Ryan Graudin - All That Glows

The sickness hits even before I reach the outskirts of London. A slow-burning nausea descends on my gut and claws through the intestines of my human form. I kneel by the side of the road and wrap my arms around my stomach. The first wave is always the worst. It will pass. It always does.

A light breeze hits my face as the cars whip past in filed lines, like single-minded ants. None of them will stop, I know, because none of them know Im here. None of them notice the young redheaded woman crouched on the edge of the asphalt. With the remains of an hours-old veiling spell, the mortals attention slips right off, like beads of water on fish scales.

Minutes pass and the agony of my nausea ebbs back into a dull ache. I straighten and continue down the road into London.

London. The city is different every time I step foot in it. Always, it is growing. More glass, more steel, more subways, more souls. Bricks stacking on bricks to house an empire of electric cables and grinding gears. My magic is weaker here. Some spells I cant even form. Its the same for all of us. Even the ill-willed spirits cant draw upon their full powers in the metropolis. The oldest among us arent even able come close to the city; its machines and electricity unravel their stiff spirits.

So the Guard is made of younger Fae, the ones who can withstand the forces of technology. Yet theres always that part of us that longs for the fresh earth: the minty shade of trees and grass, the aroma of rich, crumbling soilbetter to us than wine. This is why, during our off hours, many of us haunt the grounds of Saint Jamess Park.

Its almost dawn by the time I reach the royals stretch of green. The city has already begun to stir amidst its blanket of violet fog. Black cabs roam up and down the streets and the distant thrum of the Underground resumes beneath my feet. A woman sits by the edge of a lake. Shes wearing tawny, high-laced boots, the same those well-pieced soldiers wore when they left for the Great War. Theres a pouch of crumbs in the lap of her cotton dress and purple-headed pigeons clustering at her feet.

I walk to her bench and finally sit, not bothering to hide my smile. Good morning, Breena.

The bird woman looks up, her wrinkled face drawn back with surprise. Crumbs pour down like a small avalanche as she jumps up. Emrys! What are you doing here? I thought you were stationed in the Highlands.

I accept the old womans embrace with open arms. I wasbut Queen Mab reassigned me.

Breena draws back and brushes a stray silver hair from her face. You look good! Her eyebrows fly up. That reminds me . . . youre not supposed to see me like this!

In an instant, a very different person stands before me. Like me, she looks youngsixteen or seventeen perhaps. Her figure is as slim as a birch trunk and her skin flawless. Her yellow hair sits in a short, curled bob, which she begins meticulously picking through.

Dont be vain. You can look however you want around me, I tell her. Throughout the long years of our friendship, Ive seen Breena in almost every form imaginable: women both youthful and withered, slinking animals, and soaring birds. But these days shes fallen into the habit of the blonde girl, as I now never change my redheaded form.

She ignores my comment. So youre with the Guard now? Whos your assignment?

Prince Richard. The sickness stirs again, tightening around my stomach like a hangmans noose. I fill my lungs with dewy airas if breathing in the electric hues of morning will make me forget Im in the epicenter of over two centuries worth of machinery.

Breenas powder-blue eyes grow wide again. Richard? Oh no . . . What did you do?

I might have managed to lose a Kelpie in a loch. Mab wasnt too happy about it. I laugh; a short, barking sound that echoes across the lake and sends a pair of swans flying. Their wings slice through the mist like shears through a curtainshowing the weeping willow on the opposite shore. And beyond that: Buckingham Palace. Although I cant say the incident was a complete accident. . . .

My friend shoots me a knowing stare.

What? I defend myself. I got bored shuffling the Kelpies around to the same pastures every day. I thought a change of scenery might be good for them.

So you took them to a loch and lost one? Its a good thing youre so talented or else Mab would have shipped you off to the Isle of Man instead. You always were one of her favorites.

Some might consider London an even worse punishment. I shrug off my friends comment. Its true that Ive advanced ranks in Mabs court much more quickly than others of my generation, but it isnt something I enjoy emphasizing.

She must be mad if she assigned you to the prince. Breena sighs at the riotous pigeons that cover her feet, squabbling over the promise of crumbs. Theres no more, youve eaten it all. Now, shoo!

They fly away in swirling tempest of dust and feathers. I whip the cloud of dirt out of my face. He cant be that bad.

Hes a challenge. No one volunteers to guard him anymore. He takes too much energy. Whens your first shift?

Tonight.

Friday night? Youll see. Breena retrieves the leathery shell of her seed pouch and folds it over her fingers, like shes binding a wound. Hes just returned from his graduation at Eton. Theres bound to be some . . . celebrating.

I roll my eyes. No prince could possibly be that bad, even if he is seventeen. No one, not even Henry VIII had pushed the Fae to abandon our oath to the crown. The last time I saw my least favorite monarch, he was covered in boils, grease dribbling down his chin as he tore into the leg of a goose. The ghosts of hiswivesdisturbed, unrested soulsclustered around, haunting him in all of their vehemence. But still, he kept eating. He never stopped cramming his gullet with the flesh of beasts.

Perhaps our magic is getting even weaker than I thought.

I think I can handle him, I say in a voice even tarter than lemons. Ive guarded the royals before this, you know.

The acid behind my tongue only grows, rises like a beast coming out of a long winter sleep. I cant ignore it anymore. Its too present. All over. The edges of my mouth grow heavy with spit as whatevers inside my stomach begins its inevitable escape.

The worlds changed, Breena warns. You havent been in the Guard for a long time. My guess is youve gone soft.

My palm, flat as a board, presses into my lips. But it doesnt matter. The sick rises and I bend double. Gravel digs sharp into my hands, coating them in a layer of soft, white dust. The sourness in my mouth gets worsespills out. My knees shake and the bile sticks to my lips.

Youll see, Breena says, bending slightly to give my shoulder a pat. Welcome back.

Its been long years since my last shiftyears spent tending to Mabs Faery court in the Highlands. It was an existence I quite enjoyed, soaking up the power of the hills for endless days and joining the scouts: Fae of old, too ancient to enter the cities. We scoured the land for wild, errant magicspirits who sought to break that strict barrier between the realms of magic and mortal. Spirits whose chaos might tear the thinly stretched veil we maintain. Id considered my days in the grimy modernity of London long behind me. But Mab had other plans.