by Melissa Marr
The Summer King’s ploy of encouraging Niall to watch over the mortal had had a few not entirely unexpected consequences. When Niall accepted that charge, he was still a Gancanagh—addictive to mortals. They hadn’t discussed it, but Seth knew why he responded so strongly to Niall: Keenan had expected Seth to become addicted to Niall.
Not that I objected then.
The Dark King shook his head. It seemed perverse that the orders he’d carried out for another regent filled him with more guilt than the things he’d done as a king himself. He still spent time with Seth, and he considered the mortal a friend, but there was more than a little evidence that Seth had some degree of addiction to him.
I was following orders. A few touches on his arm, nothing more than an arm around his shoulders. It wasn’t as if anything happened.
Niall reassured himself with the lies he could whisper in his mind, but the truth was the truth. He’d injured Seth, and the fallout was that he was dangerous to Seth. He always would be, and it was difficult not to take advantage of the thread of addiction and the new allure that Niall wielded as Dark King.
Niall reached into his pocket and pulled out a nondescript stone. He slid it across the bar table. “Here.”
“A rock. You shouldn’t have.” Seth lifted it between his thumb and index finger. A look of peace came over the mortal’s face. “Damn.”
“If you don’t want it…” Niall stretched his hand out.
For the first time since Niall had become the Dark King, Seth didn’t move out of reach. He also didn’t release the stone. Instead, he curled his hand around it, so the stone was wrapped firmly in his palm.
Seth laid his other hand on Niall’s forearm briefly. “I’d say no one’s ever given me such a useful gift, but that seems too slight. It’s … difficult being around the Summer Court, the Summer Girls especially…. They’re good about trying not to manipulate me.” Seth paused and looked up at Niall. “Usually.”
Niall smiled at the memory of the Summer Girls’ lack of restraint. He missed them, some more than others, but he doubted that the Summer King would support the idea of Niall visiting them. “They aren’t used to restraint. It speaks well of their regard for you that they even try.”
“And you?” Seth prompted.
“I noticed your tendency to keep a table between us,” Niall admitted.
“It’s not personal, you know?” Seth flashed an amused smile then, one Niall hadn’t seen in weeks. “If you were female, your … uhhh … appeal would be cool. Not that Ash would be good with me doing anything then, either, but I’m not into guys. No offense.”
Niall laughed. “None taken.”
As they talked, Seth had kept the stone clenched in his hand. He took a deep breath, laid it down in front of him, and reached back to unfasten the chain he wore around his throat. While he did so, he kept his gaze on the stone, and Niall realized then how difficult it must’ve been for the mortal to be surrounded by so many faeries. And me. Niall could write it off as merely a result of Seth’s relationship with Aislinn, but it wasn’t because of the Summer Queen that Seth sat here at the table with Niall. Aislinn would be happier if Seth severed ties with Niall; Keenan would be happier too—for entirely different reasons.
Seth slid the silver chain through a hole in the stone, and then he fastened the chain around his throat. When he was done, he tucked the stone under his shirt. “It’s like the world got more in control all of a sudden. I owe you one.” Seth poked at the ring in his lower lip. “Not that I have any idea how to repay that kind of gift, but I will.”
“It wasn’t given with a price attached,” Niall pointed out. “It’s a gift, freely given. No more, no less.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t look like … let’s just say, it was a little weird looking at you and having thoughts that I know aren’t what I think of you, and”—Seth bit his lip ring as he obviously weighed his words—“let’s just say, not everyone has been as unaware of how they could affect me.”
Niall felt his temper slip a little. “Will you tell me who?”
“Nope.” Seth grinned. “I’m not offering you an excuse to start shit with anyone, and now that I have this, I think those head games will be entertaining for me for a change. It’s all good.”
For a moment, Niall debated pressing the matter, but part of being a friend meant trusting that Seth would speak if he needed help. Niall tapped out another cigarette. “You’ll let me know if you need intercession.” He looked at Seth as he packed his cigarette. “I have a few faeries who might find it entertaining to assist you.”
“Yeah, Ash would be thrilled if I sent the Dark Court knocking.” Seth quirked a brow again. “If you want to pick a fight with him, you’ll do it on your own. I’m not planning to give you an excuse.”
Niall lit his cigarette. “Just don’t forget.”
“Not today, okay?”
Admitting defeat, Niall held up his hands.
“So how are you?” Seth prodded carefully. “Are you getting along any better with your … predecessor?”
The fact was that Niall did want to talk to Seth about that topic, but he didn’t quite know what to say, not yet, at least. He took a drink; he smoked in silence.
And Seth drank his own drink and waited.
“He’s gone missing regularly, and I don’t know what he’s doing.” Niall shook his head. He was over a millennium old, and he was seeking advice from a mortal child. “Never mind.”
“And you don’t want to ask what he’s doing, but you feel like you should.”
Niall said nothing. He couldn’t deny it, but he didn’t want to admit it either. If Irial had handed all of the court’s backroom bargains, illicit investments, and nefarious dealings over to him, he wasn’t sure he’d be ready to be the Dark King, but he felt like he should know.
