Darkest Mercy tf-5

by Melissa Marr

  He had his arm around her lower back and started to pull her onto his lap.

  With more effort than she wished it took, she stopped him. “Keenan.”

  His eyes opened, but instead of answering, he wrapped both arms around her, and fell backward onto his bed, pulling her with him. Her hands were flat on his bare chest, and her hips were against his. The shock of being in that position made her still for a moment.

  “You’re not going to seduce me.” Aislinn pushed away and stared down at the Summer King, who was shirtless and prone on his bed underneath her.

  Summer is the court of impulsivity. Keenan was offering her what Seth was refusing her. His kisses make me forget the world. His touch would be . . .

  She sighed. “I’m tempted. You know that.”

  “That was a no,” Keenan said.

  “It was.” She sat beside him.

  He didn’t sit up. Instead he rolled onto his side and looked at her. “Because of Seth.”

  Aislinn nodded.

  “So are you . . . completely together then?” Keenan stretched one arm over his head.

  Despite her best intentions, her gaze traveled over him. Several thin scars marred the expanse of tanned skin, but they didn’t detract from his appeal. He was toned without being bulky, and his well-defined abs made her briefly think he shouldn’t ever wear shirts. Except no one would get much done if that were the case. Even when they’d been growing closer, she hadn’t seen him like this. He’d been careful around her then.

  “You’re doing this on purpose,” she said in a voice far too breathy for her comfort.

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I am.”

  “Why?” She forced herself to look only at his face.

  “Answer my question, Aislinn.”

  “No, not totally. We aren’t . . .” She blushed. “Not by my choice.”

  “Did he tell you what he sees?” Keenan asked in a voice too benign to be truly innocent.

  She made sure her gaze didn’t waver from his face—much—and asked, “Sees?”

  “In the future.”

  “I don’t . . .” She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Seth sees the future,” Keenan told her. “If he was certain you weren’t going to be in my arms, he wouldn’t refuse you. He knows you aren’t certain.”

  “He wouldn’t hide that. . . .” Aislinn felt tears well up in her eyes, though.

  “But he did. Seers are able to see possibilities. Not their own futures, but he can see your possible futures. No matter what you’ve said, he can see that you aren’t certain yet. We have not reached the point where you can say that you truly won’t be with me. You know—as well as I do, and as well as he does—that you don’t want to sacrifice your court for love. You’re their queen. Will you tell them that their deaths, their fragility, their court mean so little?”

  “No.”

  “Can you say you don’t want me?” he challenged.

  Aislinn looked away, but Keenan laid his hand on her cheek and made her face him. “I am your king, Aislinn. Seth sees futures where you make the choice to be mine.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because Seth is the one who helped me fight Bananach today.”

  When several moments passed and she didn’t reply, Keenan asked, “What was the message you sent?”

  “Keenan . . .”

  “What message would you send to bring me home so quickly, Aislinn?”

  In a steady voice, the Summer Queen said, “I told Tavish to send a message to bring you home, not that it was truth . . . but a misdirection, a faery manipulation.”

  “Aislinn, what was the message?”

  “That I was ready to let you convince me,” she confessed.

  “Then, convince you I shall.” In one of those faery-fast movements that used to unsettle her, Keenan sat up so he was knee-to-knee with her. “I’ll be yours, and only yours, for all of eternity. We will move the court away from here.”

  “But, I didn’t mean it. . . .”

  “One week,” he said. “We will be together, or I will leave. I will do what I must from a distance. It is not how a court should be ruled, but we can make it so if necessary. I will not stay here and watch my queen choose to be with another. I will not. I will not stay here and fight against our natures. We will be together, or we will not see each other at all.”

  “You’re not being fair, Keenan.”

  “None of this is fair, Aislinn.” He slid his fingers through her hair, and flower petals showered them. “The indecision is keeping us from being happy, and that weakens the court. I could make you happy.”

  Then he pulled his hands away, but as he did so, sunlight rained down over them. Vines twined up the bed and burst into bloom. Somewhere in the distance, she heard an ocean crash onto the shore, and she slid backward.

