Darkest Mercy

Darkest Mercy Melissa Marr The fifth and final breathtaking instalment in the darkly seductive and best-selling WICKED LOVELY series, about the collision of mortal and faery worlds…The Summer King is missing; the Dark Court is bleeding; and a stranger walks the streets of Huntsdale, his presence signifying the deaths of powerful fey.Torn between his new queen and his old love, Keenan left Huntsdale to wander aimlessly but after centuries of leading his court it was not long before the reality of being Summer King became too pressing. Violence seemed more inevitable by the day and the Summer Court was not yet strong enough to face conflict, so Keenan made a dangerous deal with the water fey. It is a desperate bargain he makes to strengthen his court against the coming war. Aislinn tends the Summer Court, searching for her absent king and yearning for Seth. She knows she must be a powerful queen to hold her court together, while Bananach becomes more and more dangerous, and she is losing faeries to her. Donia longs for fiery passion even as she coolly readies the Winter Court for battle. Her court is still powerful, but she must remain focused on keeping them that way and not get distracted by Keenan when he shows up at her door again. The Dark Court is thrown into chaos when they are rocked by tragedy. And Seth, sworn brother of the Dark King and heir to the High Queen, is about to make a mistake that could cost his life.They all know what Bananach seeks – the raven-faery is the embodiment of war and discord. She and her growing number of allies want mutiny and murder. Love, despair and betrayal ignite the Faeries Courts, and in the final conflict, some will win… and some will lose everything. The thrilling conclusion to Melissa Marr’s bestselling Wicked Lovely series will leave readers breathless. To Anne Hoppe, for loving Donia even more than I do, for faery wings and temp tattoos, for putting the “good parts” at the end of the letter, for arguing and for not arguing, and for skipping your tea one Saturday morning to fall for these characters Contents Cover (#ue1c210c1-5d10-5774-b72e-a937dd789adb) Title Page (#u5162efe4-1bea-5623-83f5-8be1275f0559) Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Epilogue Acknowledgments About the author Also by Melissa Marr Copyright About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Prologue Niall walked through the ruins of the tattoo shop. Shards of painted glass crunched under his boots. The floor was strewn with vials of ink, unopened needles, electric apparatus he couldn’t identify, and other things he’d rather not identify. The Dark King had known rage before, known grief; he’d felt helpless, felt unprepared; but he’d never before had all of those emotions converge on him at once. He paused and lifted one of the mangled bits of metal and wire from the floor. He turned it over in his hand. Only a year ago, a tattoo machine—maybe this one—had bound Irial to the mortal who had brought the former Dark King and Niall together again after a millennium. Irial was the constant, the one faery that had been a part of Niall’s life— for better and worse—for more than a thousand years. Niall stabbed his bloodied hand with the broken tattoo machine. His own blood welled up and mingled with the drying blood on his hands. His blood. Irial’s blood is on my hands because I couldn’t stop Bananach. Niall lifted the broken machine in his hand, but before he could stab himself a second time, a Hound grabbed his wrist. “No.” The Hound, Gabriel’s mate, Chela, took the machine. “The stretcher is here, and—” “Is he awake?” Mutely, Chela shook her head and led him toward the living room, where Irial lay. “He will heal,” Niall said, trying the words out, testing the Hound’s reaction to his opinion. “I hope so,” she said, even as her doubt washed over him. Irial was motionless on the litter. The uneven rising and falling of his chest proved that he still lived, but the pinched look on his face made clear that he was suffering. His eyes were closed, and his taunting grin was absent. The healer was finishing packing some sort of noxious-smelling plants against the wound, and Niall wasn’t sure whether it was worse to look at Irial or at the bloodied bandages on the floor. The Hound, Gabriel’s second-in-command, lowered her voice. “The Hunt stands at your side, Niall. Gabriel has made that clear. We will fight at your side. We will not let Bananach near you.” Niall came to stand beside Irial and asked the healer, “Well?” “He’s as stable as can be expected.” The healer turned to face Niall. “We can make him comfortable while the poison takes him or we can end his suffer—” “No!” Niall’s abyss-guardians flared to life in shared rage. “You will save him.” “Bananach stabbed him with a knife carved of poison. He’s as good as d—” The rest of the words were lost under the Dark King’s roar of frustration. Irial opened his eyes, grabbed Niall’s hand, and rasped, “Don’t kill the messenger, love.” “Shut up, Irial,” Niall said, but he didn’t pull his hand away. With his free hand, he motioned for the waiting faeries to approach. “Be careful with him.” Niall released Irial’s hand so that the faeries could lift the stretcher. As they left the tattoo shop, Hounds fell into formation around Niall and the injured king, walking in front, flanking them, and following them. The former Dark King’s eyes closed again; his chest did not appear to rise. Niall reached out and put a hand on the injured faery’s chest. “Irial!” “Still here.” Irial didn’t open his eyes, but he smiled a little. “You’re an ass,” Niall said, but he kept his hand on Irial’s chest so that he could feel both pulse and breath. “You too, Gancanagh,” Irial murmured. Far too many miles away from Huntsdale, Keenan leaned against the damp cave wall. Outside, the desert sky glimmered with stars, but he wanted to be home, had wanted to be home since almost the moment he’d left. Soon. He’d needed to be away, needed to find answers, and until he did that he couldn’t go back. Being on his own was unheard of, but despite the challenges, he was certain he was doing the right thing. Of course, he’d been certain of a lot of things. Surety was not a trait he lacked, but it did not always lead to wise choices. He closed his eyes and let sleep take him. “Is this what you freely choose, to risk winter’s chill?” Sunlight flickered under his skin, and he reveled in the hope that this time it would not end, that this time, this girl, was the one he’ d been