by Melissa Marr
• ♦ •
Irial was gloomy, maudlin either. He held the ring in his hand, felt the old metal hot against his skin. The ghosts of his past weren’t things he was ready to share—nor were the fears they elicited.
Niall was away, and Leslie should be in class. Irial had counted on that time to figure it all out.
The doors to the study opened with a thunderous noise.
“You’ve avoiding me.” Leslie stood in the doorway to the library after flinging open the doors in a burst of temper. Her once-blonde hair had become increasingly shadow-dark over the last three years, finally reaching the black of the ink that Rabbit had once tattooed in her skin.
College would end soon, and their lives would change. Irial wasn’t sure how—and he was afraid to ask.
What if she wants to move away?
He did not stand. “What do you mean?”
“The opera?”
“Ah.” Irial nodded. “You weren’t alone, though.”
She sighed. “It is because you are feeling guilty?
Irial shrugged. Guilt? Perhaps. He’d unknowingly abandoned a child—and he was hiding it from both Niall and Leslie. He paused. “Aren’t you to be in classes today?”
Leslie scowled. “I couldn’t concentrate.” She stared at him. “You promised not to meddle. I know there aren’t threats like there used to be. Bananach is dead. Ren is . . . ”
“Apparently missing,” Irial filled in helpfully.
She’d never asked, and he’d never volunteered an answer on that particular situation. Ren had threatened Leslie, their Leslie, in order to draw out the faeries who loved her. They’d been drawn out, and when they had, Niall had removed the threat to their shadow girl.
“I don’t want you to meddle, but if you do . . . don’t avoid me afterward,” she ordered.
One of the abyss guardians—sentient shadows that were typically only tied to the Dark King or his consort—slithered over to encase Leslie.
“Hello, sweetie,” she whispered to the shadow-wrought creature as she came into the room and pulled the door behind her.
The soft snick of the door catching was loud in the still of the room, and Irial felt strangely like prey for a moment.
“I don’t only need you when there’s trouble,” she announced. “Don’t you understand that?”
Mutely, Irial nodded. The shadows glided back to the walls as if they’d only ever been the ordinary shadows any lamp or shelf would cast.
After a moment, Leslie crossed her arms and held his gaze. “What are you hiding?”
“Hiding?” Irial echoed. The sight of her, the sheer force of her mortal self striding through the house of monsters, left him longing.
“I know you, Irial,” Leslie said.
“That you do, shadow girl.” Truth be told, he’d slaughter near every being in the world at her whim. Leslie’s very existence was a balsam on a soul that felt increasingly shredded these last few decades. Denying her was painful.
Of course, seeing her today ripped at his heart more than he expected. Thinking about her inevitable death seemed impossible now that he was thinking of Thelma, and tangled into that was the thought of a child. His child. Half-fey children lived much longer than mortals, but not as long as faeries. Would he want that? Would Leslie? Would Niall? A child would be complicated, but the thought of watching his own daughter or son grow up made Irial struggle to breath. He had never had that, and he longed for it. The closest he’d come was the half-fey children that Gabriel had sired. He was an “uncle” of sorts to many halflings, but the thought of his own child suddenly filled him with longing.
He could picture it as clearly as if it were reality as Leslie walked toward him. Her footsteps were muffled by the overly thick burgundy and gold rug. Shadows puddled where she stepped as if to soak up some sort of magic in her very touch. For a split moment, he imagined her saying the very things he thought, but of course, that was not the case.
“I do not ask you to be my tiger on a leash,” Leslie explained softly.
“Mmmm.”
She paused, despite the catch in her breathing and the widening of her eyes. The control she had made him sure she could rule a nation of pirates . . . or monsters. Leslie was not immune to his allure, but if he didn’t know better, he might think she was.
The sound of her breathing, of her trying to not to run to him, was enough to make him have to resist leaning forward. For all of his centuries of living, only one other mortal had made him feel so oddly human. That was over a century before Leslie had been born, and he still wondered if he ought to mention Thelma to her.
