Cold Iron Heart: A Wicked Lovely Novel

by Melissa Marr

  "Don't look at me. I don't have any interest in the one with you, and you'd embarrass yourself if we did the other."

  "You think I couldn’t fight you?"

  "Didn't say which you'd embarrass yourself trying to do, Iri."

  Irial made another crude gesture toward his closest friend as the big man walked away laughing. Once he was gone, however, Irial smiled. Gabriel always knew how to pry him out of his moods.

  "Find me a few of Keenan's people," he called out, to Gabriel who was still somewhere in the house, and to his many subjects who were in the city.

  The feedback through his shadowed tendrils was that of monsters purring, and Irial pushed away thoughts of Thelma. He was the thing in the shadows that wise mortals and fey feared, and his fey were often worse. It was what they'd been made to be, wrought of shadows and excess, impulse and need, hungers and madness. That should be his focus.

  He was the Dark King.

  He didn’t chase mortals who rejected him. That was the domain of the cursed Summer King.

  Why isn’t she here?

  Perhaps, this was for the best. What business did the Dark King have considering protecting a mortal, especially one who had rejected him?

  Tam

  In her apron pocket was a card, thick with a swirl of black ink. She withdrew it and held it. Irial. A name. An address. It would change everything, but she wasn’t sure how.

  What if he was friends with this faery? She knew not to get involved with them—but she recalled Irial’s voice, his arrogance, his insistence that he wasn’t helping the kingling or the one called Beira. Did not helping them mean he would help her?

  He was Dark Court, and he was strong. She’d watched how others treated him. He was powerful. Surely, she had the self-control to resist his allure. It was that or stay trapped in her house, which would only work until her funds ran out.

  Going to see Irial was a bad idea, but she had no better plans. There was no one else powerful enough to help her—especially powerful and able to see the creature that had approached her. She imagined telling her friends, or the police, but they couldn’t see faeries. How could they help?

  Tam did her work inside her tiny home, thinking of other options. She could flee the city—a choice she was considering quite seriously—or she could seek help. She could trust that the faery lost interest. Perhaps she misunderstood. There were thousands of people in the city. Why would she matter? She could wait for this faery’s interest to pass. They were fickle.

  By evening, she’d devised no better answer. Worse yet, Tam had to admit that she did miss Irial. Tam was certain that this might be the path to madness. She toyed with his card, traced the thick black ink with her fingertip again.

  She missed a faery.

  A man.

  It was absurd, but she couldn’t truly say she was sure it was the fear or the interest in Irial that had her climbing into a carriage. It was an open-air hansom cab, so Tam was far too exposed for comfort and wished the hired carriage would go faster. Walking was her default mode of travel, but there was an urgency to her plan today. She watched the streets in fear. The other one, the faery that wasn’t a part of the Dark Court, was out there.

  “Here you are.” The driver stopped before one of the more ostentatious of the houses on the street.

  “Here?”

  The driver checked the address again. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Thank you,” she told the man as she descended the cab and stared at Irial’s home. Wealthy Americans had flooded the city after the war, but they’d disdained the French Quarter, choosing to build oversized homes upriver from the Quarter mimicking the plantation houses of the Confederate states. The houses were beautiful, but Tam had no love for anything that recalled the ugliness of the slave states.

  Of course, she suspected that having a man like Irial, a wealthy man with Creole skin, as their neighbor must feel like a mite in the eye of the other residents on the street.

  “I hope this is not a mistake,” Tam whispered to herself--or God or anyone else who might be able to hear her.

  She glanced at the card she had bent and squeezed until it had begun to resemble rubbish. She clutched the card as she approached the massive door.

  When the door opened, a beautiful faery in a maid’s costume stood there. “Are you lost, dear?”

  The faery’s true face was even more arresting than her glamour, but it was her voice, as musical as the finest Scottish lilt, that made Tam smile.

  “Miss?” the faery prompted.

  Tam swallowed, as if it would force her fear down, and said, “Irial.”

