Darkest Mercy

by Melissa Marr

  Neither do I.

  “Would the door open if I knocked?”

  “Hard to say.” Donia flicked her wrist absently, and the snow swirled up to form a divan. Without looking, she sat and curled her legs up on the snowy sofa. She didn’t invite him to join her—which was wise. Despite efforts to keep himself in check, he’d melt the divan if he touched it.

  He did take several steps toward her. “I’ve missed you.”

  Wispy tendrils of frosty air slipped from her lips as she laughed. “There were days when I’d have done anything to hear those words . . . but you know that. You’ve always known.”

  He stood an arm’s length away from her and wished he could close the distance, but the whole of his strength was necessary to be this near her. Every drop of sunlight had become essential to face her. If he could, though, he’d leave it at the edge of her domain, so he could reach out to her. “Don, I’m sorry.”

  She motioned for him to continue. “Go ahead, Keenan. Tell me the next line. You started this. We might as well go through the whole drama.”

  “I know I don’t deserve—”

  “Oh, you deserve all sorts of things.” Her voice was as sharp as the remembered tortures that he still dreamt of. “You deserve things that I’m too kind—even now—to give you.”

  “I love you,” he said.

  Icicles formed on his skin as she stared at him for several heartbeats. “Do you suppose that changes anything?”

  “I want it to.” He knelt at her feet, but didn’t even dare touch her hand. “Don, I want it to mean everything. It should.”

  “I’ve wanted that for decades,” she admitted. “I wanted to believe that love can conquer all, that somewhere along the line, in the middle of the ridiculous game of finding your missing queen, that I would be loved by you just once the way I’ve always loved you.”

  “Don—”

  “No.” She narrowed her gaze and stood. The divan drifted away as if it had never been. The ground was a perfect, unmarred surface. “Not ‘Don’ in that I’m-sorry-

  and-now-you’ll-forgive-me-like-you-always-do way. Not this

  time, Keenan.”

  “I made mistakes.”

  “Dozens of them. Hundreds of them,” she agreed. “Winter Girls and Summer Girls, a Winter Queen and a Summer Queen: you want the world. You expect everyone to bow to your wishes. You collect our hearts like trinkets. No more.”

  Reminding her that he’d done so because of being cursed wouldn’t change the way it had made her feel. He hated Beira and Irial a little bit more just then; the curse hadn’t hurt only him. Dozens of faeries suffered because of the curse, including the two he most wished he could have protected from any pain. The faery he loved and the faery who shared his throne had suffered more than most.

  Or maybe I just know how much they hurt.

  Still on his knees, he stared up at Donia. “Tell me how to make things right. Please?”

  “I don’t think you can,” she said. “We had our chance. You gave up on us.”

  I didn’t. He couldn’t say it, though. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t a full truth either. He’d stepped away to try to win his queen, to heal his court.

  What else was I to do?

  Donia waited; she knew. In truth, she knew everything he would say, could say, and she understood it. She was a regent too. The problem, of course, was that he didn’t know how to give her up.

  Even now.

  “Tell me there’s a way to be—”

  “Keenan,” she interrupted. “We’ve done this already. You failed.”

  He looked up at her, holding her gaze, hoping for something that he didn’t see there anymore. “And now?”

  “I have no idea.” There were no tears in her eyes, no softness in her voice. “I suppose you return to your court and try to make amends with Ash or you keep running. It’s not my concern anymore. It can’t be. You can’t be. The cost to both of our courts is too high. I’m done with you.”

  In the months he’d been away, he’d imagined this moment so many different ways. Her absolute dismissal still hurt more than most every pain he’d known these last nine centuries.

  “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you,” he whispered.

  “Lucky them.”

  Donia made it as far as the foyer before the tears she’d held in check since he’d left started to flood her cheeks. He gave up on us. She hadn’t wept then. When he left, she’d accepted the news with no reaction. He didn’t want me when Ash was free. She turned her face to the wall and wept the tears she hadn’t shed in all this time.

