by Melissa Marr
“They lack structure,” a Hound grumbled as she stomped on a fallen Vila’s hand. “No plan in the attack.”
“Was there supposed to be a plan?” Irial asked.
The Hound looked past him to Niall, who nodded. Then she answered, “No. Gabe thought a bit of sport would be good for everyone. The king agreed.” She lowered her voice a touch and added, “He fights well enough that I’d follow him.”
“He is remarkable.” Irial glanced at Niall. The Dark King was enjoying himself as the fight began to evolve into a contest of sorts. In one corner, Devlin stood atop a pile of tables and wood; in another, Gabriel stood with his back to the wall; and beside Irial, Niall stood on a small raised platform. All around the room the Dark Court faeries scrabbled toward one of the three victors. Without speaking, the fight began to resemble nothing so much as a bloodier version of King of the Hill. Everyone wanted to topple one of the three strongest fighters, if even for a moment, and all of them were still having fun.
Devlin had more than held his own against the Dark Court’s fighters, reminding them that he was not to be ignored. All of the faeries in the room had more nourishment than could have been hoped for as a result of the flare of violence and blood sport.
And Niall had made his point.
The new Dark King had played them all like pawns.
Irial started to back away, and the Hound next to him clamped a hand on his arm. Irial glanced from her to Niall, who grinned, dodged a punch from a glaistig, and said, “I don’t think you were dismissed.”
The Hound and the glaistig both laughed.
I love my court.
“As you wish.” Irial stepped around the Hound to lean against a wall out of the fight. He had more than his fill of fighting. If he could fight Niall, it’d be different, but fighting for random sport wasn’t his preferred entertainment.
Almost an hour later, Devlin bowed to Gabriel and then to Niall.
The faeries dispersed, limping, bleeding, stumbling—and chortling with glee.
“The High Queen sends her greetings,” Devlin said as he approached Niall. “She reminds the new Dark King that he is no different than any other faery and that she expects him to abide by the same restraints the last”—Devlin looked at Irial then—“Dark King observed.”
None of them spoke the unspoken truths about the numerous visits that Irial had paid to the High Queen in Faerie, but they all knew of those visits. Such is the way of it. Irial kept his gaze on his king rather than reply to Devlin. It was the king who needed to answer the invitation implicit in those words.
Niall didn’t disappoint.
“Please let Sorcha know that her greeting was received, that her assassin has made her willingness to strike at me and mine abundantly clear, and”—Niall jumped down so he was standing face-to-face with Devlin—“if she ever touches those under my protection without just cause, I will be at her step.”
Devlin nodded. “Will you be requesting an audience with her?”
“No,” Niall said. “There is nothing and no one in Faerie right now that interests me enough to visit.”
For a breath, Irial thought Devlin was going to strike Niall, but the moment passed.
Then, Niall smiled. He gestured behind him, and a Vila escorted a sightless mortal man into the room.
“This”—Niall didn’t turn to look at the mortal—“is unacceptable. My court has offered this man protection. He will not be taken to Faerie or otherwise accosted.” He kept his gaze on Devlin.
The ghost of a smile flickered on Devlin’s face, but all he said was, “I shall relay the message to my queen.”
“And any discussion she has on Dark Court matters”—Niall stepped forward—“will be handled between regents or via official emissaries.”
Devlin did smile this time. “My queen has only one emissary. Do you have a chosen proxy?”
“As of this moment, no, but”—Niall glanced at Irial—“perhaps that will change in time.” The Dark King turned his back on all of them then and said only, “Gabriel.”
The Hound inclined his head, and Devlin preceded Gabriel toward the door. The two faeries walked out of the building, and then only Irial and Niall were left in the destruction.
Irial waited for the words that went with the frustrated anger that he could taste. He counted a dozen heartbeats before his king turned to face him.
“Don’t push me again, Iri,” Niall whispered. “I rule this damnable court now, and I’ll do it with you on my side—as you promised—or with you under my boot.”
Irial opened his mouth, but Niall growled.
“You tell me you care about them, and about me, so you better prove it.” Niall blinked against a trickle of blood that ran into his eye. “I don’t expect you to change today, but you need to trust me more than you have.”
“I trust you with my life.” Irial ripped the edge of his shirt off and held it out.
“I know that,” Niall muttered. “Now, try trusting me with my life.”
And to that, Irial had no reply. He kept his mouth closed as Niall stomped through the destruction and left. The Dark King was here, truly and fully, and Irial would do what he could to serve his king.
As truthfully as I can.
There was no way to tell Niall everything, but he had three years before he had to be fully honest. An otherwise unoccupied faery could get a lot accomplished in three years, and the sort of king Niall was could get their court in order in far less time than that. All told, the Dark Court was better off than it had been in quite some time.
And so is Niall.
Epilogue
“It is inevitable, Brother,” Sorcha said by way of greeting when he finished his report.
“What is?”
“Her ascending to strength.” Sorcha could not see her twin’s future, but she knew well the results of Chaos’ growing stronger. The world was not as it should be. Deaths that Sorcha would mourn, in her way, were coming.