  With effort, she kept her eyes open. “I just wanted you to come back.”

  “And I’m here.” Keenan knelt beside her in the midst of a riot of summer blossoms. “We’ve tried approaching this as a job; we tried being coregents, but not truly together. It didn’t work.”

  “Maybe—”

  “No. The court needs to be strong, and having its rulers in stasis isn’t going to make our fey strong . . . or safe from Bananach. You can stop this at any point by telling me we will rule the court apart from a distance, but until you do so”—he let liquid sunlight drip onto her skin—“I’m playing for keeps. I’m not a mortal, Aislinn. I’m the Summer King, and I’m done pretending to be anything other than that.”

  He leaned down and said, “We could be amazing together.”

  Then he was gone.

  Chapter 18

  Seth thought he was prepared; he thought that he understood Niall. As he walked into the Dark King’s house, he realized just how wrong he was. The floor was covered with the evidence of the Dark King’s fury: broken furniture and glass, bits of paper, a half-charred log from the fireplace that looked like it had still been burning when it was thrown. The debris was ankle deep in places.

  A thistle-fey huddled against the wall with a strange expression on his face. As the faery turned, Seth realized that a fireplace poker had been driven through the faery’s thigh and pinned him to the wall. It hadn’t been obvious at first because it was so deeply embedded in the wall that only the handle was visible.

  “The king is in mourning,” the faery said.

  “I know.” Seth gestured at the handle of the poker. “May I help?”

  The faery shook his head. “The king shouldn’t suffer alone. It is an honor to be in pain with him.”

  “You did this?”

  “No. My king did.” The thistle-faery leaned his head back. “I didn’t understand how I should feel at the loss of our last king. I understand more now.”

  “Let me help y—”

  “No,” the faery interrupted. “It is brass, not iron.”

  For a moment, Seth felt a flicker of fear. Would Niall strike me? He looked at the destruction. Only one way to find out.

  As he walked through the house, more than a few faeries lay bleeding. One Ly Erg dangled half on, half off a chandelier. The Ly Erg’s eyes were closed, but it appeared to be breathing.

  Several Hounds walked up behind Seth. One, Elaina, asked quietly, “You sure you want to go in alone?”

  “No,” Seth admitted, “but I’m going to.”

  “The king is distraught. We could go in first so he can have someone to strike,” the female Hound suggested.

  Seth shook his head. “I think I’d better go alone from here.”

  The expression on Elaina’s face made quite clear that she thought he was being a fool.

  She may be right.

  “It’ll be fine,” he assured her. “He is my brother.”

  She scowled, but she held up both hands in defeat.

  No one in the house appeared to be moving. The faeries that Seth passed were either injured, unconscious, or staying still to avoid atten
tion. Many were half buried under the apparent destruction of everything in the house.

  Following the sounds of crashing glass, Seth made his way through rooms he’d never seen, down more hallways than seemed possible to fit into the dimensions of the building. Like Sorcha’s palace in Faerie. At the end of a hall was a room, and in the room was a very battered, bleeding Dark King. All around him, shadow figures—the same seemingly insubstantial amorphous bodies Seth had seen when they stood at Ani’s house—reassembled what remained of the contents of the room, handed them to Niall, and watched as he broke them again.

  “Niall,” Seth said softly.

  For a moment, Niall paused. He looked at Seth without recognition, and then he glanced at the green cut-glass decanter in his hand.

  “Niall,” Seth repeated a little louder. “I’m here. I’ve come to help you.”

  “He’s dead. Irial. Is. Dead.” Niall dropped the decanter and walked away.

  After a few steps, Niall slammed his fist into the wall.

  Seth grabbed him and pulled him backward. “Stop.”

  Niall looked at Seth. “She killed him.”

  “I know.” Seth held on to his friend’s arm. “I was there when she stabbed him. Remember?”

