by Melissa Marr
The doorman stared at her; he spilled his fears and disdain onto her.
What does he see?
Irial had the appearance of someone far from responsible. He had the money and the constant flow of criminal-looking guests: the faeries' human masks did little to hide the aura of menace that clung to them. And she—when she left the suite—moved through the halls like a zombie, clinging to Irial, and on several occasions coming close to putting on a public show.
"Will you be going out today?" the doorman asked.
Her stomach cramped. Being away from Irial made her sick.
Gabriel swooped in behind her. "Do you need help?"
The doorman glanced away: he mightn't have heard the inhuman timbre of Gabriel's voice, but he'd felt the fear the Hound's presence elicited. All mortals did. It was what Gabriel was, and as he became agitated, he became more frightening.
The doorman's fear spiked.
"You made it to the door, Leslie. That's good." Irial's voice slipped into her mind. It was no longer surprising, but she still winced.
"Not his driver. Grab me a taxi?" she asked the doorman. She clenched her hands: she wasn't failing, not this time. She didn't faint or crumble. Little victories. She forced the words from her lips, "Taxi to take me to warehouse …"
She swayed.
The doorman asked, "Are you sure you're well enough to—
"Yes." Her mouth was dry. Her hands were fisted tightly enough that it hurt. "Please, Gabriel, carry me to the taxi. Going by the river …" Then she toppled, hoping that he'd listen.
When Leslie woke in a patch of grass by the river, she was relieved. She could feel relief. Irial didn't drink her good feelings away. That should make her happy, knowing she wasn't numb. If not for the other thing—that maddening craving for Irial's touch, the awful sickening longing when darker emotions filled her to choking but didn't touch her emotions—she might be okay.
A bit away from her, several of Gabriel's Hounds waited and watched. They didn't frighten her. They seemed pleased that she liked them. A few times, she'd seen Ani and Tish— and in that shock-free way she lived now, she'd accepted their mixed heritage without pause. She'd come to terms with the realization that Ani—and Tish and Rabbit—had known that the ink exchange would change her.
"But you're strong enough, Les, really," Ani had insisted.
"And if I'm not?"
"You will be. It's for Iri. We need him to be strong." Ani had hugged her. "You're his savior. The court's so much stronger. He's so much stronger."
Ignoring the Hounds, Leslie walked along the river until she came to a warehouse where she and Rianne used to go to smoke. She slid open the window they'd climbed in together so often and made her way to the second floor— just high enough to see the river. Out here, away from everyone, she felt the closest to normal she had since the morning she'd left her house with Irial.
She sat watching the river race away. Her feet dangled out the window. There were no mortals, no faeries, no Irial. Away from all of them, she felt less consumed. The world was back in order, more stable somehow now that she was on her own. Is it the distance?
It didn't matter, though: she felt his approach. Then Irial was in the street, looking up at her. "Are you going to come down from there?"
"Maybe."
"Leslie—"
She stood up, balancing on the balls of her feet, hands above her head like she was preparing to dive into a pool. "I should be afraid, Irial. I'm not, though."
"I am." His voice sounded jagged, not tender this time, not reassuring. "I'm terrified."
She swayed back and forth as the wind batted against her.
In that implacable way he always seemed to have, Irial began, "We'll get better at this and—"
"Will it hurt you if I step forward?" Her voice was dispassionate, but she felt excitement at the idea. Not fear, though. There still wasn't any fear, and that's what she wanted—not to hurt, but to feel normal. She hadn't been sure before, but in that moment she knew that's what she needed: the whole of herself, all the parts, all the feelings. And they're as far gone as normal is.
"Would you feel it? Would I feel it if I fell? Would it hurt?" She looked down at him: he was beautiful, and despite the fact that he'd stolen her choices, she looked at him with a strange tenderness. He kept her safe. The mess she was in might be his fault, but he didn't abandon her to the madness it caused. He took her into his arms no matter how often she sought him, no matter that he'd had to move his court, that he looked positively exhausted. Tender feelings surged as she thought about it, about him.
