OLD HABITS

Melissa Marr

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Read on for a sneak peek into DARKEST MERCY

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

About the Author

Back Ads

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

After Ink Exchange

“You’re going to make an excellent king,” Irial said.

And before Niall could react, Irial pressed his mouth to the long scar that he’d once allowed Gabriel to carve on Niall’s face. Niall felt his knees give out from under him, felt a disquieting new energy flood his body, felt the awareness of countless dark fey like threads in a great tapestry weaving his life to theirs.

“Take good care of the Dark Court. They deserve that. They deserve you.” Irial bowed his head. “My king.”

“No.” Niall stumbled back, tottering on the sidewalk, nearly falling into the traffic. “I don’t want this. I’ve told you—”

“The court needs new energy, Gancanagh. I got us through Beira’s reign, found ways to strengthen us. I’m tired—more changed by Leslie than I’ll admit, even to you. You may have broken our tie, seared me from her skin, but that doesn’t undo my changes. I am no longer fit to lead my court.” Irial smiled sadly. “My court—your court now— needs a new king. You’re the right choice. You have always been the next Dark King.”

“Take it back.” Niall felt the foolishness of his words, but he couldn’t think of anything more articulate.

“If you don’t want it—”

“I don’t.”

“Pick someone worthy to pass it on to, then.” Irial’s eyes were lightening ever so slightly. The eerily tempting energy that had always clung to him like a haze was less overwhelming now. “In the meantime, I offer you what I’ve never offered another—my fealty, Gancanagh, my king.”

He knelt then, head bowed, there on the busy sidewalk. Mortals craned their necks to stare.

And Niall gaped at Irial, the last Dark King, as the reality settled on him. He’d just grab the first dark fey he saw and . . . turn over this kind of power to some random faery? A dark faery? He thought of Bananach and the Ly Ergs circling, seeking war and violence. Irial was moderate in comparison to Bananach’s violence. Niall couldn’t turn the court over to just anyone, not in good conscience, and Irial knew it.

“The head of the Dark Court has always been chosen from the solitary fey. I waited a long time to find another after you said no. But then I realized I was waiting for you to leave Keenan. You didn’t choose me over him, but you chose the harder path.” Irial stood then and took Niall’s face in his hands, gently but firmly, and kissed his forehead. “You’ll do well. And when you are ready to talk, I’ll still be here.”

Then he disappeared into the throng of mortals winding down the sidewalk, leaving Niall speechless and bewildered.

Chapter 1

Several weeks later

Niall walked through Huntsdale, trying to ignore the responses his presence elicited. He’d never walked unnoticed. Over the centuries, he’d been a Gancanagh and (unknowingly) the companion to the Dark King; later, he’d been advisor to both the late Summer King and the current Summer King. None of those were roles associated with dismissal. He’d always had influence. When he was with Irial, he hadn’t realized that his companion was the Dark King, but that hadn’t meant that many of those he’d encountered were unaware. They knew the influence he’d wielded before he did.

Dark Court faeries—my faeries now—scurried around him. They were always in reach, always in sight, always willing to do the least thing that he required. They sought his approval, and despite wishing he was impervious, he couldn’t withhold his responses. Being their king meant feeling a connection to them that he’d only ever felt twice—to Irial and to Leslie. Perversely, perhaps, being the Dark King meant he felt even more connected to both the faery and the mortal girl. Leslie, although she’d severed her tie to Irial, was still protected by the Dark Court, and Irial, while no longer king, was the pulse of the court.

Worse, Niall could taste the emotions of every faery he passed. He knew the things they sought to hide with their implacable expressions. He knew their pains and their hungers. It made the world flex with sensory overloads.

Which is why I hide.

Niall walked in the door of the Crow’s Nest, the mortal club where his closest friend waited. Seth didn’t stand when he saw Niall; he didn’t bow or scurry. He merely nodded and said, “Hey.”

The weight of the job Niall didn’t want seemed to slip away. He sat down at the small table in the back of the dim building. The jukebox was turned on, but the volume was at a bearable level this early in the day. A few mortals threw darts; others watched a soccer match on the oversized television; and a couple silently drank their beers. It was peaceful.

Seth pushed an ashtray toward Niall. “What’s up?”

Niall frowned. He’d unconsciously pulled out a cigarette when he sat. The habit, like too many other things in Niall’s life, was something he associated with Irial. Even when he’s not beside me, he’s tangled into most everything I do. Niall stared at the cigarette and refused to remember the first time he’d smoked. Memories of Irial are never good to dwell on.

“You look worse than usual today,” Seth said.

Niall shrugged. “Some days . . . some days I hate Irial.”

“And the other ones?”

That was the catch, the other days. Niall took a drag off the cigarette, enjoyed the feel of the smoke sliding into his lungs. He exhaled after a moment. “The other days, I know he was right. I am the Dark King and whining about it is futile.”

“You could always give it away, right?” Seth leaned back, tilting his chair so it was balanced on two legs.

“Sure. If I want to be a fool.” Niall signaled the waitress and ordered a drink.

Once the waitress walked away, Seth leaned forward. “So what aren’t you saying?”

Niall exhaled a plume of smoke. “I called Leslie.”

“Why?”

“I thought I could suggest that we could be friends. Leslie and me.” Niall paused, but Seth said nothing. The mortal simply stared at him, so Niall continued, “I wasn’t calling to suggest we . . . date.”

“Bullshit.” Seth shook his head. “You don’t want to be her friend. Listen to how carefully you had to phrase that lie.”

“If it were a lie, I couldn’t say it.”

“Really?” Seth quirked one brow. “Try to tell me you just want to be her friend. Go ahead. Say it.”

“I don’t think that—”

“It would be a lie, wouldn’t it?” Seth interrupted. “Telling me you want to be just her friend would be a lie. You can’t say it.”

“Why are we friends?” Niall muttered.

“Because I don’t lie to you or pander to you.” Seth grinned. “You don’t like being adored or disobeyed . . . which makes you messed up enough to lead a bunch of crazy faeries, but makes you need a few friends who aren’t crazy faeries.”

They sat silently while Niall accepted the drink the waitress delivered. He’d never had much trouble attracting mortal attention, but he’d expected it to lessen now that the Gancanagh addictiveness was negated. Instead, he was able to touch mortals safely, but was no less appealing to them. In his life, the only one who seemed to want absolutely nothing from him was the mortal who watched him now. Unfortunately, Seth wasn’t immune to the traits that made Niall interesting to most mortals. He was simply aware of them—and thus better able to know them for what they were. Which is why he keeps his distance. Seth was utterly nonjudgmental, but he was also utterly devoted to his beloved, Aislinn. And completely hetero.

Niall reached into his pocket and pulled out a nondescript stone. It didn’t look like much, but it enabled the mortal holding it to resist faery persuasion. Such stones were difficult to come by, prized all the more for their rarity, but considering the challenges Seth faced—some of which are my fault—it was a necessity. Rather than waste time with words, Niall simply slid the stone across the bar table. “Here.”

“A rock. You shouldn’t have.” Seth lifted it between his thumb and index finger. Immediately, a look of peace came over the mortal’s face. “Damn.”

Seth stared at Niall with such raw gratitude plain in his expression that Niall felt a surge of guilt—and was discomforted enough that he wanted to erase that look.

“If you don’t want it . . .” Niall teased as he reached out.

For the first time since Niall had become the Dark King, Seth didn’t move out of reach. He also didn’t release the stone. Instead, he curled his hand around it so the stone was wrapped firmly in his palm.

Seth laid his other hand on Niall’s forearm briefly. “I’d say no one’s ever given me such a useful gift, but that seems too slight. It’s . . . difficult being around the Summer Court, the Summer Girls especially . . . they’re good about trying not to manipulate me.” Seth paused and looked up at Niall. “Usually.”

Niall smiled at the memory of the Summer Girls’ lack of restraint. He missed them, some more than others, but he doubted that the Summer King would support the idea of Niall visiting them. “They aren’t used to restraint. It speaks well of their regard for you that they even try.”

“And you?” Seth prompted.

“I noticed your tendency to keep a table between us,” Niall admitted.

“It’s not personal, you know?” Seth flashed an amused smile then, one Niall hadn’t seen in weeks. “If you were female, your . . . uhh . . . appeal would be cool. Not that Ash would be good with me doing anything then either, but I’m not into guys. No offense.”

Niall laughed. “None taken.”

As they talked, Seth had kept the stone clenched in his hand. He took a deep breath, laid it down in front of him, and reached back to unfasten the chain he wore around his throat, all while keeping his gaze on the stone. Niall realized then how difficult it must’ve been for the mortal to be surrounded by so many faeries. Yet he did so. Niall could write it off as merely a result of Seth’s relationship with Aislinn, but it wasn’t because of the Summer Queen that Seth sat here at the table with Niall. Aislinn would be happier if Seth severed ties with Niall.

Seth slid the silver chain through a hole in the stone and then fastened the chain around his throat. When he was done, he tucked the stone under his shirt. “It’s like the world got more in control all of the sudden. I owe you one.” Seth poked at the ring in his lower lip. “Not that I have any idea how to repay that kind of gift, but I will.”

“It wasn’t given with a price attached,” Niall pointed out. “It’s a gift, freely given. No more, no less.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t look like . . . let’s just say it was a little weird looking at you and having thoughts that I know aren’t what I think of you, and”—Seth bit his lip ring as he obviously weighed his words—“well, not everyone has been as unaware of how they could affect me.”

“You’re not talking about just the Summer Girls, are you?” Niall felt his temper slip a little at the realization that his friend was being manipulated. “Will you tell me who?”

“Nope.” Seth grinned. “I’m not offering you an excuse to start shit with anyone, and now that I have this, I think those head games will be entertaining for me for a change. It’s all good.”

For a moment, Niall debated pressing the matter, but part of being a friend meant trusting that Seth would speak if he needed help. Niall tapped out another cigarette. “You’ll let me know if you need intercession.” He looked at Seth as he packed his cigarette. “I have a few faeries who might find it entertaining to assist you.”

“Yeah, Ash would be thrilled if I send the Dark Court knocking.” Seth quirked a brow again. “You want to pick a fight with the Summer Court, you’ll do it on your own. I’m not planning to give you an excuse.”

Niall lit his cigarette. “Just don’t forget.”

“Not today, okay?”

Admitting defeat, Niall held up his hands.

“So how are you?” Seth prodded carefully. “Are you getting along any better with your . . . predecessor?”

The fact was that Niall did want to talk to Seth about that topic, but he didn’t quite know what to say; not yet, at least. He took a drink. He smoked.

And Seth waited.

“He’s gone missing regularly, and I don’t know what he’s doing.” Niall shook his head. He was more than a millennium old, and he was seeking advice from a mortal child. “Never mind.”

“And you don’t want to ask what he’s doing, but you feel like you should.”

Niall said nothing. He couldn’t deny it, but he didn’t want to admit it either. He might not be ready for Irial to hand all of the court’s backroom bargains, illicit investments, and nefarious dealings over to him, but he felt like he should know about them.

“Either let it ride or tell him he needs to report in more. There’s not a whole lot else to say, is there?” Seth gestured at the now open dartboards. “Come on. Distraction time.”

Chapter 2

It had been hours that Sorcha sat unmoving as Devlin brought forth the business that required her attention. One of the mortals that lived among them was mourning. It was a messy business.

“Should I send him back to their world or end his breathing?” Devlin asked her.

“He was a good mortal; he should be allowed to live a while longer.” The High Queen moved one of the figures on her game board. “Remind him that if he’s leaving us he can’t be allowed to see us. You will need to gouge his eyes.”

“They do dislike that,” Devlin remarked.

Sorcha tsked. “There are rules. Explain his options; perhaps it will inspire him to learn to temper his emotions so as to stay here.”

Devlin made a note. “He’s been weeping for days, but I’ll explain it.”

“What else?”

“Some of the discarded paintings were left in a warehouse for the mortals to ‘discover.’” Devlin stepped closer and moved a figurine carved in a kneeling position.

She nodded.

“I’ve not heard any more of War’s intentions.” Devlin’s expression didn’t alter, but she saw the tension he was restraining. “The Dark Court seems unaware. The Summer Court remains clueless . . .”

“And Winter?”

“The new Winter Queen is not receiving guests. I was refused entrance.” Devlin paused as if the idea of being refused was perplexing to him. He existed from the beginning of time, so it was somewhere between pleasing and befuddling for him when a faery managed to surprise him. “Her rowan said that I could leave a . . . note.”