seeking for so long. She didn’t look away. “It’s what you want.” “You understand that if you are not the one, you’ll carry the Winter Queen’s chill until the next mortal risks this? And you agree to warn her not to trust me?” He paused, and she nodded. “If she refuses me, you will tell the next girl and the next”—he moved closer—“and not until one accepts, will you be free of the cold.” “I do understand.” She walked over to the hawthorn bush. The leaves brushed against her arms as she bent down and reached under it—and stopped. She straightened and stepped away from the staff. “I understand, and I want to help you . . . but I can’t. I won’t. Maybe if I loved you, I could, but . . . I don’t love you. I’m so sorry, Keenan.” Vines wrapped around her body, became a part of her, and as they stretched toward him, his sunlight faded. He dropped to his knees . . . and was once more in front of another girl. He’ d done this for centuries: asked the same words of girl after girl. He couldn’t stop, not until he found her. He saw her, though, and he knew that this girl was different. “Is this what you freely choose, to risk winter’s chill?” he asked her. She glared at him. “It’s not what I want.” “You understand that if you are not the one, you’ll carry the Winter Queen’s chill until the next mortal risks this? And you agree to warn her not to trust me?” He held his breath for a moment, feeling the sunlight flare in his body. “I don’t love you,” she said. “If she refuses me, you will tell the next girl and the next”— he moved closer—“and not until one accepts, will you be free of the cold.” “I do understand, but I don’t want to be with you for eternity. I don’t want to be your queen. I’ll never love you, Keenan. I love Seth.” She smiled at someone who stood in the shadows, and then she walked toward the hawthorn bush—and kept walking. “No! Wait.” He reached down, and his fingers wrapped around the Winter Queen’s staff. The rustling of trees grew almost deafening as he ran after her. Her shadow fell on the ground in front of her as he stood behind her. “Please, Aislinn. I know you’re the one. . . .” He held out the Winter Queen’s staff—and hoped. For a moment he even believed, but when she turned and took it from his hands, the ice filled her. Her summer-blue eyes filled with frost, and it crawled over her body. Aislinn screamed his name: “Keenan!” She stumbled toward him, and he ran from her until he couldn’t breathe in the freezing air from her continuing screams. He fell to his knees, surrounded by winter. “Keenan?” He looked up. “No. You can’t. Say no. Please say no,” he pleaded. “But I’m here. You told me to come to you, and I’m here.” She laughed. “You told me you needed me.” “Donia, run. Please, run,” he urged. But then he was compelled to ask, “Is this what you freely choose, to risk winter’s chill?” She stared directly at him. “It’s what I want. It’s what I’ve always wanted.” “You understand that if you are not the one, you’ll carry the Winter Queen’s chill until the next mortal risks this? And you agree to warn her not to trust me?” He paused, hoping she’ d say no before it was too late. She nodded. “If she refuses me, you will tell the next girl and the next”— he moved closer—“and not until one accepts, will you be free of the cold.” “I do understand.” She smiled reassuringly, and then she walked over to the hawthorn bush. The leaves brushed against her arms as she bent down and reached under it. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. She smiled again as her fingers wrapped around the Winter Queen’s staff. It was a plain thing, worn as if countless hands had clenched the wood. He moved even closer. The rustling of trees grew almost deafening. The brightness from her skin, even her hair, intensified. She held the Winter Queen’s staff—and the ice did not fill her. Sunlight did. She breathed his name in a sigh: “Keenan.” “My queen, my Donia, I wanted it to be you.” His sunlight seemed to fade under her brightness. “It’s you . . . it’s really you. I love you, Don.” He reached for her, but she stepped away. Her sunlight grew blinding as she laughed. “But I’ve never loved you, Keenan. How could I? How could anyone?” He stumbled after her, but she walked away, leaving him, taking the sunlight with her. Keenan was still reaching for her when he opened his eyes. The cave where he’d been sleeping was filled with steam. Not frost. Not ice. He let the sunlight inside him flare brighter, trying to chase away the darkness where his fears and hopes played out in twisted dreams. Not so different from reality. The faery he’d loved for decades and the queen he’d sought for centuries were both angry with him. Because I’ve failed them both. Chapter 1 Donia walked aimlessly, taking comfort in the crisp bite in the air. The promise of it made her want to draw it deeply into her lungs. She did, releasing the cold with each breath, letting the lingering breath of winter race free. Equinox was fast approaching. Winter was ending, and letting loose the frost and snow soothed her as few things could of late. Evan, the rowan-man who headed her guard, fell in step with her. His gray-brown skin and dark green leafy hair made him a shadow in the not-yet-dawning day. “Donia? You left without guards.” “I needed space.” “You should’ve woken me at least. There are too many threats. . . .” His words dwindled, and he lifted his bark-clad fingers as if to caress her face. “He is a fool.” Donia glanced away. “Keenan owes me nothing. What we had—” “He owes you everything,” Evan corrected. “You stood against the last queen and risked all for him.” “One’s court must come first.” The Winter Queen lifted her shoulder in a small shrug, but Evan undoubtedly knew that she was walking because she missed Keenan more and more. They didn’t discuss it, and she’d not descended into foolish melancholia. She loved the absent Summer King, but she simply wasn’t the sort of person to fall apart over heartbreak. Rage, however . . . that is another matter. She forced away the thought. Her temper was precisely why she couldn’t settle for only half of Keenan’s attention. Or heart. Evan motioned to the other guards he’d brought out with him, and they moved farther away, all but three disappearing into the night at his command. The three who remained, white-winged Hawthorn Girls, never wandered far from her side if at all possible. Except for when I leave without telling anyone. Their red eyes glowed like beacons in the poorly lit street, and Donia took a measure