by Melissa Marr
“Mmm.” He pulled her down and kissed her, enjoying the sheer novelty of trusting a woman enough to have her on top of him.
She’d gotten far too able to read between his words, so his default with her was typically distraction. It was an excellent plan, if he did say so himself. Kissing Leslie was high on his list of favorite pastimes, alongside touching Leslie and making love with Leslie. Luckily for him, she didn’t seem to object.
When she pulled away for real finally, she kissed both of his cheeks and his forehead affectionately before straightening back to a seated position and saying, “I’m never sure if I should be offended that you think I’m that easy to sidetrack. It doesn’t work on Niall either, by the way.”
Irial shrugged as best he was able with her on top of him and offered her his most innocent look. “You’re the one who closed the door and attacked me.”
She pressed her lips together and narrowed her gaze. “That’s your summary of our day?”
“You made accusations, and we talked. Then you seduced me—after insisting I ought not meddle. So I was merely not meddling in your obvious plans to seduce me,” Irial continued with the closest approximation of innocence he could muster.
“You might be delusional.”
“I’ve been accused of far worse.” Absently, he traced the tattoo of his eyes and the wings that still graced her back. He could feel the inky tendrils that once bound them snaking out to answer his touch.
“It’s healing,” she said. “The tattoo is almost healed.”
“I know.”
“That’s why I feel you.” She leaned back so his hand was tighter against the tattoo. The smoky threads that had stretched out to meet his touch tightened like vines grabbing his hand. The sensation rocked through him, burning along pathways that she’d once yanked out in her—quite justified—anger and fear.
He shivered, the wash of emotions that he felt from Leslie catching him off guard and bringing his own tangled mess of emotions surging to the surface. “Steady, love.”
She didn’t listen, though. She reached back and held his hand to her skin. He could’ve jerked away, but . . . he also couldn’t. She could read his feelings as if he were a book open before her. He wouldn’t reject her and risk her turning away from him.
Once Irial and Niall had been gancanaghs, addictive to mortals. When Niall became Dark King and Irial became the embodiment of Discord, they were no longer addictive. Irial had wondered more than a few times over the past few years if fate had a sense of humor. Leslie could stay away from them, but they both craved her nearness the way junkies craved their drugs.
“You’re afraid,” Leslie murmured, her voice heavy with shock.
Instead of speaking, Irial let her taste his emotions.
“It didn’t used to work this way.” Her voice was wonder-filled then. “You’re worried that I’ll leave, that I’m hurt, that I’ll die, and . . .” She paused and closed her eyes. She bit her lip, and then opened her eyes and looked directly at him. “You love me more than before. When we were connected, you didn’t love me like this.”
“I loved you then,” he objected weakly.
“Not this much.” She studied him in silence for a long moment before adding, “You let down a wall, unwillingly, and it scares you.”
At that, Irial came to his feet and had the unexpected urge to don his trousers, as if clothing would somehow shield him. After tugging clothes onto his bottom half, he walked away to pour himself a drink. It was bad enough that he had to deal with Niall’s ability to read his every emotion; adding Leslie to the mix meant that he would have no walls left to shelter him. Sometimes a faery simply didn’t want to have his heart laid bare on the table.
“Come to New Orleans?” he asked Leslie, turning to face her once more.
“New Orleans?”
The former Dark King nodded. “Once, a century or so ago, I lived there.”
She smiled, and in a drawl far too like his own, said, “Of course you did.”
One of the Hounds pounded on the door. It was not Gabriel, who had been lost to the same forces that had nearly taken Irial, but one of his brothers who rumbled through their home with the same sense of force and thunder.
“The rest of the boxes from the buildings that were flooded are here,” he announced as he shoved the door open.
Irial started, “Good, but—"
“Leslie!” Cam grinned at seeing her. He held his arms wide open to hug her.
“Cam,” she said, not rising.
