Cold Iron Heart: A Wicked Lovely Novel

by Melissa Marr

  Only a few months ago, Keenan had romanced Rika, offering her eternity at his side, whispering his dreams to her. Now, he would ask her here to see him with a half dozen nearly naked women—and ask her about the woman he wanted to pursue.

  After Niall sent a messenger to the Winter Girl, he walked over to the window. Outside, frost-laden branches glittered with a chill that Niall had too recently felt within his own body. Beira was in New Orleans, and the rain had shifted to ice and snow. It wasn’t the sort of weather the city should be seeing, but Beira lacked subtlety.

  When Rika walked into the house, she looked stricken. He’d seen her joyous, and he’d seen her wary. This was something worse.

  “Is this about the test?” Rika asked. “Has he found her?”

  Niall stared at Rika. Her gaze was not direct. Usually, she was bold as brass, but not today.

  “Tell me of your day.” Niall motioned her to a stiff-backed wooden chair.

  Laughter rang out from the room where Keenan was getting reacquainted with the Summer Girls.

  Rika’s face grew tighter, angrier, and Niall sighed. Honestly, if Keenan had any sense, he wouldn’t antagonize Rika. She wasn’t at fault for not being the one he sought.

  “He’s an ass,” Niall said, brushing his hand over hers, directing her attention back to him.

  Rika held his gaze. “Am I required to come when he beckons?”

  “No, but—"

  “That is useful to know.” She stood and strode toward the door.

  “Rika! Please?” Niall followed. “Help me?”

  She looked at him sorrowfully.

  Niall dropped to his knees. “I implore you, fair lady.”

  Her lips quirked in a small smile. “The girl who was with the Dark King has vanished. There is nothing more I will say.” She paused. “Although, in fairness, know that I answer you because of you, not the shimmering ass in there.” She gestured toward the living space of the house. “I wish I’d met you first, Niall. You’re not awful.”

  Then Keenan came into the room, fastening trousers, shirt on but unbuttoned. “Rika.”

  And the Winter Girl turned on her heel and left, icy tendrils freezing Keenan’s plants as she walked.

  Keenan chased after her, but she didn’t pause.

  When he grabbed her arm and tugged her to a stop, the Winter Girl stared at him. “I will never be yours to touch, and if you grab me again, know this: every time you touch me, I will work harder and harder to let the next girl know how vile you are.”

  Rika folded her arms over her chest and glared at him.

  "Is it such a bother to talk to me?" Keenan’s voice was filled with frustration, and the heat around them flared momentarily stronger.

  "It is," she said.

  “Rika . . .” The Summer King postured, like every court faery he was clearly aware of his appearance. Even when half of his power hidden away from him, he managed to look regal.

  “I will fulfill my duties. That is all.” And she was gone, vanishing in a gust of chilly air as the Summer King stared after her.

  “I loved her, Niall. Before this . . . but I will love the next one, too.”

  Niall nodded. This was what his king did. He fell in love over and over and over, and then he drowned himself in the girls who had rejected the test, the ones who chose to be Summer Girls.

  “There is one who might have answers,” Niall said, and then he went to find the faery who plagued him as much as he suspected Keenan plagued the Winter Girl.

  Irial

  Despite their ferocity, even the Hunt needed to pause after two days of seeking Thelma. The steeds were starting to veer into one another, and Irial admitted that over forty straight hours of running was enough. The Hunt rarely needed this long to find its quarry. With the Hunt, Irial had traversed the city and the regions far beyond it. They’d run to the far sea, and they’d run over mountains and plains. Irial had crossed distances that ought to be impossible—even for the fey. There were no scents to find. There were no clues, no indications that she was anywhere in the world. Had Bananach killed her?

  “There is nothing, but night will fall soon enough,” Gabriel said. “We shall ride again when the sun fades. Perhaps, we will see clues that daylight hid.”

  “Rest, my friend.” Irial gripped his forearm before he left, the gesture carrying the words that Irial didn’t say. Gabriel understood Irial’s fears.

  Then, Irial stood in the ruined sitting room of his house. Of their house. They’d shared a few short days here, and now Thelma was gone.