of comfort in their presence. “I would be remiss if I didn’t remind you that it’s too dangerous for you to be out alone,” Evan said. “And I would be a weak queen if I wasn’t able to handle myself for a few moments alone,” Donia reminded her advisor. “I’ve never found you weak, even when you weren’t a queen.” He shook his head. “Summer Court might not be powerful enough to injure you, but Bananach is growing stronger by the day.” “I know.” Donia felt a flush of guilt. Faeries from all of the courts had been slipping away, and Donia knew that they were joining Bananach. Can she form her own court? The mortality of the newer monarchs caused more than a little unease, and War had made sure to nettle to heighten the tension. Likewise, worries over the interrelations between courts caused traditionalists to rally around Bananach. Niall wasn’t openly sympathetic to the Summer Court, but his centuries advising them made his faeries ill at ease. Her whatever-it-was with Keenan had a similar effect on some of her court, and Summer’s attempts at imposing order on their court made faeries who were used to freedom chafe. Donia wished that a new court was what Bananach sought, but the raven-faery was the embodiment of war and discord. The odds of her settling for a peacefully created court—if such a thing was even possible—weren’t high. Mutiny and murder were far more likely goals for Bananach and her growing number of allies. War comes. Once the others were out of sight, Evan announced, “I have word of trouble from the Dark Court.” “More conflict?” she asked, as Evan led her around a group of junkies on the stoop of an abandoned tenement building. When she’d walked with Keenan over the years, he’d always sent a cloud of warm air to such mortals. Unlike him, she couldn’t offer them any comfort. Keenan. She felt the fool for being unable to stop thinking about him. Even now. Every other thought still seemed to lead to him, even though he’d been gone for almost six months. With no contact. She exhaled a small flurry of snow. In almost a century, she’d never gone very long without seeing him, or hearing from him, even if it was nothing more than a letter. “Bananach attacked the Hounds two days ago,” Evan said, drawing Donia’s attention back to him. “A direct attack?” Her guard and advisor shook his head. “Not at first. One of the Dark King’s halflings was caught and killed, and while the Dark King and the rest were mourning, Bananach attacked them with her allies. The Hunt is not reacting well.” Donia paused mid-step. “Niall has children? Bananach killed his child ?” Evan’s lips curved into a small smile. “No. Neither Niall nor the last king has children of his own, but the former Dark King always sheltered his court’s halflings. His fey— Niall’s fey now—are amorous creatures, and the Hounds mate with mortals far more than any other fey. It is an old tradition.” Evan paused and flashed a faux-serious look at her. “I forget how young you are.” She rolled her eyes. “No, you don’t. You’ve known me most of my life. I’m just not ancient like you.” “True.” She waited, knowing he wasn’t done. His patterns were a familiar rhythm by now. “The Dark has a regard for family that is unlike the other courts.” With a slight rustling of leaves he moved closer. “If Bananach is killing those dear to Irial . . . the court will be unstable. Death of our kind is never easy, and the Hounds, in particular, will not deal with pointless murder. If it were in battle, they would accept it more easily. This was before the battle.” “Murder? Why would she kill a halfling?” Donia let frost trail in her wake, giving in to the growing pressure inside. It was not yet spring, so she could justify freezing the burgeoning blossoms. Evan’s red eyes darkened until they barely glowed, like the last flare of coals in an ashy fire. He was watchful as they moved, not looking at her but at the streets and shadowed alleys they passed. “To upset Irial? To provoke the Hunt? Her machinations aren’t always clear.” “The halfling—” “A girl. More mortal than fey.” He led Donia down another street, motioning for her to step around several more sleeping vagrants. She stopped at the mouth of the alley. Five of Niall’s thistle-clad fey had captured a Ly Erg. When Donia stepped into their field of vision, one of the thistle-fey slit the Ly Erg’s throat. The other four faeries turned to face her. She formed a knife of her ice. One of the thistle-fey grinned. “Not your business.” “Does your king know—” “Not your business either,” the same faery said. Donia stared at the corpse on the ground. The red-palmed Ly Erg was one of those who often lingered in the company of War. They were all members of the Dark Court, but the Ly Ergs gravitated to whoever offered access to the most fresh blood. Why are they killing their own? Or is this a result of factions in the Dark Court? The murderous faeries turned their backs to leave. “Stop.” She froze the metal fence they were about to scale. “You will take the shell.” One of the thistle-covered faeries looked over his shoulder at her. The faery flashed teeth. “Not your business,” he repeated again. The Winter Queen advanced on him, icy blade held out to the side. It was a sad truth that the fey, especially those of the Dark Court, responded best to aggression. She raised the blade and pressed it against the dominant faery’s throat. “I may not be your regent, but I am a regent. Do you question me?” The faery leaned into her blade, testing her resolve. Some residual thread of mortality made her want to retract the blade before it was bloodied, but a strong faery—especially a queen—didn’t fold under challenges. She willed serrated edges to form along the blade and pressed it hard to the faery’s skin. Blood trickled onto the ice. “Grab the body,” the faery told the others. She lowered the blade, and he bowed his head to her. The thistle-fey held their hands up in a placating gesture, and then one after another they scaled an unfrozen section of the aluminum fence. The rattle of the metal joined the growing din of traffic as morning broke. The last faery heaved the corpse over the fence, and then they ambled off with the body in their hands. Beside her, Evan said quietly, “Violence is here, and conflict is growing. Bananach will not stop until we are all destroyed. I would suggest that you speak to the Summer Queen and to the Dark Kings. Divisiveness will be to our detriment. We need to prepare.” Donia nodded. She was tired—tired of trying to bring order