Summer by Sarah Remy Read Free Book Online Page A

beating against poisoned currents.
     
    He dreamed he was drowning, then woke to a trickle of water on his tongue.
    “Carefully,” Water-Bearer cautioned. “Swallow.”
    Richard swallowed. The water was sweeter than he remembered. He drank until the jug was taken away. He reached up to rub the gunk from his eyes and a wet cloth was pressed into his hand.
    “Use this. Hold it against your eyes until the scabs loosen.”
    Richard didn’t argue. The damp eased his stinging face, soothing.
    “I’ve splinted your hand. The bones are beyond resetting; fingers are difficult. The splint will prevent further damage. Even better if you shield it from notice.”
    Richard took the wet cloth from his face. He opened his eyes, shuddering as lashes stuck together and tore apart. The world had gone blurry again, but Water-Bearer’s one eye glinted clear as day. Over the sluagh’s broad shoulders Richard glimpsed familiar shifting shadows: the Dread Host.
    “Aine?” he called.
    “Quiet,” Water-Bearer hissed. “Your female still lives. They’re preparing her for travel. The path is clear; we’re walking on. Now, eat this, quickly.”
    He took the rag from Richard’s hand, replacing it with something small, hard, and warm. Long as a carrot and beet-red, it reminded Richard of a skinny turnip.
    “What is it?”
    “My dinner. Journey-root. Eat it. I haven’t saved you from death on the rocks only to poison you now.”
    Richard was too hungry to be cautious. He took a bite, chewing greedily. Journey-root tasted like bitter onion. Richard didn’t care. He finished the root in four quick bites.
    “Hasn’t anyone ever told you never accept food from a fairy?”
    This time his conscience sounded like Winter. He shook his head, chasing the voices away. It was far too late for warnings or premonitions. He’d left common sense behind the day he’d stolen C4 from Bobby’s basement.
    “Remember,” Water-Bearer whispered as it rose, shedding feathers. “End yourself now and your female will suffer later.”
    “Her name is Aine. She’s not mine.”
    But Water-Bearer was gone, disappeared into the rocks. In its place stood the Prince, beautifully frightening, and at the Prince’s side two tall sluagh. They held chains in their clawed hands, short chains made of links of bronze.
    Shackles.
    “Very stubborn, for a mortal,” the sluagh Prince bellowed. “Nor entirely without wits.” It clicked its long tongue, then dipped its chin.
    “Bind him,” it ordered, and the sluagh fell upon Richard, shrieking with delight.
     
     
     
     

3. The Queen
     
    Siobahn summoned the remaining exiles to Malachi’s Gold Street office. Located on the top floor of a boutique hotel and glassed in on three sides, the small apartment had plenty of light. It looked down onto a narrow cobblestoned alley. Across the alley a pizza joint spat out a constant stream of delivery boys on bicycles.
    The office was meant to be modern-eccentric like the rest of the hotel, but Malachi had ignored building ordinances and instead furnished it with various pieces of mismatched furniture he’d collected through the centuries. Stickley and Tiffany competed for space with a faded Chesterfield and Chinese stools. He’d spread Oriental rugs over the original wood floors. Across the rugs he’d tossed skins of the bear and deer he’d hunted over the island before Manhattan became Manhattan.
    The apartment also had an all-important back entrance: a fire ladder that eventually dumped into a second, smaller alley.
    Siobahn arranged herself in a polished Stickley armchair, Morris standing silent at her back, and watched the open window over the fire escape.
    No one ever used the apartment’s front door. Malachi had spelled it shut. Even his mortal visitors came up the fire ladder and through the bedroom window.
    It was a silly precaution, Siobahn thought as she faced the open window, waiting. A locked door wasn’t likely to keep serious busybodies out. But Malachi