When Magic Burns

  When Magic Burns

  Tera Lynn Childs

  1

  Peter Duncan stepped through the veil.

  He had never done that before. Despite half a lifetime as a seer guard, despite growing up in a family whose service to the unseelie fae dated back countless generations, despite being good friends with several fae of the clan Moraine, he had never once passed through the invisible barrier between the human realm and the fae.

  Until today.

  As he crossed the magical fence, a border protected by the strongest dark magic around, he clutched the note—the request—the command—tight in his fist. Most people would have turned away in inexplicable terror long before reaching this point. The fear that the veil projected did not affect him as strongly as it would an ordinary human. But it still tickled him. Still urged him to run the other way.

  Duty compelled him forward.

  Your presence is required at the palace. Immediately.

  The note wasn’t signed, but Peter knew it came from the Moraine. He recognized Cathair’s looping script and excessively formal language. The fox stamped into the wax that sealed the note had been a bit of a clue, too, what with that being the clan symbol and all.

  And so he left his post at the sanctuary—immediately—and headed straight for the veil. Of course, Peter had no idea how to find the palace once he got inside, never having been there before, but he was hoping that instinct and an abundance of charm would see him through.

  If Peter was being honest with himself, which he tried never to be, he was more than a little nervous about this call to the palace. It wasn’t only the magic-instilled fear of the veil, either. It was fear of fae wrath. He couldn’t remember doing anything deserving of punishment. But that didn’t mean that the fae hadn’t deemed him guilty of some offense. And he tended to play fast and loose with the policies of the seer guard. Maybe he had crossed a line.

  Fae tended to be fickle creatures who could sometimes change their minds at the whim of the breeze. He’d always had good relations with the Moraine, but he wasn’t taking that for granted.

  Rather than let his worry show on his face, he did what he always did. He smiled.

  What happened next was a blur. One second he was walking toward what looked like a hint of a dirt path in the forest floor, the next he was dangling several inches off the ground with a hand around his throat.

  “Who are you, human?” a rough, female voice demanded.

  Peter tried to speak, but since his throat was currently being crushed by the vice grip of what he could only assume was a fierce fae guard, he couldn’t exactly get the words out.

  “What?” she demanded. “Speak!”

  Peter wrapped his hands around her wrist and tugged—gently, just enough to (hopefully) indicate that he couldn’t speak when she was cutting off his air supply. Whether or not that message actually got through, she dropped him to the ground, spun him to face away from her, and—before he could so much as blink—shoved what felt like a knife blade against the side of his neck.

  “You have precisely three seconds to explain yourself,” she said, “or your blood will nourish the earth beneath your feet.”

  “Is that three seconds from now?” Peter asked. “Or three seconds from when you started talking?”

  “What?”

  The pressure of the blade against his throat eased a little.

  “I just want to make sure I know exactly how long I have. Before, you know, you slice me open and leave me for the maggots.”

  “You are not serious?”

  “I am,” Peter insisted. “Deadly serious, apparently.”

  She made a sort of disgusted sound. But the blade disappeared and Peter felt himself spun back around to face his attacker.

  His jaw dropped.

  She was, in a word, magnificent.

  She was only an inch or so shorter than his own almost six feet. She wore the dark blue of the Morainian Royal Guard, with leather straps criss-crossing her chest to hold various weapons, including a pair of gold-hilted swords at her back. Her hair was long, almost to her waist, in shades from golden blond to mahogany brown, and parts of it were twisted into thin braids that hung loose with the rest of it.

  But it was her eyes that nearly did him in. An unusual mixture of gray and green, like a forest in a thunderstorm.

  He was instantly in love.

  “I think I’m in love.”

  If the scowl on her face was any indication, that only seemed to anger her. “Who are you?”

  “Who are you?” he threw back.

  She started to reach for one of the swords on her back.

  “Whoa, whoa,” he said, holding up his palms in a helpless gesture. “My name is Peter Duncan. I’m a sanctuary guard.”

  Her stormy eyes narrowed. “Yes,” she said, drawing out the word as if it pulled at a memory, “I have seen you.”

  Peter knew he must have seen her, too. All of the unseelie fae spent their la ainmhi in the sanctuary. But since they spent their la ainmhi in animal form, he had never actually seen her.

  He sure as the Everdark would have remembered.

  He tried to imagine what kind of animal such a spectacular young fae would transform into. “What’s your ainmhi?”

  “Why are you here?” she asked, ignoring his question.

  Clearly they weren’t getting anywhere social until he explained his presence.

  He held out the note he’d received from Cathair, the high prince of her clan. “Been invited,” he said. “By the prince himself.”

  Stormy’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “Not a clue.” Peter shrugged. “But when the prince summons, I don’t question.”

  She handed back his note. Her fingers brushed against his and he could swear he felt a spark race up his arm.

