Faery Tales & Nightmares

PROLOGUE

YOU’RE GOING TO MAKE AN EXCELLENT king,” Irial said.

And then, before Niall could react, Irial pressed his mouth to the long scar that he’d once allowed Gabriel to carve on Niall’s face. Niall felt his knees give out under him, felt a disquieting new energy flood his body, felt the awareness of countless dark fey like threads in a great tapestry weaving his life to theirs.

“Take good care of the Dark Court. They deserve that. They deserve you.” Irial bowed his head. “My King.”

“No.” Niall stumbled back, tottering on the sidewalk, nearly falling into the traffic. “I don’t want this. I’ve told you—”

“The court needs new energy, Gancanagh. I got us through Beira’s reign, found ways to strengthen us. I’m tired—more changed by Leslie than I’ll admit, even to you. You may have broken our tie, seared me from her skin, but that doesn’t undo what is. I am not fit to lead my court.” Irial smiled sadly. “My court—your court now—needs a new king. You’re the right choice. You have always been the next Dark King.”

“Take it back.” Niall felt the foolishness of his words, but he couldn’t think of anything more intelligible to say.

“If you don’t want it—”

“I don’t.”

“Pick someone worthy to pass it on to, then.” Irial’s eyes were lightening ever so slightly. The eerily tempting energy that had always clung to him like a haze was less overwhelming now. “In the meantime, I offer you what I’ve never offered another—my fealty, Gancanagh, my king.”

He knelt then, head bowed, there on the busy sidewalk. Mortals craned their necks to stare.

And Niall gaped at him, the last Dark King, as the reality settled on him. He’d just grab the first dark fey he saw and … turn over this kind of power to some random faery? A dark faery? He thought of Bananach and the Ly Ergs circling, seeking war and violence. Irial was moderate in comparison to Bananach’s violence. Niall couldn’t turn the court over to just anyone, not in good conscience, and Irial knew it.

“The head of the Dark Court has always been chosen from the solitary fey. I waited a long time to find another after you said no. But then I realized I was waiting for you to leave Keenan. You didn’t choose me over him, but you chose the harder path.” Irial stood then and took Niall’s face in his hands, gently but firmly, and kissed his forehead. “You’ll do well. And when you are ready to talk, I’ll still be here.”

Then he disappeared into the throng of mortals winding down the sidewalk, leaving Niall speechless and bewildered.

CHAPTER 1

SEVERAL WEEKS LATER

NIALL WALKED THROUGH HUNTSDALE, trying to ignore the responses his presence elicited. He’d never walked unnoticed. Over the centuries, he’d been a Gancanagh and the companion to the Dark King; later, he’d been advisor to both the late Summer King and the current Summer King. None of those were roles associated with dismissal. He’d always had influence. When he was with Irial, he hadn’t realized that his companion was the Dark King, but that hadn’t meant that many of those he’d encountered were unaware. They knew the influence he’d wielded far before he did.

Dark Court faeries—my faeries now—scurried around him. They were always in reach, always in sight, always willing to do the least thing that he required. They sought his approval, and despite wishing he was impervious, he couldn’t withhold his responses. Being their king meant feeling a connection to them that he’d only ever felt twice—to Irial and to Leslie. Perversely, perhaps, being the Dark King meant he felt even more connected to both the mortal girl and the faery. Leslie, although she’d severed her tie to Irial, was still protected by the Dark Court, and Irial, while no longer king, was the pulse of the court.

Worse, Niall could taste the emotions of every faery he passed. He knew the things they sought to hide with their implacable expressions. He knew their pains and their hungers. It made the world flex with sensory overloads.

Niall walked through the door of the Crow’s Nest, the mortal club where his closest friend waited. Seth didn’t stand when he saw Niall; he didn’t bow or scurry. He merely nodded and said, “Hey.”

The weight of the job Niall didn’t want seemed to slip away. He sat down at the small table in the back of the dim building. The jukebox was turned on, but the volume was at a bearable level this early in the day. A few mortals threw darts; others watched a soccer match on the oversized television; and a couple silently drank their beers. It was peaceful.

Seth pushed an ashtray toward Niall. “What’s up?”

Niall frowned. He’d unconsciously pulled out a cigarette when he sat. The habit resumed the moment I was connected to him again. Niall stared at the cigarette and refused to remember the first time he’d smoked. Memories of Irial are never good to dwell on.

“You look worse than usual today,” Seth said.

Niall shrugged. “Some days … some days I hate Irial.”

“And the other ones?”

That was the catch, the other days. Niall took a drag off the cigarette, enjoyed the feel of the smoke sliding into his lungs. He exhaled after a moment. “The other days, I know he was right. I am the Dark King and whining about it is futile.”

“You could always give it away, right?” Seth leaned back, tilting his chair so it was balanced on the back two legs.

“Sure. If I want to be a fool.” Niall signaled the waitress and ordered a drink.

Once the waitress walked away, Seth leaned forward. “So what aren’t you saying?”

Niall exhaled a plume of smoke. “I called Leslie.”

“Why?”

“I thought I could suggest that we could be friends. Leslie and me.” Niall paused, but Seth said nothing. The mortal simply stared at him, so Niall continued, “I wasn’t calling to suggest we … date.”

“Bullshit.” Seth shook his head. “You don’t want to be her friend. Listen to how carefully you had to phrase that lie.”

“If it were a lie, I couldn’t say it.”

“Really?” Seth quirked one brow. “Try to tell me you just want to be her friend. Go ahead. Say it.”

“I don’t think that—”

“It would be a lie, wouldn’t it?” Seth interrupted. “Telling me you want to be just her friend would be a lie. You can’t say it.”

“Why are we friends?” Niall muttered.

“Because I don’t lie to you or pander to you.” Seth grinned. “You don’t like being adored or disobeyed … which makes you messed up enough to lead a bunch of crazy faeries, but makes you need a few friends who aren’t crazy faeries.”

They sat silently while Niall accepted the drink the waitress delivered. He’d never had much trouble attracting mortal attention, but he’d expected it to lessen now that the Gancanagh addictiveness was negated. Instead, he was able to touch mortals safely, but was no less appealing to them. In his life, the only one who seemed to want absolutely nothing from him was the mortal who watched him now. Unfortunately, Seth wasn’t immune to the traits that made Niall interesting to most mortals. He was simply aware of them—and thus better able to know them for what they were. Which is why he keeps his distance. Seth was utterly nonjudgmental, but he was also utterly devoted to his beloved, Aislinn. And completely hetero.

The Summer King’s ploy of encouraging Niall to watch over the mortal had had a few not entirely unexpected consequences. When Niall accepted that charge, he was still a Gancanagh—addictive to mortals. They hadn’t discussed it, but Seth knew why he responded so strongly to Niall: Keenan had expected Seth to become addicted to Niall.

Not that I objected then.

The Dark King shook his head. It seemed perverse that the orders he’d carried out for another regent filled him with more guilt than the things he’d done as a king himself. He still spent time with Seth, and he considered the mortal a friend, but there was more than a little evidence that Seth had some degree of addiction to him.

I was following orders. A few touches on his arm, nothing more than an arm around his shoulders. It wasn’t as if anything happened.

Niall reassured himself with the lies he could whisper in his mind, but the truth was the truth. He’d injured Seth, and the fallout was that he was dangerous to Seth. He always would be, and it was difficult not to take advantage of the thread of addiction and the new allure that Niall wielded as Dark King.

Niall reached into his pocket and pulled out a nondescript stone. He slid it across the bar table. “Here.”

“A rock. You shouldn’t have.” Seth lifted it between his thumb and index finger. A look of peace came over the mortal’s face. “Damn.”

“If you don’t want it…” Niall stretched his hand out.

For the first time since Niall had become the Dark King, Seth didn’t move out of reach. He also didn’t release the stone. Instead, he curled his hand around it, so the stone was wrapped firmly in his palm.

Seth laid his other hand on Niall’s forearm briefly. “I’d say no one’s ever given me such a useful gift, but that seems too slight. It’s … difficult being around the Summer Court, the Summer Girls especially…. They’re good about trying not to manipulate me.” Seth paused and looked up at Niall. “Usually.”

Niall smiled at the memory of the Summer Girls’ lack of restraint. He missed them, some more than others, but he doubted that the Summer King would support the idea of Niall visiting them. “They aren’t used to restraint. It speaks well of their regard for you that they even try.”

“And you?” Seth prompted.

“I noticed your tendency to keep a table between us,” Niall admitted.

“It’s not personal, you know?” Seth flashed an amused smile then, one Niall hadn’t seen in weeks. “If you were female, your … uhhh … appeal would be cool. Not that Ash would be good with me doing anything then, either, but I’m not into guys. No offense.”

Niall laughed. “None taken.”

As they talked, Seth had kept the stone clenched in his hand. He took a deep breath, laid it down in front of him, and reached back to unfasten the chain he wore around his throat. While he did so, he kept his gaze on the stone, and Niall realized then how difficult it must’ve been for the mortal to be surrounded by so many faeries. And me. Niall could write it off as merely a result of Seth’s relationship with Aislinn, but it wasn’t because of the Summer Queen that Seth sat here at the table with Niall. Aislinn would be happier if Seth severed ties with Niall; Keenan would be happier too—for entirely different reasons.