  “Was she the missing Summer Queen?”

  Irial lifted his head at Niall’s voice just as the other man stepped through the broken window frame.

  “We have a door.”

  Niall shrugged. “No one answered.”

  “I sent them all away.” Irial gestured toward the room. “I was angry.”

  At that, Niall lifted a feather from the shards of glass. “Bananach?”

  “She grates on my nerves now and again.” Irial gave a half-shrug and walked over to a bar that was set into a built-in alcove in the wall. In the midst of the broken bottles was one intact crystal decanter. “American whiskey. Why couldn’t one of the good bottles be the one that was unbroken?”

  Niall said nothing.

  “Drink with me, gancanagh?” Irial held up an unbroken glass. When Niall scowled, Irial added, “Pretend you’re here for social reasons, and I’ll answer three questions.”

  Although Niall said nothing, did not acquiesce in words, he accepted the generous pour in the glass. He took a sip and repeated, “Was she the missing Summer Queen?”

  Holding a bottle and a glass, Irial walked away. “Hold this.”

  Niall accepted both, as Irial righted a sofa and a chair and gestured. Predictably, Niall selected the chair. He moved with the sort of grace that said he was tense; every motion fluid as if he had no stress in the world. It was one of his tells.

  “I believe she was the woman Keenan sought.” Irial poured his drink, swirled the dark brown liquid absently.

  “And did you hide her from Keenan?”

  “He was not here when I met Thelma. Neither were you. Any of you. I was--” Irial stopped himself and drained the glass. “I met a woman here in the city where I was living already, before you all arrived. We spoke. We danced. She was interested in me, and I invited her to my house. Surely, you recall how that works.”

  “She was not for you.” Niall’s voice was rough and his hand tightened on the glass he held.

  “Ah, ah, ah. That isn’t very social, gancanagh.” Irial gave him a cold smile. If Niall knew that Thelma left because of him, because of whatever words Bananach gave her about Irial’s midnight visit to Niall’s injured body, would he feel joy—or guilt? Irial wasn’t sure which would be worse. He nodded to the glass. “Drink with me.”

  They drank in silence until Irial could stand it no longer. This was no social call, but a trip to find the woman that belonged to Irial, the woman he loved and wanted in his arms, the woman who vanished because Irial had no ability to refuse anyone he loved—and his love was a terrible, undying thing. He sighed. “Ask your third question, Niall. I tire of your glowering.”

  “What do you know of her departure?”

  It was a good question, measured and calm, and Irial had to consider his reply carefully. “I haven’t slept for two days, you know. I’ve been seeking her.”

  At that, Niall startled.

  “She spoke to Bananach. And she spoke to Beira. And the Hunt cannot find her.” Irial didn’t bother with a glass. He lifted the bottle to his lips like a common ruffian, a habit he’d once enjoyed when he was roaming the English and French countrysides with Niall.

  “Keenan thinks she’s dead.”

  Irial muffled the pain he felt at that thought. “I’ve thought much the same.”

  “You cared for her.”

  Irial shrugged. He couldn’t bring himself to admit how very true that was. “She is not t
he first I’ve cared for and lost.” He smiled wryly at his first love. “Surely, you understand.”

  Niall scoffed.

  “She had the Sight.” Irial said the words quietly, for it was not his secret to share. “Keenan would not have won her hand. You can tell him that. Even if I had not taken her to my bed, Thelma would not have gone to him. She said she’d die before marrying anyone.”

  “She knew,” Niall said. “She knew he was seeking a mortal and that . . . that she . . .”

  Irial lifted one shoulder and said, “I did not say that. Not about him or the curse or any of it. She Saw us, Niall. Thelma has the Sight, and we spoke of her dreams. A man was not in the dream, nor was a faery.”

  The advisor to the Summer Court was not expecting that. He gaped at Irial and asked, “But she was still here? With you?”

  Irial laughed. “Oh, gancanagh, you do aim to wound me! Can you think of no others who have known I was a wicked, debauched faery and still offered me a kiss or two?”

  Niall was silent.

