by Melissa Marr
“Now that I’m their king, they might not feel free to say no.” The fear in Niall’s expression was only a tiny portion of the overwhelming fear Irial could taste. Niall lowered his voice, “I don’t want them to feel trapped.”
“Don’t be foolish.” Irial caught Niall’s gaze. “I would offer you anything you need. They would too. It’s not a trap to offer happiness to one’s regent.” Irial’s affection for Niall was not the least bit hidden. “If you worry, I will collect solitaries for you, or perhaps you ought to go see Sorcha yourself. . . . There are those who are not your subjects. Is that what you seek? Tell me, my King, and I will make it so.”
“No. I simply don’t want . . . emotionless sex.” Niall looked away. “After Leslie—”
Irial growled. “She left.”
“I know.” Niall glared. “It’s only been a moment, though, and . . . I can’t.”
“As your advisor, I am strongly suggesting that you listen to my advice. Don’t weaken your court by being mawkish. You’ve never once been monogamous in your life, and if you think you could’ve been so with her, you’re a fool. You were a Gancanagh. Now, you’re the King of Temptation. You are what you are.”
“You’re a bastard. You know that?”
“I do.” Irial stood. “By tomorrow Devlin will be here, and if you expect to be your best, I’d strongly recommend that you go get—”
“I hate that you made me their king,” Niall said, and then he walked away.
After he was gone, Irial smiled.
That went surprisingly well.
Chapter Four
Niall stood at one of the gates to Faerie. Once he’d marveled that mortals didn’t cross it more often, but unlike faeries and halflings, most mortals didn’t see the gate. The mortals and halflings who ended up in Faerie were taken or stumbled there unawares. Which isn’t much different from Dark Court faeries. The High Queen wasn’t particularly tolerant of uninvited guests, especially those of his court. The Dark Court’s exodus from Faerie had happened long enough ago that the whole of Faerie was her domain, while the mortal world was shared among the rest of the faeries.
Not that I’d want to return the court there.
If Irial could hear him, if Keenan could hear him, if most anyone he’d known these past several centuries could hear how easily he was slipping into the role of Dark King, he liked to think they would be shocked. The truth, of course, was that more than a few of them had accepted his new role as easily as he had. Because it was inevitable. He understood that now. When Irial had first offered him the throne, Niall had thought it horrific, but time had a way of removing illusions.
The complications of Devlin visiting the Dark Court were unclear to Niall. There was obviously some element of the situation that Niall didn’t know. Irial was a lot of things, but he wasn’t prone to exaggeration. If he thought Devlin’s visit was significant, it was.
Niall splayed his fingers over the veil that separated the worlds. The insubstantial fabric encased his hand as if it were a living thing. I could go to her. Once, Sorcha had been a friend of sorts. Once, Niall had imagined himself half in love with her. He hadn’t been, but she was everything Irial wasn’t. At the time, that was reason enough to try to call his friendship love.
“Help.”
Fingers grabbed his hand and tugged. Someone on the other side clutched him, grabbed hold of his wrist, and clung to him. The voice that seemed to accompany the desperate gesture was thin.
“Please, I can’t see.”
A second hand grabbed Niall’s arm as if to pull him through, and in the instant, any thought of entering Faerie fled. Niall tugged.
An old man came tumbling through the veil. He still held tightly to Niall’s arm. “Please.”
Niall steadied him and in doing so glanced down and saw the man’s face: both of his eyes were missing. The eyelids drooped over empty sockets. “Who are you?”
“No one.” The man wept. “I’m no one, and I saw nothing. . . . I promise.”
“You’re in Huntsdale,” Niall said gently. “Do you know where that is?”
The relief on the man’s wrinkled face was heartbreaking. He whispered, “I do. Home. This is where I should be. I was wrong before. I thought … I followed someone, but”—he shook his head—“she was an illusion. It was all an illusion.”
There was no need to ask which faery he’d followed. It didn’t matter. Mortals had been stolen away, misled, trapped, and tricked for as long as the two races coexisted. Niall had been guilty of doing it.
“Let me help you.” Niall had no obligation to the man, but he wasn’t at ease with walking away. The Dark Court wasn’t evil. It would’ve been easier if they were. A clear division between good and evil, right and wrong, would simplify everything, but life was rarely simple. His court was formed of passions, of shadows, of impulses. The Dark Court—and its king—were that which balanced the High Court. In this instant, balancing the High Court meant offering kindness.
“You’re one of them.” The man yanked his hand away from Niall. “I’m not going back. She had them take my eyes, said I’d be free . . . . You can’t—”
“I have no intention of harming you. Unlike Sorcha, I am not cru—” Niall’s words halted: he was capable of cruelty, but the difference was in the motivations. He’d never understood the High Court opposition to mortals knowing of the fey. He certainly never grasped the logic of breaking them for knowing. “You know we don’t lie.”
The man nodded.
“I offer you my protection. I cannot undo what she did to you, but I can offer you a haven.” Niall waited for a moment, trying not to rush the man, but increasingly aware that someone would probably notice that a mortal had exited Faerie without permission. Keeping his voice calm, he added, “You are free to leave anytime you choose. There are no punishments for deciding to leave.”
