by Melissa Marr
Irial’s heart hurt at that thought. Thelma was in pain from whatever secret she had, and though he was a monster, he obviously had decided to help the mortal woman. He shook his head once.
“You will ask one of your trusted to hide the girl or I will,” Sorcha said. “But you will mark her as protected by yours and mine.”
Irial nodded.
“You will not know where she is, Irial. You’ve vowed that,” Sorcha added. “And you will not recall our conversations about her. She was a friend to you, and you’ve offered her your protection in the best way you could.”
“More vows?”
The High Queen whispered, “This was a wise plan, Iri.”
He startled at the affectionate use of his name—that was rarer than Sorcha’s laughter.
Then he glanced in the direction Thelma had gone. He knew her somehow.
“I can visit her tonight,” he half-asked.
“Yes, but only tonight. After that, if you meet her, you will not know her. It was a clever binding that you wrought. It . . . is an honor to know you, Irial.”
Then Sorcha released his arm and turned away. Her voice trailed back as she left. “Go to her. She is filled with sorrow over her child being raised in that world.”
And then Irial was alone in a garden that was far too cultivated, far too orderly for his mood.
As much as he hated to listen to the suggestion of the High Queen, Irial thought that she was wiser than any living being, so he made his way to the village where mortals lived in Faerie. He’d find the woman, and he’d accept her invitation.
One night.
Somehow, it didn’t seem like nearly enough, even though he wasn’t sure why that was.
The End
“Love Hurts: A Wicked Lovely Story”
Set after the Wicked Lovely series
Irial looked at the letters that had been delivered to the current house in Huntsdale. He stood in the doorway, exposed in his bare feet and bare chest. Spring, fortunately, was a true and reliable event the past few years. If anything, the former Dark King was wondering if the season had come a touch early this year. Trees were erupting in new growth, and the ground seemed speckled with flowers. If not for the curious, hand-delivered package, he’d be debating popping over to Winter’s abode and asking for a last frost, just a brief freezing before the Summer Queen had her way with nature.
Not that he minded an early summer, of course, simply that he was the embodiment of Discord. Stirring a minor tiff over the greenery seemed the right path. It had, in fact, been his plan. Now, though, he couldn’t focus. In his hand was what appeared to be the key to his unraveling. Yellowed pages were covered in protective sheaths. It was the word on the top that left him, the man who had led the Court of Nightmares and Monsters, terrified.
Da
Dadaih.
Athair.
Father.
Irial was the embodiment of chaos, of discord. He’d fought, slain, and even died. He’d loved and lost—more than once. His first love, Niall, abandoned him for many centuries. His next love, Thelma, left and died without their even reuniting. The third love, Leslie, had risked death to leave him.
Dadaih.
The script went from childish to mature. The sophistication of the words changed, and the tone grew cold.
Father.
With a jolt, Irial realized that the door was still open. Still, he stood at the threshold of his home, a house he shared with the current Dark King, and read. Flowers bloomed outside, and the sky was clear. Somehow, Irial felt as if a storm was about to erupt. Sadly, his was not a court of nature, as the Winter Court and Summer Court were. He could not send storms free to vent his feelings. All he could do was draw shadows to his skin.
Da.
Irial read that one word in all its forms repeatedly. He didn’t need to read the pages that were stacked in the other envelope to know that sender’s name. Thelma was the only of the three people he’d loved who had died. She was gone.
And between leaving me and dying, she had my child.
Niall stood in the grand lobby of the Benedum Center, appreciating the now-familiar chandeliers of theater. In the latter part of the 1900s, it had been a concert hall of a different sort. He’d seen both Prince and Bob Marley there in the ‘80s. These days, it housed both opera and ballet, and as much as some faeries mocked his fondness for both, the current Dark King knew that anyone who doubted the appeal of opera simply hadn’t been paying attention. It was often terribly tragic stuff, rife with manipulation, murder, and mayhem. Any faery worth his salt would like theatre.
