his shirt. I cuddled my face to his chest as his arms held me close. I hid my face from his gaze, because more and more lately I couldn’t keep the worry out of my eyes. Galen was hopeless politically, but he understood my moods better than most, and I didn’t want to explain these particular facts of life to him, not just yet.
His voice rumbled through his chest against my ear. “Maeve is back from her meeting with the heads of the studio. She’s having a crying fit in her room.”
Doyle said, “I take it the meeting didn’t go well.”
“The studio isn’t happy that she’s pregnant. Publicly they’re thrilled, but behind closed doors they’re pissed. How is she going to do her next movie, which is a very sexy role with nudity, when she’ll be three or four months’ pregnant at the time?”
I drew away from him enough to look up into his face. “Are you serious? As much money as she’s made these people over the last decade, and they can’t let one movie slide?”
Galen shrugged with his arms still wrapped around me. “I only report the news, I don’t explain it.” He frowned, and the happiness slipped out of his eyes. “I think if her husband wasn’t dead . . . I mean, they seemed to imply that she could get pregnant some other time.”
I gave him wide eyes. “An abortion?”
“They never said it out loud, but it was there in the air.” He shivered and hugged me so close I couldn’t see his face anymore. “When Maeve reminded them that her husband was dead barely a month, and this would be the only chance she had to have his baby, they apologized. They said they never meant to imply any such thing. They sat there and lied.” He kissed the top of my head. “How could they do that to her? I thought she was their big star.”
I hugged him tighter, pressing myself against his body as if I could take that hurt out of his voice. “Maeve dropped two movies while her husband died of cancer. I guess they were looking forward to having their cash cow back at work.”
Galen laid his chin against my hair. “I couldn’t imagine doing what they did to her today, to anyone, for any reason. They were all hints, and looks, and never just saying what they meant, and then outright lies.” He shivered again. “I don’t understand that.”
And that was the problem. Galen truly didn’t understand how anyone could be so mean. To survive in most arenas of power you must first understand that everyone lies, everyone cheats, and no one is your friend. The paradox is that not everyone lies, and not everyone cheats, and some people are your friends. The problem lies in the fact that one smiling face and handshake looks much like another, and when you’re surrounded by consummate liars, how to tell the truth from the lie, friend from foe? Better to treat everyone professionally, pleasantly, smile, nod, be friendly, but never be friends. Because there is no way to tell who is on your side, not really. Galen couldn’t grasp that concept. I needed someone who could.
I turned my face enough to see Doyle standing on the other side of the room. He was cool and dark, but he reminded me not of a drink that would quench my needs, but rather a weapon that would protect all I loved.
I stood there wrapped in Galen’s arms, but my eyes were for Doyle, and Frost watched us all. Frost, whom I’d begun to love for the first time. Frost who had finally figured out he needed to be jealous of Galen, and had always been jealous of Doyle. The fey are not supposed to be jealous in the way humans are, but glancing into Frost’s grey eyes, I was beginning to think that perhaps the sidhe had become more human than they realized.
Chapter 6
The golden goddess of hollywood lay curled into a ball on top of the satin comforter that covered her round king-size bed. It was the bed she’d shared with the late Gordon Reed for more than twenty years. I’d suggested that maybe she could move to a new bedroom until she got over some of her grief. She’d given me a look so scathing that I’d never suggested it again.
Her suit jacket, the color of goldenrods, lay forlorn on the floor. The boots—made of leather so soft, it seemed to still breathe on its own—were scattered, as if she’d thrown them when she undressed. She was still wearing the slacks that matched the jacket, and the copper-colored vest that had been the only shirt she’d worn. The headband that had matched the vest, perfectly, was the last thing dropped by the bed. Her hair lay free and disarrayed across the edge of the bed. The hair was still the color of soft butter, which meant as upset as she was, she was still wasting magic for her glamour. The glamour that had let her pass for human for a hundred years since she was exiled from faerie. For fifty of those years she’d been the golden goddess of Hollywood, Maeve Reed. For untold centuries before that she’d been the goddess Conchenn.