to a court that couldn’t remember life before Beira’s cruel reign, tired of trying to find a balance between discipline and mercy with them. “I am to see Aislinn soon. Without Keenan . . . between us, we are communicating better.” “And Niall?” Evan prompted. “If Bananach is striking Irial’s family, she is either testing for weaknesses or has found one already.” Donia whistled, and Sasha came toward her, the wolf appearing from the shadows where he’d waited. “We need to find out who the girl was before I seek out the Dark King. Summon one of the Hounds.” Evan nodded, but his expression darkened. “It is the right course of action,” she said. “It is.” “The Hunt is not all bad.” Evan snorted. The rowan had a long history of discord with the Hounds. Her advisor did not, however, object to her plan. She took comfort in that. The tranquility of Winter was pervasive in her fey. Typically, they could consider the situation, weigh the possibilities, and bury their tempers under the cold. Most of the time. When those tempers came screaming to the surface, the winter fey were a terrifying force. My terrifying force. As comforting as it was to have such a strong court, the pressure was daunting. She’d never thought to be sole monarch of a court. Once when she was still mortal, she’d dreamed of joining Keenan, ruling at his side. Barely a year and a half ago, she’d expected to die at Beira’s hand. Now, she was trying to function in the role into which she’d been thrust. “Some days, I am not ready for what approaches.” “No one is ever ready for War,” Evan said. “I know.” “You hold the most powerful court. You alone. You can lead the way to stopping Bananach.” “And if I can’t, what then?” She let her defenses drop for a moment, let her fears show in her voice. “You can.” She nodded. She could if she didn’t let her doubts get in the way. She straightened her shoulders and peered up at Evan. “If I allow another early spring, Summer will grow stronger, closer to an even balance with our court. I will speak to Aislinn. You will find out what you can about the Dark and send word to the Hounds. Sasha and the Hawthorn Girls will see me home.” “As you wish.” With a fiercely proud look, Evan nodded and walked away, leaving her with the wolf and the trio of Hawthorn Girls, who were silent but for the whirring of their wings. Chapter 2 When he’d left Huntsdale, Keenan had spent the first month wandering, but after centuries of leading his court, he could only remain unoccupied so long before the reality of being Summer King became too pressing. Violence seemed more inevitable by the day, and the Summer Court was not yet strong enough to face conflict, so Keenan had used the last five months pursuing alliances—with no success yet. His meetings with various solitaries, especially those in the desert, hadn’t gone well, but Keenan held hopes for those in the ocean. Over the past several months he’d shown himself at the ocean and then withdrawn. This time, he was staying until they spoke to him. Entice and retreat. Appear and retreat. Approaching the solitaries was in many ways no different from the seduction he’d used on countless mortal girls over the centuries: they required strategies fitting to their personalities. With court faeries, he had to observe protocol. With various solitaries who functioned in pack mentalities, he had to demonstrate those traits they valued. In the desert, that meant strength and manipulative negotiation; at the ocean, that meant temptation and feigned disinterest. A green-skinned merrow opened his whiskered mouth in a faux yawn, flashing serrated teeth at Keenan, and then resumed staring silently. The water fey weren’t often likely to ask questions, not finding themselves interested in land dwellers’ dramas, but with patience, their curiosity could be piqued. Keenan had counted on that. With their volatility, they were closer in temperament to his court than any others, but water creatures were unpredictable in a way that perplexed even the regent of the most impetuous court. Whether river fey, lake fey, or ocean fey, they had moods that were as fluid as the water in which they existed. Keenan walked on the beach. Waiting. The water lifted in well-formed waves; the sky was purest blue; and the air was mild this far south. If he looked at the water with only a mortal’s gaze, he’d see colorful fish darting in crystal-clear water. Shells drifted and skittered over the sands, pulled and pushed by the waves, and the Summer King took pleasure in the beauty of the sea. It was a welcome respite: in nine centuries, he’d never had time to be anything other than the Summer King. When he hadn’t been trying to tend a weakened court, he’d been seeking or romancing the mortals he hoped would be his missing queen. Once he’d found Aislinn, he’d needed to be there while she adjusted, and then he’d needed to be there while she was mourning Seth’s abandonment—both to help her and to encourage her affection for her king and court. It was what any monarch would do. The Summer Court needed a queen who was tied to her court and king first. Her divided affections had weakened them in a time when they should be growing stronger. If Seth had stayed in Faerie, Keenan had no doubt that his court would be strong, with two monarchs who, if they were not truly in love as he had hoped they would be, were fond of each other. It could’ve been enough. Instead, they were facing an even more complicated dilemma. He was drawn to his queen—and she to him—on such a level that ignoring their connection was impossible. He’d been guiltily grateful that she clung to her mortal lover; it had given Keenan one night with the faery he loved and couldn’t have, but when Solstice ended, so had the dream of being with Donia. The second Winter Solstice since Donia had been queen had passed while he was away, and the inability to run to her that day had made him despondent. She is not mine . . . and neither is my queen. The boy Keenan had thought would be a brief distraction to his newly found queen—a distraction that allowed Keenan time with Donia—had become a faery. Worse still, he was now protected by an angry Dark King and the dangerous High Queen. Keenan wasn’t sure how one previously mortal boy had become such a problem. Between Seth and the external threats the court faced, Keenan was more afraid for the future than he had been when his powers were still bound. Then, he’d had a single threat: Beira. Now, his court was headed toward dangers from too many