by Melissa Marr
And Niall had been disgusted that he’d all but handed mortals over to the Dark Court, and when Irial offered him a trade—“You entertain the court or they can, Gancanagh. Fear and pain is the coin for their ransom. It matters little to me who pays it”—Niall had thought to do the right thing, giving his vow freely in exchange for the release of the addicts. In the end, it hadn’t mattered: the addicts still withered away, pleading for the drug that was in Niall’s skin.
Keenan was speaking again. “What you are has never been used as an asset to our court.” He had a faraway look, both pensive and calculating. “If I’m to keep our court safe, I need to use all our assets.”
Keenan uncorked a bottle that had been sitting on a warming tray, poured the honeyed drink into two glasses, and held one out.
Niall couldn’t respond, couldn’t speak. He just stared at his king.
“Even with Irial swaying her, Leslie will want you, and he still wants you. We can use this to learn the other secrets Irial’s court hides from us.” Keenan offered Niall the glass again. “Come now. He’ll not strike out at you. Mayhap he’ll share the girl, and—”
“You knew. That Leslie was marked by him, that—”
“No. I knew there were mortals being marked and taken in by Dark Court faeries. I hoped we’d have learned more by now, sorting out why or how they were bonding with mortals. Now we just need to reassess. This isn’t over. She wants you. I saw her watching you before this all began. I can’t think Irial’s claiming her will erase that. This could be better than I’d hoped. If she survives, she’ll be in a position to learn much. She’ll tell you. She’ll do what you want just to be near you.” Keenan offered the glass a third time. “Drink with me, Niall. Don’t let this put us asunder.”
Niall took the glass and, watching Keenan as he did it, dropped it on the floor. “I’ve lived for you, Keenan. My life, my every decision for nine gods-damned centuries. How could you violate her like—”
“I’m not the one who violated the girl. It’s not my blood under her skin. Irial—”
“Irial wasn’t the one playing me this time, was he?” Niall bowed his head as rage vied with despair. “How could you use me, Keenan? How could you keep secrets from me? You manipulated me….” He took a step closer to Keenan, approaching his king with anger, with the temptation to raise a hand to the faery he’d sworn to protect, to honor with his last breath. “You still want to use me. You knew, and—”
“I’d heard about their ink exchanges, suspected that Leslie was one of them, but finding out the secrets of the Dark Court is far from easy. She’s just one mortal. I can’t save them all, and if one or two fall so we can keep them all safe…This is no different than it’s ever been.” Keenan didn’t back up, didn’t summon guards to his side. “We can use this to have what we both want.”
“You encouraged my interest in Leslie, set me up to disobey Aislinn, my queen, your queen.”
“I did.”
As Niall stood there, trembling in his anger, all of Keenan’s statements of late came crashing in on him; the truth of what Niall hadn’t seen, by trust or foolishness, was heart crushing. “And you don’t feel any remorse, do you? What she’s suffering—”
“Irial is a threat to our court.” Keenan shrugged. “The Dark Court is too awful to be allowed to thrive. You know as well as I what they’ve done. You bear the scars. I won’t have him strong enough to threaten our court, especially our queen. He needs to be kept in check.”
“So why not tell me?” Niall watched his king, hoping for some answer that would ease the weight that threatened to break Niall’s spirit as surely as the Dark Court once had.
But Keenan didn’t offer such an answer. Instead he said, “And have you do what? Tell the girl? I saw you swaying to her as it was. Mine was a better plan. I needed you to have a focus, and she’s as good a focus as any.”
Niall heard the logic in the words, had heard his king speak thusly over the centuries when he seduced the mortals who were now Summer Girls. It didn’t change anything: Niall’s loyalty and partnership were rewarded by disregard and cavalier dismissal.
“I can’t accept…won’t accept this,” Niall said. “I’m done.”
“What do you mean?”
So Niall said the words that would undo his oath: “My fealty to the Summer Court is rescinded. You are my king no more.” It was a simple thing to end what should matter so much. A few words, and he was alone in the world again.
