Dark Court Faery Tales

by Melissa Marr

“King’s not going to approve,” another Hound muttered.

  “Does Niall know?” Leslie asked, even though she knew exactly what Irial would say.

  Or not say.

  Irial lifted a shoulder in a small shrug.

  Leslie texted: “With Iri. Airport. NOLA. Love.”

  Then she looked at Irial, back at the Hounds, and said, “Go.”

  “Leslie?” Cam asked in apparent confusion.

  “We need a little time to ourselves,” she said, leaning into Irial even with the metal arm rest jabbing into her side. “Just us.”

  To a bystander, she seemed to be talking to Irial, but the Hounds knew what she was saying. They—like most of the Dark Court—acted as if she were their queen. No one really pressed the matter, and she was cautious not to issue orders. Today, though, she was taking advantage of their obedience to her.

  “Just the two of us,” she repeated with emphasis.

  Irial lifted his gaze, looked around at the fey creatures that were standing there watching over them. Hounds were stronger than many faeries, but this much steel had to be unpleasant for some of them. “Begone,” Irial ordered.

  They rolled through the airport boarding areas, an invisible wave of discomfort that the observant could track simply by noting the ripple of fear and anxiety that the passengers’ faces showed. Even seasoned businesspeople seemed suddenly ill-at-ease. The trick for those without the Sight was to notice waves of joy, or fear, or chills that seemed to roll across a crowd or street. That was often the result of passing faeries.

  Once they were gone, and Leslie saw no other lurking faeries in the area, she turned to Irial and gently prompted, “Tell me what’s happening.”

  Silently, he slipped the letter back into his case.

  “A very long time ago, Thelma asked me not to seek her out. She was mortal, and I was not,” he paused and smiled. “Am not. Will never be. I knew she lived a long life because I looked her up from time to time.”

  He leaned forward.

  “I gave her a vow. In fact I gave her”—he laughed as if there was a joke she hadn’t heard—“quite a number of them. The first before we acknowledged that she knew what I was, but the last vow . . . ”

  All traces of laughter were gone, and Leslie felt waves of loss assail her. She reached over and took his hand. There weren’t a lot of words.

  “She lived in New Orleans?”

  He nodded. “A long time ago, I was there, and she was there, and we met, and . . . if things had been different . . .” Irial shook his head.

  They sat in silence, Leslie feeling his emotions and trying to send calm his way, until the plane boarded. They remained the same on the flight to the city at the mouth of the Mississippi River. She’d never been there, although it was on her list of places to see, but not like this.

  By the time they landed, Leslie no longer worried that Irial’s sorrow would drown her. So she asked, “What year?”

  He looked her way.

  “When did you know her?” Leslie clarified.

  “At the turn of the century.”

  “Which one?” Leslie kept her voice pitched low.

  “In the 1800s, love,” he said. “It was a moment ago, but she’s dust and ash now. Gone from me. People live so briefly.”

  Irial stared at her so intently that Leslie worried that he was about to become inappropriately affection—not that she ever minded, but ending up naked in the middle of a deplaning crowd would be awkward.

  “You must never die,” he said, not even trying to be quiet. “I couldn’t live without you. Swear it.”

  A nearby older couple looked at them curiously.

  “Love . . .” Leslie started.

  Irial pulled her to him and kissed her breath away. They were still both fully dressed when he released her, but the aisle was filled with people who were waiting for the doors to open.

  “Newlyweds?” a woman asked.

  Leslie leaned against Irial and said, “Close.”

  Behind her, he was holding her hips in his hands now, as if to keep her from flying or pull her closer to his affections. His fingers tightened, and she was suddenly more than ready to be off the plane and in the French Quarter hotel he’d booked.

  “Niall’s madness would be two-fold if you died,” Irial whispered. “Mine would rival his, exceed it, demolish the world. I cannot lose another I love. Cannot.”

  “I am right here.” She covered his hands with hers and glanced over her shoulder at him. “Healthy. Yours. I love you.”

