Old Habits

by Melissa Marr

  Several of the Hounds shifted restlessly. They would obey their Gabriel, but after centuries of protecting Irial, they were uneasy at the idea of manhandling him.

  They all dropped their gazes then, and Irial turned around to find Niall watching. The waves of fury radiating from the Dark King made Irial shiver. There was no doubt that this was the true King of Nightmares.

  They locked gazes silently. The Hunt waited, and the moment grew rich with the promise of far more violence than even Irial had expected.

  Then Devlin said, “Your words are noted and will be relayed to my queen.” He bowed his head, either to hide his expression or out of respect. Irial wasn’t sure which.

  “Inside,” Niall said in a deceptively soft voice.

  Niall was fuming as they entered the building. A barricade of solid shadow snapped into place around the two of them, sealing out everyone else. “What were you thinking? Did you ignore everything I said yesterday?”

  “No.” Irial was unabashed. He put his hand against the shadow-formed wall. “You are able to do the things I struggled with as easily as if you’d been king for several years.”

  Niall had the overwhelming urge to strike his advisor. “At least one of us is adjusting well.”

  At that, Irial paused. “What do you mean?”

  “You offered me the court, your fealty, your advice, yet you hide things that as your king, I should be told.” Niall’s fury was barely in check. When Gabriel had delivered one of Irial’s spies who revealed what Devlin’s orders were—and that Irial had known—Niall had reacted calmly. When he’d given his orders to Gabriel, he’d remained calm. But seeing Irial stand foolishly willing to allow Devlin to beat him made that composure vanish. Despite that, Niall’s voice remained level as he said, “Instead of hiding the fact that you were informed that Devlin was to strike you or Gabriel, you should have told me.”

  For a moment, Irial stood in silence. “If Gabriel were to be injured, the Hounds could replace him, and we cannot be certain that another Hound would support you as Gabriel will.”

  “I know.”

  “So of the two, I am more expendable.” Irial shrugged.

  “You are not expendable. . . . And I couldn’t speak it if it were untrue”—Niall held up his hand before Irial could interrupt—“neither could you, so we both believe we speak truths. You told me of this visit, advised me how to proceed, and then undermined me. You should have told me what you learned.”

  Irial kneeled. “I’m not very good at serving.”

  “I noticed,” Niall said.

  The truth was that even as he was apologizing, Irial was not subservient. Kings weren’t meant to become subjects, and after centuries of being a king, Irial wasn’t likely to change overnight. Or at all. The consequence of that truth, however, was that the one faery in the Dark Court best able to advise Niall was also the one least suited to being anyone’s subject.

  “We need a solution or you need to go,” Niall started.

  Irial lifted his gaze. “You would exile me?”

  “If you work against me, yes, I will.” Niall frowned. “Tell me what you know. Maybe we need to do so every day. A meeting. . . . Or a memo, or I don’t know.”

  Irial started to rise to his feet.

  “No,” Niall whispered. “You will kneel until I say otherwise.”

  A slow smile came over Irial’s face. “As you will.”

  “I’m not joking, Irial. Either I’m your king or you are gone. If I am to rule this court, I need you”—Niall paused to let the weight of that sentence settle on both of them— “more than I think I’ve needed anyone. So tell me right now: do you want the court back, do you want to leave, or do you intend to be my advisor in truth?”

  “I want to keep you safe. I want to see you happy. I want to make this court stronger.” Irial looked only at Niall despite the growing number of faeries outside the shadowed barrier. “I cannot be their king.”

  “Then stop trying to make all of the decisions.” Niall ignored the fighting outside the wall as well. A fair number of Ly Ergs stood in front of Devlin, who was steadily throwing them across the room as if they were weightless. “You learned that the High Queen wanted a show of Devlin’s strength, a strike that would be a noticeable display of her assassin’s strength.”

  “Yes.”

  “I sent Gabe to find out which of your spies you’d visited, and then I waited to see what you’d do.” Niall let his pleasure in the situation be obvious in his voice. “I manipulated you, Irial. I had no choice because you didn’t come to me.”