  “Am I so monstrous, then, that you cannot see why she found me charming?” Irial pressed, crueler than he typically was with Niall, but in that instant, he was weary of patience. “There are reasons to linger in my bed chamber that are not about marriage or becoming my forever. Shall I tell you about them in case you have forgotten? Shall I explain why someone would chose the Dark Court? Why they would choose me?”

  Instead of replying, Niall drank his liquor and stood.

  “Answer me.”

  But Niall said nothing. He walked out of the room—and Irial threw the bottle at the wall.

  And wept.

  Had Thelma died to be free of them all? Was that why the Hunt couldn’t find her? She’d faced Bananach and Beira both. He knew that much. Where could a mortal go that the Hunt would not find her? Death was the only answer Irial had left. Thelma had been his for only a moment, and yet again, his decision to keep secrets from one he loved had led to death.

  Perhaps this was the darkness he deserved.

  Alone. Unloved.

  Being loved by him was a sure path to death or misery, apparently. First Niall, now Thelma. Irial sat in the darkened house and let out a yell that rivaled the baying of creatures that raced around the sharp hooves of the Hunt.

  Niall

  Niall returned to the house that he’d only just begun to be able to find unerringly. Sometimes navigating new cities so often was a wretched process. The fey that waited anxiously in the city, expecting a clash between Summer and Winter, watched him. Others either fled from the unleashed Dark Court fey or cheered them on in their malice.

  Irial had obviously siphoned his rage to them, and every last Dark Court faery Niall saw looked agitated and eager to quarrel. It wasn’t like Irial to care for a mortal. His reaction to the woman’s apparent death was extreme—of course, so, too, would Keenan’s be.

  When Niall walked into the house, Keenan lifted his gaze hopefully; he glowed with sunlight. Hopeful. Optimistic even in the face of centuries of failure. It was a quality that Niall couldn’t fathom.

  “She’s dead.”

  Keenan blanched, sunlight dimming to a dull flicker.

  “If that was her, she’s dead.” Niall flopped onto an overstuffed chair. “He sent the Hunt after her. Nothing.”

  “The Hunt has never failed to find its quarry.”

  A sharp retort was on Niall’s lips, but he swallowed it back. He knew better than most how thorough the Hunt was. He’d been their prey once, dragged back, tortured. His hand lifted to touch the scar he still carried. It was still red, angry: a mark of pride over what Niall had endured.

  But Keenan was a regent. His loss mattered. Empathy for his subjects—even his advisor—was often scarce. Niall wasn’t even sure the Summer King realized how callous he was.

  Niall, however, was not going to tell him that his words stung. All he said was, “I am aware of the Hunt’s prowess, my liege.”

  Keenan lifted his gaze. “Of course, you are.” His attention slipped away from the scar on Niall’s face as soon as it touched upon it. “If the Hunt did not find her, she is gone.”

  There was one other possibility, but Niall couldn’t fathom a mortal who could capture the fourth regent’s attention. Thelma Foy had ensnared the Dark King, and she was the object of a struggle between the seasonal courts. To catch Sorcha’s attention, too, was impossible.

  Unless she truly had been the one Keenan sought.

  Unless there was a reason her Sight was noticeable even in Faerie.

  Or she was just a mortal, Sighted, and now dead. That, of course, was the most reasonable answer. Still, Niall looked at Keenan and said, “Irial said she was Sighted.”

  “Sighted?” Keenan echoed.

  Niall nodded.

  “Then, I was drawn to her for that reason.” Keenan sighed loudly. “I hate the curse, Niall.”

  “Everyone but Beira does.”

  “And Irial.”

  “I wouldn’t be so certain of that.” Niall thought about the sheer rage that radiated from Irial. The Dark King was many things, seductive and charming, manipulative and selfish, but he’d seemed to be genuinely mourning the woman.

  Was it an act?

  “He said the girl spoke to Winter.” Niall recalled the cautious way Irial had revealed it and repeated the words, “Irial said ‘She spoke to Bananach. And she spoke to Beira. And the Hunt cannot find her.’ He was angry.”