When he spoke, it wasn't to say anything gentle. He pointed at the ground. "So jump."
Anger, fear, doubt, rolled over her—not pleasant, but real. For a brief moment, they were hers and real this time. "I could."
"You could," he repeated. "I won't stop you. I don't want to steal your will, Leslie."
"You have, though." She watched Gabriel walk up and whisper to Irial. "You did this. I'm not happy. I want to be."
"So jump." He didn't take his gaze away from her as he told Gabriel, "Keep everyone back. No mortals. No fey in this street."
Leslie sat down again. "You'd catch me."
"I would, but if the fall would please you" — he shrugged—"I'd rather you were happy."
"Me too." She rubbed her eyes, as if tears would come. They won't. Crying wasn't something she did anymore— neither was worrying, raging, or any other of the unpleasant emotions. Parts of her were gone, taken away as surely as the rest of her life. There were no classes, no melodramatic Rianne; there'd be no laughing in the kitchen at Verlaine's, no dancing at the Crow's Nest. And there was no way to undo any of the things that had changed. Going backward is never an option. But staying where she was wasn't true happiness either. She was living in a hazy dream—or nightmare. She didn't know if she could tell the difference just now.
"I'm not happy," she whispered. "I don't know what I am, but this isn't happiness."
Irial began climbing the building, grabbing hold of crumbling brick and broken metal, piercing his hands on the sharp edges, leaving a trail of bloody handprints as he made his way up the wall to her.
"Grab hold," he said as he paused in the window frame.
And she did. She clung to him, holding on to him like he was the only solid thing left in the world as he finished scaling the building. When he reached the barren rooftop, he stopped and lowered her feet to the ground.
"I don't want you to be unhappy."
“I am.”
"You're not." He cupped her face in his hands. "I know everything you feel, love. You feel no sorrow, no anger, no worries. How is this a bad thing?"
"It's not real. … I can't live like this. I won't."
She must have sounded serious enough because he nodded. "Give me a few more days, and I'll have a solution."
"Will you tell—"
"No." He watched her face with something almost vulnerable in his eyes. "It's best for everyone if we don't talk of this. Just trust me."
Chapter 32
Irial had spent several days watching Leslie struggle with the urge to feel something of the emotions she'd lost now that he drank them through her. It was an unexpected dilemma. She'd stepped into traffic, provoked the increasingly aggressive Bananach, and interfered in an altercation with two armed mortals: the moment he relaxed his guard she was out endangering herself. She didn't make sense to him, but mortals rarely did.
Today she was exhausted—as was he.
He pulled the door to the bedroom closed, tearing his attention away from his sleeping girl. She required so much careful handling, so much hiding of his true feelings. He'd not expected a mortal to change him; that wasn't part of the plan.
Gabriel looked up as Irial sat at the other end of the sofa and resumed the conversation they'd been having every time Leslie napped. "We haven't had a good party with mortals in a while." He held out an already open long-neck bottle.
"That's because
they break too easily." Irial took the bottle, sniffed it, and asked, "Is this actually real beer? Just beer?"
"Far as you know." Gabriel leaned back on the sofa, legs stretched out, boot-clad feet tapping in tune to some song that only he heard. "So, party with the mortals?"
"Can you get some that'll survive for a few nights?" Irial glanced at the closed door, behind which his own too-fragile mortal slept fitfully. "It'll be better if we don't need to replace them each week. Just gather the same ones up every few days until we see how it goes."
He didn't add that he wasn't sure how well Leslie would cope with channeling too many mortals' deaths, fear, and pain. If there were enough of them and they were terrified and angry and lustful enough, she'd be so intoxicated that he doubted that she'd notice a few deaths, but if too many of them died at once, it could upset her.
"A bit of war might be good too. Bananach is testing every boundary you set. Give her a small skirmish?" The fact that Gabriel had mentioned it at all was reason enough to worry.
