Summer Chapter Four
The Queen
Siobahn summoned the remaining Exiles to Malachi’s Gold Street office. Located on the top floor of a boutique hotel and glassed in on three sides, the small apartment had plenty of light. It looked down onto a narrow cobblestoned alley. Across the alley a pizza joint spat a constant stream of delivery boys on bicycles.
The office was meant to be modern-eccentric like the rest of the hotel, but Malachi had ignored building ordinances and instead furnished it with various pieces of mismatched furniture he’d collected through the centuries. Stickley and Tiffany competed for space with a faded Chesterfield and Chinese stools. He’d spread Oriental rugs over the original wood floor. Over the rugs he’d tossed skins of the bear and dear he’d hunted over the island before Manhattan became Manhattan.
The apartment also had an all-important back entrance: a fire ladder that eventually dumped into a second, smaller alley.
Siobahn arranged herself in a polished Stickley armchair, Morris standing silent at her back, and watched the open window over the fire escape.
No one ever used the apartment’s actual door. Malachi had spelled it shut. Even his mortal visitors came up the fire ladder and through the bedroom window.
It was a silly precaution, Siobahn thought as she faced the open window, waiting. A locked door wasn’t likely to keep serious busybodies out. But Malachi liked his little dramas and they’d kept him from boredom.
“Tea, m’lady?”
Siobahn glanced at the spread of tea and biscuits Morris had set out for guests on a low, battered table that looked more Ikea than turn-of-the-century.
“Something stronger, Morris. Whiskey. One of the old bottles, from the bar.”
“Yes, m’lady.” Morris sounded disapproving, but Siobahn didn’t care. Morris disapproved of everything. It was why she liked him.
A blast of chill winter air blew in through the open window. Siobahn shivered, pulling the sleeves of the sweater she wore down past her wrists and over her fingers. The sweater had belonged to Malachi. It still carried his scent, as did the Gold Street Office, and the penthouse over at The Plaza, and the Italian cafe on Thames Street, and every single pore of her body.
Morris bustled back. He extended a snifter of dark brandy. Siobahn took it, warming it between her covered palms. Morris positioned himself at her back once more. Together they eyed the open window.
“They’re late,” he sniffed after a moment.
Siobahn lifted her eyes to the clock on Malachi’s desk. It was a small carriage clock, enameled, a twin to one she kept in her own bedroom.
“Not yet,” she replied. “Give them time to remember.”
Morris cleared his throat disapprovingly, but kept silent. Siobahn drank from her snifter. She swirled the liquid around her teeth, numbing her tongue. She swallowed and considered Morris’s bland reflection in the windowpanes.
“Don’t you think,” she said, “the British butler routine is a tad out of date?”
Morris didn’t blink.
“No, my lady,” he said.
Siobahn shook her head and took another swallow of liquor. Before, Morris had been in charge of feeding the Progress, a dangerous job few in the Court volunteered to take on. Now he seemed perfectly happy arranging cookies on a tea plate and polishing silverware.
She knew he still wore a knife under his black dinner coat. She wondered if he remembered how do use it for anything else than slicing fine cheese.
The wind gusted again, this time carrying in flecks of snow, and the distinctive, earthy smell of sidhe.
“They come,” Morris murmured, relieved.
“Yes.” Siobahn closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she was ready. “As I said, they but needed time to remember.”
They came through the window in groups and straggles, and arranged themselves the same way throughout the apartment, talking quietly amongst themselves, or staring vacantly out the glass walls. Most were thin, and ragged, and more than half-mad. A few looked less folk than mortal. Three came in animal form: a cat, a raven, and a grey mouse.
The mouse made Siobahn miss Gabriel. But this mouse easily turned itself into a lean young man. He collapsed into the Chesterfield, pulled his mobile from a pocket, and was immediately engrossed. He didn’t once turn his head Siobahn’s way.
“Twenty-five,” Morris said quietly. “By my count we’re missing Katherine Grey, the Troubadour, and seven more.”
His tray of sandwiches was mostly empty. Many of the Exiles lived on the city streets where good food was hard to find. A few had tastes that had nothing to do with mortal fare.
“Katherine Grey isn’t reliable. The rest will come.”
Morris set down his tray. He regarded the gathering, lips pressed together into a thin line. “Reliability isn’t something I’d expect from this lot, m’lady.”
“No.” Siobahn set her brandy aside. She rose, unfolding her long limbs from the Stickley. “But loyalty is.”
She arranged the long skirt she wore beneath Malachi’s sweater. Freeing her palms, she clapped them together once, sharp. The sound, purposefully magnified, bounced off furniture, walls, and glass. When it hit the open window, it rattled the casing, dropping the upper sash with a bang.
The quiet chatter in the room went silent. Palpable tension rose until their fear and anger pricked against Siobahn’s skin.
“When Malachi stood on my right-hand with his sword and strength,” she said, “you remembered your place. Was it only the sword that made you bow? Have you forgotten obedience?”