  He nodded, but he looked far from convinced. “Mortals die in a blink. Like mayflies and falling stars. You expire so soon.”

  When they’d left the plane, and were walking from the gate to baggage, Leslie kept her hand in his.

  “Do we even know I’m still mortal?” she asked.

  She hated to bring up the ink exchange, but she was—quite literally—the only mortal who had survived it. No one expected her to live. Irial had hoped, but even he had thought she’d perish. “It’s grown back, roots in my flesh, tendrils stretching to you.”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe it will tie your life to mine. That was the initial intent.” Irial shrugged. “But you burned it, severed it, so I have no idea what it means.”

  This time Leslie shrugged. “So, love, you may be stuck with me for centuries.”

  She didn’t mention her fears that she grown less emotional again because of it. What was different now was that she had still chosen to be involved with both Niall and Irial when she was clear-minded. They were what she wanted, and who could blame her? After being loved by them, how could she go back to dating mortals? Being loved by the former Dark King and the current Dark King had taught her that she needed a partner—or partners—who were a little bit feral. The way she’d handled the monsters she’d met because of hem convinced her that she had a spine that was wrought of whatever was stronger than steel. Leslie was able to find the monster in herself when those she loved were threatened, and because of them, she learned that although love can be scary, it can also be empowering.

  They’d encouraged her to go to university, respected her desire to not accept their money, and not because they thought she would change her mind but because they’d have done the same. In a stubborn ass contest between the three of them, she wasn’t sure who’d win. The only real difference was that Niall attempted to avoid conflicts whereas Irial thrived on it. And she was somewhere between them.

  • ♦ •

  Miles away in New Jersey, Niall was ready for a long, peaceful weekend—one that didn’t require a suit or manners. He loosened his tie and looked at his mobile. In the assorted messages from Seth, Chela, and Donia was one that stood out: “With Iri. Airport. NOLA. Love.”

  The text Leslie had sent a few hours ago had plenty of information, but no actual answers. The Dark King lit a cigarette and pondered. He’d never understood the appeal of drawing burning toxins into his body as much as he did now. The Dark King, the whole of the Dark Court, was made for poison.

  Shadows from the coming evening crouched at his sides, drawn to whatever strange thing made him a king. Shadows ought not move on their own, but they did. None so often as the abyss guardians that traveled from one shadow to another anywhere in the world. Right now, the same guardians that had touched Leslie earlier that day were now slithering along his arms. He could sense her skin as they did so; the taste of her sweat and perfume lingered in these shadows.

  She was safer than most anywhere if she was with Irial.

  On the other hand, the man was now the embodiment of Discord. He’d protect Leslie, but that didn’t mean he was making wise choices in general—at least not wise by Niall’s standards.

  For all that was right in his life, Niall was unable to have a single month without drama. This time—hell, a lot of times—it originated in the faery who had bequeathed the court to him. Niall stood in the hotel lobby where he’d finished up sorting out the accounting discrepancies at the two new Atlantic Cit
y casinos the Dark Court financed. For all his comfort with the dark, Niall preferred when vices that were controlled.

  Irial’s voice, from when they’d first met, came echoing over the years: You like them. Mortals, that is. Genuinely like them.

  Some things were unchanged. Irial wasn’t prone to liking humans. He’d bedded his share, but genuine fondness for them was as rare as a blizzard in the Mojave. It could happen, but now that the last Winter Queen had been replaced, it was unlikely.

  He looked again at the text Leslie had sent a few hours ago: “With Iri. Airport. NOLA. Love.”

  He could reply, but getting answers when Discord was involved was as likely as turning coal to diamonds. It could happen, but not without a degree of pressure that Niall was unwilling to apply via another person.

  Niall glanced at the time. By now, they were on the ground. Why? That was the real question. Of all the cities in the world, that was one of the few Irial avoided. That hadn’t always been the case. Niall remembered seeing him there, thinking that it was a city positively designed for the Dark Court. Back then, Niall had been advisor to the Summer King, and Keenan had toted the court there in pursuit of a potential Summer Queen—one who’d vanished.

