by Melissa Marr
Laughing softly, he slid his hands over her hips, his fingers bruisingly tight on her skin. "My lovely Shadow Girl. Almost mine …"
"I'm not sure who you think I am, but I'm not her." She pulled back with a ridiculous amount of effort. She felt like a cornered animal. She shoved at him. "And I'm not yours."
"You are" — he put his hand over hers, capturing it as she pushed angrily at him—"and I'll look after you well."
The room felt like it was shifting, tilting, and she wanted to run. She shook her head with effort, and she said, "No. I'm not. Let go."
Then Niall was beside them, saying, "Stop."
Irial pressed his lips to Leslie's in a lingering open-mouth kiss.
She didn't like him, but she wouldn't have pulled away for anything. Her anger shifted into something territorial. The dual desire to resist being claimed as property and to claim him as hers surged through her. Irial stepped back, staring at her as if they were the only two people there. "Soon, Leslie."
She stared at him, not sure if she wanted to shove him again or pull him closer. This isn't me. I'm not… what? She didn't have words for it.
Niall was watching, and standing behind him were all of the dreadlocked guys and a larger group of people she'd not noticed earlier. Where had they all come from? The club had seemed mostly empty before; now it was filled. And no one looked friendly.
Niall tried to move her behind him, murmuring, "Come away from him."
But Irial slid his hands around Leslie's waist. His thumbs slipped under the edge of her shirt to stroke her skin. Her eyes blurred at the pleasure of that casual touch—not anger, not fear, just want.
Irial was asking Niall, "You didn't think she was yours, did you? Just like old times. You find them, and I take them."
Leslie blinked, trying to focus, trying to remember what she should be doing. She should be afraid. She should be angry … or something. She shouldn't be watching Irial's mouth. She stumbled as she tried to back away from him.
Niall bristled. Leslie could swear his eyes actually flashed. He stepped closer to Irial, hand clenched like he'd strike him. He didn't. He just ground out, "Stay away from her. You're—"
"Mind your place, boy. You have no authority over me or mine. You made your feelings on that quite clear." Irial pulled Leslie closer until she was right back where she'd been when they danced, in his arms and frighteningly unable—unwilling—to move.
Her face was flame red, but she couldn't move for several heartbeats.
"No," she said, forcing the word out. "Let go."
Then Niall stepped forward. "Leave her alone."
His eyes did flash.
"She's a friend of our court, of Aislinn's, of mine." Niall moved as close as he could to Irial without touching him.
Court?
"My girl claimed by your family?" Irial pulled her up so they were face-to-face and gazed at her as if there were secrets written on her skin. "She's not been claimed by yours."
Claimed? Leslie looked at him, at Niall, at the strangers around her. This is not my world.
"Let go of me," she said. Her voice wasn't strong, but it was there.
And he did. He let go of her and stepped away so suddenly, she had to grab his arm to keep from falling to the floor. She was mortified.
"Get her out of here," Niall said. From somewhere in the crowd behind him, Seth stepped forward. He reached out for her hand, an uncharacteristically friendly move for him, and pulled her away from Irial.
"Soon, love," Irial said again as he bowed from the waist.
Leslie shivered. If her legs had been working, she would've run from the club. Instead the best she could do was stumble alongside Seth.
Chapter 13
Leslie and Seth had gone several blocks before she felt able to look at him. They weren't friends—by his choice—but she still trusted him more than she trusted most guys. She still valued his opinion.
They were almost at the Comix Connexion before she spoke…"I’m sorry.”
She'd glanced at him as she said it but turned away at the sight of the anger on his face. His hands were held in loose fists. He wouldn't hurt her—Seth wasn't like that— but she still flinched when he reached out and caught her wrist.
"Sorry for what?" He quirked his eyebrow.