“So we wait.” Sorcha nodded. The newer fey were peculiar; their methods seemed crude to her sometimes, but unlike her brother, she was not amused by it. It simply was. Emotional reaction to it was unnecessary. She lifted another figurine and dropped it to the marble floor, where it shattered into dust and pebbles. “That play hasn’t worked for centuries, Brother.”

Devlin lifted another piece and replaced it in the same square. “Will you take dinner or will you be in cloister?”

“I’ll be cloistered.”

He bowed and left the hall then, leaving Sorcha alone and free to meditate for the evening. She stood and stretched, and then she too left the stillness of the hall. Even the minutia of business must be handled in the same way it always had been—in austere spaces with reasonable answers.

Only the swish of her skirts disturbed the quiet as Sorcha made her way to the small room where she intended to spend the remainder of the day. It was one of the indoor spaces where she meditated. The gardens were preferable, but tonight she’d opted to forego the openness of such places in favor of the intimacy of a tiny room.

Her slippers made no sound as she entered the empty chamber, nor did she verbalize the moment of discord she felt when she found the room occupied. “I did not summon you.”

Irial stretched on one of the plush chairs she’d had brought in from a local shop. “Relax, love.”

She leveled an unyielding look at the former Dark King. “Faeries of your court aren’t welcome in my presence—”

“It’s not my court. Not now. I’ve walked away.” He stood as he said it, tense as if he had to restrain himself from approaching her. “Do you ever wish you could walk away, Sorch?”

Sorcha cringed at his bastardization of her name, at the familiarity in his tone. “I am the High Court. There is no walking away.”

“Nothing lasts forever. Even you can change.”

“I do not change, Irial.”

“I have.” He was barely a pace away from her then, not touching, but close enough that she felt his breath on her skin. It was all she could do not to shudder. He might not be the Dark King anymore, but he was still the embodiment of temptation.

And well aware of it.

He took the advantage. “Have you missed me? Do you think about the last time we—”

“No,” she interrupted. “I believe I might’ve forgotten.”

“Ah-ah-ah, fey don’t lie, darling.”

She backed away, out of reach. “Leave it alone. The details of the last mistake aren’t even important enough to be clear anymore.”

“I remember. A half moon, autumn, the air was too cold to be so”—he followed, letting his gaze linger on her, as if her heavy skirts weren’t in his way—“exposed, but you were. I’m surprised there wasn’t oak imprinted on your skin.”

“It wasn’t an oak.” She shoved him away. “It was a . . .”

“. . . willow,” he murmured at the same time. He looked satisfied, sated, as he walked away.

“What difference does it make? Even queens make mistakes sometimes.” Even though he wasn’t looking at her, she hid her smile. She had always enjoyed watching him draw her emotions to the surface, enough so that she’d pretended not to know that the Dark Court fed on those emotions. “None of this explains why you are here, Irial.”

He lit another of his cigarettes and stood at the open window, inhaling the noxious stuff. If she did that, it would pollute her body. Irial, the whole Dark Court, was different this way as well. They took in toxins to no ill effect. For a moment she was envious. He made her feel so many untoward feelings—envy, lust, rage. It was not appropriate for the queen of the Court of Reason to be filled with such things. It was one of the reasons why she’d forbade members of the Dark Court from returning to Faerie. Only the Dark King had consent to approach her.

But he’s not the king anymore.

She felt a twinge of regret. She couldn’t justify giving in to his presence now, not logically.

And logic is the only thing that should matter. Logic. Order.

Irial kept his back to her while her emotions tumbled out of control. “I want to know why Bananach comes here.”

“To bring me news.” Sorcha began reasserting her self-control.

Enough indulging.

The former Dark King was kind enough to not look at her as she struggled with her emotions. He stared out the window as he asked, “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what news?”

“No. I won’t.” She took her seat again, calm and in control of her feelings.

“Did it have to do with Niall?” Irial looked at her then. This odd honesty they shared over the centuries was something she’d miss now that he was no longer the Dark King. No one save her brother and Irial saw this side of her.

“Not directly.”

“He’s a good king.” Irial wasn’t quite pleading, but he would for Niall. The devotion he had for the Gancanagh was one of his greatest weaknesses. She felt another twinge of envy that didn’t show on her face, but that Irial, of course, knew all the same.

“I have no mercy for the Dark King—regardless of which of you it is. That won’t change.”

“I don’t often ask favors of you, Sorch . . . your high-ness”—he bowed his head—“but please don’t support Bananach’s intent. She would destroy my . . . his court. She—”

“Irial?”

He looked up.

“She didn’t ask for that. And even if she had . . . my sister is not meant for ruling. She’d be a force of destruction that I cannot imagine. I’ve no quarrel with Niall”—she frowned—“aside from the usual objections to the mere existence of the Dark Court.”

And Irial smiled at her, as beautiful and deadly as he’d always been. King or not, he was still a force to fear. Like Bananach. Like the Summer Queen’s mortal. Often it was the solitary ones who were the most trouble; the tendency toward independence was not something that sat well with the High Queen. It was unorderly.

He was watching her, tasting the edges of her emotions and believing she was unaware of what he was doing. So she gave him the emotion he craved most from her: need. She couldn’t say it, couldn’t make the first move. She counted on him to do that. It absolved her of responsibility for the mistake she so wanted to make.

If he were to realize that she knew the Dark Court’s secret, their ability to feed on emotions, she’d lose these rare moments of not being reasonable. That was the prize she purchased with her silence. She kept her faeries out of the Dark Court’s reach, hid them away in seclusion—all for this.

The Queen of Reason closed her eyes, unable to look at temptation kneeling in front of her but unwilling to tell him to depart. She felt him remove the cord that bound her hair. Knew without looking that he stood gazing at her with the expression she wished she could just once see on another faery’s face.

“You need to say something or give me some clear answer. You know that.” His breath tickled her face, her throat. “You can still call it a horrible mistake later.”

She opened her eyes to stare directly into his abyss-dark gaze and whispered, “Or now?”

“Or now,” he agreed. He didn’t mock her weakness. He never did.

“Yes.” The word was barely from her lips before she wrapped her arms around him and gave up on being reasonable for a few hours.

Chapter 3

Sorcha sat and re-plaited her hair while Irial reclined on the floor next to her. He never provoked her or pointed out the truth of their relationship during these quiet moments. He didn’t even smoke his cigarettes so close to her. For all his shadows, he had a number of qualities that made her nights too often lonely over the years. No one but the Dark King had ever touched her heart so easily.

He was different this time, though, and she didn’t particularly like it. He wasn’t really hers, but he was the closest to hers that she’d ever had. “Is it Niall? Are you back in his good graces?”

“No. I consider myself fortunate that he even speaks to me these days.” He looked so wounded that she reached out and caressed his arm briefly.

“You do fall in love with the least acceptable people,” she said.

“And you don’t?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever fallen in love with anyone, even you. I enjoy how you make me feel. There’s a big difference.” The admission made her sad, but falling in love was so very unorderly. It wouldn’t do for the High Queen to get caught up in the melodrama of falling in love.

“You wound me,” he said.

“Not likely.” She gave him a genuine smile before picking up her garments from the floor. She held the pale cloth to her chest and turned her back to him. He moved her braid over her shoulder and fastened the tight bindings.

“I am worried about them both. I am worried about your sister’s machinations . . .” He watched her slip on her skirts while he spoke.

“She always presses for war . . . but things feel different this time,” she admitted. Part of politics for them had always been admissions that weren’t public knowledge. During Beira’s reign, Irial had come to her for solace; when he lost Niall, he had come to her for comfort; and when Beira murdered Miach, Irial had come to her—with all his unsettling presence exposed in a rare moment of vulnerability—and together they had mourned the last Summer King. That was the first time she’d opted to indulge in the glorious mistakes they’d shared the past few centuries.

Today is the last time.

“Niall holds her reins better than I did of late, but . . .” Irial scowled. “She’s growing stronger.”

“And Gabriel?” Sorcha waited, hopeful that the Hounds’ allegiance to the Dark Court was intact.

“He supports Niall.”

“With the trouble between Summer and Winter and between Dark and Summer . . .” She let the words fade away, not wanting to speak them into being.

“Niall strengthens the Dark Court. Had I stayed king . . . Keenan would’ve attacked in time. He’s not going to forgive my binding him. Nine centuries is a long time for rage to fester.” Irial’s regret was obvious even if he didn’t mention it.

They, and few others, knew the reluctance of his bargain with Beira. Binding Miach’s son wasn’t something the Dark King had wanted to do, but like any good ruler, he made hard choices. That choice had given his court strength. Sorcha, at the time, was grateful that Beira hadn’t set her sights on Faerie. In time, she would’ve, but then . . . then, it was Summer’s fall, Dark’s entrapment, and her staying silent.

“So we wait.” Sorcha reclaimed the calm reserve that was her daily mien. She gestured toward the door. “You need to go.”

“If I learn anything . . .”

She nodded.

“I do enjoy seeing you, Sorch”—his arrogance came back, covering the worry—“as much as we both know you enjoy seeing me.”

Then he unlocked the door and left.

Inside, she was filled with amusement and satisfaction . . . and a good dose of worry, but her face showed none of that as she strode out of the room.

She beckoned the nearest guard and said, “Escort him to the door so I know he’s gone from my home.”

Irial was relieved to taste the High Queen’s lighter emotions as he walked down the austere hallway. He’d actually considered speaking when he tasted the waves of regret she felt as he’d watched her dress. There were few faeries he’d count as friends—and fewer still Sorcha would trust—but for all of their opposition, they’d both valued their friendship. She didn’t speak of such things, of course, but he tasted her emotions. Which she knows. It would never be the sort of camaraderie that lead either regent to act in ways contrary to the good of their courts, but it was a valued bond. One that has ended.

He held hope that the new Dark King would one day find himself in Sorcha’s good graces—for both of their sakes. Centuries ago, when Niall had left Irial’s side, the High Queen had taken him in and cared for him. After I allowed him to be broken. Although she didn’t point it out to Niall, she knew then that he’d be the next Dark King one day. She’d refused to admit it when Irial lamented Niall’s refusal to even speak to members of the Dark Court, but her emotions revealed what her words would not.

There were so many machinations, so many secrets, and so little time to share that with the new king. Irial remembered his own early days of kingship, the errors he’d made, and the dizzying pleasure of finding his place. Niall was different, though; he hadn’t wanted to be king. He’d run from it for centuries, and so when Irial decided to bestow kingship upon him, with it came a silent vow of aid. Irial would do all that he could to allow Niall to settle into his role as easily as possible. It seemed a wise vow at the time.

Unfortunately, the inevitability of his dealings behind the thrones—of his court, of the High Court, and over the years, behind the Summer Court and Winter Court— weighed on Irial. Revealing the degree of the machinations that Irial had indulged in over the years took time. Going into Niall’s office and dropping the full extent of the job on him was cruelty that remained unnecessary. Eventually, he’d need to tell Niall everything, but in the interim, Irial would do what business he could.

It staves off boredom anyhow.

He stood at the gate to the mortal realm, and for a moment, he let himself wonder how life would’ve been if he’d brought the court home when Beira’s reign became so overpowering. Back then, when Miach died, the thought had occurred to him. It felt like a wise possibility—but it also felt like retreating. The Dark Court thrived on upheaval, so returning to Faerie instead of letting them grow strong while the young Summer King tried to find his missing queen . . . it simply wasn’t logical.

Irial snorted. Logical. Clearly, he’d been too long in her presence.

He pressed his fingers against the veil that divided the two worlds. The material twisted around his hands, holding him for a moment. It had always done so before, recognizing him as its own. The fact that it still did so comforted him. He was no longer Dark King, but in actions, he functioned as if he still retained a share of the mantle. Like a consort. He smiled to himself at the thought of telling Niall that he’d opted to fill the role of Dark Court consort.

Actually . . .

Telling Niall such a thing was sure to set off an entertaining argument. The new Dark King had the infuriating habit of trying to pretend he was merely a seat-warmer holding the court. He clung to his maudlin mourning— as if Keenan hadn’t been likely to betray Niall since the beginning. Inevitable. That was one thing that Irial knew for certain: some truths are inevitable. There are surprises, pleasant and not, but on the whole, faeries were who they were; courts were what they had always been; and centuries passed without too many unforeseen choices—but those who did take surprising routes were fascinating.

Niall was fascinating; Leslie was fascinating; the new Summer Queen had the potential to be fascinating. To one who had the possibility of living for eternity, encountering so many unexpected faeries and mortals was a treat.

“Irial?” Devlin had caught up with him.

The expected could be entertaining as well. “Mmm?”

