Shadowfever

The gold-dusted Greek god standing on V’lane’s right sneers, “That … thing … is the human you said we need to protect? She consorts with abominations!”

The gilt-skinned goddess to his left growls, “Destroy her now!”

Hundreds of Seelie, walking, dancing, and flying, begin to clamor for my death.

Without taking my eyes off them, I snap at Darroc, “I could really use my spear right now.” I assume he still has it, that V’lane hasn’t somehow plucked it from him the same way he takes it from me.

As the tiny, dainty Fae begin proposing methods for my execution, each one slower and more painful than the last, the god and goddess bracketing V’lane hammer him.

“She is human and has chosen the dark ones! Look at her! She wears their colors!”

“You said she worshipped us!”

“And she would obey us in all things!”

“They have touched her! I smell it on her skin!” The god looks revolted—and aroused. Iridescent eyes glitter with gold sparks.

“They have used her!” the goddess snarls. “She is soiled. I will not suffer her at court!”

“Silence!” V’lane thunders. “I lead the True Race for our queen. I speak for Aoibheal!”

“This is unacceptable!”

“Outrageous!”

“Beyond bearing, V’lane!”

“You will do as I say, Dree’lia! I decide her fate. And only I will carry it out.”

I mutter at Darroc, “You need to make a decision, and fast.”

“They always overreact,” Darroc murmurs. “It is one of the many things I despised at court. A session in High Council could go on like this for several human years. Give them time. V’lane will bring them to heel.”

One of the tiny, winged Seelie breaks formation and darts straight for my head. I duck, but it whizzes around me.

I’m startled to hear myself burst out laughing.

Two more of them break rank and begin to zip tight circles around my head.

As they buzz past me, my laughter takes on a hysterical edge. There’s nothing funny about what’s happening—still, I hoot and snort. I can’t help it. I’ve never been so amused in my entire life. I hold my sides and double over, chortling, guffawing, choking on sobs of forced gaiety, as they weave closer and closer around me. I’m appalled by the sounds coming out of my mouth. I’m horrified at the uncontrollable nature of it. I hate the Fae and their way of stripping away my will.

“Stop laughing,” Darroc growls.

Hilarity has me on the edge of hysterics and it hurts. I manage to raise my head from my knees just enough to shoot him a dirty look. I’d love to stop laughing. But I can’t.

I want to tell him to make the damned things go away, except I can’t breathe, I can’t even close my lips long enough to grit consonants. Whatever these lovely little Seelie monsters are, their specialty is death-by-laughter. What a hellish way to go. After only a few minutes, my sides ache from heaving, my gut burns, and I’m so breathless I’m light-headed. I wonder how long it takes to die of forced mirth. Hours? Days?

A fourth tiny Fae takes up the game, and I brace myself to dive inward, to find a weapon in my dark, lake-filled cave, when suddenly a long tongue, dripping venom, whizzes past my ear and plucks the dainty Seelie straight from the air.

I hear crunching noises behind me.

I snicker helplessly.

“V’lane!” the golden goddess shrieks. “That thing, that awful thing, it ate M’ree!”

I hear another snap, followed by more crunching noises, and a second one is gone. I cackle madly.

The remaining two retreat, shaking tiny fists and screaming in a language I don’t understand. Even angry, the sound they make is more beautiful than an aria.

My laughter loses its forced edge.

After a long moment, I’m able to relax and I stop making crazed sounds of amusement. Peals fade to moans to silence. I release my sides and gulp cool, soothing air.

I stand, suddenly furious, and this emotion is all mine. I’m sick of being vulnerable. If I’d had my spear, those nasty little death-by-laughter fairies would never have dared approach me. I’d have skewered them midair and made Fae kebabs out of them.

“Friends,” I hiss at Darroc, “trust each other.”

But he doesn’t. I see it in his face.

“You said you would give it to me so I could defend us.”

He smiles faintly, and I know he’s remembering how Mallucé died: slowly, gruesomely, rotting from the inside out. The spear kills all things Fae, and because Darroc has been eating so much Unseelie, he’s laced with veins of Fae. One tiny little prick of the tip of my spear would be a death sentence. “As yet, we are not under attack.”