“Niall, think about it. This isn’t worth leaving.” Keenan sounded nothing like the faery Niall had thought him to be. “What was I to do?”
“Not this.” He stepped around Keenan. “I’d rather be solitary, courtless, without a home or king…than be used.”
He didn’t slam the door, didn’t rage, didn’t weep. He simply left.
Several hours later, Niall was still walking through the streets of Huntsdale. There was some sort of event, leaving the streets full and noisy, matching the din inside him. I’m not any better than Irial. I’d have made her addicted like the junkies she fears. And his king had known that, used that. I failed her.
It wasn’t often that he lamented being the one who followed and never led, but as he walked through the dirty mortal streets, he wondered if he’d made the right choice so long ago when Irial’d offered to make Niall his successor. At least then I’d have more choices.
Niall waded through the mostly mortal crowd. The fey who mingled with them hurriedly stepped out of his path. As the crowd moved, Niall saw him: Irial lounged against a storefront.
“I heard you were out and about,” the Dark King said, “but I was beginning to think my fey were wrong.”
“I want to talk to you,” Niall began.
“I’ll always welcome you, Gancanagh. That hasn’t changed.” Irial gestured to the tiny park across the street. “Walk with me.”
Vendors were selling sweets from their carts; drunken mortals laughed and shouted. A game of some sort or perhaps a concert must be letting out. People crowded the streets so much that traffic was unable to move. The Dark King wove through the stopped cars and angrily honking drivers, past a group of mortals singing quite poorly and doing what they seemed to think was dancing.
Once in the park, Irial motioned to a stone bench his fey had just finished clearing. “This is your sort of place, isn’t it? Would you rather go—”
“It’s fine.” But Niall stood, leaning against a tree, not at ease with having his back to the fey roaming the street.
Irial shrugged as he folded himself gracefully onto the bench, looking perversely like an ingénue unaware of the effect he had on the gaping mortals around them. “So”—he lit a cigarette—“I expect you’re here about my Leslie.”
“She’s not yours.”
Irial took a long drag off the cigarette. “You think?”
“Yes. I do.” Niall turned slightly, watching several faeries who were approaching from the left. He didn’t trust Irial or the solitary faeries who were watching or—actually he didn’t trust anyone right then.
Irial motioned several of his faeries closer and directed, “I want the immediate area empty.” Then he turned his attention to Niall. “Sit. I’ll not allow any harm to you while you sit with me—my vow on that.”
Stunned by the generous vow Irial’d offered him—no harm at all, thus saying his own safety was secondary to Niall’s—he sat and stared at the Dark King. It didn’t change things, though: a moment of kindness didn’t undo Leslie’s situation or Irial’s long-ago cruelty.
“Leslie’s not yours,” Niall said. “She’s her own, bond or not. You just don’t realize it yet.”
“Aaah, you’re still a fool, Gancanagh.” Irial exhaled a cloud of smoke and leaned back. “A passionate one, but a fool nonetheless.”
Niall said it then, the words he’d never thought to say to Irial, the start of a conversation that had once been his greatest nightmare. “Would you trade for her freedom?”
Something
indecipherable flashed in Irial’s eyes as he lowered his cigarette. “Perhaps. What are you offering?”
“What do you want?”
A weary look passed over Irial’s face. “Sometimes, I’m not sure anymore. I’ve held this court through the wars between Beira and the last Summer King, through Beira’s fits of temper, but this new order…I’m tired, Niall. What do I want?” Irial’s usual facade—half amused and half callous—returned then. “What does any king want? I want to keep my fey safe.”
“How does Leslie fit into that?”
“Are you asking for the kingling or for yourself?” Irial’s tone was once more the needling one he so often used when they spoke: the Dark King had never quite forgiven Niall for running. They both knew that.
“What do you want from me in exchange? I’m here to bargain. What’s your price, Irial?” Niall felt such a swirl of emotions at actually saying the words—self-disgust that he’d failed Leslie, anger that his king had failed him, dismay that he was touched by Irial’s kindness. “I know how this works. Tell me what you’re willing to give up and what it’ll cost me.”
