“True, but they kill the old king and the victor takes the crown. I may retire from my job, and help my people vote another in my place.”
“Has any King of the Sluagh ever stepped down voluntarily?”
He laughed again. “Well, no, but we can step down; the goblins do not give their rulers that choice.”
“No, they do not.”
“Now you look worried; what is wrong?”
“Holly and Ash,” I said.
“The goblin twins who are your visiting lovers. You fear they will kill their king, Kurag.”
I nodded. “They mean to, eventually, I think.”
“It is the goblin way.”
“Yes, but I have no treaty with Holly and Ash. I have one with Kurag.”
“You brought them into their hands of power, and turned them from sidhe-sided goblins to true sidhe. They must be grateful for that.”
“They are both thrilled with the power, but grateful enough to stay bound in treaty to me, knowing that I have enemies at both sidhe courts.” I shook my head. “I don’t know if they’re that grateful.”
“Have you not won them over with the pleasures of your body, as you won the rest of us?”
“I might have, but I haven’t been able to have sex with anyone for months. The goblin twins weren’t tamed enough before I had to stop entertaining them.”
“Then as soon as you are able, Meredith, you must invite them to visit you.”
I studied his face. “You aren’t bothered by me sleeping with them?”
“I always find that euphemism for sex confusing, because the last thing you do with the two of them is sleep.”
I smiled. “Fair enough, but my question remains.”
“It is politically expedient to keep the goblins as your allies, and that means Holly and Ash must want to be on your side, because you are correct, they will be the next rulers of the goblins.”
“I’ve been wondering how they’ll divide up the throne. They can’t both be king,” I said.
“I think Ash will take the crown, but they will rule the goblins as they have done everything in their lives.”
“They will rule together,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Ash is the more dominant personality, but up to the point where they disagree they are a unit.”
“And then Holly lets Ash win the disagreement?” Sholto asked.
I nodded.
“I wonder what would happen if Holly wouldn’t give way to his brother?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think either of them would have survived without the other. Sidhe-sided goblins are physically weaker than most goblins.”
“Like your Kitto.”
“Kitto is weaker than most,” I said.
“You have given him a refuge and a home, Meredith; it is good to see.”
“I didn’t think you cared for Kitto one way or another.”
“I did not know him, but I knew the fate of the sidhe-sided among the goblins and I would not wish that upon anyone.”
“You are much kinder than your reputation among the fey.”
“The King of the Sluagh needs a fierce reputation to keep his kingdom and people safe.”
“That may be true of all rulers in faerie,” I said.
He touched my face. “Now you look too serious.”
“I am not respected, or feared, enough to keep us safe.”
“The Goddess walks with you, Meredith. You have brought back the magic that we lost, and the sidhe are having children once more; those are all things worthy of much respect.”
“Many of the sidhe still see me as a mortal abomination, the first sidhe ever born who was mortal and could be killed by normal means.”
“You and I are both abominations to them. You with your human mortality, and I showing that the humanoid bias of the sidhe no longer wins genetically. We are both living proof that the sidhe are fading as pure people.”
“They do hate us both for that,” I said.
“Let them hate us, we know our worth,” he whispered, and leaned down to kiss me again. I kissed him back eagerly, because he was right. We knew our worth now. Those who hated us for physical traits we could not change could go hang themselves. Racists are always evil, whether it’s the color of your skin they hate, or how many limbs you have, or how fragile you are; it’s all hatred and it’s all just fear. They hated us because they saw us and thought, There but for the grace of Goddess go I, or my children. Sholto and I were the bogeyman in the mirror, and yet he was a king and I was a princess, and those who hated us most were neither. I wondered, did they hate us more because we were different, or because we were different and ruled in faerie and they with their pure, perfect, sidhe bodies did not?
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I LEFT MY hose off so that I could walk barefoot through the sand to kiss Sholto good-bye at the edge of the surf. He’d protested, “The sand is chilly, and the surf cold.”
“I would kiss you as often as I can, before you go. If that means getting my feet a little cold in the edge of the sea, so be it.”
The pleased look on his face was totally worth padding barefoot through the sand and letting the chill wind have its way with my bare legs. Sholto had given me his jacket this time, so at least my upper body was warm enough. I’d protested, “I’ll have to give it back to you at the water’s edge, and then I’ll be even colder walking back to the house.”
“No, keep it until I return. I have other jackets and I love the idea of you wearing mine. Give it back to me smelling of your skin, and I will be content.”
What could I say to that but yes, and, “You are a terrible romantic, my king.”
He had grinned at me, that grin that made him look younger and carefree, as if no sorrow had ever touched him. I loved that I could get that smile from him.
“I thought I was a very good romantic, my queen,” he said.
I’d agreed and there had been more kissing. Now, we stopped just short of the waves where they spilled along the sand, and kissed again. An energetic wave found my feet and I startled from the cold. He laughed and picked me up, holding me around the waist effortlessly, my arms around his neck and my bare feet suddenly kicking in empty air while I laughed with him.
I didn’t hear the shot; I felt it spin him around and suddenly we were in the waves, the sea like ice water pouring over us. He was on top of me, pinning me, as the waves drew back and left me gasping.
Saraid and Dogmaela were there, bending over us. Saraid yelled, “Princess! Princess, are you hurt?”
“Lord Sholto!”
The next wave came, leaving me spitting water, and coughing. Sholto never moved. I said his name, but I knew. If he could have, he would have been helping Saraid and Dogmaela. He would have been up protecting me, but he just lay there as the next waves came and Saraid dragged me out of the water.
Beck and Cooper were there, guns drawn, looking outward for someone to shoot. Dogmaela had grabbed Sholto and was pulling him farther up on the sand. Saraid had pinned me underneath her on the sand, using her body as a shield, and yelling for reinforcements from the house.
They came, the sidhe, armed, helping shield me from danger, but all I could see was Sholto. Dogmaela rolled him onto his back and I could see the wound that came out a few inches below his right arm. The hole looked big enough to put my fist through. Exit wound, I thought, and then, could he heal it? Could King Sholto, Lord of the Sluagh, heal a high-powered rifle round that might have gone straight through his heart?
Dogmaela was trying to hold pressure on the bullet hole on the entry wound. Someone else knelt and started trying to hold pressure from the other side. I saw them look at each other, and then Dogmaela looked not at me, but at Saraid.
I screamed, “No! Sholto! No!”
Far off I heard seagulls calling in their rough, complaining voices, but there was no mockingbird to sing sweet music. The wind from the sea was cold, and the sea was colder.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
I SAT AT the hospital with Galen on one side of me and Frost on the other. He was still hurt, but as he said when he came through the door, “I am well enough for this.”
I hadn’t let the nurses and doctors take the jacket or the clothes I was wearing, because the jacket was Sholto’s and it, and my dress, were covered in his blood. When they all gave up on the beach, I’d gone to him and held him, and he’d bled on me. He’d still been warm, neither death nor the sea had stolen him that far away, so that he still felt like he should open his eyes and smile up at me. But he’d lain in my lap with that stillness that nothing mimics, not sleep, not illness, nothing but the warm dead feel—so alive and at the same time they move in your arms as you hold them, nerveless, flopping like some great doll, so that you know, you know even while life still warms their skin, you know, oh Gods, you know, that it is the last warmth that their skin will ever hold, and the only thing left is the cold, the terrible cold.