by Melissa Marr
“I didn’t forget any of it. I also won’t forget that you love me enough to destroy your world.” Seth put his hand over hers. “Don’t threaten me, Mother. I’m bound by our agreement to come to Faerie every year for the rest of eternity, but I’m not bound to love you. I do love you, but you are not the only one in my heart.”
They stood for several moments, and then the High Queen nodded. “Be careful of Niall’s temper . . . please?”
“He is my brother. It will be fine,” Seth promised, and then he left her and went in search of the Shadow King.
Chapter 6
“He will not wake,” the new healer said.
Niall’s abyss-guardians flashed into existence at the pronouncement.
“Get the next healer,” the Dark King ordered.
A Hound whose name he couldn’t recall nodded. With a quick look at the Dark King, she grabbed the offending faery’s arm and hurriedly escorted him out of the room.
“Stab one or two healers, and everyone overreacts,” Niall said.
No one answered. Irial had fallen into unconsciousness and was not rousing.
Yet.
Niall drew out the cloth from the basin on the bedside table. He leaned down and pressed his lips to Irial’s forehead. “Your fever isn’t any worse. It’s not better yet, but it’s not worse.”
As he’d been doing most of the past day, he sat next to the unconscious faery and dabbed the wet cloth on Irial’s face and neck again.
“I can stay with him,” Gabriel said from the doorway. “If he wakes, I can send someone for you.”
“No.” He didn’t tell Gabriel about the peculiar dreams that he and Irial seemed to share now. It didn’t make sense to think he was really in the same dream with Irial. But it is real. It feels real. Niall had lived a long time, wandered for years, spent time in three different courts. He’d never heard of being able to dream together as he and Irial seemed to be doing. Is it madness? In his dreams they’d talked about all of the things they hadn’t spoken of in centuries; they’d been close as they hadn’t been in far too long. Am I imagining it?
The Hound tried again: “You need to rest. Court’s strength is from you. If you’re sick—”
“Don’t.” Niall glared at him. “Leave us.”
Gabriel ignored him. Instead of departing, he came farther into the room. He stood beside Irial’s bed and lowered one hand onto Niall’s shoulder in a gesture of support. “My pup is dead. Ani and Rabbit are over in Faerie. Irial’s hurt. I understand.”
The grief in the Hound’s voice almost undid the scant self-control Niall was desperately clinging to. “I can’t,” he admitted. “I can’t leave him. . . . Something’s not right.”
Gabriel snorted. “Lots of things aren’t right. Probably easier to list the things that are right.”
Silently, Niall dipped the cloth into the basin again. He stared at the water, trying to make sense of the feelings that had come over him. His reaction to Irial’s injury seemed too intense. Unpredictable thoughts clouded his mind; he couldn’t follow them from moment to moment with much clarity. Urges to violence pressed against his better judgment. In the couple days since Bananach had stabbed Irial, Niall had gone from angry to positively unhinged. He knew it. He’d felt emotions overwhelm him, but there was something else.
Something is wrong.
“Niall?”
The Dark King shook his head. “I’m not sure what I’ll do if I walk out of this room. I’m coming unraveled . . . without Irial. . . . I can’t do this alone, Gabe. I can’t. I’m not right.”
“You’re grieving. Normal reaction, Niall. You two have . . . issues, but you both knew what you were to each other.”
“Are, not were,” Niall corrected halfheartedly.
Gabriel took the cloth from Niall. “You’re not alone, either. Most of the court is here. The Hunt stands with you. I stand with you.”
When Niall looked up at the massive Hound, Gabriel extended his arms. “Give me a command, Niall. Your words, my orders. Tell me what you need.”
Niall stood. “No one touches Irial without my consent. No one not of our court enters this house unless I summon them. No speaking of his injury to anyone outside the house. Increase the guards on Leslie.”
The Dark King paused as the fear of the only other person he loved being injured by Bananach swelled inside him.
Gabriel nodded, and the Dark King’s orders appeared in ink on Gabriel’s flesh as the words were spoken. “Leslie will be safe,” he promised. Then after a minute, he prompted, “And Bananach? And the ones leaving the court to stand with her?”
