Cold Iron Heart: A Wicked Lovely Novel

by Melissa Marr

  “For a fee, dear one.” She took his hand and directed it under her blouse, and with no pause, pulled the straps down so she was revealing herself to any and all who cared to look. “Give them a show.”

  “I can’t go in there.”

  Jenny Greenteeth took his hand in hers, and then she turned and walked away. She led him between the people, forcing as many of them as she could to brush against him or her as she walked. When she stopped, they were at the side of the building in a small alley.

  Back to the wall, she lifted her skirts, revealing a lack of undergarments.

  “Here,” she ordered. “I know what you need to hear, Niall. Secrets. We’d be fucking in the service of the king.”

  He knew she didn’t mean the Summer King, but the smile she gave him was one he never quite resisted, no matter how often she’d worn it. Dark green teeth between blood-red lips. Taunting. Inviting. And after the sight of topless mortals, the longing he was feeling was worse than usual.

  “Secrets. Such delicious secrets.” Jenny beckoned him closer. “Or you could go to his doorstep in this state. . .”

  If Niall wasn’t tempted, she wouldn’t offer. Her eyes were languid, as if he’d already touched her. He still missed this sometimes. The Dark Court thrived on lust and rage.

  He felt no rage.

  Without another word, he unfastened his trousers and fucked her against the brothel wall. In the street. It wasn’t the stage she’d requested, but she’d offered that knowing he’d refuse. This was what she’d wanted.

  Men and women watching her.

  Their lust like wine drifting on the very air itself.

  And the unspoken truth that he was enjoying the spectacle as much as she was. Try as he might, Niall would always be a bit darker than he would admit aloud.

  Jenny’s heels scraped the back of his jacket. She tore at his shirt until he was bare-chested, skin-to-skin with her. “Do you remember when we did this with Irial, too?”

  The words, the memories, the sounds she made, it all fed his excitement. The watchers did, too. The way she whimpered as her back slid over the rough brick of the building added an element that he only found when he saw her. Such things weren’t done in the Summer Court—and if they knew his darker interests, they’d scorn him.

  When Niall finally found release some time later, it was as much her body as memories that made him lose control.

  Afterward, she slid down his body, her skirt covering her instantly. Lightly, she called, “Show’s over. I’ll be inside in a blink, though, if anyone thinks they’re worthy to follow him.”

  Niall didn’t look back at them, these men who would die after touching her tonight.

  “Maybe that will make it easier to see the king,” Jenny said. “Shave the edge off your moods.”

  He stared at the brick beside her. “The secret?”

  “The king took a mortal to a faery bar in the city. He watches her, and she smiles upon him with interest.”

  “A mortal?”

  Jenny slid away and stood behind him as he put his clothes to rights. She leaned close and added, “It’s been centuries since I’ve seen him look like that at anyone new in such a way. Positively smitten. Hungry. The way he looks at you when you aren’t watching.”

  Then she was gone, and Niall was alone but for the scores of needy mortals moving in and out of the houses of sin on the street.

  Tam

  The next morning, Tam woke early, hoping to see Irial for a few moments before she was about her business. She wasn’t thinking too much on how easily she had gone from not-avoiding-him to actively seeking him. Faery or not, Irial was a man. This longing Tam felt was not the sort of thing that smart women did; it was the behavior of the sort of girl who was desperate for a husband.

  Tam wasn’t that sort of person.

  And Irial was a faery, a monstrous thing. Beauty didn't overcome the horribleness of creatures like him. It should not.

  Tam pulled her hair back into a twist, no loose curls or inviting ringlets. He had offered her friendship. It was a curious possibility. What could she learn from a creature like him? If she kept her secret well enough, she had access to a being that was likely to see the world in completely different ways. He'd surely traveled far. He'd probably read things, seen things, tasted things she could never imagine.

  Tam pushed away the dreams she'd had in the dark of the night. She pulled on her second-best coat again, left the Irish Channel, and set out toward the river. There, where the French Quarter's businesses ended and the Mississippi pressed against her banks, she would likely find a faery waiting for her.

