Лорел Гамильтон - A Stroke Of Midnight

I realized that Doyle was talking to me like he used to, distant and formal. Was it Ivi’s presence that had made him distance himself, or had something else happened?

“We were their gods,” Rhys said.

“We were not gods,” Doyle said, and his voice went lower with anger. “We thought we were gods, but when the gods themselves departed, we learned otherwise.” He stared out into the darkness, as if he saw things long ago and far away. “They stripped for battle, painted themselves with our symbols, and were slaughtered because we no longer had the power to save them.”

“A stubborn lot, the Celts,” Ivi said. “They kept painting themselves long after it stopped working.” He sounded wistful.

“They thought they had done something to make themselves unworthy,” Doyle said, “so they strove to become worthy again.” He turned away, gave me only the braid that trailed down his dark cloak. “We were the ones who were unworthy.”

“All right, that’s it,” I said. “Why is Doyle beating himself up like this? What did I miss?”

“He’s pouting,” Rhys said.

Doyle turned his head, just enough to give Rhys a look that would have made most people run screaming. “I am not pouting.”

Rhys grinned at him. “Yes, you are. You’re pouting because the marks of power are on Galen and Nicca’s bodies, and not yours. Two of us who never had the tattoos to begin with, and now they have the first ones, and we don’t.” The grin had faded by the time he got to the end.

“I don’t remember being told that it hurt to get the marks. I thought they just appeared.”

“Some did,” Rhys said, “but for the first few of us to gain them, it was bloody, and it hurt like hell.”

The three of us agreed.

“You were one of the first to gain the marks?” Doyle asked, not angry now, but looking at him.

Rhys nodded. “Cromm Cruach is only the last of my names, not the first, Doyle.”

Then Doyle asked something that was very unsidhe, very rude. “Who were you before Cromm Cruach?” The older sidhe never asked that of anyone. It was too painful a reminder of lost glories.

“Darkness, you know better than to ask that,” Rhys said.

Doyle actually bowed. “I am sorry, forgive me. It’s just…” He made a frustrated noise. “I see power given to everyone, but I remain as I have been.”

“Are you jealous?” Rhys asked.

Doyle hunched inside his cloak, then gave a nod. “I believe I am. Not just of Merry, but of the magic, too.” Saying it out loud seemed to make him feel better, or clear his head. For he shook himself like a dog coming out of water, and he turned a more peaceful face to me.

“Most of the tattoos were like my wings. They appeared at birth,” Nicca said.

The comment made me turn to him, because I realized what I’d missed. “Where are your wings?”

He rolled over and let me see them. I expected them to be the tattoo I’d always known on his back, but they weren’t. They were raised above his body like the flower, touchable and real, but lying flat now, as if they were but a step away from the tattoo they had once been.

“Are they going back to being a tattoo?” I asked.

“Maybe,” Rhys said.

“They don’t know,” Nicca said.

“Have you both been awake longer than I have?” I asked.

“No,” Galen said, “but we didn’t pass out as soon.”

I leaned up, very carefully, against the headboard. The moth flicked its wings, giving me a sudden flash of color, then settled back to its black and grey upper wings. Underwing moths, when at rest, try to blend in with tree bark. It wasn’t the moth’s fault that, trapped against the whiteness of my skin, it was very visible. It felt unnerving enough for the moth to move just a little. One of my new goals in life was not to scare it. I did not want to feel it truly struggle. I was very afraid that if it did, I might be quite sick. If a princess is not allowed to show fear, then nausea is completely out. Too unseemly.

Doyle seemed to understand my difficulty, because he helped me prop pillows under my back and head, so I could sit up and see the room, but not bend too much at the stomach. “How are Royal and the rest?” I asked.

“Your demi-fey is fine, though he is the only one who would not leave even to clean off the blood. He insisted that he stay and see you were well.”

I looked out into the darkened room. “Is he here?”

“Outside by the door with Adair and Hawthorne.”

Ivi wrapped his arm around the bedpost, showing a pale line of flesh. I realized that he must have been nude after he gave me his cloak, but I hadn’t truly noticed when the room was full of blood and bodies. “He called you his white and red goddess.” Ivi managed both to make a joke of it, and make it not funny at all. A smile with serious eyes.

“I am no one’s goddess,” I said.

“I don’t know,” Ivi said, wrapping more of himself around the bedpost, so that only the wood kept me from seeing all of him. “We sidhe have been worshipped for less.”

“Long ago,” Doyle said, “and far from here.”

Ivi shrugged. “We were in the land of faerie then, and we are in the land of faerie now. That is not so far, Darkness.”

“Where is everyone else?” I asked.

“Kitto and Frost and a few others have gone to fetch food for you all,” Doyle said.

“Galen’s comment about no one going anywhere alone.” Rhys shrugged. “It was smart, so the new rule is three of us together at all times.”

“We don’t have enough men for that,” I said.

“We do now,” Rhys said.

I frowned at him. “I don’t understand.”

“The queen agreed that we needed more than just the green men,” he said.

“So why is the room so empty?” I asked.

“We aren’t enough company?” Galen asked.

I smiled at him. “It’s not that, it’s just that if everyone’s here, I know they’re safe.”

“Why did we get winged insects and Nicca got a flower?” Galen asked.

“He already has wings,” Rhys said. He moved when he said it, and I got a glimpse of something under his cloak.

“Is that a sling?” I asked.

He let the cloak fall open, and his right arm was in a sling.

“What happened?”

“First, we discovered that time is only running odd for us. Outside of our faerie mound time is creeping so slowly that the police probably haven’t even gotten back to their lab yet.”

“Get to the part where you’ve got an injured arm,” I said.

“We were on our way back when three of the Seelie called for us to halt, and talk to them.”

“They didn’t say that, not like that,” Nicca said.

Galen agreed. “Way too polite for them.” He lay on his side, propped on one elbow, his right arm held carefully, so his butterfly wasn’t disturbed.

Rhys grinned at them. “Okay, they called for us to halt, and wanted specifically to speak to me.” The grin faded around the edges. “I was in charge. It was my fault that they caught us off guard.” He looked at Doyle. “I could have gotten the other men killed.”

“Killed?” I asked.

“They were using cold iron.”

“You’re joking,” Galen said.

Rhys leaned his back more comfortably against the footboard, and shook his head. He looked grim. “We didn’t expect that.”

“Do not blame yourself for that part, Rhys,” Doyle said. “Neither court hunts the other with cold iron. That is reserved for war, and we are not at war.”

“Not yet,” he said.

“Why do you mean, not yet?” Galen asked.

“Did cold iron do that to your arm?” I asked.

He answered my question first. “One of them attacked me. We were three for three, but we didn’t realize we weren’t just having a little fun until they got serious.” He shook his head. “If I hadn’t surprised him, it would have been worse.”