“She said this”—the man touched his face—“wasn’t a punishment.”
“I will not cause or allow injury done to you.” Gently, Niall touched the man’s wrist. “If you prefer, I will deliver you to a mortal physician. Either way, we should leave this place.”
The man sighed. “I don’t think mortals would be much use against your sort. I’ll accept your offer—for the moment at least.”
“I’m going to carry you,” Niall warned, and then he lifted the old man, cradling him like a child. It was akin to lifting an empty sack, and Niall wondered how long the frail thing had been in Faerie. Once, Sorcha had explained that the blinding was for the mortals’ good as well. “Seeing the changed world after so long is troubling to them,” she’d said. “This is kinder.” He’d disagreed, but Sorcha had merely smiled and added, “The fanciful ones, the artists, are fragile. Seeing us after they’ve left is far crueler.”
The walk through Huntsdale wasn’t long, but it was long enough that solitaries and those of other courts saw him. None spoke to him, but more than a few faeries stared in blatant curiosity. The sensation wasn’t displeasing: he was opposing the High Court and doing something that soothed his sense of guilt over past follies.
As he approached his new home, a thistle-fey scurried forward and opened the front door.
“Gabriel,” Niall called.
The Hound—who had once been a friend, more recently an enemy, and was currently Niall’s most trusted resource—entered the foyer with a silent grace that should’ve been impossible for such a bulky creature. “My King.”
“King?” the man murmured.
“Her opposition,” Niall soothed as he lowered the man’s feet to the floor. “You are safe here.”
Gabriel shook his head. “You trying to start trouble?”
“Perhaps,” Niall admitted, “but I don’t suppose that’s a problem, is it?”
The grin on Gabriel’s face was matched by his mellow tone as he said, “Nope, just making sure I understand.”
“The High Queen blinded this man. I have offered him safety here.” Niall made a beckoning gesture to
one of the Vilas who always lingered wherever Gabriel walked. “You can go with this woman. She’ll find you a chamber to rest in while you decide what you want.”
The man reached out awkwardly, clearly not yet used to his lack of sight.
Niall took the man’s hand and started to lead him to the Vila. “This is Natanya and—”
“What’s your name, king?”
The belligerence in the man’s voice made both Niall and Gabriel grin. This wasn’t a mortal who would curl into himself and give up. His bravery made him even more worthy of protection.
“Niall.”
“Am I safe from her here, Niall?” The man tilted his head. “They might be pretty, but they’re monstrous. You know that, don’t you?”
“We do,” Niall said.
“Are you all pretty too?” the mortal asked.
It was an obvious curiosity, but it stilled everyone all the same. Natanya stared at Niall; Gabriel shrugged. Niall wasn’t sure what answer was truth. Pretty? Gabriel was akin to a sort of menacing mortal who lingered in disreputable bars: slow to rile, but quick to strike if angered. He was lean, scarred, and silent. The gray-eyed, gray-skinned Vilas were all beautiful; even in violence, their movements were elegant; but they were as likely as not to dab blood on their lips for color. And Niall . . . being fey meant possessing an innate attractiveness to mortals, being a Gancanagh meant he’d been born to seduce. Pretty? He’d thought so once, many centuries ago, but that was not a word he’d found fitting for a very long time. He’d been proud of it, though: he kept his hair shorn to emphasize the scar that he was certain made him anything but pretty. The trouble was that Niall didn’t see the Dark Court denizens as ugly, either. Even while he hated things that happened in the court, even when he’d found a vast number of its faeries terrifying, he’d never thought them either pretty or ugly. They simply were.
“The High Court thinks we are monsters.” Niall let his own emotions into the words. “I suspect that if you saw us, you’d think many of us are too. What we aren’t, though, is calmly cruel. What we aren’t is like them.”
The man nodded.
Natanya and Gabriel were both smiling, and there was little doubt in Niall’s mind that his own acceptance of his court was likely to be repeated throughout their number.
“Natanya?” Gabriel motioned toward the mortal. “Look after him for your king and for me.
“As if he were your own child, Gabriel.” The Vila beamed at Gabriel. The silver chains that held her bone-hewn shoes to her feet clattered as she moved across the room to take the mortal’s hand in hers. She led the man away, and for a moment Gabriel was silent.
He shot an assessing glance at Niall. “Salt in a wound when they learn that you brought one of Sorcha’s discarded mortals here.”
“That is true.”
“There are only two faeries she could strike that would truly weaken your court—or make you look weaker,” Gabriel pointed out. “Those are the logical choices. I’m not going over there and if I’m not able to face Devlin, I need replaced as the Gabriel, so I’m not needing protection. The other one . . .”
“He was already over there. That’s how I know Devlin’s coming here.”
“Huh.” Gabriel snorted. “Didn’t waste any time trying to protect you, did he? Threaten her, seduce her, or both?”
Niall didn’t answer that, but he suspected that Gabriel knew the answer well enough. Irial might not have spoken to the Hound yet, but they’d been a team for as long as Niall had known Irial. Before the day was over, Irial would seek Gabriel out, tell him the things he thought necessary, try again to assure that Niall was safe.