  He called Irial. Once. Twice. Tried Leslie’s number, too.

  Then he did what any sane Dark King did when Discord was not easily located: he booked a trip of his own. His, however, was a bit more primal than steel tubes hurtling through the air as if by magic.

  “Chela?” He spoke the word into the air, the shadow slithered across the ground, and the word moved at the speed of darkness. He ought to call her by her title, but he’d known her too long for that. Before her, her mate—Gabriel—had led the Hunt, but upon his death, Chela assumed the mantle.

  “Gabriela,” Niall added, using the title out of respect.

  Then he ordered a coffee. There was no way to keep up with Irial in New Orleans of all places and catch a bit of much needed sleep. Coffee was the best solution. Again. Some days, Niall wondered if he’d have flat-out refused the crown if he knew how little rest there would be.

  Before an hour had passed, Niall could feel them: The Hunt rode. The earth itself seemed to quake, as if the soil would shake loose the dead. The weight of the fear that rolled out before them made the very air heavier, thicker, as if moving was impossible. Several mortals in the street shivered. The roll of terror that surrounded the Hunt made more than a few passing mortals look to the sky as if a storm rode overhead.

  “We come,” the voices echoed. No mortal ear would hear. No human eye could see.

  Chela and the Hounds never moved at a saunter.

  When they arrived, Chela did not get off her steed, Alba, who appeared to be a massive lion currently. Chela’s shifted shapes the way some people changed clothes. Alba expressed his feelings with his shape. Since Gabriel’s death, Alba was often leonine, feral and ready to hunt anything that threatened Chela—or looked as if it could.

  None of the steeds were in car form. Instead, they looked like a deadly menagerie: an oversized lion snarled next to a lizard-like beast; something that resembled a dragon paced next to a chimera; and scattered among them all were skeletal horses and emaciated red dogs. Atop the steeds were equally fierce Hounds.

  The leader, Chela, dipped her chin. It was the closest to a bow that most Hounds offered. They weren’t strangers to the etiquette of court, but they weren’t subjects of any court either—and Chela was keen on reminding him of that truth. They stayed because she chose to stay. The fears they roused by their very presence were nourishing to the Dark Court. The terror that rolled off their skins was like the finest wine. And they, not shockingly, liked to be appreciated.

  “Home?” The Hound paused and grinned. “Or has the old King done something troubling again?”

  Niall walked up to her and said, “I don’t know, but I need to go find out.”

  Chela grinned. “Where to?”

  “New Orleans.”

  Her pause would’ve escaped his notice if several of the Hounds accompanying her hadn’t frozen, too. For one extended moment, they all seemed to stop moving, as if time itself had held its breath. Then, with a falsely casual expression, Chela said, “Sure. We haven’t been there in ages. A little bayou excursion sounds good.” She motioned him toward her. “We’ll drop you at the house and go—”

  “The house?”

  Several Hounds exchanged glances.

  “In the Garden District . . .? I thought Iri would be at the house,” Chela said haltingly.

  “What house?” Niall rubbed his temples and lit another cigarette. At some point, Niall figured he might know all the secrets the last Dark King held, but some days, he suspected that was impossible.

  “You visited,” a Hound said.

  “The court owns that house?” Niall clarified. He remembered. It was an ostentatious Garden District mansion, but he’d assumed that Irial had merely rented it as most courts did in most cities.

  More shuffling and their glances went everywhere but him. Niall couldn’t order them to obey him. The Hounds only obeyed Chela.

  “Sentimental reasons,” Chela offered. “We all do things for reasons other than logic, don’t we?” She glanced at the steed that kept pace with hers. It was riderless still.

  The steed that had belonged to Gabriel before his death had remained in the form of a giant black horse with a reptilian head. It flashed pit-viper fangs at Niall, not in threat but in a smile of sorts. Aside from Chela, the steed had only allowed him, Irial, and Leslie to ride. Niall suspected the Winter Queen could, but she simply visited the nameless creature from time-to-time.