“Either let it ride or tell him he needs to report in more. There’s not a whole lot else to say, is there?” Seth gestured at the now open dartboards. “Come on. Distraction time.”
CHAPTER 2
IT HAD BEEN HOURS THAT SORCHA SAT unmoving as Devlin brought forth the business that required her attention. One of the mortals that lived among them was mourning. It was a messy business.
“Should I send him back to their world or end his breathing?” Devlin asked her.
“He was a good mortal; he should be allowed to live a while longer.” The High Queen moved one of the figures on her game board. “Remind him that if he’s leaving us, he can’t be allowed to see us. You will need to gouge his eyes.”
“They do dislike that,” Devlin remarked.
Sorcha tsked. “There are rules. Explain his options; perhaps it will inspire him to learn to temper his emotions so as to stay here.”
Devlin made a note. “He’s been weeping for days, but I’ll explain it.”
“What else?”
“Some of the discarded paintings were left in a warehouse for the mortals to ‘discover.’” Devlin stepped closer and moved a figurine carved in a kneeling position.
She nodded.
“I’ve not heard any more of War’s intentions.” Devlin’s expression didn’t alter, but she saw the tension he was restraining. “The Dark Court seems unaware. The Summer Court remains clueless….”
“And Winter?”
“The new Winter Queen is not receiving guests. I was refused entrance.” Devlin paused as if the idea of being refused was perplexing to him. He had existed from the beginning of time, so it was somewhere between pleasing and befuddling for him when a faery managed to surprise him. “Her rowan said that I could leave a … note.”
“So we wait.” Sorcha nodded. The newer fey were peculiar; their methods seemed crude to her sometimes, but unlike her brother, she was not amused by it. It simply was. Emotional reaction to it was unnecessary. She lifted another figurine and dropped it to the marble floor, where it shattered into dust and pebbles. “That play hasn’t worked for centuries, Brother.”
Devlin lifted another pie
ce and replaced it in the same square. “Will you take dinner or will you be in cloister?”
“I’ll be cloistered.”
He bowed and left the hall then, leaving Sorcha alone and free to meditate for the evening. She stood and stretched, and then she, too, left the stillness of the hall. Even the minutiae of business must be handled in the same way they always had been—in austere spaces with reasonable answers.
Only the swish of her skirt disturbed the quiet as Sorcha made her way to the small room where she intended to spend the remainder of the day. It was one of the indoor spaces where she meditated. The gardens were preferable, but tonight she’d opted to forego the openness of such places in favor of the intimacy of a tiny room.
Her slippers made no sound as she entered the empty chamber, nor did she verbalize the moment of discord she felt when she found the room occupied. “I did not summon you.”
Irial stretched on one of the plush chairs she’d had brought in from a local shop. “Relax, love.”
She leveled an unyielding look at the former Dark King. “Faeries of your court aren’t welcome in my presence—”
“It’s not my court. Not now. I’ve walked away.” He stood as he said it, tense as if he had to restrain himself from approaching her. “Do you ever wish you could walk away, Sorch?”
Sorcha cringed at his bastardization of her name, at the familiarity in his tone. “I am the High Court. There is no walking away.”
“Nothing lasts forever. Even you can change.”
“I do not change, Irial.”
“I have.” He was barely a pace away from her then, not touching, but close enough that she felt his breath on her skin. It was all she could do not to shudder. He might not be the Dark King anymore, but he was still the embodiment of temptation.
And well aware of it.
He took the advantage. “Have you missed me? Do you think about the last time we—”
“No,” she interrupted. “I believe I might’ve forgotten.”
“Ah-ah-ah, fey don’t lie, darling.”
She backed away, out of reach. “Leave it alone. The details of the last mistake aren’t even important enough to be clear anymore.”
“I remember. A half-moon, autumn, the air was too cold to be so”—he followed, letting his gaze linger on her, as if her heavy skirts weren’t in his way—“exposed, but you were. I’m surprised there wasn’t oak imprinted on your skin.”
“It wasn’t an oak.” She shoved him away. “It was a…”
“Willow,” he murmured at the same time. He looked satisfied, sated, as he walked away.
“What difference does it make? Even queens make mistakes sometimes.” Even though he wasn’t looking at her, she hid her smile. She had always enjoyed watching him draw her emotions to the surface, enough so that she’d pretended not to know that the Dark Court fed on those emotions. “None of this explains why you are here, Irial.”
He lit another of his cigarettes and stood at the open window inhaling the noxious stuff. If she did that, it would pollute her body. Irial—the whole Dark Court—was different in this as well. They took in toxins to no ill effect. For a moment she was envious. He made her feel so many untoward feelings—envy, lust, rage. It was not appropriate for the queen of the Court of Reason to be filled with such things. It was one of the reasons why she’d forbade members of the Dark Court from returning to Faerie. Only the Dark King had consent to approach her.
But he’s not the king anymore.
She felt a twinge of regret. She couldn’t justify giving in to his presence now, not logically.
