Aurora's obsession

They ducked behind a fat trunk.

“Why the holes?” Logan murmured.

“Nicotine addicted squirrels? The Court Fae brought a dog? I dunno,” Roman muttered back. “Where’s our friendly neighborhood mushroom farmer, I wonder?”

“My clan!” Tourmaline wailed in her tiny voice, shooting off Logan’s shoulder and pointing at the wagon. Her red hair and drooping wings glimmered. “My sisters!”

Roman looked again and his heart dropped. Tiny black cages filled the wagon bed, and now he saw that each one held a pixie. Some fluttered madly to keep from touching the metal; others crouched in obvious pain.

“Iron cages,” Logan practically growled. “That is unspeakably cruel.”

“I think I see Wren and Wrassey,” Roman said, feeling sick. He’d spotted a pair of green skinned, black-haired pixies who’d been shoved in a cage together.

They edged closer. Everything in Roman screamed at him to grab that wagon and get those poor pixies as far away from this park as possible, but his Smile instincts held him back. Any Court faery who’d subject pixies to naked iron would likely do worse to intruders. 

Logan gestured grimly at the grass, which sparkled. “Pixie blood is over ninety percent water.” His voice was icy. “Unlike ours, it is almost clear in color.”

Roman inhaled. “‘Death in the water.’” He spotted a few tiny bodies lying in the grass around the wagon; clearly, some of Tourmaline’s clan had put up a fight. “We gotta get the survivors out of those cages.”

He adjusted his sword, luck dragging across his senses—a curtain of hot beads—as he grasped for a new outcome. Everyone escapes, nobody else dies. Logan showing up had distracted him; now he leaned, hard, but careful not to break through the metaphorical curtain. Doing that always turned his luck dangerously sour.

“Agreed.” Logan laid a hand on Roman’s arm. “But as you asked before, where is the perpetrator of this cruelty? It seems unlikely that they have conveniently stepped out.” He narrowed his gray eyes at Roman. “Unless that is exactly what they have done.”

“My whole thing is taking advantage of conveniences, Specs.” Roman stood up. “I got this.”

“I will keep watch,” Logan said.

The trapped pixies shouted and pointed as Roman knelt beside the wagon, his senses on high alert. Some seemed relatively unharmed, still having energy to glow; these kept talking in such frantic Faery that Roman couldn’t begin to understand. Most, however, bore signs of…well, Roman couldn’t think of a word besides torture. Bent wings, broken limbs, burns and bruises. Many couldn’t fly and were forced to stand or huddle, whimpering, against the cages, despite how it burned their skin. Tourmaline fluttered among them, clasping tiny hands through the bars, murmuring encouragement in soft Faery.

Who the hell would do this to solitaries? Fury rose in Roman’s chest. Solitary Fae could be mercurial, primative, and dangerous, but there was a reason Smile hunted primarily Court bastards. Those could rise to unspeakable levels of depraved.

He stabbed his sword into the grass and grabbed Wren and Wrassey’s cage, wincing at the burn. They huddled together on the tails of their dresses, shaking, but Wrassey lifted her head at his voice.

“Roman?” She stumbled and yelped as her bare skin touched the metal.

“No, don’t try to move. I’m gonna get you out.” Roman studied their cage, heart sinking when he spotted a keyhole. Faery magic won’t stick to iron, so of course it’s a manual lock. But…

“These bars are thin and sloppily welded,” he murmured to the pixies, who stared at him with wide eyes. “I may be able to rip the tops off.”

“Please,” Wren murmured.

“Before he comes back,” Wrassey added.

“Brace yourselves.” Roman fought the stinging burn to get a good grip on the top and bottom. He pulled, and the top tore free. The sisters zoomed out; Wren planting grateful kisses on Roman’s cheek and hugging Tourmaline, while Wrassey flew high, scanning the park.

“Can you break past the mushroom ring from the inside?” Roman asked.

“Yes,” Tourmaline answered, her wings buzzing. “I will oversee our escape if you free the others.” She touched his arm. “We will not forget your aid, Roman Princey.”

“It is still hidden,” Wrassey announced, dropping back down. “He has not discovered it.”

A collective sigh of relief whispered among the trapped pixies.

“What’s still hidden?” Roman picked up another cage and ripped it apart, freeing its occupant. “Who did this to you?”

He tore open more cages as Wrassey alighted on his shoulder, talking so fast he had to concentrate to understand her.