Seth slid the silver chain through a hole in the stone, and then he fastened the chain around his throat. When he was done, he tucked the stone under his shirt. “It’s like the world got more in control all of a sudden. I owe you one.” Seth poked at the ring in his lower lip. “Not that I have any idea how to repay that kind of gift, but I will.”

“It wasn’t given with a price attached,” Niall pointed out. “It’s a gift, freely given. No more, no less.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t look like … let’s just say, it was a little weird looking at you and having thoughts that I know aren’t what I think of you, and”—Seth bit his lip ring as he obviously weighed his words—“let’s just say, not everyone has been as unaware of how they could affect me.”

Niall felt his temper slip a little. “Will you tell me who?”

“Nope.” Seth grinned. “I’m not offering you an excuse to start shit with anyone, and now that I have this, I think those head games will be entertaining for me for a change. It’s all good.”

For a moment, Niall debated pressing the matter, but part of being a friend meant trusting that Seth would speak if he needed help. Niall tapped out another cigarette. “You’ll let me know if you need intercession.” He looked at Seth as he packed his cigarette. “I have a few faeries who might find it entertaining to assist you.”

“Yeah, Ash would be thrilled if I sent the Dark Court knocking.” Seth quirked a brow again. “If you want to pick a fight with him, you’ll do it on your own. I’m not planning to give you an excuse.”

Niall lit his cigarette. “Just don’t forget.”

“Not today, okay?”

Admitting defeat, Niall held up his hands.

“So how are you?” Seth prodded carefully. “Are you getting along any better with your … predecessor?”

The fact was that Niall did want to talk to Seth about that topic, but he didn’t quite know what to say, not yet, at least. He took a drink; he smoked in silence.

And Seth drank his own drink and waited.

“He’s gone missing regularly, and I don’t know what he’s doing.” Niall shook his head. He was over a millennium old, and he was seeking advice from a mortal child. “Never mind.”

“And you don’t want to ask what he’s doing, but you feel like you should.”

Niall said nothing. He couldn’t deny it, but he didn’t want to admit it either. If Irial had handed all of the court’s backroom bargains, illicit investments, and nefarious dealings over to him, he wasn’t sure he’d be ready to be the Dark King, but he felt like he should know.

“Either let it ride or tell him he needs to report in more. There’s not a whole lot else to say, is there?” Seth gestured at the now open dartboards. “Come on. Distraction time.”

CHAPTER 2

IT HAD BEEN HOURS THAT SORCHA SAT unmoving as Devlin brought forth the business that required her attention. One of the mortals that lived among them was mourning. It was a messy business.

“Should I send him back to their world or end his breathing?” Devlin asked her.

“He was a good mortal; he should be allowed to live a while longer.” The High Queen moved one of the figures on her game board. “Remind him that if he’s leaving us, he can’t be allowed to see us. You will need to gouge his eyes.”

“They do dislike that,” Devlin remarked.

Sorcha tsked. “There are rules. Explain his options; perhaps it will inspire him to learn to temper his emotions so as to stay here.”

Devlin made a note. “He’s been weeping for days, but I’ll explain it.”

“What else?”

“Some of the discarded paintings were left in a warehouse for the mortals to ‘discover.’” Devlin stepped closer and moved a figurine carved in a kneeling position.

She nodded.

“I’ve not heard any more of War’s intentions.” Devlin’s expression didn’t alter, but she saw the tension he was restraining. “The Dark Court seems unaware. The Summer Court remains clueless….”

“And Winter?”

“The new Winter Queen is not receiving guests. I was refused entrance.” Devlin paused as if the idea of being refused was perplexing to him. He had existed from the beginning of time, so it was somewhere between pleasing and befuddling for him when a faery managed to surprise him. “Her rowan said that I could leave a … note.”

“So we wait.” Sorcha nodded. The newer fey were peculiar; their methods seemed crude to her sometimes, but unlike her brother, she was not amused by it. It simply was. Emotional reaction to it was unnecessary. She lifted another figurine and dropped it to the marble floor, where it shattered into dust and pebbles. “That play hasn’t worked for centuries, Brother.”

Devlin lifted another piece and replaced it in the same square. “Will you take dinner or will you be in cloister?”

“I’ll be cloistered.”

He bowed and left the hall then, leaving Sorcha alone and free to meditate for the evening. She stood and stretched, and then she, too, left the stillness of the hall. Even the minutiae of business must be handled in the same way they always had been—in austere spaces with reasonable answers.

Only the swish of her skirt disturbed the quiet as Sorcha made her way to the small room where she intended to spend the remainder of the day. It was one of the indoor spaces where she meditated. The gardens were preferable, but tonight she’d opted to forego the openness of such places in favor of the intimacy of a tiny room.

Her slippers made no sound as she entered the empty chamber, nor did she verbalize the moment of discord she felt when she found the room occupied. “I did not summon you.”

Irial stretched on one of the plush chairs she’d had brought in from a local shop. “Relax, love.”

She leveled an unyielding look at the former Dark King. “Faeries of your court aren’t welcome in my presence—”

“It’s not my court. Not now. I’ve walked away.” He stood as he said it, tense as if he had to restrain himself from approaching her. “Do you ever wish you could walk away, Sorch?”

Sorcha cringed at his bastardization of her name, at the familiarity in his tone. “I am the High Court. There is no walking away.”

“Nothing lasts forever. Even you can change.”

“I do not change, Irial.”

“I have.” He was barely a pace away from her then, not touching, but close enough that she felt his breath on her skin. It was all she could do not to shudder. He might not be the Dark King anymore, but he was still the embodiment of temptation.

And well aware of it.

He took the advantage. “Have you missed me? Do you think about the last time we—”

“No,” she interrupted. “I believe I might’ve forgotten.”

“Ah-ah-ah, fey don’t lie, darling.”

She backed away, out of reach. “Leave it alone. The details of the last mistake aren’t even important enough to be clear anymore.”

“I remember. A half-moon, autumn, the air was too cold to be so”—he followed, letting his gaze linger on her, as if her heavy skirts weren’t in his way—“exposed, but you were. I’m surprised there wasn’t oak imprinted on your skin.”

“It wasn’t an oak.” She shoved him away. “It was a…”

“Willow,” he murmured at the same time. He looked satisfied, sated, as he walked away.

“What difference does it make? Even queens make mistakes sometimes.” Even though he wasn’t looking at her, she hid her smile. She had always enjoyed watching him draw her emotions to the surface, enough so that she’d pretended not to know that the Dark Court fed on those emotions. “None of this explains why you are here, Irial.”

He lit another of his cigarettes and stood at the open window inhaling the noxious stuff. If she did that, it would pollute her body. Irial—the whole Dark Court—was different in this as well. They took in toxins to no ill effect. For a moment she was envious. He made her feel so many untoward feelings—envy, lust, rage. It was not appropriate for the queen of the Court of Reason to be filled with such things. It was one of the reasons why she’d forbade members of the Dark Court from returning to Faerie. Only the Dark King had consent to approach her.

But he’s not the king anymore.

She felt a twinge of regret. She couldn’t justify giving in to his presence now, not logically.

And logic is the only thing that should matter. Logic. Order.

Irial kept his back to her while her emotions tumbled out of control. “I want to know why Bananach comes here.”

“To bring me news.” Sorcha began reasserting her self-control.

Enough indulging.

The former Dark King was kind enough to not look at her as she struggled with her emotions. He stared out the window as he asked, “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what news?”

“No. I won’t.” She took her seat again, calm and in control of her emotions.

“Did it have to do with Niall?” Irial looked at her then. This odd honesty they had shared over the centuries was something she’d miss now that he was no longer the Dark King. No one save her brother and Irial saw this side of her.

“Not directly.”

“She is not meant for ruling,” Irial reminded her. “When she took the throne before… I wasn’t there, but I heard the stories from Miach.”

“She is a force of destruction that I would not unleash. I will never support her, Irial. I’ve no quarrel with Niall”—she frowned—“aside from the usual objections to the mere existence of the Dark Court.”

And Irial smiled at her, as beautiful and deadly as he’d always been. King or not, he was still a force to fear. Like Bananach. Like the Summer Queen’s mortal. Often it was the solitary ones who were the most trouble; the tendency toward independence was not something that sat well with the High Queen. It was un-orderly.

He was watching her, tasting the edges of her emotions and believing she was unaware of what he was doing. So she gave him the emotion he craved most from her, need. She couldn’t say it, couldn’t make the first move. She counted on him to do that. It absolved her of responsibility for the mistake she intended to make.

If he were to realize that she knew the Dark Court’s secret, their ability to feed on emotions, she’d lose these rare moments of not being reasonable. That was the prize she purchased with her silence. She kept her faeries out of the Dark Court’s reach, hid them away in seclusion—all for this.

The Queen of Reason closed her eyes, unable to look at the temptation in front of her, but unwilling to tell him to depart. She felt him remove the cord that bound her hair.

“You need to say something or give me some clear answer. You know that.” His breath tickled her face, her throat. “You can still call it a horrible mistake later.”

