by Melissa Marr
Aislinn’s placid smile didn’t waver, but tiny sparks of sunlight showed in her eyes. “What difference does it make to you?”
He leaned back and stretched his legs out in the aisle, as comfortable as he could be in the crowd of frolicking mortals. “Would you believe I care for Niall?”
“No.”
“Fey don’t lie.”
“Not overtly,” she amended.
“Well, if you won’t believe that”—he shrugged—“what can I say? I enjoy provoking the kingling.” He reached out for her hand. Unlike most faeries, the Summer Queen had enough speed to avoid his touch—sunlight can move as quickly as shadows—but she didn’t. Keenan would’ve.
Queens are so much more pleasing to deal with.
Irial was assailed by the seeping heat of summer’s languor, steamy breezes, and a strange-sweet taste of humid air. It was lovely. He held on to her hand, knowing that she felt his court’s essence as surely as he felt hers, watching her pulse flutter like a captured thing, caught and struggling.
She flushed and pulled her hand away. “Being tempted isn’t the same as being interested. I’m tempted by my king every moment of every day…but I’m not interested in sex for empty pleasure, and if I were, it wouldn’t be with you.”
“I’m not sure who I should envy more—the kingling or your mortal toy,” Irial said.
Sparks illuminated the club as her temper finally became less stable. But even as her mood vacillated, she wasn’t as temperamental as Keenan. “Seth is not a toy”—she appraised him then with a clarity Keenan didn’t have—“any more than Leslie is a toy to you. Is she?”
“Keenan won’t understand that. When he took mortals, he took their mortality.”
“And you?”
“I like Leslie’s mortality the way it is.” He shook out a cigarette, tapped it on the table. “This isn’t a secret you’ll get from me…any more than I’ll tell you the kingling’s secrets or Niall’s.”
“Why not just let her go?”
He stared at her, wondering idly if she’d light his cigarette. Miach, the last Summer King, used to derive curious amusement from lighting things afire. Somehow, Irial doubted Aislinn would, so he pulled out a lighter. “I’ll not answer that, not now, not without a reason. She’s mine. That’s all that matters.”
“What if I told you our court would take her back?”
He lit his cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled. “You’d be wrong.”
Irial didn’t mention that the Summer King didn’t care one whit about Leslie. The Summer Queen might care for his Leslie, but Keenan? He didn’t truly care for anyone other than his own fey and his queen. And not always to their best interests.
Irritated but still in control of her emotions, Aislinn gave Irial a look that would send most fey to their knees. Before she could speak, he caught one of her hands again. She struggled in his grip, her skin growing hot as molten steel.
“Leslie belongs to me, as surely as your Seth belongs to you, as the Summer Girls belong to Keenan.”
“She’s my friend.”
“Then you should’ve done something to protect her. Do you know what’s been done to her? How lost she’s been? How afraid? How very, very broken?”
As much as he found it touching that Aislinn cared for his girl, it wasn’t reason enough to sacrifice Leslie. They hadn’t protected her, hadn’t kept her safe, hadn’t made her happy. He would do those things. “When she adjusts to the changes—”
“What changes? You said she was still mortal. What did you do?”
Tiny storm clouds clustered around them until the club was hazy with them. The conversation wasn’t going to improve, so Irial stood and bowed. “My court deals in darker things than yours. The rest is not mine to say. Later, if she wants to, she’ll tell you.”
Then he left the Summer Queen and her retinue of scowling guards. Despite his court’s need for dissension among the denizens of Faerie, he had no patience for politics, not now. He had something—someone—more important to attend to.
CHAPTER 26
Leslie and Seth were several blocks away before she finally asked, “Do you know what’s going on?”
Without missing a step, Seth said, “They’re not human. None of them.”
“Right.” She scowled. “Thanks. Joking really helps.”
“I’m not joking, Leslie.” He glanced past her as if someone were there and smiled at the empty street. “Ask Irial for the Sight. Tell him you deserve it.”
“The Sight?” She didn’t smack him, but she wanted to. She felt utterly off-kilter, and he was mocking her.