directions. Bananach had grown stronger, as had Niall’s Dark Court. Even Sorcha’s High Court, which stayed hidden away in Faerie, had still managed to cause complications. Keenan had heard enough to know of her recent instability. Over Seth. The water edged closer as the tide came in, and Keenan stepped away from the lapping waves. In doing so, he moved toward a rocky outcropping. The sand under his bare feet wasn’t as soft now, but it wasn’t yet covered with the sharp-edged black mussels. “What do you seek here?” Even though he’d hoped to gain conversation with the water fey, the suddenness of the faery’s appearance startled Keenan. He lifted his gaze to an indent in the rocky alcove beside him, where a slender salt faery hid. Her salt-heavy hair hung in thick ropes to her thighs, covering much of her translucent body; the exposed skin glistened with the crystals that gathered there when she left the water for more than a few moments. One partially webbed hand was splayed out on the rock, as if to hold herself upright. She didn’t move any nearer, but her proximity was already enough to unsettle him. The touch of such fey would leave even him weakened. For many, a salt faery’s embrace was fatal. For regents, it was merely debilitating. Her position had placed him securely between her and the water, where other equally unpleasant faeries lurked. “I’m seeking allies,” he told her. “My court, the Summer Court—” “Why?” Her gaze darted toward the water and then returned to him abruptly. “Land concern is not our concern.” “War has grown strong, and she—” “The bestia?” The salt faery shivered delicately, and the motion sent a glittering shower to the sand and rock around her. “We do not like the winged one. She is not welcome in our waves.” “Yes,” Keenan said. “The bestia . . . she’s found her wings again. They are solid now. She flies well and far.” After flicking her salt-crusted hair over her shoulder, she stepped closer to him. “You falter.” Keenan reminded himself that retreating at this point would be a mistake. Even the water fey chased. And running would put me in the water. He let the sunlight that resided in his skin rise up. He’d rather not strike her, but if she reached out, he wasn’t sure that he’d be able to resist. “You are strong, and”—he gestured to his right, where the waves lapped very near his feet—“your kind are unsettling.” The faery smiled, revealing sharp teeth. “We mean you no death this moment.” The fear he felt rolled over him as a wave surged up his legs, drenching him to the thigh. “And the next moment?” Instead of answering, she pointed to the alcove where she’d been waiting. “You will stay here while I tell them— unless you trust me to take you under the waves?” “No.” Keenan went to the fissure and leaned against the rock. His objection wasn’t merely a matter of trust: water folk didn’t think like land dwellers. She was as likely as not to forget that land dwellers needed air, and he couldn’t convince anyone to ally with his court if he were unconscious. “I’ll stay on the shore,” he added. The salt faery stepped into the water and dissolved. The foam that lingered where she had just stood scattered as the next wave receded. The transition between solid and fluid was instantaneous and complete. The salt faery was gone. He climbed higher on the rock. Being within reach of the water seemed unwise, especially while the tide was coming in. As he climbed, he donned his usual mortal glamour, lightening his copper hair to a mortal hue that was almost common, dulling his eyes to an only slightly inhuman shade of green, hiding the sunlight that radiated from his skin. The illusory image gave him an oddly comfortable feeling, like slipping into a favorite jacket. The glances of the mortal girls on the beach were a welcome balm on his still injured pride. In front of him an unnatural wave rose up. Mortals pointed, and Keenan repressed a frown. Coexisting with mortals meant learning what was too extreme for them to explain away. A single twenty-foot wave in an otherwise tranquil sea was definitely too extreme. Atop the wave sat a figure. He’d call it a faery, but beyond that he knew no words to fit it. Bits of gray skin and solid black eyes were obvious, but the faery’s body was cloaked under strands of kelp that were crossed and layered in a great fibrous mass. The mortals didn’t see the faery; of that, Keenan was sure. There are no screams. On either side of the towering wave a kelpie pranced. The horselike beasts slashed the water with their hooves. At their touch the sea frothed. If he were easily intimidated, their entrance would be impressive, but he’d grown up under the watch of an overly dramatic mother—one who wielded Winter—and he was the embodiment of Summer. It made him difficult to impress. He waited while the sea stilled and the kelpies departed. The center wave delivered the creature to the rock where Keenan sat. In a blink, the amorphous water fey was a lithe mortal-shaped faery. Keenan couldn’t say for sure whether it was male or female, only that it made him think of both dancers and warriors. The faery folded its legs and sat beside him. “We do not speak to your sort. Not out here. Not often. Not as this,” it said. The voice rose and fell as if the sound of the water rolled into the words. “Why do you ask for speech?” “War comes. Bananach . . . the bestia.” Keenan fought an unexpected urge to stroke the creature’s bare leg. It shimmered as the water at the horizon does when the sun seems to vanish at the end of the day. The faery turned its head, so Keenan was staring directly into its eyes. The depths of the ocean were in those eyes, the deepest waters where all was cold and dangerous and still and . . . Not tempting. He forced his gaze away. “If she wins, your faeries will die too.” “Mine?” Keenan folded his hands together to keep from reaching out to the faery. “You are not just another faery. You’re a regent, an alpha, one who commands.” “You may call me Innis,” it said, as if that answered the question implicit in his statement. Perhaps, for Innis, it did. “I will speak for those of the water.” Innis’ words seemed to fall onto Keenan’s skin, dripping down his forearm as if they were tangible things. His skin felt parched, too hot, painful almost. Heat that strong needs quenching, needs water. “I knew your parent,” Innis said. “My. . . parent?” Keenan fisted his hands, hoping that the movement would keep him from touching Innis. “Which? The last Winter Queen or the Summer King? Beira or