The Dark King blinked at Gabriel. “She cannot enter our home, but Irial said we could not kill her without killing Sorcha and, thus, all the rest of us. I will not send forces after her. . . . The others . . . I don’t care what you do to them once we get through this. Not right now. Right now, Irial is what matters.”
A brief frown flashed across Gabriel’s face, but he nodded.
Niall walked over and dimmed the light. “Wake me when the next healer arrives.”
And then he lay down on the floor beside Irial’s bed and closed his eyes.
Chapter 7
As Seth approached the gate, Devlin had one hand raised as if to touch the fabric that divided the two worlds, the veil that now separated the twins.
Seth had spent the past hour thinking while he sought Devlin. He would’ve liked to ponder longer, but time didn’t allow for it. He’d been in Faerie less than a day, but every four hours in Faerie was a full day in the mortal world. That meant he’d been gone two days, and he had no idea what had been happening in the mortal world during that time. Irial had been stabbed, and the Hounds were fighting with Bananach’s allies when he had come to Faerie with Ani, Devlin, and Rabbit. Did they all survive? Is Niall okay? Is Ash safe? Until he went back, he had no answers.
“Have you thought about the consequences?” Seth asked. He felt a loyalty to Faerie, but he was of both worlds. Devlin, however, was not.
He turned to face Seth, but did not speak. The new Shadow King was the oldest male faery, the first, the one Sorcha and Bananach had created. In sealing Faerie, he’d assured that neither of his sister-mothers could kill the other. Asking him to consider the consequences beyond that appeared to perplex him.
“For them”—Seth gestured to the other side of the gate—“now that Faerie is closed?”
It was clear to everyone in Faerie that they were safe now. For that, Seth was grateful. However, he didn’t live solely in Faerie, nor did he intend to do so. If Sorcha could forbid him from leaving Faerie, she would, but he wasn’t going to give up on Aislinn—or abandon his friends.
“They are not my concern.” Devlin let his hand drop toward the sgian dubh he carried. “The good of Faerie is my concern.”
“I’m not here to fight you, Brother.” Seth held his hands up disarmingly. “I will fight Bananach, though.”
Devlin’s frustration was an interesting thing to see. After an eternity of repressing emotions, the new Shadow King was now letting emotions influence him. That, too, was good for Faerie.
“And if Bananach’s death still kills your mother?” Devlin asked. “Why should I let you cross over there, knowing that it could bring disaster on us?”
Seth smiled at his brother. “You cannot keep me here. The terms of her remaking me were that I can return to the mortal world. Even you cannot negate her vow.”
“If they came home, if the other courts returned here . . .”
Faeries giving up power? The arrogance of every faery monarch Seth had met made the idea especially illogical. Seth laughed at the thought of proposing such a thing to any of them. “Do you think that Keenan would give up the Summer Court? That Donia would give up her court? That Niall would become a subject to you or to our mother? Pipe dreams, man.”
“They would be safe here now that Bananach cannot enter.” Devlin didn’t see that he had already become like them, thinking that his idea,
his rule, held the answers for the others. The sense of clarity, of surety, was an essential trait in a faery monarch, but his suggestion wasn’t feasible.
Seth shrugged. “Some things are worth more than safety.”
“I cannot speak of what would happen to our . . . to your queen if you died.” Devlin stared through the veil. “I would come with you, but protecting Faerie comes first. I cannot risk Faerie for the mortal world.”
“And I can’t abandon Ash or Niall.”
Devlin paused. “Tell me what you see.”
“Nothing. Over here, I’m mortal. I see nothing until I go back. . . .” Seth bit his lip ring, rolling the ball of it into his mouth as he weighed his thoughts. “I don’t see anything, but I’m worried. . . . Ash is dealing with her court alone. Sorcha was to balance Niall, but now you balance her. What will that mean for him? Irial was stabbed. Gabe was outnumbered. Bananach is murderous and only getting stronger. . . . Nothing there makes me think everything is going to be all right.”
For a few moments, they stood silently at the veil, and then Devlin said, “When you are ready . . .”