She waited. They went down to their knees one by one, reluctantly at first, then more quickly, as they recalled who they were and from where they’d come. Only the boy with the busy mobile and a petite maid in hooker’s fishnets refused to drop.
“Himself is murdered and gone,” the boy said without looking up from his phone. “He was the last who believed. There’s no Way home for us now. Why should we care who sits a throne we’ll never see again?”
Siobahn crossed the room without moving. The lad at last glanced up from his screen. He had a shock of curly dark black hair that fell across his nose. He wore a bowtie and bespoke suit. His feet were bare and dirty.
Malachi would have remembered his name. Siobahn didn’t care to.
She flicked her fingers. The phone in his hand turned to a clutch of maggots. They fell from his hand, tumbling across the Chesterfield cushions in tiny pit-pats. When the larvae hit the ground in twos and threes, the nearest sidhe, head still bowed, snatched them from the rug and shoved them in her mouth.
The boy’s eyes widened, but he didn’t move.
“I had half my life on that phone,” he said, showing pointed teeth. “All my connections and contacts.”
“Connections and contacts,” Siobahn scoffed. “How human you sound. What of blood and vow?”
He shrugged, fists clenched on his thighs. “Himself is gone. It was Malachi kept us safe, kept us fed, while you, m’lady, hid away and watched from on high. Just like Gloriana.”
Siobahn slapped him, twice. Her hand left a red mark across his cheek. He half rose, then fell back onto the cushions.
“Wise,” Siobahn said. She bent and scooped a single missed worm from the carpet, dropping it in the lad’s lap. “My patience isn’t what it was. Get down on your knees.”
He was canny enough to slide off the couch and onto the rug, but not before Siobahn caught the gleam of malice in his blue eyes. He started to bow his head, black curls flopping over his forehead, but Siobahn bent in one swift motion and grabbed his chin.
“What’s your name?” she demanded.
He kept himself still against the grip of her fingers, but Siobahn could feel the pulse beating under his jawbone. He was frightened, or angry, or both. The single tiny worm had fallen from his lap and squished beneath his knee.
“Finvarra,” he answered, not quite a hiss. “I kept your cloak from the mud, when we crossed through. I carried Himself’s helm. Don’t you remember, m’lady? I was his page. The one who slipped –
” – the poison to the Guard, and the sleeping draochta in Gloriana’s cup.” Siobhan relaxed her fingers, remembering. He’d been barely a child, then. Now he was grown, like her own son. Grown, and stopped growing, like a sapling pruned back.
“You were loyal to my husband. Willing to commit murder and high treason. You kept his blade clean, and you combed the leaves from my hair when we still ran like animals in the woods.” Siobahn regarded his bent head. “Yet now you’d rather play with human toys than prostrate yourself at my feet. Once you knew your place, Finvarra. My husband’s death does not change your standing. I am, and was always meant to be, your Queen.”
“You have the bloodlines.” He’d put his hands behind his head as though she held a pistol to his lowered brow. “Aye, that’s true. But it was Malachi who treated us as his own, Malachi who held us together.” His eyes were cobalt slits through the fall of his hair. “You, you would have let us rot while you dreamed revenge.”
Siobhan hit him again, knocking him flat. She conjured a small bronze knife to her hand, pinned him immobile with a word, and would have spilt his traitorous innards all across Malachi’s bear rugs if not for a sudden change in the room.
It was almost imperceptible at first, an inhale and an exhale as the sidhe grouped on their knees around the apartment began to stir. She’d held their attention completely and without trying, because it was the way of royalty, but now they were turning away.
Siobahn smelled the danger before she saw it. Not in through the window, no, but under the spelled door, in the gaps around the old frame; a familiar perfume, a hated fragrance, calculation and threat.
Morris rose to his feet. He didn’t carry a gun, or a sword, or even a knife. Siobahn wasn’t sure how he meant to protect her; still, he was quick as a cat, and spread himself in front of Malachi’s spelled door a heartbeat before it burst into splinters and shrapnel.
The sidhe rose in leaps and bounds, surrounding Siobahn. Power hummed, and weapons were drawn; pistols, bronze blades, and in one case a sawed-off shotgun. Siobahn felt a surge of satisfaction. They’d protect her even as they chafed under her rule, because it was bred in their bones.
Morris spat a quick Cant as he staggered upright. An orb of amber light spread across Siobhan and her small army.
“Nicely done,” the Queen said, surprised. “You’ve a few tricks up your sleeve, still, Morris.”
“Yes, m’lady.” Like Siobahn Morris kept his attention on the splintered threshold.
Around Siobhan and beneath the amber orb, the Exiles arranged themselves for battle. Only the arrogant blue-eyed boy and the female in the fishnet stockings refused to join ranks.
Katherine Grey sent her human into the room first, a coward’s gambit. He was tall for a mortal, and fit, even after the explosion that had nearly killed him. He walked carefully, and there were sutures still on the right side of his head where emergency room doctors had shaved away his greying hair, but he held himself with the easy confidence of the unafraid.
“Detective Healy,” Siobahn purred. “You might have knocked.”