She stopped walking. "For making a scene, for acting like a big slut in front of you and Niall, for …"
"Stop." Seth shook his head. "That was not your fault. Irial's trouble. Just… just get away from him if you see him coming your way, okay? If you can, just go. Don't run, but get out."
Mutely, she nodded, and Seth pulled his hand away from her wrist. Like at the Rath, Leslie was sure he knew things he wasn't saying. Is it a gang thing? She hadn't heard of any real gangs in Huntsdale, but that didn't mean there weren't any. Whatever it was that Seth knew, he wasn't talking, and she didn't know how to ask. Instead she said, "Where are you going?"
"We are going to my house."
"We?"
"You have somewhere else safe to go before work?" His voice was gentle, but she felt certain that it wasn't a real question.
"No," she said, turning away from the too-knowing look on his face.
He didn't say anything else, but she'd seen the understanding in his eyes. And in that instant, she was sure that he—and therefore Aislinn—knew how ugly things were at home. They knew that she'd been lying to them, to everyone.
She took a deep breath and said, "Ren's probably there, so … you know, not exactly the safest place to be."
Seth nodded. "You're always welcome to crash at the house if you need."
She tried to laugh it off. "It's not …"
He raised an eyebrow.
And she sighed and stopped lying. "I'll remember that."
"You want to talk?"
"No. Not today. Maybe later." She blinked back the tears in her eyes. "Ash knows, then?"
"That Ren hits you or about what happened with his dealer?"
"Yeah." She felt like throwing up. "Both, I guess."
"She knows. She's been there, in a bad place, you know? Not the same, not as—" He stopped. He didn't offer her a hug or do any of those touchy-feely things that a lot of people would do, things that would make her fall apart.
"Right." Leslie folded her arms over her chest, feeling her world unraveling from somewhere inside, and knowing she couldn't fix it.
How long have they known?
Seth swallowed audibly before adding, "She'll hear about Irial too. You can talk to her."
"Like she talks to me?" Leslie held his gaze then.
"Not my business either way, but—" He bit his lip ring and rolled it into his mouth. He stared at her for several heartbeats before saying, "You'd both be better off if you started being straight with each other."
Panic welled up inside of her, a black bubble that made her throat feel tight. Like it had when their hands … No. She wasn't thinking about that, wouldn't think about it. Lately, the awful feelings had been so distant. She wished they would stay that way. She wished numbness would settle over her. She started walking faster, almost running, feet hitting the sidewalk with a steady thunking noise.
If I could outrun the memories… She couldn't, but it was better to think her heart raced from running than from the terror hidden in the memories. She ran.
And Seth ran steadily beside her, not behind or in front, keeping his pace measured to hers. He didn't try to stop her, try to make her talk. He just sprinted alongside her like running through the streets was perfectly normal.
They were at the edge of the railroad yard where he lived before she could bear to stop. Breathing deeply, she stared at one of the fire-blackened buildings across the street. Standing there in the patch of grass that shouldn't thrive in the dirty lot, she braced herself for the conversation she didn't want to have. She asked, "So how … what … how much do you know?"
"I heard about Ren setting you up to get out of trouble."
Hands, bruising, lau
ghter, the sickly-sweet smell of crack, voices, Ren's voice, bleeding. She let the memories wash over her. I didn’t drown. I didn't break.
Seth didn't look away, didn't flinch.
And neither did she. She might scream when the nightmares found her, but not by choice, not when she was awake.
She tilted her head back and forced her voice to stay steady. "I survived."
"You did." Seth's keys clinked together as he shook them to find the door key. "But if everyone had known how bad things were before Ren let—" He stopped himself, looking pained. "We didn't know. We were so caught up with … things, and—"
Leslie turned away. She didn't—couldn't—say anything. She kept her back to him. The door creaked open but didn't slam closed, which meant he was standing there waiting.
She cleared her throat, but her voice sounded as tear-filled as it was. "I'll be in. I just need a sec."
She darted a glance his way, but he was staring into the empty air behind her.