The High Queen’s brother was never unexpected when he was within the boundaries of Faerie. His activities in the mortal world, however, belied his insistence that he was a creature of order.

Devlin began, “I will be in the mortal world for business. As a courtesy to the current Dark King, I would let you know—”

“I’ll tell him.” Irial paused, tasting Devlin’s emotions even as the High Court assassin repressed them. “Perhaps the court could offer you our hospitalities?”

“Your intercession is kind.” Devlin nodded curtly and turned away. The relief he vehemently suppressed was all the sweeter for the guilt that threaded through it.

“One of these days, you’re going to admit to her that you belong in the shadows,” Irial murmured.

But despite fey hearing, Devlin did not reply. He was a curious one, claiming allegiance to Order even though the shadows in him belied his court affiliation.

Like Niall before. The new Dark King had clung to the frivolity of the Summer Court, denied his pleasure in a good fight or skillful manipulation, for centuries. He was settling in to his rightful court of late, but he hadn’t shaken the judgmental habit that he’d picked up over the years. Should he know of the things Irial handled behind the scenes, it would be worrisome. It wasn’t that any one secret would be particularly traumatic for Niall to learn of, but the sheer number of secrets Irial kept made waiting seem prudent. Niall was at a delicate place in adjusting to the court.

And I am unwilling to tell him things that will make him frown at me.

Ranting was acceptable. A certain amount of violence could be overlooked. It was disgust and disappointment that Irial hoped to avoid.

Chapter 4

After centuries of making the transition, the journey from Faerie to the mortal world still felt jarring. The differently colored landscape, the disconnection time, and the hordes of mortals all thrilled and displeased him simultaneously. Faerie was unchanged for all of eternity, but the mortal world seemed to alter in a moment. Irial marveled at the ways the world had evolved in the centuries that stretched behind him, and he wondered what would follow their already remarkable progress. Some faeries found mortals to be little more than vermin, but Irial was enthralled by them. More so since I am no longer a king. Of course, he was more fascinated by the faery he now approached.

The new Dark King stiffened as Irial came to stand beside him. It was a conscious effort, an attempt at a lie of sorts to pretend that Niall was unhappy to see him. They were both aware of the fact that, as Dark King, Niall had known where Irial was for several moments prior to this. He’d felt Irial’s emotions, knew them well enough to identify Irial without looking behind him. Irial smiled and let his joy at seeing Niall flare.

The king glanced at him. “Why are you here?”

Irial lowered his gaze respectfully. “I am seeking an audience with the Dark King.”

“How did I you know I was here?” Niall asked.

“You are fond of the spot when you are pensive.” Rather than bother hiding it, Irial let himself reveal his happiness at that truth. Communicating with Niall was far easier now that Niall could taste all of Irial’s emotions. “I know you, Niall. I know your habits. This space”—Irial gestured at the small courtyard outside the mortals’ library—“soothes you.”

Irial smiled as he thought of the year it had been built. He’d been bored, and while he couldn’t create, he could fill the architect’s mind with visions.

“Columns?” the man repeated.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Irial murmured. “Utterly impractical. Who cares what a place looks like?”

“Right.”

Irial continued, “And there were statues, towering nearly naked women; can you imagine?”

Niall stood staring at the columns that stood on either side of the ornate wooden door to the library. “It always looks familiar.”

“Indeed.”

“The building . . . it’s like somewhere I’ve seen before.” Niall prodded, but he kept his attention on the building as he spoke. “Why is that?”

“It’s hard to say,” Irial demurred.

Niall glanced his way. “I can taste your emotions, Irial. It’s not a coincidence that I find it familiar, is it?”

“You know, my King, it’s much easier to get answers when you order people to obey you.” Irial smiled at a young mother with a pair of energetic toddlers. There was something enchanting about the unrestrained enthusiasm of children of any species. He had a fleeting regret that he hadn’t any young to indulge, but such regrets were followed by memories of half-mortal Dark Court offspring who were as easily contained as feral beasts. Beautiful chaotic things, children. He’d loved several of them as if they were his own.

“Irial.” Niall’s tone was testy now. “Why does the library look familiar?”

Irial stepped up to stand a bit closer than his king would allow. Their shoulders were brushing, and Irial whispered, “Because a very long time ago, you were happy in the courtyard of a building very like this one.”

Niall tensed.

Irial continued as if neither of them noticed Niall’s discomfort, “And I was feeling . . . a longing for such moments one day last century when a young architect was staring at his plans. I made a few suggestions to his designs.”

The Dark King moved to the side. “Is that to impress me?”

Irial gave him a wry grin. “Well, as it took more than a hundred years for you to notice, it obviously didn’t.”

Niall sighed. “I repeat, what are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.” Irial walked over to a bench that faced the library and sat down.

As expected, Niall followed. “Why are you looking for me?”

“I went to Faerie . . . to see her.” Irial stretched his legs out and watched a few mortals slide around on wheeled boards. It was a curious hobby, but he found their agility fascinating.

With a nervous bit of hope, Niall joined him on the bench—at as much of a distance as possible, of course. “You went to see Sorcha.”

“I thought she should know that there was a change in the court’s leadership.”

“She did know,” Niall snapped. “No one goes there without her consent.”

“The Dark King can,” Irial corrected. “You are not the Dark King.” Niall’s temper flared. “You threw it away.”

“No,” Irial said. “I gave it to the rightful king. Don’t be absurd.”

The emotions coursing through Niall were a delicious treat. Irial had to force his eyes to stay open as the flood of worry, fear, anger, shock, outrage, and a tendril of sorrow washed over him. It was best to not mention that he could read all of this. In theory, only the Dark King could read other regents, but for reasons Irial didn’t care to ponder, he had retained that particular trait. Most of his gifts of kingship had vanished: he was vulnerable to any faery who struck him, and he was once again fatally addictive to mortals. The connection to the whole of the court was severed, and the ability to write orders on Gabriel’s flesh was erased. These and most every other kingly trait were solely Niall’s, but the emotional interpretation was unchanged.

Even as his emotions flickered frantically, Niall spoke very calmly. “If she had wanted to, she could’ve killed you.”

“True.”

Several more moments of delicious emotional flux passed before Niall said, “You can’t tell me you’re going to be my advisor, and then get killed. A good advisor advises. He communicates. He doesn’t do idiotic things that can result in infuriating the High Queen.”

Innocently, Irial asked, “Does he do idiotic things to infuriate the Dark King?”

“You are far more trouble than you’re wor—” Niall’s words halted as he tried to speak that which was neither true nor his true opinion. He scowled and said, “Don’t be an ass, Iri.”

“Some things are impossible to order, my king.” Irial grinned. “Would you like me to apologize?”

“No. I’d like you to do what you said you would—advise me. You can’t do that if you piss off Sorcha enough to get killed or imprisoned or—”

“I’m here.” Irial reached out, but didn’t touch Niall. “I went to find out why Bananach visits her. The High Queen and I have had an . . . understanding these past centuries.”

Niall opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Irial continued, “I needed to know that she wouldn’t support her sister in any attempts on your throne. I know chaos is good for the court, but I will not sacrifice you for the court if it is ever in my power. Not again.”

“A king’s duty is to his court,” Niall reminded.

“And that, my lovely Gancanagh, is why I am not qualified to be a king,” Irial said gently. “There are two people I would put before the court. It is not a matter of being tired of my court, or throwing it away, or punishing you, or trapping you, or any of those very diabolical things you would like to believe of me. It is, quite simply, the fact that I would damn them all if it meant protecting you or Leslie. The court requires a regent who will put court needs first.”

“And you think I would?” Niall asked.

“I know you would.” Irial smiled to let Niall know that this was a good thing, but the taste of Niall’s guilt was still heavy. Neither of them commented on what that meant about Niall’s loyalties—or the choices Irial had made in the past. Choices that put Niall second to the court. There was nothing to say that would lessen the ugliness of those choices.

“If you are my advisor, I will know where you are. I will not need to worry that you are trapped in Faerie or dead by Devlin’s hand because you angered Sorcha,” Niall said, with more of a snarl than Irial expected.

“Yes, my King.” Irial kneeled. “Do I take this to mean that my understanding with Sorcha is discontinued as well?”

Niall dragged his hand over his face. “Nothing’s ever simple with you.”

“I can ask her permission to visit her in the future . . . or simply remain here. I’m sure I can find other—”

“Until such time as I say otherwise, you will not enter Faerie to consort with Sorcha,” Niall interrupted. “What else did you learn?”

Irial remained kneeling, but he lifted his gaze. “Devlin will visit.”

“For what purpose?” Niall made an impatient gesture. “And get up. You’re far too amused by this posture, and it’s not the least bit about re—” The words froze again.

Irial laughed, but he stood. “It is a little about showing respect, my king.”

“Irial,” Niall started.

“Devlin often seeks respite in the mortal world that he cannot find in Faerie. I have long offered him the court’s hospitality; however”—Irial stared at his king then— “Sorcha knows of his visits. I am anxious over this first visit with there being a new king. Sorcha would not be remiss in making a statement. As your advisor, I’m strongly suggesting you keep the Hounds in house. You should have Bananach’s staunchest supporters in your presence. Devlin tends to get bloody in his visits, and this could be a particularly . . . energetic visit. We can make use of that to rid ourselves of the disloyal. It serves several purposes—for us and for Sorcha.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“About this? Nothing.” Irial shook his head. “I will stand at your side, as will Gabriel, and we will make quite clear that the Dark Court is not weak.”

“We are weakened. If we weren’t, you wouldn’t have done the ink exchanges.”

Irial stared at Niall. “The violence Devlin will bring will nourish them. It is part of why I make him welcome. This time, it will nourish your court, and therefore you.”

“I require more than violence.”

“Call some of the Summer Girls, summon the Vilas, a Hound”—Irial paused as he weighed the words—“anyone you desire is yours. Human or faery or halfling. Gabriel’s daughter is strong enough to relax with you.”

“No.”

Irial repressed a sigh. “You weren’t celibate in the Summer Court.”

“I’m not ready to—”

“Leslie is gone, Niall.” Irial crouched down and looked at his king. “She left. She needs a life in the mortal world, for now at least. You, my Gancanagh, require the pleasures you’re denying. If I thought you’d forgive me, I’d arrange them delivered to you as they once were. You weren’t so reticent then or when you were in the Summer Court. You are the king of the Dark Court. They are all yours to command.”

“Now that I’m their king, they might not feel free to say no.” The fear in Niall’s expression was only a tiny portion of the overwhelming fear Irial could taste. Niall lowered his voice, “I don’t want them to feel trapped.”

“Don’t be foolish.” Irial caught Niall’s gaze. “I would offer you anything you need. They would too. It’s not a trap to offer happiness to one’s regent.” Irial’s affection for Niall was not the least bit hidden. “If you worry, I will collect solitaries for you, or perhaps you ought to go see Sorcha yourself. . . . There are those who are not your subjects. Is that what you seek? Tell me, and I will make it so.”

“No. I simply don’t want . . . emotionless sex.” Niall looked away. “After Leslie—”

Irial growled. “She left.”

“I know.” Niall glared. “It’s only been a moment, though, and . . . I can’t.”

“As your advisor, I am strongly suggesting that you listen to my advice. Don’t weaken your court by being maudlin. You’ve never once been monogamous in your life, and if you think you could’ve been so with her, you’re a fool. You were a Gancanagh. Now, you’re the King of Temptation. You are what you are.”

“You’re a bastard. You know that?”

“I do.” Irial stood. “By tomorrow Devlin will be here, and if you expect to be your best, I’d strongly recommend that you go get—”

“I hate that you made me their king,” Niall said, and then he walked away.

After he was gone, Irial smiled.

That went surprisingly well.

For a moment, he sat and stared at the library. The door was showing signs of disrepair again. He made a mental note to send funds for its renovation, and then went to deal with the rest of the tasks he had to attend before the High Queen’s Bloodied Hands came to their step.

Chapter 5

Niall stood at one of the gates to Faerie. Once he’d marveled that mortals didn’t cross it more often, but unlike faeries and halflings, most mortals didn’t see the gate. The mortals and halflings who ended up in Faerie were taken or stumbled there unawares. The High Queen wasn’t particularly tolerant of uninvited guests, especially those of his court. The Dark Court’s exodus from Faerie had happened long enough ago that the whole of Faerie was her domain, while the mortal world was shared among the rest of the fey.

Not that I’ d want to return the court there.

