Page 51 of Better in Black
“And now you’ve saved my brother, too,” Alastair said, closing his eyes at Alastair’s touch. “What would I do without you? I’d be lost.”
“Well,” said Thomas, “you’ve been found,” and while it was not the most original romantic line he’d ever uttered, it was enough to find Alastair kissing him, fervently and hotly. They fell back against the cushions of the couch, Alastair sprawled atop Thomas, and for long moments they kissed and held each other, and Thomas marveled that he had this beautiful man in his life, with his dark, dark hair and eyes, and his lips that were like a poem. And that Alastair was his, and just his.
Soon enough they grew breathless, their hands seeking more and more urgently, their gentleness turning into intensity. But Mrs.Killigrew was still in the kitchen, Thomas knew, and therefore debauching themselves upon the couch was a bad idea.
Alastair seemed to realize it at the same time, and they separated with a slight sticky noise. Alastair, his cheeks flushed dark red, raised an eyebrow. Thomas reached behind him and discovered that he’d been sitting upon a licorice whip left by Zachary. He held it out to Alastair. “Do you want to eat this licorice whip together, one of us at each end?”
Alastair considered Thomas. His eyes were hooded, his lips curved into the teasing smile he saved for Thomas and Thomas alone. “No,” he said. “If I’m being honest, I’d rather go up to our bedroom for a while.”
“That is what I love about you,” Thomas said, tossing the licorice away and rising to his feet. He took Alastair’s hand and began to lead him upstairs. “You are always full of excellent ideas.”
The Judgment of King Kieran
The Knight of All Stormswas dead, killed by the fearsome Summer Boar, and the sky mourned him with a rain of stinging, cold tears. The winds shrieked and cried, and thunder promised lightning that would strike the earth like the finger of a grieving lover stabbing again and again, seeking someone to blame for the loss.
—
A lone rider atop a hill gave witness to the sky. His hair, darker than the clouds above, lifted with the wind; otherwise, he did not move. Neither did the gaunt white horse beneath him, its mane growing more unruly with each gust. Pale Kieran, King of the Unseelie Court, was deeply troubled by the loyal knight’s passing.
—
A horn blew, its sound almost stolen by the storm, but Kieran’s hearing was better than any cat’s, so he heard the royal guard approach before he saw them.
—
“Your Majesty. The Knight’s heirs have arrived at the Tower.”
—
“Then let us hope that one of them is worthy,” King Kieran cried. “Or else the land will suffer, and all are doomed.”
—
“You really don’t have to tell the story this way,” Mark said, and yawned. He hadn’t had his morning coffee yet and was still partially asleep, his long body sprawled over one of the cottage’s wobbly kitchen chairs. “You needn’t call him Pale Kieran. We know who he is. Just ‘Kieran’ is fine.”
Bink, the faerie messenger perched atop the kitchen counter, looked affronted. Cristina was fairly sure he was a species of hobgoblin, his body furry as a squirrel’s, with a long tail and pointed ears. He wore a wrinkled felt hat. “I cannot use the King’s name in that manner. It wouldn’t be respectful.”
“It’s not his true name, you know,” Cristina said. She was perched on a tall stool at the kitchen counter, wearing a pair of white pajamas with a design of small red bows. Her dark hair had been pulled into glossy braids. Mark thought she looked adorable.
“Well,” said Bink. “Obviouslynot.”
Mark and Cristina exchanged a sideways smile. Bink, despite his extremely small stature—he was about the size of a garden gnome, though, in Mark’s opinion, more trustworthy—took his job of messenger extremely seriously. He also took Mark and Cristina’s position as Consorts to the Unseelie King very seriously, which was rare in Faerie. Most distrusted or disliked the fact that the Unseelie King had chosen as his romantic partners not one buttwoShadowhunters. Faeries didn’t tend to trust Shadowhunters, and Mark could understand why.
“Very well,” Bink sulked. “If you want the dull version of thestory, I shall tell it to you. The Knight of All Storms, who guards the lands of Faerie from gale and tempest, from flood and fire, has been slain by a fearsome creature of Wild Magic. Faithfully did he serve the lands for three hundred years. Now an heir must be chosen to replace him, or the weather will only grow worse until the green land of Faerie is torn apart by storms.”
Mark glanced at the kitchen windows. Usually, their little cottage was illuminated with pale gold sunlight. Rain was rare, and it had been sunny when he’d gotten up that morning. It was true that the sky outside was gray now, the pretty garden cast into shadow under heavy clouds. “And Kieran has to choose the heir?”
“Traditionally, both monarchs—the Queen of Seelie and the King of Unseelie—would make the choice. But the Seelie Queen will not open her court to the heirs. She says she will abide by whatever choice Kieran makes.”
“That’s odd,” Cristina murmured. It was not like the Seelie Queen to relinquish control.
“King Kieran must choose among the three children of the Knight, who have all come forward to lay a claim to the Knighthood. They arrive today, to present themselves at the Court.”
“That’s interesting,” said Mark, who was not entirely sure it was all that interesting. “But why are you telling us this, Bink?”
“Because I bring a message on behalf of the King,” said Bink.
Mark tensed. Kieran rarely sent them messages when he was at the Unseelie Court, and if he did they were short and to the point—coming home now,ordelayed by a day, regretfully.He didn’t share what was going on at Court unless he absolutely had to.
