by Melissa Marr
“Niall?” She tried to keep her tone gentle as she said, “I…I can’t deal with your faery courts right now. I just want my life. This”—she gestured around her room—“isn’t good, but it’s better than your world. I don’t want to be a part of the faery world.”
“I can’t change what I am. I’m not a part of the court, but I can’t not interact at all with my world…. I…” He let his words fade.
This wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have, not now, but it was there. “I still feel…something, whatever it was, for you, but right now…I need to start over, somewhere else…on my own.”
“I tried to keep you safe.” He told her that he’d kept guard over her for months, that he—and other of Aislinn’s faeries—had walked beside her in the streets of Huntsdale. He told her that he’d tried to not speak to her before because Aislinn had ordered him not to, that she didn’t want Leslie drawn into their world—and that he’d thought his queen wise to decide thus.
“I want to be with you. I’m not with the court now. I’m…solitary. I could come with you…take care of—”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Right. You need time, but when you’re ready…or if you need anything at all, ever…”
“I know.” She leaned back on the pillows. “Can you call Ash to come over? I need to talk to her before I see Irial.”
“Irial? Why would you—”
“I’m not the only mortal. There’s plenty of people he could replace me with”—she kept the pain out of her voice, but she still had to pause—“if he hasn’t already. I’m not going to walk away and leave someone else in my place.” She thought about the weeping mortals on the floor, the bloody fights she’d seen the starts of before she blacked out, the knowledge that this was all Irial’s being careful, gentle with her. What he’d be like without that caution was too much to consider. “I need to talk to Ash before I see him. I can’t wait too long.”
Niall sighed, but he went. She heard the front door open and close as he went to seek whoever waited outside. And she let herself drift to sleep, knowing that she was safe, free, and going to find a way to make sure that her freedom wasn’t at the cost of another girl’s life.
When Leslie walked into the suite that night, there was no one there but Irial. He didn’t comment, didn’t ask questions. He poured her a drink and held it out.
Silently she took it and walked over to the sofa. He followed but didn’t sit near her. He pulled a desk chair over. It was uncomfortable to see him sit where she couldn’t touch him.
“Are you okay?”
She laughed. “Niall thought it was unsafe to come here, and the first thing you ask is if I’m okay. Whatever you did to him must have been hellish.”
“Our boy’s not as quick to forgive as you are.” Irial smiled, a sad smile that made her want to ask questions.
She didn’t. She moved, trying to find a comfortable position that made the pain on her back less awful. She was glad it was there, but it still brought tears to her eyes when she moved. “I couldn’t watch people die for me. Or whatever else you weren’t telling me.”
“It would’ve been worse in time,” he admitted. It wasn’t an apology, but she hadn’t really expected one.
“Do I want to know?”
He lit one of his seemingly constant cigarettes, watching her in a way that was almost comforting in its familiarity. Then he made a dismissive gesture with his hand, the cherry of the cigarette waving in the air as he did so. “War, more effort on the drug front, an increase in the number of dark fey kept nearer to me. Maybe a bit of negotiation with Far Dorcha’s fey in the sex and death markets.”
“Would I have survived it?”
“It’s possible.” He shrugged. “You were doing pretty well. Most of the mortals don’t stay conscious as long as you did. And since it was me that you were bound to…you really might have. I wanted you to survive.”
“I’ve talked to Ash, and if you take another mortal—”
“Are you threatening me, love?” He grinned at her.
“No. I’m telling you that I don’t want you to replace me.”
His smile faded. “Well, then…and if I do?”
“Then Ash will work with the other one, the Winter Queen, and they’ll threaten you, hurt our—your—court.” She watched him, not sure that her approach was the right one, but certain that she couldn’t let someone else suffer like she had. “But here’s the thing they don’t get: I don’t want you to be hurt. It would hurt me. If you let some other mortal channel that awfulness for you, that would hurt me. What they’ll do to you when they find out, that will hurt me.”
“And?”
“And you promised me that you wouldn’t let anyone hurt me.” She waited as he sat staring at her, smoking silently. Leslie’s friendship with Aislinn might not be anywhere near repaired, but if the advice she’d given Leslie worked, it would go a long way toward setting things right. For now, that was Leslie’s goal: getting things put to rights—her life, her future, and if she could, things with those who mattered to her. Irial was still on that list.
“The Dark Court is what it is. I won’t tell them to change their natures to appease—”
“You’re playing word games, Irial.” She gestured for him to come closer.
His surprise was enough to offset her twinge of fear. He ground out his cigarette and moved over to sit on the sofa, near enough to touch—but not actually touching her.
She turned so they were facing each other. “You gave me your vow, Irial. I get that now. I’m telling you what will happen if you let them wound you: you will be hurting me, and if you know that and still take another mortal…What you are, what you do isn’t my business, but doing another ink exchange, starting wars in my world, killing mortals, that is my business, and if my caring for you means that you can’t do it…I’ll admit that I still care.”
He reached for her and she didn’t flinch. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to his kisses. It was Irial who stopped.
“You aren’t lying.” He gave her the strangest look, a bit like awe and a bit like fear.