If Irial knew, if Keenan knew, if most anyone Niall had called a friend these past several centuries knew how easily he was slipping into the role of Dark King, he’d like to think they’d be shocked. The truth, of course, was that more than a few of them had accepted his new role as easily as he had. Because it was inevitable. He understood that now. When Irial had first offered him the throne, Niall had thought it horrific, but time had a way of removing illusions.

The complications of Devlin visiting the Dark Court were unclear to Niall. There was obviously some element of the situation that Niall didn’t know. Irial was a lot of things, but he wasn’t prone to exaggeration. If he thought Devlin’s visit was significant, it was.

Niall splayed his fingers over the veil that separated the worlds. The insubstantial fabric encased his hand as if it were a living thing. I could go to her. Once, Sorcha had been a friend of sorts. Once, Niall had imagined himself half in love with her. He hadn’t been, but she was everything Irial wasn’t. At the time, that was reason enough to try to call his friendship love.

“Help.”

Fingers grabbed his hand and tugged. Someone on the other side clutched him, grabbed hold of his wrist, and clung to him. The voice that seemed to accompany the desperate gesture was thin.

“Please, I can’t see.”

A second hand grabbed Niall’s arm as if to pull him through, and in that instant, any thought of entering Faerie fled. Niall tugged.

An old man came tumbling through the veil. He still held tightly to Niall’s arm. “Please.”

Niall steadied the man, and in doing so glanced down and saw the man’s face: both of his eyes were missing. The eyelids drooped over empty sockets.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“No one,” the man sobbed. “I’m no one, and I saw nothing . . . I promise.”

“You’re in Huntsdale,” Niall said gently. “Do you know where that is?”

The relief on the man’s wrinkled face was heartbreaking. He whispered, “I do. Home. This is where I should be. I was wrong before. I thought . . . I followed someone, but”—he shook his head—“she was an illusion. It was all an illusion.”

There was no need to ask which faery he’d followed. It didn’t matter. Mortals had been stolen away, misled, trapped, and tricked for as long as the two races coexisted. Niall had been guilty of doing it.

“Let me help you.” Niall had no obligation to the man, but he wasn’t at ease with walking away. The Dark Court wasn’t evil. It would’ve been easier if they were. A clear division between good and evil, right and wrong, would simplify everything, but life was rarely simple. His court was formed of passions, of shadows, of impulses. The Dark Court—and its king—were that which balanced the High Court. In this instant, balancing the High Court meant offering kindness.

“You’re one of them.” The man yanked his hand away from Niall. “I’m not going back. She had them take my eyes, said I’d be free . . . you can’t—”

“I have no intention of harming you. Unlike Sorcha, I am not cru—” Niall’s words halted; he was capable of cruelty, but the difference was in the motivations. He’d never understood the High Court opposition to mortals knowing of the fey. He certainly never grasped the logic of breaking them for knowing. “You know we don’t lie.”

The man nodded.

“I offer you my protection. I cannot undo what she did to you, but I can offer you a haven.” Niall waited for a moment, trying not to rush the man, but increasingly aware that someone would probably notice that a mortal had exited Faerie without permission. Keeping his voice calm, he added, “You are free to leave any time you choose. There are no punishments for deciding to leave.”

“She said this”—the man touched his face—“wasn’t a punishment.”

“I will not cause or allow injury done to you.” Gently, Niall touched the man’s wrist. “If you prefer, I will deliver you to a mortal physician. Either way, we should leave this place.”

“I don’t need a mortal physician. What would they do? My eyes are gone.” The man turned his head away and remained silent for a moment. Then he nodded once and said evenly, “I’ll accept your offer—for the moment, at least.”

“I’m going to carry you,” Niall warned, and then he lifted the old man, cradling him like a child. It was akin to lifting an empty sack, and Niall wondered how long the frail thing had been in Faerie. Once, Sorcha had explained that the blinding was for the mortals’ good as well.

“Seeing the changed world after so long is troubling to them,” she’ d said. “This is kinder.” He’ d disagreed, but Sorcha had merely smiled and added, “The fanciful ones, the artists, are fragile. Seeing us after they’ve left is far crueler.”

The walk through Huntsdale wasn’t long, but it was long enough that solitaries and those of other courts saw him. None spoke to him, but more than a few faeries stared in blatant curiosity. The sensation wasn’t displeasing: he was opposing the High Court and doing something that soothed his sense of guilt over past follies.

As he approached his new home, a thistle fey scurried forward and opened the front door.

“Gabriel,” Niall called.

The Hound—who had once been a friend, more recently an enemy, and currently Niall’s most trusted resource— entered the foyer with a silent grace that should’ve been impossible for such a bulky creature. “My King.”

“King?” the man murmured.

“Her opposition,” Niall soothed as he lowered the man’s feet to the floor. “You are safe here.”

Gabriel shook his head. “You trying to start trouble?”

“Perhaps,” Niall admitted, “but I don’t suppose that’s a problem, is it?”

The grin on Gabriel’s face was matched by his mellow tone as he said, “Nope, just making sure I understand.”

“The High Queen blinded this man. I have offered him safety here.” Niall made a beckoning gesture to one of the Vilas who always lingered wherever Gabriel walked. “You can go with this woman. She’ll find you a chamber to rest while you decide what you want.”

The man reached out awkwardly, clearly not yet used to his lack of sight.

Niall took the man’s hand and started to lead him to the Vila. “This is Natanya and—”

“What’s your name, king?”

The belligerence in the man’s voice made both Niall and Gabriel grin. This was not a mortal who would curl into himself and give up. His bravery made him even more worthy of protection.

“Niall.”

“Am I safe from her here, Niall?” The man tilted his head. “They might be pretty, but they’re monstrous. You know that, don’t you?”

“We do,” Niall said.

“Are you all pretty too?” the mortal asked.

It was an obvious curiosity, but it stilled everyone all the same. Natanya stared at Niall; Gabriel shrugged. Niall wasn’t sure what answer was truth. Pretty? Gabriel was akin to a sort of menacing mortal who lingered in disreputable bars: slow to rile, but quick to strike if angered. He was lean, scarred, and silent. The gray-eyed, gray-skinned Vilas were all beautiful; even in violence, their movements were elegant; but they were as likely as not to dab blood on their lips for color. And Niall . . . being fey meant possessing an innate attractiveness to mortals; being a Gancanagh meant he’d been born to seduce. Pretty? He’d thought so once, many centuries ago, but that was not a word he’d found fitting for a very long time. He’d been proud of no longer being “pretty”: he kept his hair shorn to emphasize the scar that he was certain made him anything but pretty. The trouble was that Niall didn’t see the Dark Court denizens as ugly either, even while he hated things that happened in the court, even when he’d found a vast number of their faeries terrifying, he’d never thought them either pretty or ugly. They simply were.

“The High Court thinks we are monsters.” Niall let his own emotions into the words. “I suspect that if you saw us, you’d think many of us are too. What we aren’t, though, is calmly cruel. What we aren’t is like them.”

The man nodded.

Natanya and Gabriel were both smiling, and there was little doubt in Niall’s mind that his own acceptance of his court was likely to be repeated throughout their number.

“Natanya?” Gabriel motioned toward the mortal. “Look after him for your king and for me.”

“As if he were your own child, Gabriel.” The Vila beamed at Gabriel. The silver chains that held her bone-hewn shoes to her feet clattered as she moved across the room to take the mortal’s hand in hers. She led the man away, and for a moment Gabriel was silent.

He shot an assessing glance at Niall. “Salt in a wound when they learn that you brought one of Sorcha’s discarded mortals here.”

“That is true.”

“She’s already likely to make a statement to be clear that her earlier fondness for you won’t make her soft on you. Now this. . . . She’ll strike,” Gabriel said.

Niall shrugged. “She would have whether or not I took this one in.”

“True. So we prepare. The only two faeries she could strike that would truly weaken your court—or make you look weaker—are me and Irial,” Gabriel pointed out. “Those are the logical choices. I’m not going over there and if I’m not able to face Devlin, I need to be replaced as the Gabriel, so I’m not needing protection. Irial, on the other hand . . .”

“He was already over there. That’s how I know Devlin’s coming here.”

“Huh.” Gabriel snorted. “Didn’t waste any time trying to protect you, did he? Threaten her or sleep with her or both?”

Niall didn’t answer that, but he suspected Gabriel knew the answer well enough. Irial might not have spoken to the Hound yet, but they’d been a team for as long as Niall had known Irial. Before the day was through, Irial would seek out Gabriel and tell him the things he thought necessary to assure that Niall was safe.

And not once think about the way he endangers himself now.

A regent could prevent any of his or her subjects from seeing the gate, and a strong solitary could impose restrictions on weaker fey. A part of Niall thought stealing others’ will was wrong, but he understood now that there were times that choices were a matter of opting for the lesser of several wrongs.

“It is my decree that none of the subjects of Dark Court may enter Faerie without my consent.” Niall looked at Gabriel’s forearms as the command appeared there. “Until such time as I speak otherwise, the gates are unseen to my subjects.”

The Hounds didn’t offer fealty, so they could go to Faerie. Of course, they wouldn’t do so unless Gabriel directed them. Irial, however, could no longer see the gates or enter Faerie.

“He’s going to be furious,” Gabriel said mildly.

Niall shook his head and admitted, “I don’t want him getting himself killed.”

“Knew that years ago, when you showed up regularly even though you were in another court.” Gabriel laughed. “So did he. Why do you think he got in so many scrapes? He spent centuries trying to get your attention back, Niall.”

“Well, he has it now,” Niall grumbled. “Maybe not the way he wanted, but . . . he’s going to have to learn that he will obey me or he can just take the court back.”

“Unstoppable force and immovable object. This will be fun.” The Hound laughed, clapped Niall on the shoulder, and said, “I’ll ready the Hunt for Devlin’s arrival.”

“Good.” Niall walked away before he admitted that he was looking forward to the impending violence—and putting Irial in his place.

Chapter 6

Sorcha didn’t respond when Devlin walked into her gardens. She’d long since stopped acknowledging him when he did so. As if it will make the future less difficult. She hated that he was an anomalous creature—almost as much as she treasured it. He would be her undoing if she let him. Perhaps he would be even if she tried to stop him. In some matters the threads of possibility were seemingly determined.

“My Queen?”

She didn’t turn. Facing him as they lied in their omissions made the whole business even less palatable. “Brother.”

“I have blinded the mortal as you commanded. I go now to the mortal world.” His voice was as empty as it often was, but that too was a lie of sorts. Her brother might pretend to be High Court, but she was under no illusion that he was solely her creature.

“I have business in the mortal realm that needs tending,” she said.

He’d expected as much, but he’d hoped otherwise. She could see the resignation in the infinitesimal moment in which he frowned. The expression was gone too fast for most anyone to see, of course, but she saw much that no one else would. The pause before replying was infinitesimal, but it was still there.

“Whatever you command,” he said.

She turned. “Indeed?”

Before she could catch his gaze, he dropped to his knees. “Have I failed you?”

Sorcha didn’t speak. Have you? She knew he would, but had he? Her vision of the past was unclear. The present and future took her focus so fully, and eternity stretched longer than she could grasp. Have you? She waited, looking down at the first faery she’d made. Before he existed, there were only two, Discord and Order, twins who had once created one thing together. You. She reached down and ran her fingers through his multihued hair. It was unlike that which graced any other faery, and it was resistant to her will. He couldn’t be altered by her touch, not now that he was real. Other faeries couldn’t be either, but they weren’t her creations.

They’d stayed this way for hours before. Devlin had the patience and willpower to kneel for as long as she required it. He didn’t falter, didn’t sleep, didn’t wince. He simply waited. She wondered idly if he could outwait her.

“Could we spend decades thus, Brother?” she murmured.

He lifted his gaze. “Sister?”

“If I demanded it, how long would you kneel thusly?” She traced up his cheekbones and down the outside of his jaw with her fingertips. “Would you falter from exhaustion before I would?”

“You are my queen.”

“I am,” she agreed. She cupped his face in her hands and held him still. “That’s not an answer.”

He didn’t even try to resist. “Do you require me to falter or to succeed in waiting as long as you?”

She smiled then. “Such a wise answer. You will do whatever I require, then? You will strive to not fail me? You will serve me forever?”

“As your servant, your Bloodied Hands, your brother, your advisor, I will do all that you demand.” He bowed his head, and she loosened her grip to allow it. Then he added, “The last of those questions is unanswerable.”

“It is.” She turned her back, fashioned a chair of flowering vines, and sat down. In her hands, a book appeared. She had willed it to be withdrawn from the palace library and appear here. Ignoring her brother, she began to read.

He stayed there kneeling for the next three hours.