And logic is the only thing that should matter. Logic. Order.
Irial kept his back to her while her emotions tumbled out of control. “I want to know why Bananach comes here.”
“To bring me news.” Sorcha began reasserting her self-control.
Enough indulging.
The former Dark King was kind enough to not look at her as she struggled with her emotions. He stared out the window as he asked, “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what news?”
“No. I won’t.” She took her seat again, calm and in control of her emotions.
“Did it have to do with Niall?” Irial looked at her then. This odd honesty they had shared over the centuries was something she’d miss now that he was no longer the Dark King. No one save her brother and Irial saw this side of her.
“Not directly.”
“She is not meant for ruling,” Irial reminded her. “When she took the throne before… I wasn’t there, but I heard the stories from Miach.”
“She is a force of destruction that I would not unleash. I will never support her, Irial. I’ve no quarrel with Niall”—she frowned—“aside from the usual objections to the mere existence of the Dark Court.”
And Irial smiled at her, as beautiful and deadly as he’d always been. King or not, he was still a force to fear. Like Bananach. Like the Summer Queen’s mortal. Often it was the solitary ones who were the most trouble; the tendency toward independence was not something that sat well with the High Queen. It was un-orderly.
He was watching her, tasting the edges of her emotions and believing she was unaware of what he was doing. So she gave him the emotion he craved most from her, need. She couldn’t say it, couldn’t make the first move. She counted on him to do that. It absolved her of responsibility for the mistake she intended to make.
If he were to realize that she knew the Dark Court’s secret, their ability to feed on emotions, she’d lose these rare moments of not being reasonable. That was the prize she purchased with her silence. She kept her faeries out of the Dark Court’s reach, hid them away in seclusion—all for this.
The Queen of Reason closed her eyes, unable to look at the temptation in front of her, but unwilling to tell him to depart. She felt him remove the cord that bound her hair.
“You need to say something or give me some clear answer. You know that.” His breath tickled her face, her throat. “You can still call it a horrible mistake later.”
She opened her eyes to stare directly into his abyss-dark gaze and whispered, “Or now?”
“Or now,” he agreed.
“Yes.” The word was barely from her lips before she wrapped her arms around him and gave up on being reasonable for a few hours.
Afterward, Sorcha sat and replaited her hair while Irial reclined on the floor next to her. He never provoked her or pointed out the truth of their relationship during these quiet moments.
He smoked silently until she picked up her garments from the floor. When she held the pale cloth to her chest and turned her back to him, he extinguished his cigarette, moved her braid over her shoulder, and fastened the tight bindings.
“Bananach always presses for war … but things feel different this time,” she admitted.
Part of politics for them had always been admissions that weren’t public knowledge. During Beira’s reign, Irial had come to her for solace; when he lost Niall, he had come to her for comfort; and when Beira murdered Miach, Irial had come to her—with all his unsettling presence—and together they had mourned the last Summer King. That was the first time she’d opted to indulge in the glorious mistakes they’d shared the past few centuries.
Today is the last time.
Sorcha finished dressing as she asked, “And Gabriel? Where does the Hunt stand?”
“With Niall.”
“Good. There are factions enough already. With the trouble between Summer and Winter and between Dark and Summer…” Sorcha let the words fade away, not wanting to speak them into being.
“Niall strengthens the Dark Court. Had I stayed king… Keenan would’ve attacked in time. He’s not going to forgive my binding him. Nine centuries is a long time for rage to fester.” Irial’s regret was obvious even if he didn’t mention it.
They, and few others, knew the reluctance of his bargain with Beira. Binding Miach’s son wasn’t something the Dark King had wanted to do, but like any good ruler, he made hard c
hoices. That choice had given his court strength. Sorcha, at the time, was grateful that Beira hadn’t set her sights on Faerie. Eventually, she would’ve, but then … then, it was Summer’s fall, Dark’s entrapment, and her staying silent.
“So we wait.” Sorcha reclaimed the calm reserve that was her daily mien. She gestured toward the door. “In the interim, I will send Devlin to greet the new king on my behalf.”
Irial did not respond to her warning. Instead, he unlocked the door and left.
CHAPTER 3
AFTER CENTURIES OF MAKING THE transition, Irial still found the journey from Faerie to the mortal world jarring. The differently colored landscape, the disconnection of time, and the hordes of mortals all thrilled and displeased him simultaneously. Faerie was unchanged for all of eternity, but the mortal world seemed to alter in a moment. He marveled at the ways it had evolved in the centuries that stretched behind him, and he wondered what would follow their already remarkable progress. Some faeries found mortals to be little more than vermin, but Irial was enthralled by them. More so since I am no longer a king. Of course, he was more fascinated by the faery he now approached.
The new Dark King stiffened as Irial came to stand beside him. It was a conscious effort, however: as Dark King, Niall knew where Irial was for several moments prior to this.
The king glanced at him. “Why are you here?”
Irial lowered his gaze respectfully. “I am seeking an audience with the Dark King.”