Irial pinched the bridge of his nose. “Cameron, close your damn eyes before I pluck them out and feed them to you.”
The massive man frowned. “Why?”
“Because I’m naked, Cam,” Leslie said, visibly trying not to laugh at either Cam’s confusion or Irial’s frustration. Her gaze floated between them, and the shadows from the floor zig-zagged toward her.
Cam closed his eyes quickly. He nodded, and eyes still tightly closed, he fumbled for the door. In the process, he knocked a painting from the wall and set a floor lamp to rocking precariously.
Abruptly, he paused and turned back, frowning. Without opening his eyes, he asked, “How come you’re not naked then, king? I mean, Discord. Err, Irial?”
“Because I have already pulled my trousers on, Cam,” Irial said with exaggerated patience. Cam was a fine Hound. He simply lacked the common sense of an average goose.
Leslie giggled.
Cam waved in her general direction—still not opening his eyes—and said, “Good to see you . . .” He paused and amended quickly. “Umm, not that I could see you.”
Irial sighed again. “Goodbye, Cameron!”
And Leslie’s giggles turned into belly laughs as Irial watched. This, this moment, was what she deserved: happiness. He wasn’t sure how to make sure she always had it, but he wanted to do so. He didn’t want any distance, any secrets between them.
When she stopped, Irial blurted out his great secret: “I think I had a child.”
Leslie stared at him.
“I don’t know if I meddled in your life, but if I did, I’m sure I had a reason,” he added to fill the silence.
After a long minute of staring in silence, Leslie said, “I think I need clothes for this conversation. You do, too.”
She tossed his shirt at him, and all Irial could do was think that an event in his past was about to destroy his present happiness. He had no idea that Leslie would react this way. “Before you,” he added quickly. “The child was before you were ever even alive, shadow girl.”
“Oh, Irial! I’m not angry. I just find all of that”—she gestured at him—“a bit distracting, and I need to focus, especially if I am going to need to buy baby supplies.”
The wave of relief that rolled over him was palpable.
Leslie trailed her fingers down his bare chest and pause at his trouser buttons. “Nothing will make me reject you, Iri. Nothing. Don’t you realize that yet?”
He exhaled loudly, fears he’d not yet named falling away briefly. He still needed to tell Niall. Hell, he still needed to decide if he’d look up his descendants in person if they existed. One disaster at a time, though. A man doesn’t discover children and lost years with them every day.
He pulled his shirt on and watched Leslie dress. It never ceased to amaze him that even the act of dressing was enticing with her. He’d forgotten that charm in the centuries between Niall and Thelma, and the decades between Thelma and Leslie. With most people he’d had in his bed, his interest was only held in the disrobing. Once the present was unwrapped, his interest faded quickly and inevitably.
With Leslie, Irial was as enchanted by her dressing as with the way she covered her mouth as if to keep the giggles from escaping. He could paint her on every canvas he found, and still he wouldn’t grow tired of studying her. It was unsettling after so many years of solitude. Now, he had her and Niall in his home, and he felt unmoored.
Once she was dressed, she stood in front of him and said
, “Spill.”
“Once, many years ago, there was a girl. Human. Unusual.” Irial smiled remembering Thelma. “She was bookish when most women were focused on husbands and homes.”
Leslie nodded.
“I came near to starting a war. There were people seeking her, and—”
“Irial.” Leslie gave him the sort of look that came from knowing him better than most people could imagine. “What people?”
“Influential ones,” he hedged.
“Influential as in . . . mafia or as in rich parent or politicians or . . .?”
“Politicians of a sort.” He turned away, hand on the glass door knob to open the door and flee. Admitting who Thelma was, who had pursued her, would add complications he’d rather she could avoid. In as casual a voice as he could summon, he said, “Let’s not talk about that. What matters is that I protected her, and I did so because I was developing a fondness. Who they were is not the point.”