Luckily, even the fey like the Hounds, who might not understand his love of this type of art, appreciated arts and music in general. Even better, Leslie shared his interest. Typically, Irial did, too.
Tonight, they had planned to see Faust, a French opera of the medieval scholar who makes an ill-fated deal with a devil. Niall had, not so secretly, always wondered if Méphistophélès was inspired by Irial. An unwise bargain with a “devil” who is clever . . . the idea seemed rather more fitting than a mortal dealing with the fey, and although Irial never owned up to it, Niall recalled the years the courts all gathered in Germany. Goethe met fey creatures.
Of that, Niall was certain.
But the devil in question, Irial, had made excuses to miss the opera tonight. Worse yet, he’d done so badly. Now, Niall was left trying to convince Leslie that all was well—an illusion neither she nor he believed.
A glass of wine. A smile. A stroll under beautiful chandeliers that sparkled in the high-ceilinged lobby that was filled with mortals and more than a few fey things. It should’ve been lovely.
“You look beautiful,” he told his date again.
“And you look handsome,” Leslie replied.
This is when Irial would’ve made an inappropriate remark, fished for praise, or simply kissed one of them. His absence rankled. The lights all seemed to dim at once as shadows swarmed to Niall like a ripple of midnight seeping into the evening.
Leslie’s hand tightened on his arm, and Niall sent his emotions like a nourishing elixir toward the rest of his court. Some of his faeries perched in nooks in the high ceiling, and others languished in the room, dressed in human guises, pretending to be nothing more than ruffians amongst the gentry in their fine dresses. It was far from the theatre of the past, where everyone was bedecked in gems and formal attire, but it was still very much a crowd where those who have wanted to be clear that they were superior.
Or maybe they were as smitten by the grand spectacle of the opera as he was. His box seat was not a statement of status. It was simply a space where he could have privacy. No one not with him was in the box. The idea of reserving only a few seats in the box seemed odd. Privacy mattered.
He and Leslie made their way to the Dark Court’s seasonal box and took their seats.
She was silent, uncharacteristically so, but he was attempting to respect that. They were never awkward, with or without Irial at their sides, but tonight things were tense in a palpable way. Irial had asked Niall to excuse him, had put Niall in the position of misleading Leslie. There was no good answer, so Niall had chosen evasiveness as his solution to the mess.
Leslie vibrated with tension at his side. The lights dimmed, and he thought that the moment of risk was over. Then she leaned closer.
“He’s not ill?”
And as much as Niall wished he could lie, he could not do so. “No.”
“Injured?”
As much as he did not want the former Dark King to be ill, he could not help the flicker that came over him in that moment. “Not yet.”
Leslie smiled wanly.
“I don’t understand either,” Niall admitted. “He’s avoiding me.”
The show began, and with every tear that trickled down Leslie’s cheek, Niall thought about strangling Irial. Avoiding him Niall could forgive. Avoiding her? There was no excuse that Niall could imagine accepting.
After the show, Niall and
Leslie walked to the street, and there a steed waited. It was a living creature, one that had the heart of a wild steed but chose to serve as Leslie’s personal guard. Not quite a horse, not exactly a car, it was a member of the Hunt, but was riderless and technically remained so. Leslie was not a Hound, so she couldn’t be its rider—and the steed tolerated no other unless Leslie was there, too. Tonight, it wore the illusion of being a fire-red convertible.
Leslie caressed the side of the car, much the way one greets a beloved pet. The fact that this particular “pet” was a monstrous beast with fire glimmering where eyes ought to be was immaterial. She was beloved by the whole of the Dark Court.
“He’ll explain, or we’ll make him,” Niall swore to her as he walked around to the passenger seat.
The engine roared when Leslie’s hands touched the steering wheel. She didn’t steer, not really. The steed carried her home or wherever else she wanted, as if it were a car. And Niall chose not to linger long on the thought that this once-mortal woman had tamed a steed so thoroughly that it functioned as her car—and seemed quite content to do so.