“We of Painter Clan are custodians of an artifact, gifted to us long ago by an Earthside Court. A Sidhe claiming to be the rightful owner came onto our lands three nights ago, demanding it. Some of us resisted, but…” Her tiny voice trailed off. Wren swooped close and kissed her cheek before continuing to help Tourmaline carry the newly freed pixies to safety beyond the mushroom circle.

“The terms were clear. It was never to be given back, no matter who asked,” Wrassey went on. Her small face crunched into a glower. “We have been giving him false places to look.”

“The holes,” Roman commented.

“Mmm. He grows impatient. He knows we deceive him.”

“So, he captures a bunch of you to torture, hoping one of you would break.” The revelation that a Sidhe did this made Roman nervous. Sidhe were among the highest order of Court Fae; beautiful, strong, skilled at warfare, and deadly.

He worked faster, hands burning with iron scorch. Half of the pixies freed. The unnatural silence of the park grated on his ears.

Three-quarters.

With luck—he exhaled carefully, letting the glass bead sensation pass without parting—he could save Tourmaline’s entire clan before the mysterious Sidhe returned.

“Painter Clan is strong. We do not break,” Wrassey snapped, but her wings drooped. “The Sidhe who did this carries greed behind his eyes. I do not think he meant to free us once he had what he wanted. Another reason he must not possess the artifact.”

Roman was just breaking the last cage, surrendering its inhabitant into Tourmaline’s capable hands, when a voice thundered across the park.

“You have misled me for the last time, vermin!”

Roman dropped the cage pieces and ducked behind the wagon, which only barely hid him, as a figure burst from a nearby clump of bushes.

The Sidhe stood willow tall and willow thin, his lily-white skin practically glowing against the dark trees. Narrow pointed ears swept back from his head, drawing the eye to a crown of red hibiscus nestled in his long, fiery orange hair. Orange also framed his night-black eyes; Roman couldn’t tell if it was makeup or his own natural coloring. He wore blood red leggings, black boots, a woven tunic of clashing oranges, and a matching cravat, creating a look that landed, in Roman’s opinion, somewhere between “colorblind Renn Faire enthusiast” and “gay hairdresser on Halloween”.

“I will have the mirror’s location,” the Sidhe bellowed, marching toward the wagon with that eerie gliding grace only Fae possessed. “Or I will begin slaughtering you one by one…what is this?”

He stopped, staring at the pile of broken, empty cages and—Roman could have kicked himself—Roman’s red-hilted katana, still stuck in the ground exactly where he’d planted it. The faery’s orange-rimmed eyes went wide with fury.

“I could ask the same thing,” another voice called from the tree line, making the Sidhe whirl. Logan stepped out, arms folded behind his back.

“Who are you, Summerling, and what are you doing in my park?” Logan asked in crisp Faery, puffing out his chest.

Summerling. Roman inhaled. “Summer in the air. Death in the water. Watch your words.” He’s a Summer Court Fae.

“Your park, Winter? Yours?” the Sidhe echoed, disdain dripping from each syllable.

Ice gathered and broke at Logan’s feet in nervous waves. His glasses caught the ambient light, obscuring his eyes, and for a moment, Roman’s brain flashed back to Sir’s multi-lens glasses, which he always parked on his face just before bringing out the scalpels—

He drew a sharp breath. Arcadian gods, he could not afford to have a flashback right now.

“What is he doing?” Roman grumbled to himself as he watched the half-faery, still keeping low, but the answer was obvious. Logan was distracting the Sidhe so that Roman could get away. But how did Logan plan on extracting himself?

Dammit, it’s not like Sherlock to blunder blindly into danger.

“Roman.” Wrassey tugged hard on Roman’s earlobe, making him wince. “You must take the mirror away from Painter’s Pond.”

“Shh!” He hissed back, eying the nearest tree trunk. “We have to go and somehow get L—er, Bear out of here.”

The Sidhe glided a few steps toward Logan, who stood his ground.

“You must take it! Even without our cooperation, it is only a matter of time before he finds it.” Wrassey yanked on his ear again. “Please.”

Roman ground his teeth. This could be their only opportunity to escape unseen…but saving the clan’s artifact was clearly important to Wrassey, and dammit, she was Virgil’s favorite.

“Where is it?” he asked softly.

The Sidhe had his back to the wagon now; maybe they had a chance.

“In the wall.” Wrassey pushed his face to the right and pointed. “Behind the stone carved with a pixie.”

Right in the Sidhe’s line of sight, because of course it was, but maybe the wall would hide him if he stayed low enough. Logan argued with the stranger now, moving his hands like Patton did when he got excited, keeping the faery’s attention on himself.

