by Melissa Marr
Ani looped an arm around Leslie’s waist. “Come on, sleepy girl. Let’s go play. You’ll catch your second wind once you get moving again.”
“Did you see him?” Leslie stumbled again.
Tish clapped her hands. “Oooh, wait until you see the new dartboards Keenan bought for the club. I heard that all his girlfriend said was that she wanted to try darts, and boom, there were three new boards the next day.”
“She’s not his girlfriend,” Leslie murmured, glancing back behind them at the doorway. The thorn man waved at her.
“Whatever.” Ani tugged Leslie forward. “There’s new boards.”
Leslie hadn’t been at the club more than a half hour when Mitchell—her loudmouthed ex—showed up. Not surprisingly, he was ripped.
“Lezzie, girl!” He gave her a cruel smile. “Where’s tonight’s toy? Or”—he lowered his voice—“do you just take care of that with battery power these days?”
His dumbass friends laughed.
“Back off, Mitchell,” she said. Dealing with him was never pleasant. After her mother had left, Leslie and Ren had both made some stupid choices, chasing a fix. Ren’s fix had cost Leslie a lot, but even before that, she’d made a few choices that’d cost her. She’d tried to forget where she was, how wrong things were. It made her do stupid things. Mitchell had been one of those stupid things.
From out of nowhere, Niall was there. “Are you okay?”
“I will be.” Leslie turned to walk away from Mitchell, but he grabbed her arm. Unbidden, the image of the dealer crumpling to the ground with her hand on his wrist rose up. It would be wrong. She stared at Mitch’s hand on her skin. So? He’s wrong.
“Don’t touch Leslie,” Niall said. He didn’t move, but the tension in his body was obvious enough that people were backing away.
“Niall? It’s cool. I’ve got it.” She pulled her arm away from Mitchell, but when she turned around, Mitchell slapped her ass. His friends laughed again, but this time they sounded a little nervous.
Leslie swung back, hand curled into a fist, angry to a degree that felt obscenely good. For a moment, her vision was off. People all through the club were watching her, but they didn’t look like people. Claws, thorns, wings, horns, fur, misshapen features, so many people looked wrong. It made her pause.
Niall stepped in front of her and asked, “Are you well?”
She was anything but well. Her pulse was racing like she had been chasing caffeine pills with espresso shots. Her vision was a mess; her emotions were a mess; and she wasn’t about to say any of that aloud. Instead, she said, “I’m fine. It’s fine. Everything’s…fine. You don’t need to—”
He cut her off. “He shouldn’t disrespect you like that.”
Leslie put her hand on Niall’s shoulder. “He’s no one. Come on.”
Mitchell rolled his eyes. She hoped he’d leave it at that, but he was too drunk to have the sense to keep his mouth shut. He leaned in toward Niall. “You don’t need to act all heroic to get in her pants, man. She’ll spread those scrawny legs for anyone. Won’tcha, Lezzie?”
The sound that came out of Niall’s mouth was more animal than human. He started forward, his body at an odd angle as if something were physically holding him back. Mitchell backed up. Leslie followed. She reached out then and gripped Mitchell’s face with both hands. She pulled him toward her like she’d kiss him. When he was close enough to feel her words on his lips, she whispered, “Don’t. Not tonight. Not ever again.” She squeezed his face until tears came to his eyes. “I’ll eat you alive. Got it?”
Then she let go, and he stumbled backward. The people who were watching her, those who’d looked just a moment ago feathered and oddly proportioned and otherwise not right, grinned. Some nodded at her. Others applauded. She pulled her gaze away from them. They didn’t matter. What mattered was that her heartbeat was calm again.
A few steps away, Mitchell stood stuttering. “She…she…did you see…bitch threatened—”
Right then, Leslie felt invincible, like she could walk into a fight and not be touched, like there was some extra energy humming in her bones. It made her want to move, roam, see how far she could push it. She started to walk away, but Niall touched her arm gently.
“There’s all sorts of dangers out there.” He caught and held her gaze. “It would be safest if I walk with you.”