As Sorcha reached into the seemingly empty space in front of her, she plucked at threads of possibilities. She let them slip through her fingers, each one as unsatisfactory as the next: her former lover dead, her brother dead, a pierced mortal dead, her once-friend dead, Faerie blackened. They were only possibilities, but none were pleasing.
“She is not going to be stilled easily,” Sorcha whispered.
“You are stronger, Sister.” Devlin smelled of blood. It wasn’t visible on him, but the lingering scent of violence clung to him.
A weapon to be used to keep Chaos at bay.
“Will you help me?”
“I serve the High Court, my Queen. I cannot fathom any reason that I would do otherwise.” He stared at her as he spoke. “Do you know of a reason I would do otherwise?”
There was no pleasing answer to that question. She knew many reasons that he would do otherwise: he was Bananach’s creature too; he wanted things not found in Faerie in centuries; he resented her; he enjoyed violence. None of those were new facts. Logically, none were worth speaking.
“There is a mortal I see.”
“An artist? A Sighted one? A halfling?”
Curiously, as Sorcha tried to look at him, the mortal with the metal decorating his face, she saw only blackness. There was nothing. It was akin to attempting to see Devlin’s or Bananach’s future. Or my own future. In the moment between seeing the mortal and speaking of him, he had become part of one of the three of their lives. He matters.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Watch for him. He is young but not a child. He will matter to one of us.”
Devlin bowed.
Sorcha closed her eyes trying to recall other details, but her glimpse of him had been too brief. “He wears an assortment of metal in his skin.”
“Steel?”
“I do not know. I cannot See him now.” She opened her eyes. “He was a glimpse, and in that glimpse, he was still and bleeding, lying on the soil here in Faerie.”
“Did that please you?”
Devlin approached her. Silently, he reached out and swiped a tear from her cheek. He lifted it and held it up.
They both looked at it, a silver droplet on the tip of his outstretched finger.
“The body does odd things at times,” she whispered.
“It’s a tear.”
Sorcha lifted her gaze from the oddity to stare at her brother’s face. “I do not weep.”
“Yes, my Queen.” He pulled his hand behind him, and she knew without looking that the tear was still held there.
She nodded and brushed past him. At the doorway, she paused for a servant to appear. She did not speak to him; in order to be worthy of being allowed in her private rooms, those most trusted sacrificed their hearing. At set locations, they waited with eyes downcast so as not to lip-read the words she spoke. The servant saw the hem of her dress on the floor before him, and so stepped forward to pull the tapestry away from the doorway.
“I will find him,” Devlin said from behind her. “The mortal.”
Her heart felt oddly constricted. “Not all threads are truths, Brother. What is truth is that Chaos grows. Every possibility I See shows me the results of her strength. I need you to be mine.”
“My word that I will not fail you if ever it is in my power.” Devlin’s words were small comfort. He did not say he was hers, that he would stand with her against Bananach—because he cannot.
“When you visit their world, watch for a mortal of significance.” Then she stepped through the doorway, trying not to ponder the odd reaction she’d had to the thought of one unknown mortal lying motionless in her presence.
Stopping Time
Unlike some faeries, he didn’t bother with a glamour. He sat on a bench across from the tables outside the coffee shop. Their silent late-afternoon meetings had become a routine of sorts the last few months, and each week, the temptation to speak to him grew greater—which was why she’d invited a study group to meet with her this week. Their presence was to be incentive to keep her from talking to him.
It didn’t help. These together-but-not times were the closest thing she’d had to a date in months. She looked forward to seeing him, thought about it throughout the week, wondering what he’d be wearing, what he’d be reading, if this week he’d approach her.
He wouldn’t. He’d promised her choices, and he wouldn’t take them from her. If she spoke to him, it would be because she approached him. If she went to him, it would be of her own volition. If she wanted to stop seeing him, she could stop arriving here every week. That, too, was her choice. So far, she resisted approaching him and speaking to him. She did not, however, stop coming to the precise spot each week at the same time. They had a routine: he read whatever his book of the week was, and she studied.
And tried not to stare . . . or go to him . . . or speak to him.
She couldn’t see the cover of his current book at first. His taste was eclectic in genre, but consistent in quality. She glanced at the book several times, trying for subtle, but he noticed.
He still notices everything.
With a grin, he lifted the book—one called American Gods this time—higher, hiding his face as a result. The extra benefit of that move was that she could look at him unabashedly while they both pretended he didn’t realize she was admiring him. He appeared happier of late, far more so than when she’d left Huntsdale. Ruling the Dark Court had suited him, but advising the new Dark King seemed to suit him better. He hadn’t lost his taste for indulgent clothes, though. A silk tee and tailored linen trousers flattered him without being ostentatious. The silver razor blade he’d worn before was accompanied by a small black glass vial. Without asking, she knew it was the same ink that she had in her tattoo.
Maudlin or romantic? She wasn’t sure. Both maybe.