Behind him, Leslie put a hand on his back, stilling him, stopping him. “Are you asking me not to ask who pursued her?”
He nodded. Without looking back at her, Irial added, “He didn’t deserve her. He wasn’t going to love her as I did. Sometimes . . . I am impulsive.”
Leslie’s arms slid around him, and she kissed his back. “You’re an absolute fool when you love.” She squeezed. “And I am grateful for it. As is Niall. I suspect your missing love was, too.”
Irial hoped so. The day he’d decided to pursue Thelma was as clear as if it had been that morning. The downside of near immortal lives was that he couldn’t always keep track of time. That day, though, was one he hadn’t forgotten.
Gabriel’s steed shifted into a handsome horse-drawn carriage, one fit for nobility or the American equivalent of it.
“Well come on then.” Gabriel climbed aboard and took the reins, although they weren’t technically necessary with the bond between Hound and steed.
“No horseless carriage then?” Irial teased.
“Bah.”
The new mode of transportation irritated Gabriel for reasons that seemed to be primarily a matter of loving his steed in its natural equine-like form. Irial, unlike a lot of faeries, was fascinated by technological advances. He’d even had several images of himself made in the last few decades, including a daguerreotype and a tintype. In time, Irial intended to own several horseless carriages as well. What was the point in immortality if one continued to live as if it were centuries past?
“Without being seen,” Irial ordered.
Gabriel gave him another raised brow look, but said nothing.
“I don’t want her to feel stalked,” Irial explained.
Ignoring Gabriel’s snort, Irial continued, “I simply need to move to the house in the city for a short time.”
“And the Hunt?”
“It’s not as if you cannot fetch me if needs be,” Irial stated.
“Or we can come with you, Irial.” The rumbling in Gabriel’s voice clarified that even as he pretended to be suggesting the answer, he was actually demanding it.
“Fine. You can come, too.”
As the steed swept by the girl who was walking toward the city, Irial wished he could pull her to him. It was foolish. A wise man would vacate the city, ignore the mortal, stay as far from the quarrel between Beira and Keenan as he could. This one, though, had looked right at him.
“I ought to leave the state,” Irial said aloud.
“Are you going to do so?”
“No.”
“I’m not going to lecture you, Iri.” Gabriel grinned, all teeth and menace, and added, “You’re more use when you’re not pouting.”
“I don’t . . .” Irial made a crude gesture at his closest friend and added, “I am not pouting, Gabe. I am simply enjoying a vibrant city, filled with music and distractions. A favorite city, as you know.”
Gabriel laughed.
Prostitution was newly legal in New Orleans now. The Crescent City was the first city to legalize it in this country, and the Dark Court enjoyed the profits of that law. His fey fed on darker emotions, and the so-called Storyville District added to the court’s already-deep coffers.
“She might simply be a distraction,” Irial claimed, careful to phrase his words in such a way that they were not a statement of absolutes. Lying, after all, was not possible for a faery.
“Or a way to cope with your guilt,” Gabriel added.
“Or boredom,” Irial admitted.
Or something else. He didn’t say that aloud though. Far better to think of guilt or boredom as motivators.
Irial smiled. Thelma—much like Niall before her and Leslie after her—was far from boring. Irial, if he did say so himself, had excellent taste.
“I treasured her,” he said. “And she hid my child.”
Later that afternoon, Leslie and Irial rode to the airport in the company of assorted Hounds. There was something about feeling so cherished that never grew old for her. The massive fey creatures, looking for all the world like a multicultural biker gang, escorted them to the ticket counters.
Cam carried the small bags that she and Irial had packed. In truth, she was surprised that Irial had agreed to pack things. He had the ridiculous habit of believing that a credit card and a whim would suffice when it came to most clothes. His suits, of course, were tailored, but things like jeans or shirts were a matter of little concern.
“No time for stores?” she asked.
“I need all the time to research,” Irial murmured, not even looking up from the latest of the letters he’d retrieved from a locked fireproof box and slipped into his Italian leather satchel.