Roman crept around the wagon, extracting his sword as he went. For half a second, he considered rushing the Sidhe and running him through. The only safe Sidhe was a dead one, or so went the Smile saying, and this one had already tortured and killed innocents. But Roman remembered his ill-fated bout on the Athens lawn with Deceit, who had not been a Sidhe, and who’d almost killed Roman anyway.

I will not be as rash as everyone thinks I am, he thought, sheathing the blade and creeping toward the wall.

Logan’s eyes widened as he caught sight of Roman, and without even breaking his flow of words, he began circling the Sidhe, forcing him to turn away from the wall. The Sidhe crossed his arms and seemed, for the moment, content to let Logan ramble.

He’s probably reciting the entire history of DeLand, Roman mused, ducking behind the wall and looking for Wrassey’s stone. She buzzed her wings, giving light to see, and he finally spotted a crude drawing of a winged figure scratched onto one of the lower stones.

“It is hollow behind,” Wrassey said. “The facade should come away easily.”

“You are no lord,” the Sidhe said scathingly as Roman dug his nails into the edges, tugging. Moveable or not, age had wedged the facade in hard, and he had no tools. He didn’t dare look up to see how Logan was doing.

“You’re not even a full-blooded Fae, are you?” The Sidhe laughed, his voice like fire snapping over dry logs. “A talkative half breed claiming territory. I have now seen it all.”

The faery’s shift from Faery to near-perfect English sent a chill down Roman’s spine. In desperation, he stuck his sword blade into the wall and used it as a lever. But the angle was all wrong, the blade too long to be effective. He paused, panting.

“You must break the facade,” Wrassey whispered.

“He’ll hear me!” Roman hissed back.

“It is the only way.”

“I will have you know—” Logan said after a shocked moment.

“Oh, stop. The game is up. Where did you hear about the mirror, hmm? The Wild Hunt? Some pathetic solitary network?” The Sidhe paused.

“Mirror?” Logan echoed.

“Did you really think you’d find it before I did? Did you honestly believe—”

Roman aimed a kick at the stone, which cracked but didn’t crumble. He cringed when the faery cut off mid rant, but he didn’t dare stop now. Three kicks later, the facade collapsed. He dug out the pieces, plunged a hand into the dark hole, and closed fingers around a flat, circular object. Wrassey alighted next to the hole, wings fluttering eagerly.

“That’s it,” she chimed. “Quickly, now—”

She shouted in surprise as a slim, hot hand clamped onto Roman’s shoulder.

Roman eyed Virgil’s dormitory in the deepening twilight, scrubbing a hand through his hair again.

Maybe I should find a motel room first. He fished his phone out and slung his backpack over his back. Just so he doesn't feel like he has to offer his space. Just so it's not awkward. 

He could use a walk after all that travel, anyway.

By the time he crossed the dark campus, he'd successfully booked a room. His finger then hovered over Virgil's number. A warning would be polite, especially when it came to Mr. Doesn't Like Surprises. Roman had initially come unannounced so Virgil couldn't talk him out of it, but Roman also didn't want to ruin the progress they'd made since Logan's and Patton's engagement party.

He scuffed his foot as he walked, thoughts swirling like gnats in the streetlights.

He wanted to believe earning that art degree was the only reason Virgil left Philly and returned to a state he admittedly hated, to the one middle-of-nowhere town where a certain former crush happened to live. Sure, Virgil transferring schools in his junior year would have been a needless headache. He’d elected to live in the dorms instead of moving back into Logan’s and Patton’s apartment. He called Roman nearly every week, keeping him updated, claiming he’d been too busy to see anyone except classmates and coworkers.

At the very least, Roman knew Virgil believed his own words. And if I'm not over Virgil, after all this time, he thought bitterly. What right do I have to complain if he’s not completely over Logan?

“Changeling,” a voice murmured in wet-sounding Faery.

Roman realized his wandering had carried him to the fountain at the center of Stetson’s campus, lit up against the growing darkness. A long-limbed naiad lounged on the edge, watching him. She wore black clothes and fishnets like an ordinary human, but Roman’s changeling eyes picked out her waterfall of dripping white hair, bluish skin, and solid black Fae eyes.

Virgil had never mentioned any solitaries around the Stetson fountain. Roman casually brought his backpack around, unzipped it, and curled a hand around his sword hilt.

“What do you want?” he asked.

The naiad arched back, letting her hair spill into the water, where it undulated in the current like pale snakes. “You won’t use that.” She gestured languidly at the bag.

Roman gripped the sword harder. “Maybe I would. You don’t know.”