Niall knew. Gabriel had known. The only others who remembered his relationship were fey of his court, those who would not share his secret—even with Leslie.
“You’re staring,” she teased, voice breathless as he felt.
“As are you.”
“It’s been three weeks since I saw you. Staring is sort of inevitable.”
“Ah, and here I worried you were immune by now,” he kept his voice teasing, but they both knew that he could not lie. It was a fear—one of many these days. The gazes of others, fey and mortal, still raked over him. From thistle-skinned creatures of the Dark Court to the Scrimshaw Sisters of the Winter Court to the vine-bedecked Summer Girls, faeries watched him as if he was every dream they had. Although he knew Leslie wanted him, she could—and did—leave for weeks.
Niall did the same. It made Irial prone to waves of melancholy. If those who loved him didn’t long for every moment with him, was he . . . lacking?
“Immune? To you?” Leslie laughed softly. “We both know that’s impossible. Staring would be just as unavoidable if I’d seen you last week. I always want to see you, Iri. That’s part of love.”
“I love you,” he assured her.
There was a question in her words, though, one he was trying to avoid answering. Telling her she had his heart didn’t seem to be enough this time. Niall had delivered Irial’s excuses to Leslie, but neither of them believed him. The difference, of course, was that Niall was more tolerant of Irial’s tendency toward secrecy. They lived together more peacefully than he’d hoped possible because they both kept more than a few boxes of secrets hidden away.
Leslie had no such patience.
She stood in front of Irial now, her knees not quite touching his, and he had to resist the dual urges to reach out and to run away. “But you could’ve come with Niall last week. Perhaps I am not irresistible to you these days . . . ?”
“He told you that I wasn’t able to come,” Irial hedged.
“He told me a bunch of excuses, and I’m not so innocent as to believe them. Lies are lies, Iri, even when they are delivered by someone who knows how to distract me.” Leslie caressed his face. “Why don’t you tell me you weren’t able to come, Irial? Say those words to me.”
The half-accusing half-angry tone in her words made his resolve falter. He couldn’t lie outright, and those words were a lie.
“I would say them if I could,” he admitted. “I chose not to visit.”
Leslie withdrew her hand, leaving him wishing he could lean closer, but too proud to do so. “Because? Tell me, Irial. Is it because of threatening my landlord? He offered to extend my lease suddenly. And there was some error, apparently. I no longer owe back rent. Are you feeling guilty?”
The former king leaned away, more to resist his own temptations than anything else.
“I know you can’t help yourself sometimes,” Leslie allowed.
“If I have meddled, I’m certain it was justified.” He’d far rather discuss his supposed sins than his actual ones. Then, at least, he could be truthful with her. He hadn’t avoided her from guilt, so there was no harm in owning whatever she thought him guilty of this time.
His reasons for avoiding her were harder to discuss.
Once, almost four years ago, they were bound together by blood and ink. Her emotions were the food that sustained him, the wine that intoxicated him, b
ut their bond changed him even as it nourished him. She’d severed all but the barest thread of their connection, setting him adrift in the world feeling like a strange new version of himself. Back then, Irial had been willing to give up everything . . . except her. Now, he was facing the possibility of losing her. It was an intolerable fate.
“You’re hiding something,” she announced.
“Trying.”
“Failing.” She reached out again, hand not quite touching him but near enough to make him feel like a hapless insect drawn to destruction.
“Don’t ask me why I didn’t visit,” he half-begged, half-ordered. “Tell me how to atone for this meddling you say I did.”
He’d ruled the monsters that were only spoken of in whispers, but for the second time in his life, a human girl held power over him.
“You didn’t do it, did you?”
Irial shrugged. There was no harm in being held accountable for what Niall had likely done. From all of his years in the Summer Court, Niall carried an impulsiveness that sometimes made him unable to use caution or common sense—and those outside the Dark Court thought Irial guilty of many an ill-thought out act that was Niall’s doing.