She opened her eyes to stare directly into his abyss-dark gaze and whispered, “Or now?”

“Or now,” he agreed.

“Yes.” The word was barely from her lips before she wrapped her arms around him and gave up on being reasonable for a few hours.

Afterward, Sorcha sat and replaited her hair while Irial reclined on the floor next to her. He never provoked her or pointed out the truth of their relationship during these quiet moments.

He smoked silently until she picked up her garments from the floor. When she held the pale cloth to her chest and turned her back to him, he extinguished his cigarette, moved her braid over her shoulder, and fastened the tight bindings.

“Bananach always presses for war … but things feel different this time,” she admitted.

Part of politics for them had always been admissions that weren’t public knowledge. During Beira’s reign, Irial had come to her for solace; when he lost Niall, he had come to her for comfort; and when Beira murdered Miach, Irial had come to her—with all his unsettling presence—and together they had mourned the last Summer King. That was the first time she’d opted to indulge in the glorious mistakes they’d shared the past few centuries.

Today is the last time.

Sorcha finished dressing as she asked, “And Gabriel? Where does the Hunt stand?”

“With Niall.”

“Good. There are factions enough already. With the trouble between Summer and Winter and between Dark and Summer…” Sorcha let the words fade away, not wanting to speak them into being.

“Niall strengthens the Dark Court. Had I stayed king… Keenan would’ve attacked in time. He’s not going to forgive my binding him. Nine centuries is a long time for rage to fester.” Irial’s regret was obvious even if he didn’t mention it.

They, and few others, knew the reluctance of his bargain with Beira. Binding Miach’s son wasn’t something the Dark King had wanted to do, but like any good ruler, he made hard choices. That choice had given his court strength. Sorcha, at the time, was grateful that Beira hadn’t set her sights on Faerie. Eventually, she would’ve, but then … then, it was Summer’s fall, Dark’s entrapment, and her staying silent.

“So we wait.” Sorcha reclaimed the calm reserve that was her daily mien. She gestured toward the door. “In the interim, I will send Devlin to greet the new king on my behalf.”

Irial did not respond to her warning. Instead, he unlocked the door and left.

CHAPTER 3

AFTER CENTURIES OF MAKING THE transition, Irial still found the journey from Faerie to the mortal world jarring. The differently colored landscape, the disconnection of time, and the hordes of mortals all thrilled and displeased him simultaneously. Faerie was unchanged for all of eternity, but the mortal world seemed to alter in a moment. He marveled at the ways it had evolved in the centuries that stretched behind him, and he wondered what would follow their already remarkable progress. Some faeries found mortals to be little more than vermin, but Irial was enthralled by them. More so since I am no longer a king. Of course, he was more fascinated by the faery he now approached.

The new Dark King stiffened as Irial came to stand beside him. It was a conscious effort, however: as Dark King, Niall knew where Irial was for several moments prior to this.

The king glanced at him. “Why are you here?”

Irial lowered his gaze respectfully. “I am seeking an audience with the Dark King.”

“How did you know I was here?” Niall asked.

“I know you, Niall. I know your habits. This space”—Irial gestured at the small courtyard outside the mortals’ library—“soothes you.”

Irial smiled as he thought of the year it had been built. He’d been bored, and while he couldn’t create, he could fill the architect’s mind with visions.

“Columns?” the man repeated.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Irial murmured. “Utterly impractical. Who cares what a place looks like?”

“Right.”

Irial continued, “And there were statues, towering nearly naked women; can you imagine?”

Niall stood staring at the columns that stood on either side of the ornate wooden door to the library. “It always looks familiar.”

“Indeed.”

“The building … it’s like somewhere I’ve seen before.” Niall prodded, but he kept his attention on the building as he spoke. “Why is that?”

“It’s hard to say,” Irial demurred.

Niall glanced his way. “I can taste your emotions, Irial. It’s not a coincidence that I find it familiar, is it?”

“You know, my King, it’s much easier to get answers when you order people to obey you.” Irial smiled at a young mother with a pair of energetic toddlers. There was something enchanting about the unrestrained enthusiasm of children of any species. He had a fleeting regret that he hadn’t any young to indulge, but such regrets were followed by memories of half-mortal Dark Court offspring who were as easily contained as feral beasts. Beautiful chaotic things, children. He’d loved several of them as if they were his own.

“Irial.” Niall’s tone was testy now. “Why does the library look familiar?”

Irial stepped up to stand a bit closer than his king would find comfortable. “Because a very long time ago, you were happy in the courtyard of a building very like this one.”

Niall tensed.

Irial continued as if neither of them noticed Niall’s discomfort. “And I was feeling … a longing for such moments one day last century when a young architect was staring at his plans. I made a few suggestions to his designs.”

The Dark King moved to the side. “Is that to impress me?”

Irial gave him a wry grin. “Well, as it took over a hundred years for you to notice, it obviously didn’t.”

Niall sighed. “I repeat, what are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.” Irial walked over to a bench that faced the library and sat down.

As expected, Niall followed. “Why are you looking for me?”

“I went to Faerie … to see her.” Irial stretched his legs out and watched a few mortals slide around on wheeled boards. It was a curious hobby, but he found their agility fascinating.

With a nervous bit of hope, Niall joined him on the bench—at as much of a distance as possible, of course. “You went to see Sorcha.”

“I thought she should know that there was a change in the court’s leadership.”

“She did know,” Niall snapped. “No one goes there without her consent.”

“The Dark King can,” Irial corrected.

“You are not the Dark King.” Niall’s temper flared. “You threw it away.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Irial said. “I gave it to the rightful king.”

The emotions coursing through Niall were a delicious treat. Irial had to force his eyes to stay open as the flood of worry, fear, anger, shock, outrage, and a tendril of sorrow washed over him. It was best to not mention that he could read all of this. In theory, only the Dark King could read other regents, but for reasons Irial didn’t care to ponder, he had retained that particular trait. Most of his gifts of kingship had vanished: he was vulnerable to any faery who struck him, and he was once again fatally addictive to mortals. The connection to the whole of the court was severed, and the ability to write orders on Gabriel’s flesh was erased. These and most every other kingly trait were solely Niall’s, but the emotional interpretation was unchanged.

Even as his emotions flickered frantically, Niall spoke very calmly. “If she had wanted to, she could’ve killed you.”

“True.”

Several more moments of delicious emotional flux passed before Niall said, “You can’t tell me you’re going to be my advisor, and then get killed. A good advisor advises. He communicates. He doesn’t do idiotic things that can result in infuriating the High Queen.”

Innocently, Irial asked, “Does he do idiotic things to infuriate the Dark King?”

“You are far more trouble than you’re wor—” Niall’s words halted as he tried to speak that which was neither true nor his true opinion. He scowled and said, “Don’t be an ass, Iri.”

“Some things are impossible to order, my king.” Irial grinned. “Would you like me to apologize?”

“No. I’d like you to do what you said you would—advise me. You can’t do that if you piss off Sorcha enough to get killed or imprisoned or—”

“I’m here.” Irial reached out, but didn’t touch Niall. “I went to find out why Bananach visits her. The High Queen and I have had an … understanding these past centuries.”

Niall opened his mouth, but no words came out. Irial continued, “I needed to know that she wouldn’t support her sister in any attempts on your throne. I know chaos is good for the court, but I will not sacrifice you for the court if it is ever in my power. Not again.”

“A king’s duty is to his court,” Niall reminded him.

“And that, Gancanagh, is why I am not qualified to be a king,” Irial said gently. “It is not a matter of being tired of my court, or throwing it away, or punishing you, or trapping you, or any of those very diabolical things you would like to believe of me. The court requires a regent who will put its needs first.”

“And you think I would?” Niall asked.

“I know you would.” Irial smiled to let Niall know that this was a good thing, but the taste of Niall’s guilt was still heavy. Neither of them commented on what that meant about Niall’s loyalties—or the choices Irial had made in the past. Choices that put Niall second to the court. There was nothing to say that would lessen the ugliness of those choices.

“If you are my advisor, I will know where you are. I will not need to worry that you are trapped in Faerie or dead by Devlin’s hand because you angered Sorcha,” Niall said with more of a snarl than Irial expected.

“Yes, my King.” Irial knelt. “Do I take this to mean that my understanding with Sorcha is discontinued as well?”

Niall dragged his hand over his face. “Nothing’s ever simple with you.”

“I can ask her permission to visit her in the future … or simply remain here. I’m sure I can find other—”

“Until such time as I say otherwise, you will not enter Faerie,” Niall interrupted. “What else did you learn?”

Irial remained kneeling, but he lifted his gaze. “Devlin will visit.”

“For what purpose?” Niall made an impatient gesture. “And get up. You’re far too amused by this posture, and it’s not the least bit about re—” The words froze again.

Irial laughed, but he stood. “It is a little about showing respect, my king.”

“Irial,” Niall started.