Safe wasn’t quite what appealed to her right then. Safe wasn’t how she felt. Invincible, in control, powerful—those words felt closer to true. Whatever this fearlessness, this strength, this difference was, she was starting to like it. She laughed. “I don’t need protecting, but I’d take the company.”
Although Niall was mostly quiet as they walked through the dim streets, it didn’t feel awkward or uncomfortable. Her bad feelings, her usual worries and fears, seemed to be absent. It felt good; she felt good. The choice to change herself, to get her skin decorated, had been a turning point.
Niall caught her hand in his as they walked. “Will you stay at Seth’s tonight? I have a key.”
She wanted to ask why he cared where she slept, but the chance to stay somewhere safe was reason enough not to ask. She might feel invulnerable, but she wasn’t entirely without logic. So she asked, “Where’s Seth?”
“At the loft with Aislinn.”
“And where are you planning to stay?” she asked.
“Outside.”
“So you’re going to sleep in the yard?” She looked away, and in doing so saw him out of the corner of her eye. Gone was the face she recognized. His eyes weren’t just brown: they were shimmering with the patina of well-aged wood, the sheen of something caressed too often. His scar was red, like a still-tender wound, jagged as if an animal had slashed one long claw over his face. But it wasn’t these things that made her draw her breath in so suddenly: he glowed faintly, as if he were being illuminated from some brazier inside.
As at the Crow’s Nest, what she’d seen a moment ago and what she saw now weren’t the same at all. She shivered, staring at him, reaching her hand out to touch the thick black shadows that lingered alongside his skin. Those dark shadows surged toward her hand, as if she were a magnet.
“Leslie?” He whispered her name, and it was the voice of wind racing down an alley, not a sound made by a person.
She blinked, hoping he wasn’t one of those people who asked, “What are you thinking?” She wasn’t sure what she’d say. The shadows pushed against her outstretched fingers, and she had a flash of the ink at Rabbit’s shop: those shadows had wanted to crawl toward her from the uncapped ink bottle.
Niall spoke again. “I want to stay with you, but I can’t.”
Hesitantly she faced him, immeasurably relieved that he looked normal again. She looked at the street. Everything looked fine. What just happened? She was about to turn her head again, to see if he’d look different again, but he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the underside of her wrist.
She forgot about looking at him in her peripheral vision, forgot about the shadows that crept toward her. It was a choice. She could look at the ugliness, the oddities, the wrongness, or she could let herself enjoy life. She wanted that, pleasure instead of ugliness. Niall was offering it to her.
He leaned closer, his face hovering over the pulse of her throat now. It sounded like he said, “Do you know what I would trade to be with you?” But then he pulled away and distance returned to his voice. “Let me take you to Seth’s tonight. I’ll sit with you until you sleep if you want, if you’ll let me.”
“Okay.” Leslie felt dizzy, swaying into him.
Niall put a hand on either side of her face. “Leslie?”
“Yes. Please.” She felt high, blissed out. It was lovely—and she wanted more.
His lips were close enough that she felt his breath with each word. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”
“I said yes.”
And he closed the slight distance between them and kissed her. She felt the same rush of fierce winds
that she thought she’d heard in his voice. She felt it wrap around her like the air had grown solid and touched her everywhere at once, soft and unyielding at the same time. The ground felt different, like there would be thick moss under her feet if she looked. It was euphoric, but somewhere inside, panic was trying to force itself to the surface. She started to push him away, opened her eyes.
He tightened his hold and whispered, “It’s okay. It’ll be okay. I can stop. We can…stop.”
But it felt like she was at the edge of a chasm, a swirling mass of tastes and colors she hadn’t known could exist. The panic fled, and all she could think of was finding a way to reach that chasm, to slide down the slope into it. There was no pain there. There was nothing but ecstacy, mind-numbingly good and soul sating.
“Not stop,” she murmured and pressed closer to him.
It isn’t okay. She knew that, but she didn’t care. Tiny slivers of shadows danced at the edges of her vision, gyrating like they’d stretch up to consume the moon. Or me. And in that moment, she hoped they would succeed.