"I'll be in," she repeated.
The only answer was the sound of the door closing gently.
She sat down on the ground outside Seth's train and let her gaze follow the murals that decorated it. They ranged from anime to abstract—dizzying, blurring as she tried to follow the lines, concentrate on the colors, the art, anything but the memories she didn't want to face.
I did survive. I still am. And it won't happen again.
It hurt, though, knowing that her friends, people she respected, knew about what they had done to her. Logic said not to be embarrassed, but she was.
It hurts. But she didn't want to let it. She stood up and ran a hand over one of the metalwork sculptures that sprouted like plants outside the train. She squeezed it until the sharp metal edges dug into her palm, until blood started to ooze between her fingers and drip onto the ground, until the pain in her hand made her think about now, not then, not other pains that left her curled into herself sobbing.
Think about this feeling, this place. She uncurled her hand, looking at the big cut in her palm, the smaller ones in her fingers. Think about now.
Right now she was safe. It was more than she could say some days.
She opened the door and went inside, fisting her hand again so the blood didn't drip on the floor. Seth was sitting in one of the weird curved chairs in the front of the train. His boa constrictor was coiled in his lap, one thick loop trailing toward the floor like the hem of a blanket.
"Be right out," she said as she walked past him to the second train car, where the tiny bathroom and his bedroom were. She almost believed he hadn't noticed the way she held her hand.
Then he called out, "There's bandages in the blue box on the floor if you need one. Should be some antibiotic junk too."
"Right." She rinsed her hand in the cold water and grabbed some toilet paper to hold. She didn't want to wipe her still-bleeding hand on Seth's towels. After she'd bandaged herself, she went back out.
"Feel better?" He was toying with his lip ring again.
Aislinn had said that the lip-ring bit was a stalling thing—not that Aislinn had been spilling secrets, but she seemed to find everything about Seth fascinating. Leslie smiled a little, thinking about them. Aislinn and Seth had something real, something special. It might not be easy to find, but it was possible.
"Some," Leslie said, sitting back on Seth's battered sofa. "I should probably rinse the, umm, sculpture off."
"Later." He motioned to the blanket he had put on the end of the sofa. "You should catch a nap. Here or back there" — he gestured toward the hallway that led to his room—"wherever you feel comfortable. There's a lock on the door."
"Why are you being so nice?" She stared at him, hating that she had to ask, but still needing to know.
"You're Ash's friend. My friend now." He looked like some freaky wise man, sitting in the weird chair with a boa in his lap and a stack of old books beside him. It was partly an illusion made by the surreality of the details, but not entirely. The way he watched her, watched the door. He knew about what sort of people waited out there.
She tried to make light of it all. "So we're friends, huh? When did that happen?"
Seth didn't laugh. He stared at her for a moment, stroking the boa's head as it slithered toward his shoulder. Then he said, "When I realized that you weren't a loser like Ren, but his victim. You're a good person, Leslie. Good people deserve help."
There wasn't any way to make light of that. She looked away.
Neither of them spoke for a few moments.
Finally, she picked up the blanket and stood. "You sure you don't mind if I crash back there?"
"Lock the door. It won't hurt my feelings, and you'll sleep better."
She nodded and walked away. In the hallway, she paused and said, "Thank you."
"Get some sleep. Later, you need to talk to Ash. There's other things. …" He paused and sighed. "She should be the one to tell you. Okay?"
"Okay." Leslie couldn't imagine what sorts of things Aislinn could say that would be any more awful or weird than what Leslie already knew, but she felt nervous at the tone in Seth's voice. She added, "Later. Not tonight."
"Soon," Seth insisted.
"Yeah, soon. I promise." And then she closed the door to Seth's room and turned the lock, hating that she felt compelled to do so but knowing that she'd feel safer with it in place.