  The Dark King nodded. “I tried to stop it. Healers . . . I tried. . . . I failed. . . . I thought I wanted him dead once. I thought that . . .” Niall’s words trailed off as he looked past Seth to the destruction in the hall. “I did that?”

  “I think so.”

  “I don’t remember. . . .” Niall reached up to rub his face, but he stopped mid-motion. “I didn’t remember things, but now . . . You make me remember. He died. I remember that. Irial is dead.”

  “There are other things you need to remember. You can do this, Brother.” Seth waited. He couldn’t tell Niall what he saw. That was the limitation of being a seer. One of them at least. He couldn’t try to manipulate the future he wanted by telling Niall what could come to pass; Sorcha had explained that at length. As it was, he was playing with the rules more than he probably should.

  “I’ve been trying; since you left, I tried. . . .” Niall shook his head.

  Seth led him away from the now blood-spattered wall. “You would cope a lot better if you slept.”

  Niall pulled away. “I can’t.”

  “You can. You need to.” Seth used a foot to push a bunch of glass to the side. It crunched under his boot.

  Niall looked down at his own bare feet. “I’m bleeding.”

  “Yeah. I know,” Seth said.

  “I wouldn’t hurt you.”

  “What?”

  Niall made a vague gesture. “You’re afraid. I wouldn’t hurt you.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “I can taste it,” Niall interrupted.

  Seth quirked a brow.

  “Dark King thing,” Niall muttered. Then he swayed. He leaned against the wall. “I’m tired, Seth.” He pushed off the wall immediately. “No. I’m not. Find me something—”

  “No.”

  Niall turned then, and the abyss-guardians snapped to life around them. “I am the Dark King. If I say—”

  “Niall. Seriously. Chill the fuck out.” Seth grabbed him by both shoulders. “You need to sleep. Trust me.”

  “I can’t. No sleep since he’s been gone . . . He haunts my dreams.” Niall leaned his head on Seth’s shoulder. “I’m afraid . . . and I cannot do this on my own, Brother.”

  “Where’s Gabe?”

  “With Iri.” Niall glanced toward a closed door. “I ordered him to stay with Irial. I needed to leave the room, but I didn’t . . . I can’t . . . This is our home.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “I do.”

  “I want you to remember that, Niall,” Seth said, and then he called, “Elaina!”

  The blur of Hounds raced toward them. Niall stared at them as they encircled him.

  “Your king needs to find rest,” Seth told the female Hound.

  Then Seth looked at Niall. “Give me permission.”

  “For?”

  “Trust me,” Seth pleaded. “What I do is necessary.”

  Niall stared at him—and hesitated. “You have permission for the acts of the next minute.”

  “That’ll do it.” Reluctantly, Seth gave the order he knew his friend needed: “Knock him out. He needs sleep.”

  Chapter 19

  Early the following morning, Donia stood at the veil to Faerie. Her requests for an audience with the Dark King were refused, so she decided to try the next regent on her list. She put her hand out into the air, grasping at nothingness again. The fabric should twist around her skin; it should writhe like a living thing. It did neither.

  “It’s not here.”

  Beside her, Evan nodded. “That’s what I was trying to explain.”

  “It can’t not be here.” Her hand sliced through the empty air. “Do they move? I mean, I haven’t been a faery for that long. In the past, did they move?”

  “No.”

  “That doesn’t work, Evan.” She turned to face him, and as she did so, she absently reached out to touch Sasha. The wolf had been growling as Donia grew increasingly agitated. He kept a watchful gaze around the cemetery as if seeking out whatever threat had unsettled his mistress.

  “If I had an answer, I’d offer it to you.” Evan’s tone was uncommonly sharp.

  Donia drew a calming breath and then exhaled a plume of frigid air. “I’m sorry. I know that.”

  Her advisor nodded. His berry-red eyes were still widened, and his posture was as tense as she felt. For a winter faery—or for a rowan—it was akin to hand-wringing. Evan started walking, and as they began pacing through the cemetery, more of her faeries joined them. The lupine loped at the edges of the cemetery in a loose formation. Several Scrimshaw Sisters drifted alongside the lupine. Others of her court fanned out in scouting patterns, and still more faeries assumed the position of guards.