Somewhere into the fourth hour, she lifted her gaze to look at him. “I need you to go to the new Dark King. Give him word of the High Court’s acknowledgment of his new station. Stress to him that while we are not at conflict, I will not hesitate to act as required to keep order.”

Devlin stayed silent, awaiting the rest.

“It would be prudent to make clear your willingness to strike at the Dark Court should it be required,” she continued. “Perhaps a fight with the former Dark King? The Gabriel? His mate? The action should be something that emphasizes your assets as the High Court’s weapon.”

“As you will,” Devlin murmured.

The brief look of hurt on his face was reason enough for Sorcha to know that her actions were necessary. It would not do for Devlin to be coddled. Reminding him that he was a weapon to be utilized helped keep his tendency toward emotion in check.

It is for the best.

“Do you require death?” he inquired. “That will limit the potential choices for combatants.”

Sorcha paused and sorted through the threads that had come into focus as Devlin spoke. The consequences of some deaths would be disastrous. Unexpectedly so. Later she would mull the import of one such thread, but for now she said only, “Not of that list. Injure one of them, or injure many. A lesser death is allowable, but not the new king’s advisor or thugs. A regent does tend to react poorly to such losses.”

The moment was there, and she knew he would ask. In this, as in so many other things, her brother was predictable. He looked directly at her with those unnaturally dark eyes and asked, “Would your thug’s death elicit such a reaction?”

“My assassin is my advisor and my creation”—she pursed her lips in an expression that should convey the dislike she knew was an appropriate emotion—“so I would be sorely inconvenienced by your death. I dislike being inconvenienced.”

He bowed his head again. “Of course.”

“If I were attached to any faery in my court, it would be you, Brother.” She stood and walked over to him. “You have value to me.”

The relief evinced in his slight relaxing of posture was noteworthy for him. This was what he required: reminders of his value, of his use, of his proper role. He never spoke of the fact that his choice of her court was a struggle, but she knew. As does Bananach. It was in his nature to crave both Discord and Order.

“I expect there to be violence enough that the Dark Court will be suitably reminded of my strength,” she added.

“As you require.”

She expected that this was a moment in which she should offer him comfort. He evoked that in her, an urge to nurture, but it would hasten the seemingly inevitable future. When he becomes my enemy. Instead she said, “You will not allow yourself injured, Brother. The High Court is represented by your success in this. Do not fail me.”

“I will not.” He was still on his knees, still unflinching. “May I depart?”

She set a storm over his head and walked away. “When the next hour ends, you may rise.”

Chapter 7

After tending a few business matters that required negotiations that the Dark King didn’t need to know just yet, Irial finally approached what appeared to be a derelict warehouse to follow up on the last task of the day. His spies had reported that Devlin had orders to strike either Gabriel or him—or to entice Niall himself to fight. Devlin was the first male faery, older than anyone save Sorcha and Bananach. He was undefeated in fighting. Allowing him to strike Niall was not an option.

And Gabe is too important to risk. The Hound could stand against most faeries, so his safety was essential to keeping Niall safe. That leaves one obvious choice.

Niall would object, but it was the best course of action. So Irial had come to tell Gabriel what he’d learned. The comfort of doing so was a familiar one. Gabriel had been Irial’s chief confidante and guard for centuries. That didn’t mean, however, that entering the Hound’s domain was something Irial did lightly.

The creatures that filled the building evoked fear and discomfort by their mere presence. When they ran, they were a beautiful nightmare—so much so that even the former King of Nightmares felt a flush of terror roll over him. It was a warning that even regents should heed: inside the stable, the Hunt ruled. No kingship, no law in either world, nothing other than Gabriel’s word mattered once one entered their domain. Consequently, it was one of the few places in this world or in Faerie that Irial would approach with caution.

Irial stopped at one of the doors and waited for a moment.

One of the younger Hounds stepped forward and flashed a sulfurous green gaze at Irial. The sight of the green eyes in the dark was more comforting than menacing, but sharing that detail would elicit an undesired reaction for the Hound. Fighting was rarely one of Irial’s preferred hobbies, so he kept his thoughts to himself.

“I would speak with the Gabriel.” Irial didn’t lower his gaze, but he didn’t stare directly at the Hound.

A second Hound, who leaned against the building, crossed his arms. “Don’t think Gabriel is expecting you.”

“Do you deny me entrance?” Irial held his hand out, palm up as one would for any number of feral beasts.

The first Hound sniffed Irial’s hand. Then he stepped closer and sniffed the air near Irial’s face. “Smells like the other place.”

“Faerie,” Irial murmured.

The second Hound growled. “Can’t run there. She says no visits. Wants us asking permission first.”

“I bring word of violence.”

At that, both Hounds’ attitudes shifted. One pushed off the building and pulled the door open. “Go ahead in. Gabriel’s in the ring.”

As always, the Hounds’ steeds were in various forms. Cars, motorcycles, and beasts waited in wooden stalls. A few of the steeds sat in rafters in various guises. Here, they could adopt whatever form they preferred. Irial felt a twinge of longing for Faerie then. Once, forever ago now, these steeds could wear whatever form they wanted all of the time. At first they continued to do so in the mortal world, but now they were more cautious—for obvious reasons: the sight of the vibrant green dragon that slept in the center aisle would alarm most mortals.

The dragon stirred enough that a clear lens flickered over one its massive eyes. It yawned, giving Irial a glimpse of teeth as big as his own arms. Then, scenting him, its nostrils flared. It had awakened.

Both of the creature’s eyes were now focused on Irial.

“I’m here to speak with the Gabriel,” Irial said. “I bring word of blood for the Hunt. A guest from Faerie will be coming here.”

The dragon flicked a thin purple tongue out, not far enough to touch Irial, but close enough that for a moment, Irial thought he’d misremembered how close one could stand and still be at a safe distance. But then the tongue retracted, and the beast closed its eyes.

Irial resumed walking toward the ring at the far back of the building.

The scent of blood and the cacophony of snarls and rumbling voices were unaltered, but Irial had no doubt that they all knew he approached. The steeds shared nonverbal communication with their riders—and with the Hound who led them all. Everyone in the stable knew what Irial had said to the Hound at the door and to the steed that rested in the form of a dragon. That did not, however, mean that any of them saw reason to interrupt whatever fight was in progress. The Hunt had different priorities than the less feral faeries often understood.

Irial closed the distance, prepared to wait for the match to end. However as he reached the edge of the crowd, the Hounds parted to let him walk to the front. At the edge of the roped-off ring, Irial stopped.

There were few things that would be as unexpected as the sight before him: Niall stood in the center of the ring. Blood trickled from a set of teeth marks on his forearm and soaked the denim around a jagged tear on his leg. His opponent, an average-sized Hound, growled as Niall landed a punch that rocked the Hound’s head backward. Before the Hound could respond, Niall followed through with a second punch to the throat that had the Hound toppling to the straw-covered floor.

As Irial stared, Gabriel came up beside him. “Always was a ruthless bastard in a fight.”

“Does he do this often?” Irial watched his king put one boot-clad foot on the fallen Hound’s chest.

“Most every night since you made him king.” Gabriel’s emotions tangled between amused and content. “Seems to be taking to the job if you ask me.”

“Perhaps I should’ve asked you,” Irial murmured. He felt a curious wave of sadness that Gabriel had kept this from him. It wasn’t wrong of Gabriel, but it was yet another loss.

Niall looked over his shoulder then and stared at Irial. While the Hounds couldn’t taste emotions, the rest of the Dark Court could. Of course, that didn’t mean that they always understood the reason for the emotion—which was abundantly clear in the surge of fury that Niall felt.

The Dark King grabbed the Hound at his feet and hauled him upright. He shoved the injured Hound toward the rope and snarled, “Next.”

If they had been any other two faeries, Irial would’ve pulled his king aside and explained that the sorrow was not over seeing Niall battering the fallen Hound, but over Gabriel’s secrecy. They weren’t any other faeries though, so Irial did the next best thing: he stepped forward.

“Don’t be absurd,” Niall ground out.

Without taking his gaze from his king, Irial ducked under the rope. “If you wouldn’t mind giving us use of the ring in private, Gabe?”

Ignoring the question for a moment, Gabriel said, “Hear we’re expecting blood. Who’s visiting?”

“Devlin. Sorcha undoubtedly would like him to make a statement. It is traditional.” Irial waited for a moment, listening to the receding footsteps and motors already coming to life. The Hunt was vacating the stable, undoubtedly at Gabriel’s silent command.

Softly, Irial added, “The pups should stay close to home for a few days.”

Gabriel’s teeth snapped and a low snarl emanated from him. “My pups are—”

“Safe enough,” Irial interrupted, “if they stay out of sight. Sorcha has standing orders to take halflings, so just tell them to stay low for a few days.”

Niall took a step toward Irial and said in a low voice, “This is why I need you here. You have centuries of dealing with the nuances. The court needs that wisdom.” He did not add that he needed Irial too, but the emotion was there for Irial to taste—as was the resentment. “I require your presence and your safety. The gates to Faerie are unseen to you now, Irial.”

“Well, this evening is just full of surprises, isn’t it?” Irial raised a fist. “You’d leash me then? I went there for—”

Gabriel cleared his throat loudly. “We’ll stir up a little nourishment for the court tonight.” He paused briefly and then said, “Niall?”

Niall glanced away from Irial.

“Your strength is the court’s strength. Don’t much matter whether you feed on fury or lust, or who you do that with, but you need to be strong.” Gabriel put word to what they all knew. “I’ll gather some of solitary or the Summer Girls over if you’d rather—”

“The Summer Girls are not to be given to the court.” Niall bared his teeth. “No one is permitted to be touched without their consent.”

“We know that,” Gabriel said. “The old king made that rule. The Hunt brings them, but they choose to stay or go.”

Niall gave Irial a curious look, but Irial said nothing. If he’d told Niall, it wouldn’t have changed a thing, but it would’ve brought up a conversation that neither of them was ready for in the years that had passed. Knowing Irial regretted being unable to protect Niall didn’t undo the past.

Finally, Niall looked away. “Do what you must to bring nourishment for the court.”

“And you,” Irial added. “A few fights aren’t enough and you know it . . . although I’m glad you are fighting at least, now if you were fu—”

“Stop.” Niall’s emotions were all over the spectrum. His gaze snapped back to Irial. “Don’t think I’m going to be easy to beat just because there were a few Hounds trying to pummel me.”

At this, Irial’s flash of irritation vanished. He lowered his fist and laughed. “You’ve never been easy about anything, love.”

The fist that slammed into Irial’s face was faster than he remembered Niall’s punches being, but it had a very long time since Niall had hit him. Striking a king wasn’t tolerated unless it was in an agreed-upon match, and for the past eleven centuries, Niall had known that Irial was a king.

And that I withheld that little detail when we met.

A second punch didn’t come.

Niall stared at him. “We’re in a ring, Irial. You can strike a king here.”

Irial grinned as he heard Gabriel call, “We ride.”

As the Hunt started to leave, the stable was a storm of emotions that both he and Niall consumed. While those emotions were still flooding them, Irial said, “Should I have extended that offer to you a second time when you learned that I was a king? Would it have pleased you to strike me?”

“Maybe.” Niall smiled briefly. “I thought about this often enough.”

“Hitting me?”

“No,” Niall corrected as he swung at Irial. “Beating you half to death.”

Then, they were too busy to talk. Irial wasn’t as quick with his fists, but he let every emotion he felt free. Reading Irial’s emotions put Niall off center enough that Irial was able to withstand the next hour better than either of them expected.

Eventually, however, Irial was prone on the ground. He couldn’t open his left eye, and he was fairly certain that at least one rib was cracked. “I’m done.”

Instead of walking away as Irial expected, Niall plopped down on the floor. He was covered in blood and sweat, and he was content.

“It’s easier than I thought,” Niall said.

“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.

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.”

For a moment, Irial stood in silence. “If Gabriel were to be injured, the Hounds could replace him, and we cannot be certain that another Hound would support you as Gabriel will.”

“I know.”

“So of the two, I am more expendable.” Irial shrugged.

“You are not expendable. . . . And I couldn’t speak it if it were untrue”—Niall held up his hand before Irial could interrupt—“neither could you, so we both believe we speak truths. You told me of this visit, advised me how to proceed, and then undermined me. You should have told me what you learned.”

Irial kneeled. “I’m not very good at serving.”

“I noticed,” Niall said.

The truth was that even as he was apologizing, Irial was not subservient. Kings weren’t meant to become subjects, and after centuries of being a king, Irial wasn’t likely to change overnight. Or at all. The consequence of that truth, however, was that the one faery in the Dark Court best able to advise Niall was also the one least suited to being anyone’s subject.