  Her friend.

  She would not tell him that she was tempted by his offer of Onyx Jewelry.

  She would not tell him that she dreamed of kissing his bare skin to discover if it tasted more akin to the sweet pastries or the slightly bitter coffee they'd shared.

  Friends do not lick friends.

  The thought of that moral, and the not-at-all stunned way she was already sure he'd reply if she shared that tidbit of wisdom, made her break into a gleeful laugh.

  And it was because of that slightly wicked line of thought that she did not see the new faery until she'd all but tripped over him.

  "I seem to be lost," he said.

  Like Irial, this one glowed faintly. Unlike him, this second faery had a long scar that ran from his temple to the corner of his mouth, and he wasn’t trying to hide it. His scar was red, jagged as if an animal had slashed one long claw over his face. His hair was longer than Irial’s, but it was pulled back into a long queue at the nape of his neck. The result was that there was no chance of anyone failing to notice that jagged line on his face. What he shared with Irial, though, was an unearthly beauty and an arrogance that said he knew exactly how attractive he was.

  And like Irial, this faery was fit, all sinewy muscles and length. He moved like he was ready for a duel or possibly even the sort of fisticuffs that followed drunken binges in the most disreputable of bars.

  "I can't help you.”

  “But miss—"

  Tam turned and ran, looking over her shoulder several times, taking a circuitous route back to her home. One faery was tolerable, perhaps only because he was so charming and harmless. A second one that tried to talk to her so boldly? That could only bode ill.

  Once she was home Tam sought out a neighbor to retrieve the laundry she agreed to help Deirdre wash. Deirdre wasn’t around, so Tam had to try to talk to the newest neighbor, a mother and her three young sons who had moved into the wee house across from hers.

  "Tell them I'm ill. Come down with a cough, but that I'll still have the washing done up for them. Simply need to stay indoors for a day or so," Thelma explained to her.

  "A cough then?" The woman, who didn't look but a handful of years older than Thelma, looked her up and down. Her gaze lingered at Tam's midsection.

  “A cough,” Tam repeated firmly.

  She closed and leaned against her door. There was no way to explain away a second faery making eyes at her in her city. No good would come of it. Was this the one that Irial had been mentioning? Was he this Beira? Or the kingling?

  Tam’s thoughts ground to a halt. Kingling. Now that she was away from Irial’s distracting form the word seemed perfectly clear. The new one might be a faery king, a young one. She wanted to be wrong, was desperate to be so, but she had to wonder why a faery would come looking for her.

  She stared at her door as if expecting monsters to come crashing into the room. They might not look like monsters, not the stuff of nightmares that the storybooks hid, but the fear was the same.

  Who was the scarred faery? Why did he seek her out? Did he know where she lived?

  There was exactly one person who could give her answers, but he was a faery, too. Dark Court. Beautiful. He could waltz like he was floating, and he made her feel dangerous and beautiful.

  For a flicker of a moment, Tam considered sending a letter to Irial, a plaintive request for hi
s aid, but what would she write?

  Dear sir, I am afraid of any beautiful goblin men who aren’t you.

  Or maybe,

  Dear sir, I wish to be in your arms as nightmares walk the streets.

  Or perhaps,

  Dear sir, please do not steal my eyes as you are stealing my heart!

  Tam shook her head at her own foolishness, and then she shoved her table and chair over to block the door. She took the precious few grains of salt she owned and scattered them in front of her window. She took a cloth, poured holy water onto it, and wrapped the doorknob with it.

  She had no idea what—if any—thing would work, but better to try something than wait for disaster.

  Irial

  The next day, Irial watched for Thelma, certain he’d see the young woman in her nearly threadbare coat. She was captivated already. They both knew it—just as they both knew what he was.