Miach?” “I do not remember.” Innis shrugged. “Your forms are all alike. It was pleasant.” Keenan stared out at the rolling waves before him. The shimmering surface was mirrored in the flesh of the faery beside him. It was an odd similarity. He had sunlight inside him, but he also had traits other than light. Innis was as if water had taken form. He glanced at the faery, and as he did so realized that Innis now faced him. They’d been side by side at the edge of a rock a moment before. “You moved . . . or something.” Keenan struggled not to back away from the water faery. “How?” “You looked at the water. I am the water, so now you look at me.” Innis stared at him as it spoke, and the faery’s proximity made the air taste like brine. “We do not want to be dead.” “Right.” Keenan let sunlight fill him, remind him what he was. “We don’t either.” “The flesh creatures?” “Yes. Faeries who live on the land.” “You speak for all of you?” Innis had his hand now. “On the not wanting to be dead?” “I think so.” Keenan forced the words to his lips. “I am the king of a court. The Summer Court. I want to be allies.” For the span of no more than six waves crashing, Innis was quiet. Then it said, “We have swallowed the sun. It does not shine after a while, and we left it on the sand then.” Innis sighed. “It faded.” “My father?” Keenan tried to clarify. “No. There were other summers.” Innis shrugged again. “We would not like the winged one here. Your War. It pollutes.” “So, you would be an ally? You would help stop her?” Keenan prompted. “I do not think drowning the bestia would be pleasure.” Innis stroked wet fingers over Keenan’s leg. “I believe I would enjoy seeing you drown, though.” “Oh.” Keenan felt a decidedly conflicted thrill of pride and surge of terror. I do not want to die. He forced more sunlight into his skin, trying to chase the clammy dampness away. “If I ever want to drown, I could . . . I would come here. Is that good?” Innis laughed and waves surged over the rock, covering them both, tearing Keenan’s breath away and filling his throat with salty water. He tried not to panic, but when he attempted to stand, to get his head above the water, hands wrapped around his neck. Lips pressed to his, and kelp slipped into his open mouth. His chest ached, and his eyes couldn’t focus. I could find you pleasurable, flesh creature. Innis’ words were in his mind as surely as its arms were around his neck and its tongue was in his mouth. I will be your ally. I will take the bestia into our world if she touches the waves. We will fight for you in exchange for an open vow. Yes? An open vow, he thought. The mutability of such a vow was reason enough to refuse, but the Summer Court needed powerful allies and he’d had no luck in his other attempts to negotiate with solitary fey. He nodded. The water receded then, leaving him sprawled on the rock, choking and gasping. Innis stood over him. Its body was neither solid nor fluid. It held a form, but the form was as a wave when it was above the ocean: water temporarily given the illusion of solidity. Once Keenan spat the water from his throat and mouth and had stopped gasping, he looked up. Innis leaned closer. “I will watch for the bestia, flesh creature. If the bestia makes you dead before I can truly drown you, I will be angered. Do not allow that. You will speak my name to the water when you need aid. In return—” “In return, my word that I will repay what service you offer in equal measure.” Keenan forced himself not to think about the dangers of such a vow. My court is not strong enough to defeat Bananach. Some dangers are unavoidable. The water faery nodded. “The terms are binding and accepted. I would have a token of faith to seal the vow.” A wall of water rushed toward them. “I do not want to drown today,” Keenan said. “Just a little,” Innis suggested. For a moment Keenan wondered at the possibility of not-living. It should not appeal to me. He’d stolen scores of girls’ mortality. He’d made them into faeries while everyone and everything they knew faded away; he’d convinced them to risk everything for him. To be my queen. To free me. He couldn’t have done anything differently. He’d had to find her, the mortal who would save them all from dying under the freezing anger of his mother. Now, he had to find a way to strengthen the court without pushing his queen further away, to make allies among faeries who had every reason to hate him, to find a way to love Donia without being with her, and once again try to do the impossible. A second wave swept over them, and Innis’ form surrounded him. He knew that he would not choose to die here, but knowing didn’t negate the pain in his lungs. He didn’t fight the waves. It would be so much easier. As the water filled his lungs, he wondered—not for the first time or even the fifty-first time—if they’d all be better off without him. He kicked toward the surface. It is a pleasure to drown you, my ally. Innis’ voice filled the water around him. Call and we will come to you. Chapter 3 Donia exhaled a gust of frigid air as she watched Aislinn approach. The Summer Queen’s guards had stopped at a safe distance, and the queen herself came forward cautiously. She had her hands tucked into the pockets of a heavy woolen coat, and her almost-black hair was hidden under her hood. “Shall we walk?” Donia asked. Aislinn gestured to a path that led away from the same fountain where they’d once sat and talked. Back then, Aislinn was a mortal hiding her Sight. Back then, Donia was weaker. Those things had changed in such a short time. What hadn’t changed was that the actions of one faery, Keenan, both drew them together and kept them at odds. “I’d hoped he would . . .” Aislinn’s words faded, but she glanced at Donia. “No. He’s not contacted me. Nor you, I see. If he were gone, you’d feel it, Ash.” Donia kept the sting of envy from her voice with effort. “The rest of the court’s strength would leave him if he . . . died.” “But if he were hurt—” “He’s not,” Donia snapped. “He’d let us know. He’s either sulking or staying where it’s warmer or . . . who can know with him.” “You know. If you wanted to find him, I’m sure you could.” Donia chose not to address that particular truth. She did know him, and she’d heard rumors of his activities from those eager to curry her favor. That did not mean, however, that she’d go chasing after him like a lovesick girl. He’d walked away on his own, and he’d return on his own. Or not. For several moments, they said nothing more as they