“So. . . not you.”
“I didn’t say that, love. I am guilty of all manner of things. I simply asked which has you in this mood.” He lit a cigarette, pulling the smoke into his lungs with the comfort of a man who will never weaken or die from the poisonous stuff. It was a pleasant perk of being fey.
“No. I can feel your emotions, Irial. It’s not the same as before, but it’s growing stronger the past few months.” Leslie spoke carefully as if she were weighing the words, sliding invisible fingers over the tendrils that flowed between their bodies again. “When I . . . cut the ties, it was like a ghost that passed by me sometimes, but now, it’s like I can feel you more and more every month.”
“Not enough to know whether I’m truly guilty though.”
“True,” she murmured.
He caught her hand and pressed it to his cheek. “Does that help?”
Leslie laughed before saying, “Touching you always helps, but it doesn’t always make you easier to read.”
She caressed his face for a moment before settling onto his lap. There was no doubt in her, no insecurity as there had been when he’d first seen her. Back then she was a broken doll hiding her fears behind a false bravado. She’d survived an assault that left her screaming inside and trying desperately to pretend she was untouched by the pain. She’d been everything he needed for a conduit to feed the Dark Court: all but destroyed but still fierce inside.
For the past several years, the Dark Court had been her home. The monsters she’d saved would willingly kill or die for her. Admittedly, they’d also willingly kill for a cookie, but they wouldn’t die for just anyone. They’d donned glamours and cheered her every victory while she was at university. They’d been planning a party for her upcoming graduation that even Irial thought might be a bit over the top, but he wasn’t their king anymore and their current king would agree to any excess if he thought it would please for Leslie.
“Niall’s away,” Irial said, trying to remember that she wasn’t only his, not now.
“I know. I saw him last week. He isn’t avoiding me.” She slid her hand from Irial’s cheek to his throat. “I’m here to see you, Iri. You can’t hide from me if I’m in here with you.”
Possessiveness flared at the thought of a few uninterrupted days with her. He ground his unfinished cigarette. No amount of time with Leslie was ever enough, could ever be enough. She was too mortal, too fleeting, and fate had a horrible habit of stealing those he loved.
As Leslie twined her arms around him and pulled him into a kiss, Irial stopped thinking. She was here now, touching him, and that was more than he’d ever expected when they’d first been bonded. Ink exchanges were often fatal, so by the time he realized he loved her, he’d expected her to die. When she severed their bond, it held a likelihood of killing her. When he’d been poisoned, he hadn’t even had time to see her before he slipped into a comatose state. So to be kissing her several years later was . . . whatever came after miracles.
And like all miracles, he couldn’t even quite believe this was real. He’d been the thing that led the worst of Faerie’s monsters for over a millennium, the embodiment of Discord for the past few years, and his greatest fear was losing the two people he loved.
He’d done so once. Twice. Three times. Centuries ago, he’d lost the faery he now shared his home with, and then he lost the mortal he’d loved, and then he’d lost Leslie briefly, and then he’d died.
Dying ended up being a temporary state for him, but he felt the finiteness of life since that unfortunate event. It reminded him of how dangerous it was to love a mortal, of knowing from the state that they would age and die and he would be left alone. He hadn’t meant to love Thelma all those years ago—or Leslie recently.
Losing a loved one always hurt, but with Niall and Leslie, they were still alive even when they weren’t his. He’d been separated, partly, from them when he died. That, too, was bearable. Death of a loved one, on the other hand, was a far uglier thing. He’d gone through it once, and he’d thought the madness of losing the only other mortal he’d loved would break him. He wouldn’t do it again.
“You must never die,” he whispered to the woman in his arms.
Leslie smiled, kissed him again, but she made no such promises.
Mortals age. They die. And Leslie thought she was mortal still. He hoped she was wrong, but he wasn’t sure. The thought that he might be wrong made him pull her tighter to him. “Never. Ever. Leave. Me.”