The pages were yellowed, ink faded, but each letter was in a protective sleeve, as if a careful librarian had stored them. Leslie wanted to read them, to know his every secret, but her life with Irial and Niall worked because she had the ability to be patient—and the ability to be brash. She knew the two men well enough to know which trait she needed, and right now, the living embodiment of Discord needed her support and her patience.
They checked their bags, cleared security, and went to stand at a gate. The Hounds, of course, still stood like fierce guards around them. The difference was that no one saw them now. However, in that way of such fey things, they radiated a kind of terror that meant no one came near Irial.
“You really want us to stay here?” Cam asked.
Irial lifted his eyes, met Cam’s gaze, and nodded once. To anyone looking their way, it would appear as if he nodded to himself upon reading something pertinent.
“King’s not going to approve,” another Hound muttered.
“Does Niall know?” Leslie asked, even though she knew exactly what Irial would say.
Or not say.
Irial lifted a shoulder in a small shrug.
Leslie texted: “With Iri. Airport. NOLA. Love.”
Then she looked at Irial, back at the Hounds, and said, “Go.”
“Leslie?” Cam asked in apparent confusion.
“We need a little time to ourselves,” she said, leaning into Irial even with the metal arm rest jabbing into her side. “Just us.”
To a bystander, she seemed to be talking to Irial, but the Hounds knew what she was saying. They—like most of the Dark Court—acted as if she were their queen. No one really pressed the matter, and she was cautious not to issue orders. Today, though, she was taking advantage of their obedience to her.
“Just the two of us,” she repeated with emphasis.
Irial lifted his gaze, looked around at the fey creatures that were standing there watching over them. Hounds were stronger than many faeries, but this much steel had to be unpleasant for some of them.
“Begone,” Irial ordered.
They rolled through the airport boarding areas, an invisible wave of discomfort that the observant could track simply by noting the ripple of fear and anxiety that the passengers’ faces showed. Even seasoned businesspeople seemed suddenly ill-at-ease. The trick for those without the Sight was to
notice waves of joy, or fear, or chills that seemed to roll across a crowd or street. That was often the result of passing faeries.
Once they were gone, and Leslie saw no other lurking faeries in the area, she turned to Irial and gently prompted, “Tell me what’s happening.”
Silently, he slipped the letter back into his case.
“A very long time ago, Thelma asked me not to seek her out. She was mortal, and I was not,” he paused and smiled. “Am not. Will never be. I knew she lived a long life because I looked her up from time to time.”
He leaned forward.
“I gave her a vow. In fact I gave her”—he laughed as if there was a joke she hadn’t heard—“quite a number of them. The first before we acknowledged that she knew what I was, but the last vow . . . I never saw her again after it. Never spoke.”
All traces of laughter were gone, and Leslie felt waves of loss assail her.
“And so I never knew, and she never sent word. I don’t know how she could’ve, but if she had . . . I’d have known my daughter.”
Leslie stared at him. “She intentionally hid your child from you?”
“I don’t know,” he whispered.
Leslie reached over and took his hand. There weren’t a lot of words. Being a woman meant that her child—if she had one—would not be a secret. One notices such things. For men, though, the fear that a child out there might be yours, that you might never know, was a real possibility.
“She lived in New Orleans?”
He nodded. “A long time ago, I was there, and she was there, and we met, and . . . if things had been different . . .” Irial shook his head and simply noted, “I would have liked to know my daughter.”
They sat in silence, Leslie feeling his emotions and trying to send calm his way, until the plane boarded. They remained the same on the flight to the city at the mouth of the Mississippi River. She’d never been there, although it was on her list of places to see, but not like this.
By the time they landed, Leslie no longer worried that Irial’s sorrow would drown her. So she asked, “What year?”
He looked her way.
“When did you know her?” Leslie clarified.