  Irial turned away to watch another faery go sailing by the barrier. “May I rise?”

  “No.” Niall hid a grin. “You will give me your vow.”

  “On what?”

  “I will have your vow that you will tell me when there are threats that you consider protecting me from, threats to me or to the court or to you that you consider withholding, and you will tell me what they are as soon as you are reasonably able to do so.” Niall had weighed the words in his mind as he’d sat stewing over Irial’s deceit. “You will vow to trust me with ruling this court or you will become solitary, exiled from the court and from my presence until I decide otherwise.”

  The terror that Irial felt then almost made Niall waver. He didn’t, though. He continued, “You will spend as much time as I require in my presence, teaching me the secrets that you are even now thinking I can’t handle yet.”

  “There are centuries of secrets, my King.” Irial shifted as he spoke.

  “Do not move,” Niall snarled. “Either you kneel there and give me your vow to all that I just said”—he reached out, gripped the underside of Irial’s jaw in his hand, and forced his once-friend, once-more, once-enemy to look at him—“or you may stand and walk out the door.”

  “If I tell you everything, neither of us will sleep or do anything else for months.”

  Niall squeezed Irial’s throat, not hard enough to bruise— much—and asked, “If I directed you to tell me what you hide, would you be able to give me a full answer?”

  “In time? Yes. Today? No. Centuries, Niall, I’ve been dealing in secrets for centuries.” Irial stayed motionless in Niall’s grasp. “I told you about my understanding with Sorcha. I had Gabe bring you one of—”

  “Yes,” Niall interrupted, squeezing harder now. “Did they spy for you?”

  “Only on you.”

  With a snarl, Niall shoved him away. “You vow or go.” Even as he struggled to remain kneeling, Irial didn’t hesitate in his words. “My vow . . . and full truth within the decade.”

  “Within the year.”

  Irial shook his head. “That is impossible.”

  “Two years.”

  “No more than three years,” Irial offered. “You have eternity to rule them; three years is but a blink.”

  For a moment, Niall considered forcing the matter, but if it had taken him centuries to change, it was far from unreasonable for Irial to ask for a few years. Niall nodded. “Done.”

  “May I rise now?” Irial asked.

  “Actually, no. You can stay like that. In fact, maybe you should always stay like that when you bring me news.” Niall dropped the barrier and told his court, “I am a member of this court, not merely your king.”

  They paused, a calm rippling over the melee for a moment.

  One faery asked, “So we can hit you?”

  “You can try,” Niall challenged, and then he launched himself into the fracas. He was a part of them, rejoicing in the violence that fed them, standing alongside them as he hadn’t done since he’d walked away so many centuries ago. He felt their excitement at his inclusion in their fight, and he smiled.

  This, at least, I understand.

  Chapter 10

  Irial felt unconscionably proud of his king as Niall waded into the fight that was now more than a conflict between Devlin and the Ly Ergs. The fight had evolved into the sort of raucous brawl that erupted often in the Dark Court. It was a
way to let off steam and a way to create nourishment for one another. What would look like senseless violence to outsiders was, in actuality, a way of caring for one another. They created fear and anger in one another, and in doing so, they created that which they fed on. It wasn’t Irial’s preferred sustenance, but he could see the beauty of it.

  Especially when Niall fights.

  Niall had always fought with the sort of unrestrained passion that awed Irial. The Dark King was in the thick of the fight, swinging at Hounds and Ly Ergs and Vilas.

  Glass shattered over Irial and rained down on him. With it came the remains of a bottle of merlot. The dark wine dripped on Irial, but he stayed exactly where his king had told him to stay: kneeling in the midst of the chaos of a beautiful, bloody battle.

  The fight now included a full three score of faeries. More than a few faeries took advantage of the melee to pelt things at him or at the walls and ceiling. Debris rained on him. At least three blows struck him. He didn’t ignore them, but fighting while remaining kneeling was a new challenge.