“And guards,” he added. Then he stopped and motioned to the open space in front of her. “Show her.”
“Show me wha—”
A girl with black leathery wings appeared. She smiled in a predatory way. “Ooh, are we going to get to play?”
Niall’s voice came from behind her, “Take a walk, Cerise. She belongs to Irial now.”
“Irial took a mortal? Really? I heard rumors, but…hmm, she’s a bit plain, isn’t she?” The winged girl looked astounded, amused, and curious all at once.
Leslie stared at her: she couldn’t turn to look at Niall, couldn’t begin to get her head around what he had just said. Belong? What about us? What about everything he whispered to me? Belong? A burst of anger consumed her sadness but faded immediately. Belong? Like a trinket? I belong to myself. But she didn’t say any of it, didn’t turn to face him with confusion written plainly on her face. Instead she stepped up to the winged girl, Cerise.
Cerise flapped her wings. “They’re real.” And with her backless top, it was obvious that the wings were truly sprouting from her skin. “Oh, sweetie, you’re in for a good time. That one has stamina you wouldn’t believe—”
Then something—unseen—grabbed Cerise from behind; she started to move backward without any obvious effort on her part. Surges of loathing for Cerise rolled through the air from that unseen thing into Leslie’s skin, filling her and fleeing before they settled.
“Fine. I’m going,” Cerise snapped. Then she waved as she disappeared. Her disembodied voice called, “See you around, babe.”
Leslie slid to the sidewalk. She was trembling, shaking from whatever was wrong with her. It wasn’t just that she could tell what others were feeling: it was more now. The feelings around her were almost tactile, and they were slithering under her skin.
“She had wings,” she said.
Seth nodded.
“And vanished? She really vanished?” Leslie tried to keep her focus. Somewhere in the apartments above her, a woman was weeping with a sorrow so heavy, it made Leslie think she was swallowing copper.
Niall reached down and helped Leslie to her feet. He bent so his lips were against her face. Gently he murmured, “I’ve failed you yet again. But I’m not giving up. Just remember that: I won’t let him keep you.”
Leslie looked from him to Seth. She wanted Seth to tell her this was a joke, wanted him to tell her things hadn’t become hopelessly weird. Seth had been around as long as she’d lived in Huntsdale. If he told her it was okay…
But Seth shook his head. “Ask Irial for the Sight and guards of your own.”
“Guards? They can’t protect her from what she needs protection from, from him,” Niall snarled before looking back at her. His expression softened then, and he whispered, “Don’t forget: surviving is what matters. You can do this.”
Tish stepped from the shadows in front of them. “You shouldn’t touch Leslie.”
Leslie tried to focus on the girl. The whole world had shifted, and Leslie was starting to believe that it wouldn’t be getting stable again anytime soon. The symphony of flavors wafted from the walls around her, crept toward her from nearby rooms, and battered her skin. She closed her eyes and tried to catalogue the tastes as they ran through her. There were too many.
Niall slowly stepped back, assuring that she was steady on her feet before he let go.
“Are y
ou sick?” Tish had her tiny hands on Leslie’s forehead, her cheeks. “Is it from the ink? Let me see.”
“I’m fine.” Leslie slapped Tish’s hand away from her shirt, anxious at the thought of sharing her tattoo—our tattoo, mine and Irial’s—right now. “What do you want? Why are you—”
“I saw you at the club but couldn’t expose myself there.” Tish still stared only at Leslie.
Expose herself? With the deluge of emotions distracting her so, Leslie was having trouble figuring out what to say or do. All she could ask was, “Do you know Seth?”
Tish glanced briefly at Seth, sizing him up with a look that would’ve done Ani proud. “Ash’s toy?”
Beside Seth, Niall stiffened, but Seth put a hand out.
“I don’t get it, but”—Tish shrugged—“not my business.”
Then she laced her fingers through Leslie’s and started talking as if there were no one else around. “You seemed like you were having fun earlier. Rabbit would kick my ass if I didn’t bring you to him, though. You’re pale. The first day is rough for humans.”