She stretched out on top of Seth's bed, not pulling back the covers but wrapping up in the blanket he'd given her. She lay there in the darkened room and tried to focus on thoughts of Niall, of how carefully he'd held her when she was dancing with him, of his soft laugh against her throat.
But it wasn't Niall she dreamed of when she fell asleep: it was Irial. And it wasn't a dream. It was a nightmare to rival the worst ones she'd had: Irial's eyes staring back at her from the faces of the men who'd raped her, the men who'd held her down and done things that made the word rape seem somehow tame.
It was his voice that echoed in her head as she fought to wake and couldn't. "Soon, a ghrá," he whispered from those other men's mouths. "Soon, we'll be together."
Chapter 14
Since the Summer King was looking elsewhere for him, Irial had gone to the place where the court's darlings were most likely to be, the Rath and Ruins. Better to let Keenan stew a bit longer before meeting. The more the Summer regents panicked, the more emotional they'd be, and Irial could use a good meal. In the interim, he'd had the fun of watching Niall snarl over Leslie with a possessive streak that was quite unlike the Summer Court.
It made sense that the Gancanagh was already drawn to Leslie. Her growing bond with Irial was enough to make her tempting to everyone in the Dark Court. While Niall might have rejected the Dark Court so very many years ago, he was still connected to them. It was his rightful court, where he belonged whether or not he chose to accept it.
As does Leslie. She might not know it, might not realize it, but something in her had recognized Irial as a fitting match. She'd chosen him. Not even riding with Gabriel's Hounds was as satisfying as knowing that the little mortal was soon to be his, as knowing that he'd have her as a conduit to drink down emotions from mortals. The hints and teasing tastes he'd already been able to pull through her were a lovely start to how it would soon be. The Dark Court had fed only on fey for so long that finding nourishment from mortals had been lost to them—until Rabbit had started doing the ink exchanges. So much would be better once this exchange was finished. And she might be strong enough to handle it. Now he just had to wait, bide his time, fill in the hours until she was fully his.
Idly, Irial needled Niall, "Shouldn't you have a keeper or something, boy?"
"I could ask the same of you." Niall's expression and tone were disdainful, but his emotions were in flux. Over the years, the Gancanagh had continued to worry over Irial's well-being—though Niall would never say it aloud— and something had made that worry far more pronounced than usual. Irial made a note to ask Gabriel to look into it.
"
A wise king has guards," Niall added. His concern had an edge of genuine fear now.
"A weak king, you mean. Dark Kings don't need to be cosseted." Irial turned his attention to finding a new distraction: Niall was too easily provoked just now, and Irial felt too much affection for him. At best, it was a bittersweet indulgence to taste Niall's emotions.
One of the waitresses, a wraith with crescent moons glowing in her eyes, paused. One of Far Dorcha's kin. Death-fey didn't usually linger in the too-cheerful Summer Court. Here was another lovely distraction. He beckoned her closer. "Darling?"
She glanced at the cubs, the rowan guards, and at Niall's glowering face—not in anxiety, but to track where they were. Wraiths could handle their own in almost any conflict: no one escapes death's embrace, not if death truly wants you.
"Irial?" The wraith's voice drifted over the air, as refreshing as a sip of the moon, as heavy as churchyard soil on his tongue.
"Would you fetch me some nice hot tea" — Irial made a pinching gesture with his first two fingers—"with just a kiss of honey in it?"
After a low curtsy, she floated around the assembled fey and headed behind the bar.
She'd be lovely at home. Perhaps she'd be willing to wander.
With a lazy smile at the scowling group, Irial followed her. None of them stepped in his way. They wouldn't. He might not be their king, but he was a king. They wouldn't— couldn't—assault or impede him, no matter how many of their delicate sensibilities he offended.
The little wraith set his tea on the slick slab of obsidian that made up the bar.
He pulled out a stool and angled it so he had his back to the Summer Court's guards. Then he turned his attention to the wraith. "Precious, what are you doing with this crowd?"
