But as Aoibheal had said, he was patient, wise. He’d seemed to sometimes actually have genuine emotion. As V’lane, he’d told me that Cruce was the renegade, rogue warrior. He’d hidden and pretended to be someone else for more time than I could even conceive of, patiently pursuing his goals. And he had constantly maintained, despite the lack of any perceivable gain in it for him, the contention that he cared for me. Wanted me.
I’d seen that truth in his face, as I stood near the black hole at Chester’s and both Barrons and Cruce had regarded me with identical expressions of hunger and desire.
What had Cruce said then?
You alone speak to the finest of all that I am.
That was my mission—to bring out his finest now. By any means necessary.
No boundaries. No refusals. Even if it destroyed me inside and out. And it might. Because if Cruce gave me the song, it was entirely possible my using it would kill Barrons but leave me alive. And it would definitely kill my sister.
If I made love to him willingly, would he give me the song? Would avenging himself on Barrons be amusement enough to entice? If he agreed, would he keep his word?
I closed my eyes. If he was willing, could I go through with it?
Yes. This wasn’t about me. I was expendable. The universe wasn’t. I’d pay any price to save it.
“Cruce,” I said softly. Then more strongly, “Cruce, I need you. Please come. At least listen to me, I beg of you. I’m begging, do you hear me? Once, you liked that. I see you now. I see the wrongs that were done to you. I see the chances you had and the chances you were never given. I’ve wronged you. I never let myself be open to you. I’m sorry.”
“MacKayla. At last.” His voice arrived before his body and I knew he’d been watching from somewhere beyond, for some time. I wondered why he could still sift. How was that even possible?
A faint outline appeared, filled in and solidified.
He wore no glamour but stood before me, unvarnished Cruce, the formidable, towering, iridescent-eyed Fae prince with majestic black velvet wings and kaleidoscopic tattoos. Then his wings were gone and he was wearing tight-fitting black leather pants, steel-toed boots, and a rugged sweater. His long black hair was bound at his nape, his sharply chiseled face stunning. His eyes flickered and changed before settling on warm gold.
A chaise appeared and he waved his hand toward it.
I moved in silence, sank down onto it, and he joined me there, took my hand and knit his fingers with mine.
We said nothing for a long, strange time. Just held hands, and I looked at him and he looked at me.
And I realized something. If you look at someone long enough, it’s as if their face sort of peels away. You start to notice tiny things you never noticed before.
Whether the lines on their face tell a story of laughter and love or dissatisfaction and envy.
Whether their eyes are filled with life and emotion, or flat and empty.
With a Fae, it’s a little trickier because they can don glamour, but I was the Fae queen, and I was a sidhe-seer, so I sought my inner lake and demanded it show me what was true. Did Cruce feel, as his eyes indicated, or was he empty inside? Could I reach him? How fine was his finest?
My lake wasn’t there.
It took me a moment of inner reflection to realize I’d never found my lake. That inky, water-filled grotto had always been the Sinsar Dubh’s abode, not mine. My lake wasn’t dark, it was clear ten feet down to a shade the color of tropical surf, and the surface glinted with sun. My lake wasn’t filled with shadowy figments and tendrils of dank moss and relics I couldn’t identify, it swam with brilliant runes and wards and all kinds of knowledge I’d never known I possessed.
Again I said, Show me what is true.
And again I saw the same thing. Cruce wasn’t one of the bad guys. I’d tasted monstrosity. It was the Sinsar Dubh.
“If I’d met you first,” I said softly.
“You might have loved me,” he finished for me. “And if you had loved me,” he said, and stopped.
“You might have changed.”
He gave me a bitter yet beautiful smile. “You did not even try to summon me. Not once did you look up at the ceiling or sky and call my name. That is how little you thought of me.”
“It was that simple? You were merely waiting for me to ask?”
“It took you too long. Now it will cost you.” His golden gaze rested on my lips and his eyes narrowed. “I can die and—for however long sentient life continues—go down in history as the bastard that doomed the entire universe. Or I can die a martyr and go down in history as the champion that saved it. When nothing is left but your legacy, it begins to matter. Either way, very soon, my history will be written. It is all that is left to me. My name.”
“You were never going to let us die. You planned to come back.”
“You were supposed to ask me!” he snarled, then collected himself and was again the imperious, mighty War.
“I did. I’m here,” I said quickly. Our peace was fragile. One wrong move and it would be broken. I could feel anger rolling off him in thick, suffocating waves. I could feel his sorrow, his despair, the fragility of his commitment to die our champion.
But it was there.
He cupped my jaw, tipped my face up and stared down at me.
“Neither of us is getting what we want, Cruce,” I said quietly. “You know I have no desire to lead the Fae race. I’ll hate this. But I’ll be a good queen, I promise.” Until I found some other Fae I believed could handle it. And if he really gave me the song, it might be a small eternity before I found a Fae I felt I could trust to wisely use such enormous power.