• ♦ •
Not long after, both of them half-drunk of kisses, Leslie watched Irial decided what and how much he could still misdirect her. It was a lie, but he had been king of the Dark Court for literal centuries. He was good at lying by way of omission, misdirection, and other subterfuge.
“I need answers,” she nudged.
From the comfort of the sofa, Leslie watched the centuries old faery pace as he acted only slightly older than the boys at university. Faeries age slower than mortals, and Irial had been a creature of self-indulgence so long that he reacted to restrictions, rules, or confusions with a mix of temper and embarrassment.
“Time to talk,” she announced.
“Fine.” He sulked—and she tried not to laugh. Learning to live with the Dark Court meant learning that the monsters were often not as scary as people thought, and not nearly as scary as they pretended. At least it seemed that way to her. Certainly, after the battle between the courts in which Bananach died, Leslie could admit that there was a violence to them that she rarely saw.
“I graduate in a few weeks,” she nudged. “Is that what has you upset?”
“No.” Irial poured himself a drink.
Lightly she said, “Sometimes I swear you have single-malt bottles in every room.”
He grinned, drank, and refilled his glass. “I usually do, but this is the study. What sort of study lacks liquor? Or books? Or a comfortable sofa?”
As Leslie was stretched out on said sofa, she wasn’t likely to argue. “Fair enough.”
He shook the glass. “Drink?”
Leslie shook her head. She was legal now, but she didn’t often drink. “My liver isn’t as eternal as yours.”
His face darkened.
“Is that what this is all about?” Leslie stared at him. “My lack of eternity?”
“Perhaps.” Irial downed his drink. “I dislike how easily and quickly mortals die.”
“I’m here right now.” She stood, hands on her hips, but regretfully not terribly intimidating. “I’m in my second decade of life, Iri. Second.”
“And unless something changes, you only have a handful left. Not even a century.” His voice grew louder, not quite yelling but far louder than normal speech.
Leslie took a step back. He was far from perfect, but it wasn’t like him to yell. He was calm, sar
donic, charming, and a million other things. He could be irritating, and on a few occasions, she’d seen him seem cold or cruel when he and Niall were at odds.
Never to her, though.
“Something else is going on.” She stepped toward him, approaching as if he were a feral animal that might flee.
“I don’t know if I can do this again,” he said quietly. He bowed his head.
“Do what?” Leslie reached out, and he withdrew further.
“Love someone who is going to die,” he admitted.
As pieces started to click together, she stared, mouth agape. Again. He was afraid to love someone again who would die. Foolishly, she’d assumed there had only been Niall. He lived for centuries, though. No one was sure how many. He was older than Keenan, the reigning Winter King and former Summer King, and Keenan was over nine hundred years old.
“A human?” she asked.
At first, Irial simply stared at her. Then he gave a nod.
“I had no idea,” she said, as gently as she could.
Irial shrugged. “I don’t discuss her.”
Leslie felt like her heart would break as his wave of sorrow washed over her. The ties that bound them were still fragile things, but even the edge of his grief brought tears to her eyes. Once, before them, Irial had loved deeply. Not Niall. Not her. A stranger. The thought of it made her understand his attempts to withdraw from her. What was confusing was why now? Why did he feel so much fear now when she had always been mortal?
“How old was she?”
Irial smiled sadly. “Young when we met. Older than you, but times were different then.” He took Leslie’s hand in his. “You are very different people. . . and I’ve lived longer than I can fathom. Do not feel jealous, love.”
Leslie kissed him gently. “I am well aware that I am not the first woman in your life, Iri.”
He nodded, and they were together quietly for a moment longer.
Then, sheepishly, she admitted, “I just figured that you hadn’t loved any of them.”
He lit a cigarette and paced. His energy, the sheer emotional chaos that rode in his expression, reminded her that while he was gentler with her, he was still something of a caged tiger.