“You never did figure it out, did you?” Irial asked incredulously. But before Niall could speak, Irial held up his hand. “Revel in the feelings you’re fighting not to show me, and I’ll answer you.”
“Do what?” Niall had heard of odd bargains, but here he was exposing himself to Irial’s whims, and the Dark King offered answers in exchange for “giving in to his feelings.” Niall scowled. “What sort of—”
“Stop holding all those darker feelings in, and I’ll give you the answers you need.” Irial smiled like they were friends who’d been having a reasonable conversation. “Just let yourself feel your emotions, Niall. That’s all I ask, and I’ll share information commensurate in worth with what you feel and how fully you feel it.”
“How will you—”
“Gancanagh…would you rather I ask for other favors? I’d rather not bargain with baser coins, not with you, not with anyone I have affection for.” Irial leaned close enough and smiled such a wicked smile that Niall was reminded of more pleasant times with Irial long ago, before Niall knew who and what Irial was, before he knew what he himself was.
So Niall let his temper reign, released his hold on that pit of anger at Keenan’s betrayal, let it bubble over. It wasn’t an emotion he often let reign, but it was the one he’d been trying to quell for hours. It was almost a relief to feel the rage.
Irial’s pupils dilated. His hands clenched. “That’s one.”
Niall thought about the mortals he’d wooed and left wasting away when he knew no better, thought of Leslie pliable and eager in his arms. He could picture her, kiss-drunk, and he wanted that—wanted her with a longing that was heavier for being denied.
“Two…Just one more emotion, Gancanagh,” Irial murmured.
And Niall imagined wrapping his hands around Irial’s throat, letting free the jealousy that he felt at the idea of Irial’s hands on Leslie—or of her hands on Irial.
With a shaky hand Irial lit another cigarette. “You play the game well, Gancanagh. I wondered once what you’d do with the knowledge.”
Niall watched, studying the Dark King with a distant calm now, feeling no true emotions at all. “What knowledge?”
“The dark fey starve without emotion, darker emotions. It’s what”—Irial took a drag off his cigarette—“sustains us. Food, drink, air. Everything. There’s a great secret, Niall. There’s the thing that the others would use against us if they knew.”
Niall hesitated. Part of him wondered why Irial would take such a risk, why he would reveal his secrets, but another less easily embraced part knew exactly why Irial would do so: he trusted Niall. He looked away, lamenting the fact that Irial’s trust wasn’t misplaced. “So why doesn’t Keenan notice? Or Sorcha? How did I not know?”
“His volatile nature? Her imperviousness to anything she doesn’t like?” Irial tapped his ash onto the ground. “And you…I don’t know. I thought you’d figured it out back then, and when I realized the kingling didn’t know, I hoped that what we—”
“All of your court feeds like this?” Niall stopped him, not wanting to think about his time with Irial, the realization that Niall’s blurry weeks of mad pleasures had nourished Irial—as, no doubt, had the horrific things that followed when Niall ran.
“They do, or they get weak.” The Dark King’s face revealed a raw pain that was almost embarrassing to see, like glimpsing someone’s most private aches. “Guin died…from a mortal bullet. She was shot.”
Irial stared at the crowd. A barefoot girl was dancing on the hood of a parked car. The driver was holding out her shoes and gesturing at the ground. Irial smiled at them before turning back and adding, “You care for Leslie. If you had known she was already mine, you would’ve tried even harder to keep her from me. You’d have fought for her.”
I knew Irial wanted her and—Niall stopped himself, uneasy with the fact that Irial could read what he was feeling, and more important, that Niall could use this knowledge to destroy Irial. If the courts knew that they were so easily read and assessed, it would be hard to convince any of them to tolerate the Dark Court’s continued existence.
“Beira knew all of this,” Niall said.
“We needed her. She needed us. Else I wouldn’t have helped her bind the kingling. She kept things in upheaval when my fey needed it.”
“And Leslie fits in how?”