He scanned the room with a warrior’s quick precision, briefly considering the open window, then smiled at Siobahn.
“I did. You didn’t hear me.” He kept his gaze on Siobahn, but she knew he was assessing her small army and trying to determine the threat level in the room.
“So you kicked the door in?” Siobahn showed her teeth. “Overdone, Detective.”
“Shot the lock,” he said, twitching his coat so she could see the holster under his arm. “One of your son’s modified weapons.” He smiled back. Siobahn didn’t like the genuine amusement on his mouth. “I learned the hard way human technology and sidhe magic make a volatile combination.”
One of the Exiles, a child-sized female with tiny batwings sprouting from her spine, hissed. The long blade in her fist thrummed reaction, shifting from black through all the colours of the dawning sky, then back again.
“An explosive combination,” Siobahn agreed. “You’re healing well. Liadan must be tending to you personally. Where is she?”
“Here.”
Morris spat a curse, whirling away from the door. Siobahn turned more slowly. She was used to the Grey Lady’s games; they’d been playing against each other for longer than Siobahn cared to remember.
Katherine Grey climbed through the open window. The curtain shivered at her passing, worn lace pattern recoiling from her touch. She’d pulled her hair back into a plain braid and wore a black shirt and trousers instead of the overdone couture she usually preferred.
Finvarra and his female companion rose from the Chesterfield and ranged themselves at her side. Morris growled, but Siobahn was unsurprised.
“So. You’ve come to sew dissent?” Siobahn set her hand on Morris’ arm to keep him from lunging forward. “I expected the treason, and the theatrics, and even the human. But I find the mourning raiment distasteful. You never loved him; you haven’t earned the right to grieve.”
“I loved him.” Katherine replied. “So much so that I’ve come to pay you my respects, because it’s what he would have wanted.”
“Detective Healy.” Siobahn paced back to her chair. “You’ve made your point. Come all the way in, please. Morris, see what you can do about the door before we attract the notice of our neighbors.”
Morris nodded. His protective sphere tightened around Siobahn. Bran circled the room until he stood at Katherine Grey’s side. The Exiles hissed and seethed as he passed.
“Not your usual bodyguard,” the detective said. “Where’s Barker?”
“Indisposed.” Siobahn settled herself on the edge of her chair. “Still recovering from Sorrow’s bite. I’ve discovered Morris has a talent for more than driving.”
Bran’s eyebrows rose. He set himself at Katherine’s Grey left shoulder, alongside Finvarra, then watched with exaggerated interest as Morris cast a Glamour over the broken door.
“Pay your respects on your knees, Liadan,” Siobahn ordered the Grey Lady. “And I’ll worry less you’ve come to kill me.”
“I haven’t.” Katherine set a restraining hand on Bran’s arm. She lowered herself to the floor, shoulders bowed. “Come to kill you. My lady.”
Siobahn shifted her attention to the human. He rocked on his heels, hands crossed behind his back, brows still raised.
“No,” he said. “You’re not my queen, Siobahn. You’ve paid me well to guard your son, but you haven’t earned my loyalty.”
“Winter has,” Siobahn guessed. She felt the shift of attention in her Exiles, even as they waited without moving.
“Winter is my friend.” Once again the human scanned the room. “Where is he?”
“Not here.”
“Not in D.C., either. I’ve a desk jockey meant to keep an eye on him while I’m away on holiday. My man says Winter’s gone AWOL. I assumed he’d come home. For the wake.”
Siobhan felt grief take a strangle hold around her heart.
“We burn our dead,” she said, sharp. “We don’t wake them. I’ve sent Winter on an errand.”
The mortal bristled under his coat. The stitches in his skull stood out against clenched muscles.
“You don’t think the kid deserves a break? Maybe a few days to recover? Or isn’t he allowed to grieve his daddy?”
Siobahn would have burnt the detective to ash but for the sly smile she glimpsed on Katherine’s mouth. The expression was gone as quickly as it came, but Siobahn wasn’t fooled.
“My son is Malachi’s get, and a warrior.” She pitched her voice so it echoed across the ceiling. “Grief is for the weak, and the idle. Gamraidh is neither. My son has gone to avenge his father’s murder.”
“Smith’s dead,” said Bran. “Brains splattered all over 6th Avenue. NYPD’s still looking for a suspect. I hear Barker’s on the top of their list.”
“Barker’s indisposed,” Siobahn repeated. “Michael Smith means nothing to the sidhe. He was but a pawn in a larger game.”
This time, when the Grey Lady smiled, she lifted her head.
“You fool,” she said. “You’ve actually done it. You’ve sent a child to best a monster. Your ownchild, Siobahn, and the last prince of the old blood. If Malachi weren’t already lost to us, this surely would break his heart unto death.”
She rose to her feet, the treason Siobahn expected, garbed all in mourning.
“You’re mad,” Katherine Grey accused, while around Siobahn the Exiles began to stir. “You’ve been on the edge for centuries, and Malachi’s death has finally sent you over.”
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