“Devlin often seeks respite in the mortal world that he cannot find in Faerie. I have long offered him the court’s hospitality; however”—Irial stared at his king then—“Sorcha knows of his visits. I am anxious over this first visit with there being a new king. Sorcha would not be remiss in making a statement. As your advisor, I’m strongly suggesting you keep the Hounds in-house. You should also have Bananach’s staunchest supporters in your presence. Devlin tends to get bloody in his visits, and this could be a particularly … energetic visit. We can make use of that to rid ourselves of the disloyal. It serves several purposes—for us and for Sorcha.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“About this? Nothing.” Irial shook his head. “I will stand at your side, as will Gabriel, and we will make quite clear that the Dark Court is not weak.”

“We are weakened. If we weren’t, you wouldn’t have done the ink exchanges.”

Irial stared at Niall. “The violence Devlin will bring will nourish them. It is part of why I make him welcome. This time, it will nourish your court, and therefore you.”

“I require more than violence.”

“Call some of the Summer Girls, summon the Vilas, a Hound”—Irial paused as he weighed the words—“anyone you desire is yours. Human or faery or halfling. Gabriel’s daughter is strong enough to relax with you.”

“No.”

Irial repressed a sigh. “You weren’t celibate in the Summer Court.”

“I’m not ready to—”

“Leslie is gone, Niall.” Irial crouched down and looked at his king. “She left. She needs a life in the mortal world, for now at least. You, my Gancanagh, require the pleasures you’re denying. If I thought you’d forgive me, I’d arrange them delivered to you as they once were. You weren’t so reticent then or when you were in the Summer Court. You are the king of the Dark Court. They are all yours to command.”

“Now that I’m their king, they might not feel free to say no.” The fear in Niall’s expression was only a tiny portion of the overwhelming fear Irial could taste. Niall lowered his voice. “I don’t want them to feel trapped.”

“Don’t be foolish.” Irial caught Niall’s gaze. “I would offer you anything you need. They would too. It’s not a trap to offer happiness to one’s regent.” Irial’s affection for Niall was not the least bit hidden. “If you worry, I will collect solitaries for you, or perhaps you ought to go see Sorcha yourself…. There are those who are not your subjects. Is that what you seek? Tell me, my King, and I will make it so.”

“No. I simply don’t want … emotionless sex.” Niall looked away. “After Leslie—”

Irial growled. “She left.”

“I know.” Niall glared. “It’s only been a moment, though, and… I can’t.”

“As your advisor, I am strongly suggesting that you listen to my advice. Don’t weaken your court by being mawkish. You’ve never once been monogamous in your life, and if you think you could’ve been so with her, you’re a fool. You were a Gancanagh. Now, you’re the King of Temptation. You are what you are.”

“You’re a bastard. You know that?”

“I do.” Irial stood. “By tomorrow Devlin will be here, and if you expect to be your best, I’d strongly recommend that you go get—”

“I hate that you made me their king,” Niall said, and then he walked away.

After he was gone, Irial smiled.

That went surprisingly well.

CHAPTER 4

NIALL STOOD AT ONE OF THE GATES to Faerie. Once he’d marveled that mortals didn’t cross it more often, but unlike faeries and halflings, most mortals didn’t see the gate. The mortals and halflings who ended up in Faerie were taken or stumbled there unawares. Which isn’t much different from Dark Court faeries. The High Queen wasn’t particularly tolerant of uninvited guests, especially those of his court. The Dark Court’s exodus from Faerie had happened long enough ago that the whole of Faerie was her domain, while the mortal world was shared among the rest of the faeries.

Not that I’d want to return the court there.

If Irial could hear him, if Keenan could hear him, if most anyone he’d known these past several centuries could hear how easily he was slipping into the role of Dark King, he liked to think they would be shocked. The truth, of course, was that more than a few of them had accepted his new role as easily as he had. Because it was inevitable. He understood that now. When Irial had first offered him the throne, Niall had thought it horrific, but time had a way of removing illusions.

The complications of Devlin visiting the Dark Court were unclear to Niall. There was obviously some element of the situation that Niall didn’t know. Irial was a lot of things, but he wasn’t prone to exaggeration. If he thought Devlin’s visit was significant, it was.

Niall splayed his fingers over the veil that separated the worlds. The insubstantial fabric encased his hand as if it were a living thing. I could go to her. Once, Sorcha had been a friend of sorts. Once, Niall had imagined himself half in love with her. He hadn’t been, but she was everything Irial wasn’t. At the time, that was reason enough to try to call his friendship love.

“Help.”

Fingers grabbed his hand and tugged. Someone on the other side clutched him, grabbed hold of his wrist, and clung to him. The voice that seemed to accompany the desperate gesture was thin.

“Please, I can’t see.”

A second hand grabbed Niall’s arm as if to pull him through, and in the instant, any thought of entering Faerie fled. Niall tugged.

An old man came tumbling through the veil. He still held tightly to Niall’s arm. “Please.”

Niall steadied him and in doing so glanced down and saw the man’s face: both of his eyes were missing. The eyelids drooped over empty sockets. “Who are you?”

“No one.” The man wept. “I’m no one, and I saw nothing…. I promise.”

“You’re in Huntsdale,” Niall said gently. “Do you know where that is?”

The relief on the man’s wrinkled face was heartbreaking. He whispered, “I do. Home. This is where I should be. I was wrong before. I thought… I followed someone, but”—he shook his head—“she was an illusion. It was all an illusion.”

There was no need to ask which faery he’d followed. It didn’t matter. Mortals had been stolen away, misled, trapped, and tricked for as long as the two races coexisted.

“Let me help you.” Niall had no obligation to the man, but he wasn’t at ease with walking away. The Dark Court wasn’t evil. It would’ve been easier if they were. A clear division between good and evil, right and wrong, would simplify everything, but life was rarely simple. His court was formed of passions, of shadows, of impulses. The Dark Court—and its king—were that which balanced the High Court. In this instant, balancing the High Court meant offering kindness.

“You’re one of them.” The man yanked his hand away from Niall. “I’m not going back. She had them take my eyes, said I’d be free…. You can’t—”

“I have no intention of harming you. Unlike Sorcha, I am not cru—” Niall’s words halted: he was capable of cruelty, but the difference was in the motivations. He’d never understood the High Court opposition to mortals knowing of the fey. He certainly never grasped the logic of breaking them for knowing. “You know we don’t lie.”

The man nodded.

“I offer you my protection. I cannot undo what she did to you, but I can offer you a haven.” Niall waited for a moment, trying not to rush the man, but increasingly aware that someone would probably notice that a mortal had exited Faerie without permission. Keeping his voice calm, he added, “You are free to leave anytime you choose. There are no punishments for deciding to leave.”

“She said this”—the man touched his face—“wasn’t a punishment.”

“I will not cause or allow injury done to you.” Gently, Niall touched the man’s wrist. “If you prefer, I will deliver you to a mortal physician. Either way, we should leave this place.”

The man sighed. “I don’t think mortals would be much use against your sort. I’ll accept your offer—for the moment at least.”

“I’m going to carry you,” Niall warned, and then he lifted the old man, cradling him like a child. It was akin to lifting an empty sack, and Niall wondered how long the frail thing had been in Faerie. Once, Sorcha had explained that the blinding was for the mortals’ good as well. “Seeing the changed world after so long is troubling to them,” she’d said. “This is kinder.” He’d disagreed, but Sorcha had merely smiled and added, “The fanciful ones, the artists, are fragile. Seeing us after they’ve left is far crueler.”

The walk through Huntsdale wasn’t long, but it was long enough that solitaries and those of other courts saw him. None spoke to him, but more than a few faeries stared in blatant curiosity. The sensation wasn’t displeasing: he was opposing the High Court and doing something that soothed his sense of guilt over past follies.

As he approached his new home, a thistle-fey scurried forward and opened the front door.

“Gabriel,” Niall called.

The Hound—who had once been a friend, more recently an enemy, and was currently Niall’s most trusted resource—entered the foyer with a silent grace that should’ve been impossible for such a bulky creature. “My King.”

“King?” the man murmured.

“Her opposition,” Niall soothed as he lowered the man’s feet to the floor. “You are safe here.”

Gabriel shook his head. “You trying to start trouble?” “Perhaps,” Niall admitted, “but I don’t suppose that’s a problem, is it?”

The grin on Gabriel’s face was matched by his mellow tone as he said, “Nope, just making sure I understand.”

“The High Queen blinded this man. I have offered him safety here.” Niall made a beckoning gesture to one of the Vilas who always lingered wherever Gabriel walked. “You can go with this woman. She’ll find you a chamber to rest in while you decide what you want.”

The man reached out awkwardly, clearly not yet used to his lack of sight.

Niall took the man’s hand and started to lead him to the Vila. “This is Natanya and—”

“What’s your name, king?”

The belligerence in the man’s voice made both Niall and Gabriel grin. This wasn’t a mortal who would curl into himself and give up. His bravery made him even more worthy of protection.

“Niall.”

“Am I safe from her here, Niall?” The man tilted his head. “They might be pretty, but they’re monstrous. You know that, don’t you?”

“We do,” Niall said.

“Are you all pretty too?” the mortal asked.

