“I do not know. I cannot See him now.” She opened her eyes. “He was a glimpse, and in that glimpse, he was still and bleeding, lying on the soil here in Faerie.”
“Did that please you?”
She shook her head, but did not admit the curious sense she’d had that this mortal’s pain
Devlin approached her. Silently, he reached out and swiped a tear from her cheek. He lifted it and held it up.
They both looked at it, a silver droplet on the tip of his outstretched finger.
“The body does odd things at times,” she whispered.
“It’s a tear.”
Sorcha lifted her gaze from the oddity to stare at her brother’s face. “I do not weep.”
“Yes, my Queen.” He pulled his hand behind him, and she knew without looking that the tear was still held there.
She nodded and brushed past him. At the doorway, she paused for a servant to appear. She did not speak to him; in order to be worthy of being allowed in her private rooms, those most trusted sacrificed their hearing. At set locations, they waited with eyes downcast so as not to lip-read the words she spoke. The servant saw the hem of her dress on the floor before him, and so stepped forward to pull the tapestry away from the doorway.
“I will find him,” Devlin said from behind her. “The mortal.”
Her heart felt oddly constricted. “Not all threads are truths, Brother. What is truth is that Chaos grows. Every possibility I See shows me the results of her strength. I need you to be mine.”
“My word that I will not fail you if ever it is in my power.” Devlin’s words were small comfort. He did not say he was hers, that he would stand with her against Bananach—
“When you visit their world, watch for a mortal of significance.” Then she stepped through the doorway, trying not to ponder the odd reaction she’d had to the thought of one unknown mortal lying motionless in her presence.
STOPPING TIME
After
It didn’t help. These together-but-not times were the closest thing she’d had to a date in months. She looked forward to seeing him, thought about it throughout the week, wondering what he’d be wearing, what he’d be reading, if this week he’d approach her.
He wouldn’t. He’d promised her choices, and he wouldn’t take them from her. If she spoke to him, it would be because she approached him. If she went to him, it would be of her own volition. If she wanted to stop seeing him, she could stop arriving here every week. That, too, was her choice. So far, she resisted approaching him and speaking to him. She did not, however, stop coming to the precise spot each week at the same time. They had a routine: he read whatever his book of the week was, and she studied.
She couldn’t see the cover of his current book at first. His taste was eclectic in genre, but consistent in quality. She glanced at the book several times, trying for subtle, but he noticed.
With a grin, he lifted the book—one called
He lowered the book, taking away her unobserved access, and stared at her for several heartbeats. Often, he stayed invisible when he came to sit near her. This week he was very visible, though. She saw him either way, but when he was visible to others, it was extra difficult to keep her gaze off him. His visibility was an invitation of sorts, an extra temptation to approach him.
“He’s got it bad,” one of her study partners commented.
Beside her, Michael was silent.
Leslie tore her gaze from Irial and looked at her companions. “He’s an old friend.”
The curiosity on their faces was obvious. She shouldn’t have met them here.
“A friend you don’t talk to?” Jill’s voice held the doubt that the others were too polite to voice. “What kind of friend is that?”
“One who’d move the earth for me, but”—Leslie glanced back at Irial—“not one who brings out my better side.”
His mouth quirked in a just-restrained laugh.
“Well if you don’t want him … maybe I should go say hello.” Jill flashed her teeth in what passed for a smile.
Leslie shrugged.
Anger rose up inside of her as Jill stood and started across the grassy lawn that separated the coffee shop and the bench where Irial waited. Worse still, it embarrassed her to admit that she felt a familiar possessive pang. Irial was
When she left his world—
That was an implicit understanding: she mostly pretended they weren’t there, and they pretended she wasn’t ignoring their presence. Sometimes ignoring the fey made her feel a kinship with Aislinn. When Aislinn was mortal, she’d had to pretend not to see them. They hadn’t known she had the Sight. Leslie, however, didn’t need to pretend.
She smiled at Irial, letting the illusion slip for a moment—and immediately regretted it. He lowered his book and leaned forward. The question in his expression made her heart ache. She didn’t belong in his world, not even now that he was no longer the Dark King. Talking to him was dangerous. Being alone with him was dangerous. It was a line she couldn’t cross—not and still retain her distance. If she were to be honest with herself, it was the other reason she’d invited her study group this week. She could speak to them, say things she wanted him to know