“Your steel has spilled our blood, but in moons long past. I can smell the difference. You brandish it now for bluster.” She sat up and grinned, showing a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth. “You do not frighten me.”

Fucking enigmatic solitaries. He hated the way they saw straight through any human lie, no matter how carefully constructed. What did it say about him, that she could tell he hadn’t had the stomach to hunt their kind for months? Roman reshouldered his bag and walked on, determined to ignore her.

“Beware pixie territory,” the naiad added as he passed.

Roman stopped but did not turn. “What?”

“Summer in the air. Death in the water.” She grinned again as he turned, eyes narrowed. “Watch your words.”

“What in the Arcadian hell are you talking about?” Roman snapped, fighting a chill.

 But the naiad slid into the fountain with an eerie lack of splash and lay underwater, ignoring him, and Roman knew he’d get no more from her. He scoffed and trudged toward the edge of campus.

Virgil maintained that the solitaries on Stetson’s campus generally liked humans—which, in faery terms, meant the pranksters were mostly harmless and the rest kept to themselves. Plus, solitaries didn’t normally pop out of the metaphorical woodwork and talk to Smile hunters, even lapsed ones.

“Summer in the air. Death in the water. Watch your words.”

She’d meant to warn him.

Pixie territory. The hair on his neck lifted. Could she mean Painter’s Pond?

He bit his lip. This sounded like a hunt.

He considered going back to Virgil’s dorm first…but Virgil wasn’t Smile, and Virgil didn’t know he was here yet. Roman didn’t want their first reunion in months marred by faery drama. No, he would investigate the park and take care of the problem liked the damned hunter he was supposed to be.

Roman walked the few blocks to Painter’s Pond, slowing as he approached, his heart heavy with memories. Logan used to bring Virgil and Roman out here with Nic, and after Patton entered the picture, it became the four of them. He remembered chasing the dog and the pixies, Virgil laughing from the sidelines—when they weren't at each other’s throats. He could almost hear Virgil's low, gravelly voice saying "idiot," could picture him shaking his head with that maddening half-smile. 

It occurred to him that Virgil might not necessarily be in his dorm; he could be at work, out prowling around downtown, or—Roman's heart skipped at the thought—right here on these familiar paths somewhere. Virgil's relationship with this park might be complicated, but surely he still visited his pixie friends from time to time.

Roman took a step onto the grass; his skin instantly prickled. The air felt…wrong, like the trembly hesitance he got before touching a staticky doorknob.

Oh, hell. That naiad did know something.

Roman had been a Smile hunter long enough to never ignore his gut. Faery magic was both insidious and nebulous; it wanted you to dismiss it as nothing, as imagination, as too much stress or not enough sleep. Arguably the most important lesson in faery hunting was learning to ignore that "reasonable" voice in your head.

The park looked empty, streetlamps spilling orange light in pools along the paths. But at the end of the park's low wall, one dark streetlight made a cradle of blackness, bordered by clusters of tiny, bone-white shrooms. A Court circle. Ambient streetlight glimmered off the white, white mushroom caps, especially when he looked out of the corner of his eye.

Roman stalked to the near end of the wall and ducked behind, letting his backpack slide off his shoulders. He opened the main flap and eased out his sword and scabbard, making as little noise as possible. He didn't draw it, yet—he didn't know what he was facing—but he did tie the scabbard to his belt loops.

He then drew in a careful breath and focused inward.

Roman’s old master, who only permitted his changelings to call him Sir, used to hang beaded curtains around his cave lair: intricate patterns picked out in thousands of minuscule beads, strings of fist-sized glass balls that bruised when one crashed into them at a run. Their clacking featured prominently in Roman’s nightmares; some of his earliest memories involved running and putting curtain after curtain between himself and his master’s cruel experiments. That Unseelie had fancied himself a scientist…if careful butchery and elaborate torture could be considered science. And Roman happened to develop the one power guaranteed to drive such a master to unhinged fury: luck.

Roman learned to slip through those beaded strings like a ghost, disturbing them as little as possible so they wouldn’t clack and betray his passage. He often wondered if that stealthy sidestep he’d cultivated led to him gaining the ability to touch something as ephemeral as possibility. Drawing on his power felt like running through Sir’s lair, each bead in each curtain representing an outcome. Every decision, every movement, even his thoughts parted the strands in different ways. The trick to manipulating luck, he discovered, was to find the beads you wanted while not disturbing the rest.

Know where you’re going.

Sidestep.

I need to know what is going on, he chanted silently.

Keep the rest quiet.

I need to see and to not be noticed by unfriendly eyes.

Pass through.

I need to know. 