“We need a solution or you need to go,” Niall started.

Irial lifted his gaze. “You would exile me?”

“If you work against me, yes, I will.” Niall frowned. “Tell me what you know. Maybe we need to do so every day. A meeting. . . . Or a memo, or I don’t know.”

Irial started to rise to his feet.

“No,” Niall whispered. “You will kneel until I say otherwise.”

A slow smile came over Irial’s face. “As you will.”

“I’m not joking, Irial. Either I’m your king or you are gone. If I am to rule this court, I need you”—Niall paused to let the weight of that sentence settle on both of them— “more than I think I’ve needed anyone. So tell me right now: do you want the court back, do you want to leave, or do you intend to be my advisor in truth?”

“I want to keep you safe. I want to see you happy. I want to make this court stronger.” Irial looked only at Niall despite the growing number of faeries outside the shadowed barrier. “I cannot be their king.”

“Then stop trying to make all of the decisions.” Niall ignored the fighting outside the wall as well. A fair number of Ly Ergs stood in front of Devlin, who was steadily throwing them across the room as if they were weightless. “You learned that the High Queen wanted a show of Devlin’s strength, a strike that would be a noticeable display of her assassin’s strength.”

“Yes.”

“I sent Gabe to find out which of your spies you’d visited, and then I waited to see what you’d do.” Niall let his pleasure in the situation be obvious in his voice. “I manipulated you, Irial. I had no choice because you didn’t come to me.”

Irial turned away to watch another faery go sailing by the barrier. “May I rise?”

“No.” Niall hid a grin. “You will give me your vow.”

“On what?”

“I will have your vow that you will tell me when there are threats that you consider protecting me from, threats to me or to the court or to you that you consider withholding, and you will tell me what they are as soon as you are reasonably able to do so.” Niall had weighed the words in his mind as he’d sat stewing over Irial’s deceit. “You will vow to trust me with ruling this court or you will become solitary, exiled from the court and from my presence until I decide otherwise.”

The terror that Irial felt then almost made Niall waver. He didn’t, though. He continued, “You will spend as much time as I require in my presence, teaching me the secrets that you are even now thinking I can’t handle yet.”

“There are centuries of secrets, my King.” Irial shifted as he spoke.

“Do not move,” Niall snarled. “Either you kneel there and give me your vow to all that I just said”—he reached out, gripped the underside of Irial’s jaw in his hand, and forced his once-friend, once-more, once-enemy to look at him—“or you may stand and walk out the door.”

“If I tell you everything, neither of us will sleep or do anything else for months.”

Niall squeezed Irial’s throat, not hard enough to bruise— much—and asked, “If I directed you to tell me what you hide, would you be able to give me a full answer?”

“In time? Yes. Today? No. Centuries, Niall, I’ve been dealing in secrets for centuries.” Irial stayed motionless in Niall’s grasp. “I told you about my understanding with Sorcha. I had Gabe bring you one of—”

“Yes,” Niall interrupted, squeezing harder now. “Did they spy for you?”

“Only on you.”

With a snarl, Niall shoved him away. “You vow or go.” Even as he struggled to remain kneeling, Irial didn’t hesitate in his words. “My vow . . . and full truth within the decade.”

“Within the year.”

Irial shook his head. “That is impossible.”

“Two years.”

“No more than three years,” Irial offered. “You have eternity to rule them; three years is but a blink.”

For a moment, Niall considered forcing the matter, but if it had taken him centuries to change, it was far from unreasonable for Irial to ask for a few years. Niall nodded. “Done.”

“May I rise now?” Irial asked.

“Actually, no. You can stay like that. In fact, maybe you should always stay like that when you bring me news.” Niall dropped the barrier and told his court, “I am a member of this court, not merely your king.”

They paused, a calm rippling over the melee for a moment.

One faery asked, “So we can hit you?”

“You can try,” Niall challenged, and then he launched himself into the fracas. He was a part of them, rejoicing in the violence that fed them, standing alongside them as he hadn’t done since he’d walked away so many centuries ago. He felt their excitement at his inclusion in their fight, and he smiled.

This, at least, I understand.

Chapter 10

Irial felt unconscionably proud of his king as Niall waded into the fight that was now more than a conflict between Devlin and the Ly Ergs. The fight had evolved into the sort of raucous brawl that erupted often in the Dark Court. It was a way to let off steam and a way to create nourishment for one another. What would look like senseless violence to outsiders was, in actuality, a way of caring for one another. They created fear and anger in one another, and in doing so, they created that which they fed on. It wasn’t Irial’s preferred sustenance, but he could see the beauty of it.

Especially when Niall fights.

Niall had always fought with the sort of unrestrained passion that awed Irial. The Dark King was in the thick of the fight, swinging at Hounds and Ly Ergs and Vilas.

Glass shattered over Irial and rained down on him. With it came the remains of a bottle of merlot. The dark wine dripped on Irial, but he stayed exactly where his king had told him to stay: kneeling in the midst of the chaos of a beautiful, bloody battle.

The fight now included a full three score of faeries. More than a few faeries took advantage of the melee to pelt things at him or at the walls and ceiling. Debris rained on him. At least three blows struck him. He didn’t ignore them, but fighting while remaining kneeling was a new challenge.

Finally Niall came over and grabbed him by the upper arm. “Get up.”

Silently, Irial obeyed. He could barely restrain the joy he felt, but, overjoyed or not, he had obeyed—and that was the point. He brushed bits of glass from his arms and shook splinters of wood from his hair.

“Stay next to me or next to Gabe,” Niall demanded as he swung at an exuberant thistle-fey. “Clear?”

“Yes.” Irial grabbed a length of what appeared to be a chair and sent it like a spear toward Devlin.

The High Court assassin knocked it from the air with a nod. He wasn’t injured in any visible way, but he was blood-covered and smiling. Devlin might choose to ignore the fact that he was brother to both Order and Chaos, but here in the midst of the Dark Court’s violence, it was abundantly clear that he was not truly a creature of the High Court.

Another faery went sailing through the air, knocking into Devlin as if a running leap would make a difference. It didn’t. The High Court’s Bloodied Hands swatted the faery from the air and moved on to the next opponent.

“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 strongest fighters. Without speaking, the brawl began to resemble nothing so much as a bloodier version of King of the Hill. Everybody wanted to topple one of the best fighters, if even for a moment, and all of them were having fun.

Devlin had more than held his own against the Dark Court’s fighter, reminding them that he was not to be ignored. All of the faeries in the room had more nourishment than could’ve been hoped for as a result of the flare of violence and blood sport.

And Niall 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 came over to stand beside him. “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 voiced 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 stood 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.

“Blinding them and leaving them helpless”—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 toward the door, and Devlin preceded Gabriel toward it. The two faeries walked out of the building, and then Irial and Niall were left alone 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 his 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.

Read on for a sneak peek into
the final thrilling Wicked Lovely book:

DARKEST MERCY

Prologue

Niall walked through the ruins of the tattoo shop. Shards of painted glass crunched under his boots. The floor was strewn with vials of ink, unopened needles, electric apparatus he couldn’t identify, and other things he’d rather not identify. The Dark King had known rage before, known grief; he’d felt helpless, felt unprepared; but he’d never before had all of those emotions converge on him at once.

He paused and lifted one of the mangled bits of metal and wire from the floor. He turned it over in his hand. Only a year ago, a tattoo machine—maybe this one—had bound Irial to the mortal who had brought the former Dark King and Niall together again after a millennium. Irial was the constant, the one faery that had been a part of Niall’s life— for better and worse—for more than a thousand years.

Niall stabbed his bloodied hand with the broken tattoo machine. His own blood welled up and mingled with the drying blood on his hands. His blood. Irial’s blood is on my hands because I couldn’t stop Bananach. Niall lifted the broken machine in his hand, but before he could stab himself a second time, a Hound grabbed his wrist.

“No.” The Hound, Gabriel’s mate, Chela, took the machine. “The stretcher is here, and—”

“Is he awake?”

Mutely, Chela shook her head and led him toward the living room, where Irial lay.

“He will heal,” Niall said, trying the words out, testing the Hound’s reaction to his opinion.

“I hope so,” she said, even as her doubt washed over him. Irial was motionless on the litter. The uneven rising and falling of his chest proved that he still lived, but the pinched look on his face made clear that he was suffering. His eyes were closed, and his taunting grin was absent.

The healer was finishing packing some sort of noxious-smelling plants against the wound, and Niall wasn’t sure whether it was worse to look at Irial or at the bloodied bandages on the floor.

The Hound, Gabriel’s second-in-command, lowered her voice. “The Hunt stands at your side, Niall. Gabriel has made that clear. We will fight at your side. We will not let Bananach near you.”

Niall came to stand beside Irial and asked the healer, “Well?”

“He’s as stable as can be expected.” The healer turned to face Niall. “We can make him comfortable while the poison takes him or we can end his suffer—”

“No!” Niall’s abyss-guardians flared to life in shared rage. “You will save him.”

“Bananach stabbed him with a knife carved of poison. He’s as good as d—” The rest of the words were lost under the Dark King’s roar of frustration.

Irial opened his eyes, grabbed Niall’s hand, and rasped, “Don’t kill the messenger, love.”

“Shut up, Irial,” Niall said, but he didn’t pull his hand away. With his free hand, he motioned for the waiting faeries to approach. “Be careful with him.”

Niall released Irial’s hand so that the faeries could lift the stretcher.

As they left the tattoo shop, Hounds fell into formation around Niall and the injured king, walking in front, flanking them, and following them.

The former Dark King’s eyes closed again; his chest did not appear to rise.

Niall reached out and put a hand on the injured faery’s chest. “Irial!”

“Still here.” Irial didn’t open his eyes, but he smiled a little.

“You’re an ass,” Niall said, but he kept his hand on Irial’s chest so that he could feel both pulse and breath.

“You too, Gancanagh,” Irial murmured.

Far too many miles away from Huntsdale, Keenan leaned against the damp cave wall. Outside, the desert sky glimmered with stars, but he wanted to be home, had wanted to be home since almost the moment he’d left. Soon. He’d needed to be away, needed to find answers, and until he did that he couldn’t go back. Being on his own was unheard of, but despite the challenges, he was certain he was doing the right thing. Of course, he’d been certain of a lot of things. Surety was not a trait he lacked, but it did not always lead to wise choices.

He closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

“Is this what you freely choose, to risk winter’s chill?” Sunlight flickered under his skin, and he reveled in the hope that this time it would not end, that this time, this girl, was the one he’ d been seeking for so long.

She didn’t look away. “It’s what you want.”

“You understand that if you are not the one, you’ll carry the Winter Queen’s chill until the next mortal risks this? And you agree to warn her not to trust me?” He paused, and she nodded. “If she refuses me, you will tell the next girl and the next”—he moved closer—“and not until one accepts, will you be free of the cold.”

“I do understand.” She walked over to the hawthorn bush. The leaves brushed against her arms as she bent down and reached under it—and stopped.

She straightened and stepped away from the staff. “I understand, and I want to help you . . . but I can’t. I won’t. Maybe if I loved you, I could, but . . . I don’t love you. I’m so sorry, Keenan.”

Vines wrapped around her body, became a part of her, and as they stretched toward him, his sunlight faded.

He dropped to his knees . . . and was once more in front of another girl. He’ d done this for centuries: asked the same words of girl after girl. He couldn’t stop, not until he found her. He saw her, though, and he knew that this girl was different.

“Is this what you freely choose, to risk winter’s chill?” he asked her.

She glared at him. “It’s not what I want.”

“You understand that if you are not the one, you’ll carry the Winter Queen’s chill until the next mortal risks this? And you agree to warn her not to trust me?” He held his breath for a moment, feeling the sunlight flare in his body.

“I don’t love you,” she said.

“If she refuses me, you will tell the next girl and the next”— he moved closer—“and not until one accepts, will you be free of the cold.”

“I do understand, but I don’t want to be with you for eternity. I don’t want to be your queen. I’ll never love you, Keenan. I love Seth.” She smiled at someone who stood in the shadows, and then she walked toward the hawthorn bush—and kept walking.

“No! Wait.” He reached down, and his fingers wrapped around the Winter Queen’s staff. The rustling of trees grew almost deafening as he ran after her.

Her shadow fell on the ground in front of her as he stood behind her. “Please, Aislinn. I know you’re the one. . . .”