CHAPTER 18
As Niall led Leslie through the street toward Seth’s train, he wondered just how long he could handle being surrounded by that much steel. This part of the city was painful for any fey other than a regent to visit. It was why he wanted Leslie there, safe from the prying eyes of Irial’s fey. It wouldn’t stop Irial himself, but it would keep Leslie safe from the rest of the Dark Court—even as it would sicken Niall.
I deserve it, though, the sickness. He’d pushed her boundaries, crossed lines he knew not to broach. After all of this time, he’d come perilously close to giving in to what he was—and she’d die from it if he did.
“Are you still with me?” she asked.
“I am.” He turned to look at her and saw them—Bananach and several of Irial’s less-obedient faeries. They weren’t near enough to see Leslie, but they would be if Niall didn’t move her. He pulled her into a shadowed doorway and put his back to the street, keeping her out of their sight. She didn’t resist. Instead she tilted her head up so he could kiss her again. Just one more kiss.
When he pulled away he was more careful this time, enjoying the glazed look in her eyes, enjoying the knowledge that he made her feel so close to tumbled, but keeping his glamour firmly in place. He wanted to ask her what she had heard, what she had seen earlier, but that wasn’t a conversation he could begin—not with Aislinn’s rules still in place, and not with Bananach in the streets behind them.
That’s what he should be concentrating on—the threat Bananach posed. Niall turned his head to better see the war-hungry faery, trying to think about safe retreat options. His mind was fuzzy, though. Bananach looked deadly beautiful as always, the raven-feathered head of her true image vying with her glamour of sleek black hair. She was one of the least-mannered faeries who lingered in Irial’s court; she was the one who had once unseated Irial and continually sought to do so again—not to hold the court, but to create war within it. That she was prowling the streets with several Ly Ergs in tow did not bode well.
We should go. Now. We should—
Leslie pressed closer to him. He drew another deep breath of the curiously sweet scent that was uniquely her. Mortals always smelled so different. He’d almost forgotten how much he’d enjoyed that. He kissed her neck so she didn’t find it odd that he was resting his face there. Bananach hasn’t seen us. We have a few more moments. Between kisses, he told Leslie, “I would stay with you always if I could.”
And he meant it. Right then, he truly meant it. He’d been too long a part of the Summer Court to mean it for always, and before that he’d been even less capable of fidelity, but in that moment, as he stood pressed against her mortal body, he meant it as fervently as he was able.
Where’s the harm in letting her linger with me for a while? If I am careful… She’d only sicken if he left her. He could stay with her for a few decades.
Behind him, he felt the street shiver as Gabriel and several of his Hounds came into it. Niall tensed. He wasn’t able to stand against Bananach, Ly Ergs, and Gabriel.
And how do I explain to Leslie?
But when he glanced back, Gabriel and the others were all invisible. Leslie would not see or hear them.
Gabriel dispatched several Hounds whose names Niall did not recall—or care to—and they gleefully went after the Ly Ergs. Then he said, “Get going, boy, unless you want to help.”
Niall held Gabriel’s gaze, as answering was impossible.
“Take her out of here, Gancanagh.” Gabriel leaned left as Bananach flew at him. She was glorious, moving with an elegance that few faeries could equal. Rather than step out of her path, though, Gabriel stayed between Bananach and Niall.
The raven-woman ripped a strip of flesh from Gabriel’s forearm where Irial’s orders were written.
Gabriel’s snarl was wall shaking as he swung at Bananach. “Go.”
Niall turned around as Leslie swayed into him, her eyes unfocused. She closed them and leaned forward like she’d topple over. Shame rose in him. Their kisses had injured her and distracted him beyond reason. If Gabriel hadn’t been there, Bananach would’ve been on them in moments.
What’s happening to me? He should be able to resist one mortal girl, especially in the presence of a fatal threat. He’d always been addictive to mortals, but they hadn’t been addictive to him. They made him drunk, made him so intoxicated that he could barely stand, but they were never impossible to resist. He looked at Leslie. She was pretty, but he’d seen plenty of pretty girls over the years. Pretty wasn’t reason enough to lose himself as he was doing. Nothing made sense. He needed to step away. He wasn’t keeping her safe from Irial’s faeries—or from himself.