  Then again, that could have been the fae magic. Maybe things were different for a human in the veil. What did he know, never having been before?

  “I have been summoned as well,” she said, and didn’t sound too happy about it.

  “And you don’t know why?” he guessed.

  She shook her head.

  “Well it’s a good thing we ran into each other,” he said, “because, as it happens, I have no idea how to find the palace.”

  She studied him for several seconds—probably still deciding whether she should slit his throat for trespassing—before saying, “Very well. I will lead you.”

  She spun on her heel and started toward the path. He gave himself a mental thumbs up. He had been going the right direction in the first place.

  Still, he didn’t want to lose his only chance to find out more about the new love of his life, or to get led straight to the palace door, so he hurried after her.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” he pointed out as he caught up to her. “What’s your ainmhi?”

  The muscles in her jaw tightened.

  “Not going to tell me, huh?” He stroked his fingers along his chin. “Then I’ll have to guess.”

  She walked faster.

  “I’m feeling...rabbit,” he said, picking something that he thought might annoy her. “You definitely look like the cute and furry type.”

  She gave no indication that she had even heard him.

  So he kept guessing.

  “Or maybe a butterfly,” he suggested. “Something beautiful and fragile.”

  He definitely saw her shoulders stiffen with that one. He was on the right track—oh, not to guessing her animal form when she visited the sanctuary, but to irritating her so much that she would actually speak to him.

  Peter had honed this tactic to an art.

  “Not a butterfly, huh?” He paused, pretending to consider. Then he clapped his hands together. “I’ve g
ot it.”

  Her gaze flicked to the side, giving him the annoyed glared he was looking for.

  Progress.

  “You are…” He grinned, spread his arms wide. “A peacock.”

  He thought for sure that one would get her. A choked laugh maybe, or even an angry dismissal. Something.

  But she didn’t lose her cool. Her strides remained quick and even, and she ignored his bait.

  She was more strong-willed than he expected.

  He liked that.

  “The palace is just ahead,” she said, pointing at a spot down the path where it curved behind a cluster of trees. “I trust you can find the way yourself.”

  Then, before he could even process her words, she was gone. Nothing but a blur of speed.

  “Wait,” he called after her, “I don’t even know your name.”

  But only silence answered him. He was entirely alone in the forest. He quickened his pace, hoping he could find her again at the palace. There was something about her that tickled his interest, and he found himself wanting to know more about her—everything about her.

  There weren’t many girls who could withstand his most charming—some would call them exasperating—efforts. There was something special about this one. And he wanted to find out what.

  After he found out why he’d been called to the palace, he would have to investigate. Surely Cathair would know her. Hopefully the prince could provide some clues.

  2

  Regan sped away from the confusing human. He did not seem to show any of the fear she was accustomed to eliciting from human seers. And from humans who could not see her. And from other fae.

  From everyone. Even the queen herself seemed nervous in Regan’s presence.

  That was precisely how she preferred things.

  This human was an anomaly.

  She did not like anomalies.

  As she climbed the steps to the palace, she turned her thoughts to the reason from the summons. The possible reason, since she was now more confused than when she had first received it.

  It was not entirely unusual for her to be called to the palace. On several occasions she had been awarded commendations for her service to the clan. And from time to time, the captain of the guard gathered his lieutenants to the palace for briefings and talks of strategy.

  Though she would admit this to none under pain of eternity in the Everdark, Regan looked forward to her visits to the palace more than anything. They were, in fact, the only thing to which she looked forward.

  Because there, in palace, she might see Prince Aedan.

  The high prince’s younger brother had caught Regan’s attention—had caught her very heart—upon her first visit to the palace. She had been but a child of five, recently orphaned and brought before the queen to determine her fate.

  There, in the throne room, Regan had stood with her gaze defiantly straight ahead when her escort had counseled her to keep it to her toes. Her legs shook beneath her and she thought her heart would pound right out of her chest. But she stood steadfast.

  As the queen evaluated her, the youngest O Cuana—near Regan’s same age—had climbed down from the platform and taken her hand. He said nothing, gave her no advice, no admonitions. Simply held her hand.

  Her legs stopped shaking. Her heart calmed to a normal beat.

  The queen had declared her the fiercest child to ever step foot in her throne room and had assigned Regan to the Royal Guard.

  She had been a loyal servant—a loyal soldier—ever since.

  And loyal to Aedan above all else.

  Regan paused outside the palace door.

  That she had been summoned was no cause for confusion or concern. But that the human guard had been likewise called? That was most unusual. Regan could not remember any human save the high prince’s new love, Winnie, ever being openly welcomed into the veil.

  Regan did not believe in omens, but a chill raced down her spine. Something was not right in the fae realm. And she was anxious to find out what.

  The moment she opened the door, the roar of raucous voices rushed over her. Hundreds of them, all seemingly speaking at once. The palace was full of fae guards. More than she had ever since in one place outside of kingdom ceremonies and military funerals.

