by Melissa Marr
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
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?"
"Careful," Irial murmured, unmindful of everyone but her. His hands were on her hips then.
How did he get up the stairs so quickly?
"Don't. Please?" She wished she didn't feel so comforted that he was here, wished she were sure what she was asking when she repeated, "Please?"
"I'm not here to hurt you, a ghrá." He stepped backward, not looking as he walked down the stairs, not removing his hands from her hips, either.
"You didn't lie, did you?"
"We don't."
Leslie stared at Irial. "Who are you? What are you?"
He held her gaze, and for an unreal
moment she thought she saw shadows clinging to his skin like dark wings. Her body tingled all over, and she was sure that innumerable tiny mouths touched her skin all at once—soothing her, erasing everything but pleasure. She shivered against the sudden onset of cravings that made no sense. Her mouth was dry, her palms damp, her heart thundering in her head.
Without breaking her gaze, he said, "I'll take care of you, keep you from hurting or pain. You have my vow on this, Leslie. You'll never want anything again. Say the word, and it's yours. No more fear or pain. Just shadows of them, and I'll take them away. You won't have to feel them but for a moment. Look." He dropped his gaze to the air between them. A shadowy vine extended from his body to hers, coiling into her skin. She reached out as if she'd touch it; her hands brushed against the black feathers that curled from it like leaves. When she did, they both flinched.
"It's real. Whatever you did to me," she said.
"You wanted to be safe. You wanted to be without fear or pain. You have it." Irial didn't wait for her to move; he pulled her closer so she was leaning against him. He smelled like peat smoke, musty rooms full of sex and longing, sweet-strange and dizzying. She rubbed her cheek against his shirt, breathing in the scent of him.
"I'll never leave you," Irial whispered. Then he turned to the assembled crowd. "If anyone ever touches her again—"
The dealer started, "When I … I didn't know she was your—"
Irial made a gesture. Two very scarred guys appeared out of the empty air. They stepped forward and took hold of the dealer.
He was one of them. Leslie's knees buckled. He … Her stomach burned as she tried to let that thought finish itself. The terror of the other people in the room, of the dealer who was crying out as he was led away—she felt that too, all of it at once. The lust of the mortals—mortals? — in the room, the want, the desperate need. She felt a tangle of emotions assailing her. Flashes of need, of terror, of aching—they flooded her body until she swayed.
"Their feelings … I need …" She clenched Irial's hand.
"Shhh." He kissed her, and the feelings evaporated. "They just come through you. Those feeling aren't yours. Just a blink, and they're gone from you."
He had an arm around her, leading her to the sofa.
She stared at the door where the guys—where did they come from? — had led the dealer away.
Irial was kneeling in front of her. "It'll all be fine. No one will hurt you again. Ever. You will get used to the rest."
Mutely she nodded, watching him the way she'd never watched anyone in her life, transfixed. Irial could make everything good, right, happy. He was an answer to a question she'd forgotten to ask. Her body hummed in a pleasant blur. The feelings that had rolled through her were awful, ugly; she knew that objectively. After Irial took them, all she felt was bliss. Something heavy and floral was in her mouth, on her lips. Lust. His. Mine. Her veins sang with it, like fire coursing through her body, seeking her heart, flooding her nerves.
Then Niall's words echoed in her head, "Surviving is what matters. You can do this." Do what? Survive what? There was nothing bad here. Irial was making her safe. He was taking care of her.
"Come now. They'll pack your things." Irial motioned at three almost-androgynous guys who were headed up the stairs. "We need to get out of here. Away from so many mortals. Talk."
"Talk?" She almost laughed. Talking was pretty far from what was on her mind as he knelt there in front of her. Her eyes felt too wide. Every pore in her body was awake and zinging.
"Or whatever else would make you happy," he added with a wicked grin. "You've done me a great honor, Leslie. The world is yours."
"I don't need the world. I need—" She leaned forward until she was able to rest her face against his chest, hating the cloth that was in her way, suddenly furious at the damnable material. She snarled—then froze, realizing that her hand was already tearing at his shirt, that she'd made a sound that was so far from normal, so far from human that she should be terrified.
He pulled her to her feet, keeping her clutched tightly to his side. "It's fine. Just the initial changes. Shhh."
And as he breathed deeply, it was fine. He was still talking, though, asking, "What shall I do with them?"
Ren and the others were watching with looks of abject terror. But they didn't matter now; none of this mattered anymore. Only Irial. Only this pleasure, this confidence. That was all that mattered.
"Who cares?" she said.
Then he lifted her into his arms and carried her over the threshold into a world that was suddenly far more tempting than she'd realized it could be.