When they reached the apartment where she lived—in a building he’d recently and stealthily bought when the landlord was causing her anxiety—Leslie stayed in the car, as it purred loudly enough to mimic a fine engine. She stroked the dashboard and steering wheel. After a moment she announced, “I’ll handle Irial.”
And Niall wasn’t fool enough to argue. If anything, he was certain that when he returned from his trip the issue would be resolved. Leslie wasn’t meek, and she’d become downright formidable these last few years.
“Should I warn him?” Niall asked lightly.
“Not unless you want to get caught in the crossfire.” Leslie stepped out of the car. “I won’t have him ruin our night, though. Join me?”
If Méphistophélès were a woman, she’d be no more tempting than Leslie as she held out a hand. Niall would give her his soul, his vow, whatever she wanted. He was certain Irial would, too.
“Forever,” Niall told Leslie as he took her hand.
And she smiled with a sweet darkness that made him wonder how he could have earned such love.
The weekend would come, and they would confront the secretive faery they both loved. Whatever Irial was hiding was something they could figure out together. First, Niall would attend to business, and Leslie to her classes.
Irial was no closer to knowing what to do about the news of his child than the day he’d learned the news. Niall was away, and Leslie should be in class. Irial had counted on that time to figure it all out.
The doors to the study opened with a thunderous noise.
“You’re avoiding me.” Leslie stood in the doorway to the library after flinging open the doors in a burst of temper. Her once-blonde hair had become increasingly shadow-dark over the last three years, finally reaching the black of the ink that Rabbit had once tattooed in her skin.
College would end soon, and their lives would change. Irial wasn’t sure how—and he was afraid to ask.
What if she wants to move away?
He did not stand. “What do you mean?”
“The opera?”
“Ah.” Irial nodded. “You weren’t alone, though.”
She sighed. “Is it because you are feeling guilty?
Irial shrugged. Guilt? Perhaps. He’d unknowingly abandoned a child—and he was hiding it from both Niall and Leslie. He paused. “Aren’t you to be in classes today?”
Leslie scowled. “I couldn’t concentrate.” She stared at him. “You promised not to meddle. I know there aren’t threats like there used to be. Bananach is dead. Ren is . . . ”
“Apparently missing,” Irial filled in helpfully.
She’d never asked, and he’d never volunteered an answer on that particular situation. Ren had threatened Leslie, their Leslie, in order to draw out the faeries who loved her. They’d been drawn out, and when they had, Niall had removed the threat to their shadow girl.
“I don’t want you to meddle, but if you do . . . don’t avoid me afterward,” she ordered.
One of the abyss guardians—sentient shadows that were typically only tied to the Dark King or his consort—slithered over to encase Leslie.
“Hello, sweetie,” she whispered to the shadow-wrought creature as she came into the room and pulled the door behind her.
The soft snick of the door catching was loud in the still of the room, and Irial felt strangely like prey for a moment.
“I don’t only need you when there’s trouble,” she announced. “Don’t you understand that?”
Mutely, Irial nodded. The shadows glided back to the walls as if they’d only ever been the ordinary shadows any lamp or shelf would cast.
After a moment, Leslie crossed her arms and held his gaze. “What are you hiding?”
“Hiding?” Irial echoed. The sight of her, the sheer force of her mortal self striding through the house of monsters, left him longing.
“I know you, Irial,” Leslie said.
“That you do, shadow girl.” Truth be told, he’d slaughter near every being in the world at her whim. Leslie’s very existence was a balsam on a soul that felt increasingly shredded these last few decades. Denying her was physically painful.
Of course, seeing her today ripped at his heart more than he expected. Thinking about her inevitable death seemed impossible now that he was thinking of Thelma, and tangled into that was the thought of a child. His child.