  “Tell me what you need.”

  She didn’t have to look up to know that Evan was there, that he’d heard every word spoken outside her door, that he’d waited here in the house to console her and to protect her if she called for him. She reached out for his hand, and he pulled her to him.

  “No one will judge you for your choices,” Evan said quietly.

  She didn’t hide her tears from him. He was her friend. He’d known her when she was the Winter Girl, angry and bitter and lashing out at every one of Keenan’s guards she could.

  “My Queen? What do you need?” he asked again.

  “To not love the one faery I can’t be with?” She pulled away from Evan and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.

  For a moment, Evan was silent. His bark-covered skin made it difficult to read his expressions under the best of conditions, and in that moment, he was trying very hard to be unreadable.

  “He still loves you,” Evan reminded her. “He cannot help but be who he is. When you weren’t his queen . . . that was the only time I’d seen him so broken by the test.”

  “Yet the results are what they are. I am not his queen.”

  Evan’s posture was as still as the trees he and his family resembled. “You cannot let your anger at him sway you from working with the Summer Court.”

  Mutely, she laid a hand at the fold of his arm and let him lead her back to the now somewhat trampled garden. He remained silent as they crossed through her house and into the wintery paradise enclosed behind the building. A massive snow bear came over and sniffed her. Here, the creatures of her domain coexisted in peace because she willed it. As the bear lumbered off, apparently satisfied that all was well enough, Donia leaned against Evan. What they shared was not romantic, but he was her closest friend.

  Resigned, Donia nodded. “I will work with his court because I do not want to see my court injured . . . or his.” She sat on one of the ice-carved benches. “I can see the value of allies, even though we are still the strongest of the courts.”

  “Which means Bananach will strike us hardest or she will eliminate the others first. When we do not ally with her, she will see us as the threat we are.” Evan’s warm, woodsy scent comforted her as much as the cadence of his words did. Unfortunately, the import of the words was not soothing.

  “You’re right.” Donia drew in the cold air. “While I see Niall, you will go to the veil and request an audience with the High Queen. It is her twin we must deal with; perhaps she has wisdom to aid us.” Donia held out a hand, palm up, to an arctic fox that eased toward her. “I am afraid that it is Irial whom Bananach has injured. Gabriel’s words . . . and silences . . .”

  “That is what I inferred as well.”

  The fox came to her hand, and she brought it to her lap

  as she thought on Niall. They hadn’t been friends, not truly, as he’d had opposing interests for most of the time that they’d known each other. His former position as Keenan’s advisor had put them at odds. Not always. Even then, he’d assured her safety as best he could; he’d arranged “accidental” meetings with Keenan in hopes of fostering a friendship between them. Always a romantic. Absently, she stroked the white fox nestled into her lap. Why didn’t I fall for someone like him?

  Donia wondered briefly if Niall knew she’d visited Leslie, the mortal girl he loved, if he knew she’d offered her friendship to the gir
l. No doubt Irial does. Whether or not Irial had told Niall remained to be seen.

  Donia paused in petting the sleepy fox and frowned at Evan. “I am worried.”

  “You are the Winter Queen. You are wise and able. Trust yourself,” Evan advised. “Unlike Dark and Summer, you have control of your emotions. Unlike the last Winter Queen, you are pure in intention. I serve the only regent who can lead us to peace.”

  “You make me sound far more capable than I feel.” Rather than look at her advisor and friend, she resumed the comforting motions as the little fox fidgeted in her lap.

  Evan touched her shoulder, and she looked at him then.

  “I’ve been watching over you too long to be purely objective,” he said, “but I’m old enough—and now Winter enough—to know what’s truth. You helped give the Summer King the strength to rule his court. You stepped away from him for the good of our court. You are even now trying to figure out how to reach Niall. Your fey know what sort of ruler you are. That’s why so few winter fey have joined Bananach.”

