Ryan Graudin - All That Glows

“You’ll see,” Breena says, bending slightly to give my shoulder a pat. “Welcome back.”

It’s been long years since my last shift—years spent tending to Mab’s Faery court in the Highlands. It was an existence I quite enjoyed, soaking up the power of the hills for endless days and joining the scouts: Fae of old, too ancient to enter the cities. We scoured the land for wild, errant magic—spirits who sought to break that strict barrier between the realms of magic and mortal. Spirits whose chaos might tear the thinly stretched veil we maintain. I’d considered my days in the grimy modernity of London long behind me. But Mab had other plans.

Despite this gap, the necessary spells come like a reflex. I cover myself in all of the cursory enchantments before I head to Kensington Palace for my first shift. Helene, the youngling I’m relieving, exudes both gratitude and pity as she leaves me instructions.

“Don’t ever let him see you, and if he does by chance, erase that memory. You must cloak yourself or take the guise of a stranger at all times.”

I nod, barely suppressing my impatience. Helene is only telling me what every Fae in the Guard already knows. But Helene’s younger than me; from the tinge of her aura, she’s no more than two hundred years old. If we were outside of the city, spinning across the moors and lochs or feasting in the subterranean chambers of Mab’s court, she wouldn’t dare speak to me first, much less instruct me. Age is superior among the Fae. Everywhere, it seems, but here. In London, everything is messy.

“Oh, and don’t ever let him leave your sight.” The young Fae wags a finger in the air to make her words feel bigger, more important. “There’ve been . . . incidents over the past few weeks. Green Women and the like. Richard attracts them like moths to a bonfire. Tonight’s bound to be a wild one, with his just finishing Eton and all. Good luck.”

“Thanks. I’ve got it,” I say curtly. I try not to think of how my mouth holds just a hint of bile.

Some breeze throws strands of flaming hair in my face. I don’t have to turn to know that Helene has left.

Through the crack in the door, I see the corner of a large bed filled with rumpled, cloud-white sheets. One of Richard’s lanky arms drapes over the side, his fingertips brushing the ornamental rug.

Like the rest of London, the prince’s bedroom is a living collage to the passage of time. Richard’s bedside table—a decadent, nineteenth-century piece crafted out of wolf-gray marble and mahogany—is covered with the unnatural blinking lights of electronics. A digital clock. A mobile phone that shivers and glows at odd moments. His chrome laptop is tucked in the back of the same antique desk Queen Victoria once wrote her letters on. Chubby, meticulously painted cherubs born in George I’s era gaze down from their ceiling frescos at stereo speakers. They smile on, as they always have.

It’s almost seamless, the way the past is entombed with the present here.

“Why are you sleeping?” I slip into the room and approach the bed. The light filtering through the curtains is quickly dropping into the bruised plum color of night. No normal mortal is asleep at this hour.

As I draw closer to the prince I can feel the magic pulse more strongly through my limbs. Something in the royal blood excites our magic, strengthens it. It’s that source of strange, untapped power we call “blood magic.”

The first time I saw Prince Richard, he was bareheaded and swaddled against his mother’s breast. My second, most recent glimpse of His Majesty was during a visit to Breena over a decade ago, when he made his younger sister cry at Wimbledon by giving her an inappropriate and painful wedgie beneath her tennis dress. Through the tangle of sheets, I catch my first sight of teenage Richard. His teeth are no longer too large for his lips. The round, fat face of his childhood has sharpened—sharp, freckle-dusted cheekbones rise to set off a nice pair of finely lined eyes. These, along with his sleek, dirty-blond hair, are enough to make any girl aware of his presence, even without his royal title.

Richard gives a very un-regal snore; the noise makes me twitch. Was I leaning in too close? Even with all of the magical precautions, mortals sometimes feel our presence. I take a step away from his bed. Perhaps there are some things I’ve forgotten over the years.

His eyes open, and for the briefest second I feel their hazel irises on me. Something inside me clenches. I jump and check the veiling spells—the delicate magic that keeps me hidden from all mortals’ view. They’re perfectly in place.

Richard crawls out of bed and when the sheets fall away his bare body comes into view. To my surprise, my cheeks grow hot and I find myself staring at the Persian rug: studying the story of warriors on horseback and blooming fruit orchards some artist wove into its jewel-toned threads. I know they’re from a different time and place, yet they don’t look so different from the Knights of the Round Table: waving their spears and swords, digging their heels into the stallions’ flanks.

When the flush falls from my face, I get the courage to look up again. This is hardly the first time I’ve seen a monarch naked. Guarding royalty often requires front-row seats. Despite this, I keep Richard on the edge of my vision as he saunters to his vast, walk-in wardrobe.

He emerges fully dressed, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt as he approaches the mirror on the wall. His eyes dip low and make the steady climb up his own reflection, taking all of it in. It’s not until the prince sees his hair that he pauses to make an adjustment. He rakes his fingers through it, spilling it over his forehead in a boyish tousle.

“Just a few hours. Can’t drink too much tonight.” His fist moves down to rub the barely-there stubble edging his face. After a few strokes against his chin, he straightens and reaches for the velvet blazer on the chair in front of him.

“I hope you’re right.” I sigh and follow him out the door.

Of course I find myself sitting at a bar. The prince’s nightly play has led me to the Darkroom, a club nestled in the heart of London. My fingers tap against the lacquered wood as I stare absently at the cocktail menu. I should be watching the dance floor, watching Richard. But the movement of so many heads whipping to the music makes mine throb.

“Up to no good, that one.” The bartender nods over at the prince and grunts as he wipes the counter down. “They let him in here because he’s good for business. All the girls buy him drinks, and he gets drunker than a jilted woman on her wedding anniversary. Mark my words, he’s gonna get us shut down for all that underage drinking. Him and all his kid friends. Can I getcha anything, love?”

I jump a little when I realize he’s addressing me. In crowds as large as the one at this club, I don’t bother wasting energy on veiling spells. There are so many pretty faces, Richard will glaze over mine without a thought.

I rub my temple and glance at the rainbow row of liquor bottles against the back wall. The brutal nausea brought on by the club’s pulsing lights and stereos won’t let me keep down anything more substantial than tonic.

“Just a sparkling water,” I tell him, my smile apologetic.