  “What does it mean? Is Faerie gone?”

  “We would know.” Evan stared at the air, as if to find a trail, a hint of something that made sense of the vanishing of the gate to Faerie. “We would. We’d have to know.”

  “Do you think she . . . they . . . oh gods, Evan, if it vanished . . . the people and the faeries there. The deaths.” Donia lowered her voice until it was little more than a whisper. “It’s just the gate that’s gone. It has to be.”

  “The Summer Queen’s beloved goes to Faerie. He would know something.” Evan motioned to the faeries who were looking, unsuccessfully, for some other gate to have appeared to replace the one that had vanished. “It is necessary to call on the Summer Court or try the Dark Court again. The boy will be with one of them.”

  “And War? Could she have done this?” As her faeries moved closer, Donia spotted a stranger among them. A tall, pale faery walked through the cemetery toward her. “Evan? Who is that?”

  Evan stepped in front of her so suddenly that she had to put a hand on his back to steady herself. “Stay behind me.”

  Scrimshaw Sisters fluttered toward Donia and encircled her. In barely more than a breath, the lupine were gathered around them. One particularly anxious Hawthorn hovered, her eyes flashing angry red.

  “A wall of faeries between us, Donia?” The faery shook his head. “Surely, this is not how one greets old friends.”

  “We’ve never met,” Donia said.

  “Forgive me.” He bowed his head briefly. “I saw you in a memory. Icicles like knives tipped those dainty hands.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “You skewered the Summer Queen quite neatly.”

  A wave of something like regret filled Donia at the thought of that day. “She healed.”

  “Curiously, she healed better than one would expect.” The faery straightened to full height then. “I am Far Dorcha.”

  Donia hoped her expression didn’t betray the terror she was attempting to resist. I am Winter. I am at my strength. Unfortunately, every assurance she could think of was quashed when
she realized that the faery before her was the Dark Man, wielder of true death. He mightn’t be a king, but the death-fey obeyed him without hesitation—in part, perhaps, because his touch could end their lives as well. Only Far Dorcha could kill any of the death-fey. It made for a degree of instant obedience that other regents couldn’t demand.

  “You’ve not been fey but a blink.” He took another step toward her.

  Evan extended a hand, but didn’t actually touch the Dark Man. “Keep your distance.”

  “Evan.” Far Dorcha shook his head. “You’ve switched courts again, I see.”

  Again?

  “I serve the Winter Queen,” Evan said in a perfectly level voice. “I organize her guard, and I would lay down every life here for hers.”

  Far Dorcha laughed, a horrible sound of claws scrabbling over metal floors. “And when they were all gone, I would still reach her . . . if that was my desire.”

  The Dark Man wasn’t threatening her, not overtly, but the reminder carried the force of a threat. Her fey tensed further. She laid the palm of her hand against Evan’s back and stepped to the side so that she was able to look up at Far Dorcha. In doing so, Donia drew his attention back to her.

  “Do you come for me?” she asked.

  “No. I was here”—he motioned around the cemetery—“because of the gate. I was in Huntsdale for other business matters.”

  Evan tensed. “Who?”

  Keenan? Aislinn? Niall? Irial? The head of the death-fey wouldn’t come for just any death. Who will die?

  Donia asked, “Why are you here?”

  “Ah-ah-ah.” Far Dorcha shook his finger. “Not telling you. The surprise is part of the fun.”

  The Dark Man sighed, and Evan bodily blocked that exhalation from touching her. Her guard had his head turned to the side as he did so, yet as she watched, he swallowed with some difficulty. His hands fisted.

  “Evan?”

  “Please, my Queen, not now.” His voice was ragged, but he didn’t move.

  “Curious. Despite her temper then, you chose to be hers.” Far Dorcha’s gaze lifted from Evan to fix her in a stare. “Did you mean to kill them? Petulant behavior, striking out at the Summer King’s guards. You’ve taken lives for no reason.”