Dark Court Faery Tales

by Melissa Marr

  Ignoring the faeries that waited in every alcove and around every corner, Niall made his way to his chambers. He opened the door and stopped.

  “He said you needed me.” She stared at him, not moving, not crossing the thick carpet to stand nearer him. Once, she would’ve. Now, she watched him and said, “The Hound. He brought me here because you needed me.”

  “No,” he corrected. “I needed a body to be here. Not you. It’s what I am now. I have need of a body.”

  She shrugged. “I am a body.”

  “No.” He wasn’t exactly happy to find one of the Summer Girls waiting there. He tried to think of her that way: one of the Summer Girls. He tried not to think of her as someone he’d once protected. It didn’t work.

  “You could be anyone.” He slammed the door closed. “You—”

  “You don’t need to try to make me upset, Niall.” She gave him a sorrowful smile. “Tell me.”

  “Tell . . .”

  “What you need,” she supplied. Even in this place, far different from her court, she swayed a little as if she heard music still. The long brown hair that she usually pinned into curls hung straight today. “The last Dark King invited us here often enough. Tonight, though . . . I hoped it was you I was here for when I saw the Hound. I would’ve come without that hope, but I’m glad to be brought to you.”

  Niall hadn’t thought about it overly much. It made sense, though: the Summer Girls were without Keenan’s hatred of the Dark Court. They were creatures of pleasure, the embodiment of only the joys of Summer. Later, he’d ask Gabriel how often the Summer Girls had visited the court—and how often they could visit safely. Even in his fury with Keenan, Niall still believed that the Summer King would not sit idly by if the Summer Girls were harmed. His former liege manipulated as freely as every other powerful faery did—including me—but often that was out of the protectiveness he felt for his faeries. The Summer Girls, former mortals who’d been cursed to be faeries dependent on Keenan for their very sustenance, were particularly important to the Summer King.

  “He always asked about you. The last king”—she unfastened her sundress—“I thought of telling you sometimes. More than once, he asked me to come to him right after I’d lain in your arms.”

  Niall stilled. Did you? Why? How often? There was nothing he could think to say that didn’t sound bizarre—not that she would be fazed by a bizarre statement. The Summer Girls were unflappable. He stared at her as she dropped the dress.

  “We knew that one day”—she stepped from the dress that now puddled around her feet—“you’d return to this court.”

  If she had been any of the other Summer Girls, her words would’ve surprised him, but Siobhan had always told Niall things he hadn’t thought anyone noticed. She is my friend. He remembered the years after she’d first joined the Summer Court, when she realized that Keenan’s love was as fleeting as his attention had been.

  As she watched him, she pulled her hair over her bare shoulder. “I remember when you taught me about this world, Niall. You spoke of them, of his court, with a difference in your voice. Your eyes grew dark when you spoke of him. Did you know that?”

  The way she watched him was exciting. When he’d been in the Summer Court, he had always favored her, but the Summer Girls never seemed to care whose arms they were in. Do they, and I just didn’t know? He turned away from her, dismissing her with effort, and walked to the low chest at the foot of his oversized bed. He propped one foot up and began unlacing his boots.

  Without looking back at her, he said, “You could go. There are others—”

  She laughed. “I miss you. I’m here by choice. My king wouldn’t like it, but we are not disloyal to him. We did not speak of our court here . . . except to Irial, and he only asked after you.”

  “Keenan would not approve,” Niall pointed out rather foolishly. What the Summer King approved of wasn’t Niall’s concern. Even now, the Dark Court was strong enough to withstand any threat the Summer Court offered them. Unlike the High Court or the Winter Court. He unlaced his other boot and dropped both boots on the floor. The black of the leather almost blended in with the deep burgundy carpet. I will not look at her. He sat on the chest.

  “Niall?”

  He lifted his gaze.

  In an instant, Siobhan had crossed the room and stood in front of him. Carefully, she reached out to touch his face. Gone was the impulsivity he’d known with her as one of the Summer Girls. Instead, she approached him much the way one would approach a wild animal. “You’ve been fighting.”