  The girl looked at Tam. “Pardon?”

  Holding out the card, Tam repeated, “Irial.” She swallowed again. “I’ve come here to see Irial.”

  The faery pulled the door wide open and motioned Tam into the house. “I’ll tell his lordship you’re here, Miss . . .?”

  “Thelma,” Tam said, voice crackling on her own name. “I’m Thelma Foy.”

  “If you’ll follow me, Miss Foy,” the faery said.

  And Tam did just that. She followed a faery into a house that was undoubtedly filled with such creatures. Of all of the rules that she’d known in her entire life, this decision was breaking nearly all of them.

  Tam could imagine what the long line of women in her life would say. Dangerous. Foolish.

  She barely noticed the house as she followed the woman into an empty parlor. On the far side of it were pocket doors. The maid slid them open and gestured for her to enter the room.

  “You should sit,” the faery said gently.

  Tam nodded again, but she felt like the world had spun. The fey weren’t supposed to be so kind, so soft spoken or helpful. Irial was an exception.

  She’d watched the fey her whole life, seen them knock people under carriage wheels or shove them into peril. She’d watched men drown in the river because a singing faery there lured them to her. Hair like a waterfall writhing and tumbling down her back, she’d smile as they leaned closer. She let them pull her in, kiss her, and then she fell into the water still wrapped in their embraces.

  That was what Tam needed to recall: that terror as men died in the arms of beautiful faeries. She couldn’t be so gullible. She couldn’t be enchanted as they had been.

  Faeries were deadly.

  Irial was deadly.

  And yet, here she was.

  Tam sank into a plush chair that was overflowing with black and purple velvet cushions. Everything she could see spoke of money the likes of which she could not fathom. Paintings that looked like they belonged in a palace covered the walls, and sculptures of elegant beauty and horrible realism sat on a marble mantel over a vast fireplace. The furniture was heavy, covered in vibrant colors and in one case dripping with gold tassels. The floor-length drapes were silk. Irial was wealthy in a way that made his elegant suits seem modest and understated.

  As Tam stared blankly into the simmering fire, she failed to hear Irial’s arrival, but she felt him there. He had an irresistible pull on her; he was a spark that would turn her into an inferno.

  After a long moment of staring at him, Tam took a steadying breath and said, “There’s another faery in New Orleans.”

  “Indeed.”

  Irial dropped onto a divan across from her, and Tam couldn’t repress a smile at the striking similarity to women who sold their affections. He was sex incarnate, and although she hadn’t had a strong interest in sexual relations until meeting him, Tam couldn’t deny a surge of longing.

  “Aren’t there always a few faeries in the city?”

  “You’re not going to ask how I know? Pretend to be human? Cast me in some supernatural dungeon?” Tam stared at him. “I expected some . . . I don’t know. Doubts? Questions?”

  “You have the Sight, love,” Irial pronounced. “Of course, you can see us for what we are.”

  “You knew I could See them? See you?”

  Irial held up the hand with the ring she’d made. “You sh
immer. Your kind always does.”

  “Well, you glow. You more than most.”

  “I am aware. You are not the first Sighted mortal I’ve met, Thelma.”

  “Well, I’ve never intentionally spoken to a faery until you. I don’t meet your sort, or seek them out, or . . . or . . . waltz with them.” Tam crossed her ankles as primly as she could.

  Irial glanced at her ankles and back to her face. “I’m afraid you still look like a tempting morsel even with those crossed, my dear.”

  Despite everything, or maybe because of it, she laughed.

  “Now, tell me about the big bad wolf that brought you to my door, morsel.” Irial moved to sit beside her on the oversized chair. “Do I owe him a gift or torment?”

  Tam looked at him, flirtatious in a way that ought to have her every moral quaking in fear, but she felt safer than she ever had in her life.

  She slid closer, carefully not looking at Irial’s face.