He held out the Winter Queen’s staff—and hoped. For a moment he even believed, but when she turned and took it from his hands, the ice filled her. Her summer-blue eyes filled with frost, and it crawled over her body.

Aislinn screamed his name: “Keenan!”

She stumbled toward him, and he ran from her until he couldn’t breathe in the freezing air from her continuing screams.

He fell to his knees, surrounded by winter.

“Keenan?”

He looked up.

“No. You can’t. Say no. Please say no,” he pleaded.

“But I’m here. You told me to come to you, and I’m here.” She laughed. “You told me you needed me.”

“Donia, run. Please, run,” he urged. But then he was compelled to ask, “Is this what you freely choose, to risk winter’s chill?”

She stared directly at him. “It’s what I want. It’s what I’ve always wanted.”

“You understand that if you are not the one, you’ll carry the Winter Queen’s chill until the next mortal risks this? And you agree to warn her not to trust me?” He paused, hoping she’ d say no before it was too late.

She nodded.

“If she refuses me, you will tell the next girl and the next”— he moved closer—“and not until one accepts, will you be free of the cold.”

“I do understand.” She smiled reassuringly, and then she walked over to the hawthorn bush. The leaves brushed against her arms as she bent down and reached under it.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

She smiled again as her fingers wrapped around the Winter Queen’s staff. It was a plain thing, worn as if countless hands had clenched the wood.

He moved even closer. The rustling of trees grew almost deafening. The brightness from her skin, even her hair, intensified.

She held the Winter Queen’s staff—and the ice did not fill her. Sunlight did.

She breathed his name in a sigh: “Keenan.”

“My queen, my Donia, I wanted it to be you.” His sunlight seemed to fade under her brightness. “It’s you . . . it’s really you. I love you, Don.”

He reached for her, but she stepped away.

Her sunlight grew blinding as she laughed. “But I’ve never loved you, Keenan. How could I? How could anyone?”

He stumbled after her, but she walked away, leaving him, taking the sunlight with her.

Keenan was still reaching for her when he opened his eyes. The cave where he’d been sleeping was filled with steam. Not frost. Not ice. He let the sunlight inside him flare brighter, trying to chase away the darkness where his fears and hopes played out in twisted dreams.

Not so different from reality.

The faery he’d loved for decades and the queen he’d sought for centuries were both angry with him.

Because I’ve failed them both.

Chapter 1

Donia walked aimlessly, taking comfort in the crisp bite in the air. The promise of it made her want to draw it deeply into her lungs. She did, releasing the cold with each breath, letting the lingering breath of winter race free. Equinox was fast approaching. Winter was ending, and letting loose the frost and snow soothed her as few things could of late.

Evan, the rowan-man who headed her guard, fell in step with her. His gray-brown skin and dark green leafy hair made him a shadow in the not-yet-dawning day. “Donia? You left without guards.”

“I needed space.”

“You should’ve woken me at least. There are too many threats. . . .” His words dwindled, and he lifted his bark-clad fingers as if to caress her face. “He is a fool.”

Donia glanced away. “Keenan owes me nothing. What we had—”

“He owes you everything,” Evan corrected. “You stood against the last queen and risked all for him.”

“One’s court must come first.” The Winter Queen lifted her shoulder in a small shrug, but Evan undoubtedly knew that she was walking because she missed Keenan more and more. They didn’t discuss it, and she’d not descended into foolish melancholia. She loved the absent Summer King, but she simply wasn’t the sort of person to fall apart over heartbreak.

Rage, however . . . that is another matter.

She forced away the thought. Her temper was precisely why she couldn’t settle for only half of Keenan’s attention.

Or heart.

Evan motioned to the other guards he’d brought out with him, and they moved farther away, all but three disappearing into the night at his command. The three who remained, white-winged Hawthorn Girls, never wandered far from her side if at all possible. Except for when I leave without telling anyone. Their red eyes glowed like beacons in the poorly lit street, and Donia took a measure of comfort in their presence.

“I would be remiss if I didn’t remind you that it’s too dangerous for you to be out alone,” Evan said.

“And I would be a weak queen if I wasn’t able to handle myself for a few moments alone,” Donia reminded her advisor.

“I’ve never found you weak, even when you weren’t a queen.” He shook his head. “Summer Court might not be powerful enough to injure you, but Bananach is growing stronger by the day.”

“I know.” Donia felt a flush of guilt.

Faeries from all of the courts had been slipping away, and Donia knew that they were joining Bananach. Can she form her own court? The mortality of the newer monarchs caused more than a little unease, and War had made sure to nettle to heighten the tension. Likewise, worries over the interrelations between courts caused traditionalists to rally around Bananach. Niall wasn’t openly sympathetic to the Summer Court, but his centuries advising them made his faeries ill at ease. Her whatever-it-was with Keenan had a similar effect on some of her court, and Summer’s attempts at imposing order on their court made faeries who were used to freedom chafe.

Donia wished that a new court was what Bananach sought, but the raven-faery was the embodiment of war and discord. The odds of her settling for a peacefully created court—if such a thing was even possible—weren’t high. Mutiny and murder were far more likely goals for Bananach and her growing number of allies.

War comes.

Once the others were out of sight, Evan announced, “I have word of trouble from the Dark Court.”

“More conflict?” she asked, as Evan led her around a group of junkies on the stoop of an abandoned tenement building. When she’d walked with Keenan over the years, he’d always sent a cloud of warm air to such mortals. Unlike him, she couldn’t offer them any comfort.

Keenan. She felt the fool for being unable to stop thinking about him. Even now. Every other thought still seemed to lead to him, even though he’d been gone for almost six months. With no contact.

She exhaled a small flurry of snow. In almost a century, she’d never gone very long without seeing him, or hearing from him, even if it was nothing more than a letter.

“Bananach attacked the Hounds two days ago,” Evan said, drawing Donia’s attention back to him.

“A direct attack?”

Her guard and advisor shook his head. “Not at first. One of the Dark King’s halflings was caught and killed, and while the Dark King and the rest were mourning, Bananach attacked them with her allies. The Hunt is not reacting well.”

Donia paused mid-step. “Niall has children? Bananach killed his child?”

Evan’s lips curved into a small smile. “No. Neither Niall nor the last king has children of his own, but the former Dark King always sheltered his court’s halflings. His fey— Niall’s fey now—are amorous creatures, and the Hounds mate with mortals far more than any other fey. It is an old tradition.” Evan paused and flashed a faux-serious look at her. “I forget how young you are.”

She rolled her eyes. “No, you don’t. You’ve known me most of my life. I’m just not ancient like you.”

“True.”

She waited, knowing he wasn’t done. His patterns were a familiar rhythm by now.

“The Dark has a regard for family that is unlike the other courts.” With a slight rustling of leaves he moved closer. “If Bananach is killing those dear to Irial . . . the court will be unstable. Death of our kind is never easy, and the Hounds, in particular, will not deal with pointless murder. If it were in battle, they would accept it more easily. This was before the battle.”

“Murder? Why would she kill a halfling?” Donia let frost trail in her wake, giving in to the growing pressure inside. It was not yet spring, so she could justify freezing the burgeoning blossoms.

Evan’s red eyes darkened until they barely glowed, like the last flare of coals in an ashy fire. He was watchful as they moved, not looking at her but at the streets and shadowed alleys they passed. “To upset Irial? To provoke the Hunt? Her machinations aren’t always clear.”

“The halfling—”

“A girl. More mortal than fey.” He led Donia down another street, motioning for her to step around several more sleeping vagrants.

She stopped at the mouth of the alley. Five of Niall’s thistle-clad fey had captured a Ly Erg.

When Donia stepped into their field of vision, one of the thistle-fey slit the Ly Erg’s throat. The other four faeries turned to face her.

She formed a knife of her ice.

One of the thistle-fey grinned. “Not your business.”

“Does your king know—”

“Not your business either,” the same faery said.

Donia stared at the corpse on the ground. The red-palmed Ly Erg was one of those who often lingered in the company of War. They were all members of the Dark Court, but the Ly Ergs gravitated to whoever offered access to the most fresh blood.

Why are they killing their own? Or is this a result of factions in the Dark Court?

The murderous faeries turned their backs to leave. “Stop.” She froze the metal fence they were about to scale. “You will take the shell.”

One of the thistle-covered faeries looked over his shoulder at her. The faery flashed teeth. “Not your business,” he repeated again.

The Winter Queen advanced on him, icy blade held out to the side. It was a sad truth that the fey, especially those of the Dark Court, responded best to aggression. She raised the blade and pressed it against the dominant faery’s throat. “I may not be your regent, but I am a regent. Do you question me?”

The faery leaned into her blade, testing her resolve. Some residual thread of mortality made her want to retract the blade before it was bloodied, but a strong faery—especially a queen—didn’t fold under challenges. She willed serrated edges to form along the blade and pressed it hard to the faery’s skin. Blood trickled onto the ice.

“Grab the body,” the faery told the others.

She lowered the blade, and he bowed his head to her. The thistle-fey held their hands up in a placating gesture, and then one after another they scaled an unfrozen section of the aluminum fence. The rattle of the metal joined the growing din of traffic as morning broke.

The last faery heaved the corpse over the fence, and then they ambled off with the body in their hands.

Beside her, Evan said quietly, “Violence is here, and conflict is growing. Bananach will not stop until we are all destroyed. I would suggest that you speak to the Summer Queen and to the Dark Kings. Divisiveness will be to our detriment. We need to prepare.”

Donia nodded. She was tired—tired of trying to bring order to a court that couldn’t remember life before Beira’s cruel reign, tired of trying to find a balance between discipline and mercy with them. “I am to see Aislinn soon. Without Keenan . . . between us, we are communicating better.”

“And Niall?” Evan prompted.

“If Bananach is striking Irial’s family, she is either testing for weaknesses or has found one already.” Donia whistled, and Sasha came toward her, the wolf appearing from the shadows where he’d waited. “We need to find out who the girl was before I seek out the Dark King. Summon one of the Hounds.”

Evan nodded, but his expression darkened.

“It is the right course of action,” she said.

“It is.”

“The Hunt is not all bad.”

Evan snorted. The rowan had a long history of discord with the Hounds. Her advisor did not, however, object to her plan. She took comfort in that. The tranquility of Winter was pervasive in her fey. Typically, they could consider the situation, weigh the possibilities, and bury their tempers under the cold. Most of the time. When those tempers came screaming to the surface, the winter fey were a terrifying force.

My terrifying force.

As comforting as it was to have such a strong court, the pressure was daunting. She’d never thought to be sole monarch of a court. Once when she was still mortal, she’d dreamed of joining Keenan, ruling at his side. Barely a year and a half ago, she’d expected to die at Beira’s hand. Now, she was trying to function in the role into which she’d been thrust. “Some days, I am not ready for what approaches.”

“No one is ever ready for War,” Evan said.

“I know.”

“You hold the most powerful court. You alone. You can lead the way to stopping Bananach.”

“And if I can’t, what then?” She let her defenses drop for a moment, let her fears show in her voice.

“You can.”

She nodded. She could if she didn’t let her doubts get in the way. She straightened her shoulders and peered up at Evan. “If I allow another early spring, Summer will grow stronger, closer to an even balance with our court. I will speak to Aislinn. You will find out what you can about the Dark and send word to the Hounds. Sasha and the Hawthorn Girls will see me home.”

“As you wish.” With a fiercely proud look, Evan nodded and walked away, leaving her with the wolf and the trio of Hawthorn Girls, who were silent but for the whirring of their wings.

Chapter 2

When he’d left Huntsdale, Keenan had spent the first month wandering, but after centuries of leading his court, he could only remain unoccupied so long before the reality of being Summer King became too pressing. Violence seemed more inevitable by the day, and the Summer Court was not yet strong enough to face conflict, so Keenan had used the last five months pursuing alliances—with no success yet.

His meetings with various solitaries, especially those in the desert, hadn’t gone well, but Keenan held hopes for those in the ocean. Over the past several months he’d shown himself at the ocean and then withdrawn. This time, he was staying until they spoke to him.

Entice and retreat. Appear and retreat. Approaching the solitaries was in many ways no different from the seduction he’d used on countless mortal girls over the centuries: they required strategies fitting to their personalities. With court faeries, he had to observe protocol. With various solitaries who functioned in pack mentalities, he had to demonstrate those traits they valued. In the desert, that meant strength and manipulative negotiation; at the ocean, that meant temptation and feigned disinterest.

A green-skinned merrow opened his whiskered mouth in a faux yawn, flashing serrated teeth at Keenan, and then resumed staring silently. The water fey weren’t often likely to ask questions, not finding themselves interested in land dwellers’ dramas, but with patience, their curiosity could be piqued. Keenan had counted on that.