And not once think about the way he endangers himself now.
A regent could prevent any of his or her subjects from seeing the gate, and a strong solitary could impose restrictions on weaker fey. A part of Niall thought stealing others’ will was wrong, but he understood now that there were times that choices were a matter of opting for the lesser of several wrongs.
“It is my decree that none of the subjects of the Dark Court may enter Faerie without my consent.” Niall looked at Gabriel’s forearms as the command appeared there. “Until such time as I speak otherwise, the gates are unseen to my subjects.”
The Hounds didn’t offer fealty, so they could go to Faerie. Of course, they wouldn’t do so unless Gabriel directed them. Irial, however, could no longer see the gates or enter Faerie.
Chapter Five
Sorcha didn’t respond when Devlin walked into her gardens. She’d long since stopped acknowledging him when he did so. As if it will make the future less difficult. She hated that he was an anomalous creature—almost as much as she treasured it. He would be her undoing if she let him. Perhaps he would be even if she tried to stop him. In some matters the threads of possibility were seemingly determined.
“My queen?”
She didn’t turn. Facing him as they lied in their omissions made the whole business even less palatable. “Brother.”
“I have blinded the mortal as you commanded.” His voice was as empty as it often was, but that too was a lie of sorts. Her brother might pretend to be High Court, but she was under no illusion that he was solely her creature. He was hers, though.
“I have business there that needs tending,” she said.
He’d expected as much, but he’d hoped otherwise. She could see the resignation in the moment in which he frowned. The expression was gone too fast for most anyone to see, of course, but she saw much that no one else would. The pause before replying was infinitesimal, but it was still there.
“Whatever you command,” he said.
She turned. “Indeed?”
Before she could catch his gaze, he dropped to his knees. “Have I failed you?”
Sorcha didn’t speak. Have you? She knew he would, but had he? Her vision of the past was unclear. The present and future took her focus so fully, and eternity stretched longer than she could grasp. Have you? She waited, looking down at the first faery she’d made. Before he existed, there were only two, Discord and Order, twins who had once created one thing together. You. She reached down and ran her fingers through his multihued hair. It was unlike that which graced any other faery, and it was resistant to her will. He couldn’t be altered by her touch, not now that he was real. Other faeries couldn’t either, but they weren’t her creations.
They’d stayed this way for hours before. Devlin had the patience and willpower to kneel for as long as she required it. He didn’t falter, didn’t sleep, didn’t wince. He simply waited. She wondered idly if he could outwait her.
“Could we spend decades thus, Brother?” she murmured.
He lifted his gaze. “Sister?”
“If I demanded it, how long would you kneel thusly?” She traced up his cheekbones and down the outside of his jaw with her fingertips. “Would you falter from exhaustion first?”
“You are my queen.”
“I am,” she agreed. She cupped his face in her hands and held him still. “That’s not an answer.”
He didn’t even try to resist. “Do you require me to falter or to succeed in waiting as long as you wait?”
She smiled then. “Such a wise answer. You will do whatever I require then? You will strive to not fail me? You will serve me forever?”
“As your servant, your Bloodied Hands, your brother, your advisor, I will do all that you demand.” He bowed his head, and she loosened her grip to allow it. Then he added, “The last of those questions is unanswerable.”
“It is.” She turned her back, but she did not release him. She fashioned a chair of flowering vines and sat down. In her hands, a book appeared. She hadn’t created it. She had no such skill with art. She had, however, willed it to appear in her hands. Ignoring her brother, she began to read.
He stayed there kneeling for the next three hours as she read.
Sometime into the fourth hour, she lifted her gaze to look at him. “I need you to go to the new Dark King. Give him word of
the High Court’s acknowledgment of his new station. Stress to him that, while we are not at conflict, I will not hesitate to act as required to keep order.”
Devlin stayed silent, awaiting the rest.
“It would be prudent to make clear your willingness to strike at the Dark Court should it be required,” she continued. “Perhaps a fight with the former Dark King? The Gabriel? His mate? The action should be something that emphasizes your assets as the High Court’s weapon.”
“As you will,” Devlin murmured.
The brief look of hurt on his face was reason enough for Sorcha to know that her actions were necessary. It would not do for Devlin to be coddled. Reminding him that he was a weapon to be utilized helped keep his tendency toward emotion in check.
It is for the best.
“Do you require death?” he inquired. “That will limit the choice of combatants.”
Sorcha paused and sorted through the threads that had come into focus as Devlin spoke. The consequences of some deaths would be disastrous. Unexpectedly so. Later, she would mull the import of one such thread, but for now, she said only, “Not of that list. Injure one of them, or injure many. A lesser death is allowable, but not the new king’s advisor or thugs. A regent does tend to react poorly to such losses.”
The moment was there, and she knew he would ask. In this, as in so many other things, her brother was predictable. He looked directly at her with those unnatural dark eyes and asked, “Would your thug’s death elicit such a reaction?”
“My assassin is my advisor and my creation”—she pursed her lips in an expression that should convey the dislike she knew was an appropriate emotion—“so I would be sorely inconvenienced by your death. I dislike being inconvenienced.”