  “Good.” The venom in Keenan’s voice was rare. It usually only followed an encounter with Irial, but to the best of Niall’s knowledge the two kings had not spoken.

  There were secrets aplenty in the courts, though, and just now, Niall had no desire to learn this one. He tucked the question away and asked, “What is the plan?”

  “I must notify the Winter Queen.” Keenan stood. “Just me, Niall.”

  “No.” Niall hated the way that Keenan treated him sometimes. He’d lived centuries longer than the king, experienced the mortal world and Faerie, and he’d been solitary as well as an accepted part of the Dark Court. He stood. “I will summon the queen. If you refuse me as your advisor, give me the courtesy of saying as much.”

  “Niall—”

  “You are my king, Keenan, but I remember when you were an infant. I have bled for you. I stood to face your mother repeatedly then and since—and I am regularly the one you send to speak to the Dark King, the only faery in either world I would rather not see. Do not speak to me as if I am weak, my king, simply because you would rather not know of my life before this court.”

  “She tried to kill you mere days ago!”

  “No.” Niall stared at the king, suddenly weary of his childishness, and corrected him: “If Winter had sought my death, I would be dead. She enjoys torment, and she enjoys hurting me because she believes it upsets you and Irial. I heal from each one of her attacks.”

  Keenan looked away.

  “Please send the rest of the court to the park,” Keenan said after a lengthy pause. “And guards.”

  “Of course, sire.”

  Beira arrived with surprisingly little delay. Before the next day had begun, the chill air of her arrival swept over the house. In an instant, it hurt to breathe, and it was undoubtedly more painful for the Summer King.

  She was, in her regular way, horrifying and lovely all at once. A white fur cloak draped her, and her deep black hair drifted over the collar of it like rivulets of ink. She ignored Niall, but slithered up to her son.

  Beira leaned forward and kissed the air near Keenan’s face. “Are you well, darling? You look a bit off.”

  “I am fine.” Keenan motioned to a chair.

  The Winter Queen unfastened her cloak and tossed it toward Niall. “Be a dear and take my wrap.” Then she folded her hands and gazed at Keenan in a mockery of maternal interest. “Have you called me over to tell me all about your new girl? I do look forward to these little visits.”

  “There is no mortal here.” Keenan sounded pained.
“She had the Sight, and she’s dead now.”

  “Tsk, tsk. Murdered before you could torture her? No wonder you look so put out.” She reached out and patted his knee. Then she whispered, “Did you have that one handle her death?”

  “Niall is my advisor, Mother.”

  “Of course he is, sweetling!” She shot Niall an icy glare. “He advised your father, too. Look where he is now! Dead.”

  Keenan closed his eyes for a moment, and Niall watched the smile come over Beira’s perfectly red lips.

  “Because you murdered him, Mother.” Keenan kept his voice level.

  “So, you killed the Sighted mortal?” She smiled and clasped her hands together. “We have a family tradition. It’s not conventional, I suppose, but--”

  “I did not kill Thelma. Neither did Niall.” Keenan’s voice was painfully calm. “Until I feel pulled somewhere, we will wait in this city. You, of course, can depart at will as there is no girl, no contest, for now. When I find the next, I’ll notify you.”

  Beira nodded. Then she stood. “I am disappointed, of course, that we cannot destroy another life as you attempt to outwit or outmaneuver me—and fail—but I met the creature. Terribly dull. It’s no wonder she went off the dock. Some people are simply weak.”

  Niall exchanged a look with Keenan.

  “You saw her fall?” Niall asked.

  The Winter Queen laughed so sharply that icicles formed all around the room. “No. I pushed her.” She looked joyous as they both stared at her. “Irial was fond of the girl, and I don’t appreciate being ignored. It’s enough that you do it, child.”

  “I dreamed of her,” Keenan exclaimed. “You killed her. I dreamed of her and—”

  “Pish.” Beira stood. “If you’d seen her, I couldn’t have killed her. There are rules to the curse. A little birdy—one that you have driven into the cold—told me Irial was fawning over her. Once I realized she had the Sight, I took action.”

  “You killed her because Rika told you Irial was fawning over her?” Keenan repeated her words.