Ink Exchange tf-2

by Melissa Marr

  Niall spoke again. "I want to stay with you, but I can't."

  Hesitantly she faced him, immeasurably relieved that he looked normal again. She looked at the street. Everything looked fine. What just happened? She was about to turn her head again, to see if he'd look different again, but he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the underside of her wrist.

  She forgot about looking at him in her peripheral vision, forgot about the shadows that crept toward her. It was a choice. She could look at the ugliness, the oddities, the wrongness, or she could let herself enjoy life. She wanted that, pleasure instead of ugliness. Niall was offering it to her.

  He leaned closer, his face hovering over the pulse of her throat now. It sounded like he said, "Do you know what I would trade to be with you?" But then he pulled away and distance returned to his voice. "Let me take you to Seth's tonight. I'll sit with you until you sleep if you want, if you'll let me."

  "Okay." Leslie felt dizzy, swaying into him.

  Niall put a hand on either side of her face. "Leslie?"

  "Yes. Please." She felt high, blissed out. It was lovely— and she wanted more.

  His lips were close enough that she felt his breath with each word. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't—"

  "I said yes."

  And he closed the slight distance between them and kissed her. She felt the same rush of fierce winds that she thought she'd heard in his voice. She felt it wrap around her like the air had grown solid and touched her everywhere at once, soft and unyielding at the same time. The ground felt different, like there would be thick moss under her feet if she looked. It was euphoric, but somewhere inside, panic was trying to force itself to the surface. She started to push him away, opened her eyes.

  He tightened his hold and whispered, "It's okay. It'll be okay. I can stop. We can … stop."

  But it felt like she was at the edge of a chasm, a swirling mass of tastes and colors she hadn't known could exist. The panic fled, and all she could think of was finding a way to reach that chasm, to slide down the slope into it. There was no pain there. There was nothing but ecstacy, mind-numbingly good and soul sating.

  "Not stop," she murmured and pressed closer to him.

  It isn't okay. She knew that, but she didn't care. Tiny slivers of shadows danced at the edges of her vision, gyrating like they'd stretch up to consume the moon. Or me. And in that moment, she hoped they would succeed.

  Chapter 18

  As Niall led Leslie through the street toward Seth's train, he wondered just how long he could handle being surrounded by that much steel. This part of the city was painful for any fey other than a regent to visit. It was why he wanted Leslie there, safe from the prying eyes of Irial's fey. It wouldn't stop Irial himself, but it would keep Leslie safe from the rest of the Dark Court—even as it would sicken Niall.

  I deserve it, though, the sickness. He'd pushed her boundaries, crossed lines he knew not to broach. After all of this time, he'd come perilously close to giving in to what he was—and she'd die from it if he did.

  "Are you still with me?" she asked.

  "I am." He turned to look at her and saw them— Bananach and several of Irial's less-obedient faeries. They weren't near enough to see Leslie, but they would be if Niall didn't move her. He pulled her into a shadowed doorway and put his back to the street, keeping her out of their sight. She didn't resist. Instead she tilted her head up so he could kiss her again. Just one more kiss.

  When he pulled away he was more careful this time, enjoying the glazed look in her eyes, enjoying the knowledge that he made her feel so close to tumbled, but keeping his glamour firmly in place. He wanted to ask her what she had heard, what she had seen earlier, but that wasn't a conversation he could begin—not with Aislinn's rules still in place, and not with Bananach in the streets behind them.

  That's what he should be concentrating on—the threat Bananach posed. Niall turned his head to better see the war-hungry faery, trying to think about safe retreat options. His mind was fuzzy, though. Bananach looked deadly beautiful as always, the raven-feathered head of her true image vying with her glamour of sleek black hair. She was one of the least-mannered faeries who lingered in Irial's court; she was the one who had once unseated Irial and continually sought to do so again—not to hold the court, but to create war within it. That she was prowling the streets with several Ly Ergs in tow did not bode well.