walked. Icicles formed on the trees they passed. The ground whitened with a thin sheen of frost. It wasn’t anywhere near what the Winter Queen could do, but the earth had been frozen for too long during her predecessor’s reign. If we are to survive, we need balance. Summer was to be happy, but neither the Summer King nor the Summer Queen was happy. It weakened their court. Which should not bother me. It did, though: Donia wanted a true balance. She wanted them to be strong enough to stand against Bananach and her growing cadre of troops. To stand at my side. She broke the silence: “I will allow spring early this year. My court is strong enough to do otherwise, but I see no need to press yours to submission.” “My court isn’t what it ought to be,” Aislinn admitted. “I know.” Donia sighed. A plume of freezing air rolled out from her lips. “I cannot weaken my court overmuch, but I can try for a truer balance.” The Summer Queen shivered. “And when he returns?” “That changes nothing, Ash.” Donia kept her face expressionless. “He made his choice.” “He loves you.” “Please. Don’t.” Donia turned her back to the faery Keenan had chosen over her. Even standing on the still snow-covered ground, the Summer Queen had her court’s impulsivity. She persisted, “He loves you. The only reason he wants me is because he was cursed. If not for that, he would’ve chosen you. You know that. We all do.” Donia paused, but didn’t turn around. “Donia?” The Winter Queen glanced over her shoulder. “You make it difficult to hate you, Ash.” Aislinn smiled. “Good . . . but that’s not why I said that. I mean it. He—” “I know,” Donia interrupted before the Summer Queen could begin another passionate outburst. “I need to travel tonight. The slight snow I scatter here will determine what happens elsewhere. If there is nothing else?” “There is, actually,” Aislinn started. “No more talk of him.” “No, not him.” Aislinn bit her lip, looking like the nervous mortal she had once been. Donia looked at her expectantly. “Well?” “I don’t know if your court has . . . lost anyone, but some of my faeries have left. Not many, but some.” Aislinn’s voice faltered a little. “I’m trying to do right, but I’m suddenly the only regent, and they’ve been weakened for nine centuries, so used to doing . . . whatever they want.” Despite everything she felt toward Aislinn over the situation they were in, Donia softened at the worry obvious in the Summer Queen’s voice. She knew as well as Aislinn did that none of their issues were by their own choice. Or Keenan’s, truth be told. Donia sighed. “My court has lost faeries too. It’s not you, Ash.” “Good. Well, not good, but . . . I thought maybe it was me.” The Summer Queen blushed. “I’m trying, but I’m not sure if I’m messing up sometimes. He promised to help me figure this out, but I don’t know where he is, and I’m not even sure they’re mine to lead.” “They are yours.” Donia narrowed her gaze at the doubt in Aislinn’s voice. “You are the Summer Queen—with or without a king, this is your court, Ash. They don’t make as much sense to me as Winter or Dark . . . or even the High Court, but I do understand faeries. Don’t let them see your doubts. Frighten them if you must. Wear whatever mask you need to convince them you are sure—even when you’re not. . . . Actually, especially when you’re not. Bananach is luring our fey to her, and we can’t be weak.” As Donia spoke, slivers of ice extended into small daggers in both of her hands. It was instinctual, but it proved her point all the more. “Right.” Aislinn’s expression shifted into something more regal. “It gets easier sooner or later, doesn’t it?” Donia snorted. “Not yet, but it had better . . . or maybe we just get used to it.” “How did he do it without the strength we have?” Aislinn asked tentatively, bringing him back into the conversation. And to that, the Winter Queen had no answer. She shook her head. It was a question she’d been asking for most of her life. She couldn’t imagine dealing with her court with her powers bound. “Advisors. Friends. Stubbornness.” “People who believed in him,” Aislinn added with a bold stare. “You believed in him enough to die for him, Donia. Don’t think either of us will forget that. If not for you, I wouldn’t be their queen, and he wouldn’t be unbound.” At that, Donia paused and asked the question she’d wondered in silence: “Do you regret it?” “Some days,” Aislinn said. “When I think about fighting the embodiment of war? Yeah, I regret it a little. Life was a lot easier when I thought all faeries were ‘evil.’ Now I worry about keeping them from dying, ruling them, trying to be a queen, and dealing with the impulses that aren’t me but Summer. Sometimes it’s like being me and someone else all at once . . . if that makes any sense. I’m not impulsive, or, umm, so concerned with pleasure, but Summer is—and I’m Summer. It’s like fitting parts of a season into me. You know?” “I do.” Donia nodded as the ice in her hands retracted. “I thought the ice was going to kill me when I was the Winter Girl, so becoming a queen was a lot easier. I like the calm, the sense of quiet. Before, it wasn’t easy. I carried the pain of the cold without being at peace for decades, so being filled with winter and having the power to handle it . . . I don’t regret that—or the choices I made. Any of them.” They stood silently for a moment, and then Aislinn nodded. “I can do this. We can . . . even with our mortal ‘taint.’” Donia smiled. “Indeed. I will talk to Niall and Sorcha. Niall has a bit of sympathy for mortals—and for your court, however much he may try to deny it—so he’s been plagued by the same sort of unrest that Bananach has provoked in our courts. We can do this, Ash, without Keenan, without failing our courts or breaking under our natures.” And in that minute, Donia believed it. Chapter 4 Aislinn walked toward the edge of the park where her guards waited. She’d considered keeping them nearer to her, but she’d wanted to show Donia that they were rebuilding trust. Aislinn was still wary of the Winter Queen—and didn’t entirely understand why Donia had thought it was necessary to stab her last year—but she knew enough about the Winter Queen and Summer King’s love that she had resolved the stabbing as an act of passion. Aislinn understood passion. There were a lot of things she still didn’t grasp, but as the embodiment of the season of pleasure, she had no difficulty accepting that passion could make a faery impulsive, desperate, and sometimes utterly irrational. She paused and looked