It was an obvious curiosity, but it stilled everyone all the same. Natanya stared at Niall; Gabriel shrugged. Niall wasn’t sure what answer was truth. Pretty? Gabriel was akin to a sort of menacing mortal who lingered in disreputable bars: slow to rile, but quick to strike if angered. He was lean, scarred, and silent. The gray-eyed, gray-skinned Vilas were all beautiful; even in violence, their movements were elegant; but they were as likely as not to dab blood on their lips for color. And Niall … being fey meant possessing an innate attractiveness to mortals, being a Gancanagh meant he’d been born to seduce. Pretty? He’d thought so once, many centuries ago, but that was not a word he’d found fitting for a very long time. He’d been proud of it, though: he kept his hair shorn to emphasize the scar that he was certain made him anything but pretty. The trouble was that Niall didn’t see the Dark Court denizens as ugly, either. Even while he hated things that happened in the court, even when he’d found a vast number of its faeries terrifying, he’d never thought them either pretty or ugly. They simply were.

“The High Court thinks we are monsters.” Niall let his own emotions into the words. “I suspect that if you saw us, you’d think many of us are too. What we aren’t, though, is calmly cruel. What we aren’t is like them.”

The man nodded.

Natanya and Gabriel were both smiling, and there was little doubt in Niall’s mind that his own acceptance of his court was likely to be repeated throughout their number.

“Natanya?” Gabriel motioned toward the mortal. “Look after him for your king and for me.”

“As if he were your own child, Gabriel.” The Vila beamed at Gabriel. The silver chains that held her bone-hewn shoes to her feet clattered as she moved across the room to take the mortal’s hand in hers. She led the man away, and for a moment Gabriel was silent.

He shot an assessing glance at Niall. “Salt in a wound when they learn that you brought one of Sorcha’s discarded mortals here.”

“That is true.”

“There are only two faeries she could strike that would truly weaken your court—or make you look weaker,” Gabriel pointed out. “Those are the logical choices. I’m not going over there, and if I’m not able to face Devlin, I need replaced as the Gabriel, so I’m not needing protection. The other one…”

“He was already over there. That’s how I know Devlin’s coming here.”

“Huh.” Gabriel snorted. “Didn’t waste any time trying to protect you, did he? Threaten her, seduce her, or both?”

Niall didn’t answer that, but he suspected that Gabriel knew the answer well enough. Irial might not have spoken to the Hound yet, but they’d been a team for as long as Niall had known Irial. Before the day was over, Irial would seek Gabriel out, tell him the things he thought necessary, try again to assure that Niall was safe.

And not once think about the way he endangers himself now.

A regent could prevent any of his or her subjects from seeing the gate, and a strong solitary could impose restrictions on weaker fey. A part of Niall thought stealing others’ will was wrong, but he understood now that there were times that choices were a matter of opting for the lesser of several wrongs.

“It is my decree that none of the subjects of the Dark Court may enter Faerie without my consent.” Niall looked at Gabriel’s forearms as the command appeared there. “Until such time as I speak otherwise, the gates are unseen to my subjects.”

The Hounds didn’t offer fealty, so they could go to Faerie. Of course, they wouldn’t do so unless Gabriel directed them. Irial, however, could no longer see the gates or enter Faerie.

CHAPTER 5

SORCHA DIDN’T RESPOND WHEN DEVLIN walked into her gardens. She’d long since stopped acknowledging him when he did so. As if it will make the future less difficult. She hated that he was an anomalous creature—almost as much as she treasured it. He would be her undoing if she let him. Perhaps he would be even if she tried to stop him. In some matters the threads of possibility were seemingly determined.

“My queen?”

She didn’t turn. Facing him as they lied in their omissions made the whole business even less palatable. “Brother.”

“I have blinded the mortal as you commanded.” His voice was as empty as it often was, but that too was a lie of sorts. Her brother might pretend to be High Court, but she was under no illusion that he was solely her creature. He was hers, though.

“I have business there that needs tending,” she said.

He’d expected as much, but he’d hoped otherwise. She could see the resignation in the moment in which he frowned. The expression was gone too fast for most anyone to see, of course, but she saw much that no one else would. The pause before replying was infinitesimal, but it was still there.

“Whatever you command,” he said.

She turned. “Indeed?”

Before she could catch his gaze, he dropped to his knees. “Have I failed you?”

Sorcha didn’t speak. Have you? She knew he would, but had he? Her vision of the past was unclear. The present and future took her focus so fully, and eternity stretched longer than she could grasp. Have you? She waited, looking down at the first faery she’d made. Before he existed, there were only two, Discord and Order, twins who had once created one thing together. You. She reached down and ran her fingers through his multihued hair. It was unlike that which graced any other faery, and it was resistant to her will. He couldn’t be altered by her touch, not now that he was real. Other faeries couldn’t either, but they weren’t her creations.

They’d stayed this way for hours before. Devlin had the patience and willpower to kneel for as long as she required it. He didn’t falter, didn’t sleep, didn’t wince. He simply waited. She wondered idly if he could out-wait her.

“Could we spend decades thus, Brother?” she murmured.

He lifted his gaze. “Sister?”

“If I demanded it, how long would you kneel thusly?” She traced up his cheekbones and down the outside of his jaw with her fingertips. “Would you falter from exhaustion first?”

“You are my queen.”

“I am,” she agreed. She cupped his face in her hands and held him still. “That’s not an answer.”

He didn’t even try to resist. “Do you require me to falter or to succeed in waiting as long as you wait?”

She smiled then. “Such a wise answer. You will do whatever I require then? You will strive to not fail me? You will serve me forever?”

“As your servant, your Bloodied Hands, your brother, your advisor, I will do all that you demand.” He bowed his head, and she loosened her grip to allow it. Then he added, “The last of those questions is unanswerable.”

“It is.” She turned her back, but she did not release him. She fashioned a chair of flowering vines and sat down. In her hands, a book appeared. She hadn’t created it. She had no such skill with art. She had, however, willed it to appear in her hands. Ignoring her brother, she began to read.

He stayed there kneeling for the next three hours as she read.

Sometime into the fourth hour, she lifted her gaze to look at him. “I need you to go to the new Dark King. Give him word of the High Court’s acknowledgment of his new station. Stress to him that, while we are not at conflict, I will not hesitate to act as required to keep order.”

Devlin stayed silent, awaiting the rest.

“It would be prudent to make clear your willingness to strike at the Dark Court should it be required,” she continued. “Perhaps a fight with the former Dark King? The Gabriel? His mate? The action should be something that emphasizes your assets as the High Court’s weapon.”

“As you will,” Devlin murmured.

The brief look of hurt on his face was reason enough for Sorcha to know that her actions were necessary. It would not do for Devlin to be coddled. Reminding him that he was a weapon to be utilized helped keep his tendency toward emotion in check.

It is for the best.

“Do you require death?” he inquired. “That will limit the choice of combatants.”

Sorcha paused and sorted through the threads that had come into focus as Devlin spoke. The consequences of some deaths would be disastrous. Unexpectedly so. Later, she would mull the import of one such thread, but for now, she said only, “Not of that list. Injure one of them, or injure many. A lesser death is allowable, but not the new king’s advisor or thug. A regent does tend to react poorly to such losses.”

The moment was there, and she knew he would ask. In this, as in so many other things, her brother was predictable. He looked directly at her with those unnatural dark eyes and asked, “Would your thug’s death elicit such a reaction?”

“My assassin is my advisor and my creation”—she pursed her lips in an expression that should convey the dislike she knew was an appropriate emotion—“so I would be sorely inconvenienced by your death. I dislike being inconvenienced.”

He bowed his head again. “Of course.”

“If I were emotional regarding any faery in my court, it would be you, Brother.” She stood and walked over to him. “You have value to me.”

The relief evinced in his slight relaxing of posture was noteworthy for him. This was what he required: reminders of his value, of his use, of his proper role. He never spoke of the fact that his choice of her court was a struggle, but she knew. As does Bananach. It was in his nature to crave both Discord and Order. In her court, at her hand, by her word, she could give him that. And keep him from Bananach by doing so.

“I expect there to be violence enough that the Dark Court will be suitably reminded of my strength,” she added.

“As you require.”

She expected that this was a moment in which she should offer him comfort. He evoked that in her, an urge to nurture, but it would hasten the seemingly inevitable future. When he becomes my enemy. Instead she said, “You will not allow yourself injured, Brother. The High Court is represented by your success in this. Do not fail me.”

“I will not.” He was still on his knees, still unflinching. “May I depart?”

She set a storm over his head and walked away. “When the next hour ends, you may rise.”

As she left, she directed a small bolt of lightning to strike him. There was no cry of pain. A tangle of wild roses grew around him as she opened the gate to exit the garden. The thorns didn’t pull him off balance, but they would make his position increasingly unpleasant over the next hour. That pain would be predictable; the flowers’ rate of growth would be precise. However, in deference to Devlin’s discordant streak, she set the lightning strikes to a random order.

CHAPTER 6

AFTER TENDING TO A FEW BUSINESS matters that required negotiations that the Dark King didn’t need to know about just yet, Irial finally approached what appeared to be a derelict warehouse to follow up on the last task of the day. The creatures that filled the building evoked fear and discomfort by their mere presence. When they ran, they were a beautiful nightmare—so much so that even the former King of Nightmares felt a flush of terror roll over him. It was a warning that even regents should heed: inside the stable, the Hunt ruled. No kingship, no law in either world, nothing other than Gabriel’s word mattered once one entered their domain. Consequently, it was one of the few places in this world or in Faerie that Irial would approach with caution.