“I needed a backup plan.” Irial smiled, but this time it was dark and deadly, tinged with more than a little challenge. “I need her.”
“You can’t have her,” Niall started. But Irial gripped his arms: every lovely memory Niall had run from and every whispered horror of the Dark Court came rushing to his mind in a morass—then Niall felt like he was swallowing it, like he’d been drinking that too-sweet, forcibly forgotten wine. “Stop.”
Irial let go of him. “I know Keenan has misled and deceived you. I know he was sending you to our girl, putting her in your path. Gabriel watched you struggle with your response to her…. I will not mislead you, not again. I would welcome you back into my home, where Leslie will be. I would still offer you my throne when you are ready.”
Niall blanched. He’d been willing to endure whatever he’d needed to in exchange for Leslie’s freedom. Kingship? Affection? That was not at all what he’d expected. It’s a ruse, just like always. There was never anything real in what we once were. Niall ignored all of it. “Would you let her go free in exchange for my fealty?”
“No. She stays, but if you want to be with her, you are ever welcome.” Irial stood and bowed from the waist as if Niall were his equal. “I won’t let my court suffer, even for you. You know what my secrets are, what I am, what I offer you still. I can promise you that she will be kept as happy as I can make her. Beyond that…come home with us or not. It is your choice to make. It has always been your choice.”
And Niall stared at him, speechless, unsure of what answer he could offer that made any sense. He’d spent a long time not remembering the bond he’d shared with Irial, not longing for those years, and not admitting any of this each time he’d crossed paths with Irial. He realized now, though, that no matter how carefully he’d guarded his secrets, he’d been transparent to Irial. If the Dark King could read his emotions, could taste them, he’d known of Niall’s weaknesses each time they’d met. I’ve been exposed to him the whole time. Irial didn’t shame him for it. Instead he held out the same acceptance he’d offered centuries ago—and Niall didn’t, couldn’t, reply.
Irial said, “It’s been a long time that you’ve been living for Keenan, paying back some perceived debt. We are what we are, Niall, neither as good or as evil as others paint us. And what we are doesn’t change how truly we feel, only how free we are to follow those feelings.”
Then he slipped away into the crowd, dancing with mortals as he went and looking every bit like he belonged there among them.
CHAPTER 28
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br /> It was evening when Leslie woke in her own room, wearing the same clothes she’d worn the night before. She’d slept for more than twelve hours, as if her body were fighting off a flu or hangover. She still didn’t feel right. The skin around her tattoo felt tight, stretched too thin. It didn’t burn, or itch, or anything that would make her suspect infection. If anything, it felt too good, as if extra nerves were throbbing there.
Downstairs she could hear cartoons. Ren laughed. Someone else coughed. Others spoke in low voices and broken sentences she couldn’t quite understand. She started to feel the familiar panic, terror that she was here, that she had no clue which of the others were down there.
Idly she wondered when her father had last been home. She hadn’t seen him. Someone would call if he died. She didn’t worry over him as she had done for so long. I should. Panic started to choke her. Then it just vanished. She knew that she had changed, and that Irial, who’d caused that change, wasn’t human.
Am I?
Whatever Irial had done, whatever Rabbit had done, whatever her friends had hidden from her…She wanted to feel angry. Objectively, she knew she should feel betrayed, feel despair—rage, even. She tried to summon those feelings, but only the shadows of them rose. The emotions weren’t hers for more than a moment before they fled.
Then Ren was calling up the stairs in a strangled voice, “Leslie?”
With a calm that should have been impossible, she rolled out of bed and went to her door. She was unafraid. It was a remembered feeling, one she liked. After turning the locks—which someone had thrown—she walked to the top of the stairs. As she looked down, she saw him, Irial, standing there beside her brother.
“What are you doing here?” she said. Her voice was even, but she shivered. This emotion, excitement, didn’t flee. Unlike the others, this one stayed and grew.
“Seeing you.” He held out a hand. “Assuring that you are well.”
Ren stood beside Irial, trying to get his attention. “Umm, you need…anything? Anything at all?”