The back of his neck tingled, hairs rising as the familiar warm sensation of possibility slid glassily over his skin.

“What are you doing here?” a voice chimed in his ear.

Roman startled and found himself face-to-face with a soot-skinned, flame-haired pixie, whose tiny eyes were round o’s of surprise. She landed primly on the hand he instinctively raised.

“Tourmaline?” he hissed. That was fast.

“I am not displeased to see you, Roman Princey,” she said. “But it has been some time.”

Roman hid a cringe. He knew she only called him Princey because Virgil did, but now that particular nickname reminded him a little too much of Johnny Prince.

“I got a weird warning from a weird naiad and came to investigate.” he said, gesturing at the mushrooms. “What’s with the Court ring? I thought DeLand was still unclaimed.”

Tourmaline’s face grew pinched. She had always been more polite and serious than Virgil’s favorites, Wren and Wrassey. Roman suspected that was why Logan preferred her company.

“I believe this is the work of a single Court Fae working alone, though I have not seen them. The ring grew several days ago, and of more concern, many of my clan have since gone missing.” Her chiming voice dropped to a soft echo of itself. “I cannot penetrate the mushroom barrier myself, but I suspect that is where my sisters are.”

Well, that didn’t sound good at all.

“Can I help?” Roman asked.

She cast him an appraising look, her gaze lingering on his sheathed sword. “Your appearance is auspiciously well-timed.”

“You know me,” he said with a wink.

“It so happens that my purpose in coming to the wall tonight was to seek the help of…ah.”

Her wings carried her over Roman’s head, and she buzzed hard enough for them to glow like a beacon. Roman followed the line of her gaze.

Oh, luck.

Logan Ursae, his straight-backed posture unmistakable even in the low light, crossed the grassy park and made a beeline for Tourmaline’s glowing body. Oddly, neither Patton nor Nicodemus were with him. The half-faery slowed as he noticed Roman crouched in the shadows.

“S’up, Nerdy Wolverine?” Roman shot him a jaunty salute.

Logan opened his mouth, shut it again, and sighed.

“In the interest of saving time, I will not ask the obvious question,” he said in his low, resonant voice. “Clearly your luck has carried you along as it usually does.”

“Nice to see you, too.” Roman rolled his eyes.

Just as well I hadn’t called Virgil yet.

Logan knelt, adjusting his glasses and peering over the wall. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked on his teeth.

“It’s still here?” he said to Tourmaline.

“You don’t sound surprised to see a Court ring in your stargazing park,” Roman commented.

“I have been monitoring it for several days now.” Logan scowled. “Normally, I would leave such things alone, as I try to stay clear of Court matters. But, if I have interpreted your message correctly”—he glanced at the hovering pixie— “Wren and Wrassey are now among your missing kin?”

Tourmaline nodded.

Roman’s heart sank; she’d meant “sisters” literally. “Does Virgil know? Those are his friends. Has he been here to see the ring?”

“I do not know.” Logan’s voice gave nothing away. “I have not seen him since he arrived in DeLand.”

Good, Roman’s mind supplied nastily, prompting a pang of guilt. “What are we gonna do?”

“I meant to attempt a crossing tonight,” Logan said. “Tourmaline, am I correct in assuming solitary Fae are still barred?

The pixie settled onto Logan’s shoulder and nodded.

“And any human would just walk from one side to the other like it wasn’t even there,” Roman added.

“You know how Court-laid rings work.” Logan shot Roman a contemplative look.

“May I remind you that I’m a Smile hunter, Pain in the Nexus Instrument?” Roman snarked, grinning when Logan pulled a confused face. “Earthside Courts love their little magical pockets where they can lure in unsuspecting humans, or do their dirty work unobserved.”

“Or merely live their lives, safe from humans and Arcadian kin alike,” Logan added with a frown.

Roman waved that off. “Whatever the reason, it never occurs to them that a barrier like this”—he gestured at the mushroom ring—“designed to be inaccessible to Fae and invisible to humans, might still be vulnerable to us. Most of the time, Smile changelings can slip right in.” He stood and drew his sword in one swift motion. “Which is what I’m gonna do right now.”

Roman unfolded a white dress shirt from a shopping bag and spread it out on the bed. His nicest pair of dark wash jeans followed from his backpack, along with clean sneakers and, after some hesitation, his makeup bag. He combed fingers through his damp hair, grimacing at the moisture still dripping down his neck. Removing the towel from his waist, he dried it again before pulling on a pair of boxer briefs. 