Irial stopped at one of the doors and waited for a moment.

One of the younger Hounds stepped forward and flashed a sulfurous green gaze at Irial. The sight of the green eyes in the dark was more comforting than menacing, but sharing that detail would elicit an undesired reaction from the Hound. Fighting was rarely one of Irial’s preferred hobbies, so he kept his thoughts to himself.

“I would speak with the Gabriel.” Irial didn’t lower his gaze, but he didn’t stare directly at the Hound.

A second Hound, who leaned against the building, crossed his arms. “Don’t think Gabriel is expecting you.”

“Do you deny me entrance?” Irial held his hand out, palm up, as one would for any number of feral beasts.

The first Hound sniffed Irial’s hand. Then, he stepped closer and sniffed the air near Irial’s face. “Smells like the other place.”

“Faerie,” Irial murmured.

The second Hound growled. “Can’t run there. She says no visits. Wants us asking permissions first.”

“I bring word of violence.”

At that, both Hounds’ attitudes shifted. One pushed off the building and pulled the door open. “Go ahead in. Gabriel’s in the ring.”

As always, the Hounds’ steeds were in various forms. Cars, motorcycles, and beasts waited in wooden stalls. A few of the steeds sat in rafters in various guises. Here, they could adopt whatever form they preferred. Irial felt a twinge of longing for Faerie then. Once, forever ago now, these steeds could wear whatever form they wanted all of the time. At first, they continued to do so in the mortal world, but now, they were more cautious—for obvious reasons: the sight of the vibrant green dragon that slept in the center aisle would alarm most mortals.

The dragon stirred enough that a clear lens flickered over one of its massive eyes. It yawned, giving Irial a glimpse of teeth as big as his own arms. Then, scenting him, its nostrils flared. It had awakened.

Both of the creature’s eyes were now focused on Irial.

“I’m here to speak with the Gabriel,” Irial said. “I bring word of blood for the Hunt. A guest from Faerie will be coming here.”

The dragon flicked a thin purple tongue out, not far enough to touch Irial, but close enough that for a moment, Irial thought he’d misremembered how close one could stand and still be at a safe distance. But then the tongue retracted, and the beast closed its eyes.

Irial resumed walking toward the ring at the far back of the building.

The scent of blood and the cacophony of snarls and rumbling voices were unaltered, but Irial had no doubt that they all knew he approached. The steeds shared nonverbal communication with their riders—and with the Hound who led them all. Everyone in the stable knew what Irial had said to the Hound at the door and to the steed that rested in the form of a dragon. That did not, however, mean that any of them saw reason to interrupt whatever fight was in progress. The Hunt had different priorities than the less feral faeries often understood.

Irial closed the distance, prepared to wait for the match to end. As he reached the edge of the crowd, the Hounds parted to let him walk to the front. At the side of the roped-off ring, Irial stopped and gaped.

There were few things that would be as unexpected as the sight before him: Niall stood in the center of the ring. Blood trickled from a set of teeth marks on his forearm and soaked the denim around a jagged tear on his leg. His opponent, an average-sized Hound, growled as Niall landed a punch that rocked the Hound’s head backward. Before the Hound could respond, Niall followed through with a second punch to the throat, which had the Hound toppling to the straw-covered floor.

As Irial stared, Gabriel came up beside him. “Always was a ruthless bastard in a fight.”

“Does he do this often?” Irial watched his king put one boot-clad foot on the fallen Hound’s chest.

“Most every night since you made him king.” Gabriel’s emotions tangled between amused and content. “Seems to be taking to the job if you ask me.”

“Perhaps I should’ve asked you,” Irial murmured. He felt a curious wave of sadness that Gabriel had kept this from him. It wasn’t wrong of Gabriel, but it was yet another loss.

Niall looked over his shoulder then to stare at Irial. While the Hounds couldn’t taste emotions, the rest of the Dark Court could. Of course, that didn’t mean they always understood the reason for the emotion—which was abundantly clear in the surge of fury that Niall felt.

The Dark King grabbed the Hound at his feet and hauled him upright. He shoved the injured Hound toward the rope and snarled, “Next.”

If they had been any other two faeries, Irial would’ve pulled his king aside and explained that the sorrow was not over seeing Niall battering the fallen Hound, but over Gabriel’s secrecy. They weren’t any other faeries though, so Irial did the next best thing: he stepped forward.

“Don’t be absurd,” Niall ground out.

Without taking his gaze from his king, Irial ducked under the rope. “If you would, Gabe?”

“Hear we’re expecting blood. Who’s visiting?” Gabriel asked.

“Devlin. Sorcha undoubtedly would like him to make a statement. It is traditional.” Irial waited for a moment, listening to the receding footsteps and motors already coming to life. The Hunt was vacating the stable, undoubtedly at Gabriel’s silent command.

Softly, Irial added, “The pups should stay close to home for a few days.”

Gabriel’s teeth snapped and a low snarl emanated from him. “My pups are—”

“Safe enough,” Irial interrupted, “if they stay out of sight. Sorcha has issued orders to take halflings, so just tell them to stay low for a few days.”

Niall took a step toward Irial and said in a low voice, “This is why I need you here. You have centuries of dealing with the nuances. The court needs that wisdom.” He did not add that he needed Irial too, but the emotion was there for Irial to taste—as was the resentment. “I require your presence and your safety. The gates to Faerie are unseen to you now, Irial.”

“Well, this evening is just full of surprises, isn’t it?” Irial raised a fist. “You’d leash me then? I went there for—”

Gabriel cleared his throat loudly. “We’ll stir up a little nourishment for the court tonight.” He paused briefly and then said, “Niall?”

Niall glanced away from Irial.

“Your strength is the court’s strength. Don’t much matter whether you feed on fury or lust, or who you do that with, but you need to be strong.” Gabriel put word to what they all knew. “I’ll gather some of the solitaries or the Summer Girls if you’d rather—”

“The Summer Girls are not to be given to the court.” Niall bared his teeth. “No one is permitted to be touched without their consent.”

“We know that,” Gabriel said. “The old king made that rule. The Hunt brings them, but they choose to stay or go.”

Niall gave Irial a curious look, but Irial said nothing. If he’d told Niall, it wouldn’t have changed a thing, but it would’ve started a conversation that neither of them had been ready for in the years that had passed. Knowing Irial regretted being unable to protect Niall didn’t undo the past.

Finally, Niall looked away. “Do what you must to bring nourishment for the court.”

“And you,” Irial added. “A few fights aren’t enough and you know it … although I’m glad you are fighting at least. Now if you were fu—”

“Stop.” Niall’s emotions were all over the spectrum. His gaze snapped back to Irial. “Don’t think I’m going to be easy to beat just because there were a few Hounds trying to pummel me.”

At this, Irial’s flash of irritation vanished. He lowered his fist and laughed. “You’ve never been easy about anything, love.”

The fist that slammed into Irial’s face was faster than he remembered Niall’s punches being, but it had been a very long time since Niall had hit him. Striking a king wasn’t tolerated unless it was in an agreed-upon match, and for the past eleven centuries, Niall had known that Irial was a king.

And that I withheld that little detail when we met.

A second punch didn’t come.

Niall stared at him. “We’re in a ring, Irial. You can strike a king here.”

Irial grinned as he heard Gabriel call, “We ride.”

As the Hunt started to leave, the stable was a storm of emotions that both he and Niall consumed. While those emotions were still flooding them, Irial said, “Should I have extended that offer to you a second time when you learned that I was a king?”

“Maybe.” Niall smiled briefly. “I thought about this often enough.”

“Hitting me?”

“No,” Niall corrected as he swung at Irial. “Beating you half to death.”

Then, they were too busy to argue. Irial wasn’t as quick with his fists, but he let every emotion he felt free. Reading Irial’s emotions and Niall’s own rage-guilt-pleasure over the knowledge put Niall off-center enough that Irial was able to withstand the next hour better than either of them had anticipated.

Eventually, however, Irial was prone on the ground. He couldn’t open his left eye, and he was fairly certain that at least one rib was cracked. “I’m done.”

Instead of walking away as Irial expected, Niall plopped down on the floor. He was covered in blood and sweat, and he was content.

“It’s easier than I thought,” Niall said.

“I’m not that easy to beat.” Irial smiled and then winced as the movement made his lip bleed more freely.

“It’s easier being their king than I thought it would be,” Niall corrected.

“I knew what you meant.” Irial forced himself to sit upright, and immediately reassessed the number of broken ribs to at least three. “You were always their next king. You knew that. I knew it. Hell, Sorcha knew it.”

Niall’s eyes widened slightly. “She told you that?”

Irial had forgotten how much more open Niall had always been after a fight. “Not directly, but her emotions did.”

Hesitantly, Niall asked, “What emotions? The High Queen doesn’t … does she?”

“She does in the presence of the Dark King.” Irial held Niall’s gaze as best he could with one eye swollen mostly shut. “I asked if you were ever going to be the next king, and she felt both excited and sorrowful. I didn’t know for sure then, but I hoped—and now, I think that she knew, that she looked forward to you being this.”