  Donia leaned her head on his shoulder. “Why are the ones who do leave the ones I can’t stop thinking about?”

  “Because you are a good queen.” Evan wrapped an arm around her. “Even good rulers lose followers, though. I left Summer for Winter because of what I needed. Perhaps some of Bananach’s followers are seeking something they don’t find in their courts.”

  “If that meant peace, I wouldn’t mind as much. I don’t want any of you to die.” She closed her eyes. “Be ready to go to Faerie at first light.”

  Chapter 14

  Niall found himself back in a dream again. Since Irial had been injured, the only time Niall felt anywhere near right was in his dreams.

  With Irial.

  “You need to let me go,” Irial muttered as Niall approached him. “This is no good for anyone.”

  “Since when did ‘good for anyone’ matter to the Dark Court?” Niall scowled. “You’re not healing. I don’t know what to do.”

  “I’m not going to heal.”

  Niall looked away from the weakened appearance of the last Dark King and remade the room. An immense fireplace with a roaring fire appeared, chasing the cold away, as if it would chase the threat of death away. “I sent for another healer. The last one must have missed something.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “She could have,” Niall insisted.

  “But she didn’t. Neither did the fifteen before her.”

  Niall dropped to the floor beside Irial’s sofa. “I’ll keep looking. I’ll find the right healer, and until then, I’ll visit you here and—”

  “No. My body cannot recover from this. Even you can’t stop it,” Irial said. “If it were possible to stop time, I’d believe it of you. It’s not.”

  As he had the past two days, Niall ignored the topic. “Pick a book.”

  For a moment, the only sound in the dream room was the crackle and hiss of the fire. Niall didn’t see the benefit of arguing, not over this. He wouldn’t give up on finding an answer, and he knew well enough that Irial wouldn’t give up if possible.

  “Do you think you could still surprise me?” Irial’s voice was steady, but it was far from strong.

  Niall reached out to collect the book he’d just imagined and began to read: “‘The Demon is always moving about at my side; he floats about me like an impalpable air.’”

  Irial laughed. “Baudelaire. Nicely chosen.”

  “I’m not giving up. Not now.” Niall laid the book down. “Stay with our court, Irial. With me. I’m getting used to having a demon by my side again.”

  “Demon?” Irial chided. “I’m no more evil than you are . . . and you’re far from evil.”

  “I’m not so sure about me right now,” Niall admitted. “I want to kill Bananach. I want to test the truth of the whole ‘Bananach’s death kills Sorcha and thus all of us’ theory. I feel wrong when I’m awake.”

  “You will take care of our court and yourself, but right now . . . if you’re not going to read”—Irial remade the dream then, replacing the sofa on which he’d been reclining with a massive bed heaped high with pillows—“rest with me. You can’t lead our court if you are too exhausted to think or react. Everything will be fine. You’ll figure out what to do with Bananach, keep our court strong, and find what you need.”

  “I need you.” Niall stood, but remained beside the bed.

  Irial held out a hand. “I’m right here, Niall. Let us both rest.”

  There was something peculiar about sleeping in a dream—and about Irial wanting to sleep—but the edges of the world were blurring.

  Why?

  “Join me, Niall,” Irial invited.

  Niall climbed onto the bed. “Just for a minute.”

  “Relax, Gancanagh,” Irial implored.

  A few hours later, Niall woke with a startle in the real world. He looked around the room. His room. The light outside the window revealed that evening had fallen while he slept. He reached a hand out to touch Irial’s forehead, to see if the fever had abated.

  Niall stared at Irial and roared, “No!”

  “My King?” Gabriel suddenly stood in the doorway. “Niall? You . . . yelled.”

  Niall shook his head. “He knew. He knew that. Even at the end, he tried to protect me. He never chang—” The word broke as the reality of it settled on Niall. Irial had changed: he was dead.