He left his sword where it was: spanning the length of his bag, safely tucked away. He’d barely been able to look at the blade since killing Deceit, let alone hunt with it. For…reasons.

He’d get back to hunting one day. He would.

The starched shirt dragged stiffly across skin accustomed to simple cotton. He tucked it in, opened the first few collar buttons, and rolled up the sleeves. He could do fancy when necessary, but a hunter needed freedom to move. Socks, shoes, wallet, keys…and then there was only his makeup left to do.

He carried the small bag into the bathroom and studied his reflection with a critical eye. Messy hair, average brown skin, too-wide mouth, prominent nose, red changeling iris rings…spectacular eye bags.

You look tired, pet, a melodious faery voice whispered in his memory.

“Like looking in a funhouse mirror,” he whispered back, his imagination painting a mustache and ghoulish purple eye makeup. Roman leaned closer and glowered at those dark circles, the inevitable result of too many troubled thoughts and not enough sleep.

Well, that won’t do at all. Bad enough I remind myself of my fetch; at this rate I’ll start looking like old Panic at the…

Long bangs over snapping brown irises flashed through his mind’s eye; smokey eyeshadow against pale skin. A tiny smirk lifting the corner of a mouth, the one that always made Roman’s heart stutter… he pulled back his train of thought and ran a hand over his face.

He won’t be there.

Inhale.

He let out the breath in a huff, the hand over his eyes tightening for a moment, and inhaled again. You are going to this party to support Logan and Patton, and for no other reason. And if they see you like this, after not having seen you for months, they will worry.

He dropped his hand and straightened.

Lift the chin.

Eyes forward.

Focus.

Smile.

Roman forced up the corners of his mouth, seized a concealer tube, and set to work. A little foundation, a hint of blush for color, and only the thinnest of outlining around his eyes to finish the look. This was his friends’ engagement party; it would be rude to show up looking like he was going clubbing. Plus, if Virgil was there, he’d probably make some snide remark…

Roman capped his eyeliner pencil with more force than needed and stalked back into the room proper. No one in his right mind would subject himself to an engagement party between his best friend and his crush. He won’t be there.

Kate would be, though.

I should call her. She deserves a heads up before I crash back into her life at a public event.

Roman pulled out his phone. He wasn’t proud of the fact that he’d dropped off the face of the earth after killing Deceit, ignoring all attempts to reach him.

Even though Kate lied to him about his father…

Stop. Roman scowled. Deceit wanted to drive that wedge between us. Too bad it had fucking worked…but he wouldn’t be petty. He scrolled to her number and dialed. She was still his foster mother. It was time.

Kate answered on the first ring.

“Roman,” she breathed, sounding so relieved that Roman’s whole face grew hot. It had been weeks since he’d heard her voice, and he hadn’t realized until that moment just how much he’d missed it.

“Yeah, it’s me.” He paced the room, injecting a note of false cheeriness into his voice. “I’m, ah, in town. Was planning to crash Logan and Patton’s thing tonight.”

Silence. Roman could almost hear the gears turning in her head.

Will she lecture, or act like I never left? Sometimes Kate played the part of a stern parent; other times, a commanding officer. Most of the time, however, she was something between an eccentric, cool aunt and best friend. Her authenticity was one of the things Roman valued most in their relationship. He could always be real with her because she was always real with him.

Except, apparently, when it came to my parentage…

He shoved the traitorous thought down. That was not a discussion to be had over the phone.

“You know the party started ten minutes ago, right?” Kate finally settled on.

“You know you should always arrive fashionably late, right?” Roman snarked.

“Whatever, kid.” Her voice softened. “I’m glad you’re okay. I…I’m not gonna lie, I did worry.”

Roman closed his eyes. “Sorry for disappearing and not telling you.”

“You’re an adult; you can make your own choices. I know you needed time after everything.” Kate’s voice dropped. “But next time you feel the urge to vanish? A head’s up for your poor mentor and her poor worried wife would be appreciated.”

In a vain attempt to not show favoritism within her murder, she never called herself his mother. Roman was used to it. Actions spoke louder than words with Kate.

“Noted.” Roman sat on the bed, wondering if the rest of his murder had missed him. If they saw him differently now that they knew who he truly was…

But he’d called Kate for a reason.

“Um, Kate? Is, uh…is Virgil with…I mean, he’s doing okay?” Roman tried to sound casual, and knew he’d failed miserably.

“Oh, I see how it is.” Kate’s tone lightened to something gently amused. “You only called to find out if you were going to run into your beau tonight.”

“He’s just a friend.” Roman’s face heated, and he was glad she wasn’t physically in the room to rib him for it. “And maybe I wanted to hear the sultry sound of your voice as well!”