They sat silently, but not without communicating. Over the centuries, Irial had read Niall’s emotions without his knowledge. Tonight, for the first time, Niall consciously revealed his emotions for the purpose of sharing the things he couldn’t verbalize. The years had changed them both, but those changes had only made Niall more suited to being the Dark King. Niall was both relieved and disappointed that this was so. He was also happier than he’d been since he’d left Irial’s side more than nine centuries ago.

As am I.

Eventually, Niall stood. “Things will never be like they were before.”

“I didn’t think they would.” Irial stared up at him.

Unexpectedly, Niall extended a hand—and then grinned as he tasted Irial’s shock. “You fight better than I remember.”

“You broke several ribs.” Irial accepted Niall’s hand and was pulled to his feet. “I can’t see from one eye, and I think something in my knee ripped.”

“Exactly.” Niall released Irial’s hand and grinned.

“Maybe next time I’ll do better.” Irial regretted the words as soon as they were out, but he wasn’t going to admit that. He concealed his emotions and stilled his expression as best he could.

For a moment, Niall said nothing; his emotions were likewise locked down tightly enough that they were out of Irial’s reach. Then Niall shrugged. “Maybe.”

Irial lifted the rope for Niall to duck under.

They walked out together in silence. Niall did not tell Irial to depart as they walked to the house that had once been Irial’s, nor did he invite Irial to stay. At the step, they paused, and for a foolish hopeful moment, Irial waited. Then, Niall reached out to the gargoyle that adorned the door, and Irial left for his current residence. It was a peaceful parting.

Things might be all right after all.

Irial knew they both were keeping secrets that could change the trust they were building, but it was progress. For now, that was enough.

Once we get past the visit from the High Queen’s emissary.

What Irial had learned in his conversations with his spies had directed a course of action he’d intended to discuss with Gabriel tonight, but Irial had long since discovered the importance of improvising. A chance to mend his relationship with Niall outweighed the benefits of informing Gabriel of Irial’s plans. He could handle matters quietly, and then apologize to Niall if he was found out.

CHAPTER 7

DESPITE THE THINGS LEFT UNSAID, NIALL knew that the house he lived in had not been intended to go to the new Dark King. If the last king had died, Niall would be entitled to all his predecessor’s belongings. The last king, however, was far from dead. He is very much here. Thankfully. Niall smiled—and then paused. Do I forgive everything? He had set aside centuries of dislike for Irial in a few short weeks. No. Niall walked across the foyer, knowing that servants waited in hopes of his needing something, anything. There were those in the Dark Court that seemed to thrive on being given orders. It was perplexing to him. Forgiving everything will never happen. That didn’t mean that Niall could cling to the illusions that he’d held to these past centuries: he couldn’t forget the good things any more than the bad.

Ignoring the faeries that waited in every alcove and around every corner, Niall made his way to his chambers. He opened the door and stopped.

“He said you needed me.” She stared at him, not moving, not crossing the thick carpet to stand nearer him. Once, she would’ve. Now, she watched him and said, “The Hound. He brought me here because you needed me.”

“No,” he corrected. “I needed a body to be here. Not you. It’s what I am now. I have need of a body.”

She shrugged. “I am a body.”

“No.” He wasn’t exactly happy to find one of the Summer Girls waiting there. He tried to think of her that way: one of the Summer Girls. He tried not to think of her as someone he’d once protected. It didn’t work.

“You could be anyone.” He slammed the door closed. “You—”

“You don’t need to try to make me upset, Niall.” She gave him a sorrowful smile. “Tell me.”

“Tell…”

“What you need,” she supplied. Even in this place, far different from her court, she swayed a little as if she heard music still. The long brown hair that she usually pinned into curls hung straight today. “The last Dark King invited us here often enough. Tonight, though… I hoped it was you I was here for when I saw the Hound. I would’ve come without that hope, but I’m glad to be brought to you.”

Niall hadn’t thought about it overly much. It made sense, though: the Summer Girls were without Keenan’s hatred of the Dark Court. They were creatures of pleasure, the embodiment of only the joys of Summer. Later, he’d ask Gabriel how often the Summer Girls had visited the court—and how often they could visit safely. Even in his fury with Keenan, Niall still believed that the Summer King would not sit idly by if the Summer Girls were harmed. His former liege manipulated as freely as every other powerful faery did—including me—but often that was out of the protectiveness he felt for his faeries. The Summer Girls, former mortals who’d been cursed to be faeries dependent on Keenan for their very sustenance, were particularly important to the Summer King.

“He always asked about you. The last king”—she unfastened her sundress—“I thought of telling you sometimes. More than once, he asked me to come to him right after I’d lain in your arms.”

Niall stilled. Did you? Why? How often? There was nothing he could think to say that didn’t sound bizarre—not that she would be fazed by a bizarre statement. The Summer Girls were unflappable. He stared at her as she dropped the dress.

“We knew that one day”—she stepped from the dress that now puddled around her feet—“you’d return to this court.”

If she had been any of the other Summer Girls, her words would’ve surprised him, but Siobhan had always told Niall things he hadn’t thought anyone noticed. She is my friend. He remembered the years after she’d first joined the Summer Court, when she realized that Keenan’s love was as fleeting as his attention had been.

As she watched him, she pulled her hair over her bare shoulder. “I remember when you taught me about this world, Niall. You spoke of them, of his court, with a difference in your voice. Your eyes grew dark when you spoke of him. Did you know that?”

The way she watched him was exciting. When he’d been in the Summer Court, he had always favored her, but the Summer Girls never seemed to care whose arms they were in. Do they, and I just didn’t know? He turned away from her, dismissing her with effort, and walked to the low chest at the foot of his oversized bed. He propped one foot up and began unlacing his boots.

Without looking back at her, he said, “You could go. There are others—”

She laughed. “I miss you. I’m here by choice. My king wouldn’t like it, but we are not disloyal to him. We did not speak of our court here … except to Irial, and he only asked after you.”

“Keenan would not approve,” Niall pointed out rather foolishly. What the Summer King approved of wasn’t Niall’s concern. Even now, the Dark Court was strong enough to withstand any threat the Summer Court offered them. Unlike the High Court or the Winter Court. He unlaced his other boot and dropped both boots on the floor. The black of the leather almost blended in with the deep burgundy carpet. I will not look at her. He sat on the chest.

“Niall?”

He lifted his gaze.

In an instant, Siobhan had crossed the room and stood in front of him. Carefully, she reached out to touch his face. Gone was the impulsivity he’d known with her as one of the Summer Girls. Instead, she approached him much the way one would approach a wild animal. “You’ve been fighting.”

Until that moment, the fact that he was blood-covered had slipped his mind. He flinched and pulled away from her touch. “You should g—” The untrue words halted. He tried again: “You could g—”

“No.” Her hand was outstretched, but she did not touch him this time. Her sorrow and her longing and her love flooded him. “I want to be right here.”

Love?

He stared at her in wonder.

She stilled. “What?”

Silently, he shook his head. The ability of his court to taste emotions was secret. As carefully as she had, he reached out, and despite the number of times that he’d been with Siobhan, it felt new. He slid his fingers through her hair, brushing it back, letting it slip from his grasp to slide over her skin. “I do want you to stay.”

As he touched her, she closed her eyes, and he tried not to notice that the vines that were on her skin wilted as he slid his hand down her bare arm. She was a part of the Summer Court; he was not. Like everyone else outside of the Summer Court, his touch was not nourishing for her now.

“Niall?”

He traced the wilting vines that trailed across her bare stomach. “You know you can walk away from here.”

“I’m here by choice,” she repeated softly. “I want to be here.”

Her emotions were as clear in her voice as they were in the air around him. Her fear of rejection tangled with need. Even though he was bruised and bloodied, even though he was offering her nothing, she wanted him—and was terrified that he would send her away. He drank down both her terror and her lust as he pulled her onto his lap.

And in doing so, all of her hesitation vanished. She drew his lips to hers and wrapped her legs around him. This was the Siobhan he’d taken into his arms so often over the past century. She didn’t apologize as she shredded what remained of his bloodied shirt or when she caused him pain by being too impatient with his bruised body.

Unlike every other relationship he’d known, Siobhan was uncomplicated. She didn’t think about the future; she didn’t ask about the past. Or cause me to think of those things. She was here, in this moment, in this place. She was a Summer Girl, demanding the pleasure that she considered her right. She took what she needed, and she shared herself because she wanted to do so. She was who she was, and she didn’t try to hide that truth.

And in this, Niall admitted to himself, perhaps the Summer Court and the Dark Court were not so far apart.

CHAPTER 8

THE FOLLOWING DAY, FAR EARLIER THAN the court would gather, Irial was waiting in the alley outside the warehouse Niall had been favoring of late. Much like the changes Niall had made in what used to be Irial’s home, this change was both comforting and disconcerting. The court owned plenty of clubs, both mortal and faery focused, but for reasons Niall didn’t specify, he’d chosen to have meetings here in a vast warehouse. They’d hired mortals to refit it, removing the excessive steel so that it was bearable and adding wood and stone fixtures. The presence of steel weakened the faeries, but it also meant that only the strongest among them could act out. That, Irial had to admit, was clever. His own solution when he’d ascended the throne had been bloodier, but Niall was a different sort of ruler.