With their volatility, they were closer in temperament to his court than any others, but water creatures were unpredictable in a way that perplexed even the regent of the most impetuous court. Whether river fey, lake fey, or ocean fey, they had moods that were as fluid as the water in which they existed.

Keenan walked on the beach. Waiting. The water lifted in well-formed waves; the sky was purest blue; and the air was mild this far south. If he looked at the water with only a mortal’s gaze, he’d see colorful fish darting in crystal-clear water. Shells drifted and skittered over the sands, pulled and pushed by the waves, and the Summer King took pleasure in the beauty of the sea. It was a welcome respite: in nine centuries, he’d never had time to be anything other than the Summer King. When he hadn’t been trying to tend a weakened court, he’d been seeking or romancing the mortals he hoped would be his missing queen. Once he’d found Aislinn, he’d needed to be there while she adjusted, and then he’d needed to be there while she was mourning Seth’s abandonment—both to help her and to encourage her affection for her king and court.

It was what any monarch would do.

The Summer Court needed a queen who was tied to her court and king first. Her divided affections had weakened them in a time when they should be growing stronger. If Seth had stayed in Faerie, Keenan had no doubt that his court would be strong, with two monarchs who, if they were not truly in love as he had hoped they would be, were fond of each other.

It could’ve been enough.

Instead, they were facing an even more complicated dilemma. He was drawn to his queen—and she to him—on such a level that ignoring their connection was impossible. He’d been guiltily grateful that she clung to her mortal lover; it had given Keenan one night with the faery he loved and couldn’t have, but when Solstice ended, so had the dream of being with Donia. The second Winter Solstice since Donia had been queen had passed while he was away, and the inability to run to her that day had made him despondent. She is not mine . . . and neither is my queen. The boy Keenan had thought would be a brief distraction to his newly found queen—a distraction that allowed Keenan time with Donia—had become a faery. Worse still, he was now protected by an angry Dark King and the dangerous High Queen. Keenan wasn’t sure how one previously mortal boy had become such a problem.

Between Seth and the external threats the court faced, Keenan was more afraid for the future than he had been when his powers were still bound. Then, he’d had a single threat: Beira. Now, his court was headed toward dangers from too many directions. Bananach had grown stronger, as had Niall’s Dark Court. Even Sorcha’s High Court, which stayed hidden away in Faerie, had still managed to cause complications. Keenan had heard enough to know of her recent instability.

Over Seth.

The water edged closer as the tide came in, and Keenan stepped away from the lapping waves. In doing so, he moved toward a rocky outcropping. The sand under his bare feet wasn’t as soft now, but it wasn’t yet covered with the sharp-edged black mussels.

“What do you seek here?”

Even though he’d hoped to gain conversation with the water fey, the suddenness of the faery’s appearance startled Keenan. He lifted his gaze to an indent in the rocky alcove beside him, where a slender salt faery hid. Her salt-heavy hair hung in thick ropes to her thighs, covering much of her translucent body; the exposed skin glistened with the crystals that gathered there when she left the water for more than a few moments. One partially webbed hand was splayed out on the rock, as if to hold herself upright.

She didn’t move any nearer, but her proximity was already enough to unsettle him. The touch of such fey would leave even him weakened. For many, a salt faery’s embrace was fatal. For regents, it was merely debilitating. Her position had placed him securely between her and the water, where other equally unpleasant faeries lurked.

“I’m seeking allies,” he told her. “My court, the Summer Court—”

“Why?” Her gaze darted toward the water and then returned to him abruptly. “Land concern is not our concern.”

“War has grown strong, and she—”

“The bestia?” The salt faery shivered delicately, and the motion sent a glittering shower to the sand and rock around her. “We do not like the winged one. She is not welcome in our waves.”

“Yes,” Keenan said. “The bestia . . . she’s found her wings again. They are solid now. She flies well and far.”

After flicking her salt-crusted hair over her shoulder, she stepped closer to him. “You falter.”

Keenan reminded himself that retreating at this point would be a mistake. Even the water fey chased. And running would put me in the water. He let the sunlight that resided in his skin rise up. He’d rather not strike her, but if she reached out, he wasn’t sure that he’d be able to resist.

“You are strong, and”—he gestured to his right, where the waves lapped very near his feet—“your kind are unsettling.”

The faery smiled, revealing sharp teeth. “We mean you no death this moment.”

The fear he felt rolled over him as a wave surged up his legs, drenching him to the thigh. “And the next moment?”

Instead of answering, she pointed to the alcove where she’d been waiting. “You will stay here while I tell them— unless you trust me to take you under the waves?”

“No.” Keenan went to the fissure and leaned against the rock. His objection wasn’t merely a matter of trust: water folk didn’t think like land dwellers. She was as likely as not to forget that land dwellers needed air, and he couldn’t convince anyone to ally with his court if he were unconscious.

“I’ll stay on the shore,” he added.

The salt faery stepped into the water and dissolved. The foam that lingered where she had just stood scattered as the next wave receded. The transition between solid and fluid was instantaneous and complete. The salt faery was gone.

He climbed higher on the rock. Being within reach of the water seemed unwise, especially while the tide was coming in. As he climbed, he donned his usual mortal glamour, lightening his copper hair to a mortal hue that was almost common, dulling his eyes to an only slightly inhuman shade of green, hiding the sunlight that radiated from his skin. The illusory image gave him an oddly comfortable feeling, like slipping into a favorite jacket. The glances of the mortal girls on the beach were a welcome balm on his still injured pride.

In front of him an unnatural wave rose up. Mortals pointed, and Keenan repressed a frown. Coexisting with mortals meant learning what was too extreme for them to explain away. A single twenty-foot wave in an otherwise tranquil sea was definitely too extreme.

Atop the wave sat a figure. He’d call it a faery, but beyond that he knew no words to fit it. Bits of gray skin and solid black eyes were obvious, but the faery’s body was cloaked under strands of kelp that were crossed and layered in a great fibrous mass. The mortals didn’t see the faery; of that, Keenan was sure. There are no screams. On either side of the towering wave a kelpie pranced. The horselike beasts slashed the water with their hooves. At their touch the sea frothed. If he were easily intimidated, their entrance would be impressive, but he’d grown up under the watch of an overly dramatic mother—one who wielded Winter—and he was the embodiment of Summer. It made him difficult to impress.

He waited while the sea stilled and the kelpies departed. The center wave delivered the creature to the rock where Keenan sat. In a blink, the amorphous water fey was a lithe mortal-shaped faery. Keenan couldn’t say for sure whether it was male or female, only that it made him think of both dancers and warriors. The faery folded its legs and sat beside him.

“We do not speak to your sort. Not out here. Not often. Not as this,” it said. The voice rose and fell as if the sound of the water rolled into the words. “Why do you ask for speech?”

“War comes. Bananach . . . the bestia.” Keenan fought an unexpected urge to stroke the creature’s bare leg. It shimmered as the water at the horizon does when the sun seems to vanish at the end of the day.

The faery turned its head, so Keenan was staring directly into its eyes. The depths of the ocean were in those eyes, the deepest waters where all was cold and dangerous and still and . . . Not tempting. He forced his gaze away. “If she wins, your faeries will die too.”

“Mine?”

Keenan folded his hands together to keep from reaching out to the faery. “You are not just another faery. You’re a regent, an alpha, one who commands.”

“You may call me Innis,” it said, as if that answered the question implicit in his statement. Perhaps, for Innis, it did. “I will speak for those of the water.”

Innis’ words seemed to fall onto Keenan’s skin, dripping down his forearm as if they were tangible things. His skin felt parched, too hot, painful almost.

Heat that strong needs quenching, needs water. “I knew your parent,” Innis said. “My . . . parent?” Keenan fisted his hands, hoping that the movement would keep him from touching Innis. “Which? The last Winter Queen or the Summer King? Beira or Miach?”

“I do not remember.” Innis shrugged. “Your forms are all alike. It was pleasant.”

Keenan stared out at the rolling waves before him. The shimmering surface was mirrored in the flesh of the faery beside him. It was an odd similarity. He had sunlight inside him, but he also had traits other than light. Innis was as if water had taken form.

He glanced at the faery, and as he did so realized that Innis now faced him. They’d been side by side at the edge of a rock a moment before.

“You moved . . . or something.” Keenan struggled not to back away from the water faery. “How?”

“You looked at the water. I am the water, so now you look at me.” Innis stared at him as it spoke, and the faery’s proximity made the air taste like brine. “We do not want to be dead.”

“Right.” Keenan let sunlight fill him, remind him what he was. “We don’t either.”

“The flesh creatures?”

“Yes. Faeries who live on the land.”

“You speak for all of you?” Innis had his hand now. “On the not wanting to be dead?”

“I think so.” Keenan forced the words to his lips. “I am the king of a court. The Summer Court. I want to be allies.”

For the span of no more than six waves crashing, Innis was quiet. Then it said, “We have swallowed the sun. It does not shine after a while, and we left it on the sand then.” Innis sighed. “It faded.”

“My father?” Keenan tried to clarify. “No. There were other summers.” Innis shrugged again. “We would not like the winged one here. Your War. It pollutes.”

“So, you would be an ally? You would help stop her?”

Keenan prompted.

“I do not think drowning the bestia would be pleasure.” Innis stroked wet fingers over Keenan’s leg. “I believe I would enjoy seeing you drown, though.”

“Oh.” Keenan felt a decidedly conflicted thrill of pride and surge of terror. I do not want to die. He forced more sunlight into his skin, trying to chase the clammy dampness away. “If I ever want to drown, I could . . . I would come here. Is that good?”

Innis laughed and waves surged over the rock, covering them both, tearing Keenan’s breath away and filling his throat with salty water. He tried not to panic, but when he attempted to stand, to get his head above the water, hands wrapped around his neck. Lips pressed to his, and kelp slipped into his open mouth. His chest ached, and his eyes couldn’t focus.

I could find you pleasurable, flesh creature. Innis’ words were in his mind as surely as its arms were around his neck and its tongue was in his mouth. I will be your ally. I will take the bestia into our world if she touches the waves. We will fight for you in exchange for an open vow. Yes?

An open vow, he thought. The mutability of such a vow was reason enough to refuse, but the Summer Court needed powerful allies and he’d had no luck in his other attempts to negotiate with solitary fey. He nodded.

The water receded then, leaving him sprawled on the rock, choking and gasping.

Innis stood over him. Its body was neither solid nor fluid. It held a form, but the form was as a wave when it was above the ocean: water temporarily given the illusion of solidity.

Once Keenan spat the water from his throat and mouth and had stopped gasping, he looked up.

Innis leaned closer. “I will watch for the bestia, flesh creature. If the bestia makes you dead before I can truly drown you, I will be angered. Do not allow that. You will speak my name to the water when you need aid. In return—”

“In return, my word that I will repay what service you offer in equal measure.” Keenan forced himself not to think about the dangers of such a vow. My court is not strong enough to defeat Bananach. Some dangers are unavoidable.

The water faery nodded. “The terms are binding and accepted. I would have a token of faith to seal the vow.”

A wall of water rushed toward them. “I do not want to drown today,” Keenan said. “Just a little,” Innis suggested.

For a moment Keenan wondered at the possibility of not-living. It should not appeal to me. He’d stolen scores of girls’ mortality. He’d made them into faeries while everyone and everything they knew faded away; he’d convinced them to risk everything for him. To be my queen. To free me. He couldn’t have done anything differently. He’d had to find her, the mortal who would save them all from dying under the freezing anger of his mother. Now, he had to find a way to strengthen the court without pushing his queen further away, to make allies among faeries who had every reason to hate him, to find a way to love Donia without being with her, and once again try to do the impossible.

A second wave swept over them, and Innis’ form surrounded him. He knew that he would not choose to die here, but knowing didn’t negate the pain in his lungs. He didn’t fight the waves. It would be so much easier. As the water filled his lungs, he wondered—not for the first time or even the fifty-first time—if they’d all be better off without him.

He kicked toward the surface.

It is a pleasure to drown you, my ally. Innis’ voice filled the water around him. Call and we will come to you.

About the Author

MELISSA MARR: Although I was voted “most likely to end up in jail” in high school, I decided to get an MA and teach literature and gender studies. Unable to resist trying new things, I’ve worked an archeological dig, slung drinks at a biker bar, and gotten fabulous tattoos.

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Copyright

OLD HABITS. Copyright © 2011 by Melissa Marr.

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ISBN: 978-0-06-208013-4

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