“I think you were hoping to hear someone’s sultry voice—”

“Kaaaaate.” Roman groaned.

“Oh, both of you are so easy to embarrass.”Kate chuckled. “You really haven’t talked to him in the last two months?” She sounded surprised.

“I haven’t talked to anyone.” Roman paced to the motel window, peeking out onto the depressing parking lot. “I…honestly don’t know if Virgil and I are still on speaking terms after everything that’s happened.”

Kate’s concern radiated over the line so hard he could practically feel it, making him glower.

“Was he thinking about coming to this party?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. He stayed with us to finish recovering and then left Philly a week ago, claiming he would make his own way down. You know how prickly he gets about people paying his way.”

Roman’s heart skipped so hard he missed a breath. “So…that’s a yes.”

“Well, he didn’t clarify if ‘down’ actually meant ‘Florida’ and ‘this party’. Rosa and I only got into Orlando last night, and we haven’t heard from him at all,” Kate went on. “He may show up, he may not. But Roman…I wouldn’t get your hopes up. After the hospital, and these last few weeks especially, he’s looked about one scowl away from hitting the road for good. If he was one of my hunters, I’d have expected to wake up and find him gone weeks ago.”

“Yeah, that’s…not surprising, I guess,” Roman said. He remembered Virgil lying in that hospital bed, bandaged and frail, tubes sprouting everywhere. Anyone would want to run away from that.

Technically, Roman had run away.

“After the party, are you—?” Kate hesitated. “Are you coming home? If you still need more time, that’s fine, but—”

“How can I, Kate?” Roman closed his eyes. “How do I walk back into Smile like nothing happened, after what Deceit said back in that castle? About me being…being—”

“Johnny Prince’s son,” Kate finished lowly. “I know. You want to know why I never told you.”

“You recruited me into an organization founded by my own father!” Roman burst out, stalking back to the bed. “How could you not tell me?”

So much for not doing this over the phone.

“That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you.” Kate’s voice sharpened. “Imagine growing up with everyone expecting you to live up to a stranger’s legacy. I was planning to tell you once you became a full hunter, Roman, because I wanted you to know you’d earned that on your own merit and not on Johnny’s reputation.”

“And Deceit ruined that,” Roman said bitterly.

“That Unseelie’s name doesn’t deserve space in your mouth,” Kate snapped.

“What are the others going to say?” Roman paced the tiny room. “Johnny’s a fucking legend, even if he did cut and run. I’m just me.”

“It doesn’t matter where you came from or who your father was. All that matters is the man and the hunter you’ve become. You know Smile will always be waiting when you’re ready to come home.” Her voice grew soft.

Roman’s heart pinched. He knew Kate meant he’d always have a home with her…but of course Smile would always be waiting for the son of Johnny Prince, he thought bitterly. How could it not?

“I’ll see you tonight?” she said.

“Yeah,” he echoed. “See you.”

He hung up and let out a long sigh. It does matter where I came from, Kate. Other people will care, whether you think so or not.

“Damn it,” he muttered, only just stopping himself from scrubbing his face and messing up his makeup. Maybe it was just as well he hadn’t been able to track down Johnny. Roman still hadn’t decided if he’d have hugged his old man or punched his lights out.

#

The motel he’d chosen wasn’t far from the park, so Roman elected to burn some restless energy by walking to the party. He stepped onto Woodland Avenue and prowled downtown, passing familiar buildings: the upstairs pool hall, the old yoga studio, that weird underground Christian coffee shop, their little grocery store. Every sight and smell in this town carried memories.

The Main Street diner where the four of them—himself, Virgil, Logan, and Patton— sometimes used to eat was gone, he noted; replaced with yet another generic copycat that would probably only last a few months. Their beloved Santorini’s lived on, thank goodness, loud and lively at this time of night.

Merlin’s Vision, the little witchy shop where Virgil used to work, had moved to a larger corner location. Even after hours, the musky scent of nag champa lingered and clung to Roman’s skin as he slowed, looking at the window display of wands, dragon figurines, and kitschy, stockinged faeries. There’d been a time when Roman associated nag champa with Virgil almost as much as patchouli. Smelling it now brought back a familiar wave of sadness and want.

“One day you will ache for something your stolen power can’t give you. And I look forward to cataloguing all the ways that will destroy you,” his former master crooned in his memory, eyes glinting bright silver.