  Until that moment, the fact that he was blood-covered had slipped his mind. He flinched and pulled away from her touch. “You should g—” The untrue words halted. He tried again: “You could g—”

  “No.” Her hand was outstretched, but she did not touch him this time. Her sorrow and her longing and her love flooded him. “I want to be right here.”

  Love?

  He stared at her in wonder.

  She stilled. “What?”

  Silently, he shook his head. The ability of his court to taste emotions was secret. As carefully as she had, he reached out, and despite the number of times that he’d been with Siobhan, it felt new. He slid his fingers through her hair, brushing it back, letting it slip from his grasp to slide over her skin. “I do want you to stay.”

  As he touched her, she closed her eyes, and he tried not to notice that the vines that were on her skin wilted as he slid his hand down her bare arm. She was a part of the Summer Court; he was not. Like everyone else outside of the Summer Court, his touch was not nourishing for her now.

  “Niall?”

  He traced the wilting vines that trailed across her bare stomach. “You know you can walk away from here.”

  “I’m here by choice,” she repeated softly. “I want to be here.”

  Her emotions were as clear in her voice as they were in the air around him. Her fear of rejection tangled with need. Even though he was bruised and bloodied, even though he was offering her nothing, she wanted him—and was terrified that he would send her away. He drank down both her terror and her lust as he pulled her onto his lap.

  And in doing so, all of her hesitation vanished. She drew his lips to hers and wrapped her legs around him. This was the Siobhan he’d taken into his arms so often over the past century. She didn’t apologize as she shredded what remained of his bloodied shirt or when she caused him pain by being too impatient with his bruised body.

  Unlike every other relationship he’d known, Siobhan was uncomplicated. She didn’t think about the future; she didn’t ask about the past. Or cause me to think of those things. She was here, in this moment, in this place. She was a Summer Girl, demanding the pleasure that she considered her right. She took what she needed, and she shared herself because she wanted to do so. She was who she was, and she didn’t try to hide that truth.

  And in this, Niall admitted to himself, perhaps the Summer Court and the Dark Court were not so far apart.

  Chapter Eight

  The following day, far earlier than the court would gather, Irial was waiting in the alley outside the warehouse Niall had been favoring of late. Much like the changes Niall had made in what used to be Irial’s home, this change was both comforting and disconcerting. The court owned plenty of clubs, both mortal and faery focused, but for reasons Niall didn’t specify, he’d chosen to have meetings here in a vast warehouse. They’d hired mortals to refit it, removing the excessive steel so that it was bearable and adding wood and stone fixtures. The presence of steel weakened the faeries, but it also meant that only the strongest among them could act out. That, Irial had to admit, was clever. His own solution when he’d ascended the throne had been bloodier, but Niall was a different sort of ruler.

  Irial had waited there since the sun rose, but it was not until afternoon that he saw the faery he’d been expecting.

  “Irial.” Devlin moved with the same ease that shadows did, but rather than take advantage of that, he tried to announce
his presence when he arrived—unless he was sent to assassinate someone Sorcha had declared troubling.

  “I have made you welcome among us for centuries, but I understand that Her Unchanging Difficultness has sent you to make trouble,” Irial murmured.

  “My queen is wise in all things.” Devlin stiffened. “She seeks to keep order, not promote conflict.”

  “By striking those in my—the Dark Court?” Irial grinned. “The High Court is a twisted place.”

  “You are no longer king. Nothing should prevent me from striking you.” Devlin’s voice had no inflection. In most cases, evoking obvious emotion in Sorcha’s brother was a challenge.

  “If necessary, I would offer myself up for you to take your pound of flesh.” Irial gestured to the street. “We can deal with this out here before or after you say what you will to my king.”

  The expression on Devlin’s face seemed to grow even more unreadable, and his already hidden emotions became absent enough that he was as a vacant body. “Regrettably, I think I will decline that offer.”