He steadied her with his arm as they walked. Behind them, he could hear the horrific sounds of the tussle among the dark faeries. It had been a long time since Gabriel’s snarls and growls were welcome sounds, but tonight the Hound had saved him and Leslie both.
Why?
A gleeful shriek from Bananach made him spin Leslie into a doorway. He felt the ominous rush of Bananach’s movement toward them.
Leslie’s back was pressed against a tall iron fence. She stared at him with the openness of so many mortals over the years, her lips parted for a kiss he knew not to give her. “Niall?”
“Just…” He had no words that he could say. He looked away, counting each measured breath, concentrating on not touching her. Behind them he heard Gabriel’s Hounds catch up. Bananach no longer crowed with pleasure. Instead she hurled curses at the Hounds. Then there was only silence in the street.
And he could hear Leslie’s uneven breathing, matching his own, proof that they were both more excited than either of them should be. She shouldn’t be that drunk on just a couple of kisses. It wasn’t as if he’d touched her in any intimate way. Yet. He wanted to, more than he could remember ever wanting a mortal. He put his hands against the iron fence behind Leslie: the pain of it helped chase away his irrational thoughts.
He looked behind him to assess the safety of moving. Bananach was gone. The Hounds were gone. No other faeries lingered in the street. It was only the two of them. He let go of the fence and opened his mouth to find an excuse to explain why he’d pushed her into the wall and kissed her so—an excuse that would stop things before they went further.
Is there such a statement?
But Leslie’s hand slipped under his shirt, tentative but there nonetheless. He could feel the edges of the cuts on her palm and fingers as she slid her hand up his spine.
He pulled back.
Unable to keep her hand on his back as he stepped away, she slid it to his chest, lingering under his shirt. Her fingers traced upward to his heart.
Neither of them spoke or moved for several moments. Leslie’s pulse had slowed back to normal. Her passion had abated. His guilt, on the other hand, wasn’t leaving so quickly. There was nothing he could say to undo where they were, but he couldn’t move forward either. His plan to
be near her as a friend was failing horribly. He said, “We should go.”
She nodded, but her fingers continued to trace lines on his skin.
“You have a lot of scars,” she said, not asking but leaving the comment hanging there for him to answer or not.
Answering that implied question was something he didn’t do, not when his king had been too young to realize that it was an awful question, not when he took any of the fey to his bed, not when his new queen had first seen him at guards’ practice and looked at him with tears in her eyes. But Leslie had scars of her own, and he knew what had caused hers.
He kissed her eyelids carefully and told her, “It was a very long time ago.”
Her hand stilled where it rested over his heart. If she thought anything of his erratic heartbeat, she didn’t say.
Finally she asked, “Was it an accident?”
“No. It was very much on purpose.” He brought her free hand up to the scar on his cheek. “None of these were accidental.”
“I’m sorry.” She leaned up and kissed his cheek. Her gentleness was even more dangerous than her passion had been.
If he thought on it, he could remember the pain as vividly as when it had happened. The memory of the pain cleared his head, helped him focus on where he was, and what he needed to be like for Leslie: strong, careful, a friend. He said, “I survived. Isn’t that what matters? Surviving?”
She looked away. “I hope so.”
“Do you think less of me?”
Her expression was aghast. “No. Gods no.”
“Some would.”
“They’re wrong. Whoever hurt you…” She shook her head, her look murderous now. “I hope they suffered for it.”
“They did not.” He looked away then. If she knew how badly they’d broken him, would she pity him? Would she think him less a man for not being strong enough to escape them? He had, afterward. At the time he would’ve happily become a shade—faded rather than endure another moment of that pain, those memories. It would’ve been easier to give up, to end. Instead the last Summer King had found him, taken him into the Summer Court, and given him the space to recover his pride, to rebuild his mind.