  When she didn’t appear, he was baffled. It wasn’t that he’d never been rejected, but it wasn’t a common theme in his life. He was, quite literally, the physical manifestation of temptation. In most cases, mortal or fey, that was enough. The joy of Thelma was that her interest was deeper than lust. She liked him.

  She should be here.

  He’d bought her a jeweler’s shop. It wasn’t a common gift, but it was definitely one that stated his interest.

  They’d laughed. She’d been audacious. They’d waltzed.

  She should be here and willing.

  If there was one thing he knew, it was desire, and he’d seen it plain as day in Thelma’s face. The ones with the Sight often looked at him with curiosity. They’d seen the things that monsters do, but he didn’t look like a monster. When it came to Sighted ones, admittedly, he was never cruel.

  If they were able to See the fey, shouldn’t that mean that they were special?

  And he felt strangely energized at the thought of anyone Seeing him as he truly was. It was rare, and when one lived for centuries rare was exciting.

  She should be here and as excited as he was.

  He switched between anger and excitement that she wanted him to pursue her further. It had been over a thousand years since he’d been required to apply himself to courting someone. Perhaps he was forgetting something. A gift. A dance. Subtle praise. Listening to them. Caring what they thought. He wouldn’t be able to feign such things; it simply would bore him. His interest was real, as was hers.

  Then, where was she?

  By nightfall the next day, Irial was in a temper. Thelma had not walked along the path she'd followed every other day. He had been ignored. He'd waited and watched, looking forward to a few moments with her. She hadn't come.

  He, the king of nightmares, had been dismissed.

  Feeling far more like the impotent Summer King than Irial had ever felt in his life, Irial searched the city for hours. Nothing. No sign of her.

  He could send his subjects. He could employ the Wild Hunt. If he wanted to find Thelma, he could do so. Unlike any other court, Irial has the strength of the relentless Wild Hunt at his hand, but what Irial wanted was to not have to seek her out. He wanted her to arrive at the spot where their paths crossed as he did. Early. Eagerly. He wanted her to anticipate seeing him as he had anticipated seeing her.

  It was beneath him to hunt her—or to want her to be as eager as he felt.

  Inside his house, he stripped off his vest and suit coat. The fine walking stick and polished shoes he'd worn walking for hours through the city had been hurled at the wall of his Garden District house, and he had downed a good third of the decanter of whisky in his study.

  How could he want to see her and she not feel the same?

  "Irial?" One of the Hounds had walked into the room, taken a look at him, and left without a second word. Undoubtedly, Irial’s mood would cause concern among his subjects. They could appreciate a temper, a spot of violence, but his maudlin moods sometimes worried them.

  They felt it, the tendrils of darkness that stretched from him reached out to each and all of his subjects, flooding them with his sense of need and anger and lust. He could close his eyes and see them should he feel compelled to do so, but the only ones he watched were the ones at his houses of ill repute in the so-called Storyville. There, beautiful half-fey women charmed the sons of the city's finest families, the upstanding and corrupt politicians, and the occasional tourist who'd visited the city for a few days of legal indulgence.

  He mistrusted humans more than he’d admit. Human men too often treated women as if they were disposable. Admittedly, he had also been less than considerate with women, but he was equally so with men. He wasn’t a sexist. He was simply the Dark King.

  With his far-seeing connection to his subjects, he felt where they were, took in sights strange and lovely. Music, sweet jazz and longing blues, rose up in each of his houses. There would be no sin without the right songs to accompany it, not in a house owned by the king of the Dark Court.

  His fey were a people of the senses, happily interested in every vice. This was why he'd brought the court to this city's shores: to revel in the sin so freely sold and bartered in this fine city. That ought to have been his focus--not a mortal girl.

  But he was a king, for goodness sake. He wasn't one to enjoy taking orders from anyone, unless it was part of a game that required little clothing and the occasional plea for mercy. He wasn’t used to wanting and not having.

  "Why shouldn't I have the girl?" he asked aloud.