  “He’s like you, but not. Beautiful, but with a very visible scar on his face. Stronger than the one who opened your door, and stronger than any at the club, and at least as strong as the one with the beautiful giant horse.” Tam took a breath, not because of fear but because Irial’s arm came around her. “I heard you that day. I realize now that you knew all along, but I had no idea you knew I could hear you at the bayou.”

  It hit her then, just how atypical he was. She turned to stare at his face. “You were warning me. You knew I heard you, and you were warning me.”

  Irial lifted a single shoulder.

  “About another faery,” she continued. “You warned me, Irial. Even before we were friends.”

  “I answered my friend,” Irial said nonchalantly. “If you heard, too, so be it.”

  Impulsively, Tam kissed his cheek. “You are kinder than I’d expect from a Dark Court faery.”

  Irial glanced down at her. “You do pay attention if you know my court.”

  “Shadows.” Feeling increasingly bold, Tam traced his forearm where shadows seemed to gather and slither. “Dark Court faeries all linger in them, but you are covered with shadows. They slither toward you like you are their master.”

  Irial stared at her hand where she was tracing shadowed lines. She knew she was being scandalous, improper even. She might be a blue-stocking, but she wasn’t a strumpet—not that she saw anything wrong with it, strictly speaking, but she simply hadn’t ever felt so inclined.

  Until Irial.

  “Is it because you’re Dark Court that I want to touch you?” she whispered.

  Irial cupped her face with one hand and slid his thumb over her lips. “I cannot resist you, Thelma. I think of you.” He met her gaze. “I was inconsolable when I could not find you, so I hope there’s more here for you than simple lust.” He met her gaze then and added, “Although I approve of that part, too.”

  A sound like heavy storms rumbled through the room, and in the next moment the enormous faery Irial had called Gabriel appeared. He looked larger moving through the opulent house, as if someone had released a lion to roam in a doll house.

  “Are you out of your mind, Irial?” He stood in the doorway, larger than seemed possible.

  “Excuse me just a moment, love.” Irial kissed her nose.

  She stared at him as he stood, marveling at the simple act of affection.

  He grabbed the other faery by the arm. “Outside.”

  The two men left, and Tam closed her eyes. A faery kissed her. A man kissed her. She wasn’t entirely sure which was more shocking. Perhaps the most remarkable part was that she wanted him to do so. She had welcomed his arm around her, leaned closer to the comfort of his body beside hers.

  This was not her life: Sitting in the parlor of a posh house, waiting on a powerful faery, hoping he had the answers to keep her safe from whatever other faery sought her out. It was impossible.

  Irial

  “Niall is here,” Gabriel said as soon as they were out of the range of hearing for a mortal.

  The words still brought a flutter to Irial’s heart and a heat to his skin. Unfortunately, Irial’s heir, the only faery with a heart cruel enough to rule the Dark Court, wasn’t here to visit him. Niall had turned away from Irial, from the Dark Court. Now, he was a guilt-ridden thing, serving the Summer Court in some kind of twisted penance or “fuck you” gesture to Irial.

  Irial shoved old memories and longings aside. “I knew he was in the city.”

  Gabriel inclined his head toward the foyer. “Here. At the house.”

  “Well, then. . .” Irial, for all of his best intentions, decided once again that he was going to enjoy himself even when it would only deepen their rift. “Give me a moment before you show him in. I need to relocate Thelma.”

  “Not your errand boy, Iri.”

  “It’ll be amusing,” Irial cajoled. “And you do enjoy his discomfort, Gabe.”

  The hound snorted and walked away.

  At that, Irial slid the pocket doors open and returned to Thelma. He took off his vest and unfastened the top half of his shirt buttons.

  Thelma sat upright, gaze immediately going to the expanse of bare skin he’d just revealed. It wasn’t unexpected, but it still made him preen. He was a little vain after all.

  "Are we still pretending?" Irial asked.

  The lovely mortal girl blinked up at him. "What? Pretending?"

  He smiled. "I see how you watch me, Thelma."

  "You're different," she hedged.