Having her autonomy back was a beautiful thing. And she realized that how she felt about Irial hadn’t changed all that much.
“Tell me what you feel for me?” she asked.
He backed up just a little, no longer holding her. “Why?”
“Because I asked.”
“I’m glad you won’t end up comatose or dead,” he said, his tone revealing nothing.
“And?” She watched him wrestle with his temptation to tell her. If he didn’t want to, she couldn’t make him.
“If you wanted to stay…”
“I can’t.” She squeezed his hand. “That’s not an emotion, by the way; it’s an offer. You of all people know the difference. What I’m asking—and you’re avoiding—is whether you still care for me now that we’re not connected. Was it just the ink exchange?”
“The only thing that’s changed is that you’re free of me and I’m left trying to figure out how to feed my court properly.” He lit another cigarette and gave her his answer. “It was the exchange at first, but…that wasn’t all. I do care for you. Enough to let you leave.”
“So…” she prompted, needing the words.
“So, my vow’s going to stay intact: no mortal ink exchange.”
She stood awkwardly for a few moments. Leaving wasn’t easy, no matter how right it was. There were so many things she wanted to say, to ask. They wouldn’t change anything. They wouldn’t make a difference, and really, they were all things that she suspected Irial already knew. So she said, “In the morning, I get the key for my apartment. Ash took care of it for me…not the money, but finding one and the paperwork and everything.”
“You’ll tell me if you need anything?” He sounded as tentative as she felt.
She shook her head. “No. I’m pretty sure seeing you—or Niall—is a bad idea. I told him, too…I don’t want this world. Ash was righ
t about that part. I want to go live my life, be normal, and sort out what happened—before you.”
“You’ll do well, better than if you stayed.” He took another drag off his cigarette and exhaled.
She watched the smoke twist into strands in the air, not shadows, not anything mystical or ethereal, just the air that he’d exhaled—normalcy. And it made her smile. “I will.”
EPILOGUE
As he often had over the past few weeks, Niall watched Leslie step out into the street. The mortal boy waiting there shrugged off whatever she said to him with a smile. He watched her with a protectiveness Niall approved of—putting his body streetside, keeping alert to the passing mortals. She needed friends like him. She needed the way the mortals made her laugh. Not me. Not now. The shadows under her eyes were fading; her stride was steadier, more confident.
“Looks good, doesn’t she?” said an unwelcome voice behind him.
“Go away.” Niall pulled his gaze away from Leslie, turning to face the king of the Dark Court.
Irial lounged against the newsstand, hat tipped low on his brow.
How did I not notice him?
“Healthier too, without that wretch of a brother causing her trouble,” Irial added. With a friendliness that seemed at odds with the situation, he stepped forward and draped an arm over Niall’s shoulder. They were of equal height, so it was an almost embracing gesture.
Niall shrugged off Irial’s arm and asked, “What do you want?”
“To check on our girl—and you.” Irial watched Leslie with a strange look that Niall would call protective if it were anyone else.
He’s not capable of that, though. He’s the heart of the Dark Court. But Niall knew he was trying to lie to himself, knew he’d been lying to himself for centuries: Irial wasn’t what Niall had let himself believe. He was neither as awful as Niall believed nor as kind as he’d first seemed. He still doesn’t deserve to be near her.
Leslie had been joined by several other mortals. One of them said something that made her laugh out loud.
Niall stepped in front of the Dark King. “She’s free of you. If you—”
“Relax, boy.” He laughed softly. “Do you really believe I’d hurt her?”
“You did hurt her.”
“I took away her choices when I didn’t warn her about the ink exchange. I used her. I did what we have both done with mortals forever.”
Niall started, “It’s—”
“Exactly what your last king did with his lovely queen and the rest of his formerly mortal playthings”—Irial paused, a strange solemn look on his face—“but you’ll figure it out soon enough.” Then, staring past Niall toward Leslie and her mortal friends, Irial said, “Once I gave you the choice between giving me the mortals you’d addicted or giving me yourself. You gave me yourself. That’s what a good king does, Gancanagh—makes hard choices. You know what we are, yet you kept our secrets. You’re setting aside your love for Leslie for her best interests. You’re going to make an excellent king.”
And before Niall could react, Irial pressed his mouth to the long scar that he’d once allowed Gabriel to carve on Niall’s face. Niall felt his knees give out under him, felt a disquieting new energy flood his body, felt the awareness of countless dark fey like threads in a great tapestry weaving his life to theirs.
“Take good care of the Dark Court. They deserve that. They deserve you.” Irial bowed his head. “My king.”
“No,” Niall stumbled back, tottering on the sidewalk, nearly falling into the traffic. “I don’t want this. I’ve told you—”
“The court needs new energy, Gancanagh. I got us through Beira’s reign, found ways to strengthen us. I’m tired—more changed by Leslie than I’ll admit, even to you. You may have broken our tie, seared me from her skin, but that doesn’t undo my changes. I am no longer fit to lead my court.” Irial smiled sadly. “My court—your court now—needs a new king. You’re the right choice. You have always been the next Dark King.”
“Take it back.” Niall felt the foolishness of his words, but he couldn’t think of anything more articulate.