  We should go. Now. We should—

  Leslie pressed closer to him. He drew another deep breath of the curiously sweet scent that was uniquely her. Mortals always smelled so different. He'd almost forgotten how much he'd enjoyed that. He kissed her neck so she didn't find it odd that he was resting his face there. Bananach hasn't seen us. We have a few more moments. Between kisses, he told Leslie, "I would stay with you always if I could."

  And he meant it. Right then, he truly meant it. He'd been too long a part of the Summer Court to mean it for always, and before that he'd been even less capable of fidelity, but in that moment, as he stood pressed against her mortal body, he meant it as fervently as he was able.

  Where's the harm in letting her linger with me for a while? If I am careful… She'd only sicken if he left her. He could stay with her for a few decades.

  Behind him, he felt the street shiver as Gabriel and several of his Hounds came into it. Niall tensed. He wasn't able to stand against Bananach, Ly Ergs, and Gabriel.

  And how do I explain to Leslie?

  But when he glanced back, Gabriel and the others were all invisible. Leslie would not see or hear them.

  Gabriel dispatched several Hounds whose names Niall did not recall—or care to—and they gleefully went after the Ly Ergs. Then he said, "Get going, boy, unless you want to help."

  Niall held Gabriel's gaze, as answering was impossible.

  "Take her out of here, Gancanagh." Gabriel leaned left as Bananach flew at him. She was glorious, moving with an elegance that few faeries could equal. Rather than step out of her path, though, Gabriel stayed between Bananach and Niall.

  The raven-woman ripped a strip of flesh from Gabriel's forearm where Irial's orders were written.

  Gabriel's snarl was wall shaking as he swung at Bananach. "Go."

  Niall turned around as Leslie swayed into him, her eyes unfocused. She closed them and leaned forward like she'd topple over. Shame rose in him. Their kisses had injured her and distracted him beyond reason. If Gabriel hadn't been there, Bananach would've been on them in moments.

  What's happening to me? He should be able to resist one mortal girl, especially in the presence of a fatal threat. He'd always been addictive to mortals, but they hadn't been addictive to him. They made him drunk, made him so intoxicated that he could barely stand, but they were never impossible to resist. He looked at Leslie. She was pretty, but he'd seen plenty of pretty girls over the years. Pretty wasn't reason enough to lose himself as he was doing. Nothing made sense. He needed to step away. He wasn't keeping her safe from Irial's faeries—or from himself.

  He steadied her with his arm as they walked. Behind them, he could hear the horrific sounds of the tussle among the dark faeries. It had been a long time since Gabriel's snarls and growls were welcome sounds, but tonight the Hound had saved him and Leslie both.

  Why?

  A gleeful shriek from Bananach made him spin Leslie into a doorway. He felt the ominous rush of Bananach's movement toward them.

  Leslie's back was pressed against a tall iron fence. She stared at him with the openness of so many mortals over the years, her lips parted for a kiss he knew not to give her. "Niall?"

  "Just…" He had no words that he could say. He looked away, counting each measured breath, concentrating on not touching her. Behind them he heard Gabriel's Hounds catch up. Bananach no longer crowed with pleasure. Instead she hurled curses at the Hounds. Then there was only silence in the street.

  And he could hear Leslie’s uneven breathing, matching his own, proof that they were both more excited than either of them should
be. She shouldn't be that drunk on just a couple of kisses. It wasn't as if he'd touched her in any intimate way. Yet. He wanted to, more than he could remember ever wanting a mortal. He put his hands against the iron fence behind Leslie: the pain of it helped chase away his irrational thoughts.

  He looked behind him to assess the safety of moving. Bananach was gone. The Hounds were gone. No other faeries lingered in the street. It was only the two of them. He let go of the fence and opened his mouth to find an excuse to explain why he'd pushed her into the wall and kissed her so—an excuse that would stop things before they went further.

  Is there such a statement?

  But Leslie's hand slipped under his shirt, tentative but there nonetheless. He could feel the edges of the cuts on her palm and fingers as she slid her hand up his spine.

  He pulled back.

  Unable to keep her hand on his back as he stepped away, she slid it to his chest, lingering under his shirt. Her fingers traced upward to his heart.

