Stopping Time and Old Habits

by Melissa Marr

  “I’m not that easy to beat.” Irial smiled and then winced as the movement made his lip bleed more freely.

  “It’s easier being their king than I thought it would be,” Niall corrected.

  “I knew what you meant.” Irial forced himself to sit upright, and immediately reassessed the number of broken ribs to at least three. “You were always their next king. You knew that. I knew it. Hell, Sorcha knew it.”

  Niall’s eyes widened slightly. “She told you that?”

  Irial had forgotten how much more open Niall had always been after a fight. “Not directly, but her emotions did.”

  Hesitantly, Niall asked, “What emotions? The High Queen doesn’t . . . does she?”

  “She does in the presence of the Dark King.” Irial held Niall’s gaze as best he could with one eye swollen mostly shut. “I asked if you were ever going to be the next king, and she felt both excited and sorrowful. I didn’t know for sure then, but I hoped—and now, I think that she knew—that she looked forward to you being this.”

  They sat silently, but not without communicating. Over the centuries, Irial had read Niall’s emotions without his knowledge. Tonight, for the first time, Niall consciously revealed his emotions for the purposes of sharing the things he couldn’t verbalize. The years had changed them both, but those changes had only made Niall more suited to being the Dark King. Niall was both relieved and disappointed that this was so. He was also happier than he’d been since he’d left Irial’s side more than nine centuries ago.

  As am I.

  Eventually, Niall stood. “Things will never be like they were before.”

  “I didn’t think they would.” Irial stared up at him.

  Unexpectedly, Niall extended a hand—and then grinned as he tasted Irial’s shock. “You fight better than I remember.”

  “You broke several ribs.” Irial accepted Niall’s hand and was pulled to his feet. “I can’t see from one eye, and I think something in my knee ripped.”

  “Exactly.” Niall released Irial’s hand and grinned.

  “Maybe next time I’ll do better.” Irial regretted the words as soon as they were out, but he wasn’t going to admit that. Admitting that he hoped to do this again, that he’d settle for abuse at Niall’s hand if that was what he needed to do to be nearer Niall, was the sort of thing liable to send Niall further away. Irial concealed his emotions and stilled his expression as best he could.

  For a moment, Niall said nothing; his emotions were likewise locked down tightly enough that they were out of Irial’s reach. Then Niall shrugged. “Maybe. I’d rather it be me injuring you than anyone else doing it.”

  “I am yours to command.” Irial lifted the rope for Niall to duck under.

  They walked out together in silence. Niall did not tell Irial to depart as they walked to the house that had once been Irial’s, nor did he invite Irial to stay. At the step, they paused, and for a foolish, hopeful moment, Irial waited. Then, Niall reached out to the gargoyle that adorned the door, and Irial left for his current residence. It was a peaceful parting.

  Things might be all right after all.

  Irial knew they both were keeping secrets that could change the trust they were building, but it was progress. For now, that was enough.

  Once we get past the visit from the High Queen’s emissary. What Irial had learned in his conversations with his spies had directed a course of action he’d intended to discuss with Gabriel tonight, but Irial had long since discovered the importance of improvising. A chance to mend his relationship with Niall outweighed the benefits of informing Gabriel of his plans. He could handle matters quietly, and then apologize to Niall if he was found out.

  Chapter 8

  Despite the things left unsaid, Niall knew that the house he lived in was not intended to go to the new Dark King. If the last king died, Niall would be entitled to all his predecessor’s belongings. The last king, however, was far from dead. He is very much here. Thankfully. Niall smiled—and then paused. Do I forgive everything? He had set aside centuries of dislike for Irial in a few short weeks. No. Niall walked across the foyer, knowing that servants waited in hopes of his needing something, anything. There were those in the Dark Court who seemed to thrive on being given orders. It was perplexing to him. Forgiving everything will never happen. That didn’t mean that Niall could cling to the illusions that he’d held to these past centuries: he couldn’t forget the good things any more than the bad.

  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.” Siobhan gave him a sorrowful smile. “Tell me.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “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 have been 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 when 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.

&nbs
p; 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.

  “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 down onto his lap.

  And he did 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.

  Perhaps the Summer Court and the Dark Court are not so far apart.

  Chapter 9

  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 the meeting 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 unfit to live.

  “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.

  “Nothing does prevent you from striking me.” Irial gestured to the street. “We can deal with this out here before or after you say what you will to my king. You don’t need to cause him undue upset by quarreling with Gabe or provoking a fight with Niall in front of his court. Strike me. Take your pound of flesh to make your statement for your queen.”

  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 must decline that offer.”

  The sounds 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. 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, “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.

  “Iri!” 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. “I act on your king’s order. 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.

  They all dropped their gazes then, and Irial turned around to find Niall watching. The waves of fury radiating from the Dark King made Irial shiver. There was no doubt that this was the true King of Nightmares.

  They locked gazes silently. The Hunt waited, and the moment grew rich with the promise of far more violence than even Irial had expected.

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

  “Inside,” Niall said in a deceptively soft voice.

  Niall was fuming as they entered the building. A barricade of solid shadow snapped into place around the two of them, sealing out everyone else. “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 the things I struggled with as easily as if you’d been king for several years.”

  Niall had the overwhelming urge to strike his advisor. “At least one of us is adjusting well.”

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

  “You offered me the court, your fealty, your advice, yet you hide things that as your king, I should be told.” Niall’s fury was barely in check. When Gabriel had delivered one of Irial’s spies who revealed what Devlin’s orders were—and that Irial had known—Niall had reacted calmly. When he’d given his orders to Gabriel, he’d remained calm. But seeing Irial stand foolishly willing to allow Devlin to beat him made that composure vanish. Despite that, Niall’s voice remained level as he said, “Instead of hiding the fact that you were informed that Devlin was to strike you or Gabriel, you should have told me.”