  And Bananach is responsible.

  Chapter 15

  Invisible to mortal sight, Keenan walked through the streets of Huntsdale. It took effort to not fade in the cold. He’d considered waiting, but he needed to return to his court.

  He hadn’t expected Donia to welcome him back easily, but in all the years they’d loved and drifted, he’d always been sure of her. Only her. Truths he wasn’t able to admit to anyone else in this world—or in Faerie—he could share with her. He didn’t know what he would do without her. Did I really just lose her? If nothing else, he’d figured that they’d be friends. She knew him better than anyone. She understood how he’d struggled when Beira had struck him down year after decade after century. She has given up on me, on us.

  Keenan paused outside Bishop O’Connell, the school where he’d briefly been a student. With Donia at his side, he’d stood in this street more than a year ago watching then-mortal Aislinn; he’d thought all of the Summer Court’s problems would be resolved if he won her. Everything he believed he’d understood about the future was wrong. He shivered and folded his arms over his chest.

  I shouldn’t be out here.

  As if in answer to his thoughts, he heard the beat of wings, and in the following instant, Bananach descended from the sky to stand in front of him. Like him, she was invisible to anyone other than the fey or the Sighted.

  But not weakened by the weather . . . or much else from the looks of it.

  The raven-faery was smiling; her previously shadowed wings were solid. They unfolded to full width, casting the street into near-total darkness, and then refolded to lie still against her back. Her arms were bare despite the chill, but she was dressed in pseudomilitary attire: very snug urban camouflage trousers tucked into tall black boots. No human soldier would wear such a fit for their work garb, nor would a faery feel inclined toward false camouflage. Bananach was a singular entity, though. Her sense of humor and her sense of the practical rarely meshed with anyone else’s—faery or mortal.

  “Little king,” Bananach greeted him. “You’ve been missed.”

  “Not by you, I’d gather.” He forced sunlight to the surface of his skin, hating that he was faced with conflict when he shouldn’t be out in the cold at all, but strangely excited by the possibility of fighting. The Summer Court did not typically thrive on violence, but they were a court of passions, and in that instant, directing his hurt into anger was decidedly appealing.

  Keenan reached inside a false pocket in his trousers and unfastened the strap that wrapped around the hilt of the short bone blade that had once been hi
s father’s. Along one side of the blade, fused there with the Summer King’s sunlight, shards of obsidian gave it a serrated edge. He withdrew the weapon.

  “You would fight me?” Bananach tilted her head at an inhuman angle. “Have I done you ill?”

  “Today? I’m not aware of any, but I am feeling cautious.” Keenan kept the blade tip pointed at the sidewalk for now.

  From across the street, three faeries approached. They were solitaries he didn’t know, but they were walking toward Bananach. A trap. He glanced at them only briefly. “Do you intend to strike me down, Bananach? There are those who would respond poorly to that.”

  “And there are those who would not.” She widened her eyes. “I debated the matter. I ran the possibilities. In the current schedule, I would find you more useful injured than dead, but if you aren’t cooperative . . .” She shrugged.

  One of the faeries broke off from the other two and crossed the street so that her approach would be from behind Keenan. The other two spread out and continued to close in from the street side. That left Bananach in front of him, and the glass front of a shoe store to his side. I hate plucking glass from my skin. He tightened his grip on the blade’s hilt. Sunlight thrummed under his skin; every strand of muscle was a live wire filled with energy. He could turn that sunlight into a blade for his other hand and drive it into Bananach’s flesh.

  It wasn’t Bananach who launched herself at him. War watched as all three of her faeries attacked as one. He pushed the bone-and-obsidian blade over a faery’s throat. The faery fell backward, but the other two pressed on him—one behind and one to the side. Keenan angled, trying to fend off the two assaults.

  And Bananach stepped forward. He saw the movement out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t react in time. She swiped her talons over his right side, gouging furrows through the cloth and into his skin.