  The wary chill spread through her entire body.

  She stood frozen in the doorway, overwhelmed by both the number of bodies inside and the sense of foreboding that she could not shake away. Something was most definitely wrong.

  The door pushed open behind her, knocking Regan forward a step.

  “Ah, there you are,” the human Peter said. “Didn’t think you could get away from me that easily, did you?”

  She had no patience for his strange comments and teasing words. She needed to find out what was going on before the bad feeling in the pit of her stomach spread.

  Leaving the gawking human behind, she pushed through the crowd. Above the roar she could hear the booming echo of the Captain of the Palace Watch’s voice instructing everyone to move into the royal chamber.

  Though she was as tall or taller than many of the guards, Regan was quicker and more agile. While others slept or drank their way through their days off, Regan spent her free time training. Always training, always improving.

  Speed and stealth were her two best weapons.

  She made it through the crowd and into the royal chamber while most of the guard were still jostling their way to the door. Her heart sped up at the thought of seeing Aedan. The thrones upon the moss-covered platform at the far end were empty, but Regan knew that the queen and her sons would take their places soon enough. And she wanted to be as close as possible when he appeared.

  It was a foolish infatuation. She knew this. She had counseled herself to forget him, to find herself a nice young man, another fae guard, and settle down. There was no future between a guard and her prince.

  But in this one case, her heart refused to listen to her head.

  And so she remained ever committed to the young prince, to his safety and, ultimately, to her feelings for him.

  Staking out her position at the foot of the platform, Regan waited impatiently as the room filled in behind her. When the space was wall-to-wall fae, so full that she had been pushed up onto the first step, her captain, Tearloch Donne, climbed to the top.

  “Quiet down,” he shouted, and the room went silent.

  Regan could not be certain, but she thought she saw the glint of tears in her captain’s eyes.

  But no, that was impossible. Tearloch was as much a hardened soldier as she was. It would take a great tragedy to provoke such emotion in him. Her heart lurched at the thought of what could possibly lead her captain to tears.

  The door behind the thrones opened and closed. Regan held her breath, waiting to see the royal family join Tearloch on the platform.

  But only one O Cuana appeared—Prince Cathair, with Winnie by his side. The human girl’s eyes were red and swollen.

  “Why are we here?” a guard shouted from the crowd. “What’s happened?”

  “Is the queen safe?” another asked.

  “Are we at war?”

  The room erupted into a rumble of murmurings. Theories and proclamations about who might have attacked the clan, about how they might retaliate.

  Fools, Regan thought. If we were at war, we would have been called to battle stations. Not to the palace.

  “No,” Tearloch said, and the room fell silent once more, “we are not yet at war.”

  Not yet.

  Regan’s hands clenched into fists.

  “Then what?” the crowd asked.

  “Tell us.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Silence!” Tearloch shouted. And the room obeyed.

  The captain turned to his prince.

  Cathair stepped to the front edge of the platform. “I…” he began, and then shook his head. “My brother—”

  His voice broke, and he covered his face with his hands. Winnie moved closer
to his side, wrapping her arms around him and burying her head in his shoulder.

  Your brother what? Regan wanted to shout.

  “Allow me, my prince,” Tearloch said, clapping a hand on his friend’s back. Then, turning to the room, “We have recently received the news that Prince Aedan has been taken prisoner.”

  All of the air rushed out of Regan’s lungs. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Her mind felt like a whirlpool, a swirl of disconnected words and images. A dark cloud closed in on her vision and she knew without a doubt that she was on the verge of passing out.

  It took every last ounce of her resolve to remain standing. To maintain her outward composure, to let no one see how much the news affected her. None could know of her futile feelings. She forced air into and out of her lungs. In and out. Again and again until she felt like her brain was getting enough oxygen.

  Gradually, the sheer shock and terror faded and she regained control of her thoughts. Regained use of her senses. She saw Tearloch standing on the dais. Heard the uneven breathing of the stunned-silent room. Felt her nails digging into her palms.

  As her mind and body became hers again, she narrowed her focus onto a single thought. A single word. Aedan.

  She would find him. She would bring him safely home if it required every last drop of her magic to do so.

  3

  “Where is he?”

  “Who took him?”

  “Is there a ransom demand?”

  Peter could sense the rage and terror in the crowd. If he could draw power from negative fae emotions in the same way they drew power from human ones, he would be the most powerful guy on the planet.

  He was not surprised by their reaction. Prince Aedan was one of the nicest fae he knew. Always friendly, always took time to turn back into himself and a hang out for a while before leaving the sanctuary. Always had a new joke to share or a wild tale to tell. The young prince might have been a bit reckless and immature at times—and coming from Peter, that was saying a lot—but overall he was a good and kind person.

  The idea that someone had taken him prisoner made Peter’s blood boil with an anger that he wasn’t used to feeling.