Chapter 29
Niall had walked out on his king; he'd failed Leslie; and he'd exposed his doubts and longings to Irial. He hadn't had such a complete feeling of loss in centuries. He'd spent part of the night and the whole of the day walking aimlessly but had come no closer to any answers or even the right questions.
He'd seen the faeries watching him: Keenan's and Irial's and those who were solitary. Like I am again. None of them, even those who'd tried to speak with him, had made him pause. Several times he'd had to move them bodily from his path, but he hadn't spoken a word or registered the words that they spoke.
But then Bananach was swaying toward him, moving like a shadow in the just-fallen night. The long feathers that spilled down her back fluttered and shifted in the breeze. She wore a glamour that made those feathers look like hair, playing mortal for him as she approached.
He stopped walking.
The smile she offered him was at odds with the malice in her eyes. She passed him, paused, looked back, and beckoned. She did not watch to see if he'd follow her as she walked into a narrow alley partway down the block. She did not glance back as she slipped under the metal fence or as she trailed her fingers over the razor wire that draped the top of that fence. It was only once Niall was standing behind her, like prey foolishly pursuing a predator, that she turned to face him.
Niall wondered if he was following her to his death: it was a fate he had considered and rejected after Irial allowed the Dark Court to torture him. It wasn't the right choice then. Bananach would gladly have taken Niall's life at the time had Irial not sent her away to indulge in her mayhem. It's never the right choice.
But he didn't retreat.
She leaned on the metal fence, her arm stretched over her head, her fingers curled around the loops in the fence. The barbed steel of the razor wire was just above her fingers, close enough that it looked like she was reaching for the poisonous metal. It was unhealthily attractive to him, her desire to touch pain.
He kept his distance and his silence.
She tilted her head to stare at him. The avian gesture contrasted with the mortal glamour she held on to as she waited. "Irial needs replacing," she said.
"And you're telling me this why?"
"Because you can give me change. He's not right for us. Not now." Her glamour shivered, flickering in and out. "Help me. Bring me my wars again."
"I don't want war. I want …" He glanced away, not knowing what he truly wanted. He'd followed her into a too-small space, pursuing the temptation of her violence. And leaving Leslie to figure out the impossible on her own if I give in to the temptation of self-destruction. He'd run away from Irial, from Keenan. He was still running. "I'm not going to help you."
"Smart answer, pretty boy." Gabriel appeared beside him. The Hound held an arm out, tattoos racing furiously over his skin, and motioned for Niall to step back. "You need to move along now."
Bananach snapped her mouth open and closed. Her glamour faded, revealing her sharp beak. "Your meddling is getting tiresome. If the Gancanagh wants to stay with me …"
Gabriel stepped in front of Niall just as Bananach launched herself forward. She shrieked, a sound that might have been laughter or anger or some combination of the two. Her hands were splayed open, her fingertips black talons.
"Court business, Niall. Go on now," Gabriel said without glancing back.
Gabriel lifted Bananach and hurled her into the metal fence. Her feathers snagged on the razor wire, but she yanked herself away. Shredded feathers drifted to the ground behind her and were lost on the shadowed pavement.
Niall wanted to leave, to stay, to tell Gabriel to get out of the way so Bananach could end the confusion and depression that had been weighing on him, to tell Gabriel to rip into her. Instead he stood still, watching, no more resolved than he'd been when Bananach had beckoned him to follow her.
It wasn't truly beautiful to watch Gabriel in action, but there was a brutal harmony in his movements. Like the Summer Girls' dancing, Gabriel's fighting had a rhythm to it, a song of its own. But the Hound's moves were well matched by Bananach's fury. The raven-woman was gleeful as she darted away and then returned to dive at Gabriel with abandon. From somewhere she drew a bone blade that glowed with preternatural light. Her black-taloned nails stood in relief against white bone and red blood as she slashed Gabriel from his left brow to his right cheek.
The fresh blood drew cries of pleasure from a group of Ly Ergs who filed into the enclosed lot from the street. Their red hands twitched in unison as they began circling Gabriel. They took some of their sustenance from freshly drawn blood, a habit that Niall had found disquieting when he'd learned of it. There weren't enough of them to overcome Gabriel, but with Bananach there too … It's not really my business. It's Dark Court business. Which is not my court.
Niall started to step out of their path, but leaving Gabriel to a half dozen Ly Ergs and a blood-mad Bananach wasn't something that set well with him. Gabriel's arrival had prevented Bananach from seriously wounding or killing him. He owed Gabriel for that. The Hound might not expect it, but Niall expected it of himself. That was one thing he hadn't lost, his honor.
He threw himself into the fracas—not for a court or a king, but because it was the right thing to do. Standing by while someone—even Gabriel—was outnumbered wasn't an option.
