Ryan Graudin - All That Glows

I uncross my arms. “I already told you. I’m a Fae. The only reason you can see me is because I’m letting you.” The back of my throat goes dry at this half-truth. What am I doing? I should have reported this minutes ago. . . . But I can’t leave Breena alone here. I can’t return to Mab’s court with this failure under my belt.

“Or I’m seeing you because I’ve gone delusional. Dementia has sprung up on Mum’s side of the family before.” Richard rolls his sleeve even farther over his elbow and starts pinching his smooth forearm. “Maybe I’ve just fallen asleep. That’s it. I’m dreaming.”

“Carry on then,” I tell him. “I’ll be here when you’re finally ready to talk.”

Nearly a dozen tiny, red welts appear on the prince’s skin before he gives up. They stand in a neat row, like notches chalked onto the wall of a prison cell. He sighs and looks at me. This time his gaze is earnest, calm, taking all of me in.

“So—you’re my Faery godmother?”

“Your Frithemaeg,” I correct him, wishing I hadn’t used the first term. “I don’t turn pumpkins into carriages. And I’m not that frumpy.”

“I noticed.” There’s a smirk, short and sweet, before the prince becomes all seriousness again. “But you’re my guardian?”

“One of many. We’re Fae who’ve sworn to protect the crown. One of my kind is always near you—we always have been, ever since you were born. We’re watching you, keeping you safe.”

Richard tries a third cabinet. This time he emerges with what he’s hunting for—a bottle of whiskey and a weighty crystal glass. “What do these other immortals want with me? Why are they trying to kill me?”

I watch as he unscrews the lid and pours the liquid in a twisting amber stream. It smells of many things—aged wood, faint fruits, buttery caramel—but mostly alcohol. The fumes sting my nostrils and the back of my throat, even from this distance. “Some immortals feed off death. A long time ago, before I existed, all of us gained our powers from the earth. But when the men came—some spirits found power in their deaths. These are the soul feeders. The carnivores. Their magic is different. It lasts longer and it’s less susceptible to the machines.”

“Machines?”

“Technology hurts our magic. I’m far less powerful here than I would be in the wilderness. Only younger spirits can enter the cities without going insane.” I cringe as I think of all the old Faery nobility who unraveled and disappeared at the dawn of the Industrial Revolution. Sometimes the machines weren’t enough to destroy them—teams of youngling scouts had to put them down in order to preserve both man and immortals from their terrible, unstable strength. Sometimes they were even without bodies: all spirit, raw power. A maelstrom of magic destroying all in its path.

“There are spirits whose powers are strengthened by a mortal’s death. These are the soul feeders. They like to hunt in the cities, usually at night. Nowadays they lie low, but in older times they were a huge problem. The humans were terrified of them—people could hardly leave their houses without coming across some kind of immortal.” I pause for breath.

Richard sips his whiskey, and the fire of the drink cuts across his face. “Sounds petrifying.”

I go on, ignoring both the drink and his comment. “King Arthur the Pendragon was the one who finally came up with a solution. I was very young then, but I still remember a lot of it. . . . Back then, magic ranged freely in the land. Even some mortals learned how to wield it. The crown of Camelot held some sort of higher power, one that we immortals held in great curiosity and envy. Arthur offered the Fae access to his magic, his blood right, as long as we swore to keep the soul feeders in check and to guard those who wear Albion’s crown. Many of us forged an alliance, sealed with unbreakable magic. We’ve been Frithemaeg ever since. King Arthur was the one who gave us the name. Every king and queen since his rule has been under our protection, whether they knew it or not.”

“Wait—” The prince sets his glass down on the swirled, smoky marble. “King Arthur was real ?”

My thoughts trail back to those long-faded days, when I was only a few decades old. I can still see the grime on the monarch’s face and smell the stale sweat beneath the armor he wore to seek out our queen’s favor. He knelt at her feet, his hair mussed and golden like some wild mane. If he was a lion, then Mab was a gazelle—all slender grace and marked beauty as she looked down on him, her eyes shifting through every color in existence. I remember the bright flare of magic which bound Arthur’s and Mab’s oaths together, sealing the fates of the royals and the Frithemaeg until the crown would fall. An oath we could never break.

“As real as you and me.”

“I’m still debating that point,” he says, and lets out a deep breath. Air hisses out of a tiny hole in his lips like a deflating car tire. “So you’re saying that I have, like, special powers? Or something?”

“Your blood has magic in it, yes, though I doubt you could learn how to use it. Mortals stopped practicing magic several centuries ago. But your blood and the blood of your family is a huge asset to the Fae. That’s why we guard you—to protect one of the more reliable sources of magic we have left. The machines are spreading so fast. . . . I don’t know how much longer my kind will survive on the old ways. We need you. And you need us to protect you. It’s symbiosis.”

“If my blood’s so valuable, then why are these other Faeries trying to kill me?” He picks up his drink again, swirling it around.

“Let’s just say it makes you even more appetizing to soul feeders. They don’t need your blood magic anyway. They survive well enough off of death.” With fingers of lightning, I snatch the prince’s glass from his hands before he can protest. It’s still mostly full. “You shouldn’t be drinking this stuff. It dulls your senses. Makes you an easier target, which makes my job harder.”

I dump the rest of the whiskey into the sink. Richard’s lips screw tight, almost frown, as he watches the nut-brown liquid whirlpool down the drain.

“So, now what?” he asks when I place the empty glass on the counter.

Yes. Now what? How long should I keep up this ruse? If Breena finds out what I’ve done. The taboo I’ve broken. . . .

But no one’s been hurt. In fact, I might even be able to protect the prince better. Point out Green Women and Banshees. It’s that or report my failing magic, and the thought of that is even more terrifying than the possibility of getting caught.

“You keep living and I’ll keep guarding,” I tell him.

Richard stares with a length and intensity that makes even me uncomfortable. I don’t think he’s realized how much time has passed between us in silence. “You’re going to follow me everywhere? You never leave?”

“Not unless you want to be Banshee bait,” I say, grim. “You just do whatever you normally do. Pretend I’m not here.”

“Right.” He bites his bottom lip. It goes lopsided, a half-done, pink bow tie. “You’ll have to be a bit less gorgeous if you want me to do that.”

Gorgeous. I fight the urge to smile at his compliment. “Sorry, it’s part of the deal.”