Page 12 of Prince of Night and Storm
Manslaughter is not the same as murder,Darkan says, neutral. Normally he doesn’t bother hiding his emotions, but when we discuss my mother’s death or brush against discussing Embriel, a wall comes down between us.Intent matters.
And yet she’s just as dead. Maman went to wake the Prince to help her end this feud but he lashed out.I wrap my fingers around the hilt of a dagger, grounding myself by the faint burn of the iron.Intellectually, I know she understood the risk. We don’t disturb the Old Ones when they’re between deep sleep and awakening.
Do you understand why?
I bite back an unfriendly retort. It’s annoying when he goes professor on me.Really, Darkan?
He’d been fun until I turned fourteen, then it was teach, teach, teach. Everything a lesson like he was on some kind of timetable.
Really, halfling. Humor me.
Counting to ten used to work.Because even when in deep sleep, they retain awareness on several mental planes.
I shove the dagger into its holster and contemplate my boots.When they begin to wake, which can take years, they aren’t rational. If they ever were. They react on instinct to any approaching power as a perceived threat. Startle an irrational demigod who is clawing cobwebs out of his eyes and you deserve what you get.
Though they’re even worse when awake. We have reasons for preferring Old Ones stay removed from internecine warfare—their idea of a good fight is simply annihilating everyone within reach and starting over with new stock.
Maman would have understood that if he sensed even the slightest threat, he’d strike first and not bother to ask questions later.
But I don’t care,I add.I want him to suffer.
Stubborn.
Maybe. But maybe I’m just right.
I’m ready. Six units of eight assemble in the stone-walledcourtyard in front of Faronne House, though we stable our horses and carriages throughout the District to maintain a semblance of secrecy to our movements.
My arms drop to my sides and I lean against the window,
closing my eyes. “Five minutes of darkness. Of quiet. I would
pay any price, to any person, who can give me that.”
I know what you want,Darkan says as Numair, Juliette, and I enter my carriage and it lurches into motion. We change carriages twice, then merge into traffic outside the city through an allied District’s gate.I understand you better than you understand yourself.
“You are myself,” I mutter. I stare out the window, thrumming my fingers on my thigh. “It’s not that simple. The House doesn’t want peace. Maybe a few of us do, but not enough of us to bring everyone to heel.”
My cousins glance at me, Juliette stony, Numair with a crease between his brow. I grimace at them and shrug. They’re used to the one-sided conversations. We’re too close, my acting skills nonexistent. As long as I don’t embarrass the House in public, they’ll keep my secret—though I suspect Numair communicates regularly with my therapist. Juliette is the one to double check the side effects of my meds, and bootleg the dose.
Up or down. At her discretion.
We’ve told her why she shouldn’t do that. We understand she does it anyway. I also suspect she frankensteins them with some of the. . .off-label. . .pharmaceuticals my American cousins procure. Considering my new fear of being hunted by air, we should probably let her do her thing.
Aerinne’s concoction of chill pills. At least there’s no stigma among the Fae when it comes to mental illness—it’s a matter of course, if you live long enough. Or kill enough people, survive enough people trying to kill you. It only becomes a problem when it interferes with your ability to maintain your power base.
“We’re going to teach you to give yourself that moment of
clarity and quiet you call darkness.” Her voice is quiet. “It’s
inside you. Have you considered that the abyss isn’t something
that was taken from you, but something that waits for you to
claim it?”
So you’ll have to kill a few people.Darkan’s tone is a mental shrug.
“That seems counterproductive.”