Seth stared at him for a moment. He hated the necessity of the words he needed to say—that Devlin needed to hear—but that didn’t change reality. “If . . . you know . . . I die, she’ll need you. She doesn’t like admitting it, but she will.”
Silently, Devlin put his hand on the veil. He didn’t answer the question implicit in Seth’s words, but Seth knew that Devlin had chosen the path he’d taken in order to protect not just Faerie, but also his sisters. Devlin had acted out of love for his family, for his beloved, and for Faerie.
As I do.
Seth put his hand to the veil.
Together, they pushed their fingers through the fabric and parted it. Then Devlin put a hand on Seth’s forearm. “It will not open for you to return unless you call to me to be here also.”
“I know.” Seth stepped into the mortal world, leaving Faerie, leaving his mortality, and becoming once-more-fey. The return of his altered senses made him pause. He didn’t stumble. Much. He took several breaths and then he started through the graveyard.
Behind him, he heard Devlin’s words: “Try not to die, Brother.”
Seth didn’t look back, didn’t falter. The logic that he possessed in Sorcha’s realm was tempered in the mortal world. Here, he felt the fear that he could ignore in Faerie; here, he knew that he was running from safety and headed toward danger. He might die. So be it. Fear didn’t outweigh love.
Try not to die.
Seth smiled and said, “That’s the goal, Brother.”
And then he went to find Aislinn.
Chapter 8
Aislinn paced in the study. Once, she’d felt uncomfortable in the room, and then it became a place to relax with her king, and now . . . it was hers. Somehow, Keenan’s absence had made her feel proprietary of a lot of things that were his first. And a lot of people. She had already felt connected to her court, but his choices had made her feel a protectiveness that bordered on maternal.
She looked up as the door to the study opened, and one of the few faeries she now trusted without hesitation stood there. Tavish was an excellent advisor. Where Quinn was intrusive and bordering on belligerent, Tavish was steady. He’d been the voice helping her see what traits were best employed as queen. He’d reminded her that Summer was both playful and cruel, that her new volatility was a tool to harness, that her maudlin worries were best surrendered to passions. If she thought on it, his skill in advising her was unsurprising: he had been the guiding force as Keenan grew into being the Summer King. Along with Niall, he had taught one Summer regent how to rule—and done so when that regent was her age—so teaching a second Summer regent was well within Tavish’s abilities.
Tavish came into the room and held out a glass of what he habitually claimed was a “healthy vitamin drink” but she was pretty sure was vegetables and moss or something else equally unpleasant. “Drink.”
She waved the glass away. “I’m good.”
“My Queen?”
“I’m not thir—” The lie she started was unutterable. She sighed and muttered, “Those are disgusting.”
“Keenan always thought so too.” Tavish continued to hold the glass out to her.
“Fine.” She accepted it and took a gulp. After forcing it down, she set the glass on the coffee table. “Some things aren’t meant to be in liquids, Tavish.”
“Winter isn’t kind to Summer regents. Neither”—he picked the glass up—“is the stress you are trying to hide. Drink it.”
She drank the rest of the noxious stuff. “Promise me that if you ever poison me, it will at least taste better than this.”
“I will never poison you, my Queen.” In a move too graceful for even most faeries, Tavish dropped to his knees. He stared up at her as he knelt in front of her, and despite the peculiarity of the setting, Aislinn suddenly felt as formal as if she were on a dais in front of her court.
For a moment, Aislinn simply stared at him. “I wasn’t being literal.”
“You are my queen. I’ve spent nine centuries seeking the mortal who would free this court, who would save my best friend’s son, who would save the lives of the rest of the girls who were not you. I’d die before I’d allow harm to you.” He bowed his head.
“I didn’t think . . . I know you’re trying to look out for me, Tavish.” She reached out and touched his shoulder. “I trust you. You know that, right? I mean, I’m not great at all this stuff, but you know I trust you, right?”