  Neither of them spoke or moved for several moments. Leslie’s pulse had slowed back to normal. Her passion had abated. His guilt, on the other hand, wasn't leaving so quickly. There was nothing he could say to undo where they were, but he couldn't move forward either. His plan to be near her as a friend was failing horribly. He said, "We should go."

  She nodded, but her fingers continued to trace lines on his skin.

  "You have a lot of scars," she said, not asking but leaving the comment hanging there for him to answer or not.

  Answering that implied question was something he didn't do, not when his king had been too young to realize that it was an awful question, not when he took any of the fey to his bed, not when his new queen had first seen him at guards' practice and looked at him with tears in her eyes. But Leslie had scars of her own, and he knew what had caused hers.

  He kissed her eyelids carefully and told her, "It was a very long time ago."

  Her hand stilled where it rested over his heart. If she thought anything of his erratic heartbeat, she didn't say.

  Finally she asked, "Was it an accident?"

  "No. It was very much on purpose." He brought her free hand up to the scar on his cheek. "None of these were accidental."

  "I'm sorry." She leaned up and kissed his cheek. Her gentleness was even more dangerous than her passion had been.

  If he thought on it, he could remember the pain as vividly as when it had happened. The memory of the pain cleared his head, helped him focus on where he was, and what he needed to be like for Leslie: strong, careful, a friend. He said, "I survived. Isn't that what matters? Surviving?"

  She looked away. "I hope so."

  "Do you think less of me?"

  Her expression was aghast. "No. Gods no."

  "Some would."

  "They're wrong. Whoever hurt you …" She shook her head, her look murderous now. "I hope they suffered for it."

  "They did not." He looked away then. If she knew how badly they'd broken him, would she pity him? Would she think him less a man for not being strong enough to escape them? He had, afterward. At the time he would've happily become a shade—faded rather than endure another moment of that pain, those memories. It would've been easier to give up, to end. Instead the last Summer King had found him, taken him into the Summer Court, and given him the space to recover his pride, to rebuild his mind.

  "It's awful to think they're out there somewhere." She looked past him to the darkened streets, looking for faces in the shadows as he'd seen her do so many nights when he'd walked invisibly at her side. "I never know. I don't remember some of their faces … I was drugged when they … you know."

  "Raped," he said gently. "And yes, I know exactly."

  Her hand traced over one of his scars again, more hesitantly this time. The stunned look on her face confirmed that she understood. "You?"

  He nodded. "It was forever ago."

  Her eyes welled with tears. "Does it ever go away? The panic?"

  And she looked at him with such hope he wished that fey could lie. He couldn't. He said, "It gets better. Some days, some years, it's almost gone."

  "That's something, right?"

  "It's almost everything some days." He kissed her gently, just a brush of lips, not seeking passion but offering comfort. "And sometimes you meet someone who doesn't see you any differently if you tell them. That is everything."

  Silently she rested her face against his chest, and he held her and admitted the truth to himself: For this mortal I would disobey my queen, abandon my king, the court that has protected me all these years. All of it. If he took her into his arms, he would keep her. He wouldn't let her suffer the way the other mortals had when he'd left them. He would keep her, with his court's permission or without it. Irial wouldn't take her, and Keenan wouldn't stand between them.

  Chapter 19

  Leslie woke in the middle of the night to see Niall lying next to her, feverish, his skin damp with a sheen of sweat. He wasn't thrashing; he was perfectly still. His chest didn't appear to be moving at all.

  She grabbed his shoulder and shook him. "Niall?"

  He blinked at her, but it didn't take long for him to sit upright and look around. "Are you injured? Is someone here?"

  "No." The skin under her hand was hot to the touch, far hotter than seemed possible. "You're sick, Niall. Stay here."

  She went to the bathroom and grabbed a hand towel. After soaking it with cold water, she came back. Niall had closed his eyes and was lying back on Seth's enormous bed. If he hadn't looked like he was near passing out, it would have been a lovely sight to see. She knelt on the bed and wiped his face and chest with the icy cloth. He didn't react at all. His eyes stayed closed. His heartbeat thudded rapidly enough that she could see the pulse in his throat.