“Humans?” Leslie almost laughed at how very surreal the night had become. “What does that make you?”
But Tish was still talking, ignoring the question, “Let’s get you checked out. Make sure you’re all good when he comes for you.”
“I’m fine,” Leslie insisted although she knew she wasn’t. “But yeah, let’s go see Rabbit. Just to…He?”
“Iri,” Tish said gleefully. “You want to be ready for him, don’t you?”
“For Irial?” Leslie repeated, looking back over her shoulder at Niall. He had a horrible expression of pain on his face. Chicory tangled with copper sorrow.
“Survive,” he mouthed as he touched the scar on his face.
And she paused, remembering the way her vision had shifted when Niall had walked her to Seth’s. She turned her head, looking at Niall and Seth from the corner of her eye: Seth looked the same as he always had. Niall didn’t. His scar glared like a fresh jagged wound; his eyes reflected the streetlight like an animal’s. His bones weren’t quite right, like there were extra lengths or joints where she had none. His cheekbones were too severe for a human’s face, too angular, and his skin glowed as if illuminated by a light inside him, as if his skin were too sheer, like parchment over a flame. She pulled her hand out of Tish’s grasp and stepped toward him.
“He couldn’t tell you,” Seth said.
Leslie couldn’t move closer, couldn’t find words, staring at Niall as he glowed.
Niall held her gaze. “I negotiated with my queen to be allowed to protect you. I’m sorry I failed, Leslie. I…I’m so sorry.”
“Your queen?” she asked, but she suspected the answer before she heard it. She looked at Seth.
“Ash,” Seth confirmed. “She didn’t want you involved in this world. She wanted to keep you safe from them.”
He motioned behind her, where there were now almost two dozen people who didn’t look anywhere near human. Like the crowd at the Rath, they all seemed to be wearing elaborate costumes. But they weren’t costumes.
“What are they?” she asked.
“Faeries.”
Leslie looked at them: no one was what they’d seemed a few minutes ago. Nothing made sense. I am angry now. I am afraid. Yet she couldn’t feel those things. She felt curiosity, surprise, and a vague sense of euphoria that she knew—objectively—should be more terrifying than the rest.
“Ash rules one of the faery courts, the Summer Court. She shares the throne with Keenan,” Seth said without any inflection, but Leslie felt—tasted—his worries, his fears, his anger, his jealousy. It was all there under the surface.
She looked back at Niall—not from the corner of her eye, but full on. He still looked like he was glowing. She gestured at him. “What? Why can I see you like this now?”
“You already know. I don’t need to wear a glamour.” Niall stepped forward, walking toward her.
“She’s Irial’s now. Ours.” Tish gestured toward the shadows, and at least six of the thorn-covered men stepped in front of Leslie, blocking Niall. As they did so, the dreadlocked quints from the Rath appeared beside Niall. They were growling, as was he. He bared his teeth.
More people appeared as she watched. No, not people, creatures of some sort, stepping out of empty air. Some were armed with strange weapons—short curved knives that looked like they were made of rock and bone, long blades of bronze and silver. Others grinned cruelly as they lined up to face one another, except for a small group that encircled her and another that encircled Seth.
Tish—who looked no different, despite claiming affiliation with whatever weird creatures these were—stepped forward slowly, like a predator stalking prey. “I speak with Irial’s blessing tonight, to look after Leslie, to keep her safe for him. You don’t want to try us, Niall.”
Niall’s tense posture—his rage humming in his bones like an elixir Leslie could drown in—said what his words did not: he very much wanted to move toward violence.
And Leslie, for all the oddity of the moment, wanted him to. She wanted the lot of them to tear into one another. She wanted their violence, their excitement, their rivalry and hatred. It was a craving deep inside her, a hunger that was not her own. She swayed on her feet as their emotions tangled into her.
Then the circle around her parted. Tish bowed her head briefly and took Leslie’s hand. She raised her voice enough to be heard over the growls and mutterings of the crowd. “Would you start a war over the girl, Niall?”