  Finally Niall came over and grabbed him by the upper arm. “Get up.”

  Silently, Irial obeyed. He could barely restrain the joy he felt, but, overjoyed or not, he had obeyed—and that was the point. He brushed bits of glass from his arms and shook splinters of wood from his hair.

  “Stay next to me or next to Gabe,” Niall demanded as he swung at an exuberant thistle-fey. “Clear?”

  “Yes.” Irial grabbed a length of what appeared to be a chair and sent it like a spear toward Devlin.

  The High Court assassin knocked it from the air with a nod. He wasn’t injured in any visible way, but he was blood-covered and smiling. Devlin might choose to ignore the fact that he was brother to both Order and Chaos, but here in the midst of the Dark Court’s violence, it was abundantly clear that he was not truly a creature of the High Court.

  Another faery went sailing through the air, knocking into Devlin as if a running leap would make a difference. It didn’t. The High Court’s Bloodied Hands swatted the faery from the air and moved on to the next opponent.

  “They lack structure,” a Hound grumbled as she stomped on a fallen Vila’s hand. “No plan in the attack.”

  “Was there supposed to be a plan?” Irial asked.

  The Hound looked past him to Niall, who nodded. Then she answered, “No. Gabe thought a bit of sport would be good for everyone. The king agreed.” She lowered her voice a touch and added, “He fights well enough that I’d follow him.”

  “He is remarkable.” Irial glanced at Niall. The Dark King was enjoying himself as the fight began to evolve into a contest of sorts. In one corner, Devlin stood atop a pile of tables and wood; in another, Gabriel stood with his back to the wall; and beside Irial, Niall stood on a small raised platform. All around the room the Dark Court faeries scrabbled toward one of the strongest fighters. Without speaking, the brawl began to resemble nothing so much as a bloodier version of King of the Hill. Everybody wanted to topple one of the best fighters, if even for a moment, and all of them were having fun.

  Devlin had more than held his own against the Dark Court’s fighter, reminding them that he was not to be ignored. All of the faeries in the room had more nourishment than could’ve been hoped for as a result of the flare of violence and blood sport.

  And Niall made his point.

  The new Dark King had played them all like pawns.

  Irial started to back away, and the Hound next to him clamped a hand on his arm. Irial glanced from her to Niall, who grinned, dodged a punch from a glaistig, and came over to stand beside him. “I don’t think you were dismissed.”

  The Hound and the glaistig both laughed.

  I love my court.

  “As you wish.” Irial stepped around the Hound to lean against a wall out of the fight. He had more than his fill of fighting. If he could fight Niall, it’d be different, but fighting for random sport wasn’t his preferred entertainment.

  Almost an hour later, Devlin bowed to Gabriel and then to Niall.

  The faeries dispersed, limping, bleeding, stumbling— and chortling with glee.

  “The High Queen sends her greetings,” Devlin said as he approached Niall. “She reminds the new Dark King that he is no different than any other faery and that she expects him to abide by the same restraints the last”—Devlin looked at Irial then—“Dark King observed.”

  None of them voiced the unspoken truths about the numerous visits that Irial had paid to the High Queen in Faerie, but they all knew of those visits. Such is the way of it. Irial kept his gaze on his king rather than reply to Devlin. It was the king who needed to answer the invitation implicit in those words.

  Niall didn’t disappoint.

  “Please let Sorcha know that her greeting was received, that her Assassin has made her willingness to strike at me and mine abundantly clear, and”—Niall stood face-to-face with Devlin—“if she ever touches those under my protection without just cause, I will be at her step.”

  Devlin nodded. “Will you be requesting an audience with her?”

  “No,” Niall said. “There is nothing and no one in Faerie right now that interests me enough to visit.”

  For a breath, Irial thought Devlin was going to strike Niall, but the moment passed.

  Then Niall smiled. He gestured behind him and a Vila escorted a sightless mortal man into the room.