  No one in his immediate vicinity answered. He wasn't sure most of them would answer if they were present. However, over the lines of connection, he felt many whispers telling him to take, to have, to claim. More than a few of his subjects offered themselves.

  It was good to be king.

  And there was no limit to what he'd do for the good of his court. To be here, to do that, meant finding ways to stave off the sheer boredom of life with no challenges of note. His court was as happy as dark fey ever were. They enjoyed the suffering of the Summer Court, and they cherished the absence of the High Court--who had tucked themselves away in the land of Faerie rather than come among the world where mortals walked. Irial ought to be . . . content.

  But where was the fun in that?

  Content was another word for bored. Some of their kind withered and died from it. No, not from boredom proper, nothing quite so romantic as that, but from the consequences of it: Forgetting to eat for days on end. Failure to sleep. Boredom took a toll, and then death came.

  And as charming as he could be, Death wasn't particularly welcome in Irial's life currently.

  She should be here and willing, Irial thought yet again. She should be here.

  Irial was sitting in the dark of his palatial house drinking to take the edge off his mood when Gabriel walked into the room.

  Gabriel was a large man, holding himself in the posture of any number of thugs in any number of cities. No one seeing Gabriel would mistake him--or most of the Hunt--as harmless. He moved with the subtle grace of an explosion during mass.

  "What has you maudlin this time?"

  Irial made a crude gesture in the direction of his second-in-command.

  Gabriel laughed. "You know the kingling’s entourage is in town?"

  Irial sighed. "I did not. I saw the Winter Girl but . . . "

  "Same boat. Pulled into the harbor a couple days ago," Gabriel added.

  "And Winter?"

  Gabriel shook his head. "Not yet."

  Irial refilled his drink. “The boy king?”

  “Not yet. Tavish, Niall, and a few Summer Girls have arrived. They are setting up a house for the kingling as we speak.” Gabriel drank Irial’s glass of whisky. “Niall saw Jenny.”

  Irial reached out to Jenny, and in a moment, his mind was filled with the image, the feeling of her body writhing against Niall. Her whispered words slid into Irial’s mind, “I spoke of you. Of sharing you.” The image shifted to Niall in the pinnacle of lust and anger.

  And Irial smiled. The Sum
mer King’s advisor would not forget his rightful court forever. One day, Niall would lead them. Irial had decreed it eleven hundred years ago, before Niall ran to the Summer Court. The Dark King sent his gratitude to Jenny Greenteeth.

  Then, he refocused on the issue of the Summer King’s arrival. That changed things. If they were all coming here, the Summer King was already on Thelma's trail. Keenan would arrive, and Beira would follow. Irial had a few days, a few weeks at best, during which he could see Thelma safely. It wasn’t enough.

  She should be here.

  Irial paced to the window and looked out at the night. The city was dotted with flickering lights and laughing mortals. More than a few them would make their way to the tiny eight block district where sins had been declared acceptable, and they'd add money to the considerable fortune that the Dark Court had amassed.

  Why isn’t she here?

  Gabriel's mouth curved in an approximation of a smile. "Worried?"

  "Maybe I'm simply bored."

  "Bored? Host a ball. Open another whorehouse. Seduce one of the Summer Court faeries. There are a million ways to entertain yourself, especially in this city." Gabriel stomped forward, rattling the beautiful cut crystal decanter and highball glass that Irial had left too near the edge of the bar. "Go start an argument with the kingling or your--"

  Irial's gaze snapped to him before Gabriel finished whatever words he'd almost assigned Niall.

  Gabriel held up both hands. "Or Niall," he finished. "Now that he's in town, you might as well make an excuse to see him. I'm not going to check on him this time."

  "You do know you serve me?"

  At that Gabriel shrugged. "Plenty of other options."

  They both knew better, though. The Wild Hunt was too much a part of the darkness to feel comfort in any other court, even the Winter Court. More importantly, the two faeries were friends and had been so since Gabriel took the helm of the Hunt.

  "I need a fight or a fuck," Irial announced.