JК
Mistrals Kiss :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 19 из 148Now that Abeloec and I had stopped having sex, all the light was fading, all the flow on everyone’s skin was dying away. Soon we would stand in a darkness so absolute that you could touch your own eyeball without first blinking. A cat would be blind in here; even a cat’s eyes need some light.
“Guidance for what, Mistral?” She made of his name an evil whine that held the threat of pain, as a smell on the wind can promise rain.
He tried to bow his head, but she kept her fingertips under his chin. “You sought guidance from my Darkness?”
Abeloec helped me to my feet and held me close, not for romance, but the way all the fey do when they’re nervous. We touch one another, huddling in the dark, as if the touch of another’s hand will keep the great bad thing from happening.
“Yes,” Mistral said.
“Liar,” the queen said, and the last thing I saw before the darkness swallowed the world was the gleam of a blade in her other hand. It flashed from her robe, where she’d hidden it.
I spoke before I could think: “No!”
Her voice crawled out of the darkness and seemed to creep along my skin. “Meredith, niece, do you actually forbid me from punishing one of my own guards? Not one of your guards, but mine, mine!”
The darkness was heavier, thicker, and it took more effort to breathe. I knew she could make the very air so heavy that it would crush the life out of me. She could make the air so thick that my mortal lungs couldn’t draw it in. She’d nearly killed me just yesterday, when I interfered in one of her “entertainments.”
“There was wind in the dead gardens.” Doyle’s deep voice came so low, so deep, that it seemed to vibrate along my spine. “You felt the wind. You remarked upon the wind.”
“Yes, I did, but now it is gone. Now the gardens are dead, dead as they will always be.”
A pale green light sprang from the darkness. Doyle holding a cup of sickly greenish flames in his hands. It was one of his hands of power. I’d seen the touch of that fire crawl over other sidhe and make them wish for death. But as so many things in faerie, it had other uses. It was a welcome light in the dark.
The light showed that it was no longer her fingertips that held Mistral’s chin upward, but the edge of a blade. Her blade, Mortal Dread. One of the few things left that could bring true death to the immortal sidhe.
“What if the gardens could live again?” Doyle asked. “As the roses outside the throne room live again.”
She smiled most unpleasantly.
“Guidance for what, Mistral?” She made of his name an evil whine that held the threat of pain, as a smell on the wind can promise rain.
He tried to bow his head, but she kept her fingertips under his chin. “You sought guidance from my Darkness?”
Abeloec helped me to my feet and held me close, not for romance, but the way all the fey do when they’re nervous. We touch one another, huddling in the dark, as if the touch of another’s hand will keep the great bad thing from happening.
“Yes,” Mistral said.
“Liar,” the queen said, and the last thing I saw before the darkness swallowed the world was the gleam of a blade in her other hand. It flashed from her robe, where she’d hidden it.
I spoke before I could think: “No!”
Her voice crawled out of the darkness and seemed to creep along my skin. “Meredith, niece, do you actually forbid me from punishing one of my own guards? Not one of your guards, but mine, mine!”
The darkness was heavier, thicker, and it took more effort to breathe. I knew she could make the very air so heavy that it would crush the life out of me. She could make the air so thick that my mortal lungs couldn’t draw it in. She’d nearly killed me just yesterday, when I interfered in one of her “entertainments.”
“There was wind in the dead gardens.” Doyle’s deep voice came so low, so deep, that it seemed to vibrate along my spine. “You felt the wind. You remarked upon the wind.”
“Yes, I did, but now it is gone. Now the gardens are dead, dead as they will always be.”
A pale green light sprang from the darkness. Doyle holding a cup of sickly greenish flames in his hands. It was one of his hands of power. I’d seen the touch of that fire crawl over other sidhe and make them wish for death. But as so many things in faerie, it had other uses. It was a welcome light in the dark.
The light showed that it was no longer her fingertips that held Mistral’s chin upward, but the edge of a blade. Her blade, Mortal Dread. One of the few things left that could bring true death to the immortal sidhe.
“What if the gardens could live again?” Doyle asked. “As the roses outside the throne room live again.”
She smiled most unpleasantly.