“I do.” He lifted his gaze. “The words are true all the same. You are our queen, Aislinn. You’re a good queen, and gods know, that isn’t an easy thing to be when you are tossed into the fray with no warning—and with the bias you had against faeries. You’ve done it, though. You put your heart into your court, stood up to Bananach when she first came to you, faced down the Winter and Dark Courts. You’ve weathered the king’s manipulations and his absence. You are exactly what we need, and I am here to do whatever you need. At times, I’ll argue with you because that’s how I can help you, but I’d willingly kill or die for you. It would be an honor to do so.”
“Right. The problem there is that I don’t want you to need to kill or die.”
“Nor do I, but we must face the situation,” Tavish said, sounding characteristically imperturbable.
She flopped down on the sofa and patted the cushion. “Sit with me?”
With a small frown, Tavish sat in a chair across from her.
Aislinn grinned at him. “You know, for a Summer faery, you are awfully proper.”
“Indeed,” Tavish said. “Is that on the agenda for our meeting? My propriety? Shall I add ‘frolic more’ to the tasks for my week?”
“No. . . . I met Far Dorcha. I’m sure the guards already told you.” She paused, and Tavish nodded. “Right,” she continued. “I need the girls to stay in the loft. Whichever fey have . . . defected are on their own. Those who are mine stay here.”
“That is wise.”
Aislinn took a steadying breath. “I need to find out where Keenan is. If he’s not home, I’m going into war without him . . . which is not ideal. Someone knows where he is.”
“I do not, my Queen. I give you my word that I will find out, though.” Tavish’s restrained facade slipped, and she saw the faery-cruel expression as he asked, “Are there limits to the methods?”
At that, she faltered. “Don’t ask me to be a monster.”
Affectionately, he reached out and squeezed her forearm. “You are a faery regent, Aislinn, and we are fast approaching war. Monstrosity will be called for. How far will you go to protect your court?”
Aislinn winced—as much because of the truth as because she had to admit it aloud. “As far as I must. The longer I am this”—she gestured at herself—“the harder it is to remember how much I loathed what he did to me. He took away my mortality, Tavish. I hated him. I hated all of you. . . .”
“And now?”
“I hate any who threatens my court.” She sighed. It seemed foolish, but her first lesson in being a faery regent had been to trust her instincts. She hoped that she was not erring as she said, “Speaking of, I don’t like Quinn’s arrogance. He questions me, not to help, but . . . I don’t know his game. He has one, though.”
“He is not who I would’ve picked to replace my former co-advisor.” Tavish’s expression was unreadable.
Pretending a self-assurance that she rarely felt for more than a heartbeat, Aislinn said, “When Keenan returns, I want to fire Quinn.”
At that, Tavish’s lips quirked in a small smile. “For arrogance?”
“No.” Aislinn pulled her feet up and tucked them under her so that she was sitting cross-legged. “I’d have to cast out everyone if that were the charge.”
Tavish’s slight smile blossomed. “Present company excluded, I’m sure.”
For a moment, Aislinn peered at him. “I think you just made a joke.”
“I am not as solemn as you’d think, my Queen.” Tavish smoothed a hand over one of his already impeccable sleeves. “I am merely as solemn as I need to be to protect my regent.”
With a comfort she didn’t think she’d ever felt before, she told him, “I don’t think you’re truly solemn, Tavish. If you were, you’d be in a different court. You belong to Summer. I’m sure of that. I can feel how strongly tied you are to my court, to me. You’re mine, Tavish. I have no doubt with you.”
Her advisor rewarded her with a joyous look, and in the moment, she knew this was the side of him the Summer Girls saw. He was captivating in that faery way that made her think of the old stories where mortals believed them gods. He had uncharacteristically dark eyes, and his hair was silver—not silvered as mortals’ hair turns with age, but true silver. It was, like Keenan’s copper-colored hair, a metallic hue that made clear that he was very much not mortal. She’d never seen his hair unbound; it was kept in a braid of sorts that stretched down his back. The braid bared part of a small black sun tattoo on the side of his throat. That tattoo stood out in a mostly undecorated court. Of course, so, too, did his High Court reserve and his Dark Court eyes. Those eyes were watching her, so she said what she’d wanted to: “I don’t trust Quinn.”