“If you don’t want it—”
“I don’t.”
“Pick someone worthy to pass it on to, then.” Irial’s eyes were lightening ever so slightly. The eerily tempting energy that had always clung to him like a haze was less overwhelming now. “In the meantime, I offer you what I’ve never offered another—my fealty, Gancanagh, my king.”
He knelt then, head bowed, there on the busy sidewalk. Mortals craned their necks to stare.
And Niall gaped at him, the last Dark King, as the reality settled on him. He’d just grab the first dark fey he saw and…turn over this kind of power to some random faery? A dark faery? He thought of Bananach and the Ly Ergs circling, seeking war and violence. Irial was moderate in comparison to Bananach’s violence. Niall couldn’t turn the court over to just anyone, not in good conscience, and Irial knew it.
“The head of the Dark Court has always been chosen from the solitary fey. I waited a long time to find another after you said no. But then I realized I was waiting for you to leave Keenan. You didn’t choose me over him, but you chose the harder path.” Irial stood then and took Niall’s face in his hands, gently but firmly, and kissed his forehead. “You’ll do well. And when you are ready to talk, I’ll still be here.”
Then he disappeared into the throng of mortals winding down the sidewalk, leaving Niall speechless and bewildered.
Irial didn’t look back, didn’t turn toward Leslie or Niall. He kept moving until he was lost in the crowd of mortals whose feelings he could read but not drink.
Not without her.
He could feel her out there, confident in her world, seeing the things that watched her from the shadows and not flinching. Sometimes he felt teasing tastes of her longing—for him and for Niall—but he’d not go to her, not now, not with her happy in her new world. She was making up the courses she’d missed during her time with him, proud of herself, rebuilding herself. She’d start college in the fall.
Not mine, not his, but Her Own. It pleased him, knowing that, and having those brief bursts of connection with her. He’d had a fear that relinquishing his throne would also end his tie with Leslie. He’d let that fear delay his stepping down. Fear of losing my last link to my Shadow Girl. Her actions had burned away the tendrils of vine where they’d burrowed into her flesh. He’d felt it, like losing feeling in a limb, setting him off-kilter so badly that he’d been despondent at the loss. But he could still taste the echo of her—not always, not even often, but there were moments when he felt her—like phantom pains in a missing limb. It was his craving for those moments that proved his inadequacy to lead his court. He might be out of her skin, but she’d left him as something other than what he’d been before—not mortal, but not strong enough to deserve the title of Dark King.
What does it mean when nightmares dream of peace? When shadows wish for light?
She might not be bound to him, but she was still his Shadow Girl. He’d given her his vow: to take care of her, to keep her from hurt or pain, from wanting for anything. Her leaving didn’t negate his promises; they weren’t conditional. And if Niall wasn’t bound to a court, kept tied to some cause or purpose, he’d eventually go to Leslie. Their Gancanagh might mean well, but his nature—like Irial’s—was to be addictive to mortals. He was still a thing of shadows despite how long he’d run from who he was. Not now. Now that Niall was bound to the Dark Court, his addictive nature was nullified. And mine is returned. Like Irial had once been, Niall was strengthened by his court, just as the court would be strengthened by Niall.
To look after the Dark Court, Irial had found them a better king. To care for Niall, Irial had given him the court. And to love Leslie, Irial would stay away from her. Sometimes love means letting go when you want to hold on tighter. It was the only way he knew to protect the court, the faery, and the only mortal who’d ever mattered to him.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I wanted the representation of all things tattoo-related to be as accurate and respectful as possible, so every tattoo reference in this book was handed to my tattoo artist, Paul Roe, to examine. Along the way, I’ve learned a great deal about the history of the art, the assembly of the machines, and minutia ranging from the metals one could use (what with faeries being sensitive to steel/iron) to why tattoo artists position the canvas in various ways. If there are errors, I hope you’ll forgive me. If there aren’t, the credit goes to Paul.
Leslie’s tattoo is at the center of Ink Exchange. I knew that early on; I just didn’t know exactly what the tattoo looked like. It needed to be a representation of Irial’s nature, and while I had the words that made Iri come to life for me, I didn’t have a visual that captured his essence. The universe gives us what we need, though; I believe that. What I needed was Paul’s art and wisdom. To say that he was essential to the creation of this novel would be an understatement.
As with the tattoos I wear on my skin, I gave Paul my words; he answered with his images. The final result was the art that’s hung in my direct line of sight for the past year. Thanks to Paul, Irial’s eyes look back at me every day while I work.
It’s an amazing thing when two people’s muses can dance together.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The past year plus has seen Wicked Lovely (my first book) go from revision to being on shelves—and Ink Exchange go from concept to completion. This was daunting, but the warm encouragement I’ve received has made it possible. To everyone at HarperCollins US and HarperCollins UK; to my publishers abroad (especially Franziska at Carlsen in Germany); to librarians, booksellers, readers, parents, journalists, teachers, and the folks at the fansite (especially Maria); to my amazing financial manager, Peggy Hileman; and to the innumerable others I’ve met online and in person: I’ve been humbled by your kindness and support. Thank you, all.