Half-fey children lived much longer than mortals, but not as long as faeries. Would he want that? Would Leslie? Would Niall?
A child would be complicated, but the thought of watching his own daughter or son grow up made Irial struggle to breath. He had never had that, and according to the letters he’d received, he should have. The closest he’d come was the half-fey children that Gabriel had sired. He was an “uncle” of sorts to many halflings, but the thought of his own child suddenly filled him with longing.
As she walked toward Irial, her footsteps were muffled by the overly thick burgundy and gold rug. Shadows puddled where she stepped as if to soak up some sort of magic in her very touch.
“I do not ask you to be my tiger on a leash,” Leslie explained softly.
“Mmmm.”
She paused, despite the catch in her breathing and the widening of her eyes. The control she had made him certain that she could rule a nation of pirates . . . or monsters. Leslie was not immune to his allure, but if he didn’t know better, he might think she was.
The sound of her breathing, of her trying not to run to him, was enough to make him have to resist leaning forward. For all of his centuries of living, only one other mortal had made him feel so oddly human. That was over a century before Leslie had been born, and he still wondered if he ought to mention it to her.
Niall knew. Gabriel had known. The only others who remembered his brief relationship were fey of his court, those who would not share his secret—even with Leslie.
“You’re staring,” she teased, voice breathless as he felt.
“As are you.”
“It’s been three weeks since I saw you. Staring is sort of inevitable.”
“Ah, and here I worried you were immune by now,” he kept his voice teasing, but they both knew that he could not lie.
It was a fear—one of many these days. The gazes of others, fey and mortal, still raked over him. From thistle-skinned creatures of the Dark Court to the Scrimshaw Sisters of the Winter Court to the vine-bedecked Summer Girls, faeries watched him as if he was every dream they had. Although he knew Leslie wanted him, she could—and did—leave for weeks.
Niall did the same. It made Irial prone to waves of melancholy. If those who loved him didn’t long for every moment with him, was he . . . lacking?
“Immune? To you?” Leslie laughed softly. “We both know that’s impossible. Staring would be just as unavoidable if I’d seen you last week. I always want to see you, Iri. That’s part of love.”
“I do l
ove you,” he assured her.
There was a question in her words, though, one he was trying to avoid answering. Telling her she had his heart didn’t seem to be enough this time. Niall had delivered Irial’s excuses to Leslie, but neither of them believed him. The difference, of course, was that Niall was more tolerant of Irial’s tendency toward secrecy. They lived together more peacefully than he’d hoped possible because they both kept more than a few boxes of secrets hidden away.
Leslie had no such patience.
She stood in front of Irial now, her knees not quite touching his, and he had to resist the dual urges to reach out and to run away. “But you could’ve come with Niall last week. Perhaps I am not irresistible these days . . . ?”
“He told you that I wasn’t able to come,” Irial hedged.
“He told me a bunch of excuses, and I’m not so innocent as to believe them. Lies are lies, Iri, even when they are delivered by someone who knows how to distract me.” Leslie caressed his face. “Why don’t you tell me you weren’t able to come, Irial? Say those words to me.”
The half-accusing, half-angry tone in her words made his resolve falter. He couldn’t lie outright, and those words were a lie.
“I would say them if I could,” he admitted. “I chose not to visit.”
Leslie withdrew her hand, leaving him wishing he could lean closer, but too proud to do so. “Because? Tell me, Irial. Is it because of threatening my landlord? He offered to extend my lease suddenly. And there was some error, apparently. I no longer owe back rent. Are you feeling guilty?”
The former king leaned away, more to resist his own temptations than anything else.
“I know you can’t help yourself sometimes,” Leslie allowed.
“If I have meddled, I’m certain it was justified.” He’d far rather discuss his supposed sins than his actual ones. Then, at least, he could be truthful with her. He hadn’t avoided her from guilt, so there was no harm in owning whatever she thought him guilty of this time.
His reasons for avoiding her were harder to discuss.