  "Do you think you can walk to the front room? I can call a taxi," she murmured, glancing around the room to find her cell phone.

  "Taxi to go where?"

  "To the hospital." The wet cloth was already warm to the touch, and his body wasn't any cooler.

  "No. We're not going there. Stay here or go to the loft." He opened his eyes and looked at her. There was no mistaking that look for anything remotely reasonable.

  She sighed but kept her voice gentle as she said, "Sweetie, you're sick. Do you know what's wrong?"

  "Allergic."

  "To what? Do you have one of those pens for a shot?" She picked up his shirt from the floor and looked in the front pocket. There wasn't anything. She dropped it. Where else? There was nothing on the bedside tables. She reached down and felt inside the pockets of his jeans—which were still on him.

  Niall grabbed her hand. "I did not bring you here to have sex, and I feel far from well enough to do so, but" — he pulled her forward until she was sprawled on his chest— "that doesn't mean I'm immune to your touch."

  Using one hand on the wall to steady himself, he stood. "Help me get outside. I need air. Clear my head before I say something I can't."

  "Something you can’t?" She came to stand beside him, though, offering him her support. He draped an arm over her shoulders; she put her arm around his waist.

  Mostly talking to herself, Leslie said, "Seth. Ash. Everyone's keeping secrets." She looked up at Niall. "I ought to keep asking you questions until I get a few answers out of somebody."

  She concentrated on getting him through the train and to the door. He hissed when he reached a hand out and brushed the door. They both stumbled when he recoiled.

  "Are you okay?"

  "No," he said. "Not so much. But I will be."

  Not knowing what to say or do, Leslie looked around. She saw one of Seth's wooden chairs. "Come on," she said.

  Niall leaned heavily on her as she dragged the chair far away from the train into the shadows of the yard. It was awkward, but she had plenty of practice maneuvering her drunken father into his room. Niall sat in the chair. She had just stepped away from him when Keenan appeared. He seemed to materialize out of the shadowed lot. He hadn't been a
nywhere in sight, and then suddenly he was in front of them—and angry.

  "What were you thinking?" Keenan asked.

  Niall didn't reply.

  Leslie tensed, feeling an urge to run when he approached. She wasn't sure where he'd come from or why he was here. She couldn't wonder how he'd arrived so unexpectedly or why she felt so disquieted by his presence. All she knew was that he frightened her and she wanted him gone.

  "I didn't know he had an allergy to" — Leslie glanced at Niall—"what are you allergic to?"

  "Iron. Steel. He's allergic to iron and steel. We all are." Keenan scowled. "This serves no purpose, Niall."

  Leslie stepped closer to Niall, decidedly uncomfortable with the hostility in Keenan's voice. Salt for fury, like briny water in my mouth. She touched Niall's shoulder and found his skin much cooler now.

  "This is not the place," Niall muttered.

  But Keenan continued, "If Irial wants her—"

  Leslie lost her temper. "I'm standing right here, asshole. And where do you get off talking to him like that? You'd think—"

  "Leslie." Niall laid his hand over hers.

  "No. Why are you putting up with that?" She turned her glare briefly on Niall and then back to Keenan. "Don't talk about me like I'm not standing here. Don't act like some psycho friend of yours hitting on me means—"

  "Just be silent for a change, would you?" Keenan stepped closer to her; his eyes seemed to glow with tiny flames. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Piss off." Leslie tried to raise her hand to slap the condescending look off his face, but Niall was now clutching both of her hands.

  "I'm not sure why he wants this one, but" — Keenan shrugged—"if she's important to him, I want to know why. Your injuring yourself for her would upset Aislinn and serve no purpose for me."

  Leslie's mouth gaped open as Keenan spoke: he sounded nothing like he did when he was with Aislinn, nothing like he had when he'd attended Bishop O.C. for those few weeks in the fall. He sounded old, far older than he could possibly be, and callous.