  The sound of Hounds approaching didn’t evoke so much as a flicker from Devlin. Their steeds’ engines growled and snarled; the exhalations—which mortals would see as vehicle exhaust—were tinted the same green as their eyes. While the Hunt did not ride in pursuit of anyone, they made their entrance with the same ferocity as they’d pursue an enemy with. Gabriel’s steed was, uncharacteristically, a massive motorcycle with dual exhaust and a growl loud enough that the street shuddered. Gabriel himself snarled as fiercely as the steed, the act of which made his words almost unintelligible. “Irial . . . What. Are. You. Doing.”

  Irial widened his eyes in faux innocence. “Greeting a guest to the Dark Court. We were both in the street, and—” Irial’s words were lost under another growl.

  Utterly implacable as always, Devlin merely looked at the assembled Hunt as if they were nothing more than a group of mortal schoolchildren. “On behalf of the Queen of Faerie, I seek audience with the Dark King.”

  “Irial?” Gabriel said in a slightly clearer voice. “Go inside. Now.”

  Something in him rankled at being ordered so, but Gabriel had always been prone to treating Irial as an equal instead of as a king. And now I am not a king. Irial shrugged, glanced at Devlin, and said, “My offer stands.”

  The resounding snarls that greeted his words brought a look of true amusement—and matching burst of emotion—to Devlin. “I believe there is some opposition to your suggestion.”

  Gabriel extended his left arm; on it, the Dark King’s commands spiraled out and made quite clear that Irial was to be kept safe. “Inside.”

  Devlin smiled broadly now. He glanced from the ink on Gabriel’s arm to Irial’s face. “Your king seems to disapprove of your propensity for protecting him.”

  At that, Irial shook his head. “Understand this: if you so much as lift a hand to my king, I will bring such destruction into Faerie as would make War in all her fury seem like an infant in a snit. There are more than a few who owe me debts I will not hesitate to call due.” Irial lowered his voice, not to hide his words from those standing near him, but in hopes of keeping it from any hidden watchers. “I’ve spoken to those who carry word of the High Queen’s orders. Whether it is now or for the rest of eternity, any who strike at him will answer to me.”

  “You unman him with such a threat,” Devlin remarked.

  “No,” Irial corrected. “I protect him. It is no different than what you would do for your queen.”

  Devlin paused a heartbeat too long before murmuring, “Perhaps.”

  “Inside on your own, or they’ll move you.” Gabriel clamped a hand on Irial’s shoulder. “I will not disobey my king—nor will you.”

  Several of the Hounds shifted restlessly. They would obey their Gabriel, but after centuries of protecting Irial, they were uneasy at the idea of manhandling him.

  “Your words are noted and will be relayed to my queen.” Devlin bowed his head, either to hide his expression or out of respect. Irial wasn’t sure which.

  * * *

  Niall was fuming when Irial entered the building. A barricade of solid shadow snapped into place around the two of them, sealing out everyone but them. “What were you thinking? Did you ignore everything I said yesterday?”

  “No.” Irial was unabashed. He put his hand against the shadow-formed wall. “You are able to do things that I struggled with as easily as if you’d been king for several years.”

  “At least one of us is adjusting well.”

  At that, Irial paused. “What do you mean?”

  “Instead of hiding the fact that you were informed that Devlin was to strike you or Gabriel, you should have told me,” Niall said as calmly as he could. “You offered me the court, your fealty, your advice, yet you hide things that, as your king, I should be told.”

  For a moment, Irial stood in silence. “If Gabriel were to be injured, the Hounds could replace him, and we cannot be certain that another Hound would support you as Gabriel will.”

  “I know.”

  “So of the two, I am more expendable.” Irial shrugged.

  “You are not expendable to me . . . . And I couldn’t speak it if it were untrue”—Niall held up his hand before Irial could interrupt—“neither could you, so we both believe we speak truths. You told me of this visit, advised me how to proceed, and then undermined me. You should have told me what you learned.”