Irial had waited there since the sun rose, but it was not until afternoon that he saw the faery he’d been expecting.

“Irial.” Devlin moved with the same ease that shadows did, but rather than take advantage of that, he tried to announce his presence when he arrived—unless he was sent to assassinate someone Sorcha had declared troubling.

“I have made you welcome among us for centuries, but I understand that Her Unchanging Difficultness has sent you to make trouble,” Irial murmured.

“My queen is wise in all things.” Devlin stiffened. “She seeks to keep order, not promote conflict.”

“By striking those in my—the Dark Court?” Irial grinned. “The High Court is a twisted place.”

“You are no longer king. Nothing should prevent me from striking you.” Devlin’s voice had no inflection. In most cases, evoking obvious emotion in Sorcha’s brother was a challenge.

“If necessary, I would offer myself up for you to take your pound of flesh.” Irial gestured to the street. “We can deal with this out here before or after you say what you will to my king.”

The expression on Devlin’s face seemed to grow even more unreadable, and his already hidden emotions became absent enough that he was as a vacant body. “Regrettably, I think I will decline that offer.”

The sound of Hounds approaching didn’t evoke so much as a flicker from Devlin. Their steeds’ engines growled and snarled; the exhalations—which mortals would see as vehicle exhaust—were tinted the same green as their eyes. While the Hunt did not ride in pursuit of anyone, they made their entrance with the same ferocity as they’d pursue an enemy with. Gabriel’s steed was, uncharacteristically, a massive motorcycle with dual exhaust and a growl loud enough that the street shuddered. Gabriel himself snarled as fiercely as the steed, the act of which made his words almost unintelligible. “Irial… What. Are. You. Doing.”

Irial widened his eyes in faux innocence. “Greeting a guest to the Dark Court. We were both in the street, and—” Irial’s words were lost under another growl.

Utterly implacable as always, Devlin merely looked at the assembled Hunt as if they were nothing more than a group of mortal schoolchildren. “On behalf of the Queen of Faerie, I seek audience with the Dark King.”

“Irial?” Gabriel said in a slightly clearer voice. “Go inside. Now.”

Something in him rankled at being ordered so, but Gabriel had always been prone to treating Irial as an equal instead of as a king. And now I am not a king. Irial shrugged, glanced at Devlin, and said, “My offer stands.”

The resounding snarls that greeted his words brought a look of true amusement—and matching burst of emotion—to Devlin. “I believe there is some opposition to your suggestion.”

Gabriel extended his left arm; on it, the Dark King’s commands spiraled out and made quite clear that Irial was to be kept safe. “Inside.”

Devlin smiled broadly now. He glanced from the ink on Gabriel’s arm to Irial’s face. “Your king seems to disapprove of your propensity for protecting him.”

At that, Irial shook his head. “Understand this: if you so much as lift a hand to my king, I will bring such destruction into Faerie as would make War in all her fury seem like an infant in a snit. There are more than a few who owe me debts I will not hesitate to call due.” Irial lowered his voice, not to hide his words from those standing near him, but in hopes of keeping it from any hidden watchers. “I’ve spoken to those who carry word of the High Queen’s orders. Whether it is now or for the rest of eternity, any who strike at him will answer to me.”

“You unman him with such a threat,” Devlin remarked.

“No,” Irial corrected. “I protect him. It is no different from what you would do for your queen.”

Devlin paused a heartbeat too long before murmuring, “Perhaps.”

“Inside on your own, or they’ll move you.” Gabriel clamped a hand on Irial’s shoulder. “I will not disobey my king—nor will you.”

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.

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

Niall was fuming when Irial entered the building. A barricade of solid shadow snapped into place around the two of them, sealing out everyone but them. “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 things that I struggled with as easily as if you’d been king for several years.”

“At least one of us is adjusting well.”

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

“Instead of hiding the fact that you were informed that Devlin was to strike you or Gabriel, you should have told me,” Niall said as calmly as he could. “You offered me the court, your fealty, your advice, yet you hide things that, as your king, I should be told.”

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.”

“I’m not very good at serving.”

Niall put one hand on Irial’s shoulder and pushed him to his knees. “I noticed.”

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 since you failed me so many centuries ago. 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 and the court safe.” Irial looked only at Niall despite the growing number of faeries outside the shadowed barrier. “That means 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 strike that would be a noticeable display of her assassin’s strength.”

“Yes.”

“Gabe has arranged that—up to allowing you to act the fool,” Niall said.

Irial startled. “I see.”

“I sent Gabe to find out which of your spies you’d visited.” Niall let his pleasure in the situation be obvious in his voice. “I manipulated you, Irial.”

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 flash of fear that Irial felt almost made Niall waver. Instead, 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,” Irial hedged.

“Either you kneel there and give me your vow to all that I just said”—Niall 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 less than a decade. 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 launched himself into the fracas.

This, at least, I understand.

CHAPTER 9

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. Niall had always fought with unrestrained passion. 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.

For several minutes, Irial remained kneeling in the midst of the fight, which 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 kneeling was a new challenge.

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

Irial obeyed—which was the point of the exercise. 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 thistlefey. “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 three victors. Without speaking, the fight began to resemble nothing so much as a bloodier version of King of the Hill. Everyone wanted to topple one of the three strongest fighters, if even for a moment, and all of them were still having fun.

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

And Niall had 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 said, “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 spoke 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 jumped down so he was standing 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.

“This”—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, and Devlin preceded Gabriel toward the door. The two faeries walked out of the building, and then only Irial and Niall were left 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 their 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.

EPILOGUE

IT IS INEVITABLE, BROTHER,” SORCHA SAID by way of greeting when he finished his report.

“What is?”

“Her ascending to strength.” Sorcha could not see her twin’s future, but she knew well the results of Chaos’ growing stronger. The world was not as it should be. Deaths that Sorcha would mourn, in her way, were coming.

As Sorcha reached into the seemingly empty space in front of her, she plucked at threads of possibilities. She let them slip through her fingers, each one as unsatisfactory as the next: her former lover dead, her brother dead, a pierced mortal dead, her once-friend dead, Faerie blackened. They were only possibilities, but none were pleasing.

“She is not going to be stilled easily,” Sorcha whispered.

“You are stronger, Sister.” Devlin smelled of blood. It wasn’t visible on him, but the lingering scent of violence clung to him.

A weapon to be used to keep Chaos at bay.

“Will you help me?”

“I serve the High Court, my Queen. I cannot fathom any reason that I would do otherwise.” He stared at her as he spoke. “Do you know of a reason I would do otherwise?”

There was no pleasing answer to that question. She knew many reasons that he would do otherwise: he was Bananach’s creature too; he wanted things not found in Faerie in centuries; he resented her; he enjoyed violence. None of those were new facts. Logically, none were worth speaking.

“There is a mortal I see.”

“An artist? A Sighted one? A halfling?”

Curiously, as Sorcha tried to look at him, the mortal with the metal decorating his face, she saw only blackness. There was nothing. It was akin to attempting to see Devlin’s or Bananach’s future. Or my own future. In the moment between seeing the mortal and speaking of him, he had become part of one of the three of their lives. He matters.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Watch for him. He is young but not a child. He will matter to one of us.”

Devlin bowed.

Sorcha closed her eyes trying to recall other details, but her glimpse of him had been too brief. “He wears an assortment of metal in his skin.”

“Steel?”

“I do not know. I cannot See him now.” She opened her eyes. “He was a glimpse, and in that glimpse, he was still and bleeding, lying on the soil here in Faerie.”

“Did that please you?”

She shook her head, but did not admit the curious sense she’d had that this mortal’s pain hurt her. The Queen of Order did not mourn. It was illogical. “I do not believe it did.”

Devlin approached her. Silently, he reached out and swiped a tear from her cheek. He lifted it and held it up.

They both looked at it, a silver droplet on the tip of his outstretched finger.

“The body does odd things at times,” she whispered.

“It’s a tear.”

Sorcha lifted her gaze from the oddity to stare at her brother’s face. “I do not weep.”

“Yes, my Queen.” He pulled his hand behind him, and she knew without looking that the tear was still held there.

She nodded and brushed past him. At the doorway, she paused for a servant to appear. She did not speak to him; in order to be worthy of being allowed in her private rooms, those most trusted sacrificed their hearing. At set locations, they waited with eyes downcast so as not to lip-read the words she spoke. The servant saw the hem of her dress on the floor before him, and so stepped forward to pull the tapestry away from the doorway.

“I will find him,” Devlin said from behind her. “The mortal.”

Her heart felt oddly constricted. “Not all threads are truths, Brother. What is truth is that Chaos grows. Every possibility I See shows me the results of her strength. I need you to be mine.”

“My word that I will not fail you if ever it is in my power.” Devlin’s words were small comfort. He did not say he was hers, that he would stand with her against Bananach—because he cannot.

“When you visit their world, watch for a mortal of significance.” Then she stepped through the doorway, trying not to ponder the odd reaction she’d had to the thought of one unknown mortal lying motionless in her presence.