He lowered the book, taking away her unobserved access, and stared at her for several heartbeats. Often, he stayed invisible when he came to sit near her. This week he was very visible, though. She saw him either way, but when he was visible to others, it was extra difficult to keep-her gaze off him. His visibility was an invitation of sorts, an extra temptation to approach him.
It means I could walk over and start talking to him.
“He’s got it bad,” one of her study partners commented.
Beside her, Michael was silent.
Leslie tore her gaze from Irial and looked at her companions. “He’s an old friend.”
The curiosity on their faces was obvious. She shouldn’t have met them here.
“A friend you don’t talk to?” Jill’s voice held the doubt that the others were too polite to voice. “What kind of friend is that?”
“One who’d move the earth for me, but”—Leslie glanced back at Irial—“not one who brings out my better side.”
His mouth quirked in a just-restrained laugh.
Got to love faery hearing. Leslie watched the girls check him out—as he preened for them. It wasn’t overt, but she knew him. His tendency to arrange himself to his best advantage was reflex more than choice.
‘Well if you don’t want him . . . maybe I should go say hello.” Jill flashed her teeth in what passed for a smile.
Leslie shrugged.
Of course, I want him. Everyone who looks at him wants him.
Anger rose up inside of her as Jill stood and started across the grassy lawn that separated the coffee shop and the bench where Irial waited. Worse still, it embarrassed her to admit that she felt a familiar possessive pang. Irial was hers. That hadn’t changed, wouldn’t change.
Except that it did.
When she left his world—their world—she’d made it change. He still watched her, not in a predatory way, or even in an intrusive way, but she’d see him around campus. While Irial watched, Niall respected her requests not to visit; instead, he sent Hounds to guard her. Occasionally Aislinn’s rowan-people or the Winter Queen’s lupine fey looked in on her too. Leslie was safer than she’d ever been, guarded by the denizens of three faery courts, and pretending not to notice any of them.
That was an implicit understanding: she mostly pretended they weren’t there, and they pretended she wasn’t ignoring their presence. Sometimes ignoring the fey made her feel a kinship with Aislinn. When Aislinn was mortal, she’d had to pretend not to see them. They hadn’t known she had the Sight. Leslie, however, didn’t need to pretend.
Except for myself . . . and for him.
She smiled at Irial, letting the illusion slip for a moment—and immediately regretted it. He lowered his book and leaned forward. The question in his expression made her heart ache. She didn’t belong in his world, not even now that he was no longer the Dark King. Talking to him was dangerous. Being alone with him was dangerous. It was a line she couldn’t cross—not and still retain her distance. If she were to be honest with herself, it was the other reason she’d invited her study group this week. She could speak to them, say things she wanted him to know without admitting she was speaking to him.
Faery logic.
He stood.
She shook her head and turned away. There were moments when she failed, when she talked to the fey, but not to Irial.
Never to him.
Jill was beside him now, and he spoke to her. No doubt he said something charming but dismissive.
Leslie stared at the page, her notes blurring as she tried to look anywhere but at Irial. Resolutely, she read over the words in her notebook. School was the one thing that helped her focus; it was how she had kept it together when she lived in Huntsdale, and it was how she had continued to hold on the past few months. She’d rather hurt and keep trying than hide from her feelings. Irial had helped her see that.
Seeing anyone else near him hurt. Seeing him hurt. Not seeing him hurts more. That was the challenge, the dilemma she couldn’t resolve: his nearness made
her feel safe, made her feel loved and valued, but it reminded her of what she couldn’t have. Two faeries, arguably the two most tempting faeries in the world, loved her, and she couldn’t be with either of them—not without sacrificing too much. She couldn’t be a good person and be in their world. Maybe if they were part of any other faery court or if she were a different sort of person, she could build a life with them, but the future she’d have in the Dark Court wasn’t a future that she could accept. Monsters don’t become house pets, and she didn’t want to become a monster.
“Well”—Jill plopped down in her seat again—“that was interesting.”
“What?” Leslie’s heart sped. She might have the Sight, but that didn’t give her faery hearing or reflexes.
“He said—and I quote—’Tell Leslie that I send my love or anything else she might need.’“ Jill folded her arms over her chest, leaned back, and studied Leslie’s expression. “Gorgeous guy, apparently loves you, and you—”
“Drop it.” Leslie’s calm faltered then. Her hand started shaking as she gathered up her notes. “Seriously. He’s . . . a part of my past. He’s why I moved here. To be away from him.”
Michael put a hand on Leslie’s arm. “Is he threatening—”
“No. He isn’t here to hurt me. He . . . he’d protect me at his own risk. Our situation is just”—she looked in Irial’s direction and caught his gaze—“complicated. I needed space.”
She didn’t look back at her study group. No one spoke, and she couldn’t think of anything else to say. The awkwardness of the situation was more than she wanted to deal with. How do I say that I love and am loved by . . . Dark Kings? Faeries? Monsters? There weren’t words to explain—and the only one there who deserved her explanation already knew it.
She stood. “I’ll catch you in class.”
She slung her bag over her shoulder and walked away. She paused after she passed him and whispered, “Good night, Irial.”