  He crouched on the edge of the chair where she was curled as if it were a nest she needed to guard. “I’m going to have to handle a bit of business.”

  Thelma tensed at his words and stared again at his bared skin. “Business that requires fewer articles of clothing?”

  “Jealous, poppet?”

  “I am not your pop—”

  “Of course, you aren’t.” Irial sighed. “But I need to appear a certain way to send that other faery away.”

  “He found me?”

  “No. He’s here to harass me.” Irial traced her jawline. “If he thinks I am anything but a debauched sop, he’ll be suspicious. It would be best if he has no reason to be suspicious. It would create problems for us, if I had to answer his questions. Do you understand?”

  “You’re lying?” Thelma asked, gaze again falling to his bare skin.

  “I can’t lie,” he reminded her. “But I can distract or dissemble, can’t I?”

  “Yes . . .”

  With a grin, he pulled at his shirt so it gaped wider. “Do I seem distracting?”

  Thelma glanced away with a gasp.

  “I like that you look at me, Thelma.” He caught her chin and turned her back to face him. “And I like that you think wicked thoughts when you look at me.”

  “You’re a faery. It’s just because of that. Surely.” She folded her arms over her chest. “I’ve always thought the fey attractive.”

  He’d certainly seen mortals become faery-struck. Some of his kind were made for it, in fact. He had been a gancanagh—more addictive than any mortal drug--before he’d become the Dark King. “Do you stare at all of us like this?”

  “Maybe.” This time Thelma didn’t glance away, but the smile she offered up belied the claim.

  “Oh?”

  Thelma sighed. “I suppose I shouldn’t lie to you if you can’t lie to me. I think your kind beautiful often, but I feel like . . . you are impossible to ignore. I risked my life coming here, knowing what I know of your kind, but . . . you feel different to me.”

  “I believe we have important matters to discuss, lovely Thelma,” he said, leaning closer in awareness that the movement put his bared skin directly in her view again. “Yes?”

  Her breathing grew heavier. “I’m not quite sure what I’d be agreeing to if I repeat that word, so . . . no.”

  “No for now?”

  “No for now,” Thelma echoed.

  “But I need to make a statement, pretty. I need only a kiss.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. “One
kiss, and then you shall vanish through the doors there”—he nodded toward the doors on the far side of the room—“swept away to safety. Someone will see you to your room while I tend to business.”

  He could hear her pulse racing faster now, and it made his body sing. Mortals were so much more fun, more intensely so, than most fey. A touch, an offer, and they positively vibrated with need.

  “I gave you a vow to protect you,” he reminded her. “And there are dangers in the city for you. Dangers worse than any horrible thing you’ve heard of our kind.”

  “Me specifically?”

  “You will stay the night, and after that we will discuss.” Irial wanted to have her look at him in longing, and telling her about her fate would make that impossible. “Now, however, I need that kiss.”

  Her lips parted.

  “Nothing that will compromise your virtue,” he whispered as he guided one arm to his neck. “Yet.”

  As her arms twined around his neck, Irial slipped one arm around her low back.

  “Irial . . .”

  Encouraged by the longing in her voice, he kissed her throat. Her jaw. Her already eager lips.

  When he pulled back, he was rewarded by the undisguised desire in Thelma’s expression.

  “Was that the kiss you needed?”

  “If I say yes, you might stop,” he teased.

  She slid one hand upward from where it had rested on the back of his neck, pulled him to her, and clumsily kissed him.

  There was no doubt that this was new to her, no way to call her affection practiced, but it was still intoxicating. After a moment, he kissed her back, careful not to discourage her exploration but taking control and then relinquishing it. Several minutes passed, and Irial rejoiced at the way Thelma wrapped her arms tighter around him, pressing her body tighter to his so they were sealed together from hip to chest. His hand twisted into her hair as they kissed, and for a moment, he couldn’t recall why he needed to do anything other than carry her to his room.

  “Consequences be damned,” he swore when she finally pulled back.

  Her hair was mussed, and the shadows in the room surged toward them both.