by Melissa Marr
"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 dread-locked 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 glasswork 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 conse
quences of contact with thorn-covered bodies and incompatible shapes. 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 ingenue 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 las
t Summer King, through Beira's fits of temper, but this new order … I'm tired, Niall. What do I want?" Irial's usual façade—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.