"She doesn't have the support yet to get very far." Irial hated that she was always there at his heels, looking for weaknesses, stirring her small mutinies. In time, she would wear him down. If he didn't keep the court strong enough, she would rally them to true rebellion. It wouldn't be the first time. He needed to lull her back to moderate rumblings of war, not give her reason to get more bold. First get Leslie situated.
"Bananach tried for Niall again." Gabriel flashed his teeth in his glee. "Boy still holds his own in a fight."
Irial would've enjoyed seeing that. Niall tended to go for logic before violence, but when he did indulge in a fight, he did it like he did everything: with singular focus. "He's … well still?"
Gabriel shrugged, but his gleeful expression wasn't dimming. "He'll come back sooner or later, Iri. You need to think long term, that's all."
Irial didn't—couldn't—ponder what Niall would do just now. He had hopes, but hope wasn't a solution. Gabriel was right: Irial did need to think long term. He'd been too focused on his initial ideas. It had been too long since he'd needed to truly plan. During the nine centuries Beira ruled unopposed, Irial had allowed himself to grow weak, to assume that their nourishment would always be so easy. The past few months of having a true Summer King and a new Winter Queen had shown him how quickly change could come—and he hadn't been ready.
"Tell Bananach to gather whoever wants to go and start a little chaos with Sorcha. I can't nourish everyone long term. If the seasonal courts are determined to be uncooperative for now, let's see what we can do with her royal tediousness. If anyone can provoke Sorcha, Bananach is our best choice."
Gabriel's forearms grew dark with the details he'd carry to Bananach—and hopefully satisfy her enough that she wouldn't be underfoot for a while.
"And Ani" — Irial paused to measure his words carefully—"bring Tish and Rabbit to stay with her. Have them move into the house where we took Guin. With Sorcha's penchant for stealing half-fey, they'll be too much at risk once Bananach starts her assault. Now that peace is here, Sorcha won't keep the High Court in seclusion."
For a moment, Gabriel hesitated. Then he said, "You'll be careful with my pups. Ani's being able to feed off mortals doesn't make her any less mine. Experimenting on—"
"We won't do anything she doesn't consent to." Irial lit a cigarette. He'd taken to smoking more frequently since Leslie had come to them. Worry, for her. He took a few drags before he spoke again. "Let Ani loose with the mortals, too. I want to see what she can drink off them. Maybe she's what we need to sort this all out."
"That'll mean two … parties … because I'm not going in there if my pup is." Gabriel's menace had vanished under his disgust at the idea of his pup loose in a crowd. "She's a good girl."
"She is, Gabe. Pick a few Hounds you'd trust to mind her. Two rooms, the ones across the hall. We'll see what it'll take to fulfill me—and the court, before Leslie slips into a coma. We'll watch her, keep track of her reactions, and stop when we get close to her limits." Irial cringed at the idea. A few of the mortals seemed to suffer neural damage if they were pushed too far.
"Gather up a few of Keenan's Summer Girls too. They work well as enticement for good behavior. Prizes for those with the most surviving mortals come dawn." Irial lowered his voice at the sound of movement in the bedroom. Leslie shouldn't wake just yet, but she was too stubborn to sleep as she should.
Irial held a hand out to Leslie as she walked into the room. She took his hand and curled into his arms.
"You'll take care of the party plans then?" Irial asked, absently petting Leslie's hair as she nestled closer.
Gabriel nodded. "Need at least two days, though."
"That works." Irial turned his attention back to his girl then, pleased to hear the soft click of the door closing behind Gabriel. "If you can be patient for two more days, we can work on your feeling a little less trapped by this." He motioned to the feathered vine that bound them together.
"What are—"
"No questions, Leslie. That's the condition." He kissed her forehead. "You want more freedom, room to roam?"
She nodded mutely.
"I just need you to stop putting yourself at risk. If you keep doing that, I won't be able to give you your space." He watched her face as he spoke, wondering yet again what she'd be like if she could keep some of her emotions, not all of them, but a few.