Roman smiled at the sight of a particular figurine: a knight on a white horse, clad in silver plate, spear leveled at a green dragon curled around a tower. Like many captured changelings, Roman had learned to read in the Hedgerow: a scattered network of Arcadian adults and teenagers who’d taken it upon themselves to educate as many children in faery captivity as possible. He’d always gravitated towards tales of Camelot, of King Arthur and his brave, loyal knights questing for the Holy Grail—which, in Roman’s childhood mind, had been freedom.

“One day you will ache for something your stolen power can’t give you.”

Roman sighed, biting back the sting in his eyes, and tilted his head to stare at the October sky. Maybe coming back here after everything was a mistake.

But Patton made a point to give him the date and time of this party before Roman dropped off everyone’s radar. Patton would be hurt if he didn’t show up, all because Roman couldn’t handle being in a town where every little thing reminded him of one particular person.

I’m tired of running, Roman told himself. When I do see Virgil again…I want to be able to find some closure, whatever that looks like. For both of us. He’d been telling himself the same thing for two months.

He reckoned it was getting easier.

Chin up, eyes on the target.

Roman walked on.

He heard the party before he reached Painter’s Pond; an acoustic version of some vaguely familiar pop song spilled from the trees onto the sidewalk. Roman paused at the park’s edge, a smile pulling at his face. Streamers hung from trees, round tables surrounded one of the park’s open spaces, and tiki torches cast a warm yellow light on knots of milling people. The food table looked thoroughly picked over, but Roman hadn’t come with any expectation of eating.

He scanned the crowd, smiling when he spotted Kate and Rosa twirling each other on the dance “floor”; he remembered when they’d taken swing lessons together. Patton was, amusingly, dancing with Logan’s mother. He didn’t see Logan at all…until he did, and the sight made him draw in a sharp breath.

Logan sat at the table furthest away from the band, leaning back in a chair and talking to someone with long purple bangs, a hunched pose, and a heartbreakingly familiar patched jacket. Roman exhaled again, his heart thrumming into high gear in his chest.

Virgil.

He had to blink several times to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

Virgil showed up after all. But…why?

The last time he’d seen his emo, he’d been stretched out on a hospital bed with his chest all bandaged up, unconscious. Now he was just…here, sitting with Logan like the half-faery hadn’t broken his heart into a million pieces.

Logan looked particularly sharp tonight: hair immaculately braided, gold tie nestled at his throat, his nicer pair of glasses perched on his nose. Roman hated to admit it, but his pansexual ass understood why Virgil had gotten his heart in such a mess over this guy. Logan was smart, poised, and annoyingly, effortlessly sexy, with those cheekbones, that posture that showed off his chest, and those soul-piercing, fae eyes.

He was also a know-it-all, stubborn, and more unforgivingly, an oblivious asshole when it came to other people’s hearts.

Roman ground his teeth when Logan laid a hand on Virgil’s arm, leaning close. Virgil twisted his head away, but to Roman’s surprise, he looked back and said something that made the nerd smile. Familiar, sour jealousy bloomed in Roman’s heart.

Even now, at his own damned engagement party to someone else, Logan just can’t leave Virgil alone, can he?

Logan got up to join Patton on the dance floor, squawking in protest when Patton grabbed his hand and spun him around. Roman took a deep breath, recentering himself, knowing he wasn’t being fair. As much as he hated what this had to be doing to Virgil, Logan and Patton made an objectively adorable couple. Honestly, Patton’s warmth and sweetness were probably exactly what Logan needed to work that metaphorical stick out of his ass.

Virgil remained at the table, alone.

He’d put his back directly to Roman now, making it impossible to see his expression. Was he still pining, even after all this time? Was he here just to torture himself…or did his presence tonight mean he’d finally turned a corner, put the feelings behind him for good? Roman bit his lip, abruptly unsure if he was ready to know.

Now, more than ever, he wanted to melt back into the shadows and pretend he’d never come, Patton’s Disappointed Dad face be damned. The thought of looking into Virgil’s cynical, piercing eyes with their mismatched rings…what would Roman even say to him? The last thing they’d done together was fight, which ended with Roman punching him in the face, and then they’d been too busy dealing with Deceit to even begin to reconcile.

He also remembered that claw, blossoming like a red thorn from Virgil’s…dying, he could have died…

Roman shuddered and covered his mouth, letting the trembling and redness in his vision pass. He couldn’t think about that, not even for a moment, or he’d never sleep tonight. He had to be brave, like Sir Lancelot and Bedwyr the One-Handed and poor doomed Tristan.

Inhale for four.

Hold for seven.

Exhale for eight.

When he could breathe again, he squared his shoulders, took a breath, and walked to Virgil’s table.