“I would love to,” he answered.
“Are you allowed to?” Tish asked.
There was silence then. Finally Niall replied, “My court has forbidden me from doing so.”
“Then go home,” Tish said. She motioned toward the shadows. “Dad, can you carry her?”
Leslie turned and saw Gabriel. The tattoos on his arms shifted in the low light, as if they were poised to run. That’s not possible either. But it’s real. And they want me…for what? Why? She couldn’t panic. She felt like it was there, though, a panic just out of reach, a thought of an emotion. What did they do to me?
“Hey, girl.” Gabriel smiled gently as he approached her. “Let’s get you out of here, okay?”
And she felt herself being lifted, held aloft as Gabriel ran through the streets faster than she’d ever moved in her life. There were no sounds, no sights, only darkness and Irial’s voice from somewhere far away: “Rest now, darling. I’ll see you later.”
CHAPTER 27
Niall was only halfway into the front room of the loft when he said, “Leslie’s gone. I don’t ask much, haven’t in all these years—”
Keenan raised a hand that glowed with pulsing sunlight. “Does Irial hold sway over you, Niall?”
“What?” Niall stood motionless as he reined in his own emotions.
The Summer King scowled but didn’t answer. The plants in the loft bent under the force of the desert wind that was picking up speed as Keenan’s emotions fluctuated; the birds had retreated to their safe nooks in the columns. At least the Summer Girls are out. Keenan sent the remaining guards away with a few terse words. Then he began pacing. Eddies of steamed air swirled through the room, twisting and spiraling as if ghostly figures were hidden in them, only to be slashed apart by the hot winds already shrieking around them—all of which were then washed away by bursts of rain. Made manifest by the king’s warring emotions, the climates clashed in the small space and left disaster behind.
Then Keenan paused to say, “Do you think often of Irial? Feel sympathy for his court?”
“What are you talking about?” Niall asked.
Keenan gripped the sofa cushions, clearly trying to find a way to restrain his emotions. The storm whipped through the room, shredding the leaves of the trees, sending glass-work sculptures crashing to the ground.
“I’ve made the choices I needed to, Niall. I won’t be bound again. I won’t go back to that. I won’t be weakened by Irial�
�.” Sunlight shone from Keenan’s eyes, from his lips. The sofa cushions caught fire.
“You aren’t making any sense, Keenan. If you have a point, make it.” Niall’s own temper wasn’t as volatile, even after all these centuries with Keenan, but it was far crueler than Keenan could ever be. “Irial took Leslie. We don’t have time for—”
“Irial’s still fond of you.” Keenan had a pensive look as he asked a question he’d not ever asked directly before: “How do you feel about him?”
Niall froze, staring at his friend, his cause, his reason for everything over so many centuries. That Keenan would ask such a question stung. “Don’t do this. Don’t ask me questions about before.”
Keenan didn’t answer, didn’t apologize for salting old wounds. He went to stare out the window as the sandstorm in the room stilled. The Summer King was calm again.
Niall, however, fought to control his own emotions. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have, not now when he was worried about Leslie and furious with Irial. Once, Niall had placed his trust in another king, and that had been a mistake. Back then, Irial had revealed that he’d known all along that the mortals Niall had lain with were sickened and addicted. He’d told Niall that those mortals died—but not until after the dark faeries had brought the mortals to their bruig for entertainment. He’d explained that Niall’s addictive nature was simply part of being a Gancanagh. Niall had run then, but Gabriel had come for him. He brought Niall back into the Dark Court’s bruig, the faery mound where Irial was waiting.
“You could rule my court someday, Gancanagh,” Irial had murmured as he brought forth the mortals who’d been addicted—and were mad with wanting.
“Linger with us,” he whispered. “This is where you belong. With me. Nothing has changed.”
Around them, the addicted mortals grappled at the willing fey like they were starving for touch, too sick with withdrawal to think of the consequences of contact with thorn-covered bodies and incompatible shapes.