"Will what you're doing hurt?" She looked excited at the idea for a moment, interested in the idea of feeling the very thing from which she'd been seeking oblivion.
"Did the first couple weeks with me hurt?"
"I don't remember." She licked her lips as if she could taste his worries. She couldn't because of their tie, but sometimes he felt the tug as she tried to reverse the flow, as if she'd steal his emotions. "I don't have many clear memories of that."
"Exactly."
"You're cruel, Irial." She wasn't angry, accusing, none of those things. She couldn't be.
And for a moment, he realized that they both wished she could be. My Shadow Girl. He kissed her before he made the mistake of saying what he was thinking.
"I can be, Leslie. And if you keep trying to do damage to yourself, I will be." He had a brief hope that—even without feeling fear—her basic intellect would be enough to make her realize that this wasn't something either of them wanted. But she sighed, as if it weren't a threat but a reward, so he asked, "You remember Niall's scars?"
"I do." She watched him carefully, staying motionless.
"You won't like me if I'm cruel." He lifted her to her feet.
She stood motionless, hand outstretched. "I don't like you now."
"We don't lie," he reminded her as he took her hand and pulled her into his arms yet again.
"I'm mortal, Irial. I can lie all I want to," she whispered.
He let go of her, hating that it was hard to do. "Get changed, love."
They had a riot to attend. He hadn't walked her through hospitals, sanitariums, or the like—yet—but tonight he'd take her to the feasts of anger. If he filled her up with all the darkness she could stand and channeled it out to his court, then he could let her breathe for a little while. It was either that or lose her, and right now, that didn't feel like an option. He'd been trying to build her tolerance slowly, but her stubborn streak—and his desire not to destroy her— had made his timeline no longer workable. Not for the first time since the damnable peace had begun, Irial wanted nothing more than to walk away from his court, from his responsibilities—except now he wanted to take Leslie with him.
Chapter 33
Over the next week, he pushed her until she was so shadow drunk that she retched, but they didn't discuss it.
They fell into a routine she thought she could accept. Irial didn't tell her what happened during the nights, and she didn't ask. It wasn't a solution—not really—but she felt better. She told herself it was progress of a sort. Sometimes, she felt brief tendrils of lost emotions when Irial kept the connecti
on between them tightly closed, when the shadowed vine stretched like a sleeping serpent between them. In those moments she could lie to herself and say she was happy, that there were benefits to being cosseted so—then the weight of what she had become rolled over her until the cramps of need made her insensible.
No different than any other addict.
Her drug might have a pulse and a voice, but he was a drug all the same. And she'd sunk to depths that would make her dissolve in shame if such feelings were still in her reach. They weren't, though: Irial drank them down like some exotic elixir. And when the awfulness reached its pinnacle, Irial's touch was all that would assuage the maw that yawned open inside of her.
What is it doing to me? Will the darkness consume me?
Irial didn't have that answer; he couldn't tell her what it would do to her body, her health, her longevity—anything. All he could tell her was that he was there, that he'd protect her, that he'd keep her safe and well.
Now that she was able to go out walking regularly— away from Irial—she knew it was only a matter of time until she saw Niall. Of all the people from her life before the ink exchange, he was the one she was loath to encounter. He'd been beside Irial once: he knew what the Dark Court was like, what the world she lived in was like, and that lack of secrecy was something she didn't know how to deal with.
She'd looked for him, and today he was there. He stood across the street, outside the Music Exchange, the shop where Rianne was most often found. Beside him was a man—a human—playing music that was foreign and familiar on a bodhran. Her pulse picked up the rhythm, the pace of the music settling in her stomach as if each touch of the beater were on her skin, in her veins.
Then Niall turned and found her watching him.
"Leslie." His lips formed the word, but the sound was too slight to hear.
Traffic on the street moved faster than seemed safe to enter, but Niall wasn’t human, hadn’t ever been human. He slid through gaps that weren't quite there, and then he was beside her, lifting her hands to his lips, crying tears she wasn't able to shed.