  Chela could order it to shift or choose a new master, but she had done neither.

  “Why do I feel like there is more you could tell me?” Niall asked.

  “Because you’re not as dim as I once believed.” Chela watched as Gabriel’s steed stomped over to him.

  A rush of sheer exhilaration rolled over Niall as the beast nickered through those pit-viper fangs and tossed its head.

  “I’m coming,” he murmured. With a leap he was astride, and the steed was already tensed for motion.

  “New Orleans,” Chela said as soon as he was mostly, but not quite, seated.

  And the world blurred in a way that was both dizzying and beautiful. Had he another life to lead, he would choose this—no restrictions, simply speed and magic. It was exhilarating.

  • ♦ •

  Leslie said nothing as Irial opened a door to a house that seemed more haunted than anywhere she’d been. If a building could be melacholy, it would be this one. The building was in immaculate condition, the marble floors inside the door gleamed as if they’d been polished that morning. The tall wooden balusters lining the upper floor had the patina of hands gliding over them often. The Turkish rugs seemed as bright as if they were new.

  But as she followed Irial into the house, she saw that every room was filled with sheet draped furniture. No one lived here. Irial pulled a few sheets away, revealing books that were still open to assorted pages on end tables. An empty tea cup sat next to a pair of hundred-year-old glasses.

  And Irial looked into corners as if his memory and will alone could summon a body from the past.

  Faeries were magical creatures, capable of any manner of impossible things, but not this returning faces from the past or making ghost breathe again. The look of sheer pain on Irial’s face made Leslie wrap her arms around him. There were no words, but she could offer him comfort.

  At first he said nothing, simply pulled her closer to his side like a child holding a stuffed toy. Then a few moments later, he said, “I loved her. I would’ve chosen to be mortal to be at her side if I could, but my court needed me.” He glanced at her. “I did many things for the Dark Court. I lost Thelma, and Niall, and I nearly lost you. I died for the court.”

  Leslie couldn’t pretend to understand his pain, but she listened and she held him.

  Then, they went to the dining ro
om and uncovered a table that would seat a dozen guests. There, Irial spread out the letters and files he had, and they began to read.

  • ♦ •

  When Niall arrived, the last thing he expected to see was what looked like a midnight study session. Containers of take-out, a bottle of wine, and the unmistakable scent of chicory coffee assailed him when he opened the door of the Garden District house he hadn’t entered since the late 1800s.

  “The door was unlocked,” he said in lieu of a greeting.

  Irial nodded. “I figured you’d be here sooner or later since she texted.”

  Leslie was more enthusisatic. She crossed the few feet between them and pulled him into her usual welcoming hug and kiss. Exhaustion fled in that moment. He was home—because home was wherever these two baffling creatures were.

  Mutely, Irial kicked out a chair and resumed reading.

  At Niall’s querying look to Leslie, the calmest of the three, she sighed and quietly walked over and plunked her hand over the middle of the letter Irial was reading.

  “Talk. To. Him.”

  Irial stood and paced across the room, where several bottles of whiskey had been hidden under another sheet. “Whisky? Gin?”

  Niall nodded. He didn’t simply grab Irial and kiss the answers out of him as he might if they were alone. Sometimes there was a wall that they kept around Leslie still—not that they lacked affection in front of her, but faeries who were well over a thousand years old could be more violent in their affection than he thought Leslie would understand.

  “You’re stalling,” Leslie said.

  Niall smothered a grin with a sudden need to cough.

  “I have reason to suspect that I—someone know about me, about what I was, about Thelma,” Irial announced as he handed Niall a beautiful crystal highball glass that would’ve hit the floor if not for Irial’s reflexes. He handed the still-full glass back to Niall. “I received letters. Thelma’s ring.”

  “Thelma? The young . . . the potential Summer Queen you spirited away?” Niall emptied his glass and stalked past Irial to refill it.