  “I’m not very good at serving.”

  Niall put one hand on Irial’s shoulder and pushed him to his knees. “I noticed.”

  The truth was that even as he was apologizing, Irial was not subservient. Kings weren’t meant to become subjects, and after centuries of being a king, Irial wasn’t likely to change overnight. Or at all. The consequence of that truth, however, was that the one faery in the Dark Court best able to advise Niall was also the one least suited to being anyone’s subject.

  “We need a solution or you need to go,” Niall started.

  Irial lifted his gaze. “You would exile me?”

  “If you work against me, yes, I will.” Niall frowned. “Tell me what you know. Maybe we need to do so every day. A meeting . . . or a memo . . . or I don’t know.”

  Irial started to rise to his feet.

  “No,” Niall whispered. “You will kneel until I say otherwise.”

  A slow smile came over Irial’s face. “As you will.”

  “I’m not joking, Irial. Either I’m your king or you are gone. If I am to rule this court, I need you”—Niall paused to let the weight of that sentence settle on both of them—“more than I think I’ve needed anyone since you failed me. So tell me right now, do you want the court back, do you want to leave, or do you intend to be my advisor in truth?”

  “I want to keep you and the court safe.” Irial looked only at Niall despite the growing number of faeries outside the shadowed barrier. “That means, I cannot be their king.”

  “Then stop trying to make all of the decisions.” Niall ignored the fighting outside the wall as well. A fair number of Ly Ergs stood in front of Devlin, who was steadily throwing them across the room as if they were weightless. “You learned that the High Queen wanted a show strike that would be a noticeable display of her assassin’s strength.”

  “Yes.”

  “Gabe has arranged that—up to allowing you to act the fool,” Niall said.

  Irial startled. “I see.”

  “I sent Gabe to find out which of your spies you’d visited.” Niall let his pleasure in the situation be obvious in his voice. “I manipulated you, Irial.”

  Irial turned away to watch another faery go sailing by the barrier. “May I rise?”

  “No.” Niall hid a grin. “You will give me your vow.”

  “On what?”

  “I will have your vow that you will tell me when there are threats that you consider protecting me from, threats to me or to the court or to you that you consider withholding, and you will tell me what they are as soon as
you are reasonably able to do so.” Niall had weighed the words in his mind as he’d sat stewing over Irial’s deceit. “You will vow to trust me with ruling this court or you will become solitary, exiled from the court and from my presence until I decide otherwise.”

  The flash of fear that Irial felt almost made Niall waver. Instead, he continued, “You will spend as much time as I require in my presence, teaching me the secrets that you are even now thinking I can’t handle yet.”

  “There are centuries of secrets,” Irial hedged.

  “Either you kneel there and give me your vow to all that I just said”—Niall reached out, gripped the underside of Irial’s jaw in his hand, and forced his once-friend, once-more, once-enemy to look at him—“or you may stand and walk out the door.”

  “If I tell you everything, neither of us will sleep or do anything else for months.”

  Niall squeezed Irial’s throat, not hard enough to bruise—much—and asked, “If I directed you to tell me what you hide, would you be able to give me a full answer?”

  “In time? Yes. Today? No. Centuries, Niall, I’ve been dealing in secrets for centuries.” Irial stayed motionless in Niall’s grasp. “I told you about my understanding with Sorcha. I had Gabe bring you one of—”

  “Yes,” Niall interrupted, squeezing harder now. “Did they spy for you?”

  “Only on you.”

  With a snarl, Niall shoved him away. “Your vow or go.”

  Even as he struggled to remain kneeling, Irial didn’t hesitate in his words, “My vow . . . and full truth within the decade.”

  “Within the year.”

  Irial shook his head. “That is impossible.”

  “Two years.”

  “No more than three years,” Irial offered. “You have eternity to rule them, three years is but a blink.”

  For a moment, Niall considered forcing the matter, but if it had taken him centuries to change, it was far from unreasonable for Irial to ask for less than a decade. Niall nodded. “Done.”