  “Blinding them and leaving them helpless”—Niall didn’t turn to look at the mortal—“is unacceptable. My court has offered this man protection. He will not be taken to Faerie or otherwise accosted.” He kept his gaze on Devlin.

  The ghost of a smile flickered on Devlin’s face, but all he said was: “I shall relay the message to my queen.”

  “And any discussion she has on Dark Court matters”— Niall stepped forward—“will be handled between regents or via official emissaries.”

  Devlin did smile this time. “My queen has only one emissary. Do you have a chosen proxy?”

  “As of this moment, no, but”—Niall glanced at Irial— “perhaps that will change in time.” The Dark King turned his back on all of them then and said only, “Gabriel.”

  The Hound inclined his head toward the door, and Devlin preceded Gabriel toward it. The two faeries walked out of the building, and then Irial and Niall were left alone in the destruction.

  Irial waited for the words that went with the frustrated anger that he could taste. He counted a dozen heartbeats before his king turned to face him.

  “Don’t push me again, Iri,” Niall whispered. “I rule this damnable court now, and I’ll do it with you on my side—as you promised—or with you under my boot.”

  Irial opened his mouth, but Niall growled.

  “You tell me you care about them, and about me, so you better prove it.” Niall blinked against a trickle of blood that ran into his eye. “I don’t expect you to change today, but you need to trust me more than you have.”

  “I trust you with my life.” Irial ripped the edge of his shirt off and held it out.

  “I know that,” Niall muttered. “Now try trusting me with my life.”

  And to that, Irial had no reply. He kept his mouth closed as Niall stomped through the destruction and left. The Dark King was here, truly and fully, and Irial would do what he could to serve his king.

  As truthfully as I can.

  There was no way to tell Niall everything, but he had three years before he had to be fully honest. An otherwise unoccupied faery could get a lot accomplished in three years, and the sort of king Niall was could get his court in order in far less time than that. All told, the Dark Court was better off than it had been in quite some time.

  And so is Niall.

  Read on for a sneak peek into

  the final thrilling Wicked Lovely book:

  DARKEST MERCY

  Prologue

  Niall walked through the ruins of the tattoo shop. Shards of painted glass crunched under his boots. The floor was strewn with vials o
f ink, unopened needles, electric apparatus he couldn’t identify, and other things he’d rather not identify. The Dark King had known rage before, known grief; he’d felt helpless, felt unprepared; but he’d never before had all of those emotions converge on him at once.

  He paused and lifted one of the mangled bits of metal and wire from the floor. He turned it over in his hand. Only a year ago, a tattoo machine—maybe this one—had bound Irial to the mortal who had brought the former Dark King and Niall together again after a millennium. Irial was the constant, the one faery that had been a part of Niall’s life— for better and worse—for more than a thousand years.

  Niall stabbed his bloodied hand with the broken tattoo machine. His own blood welled up and mingled with the drying blood on his hands. His blood. Irial’s blood is on my hands because I couldn’t stop Bananach. Niall lifted the broken machine in his hand, but before he could stab himself a second time, a Hound grabbed his wrist.

  “No.” The Hound, Gabriel’s mate, Chela, took the machine. “The stretcher is here, and—”

  “Is he awake?”

  Mutely, Chela shook her head and led him toward the living room, where Irial lay.

  “He will heal,” Niall said, trying the words out, testing the Hound’s reaction to his opinion.

  “I hope so,” she said, even as her doubt washed over him. Irial was motionless on the litter. The uneven rising and falling of his chest proved that he still lived, but the pinched look on his face made clear that he was suffering. His eyes were closed, and his taunting grin was absent.

  The healer was finishing packing some sort of noxious-smelling plants against the wound, and Niall wasn’t sure whether it was worse to look at Irial or at the bloodied bandages on the floor.

  The Hound, Gabriel’s second-in-command, lowered her voice. “The Hunt stands at your side, Niall. Gabriel has made that clear. We will fight at your side. We will not let Bananach near you.”