at the trees that lined the sidewalk. They were still coated in snow, but spring was only a few weeks away, so she exhaled and melted the frozen branches. In these next two weeks, she’d continue to grow stronger, and as Donia wasn’t going to try to prolong winter, there was no reason not to begin warming the earth now. Her skin tingled with the realization that summer was in reach. There was a strength in that if it was harnessed; she understood this now. These past six months that Keenan had been away—and Seth had been refusing her best efforts to be together—she’d learned a lot about being the Summer Queen. Accepting her nature was coming easier, and accepting that other faeries’ natures were foreign to her was becoming reflexive. In truth, she’d learned more in half a year without her king than she could’ve expected. Unfortunately, she still didn’t have the confidence that echoed in Donia’s voice—yet. I will. Be assertive. Believe. She smiled to herself. Sometimes being a queen wasn’t that different from being a Sighted mortal: rules, reminders, pretending to feel differently than she did on the inside. And a horrible cost if I fail. She had just stepped onto the sidewalk, not yet beside her guards, when a faery she did not know appeared seemingly from nowhere. He asked, “Are you in need of escort?” At first glance, she thought he was one of Donia’s fey, as he seemed as pale as the snow around them, but when she looked again, he seemed to be as dark as the sky at new moon. Light and dark shifted in and out of his skin, and his eyes flickered to the opposite of the hue his skin was in that instant. She furrowed her brow as she tried to study him. Her gaze kept slipping to his garishly red shirt. It was hard to miss. Along with being an assaultingly bright shade of red, it clung to his chest and arms so much that it would look foolish on most people. On him, it looked natural. Despite the chill, he wore no coat over the thin shirt. She tried to lift her gaze to his eyes, and again, she had to glance away. “You’ll get used to it in a moment,” he said. “To what?” “The shifts. I’ll settle into one or the other for our visit.” He shrugged, and as he spoke the words, he did just that: his skin became the dark of all colors combined, and his eyes blanched to a complete absence of color. “Oh.” Somehow, she’d believed that she’d stopped being astounded by faeries, but she was at a loss. She tried to think of anything she knew that would explain him, but he was unlike any other faery she’d encountered—which wasn’t at all comforting. She offered a false expression, a surety she wished she felt, the confidence the Summer Queen should feel. “You are safe. I came to your”—he gestured expansively— “village for other reasons than finding you, but I am intrigued.” The faery smiled at her then, as if she’d done something of which she should be proud. “I mean you no ill this day, Queen of Summer. If I had better manners, I would’ve said that first.” No ill this day? This far outside of her park, when it was not yet spring and she was standing in the cold, Aislinn wasn’t at her strongest, but she concentrated on summoning sunlight to her hand should she need to defend herself. “I’m afraid that you have me at a disadvantage. I’m not sure who you are or why you would be here.” “Do you ask, Aislinn?” The faery caught her gaze. “Not many ask questions of me.” “Is there a cost for asking?” Her nerves were increasingly unsettled. As a faery monarch, she was safe from most threats, but she’d been injured by two of the other regents—faeries she’d trusted—so she knew very well that she was not impervious to injury. Her first year of being a faery had made that truth very clear to her. The second year isn’t going very well either. The strange faery in front of her extended a hand as if to touch her face. “I would accept permission to caress your cheek.” “For an answer?” Aislinn rolled her eyes. “I don’t think so.” “The recently mortal are”—he shook his head—“so brash. Would you refuse my offer if you knew who I was?” “No way of telling, is there?” Aislinn turned and resumed walking toward her guards. The skin at the back of her neck prickled, but she didn’t feel like playing guessing games. And I am afraid. “If you allow me to cradle your face in my hands, it will not injure you, and I will allow two questions or one gift for the privilege,” he called. She stopped walking. One of the detriments of being so new to ruling was that she had no favors to call in, no years of bargains to rely on, and—of late—no king with such connections to help her. If we are to fight Bananach, I have no secret arsenal. She looked over her shoulder at him and asked, “Why?” “Would that be one of your questions, Summer Queen?” His lips curved slightly so that he looked like he would begin laughing in another moment. “No.” She folded her arms over her chest. “You know, I’ve been fey for a while now, but faery word games still don’t amuse me. Later, I suspect I’ll understand this, but right now, I’m irritated.” “And curious,” he added with a laugh. “I’ll allow one free answer. Why? Because the recently mortal fascinate me. Your king assured I had no business with the other girls when they became fey. You are here; he is not . . . and I am curious.” “I’m not sure bargaining with you when you seem to want to so badly is wise.” Aislinn stayed where she was, admitting in action if not in word that she was willing to consider negotiation. Don’t let this be a mistake. Please don’t be a mistake. The faery walked several steps closer to her. “One question now, and one held in reserve. What if I know things you’ll want to know later? What if a question owed could be an asset to your court?” “One question now, and one question or favor later, and”—she took one more step away—“your assurance that no harm will come to me by your touch . . . which can only last for less than a minute.” He stopped a few feet from her. “I’ll allow the terms, if you allow me to escort you to your loft.” “To the door, but not inside, and we walk there directly with no detours, and my guards will join us.” “Done.” He came forward. “Done,” she echoed. Then he cradled her face in his hands, and the world became utterly silent around her. Neither sight nor sound remained. There was only darkness, complete and absolute. If she hadn’t secured a promise that no injury would come to her, Aislinn would have been convinced that she’d left her body and fallen into a void. What have I done? To her mind, it seemed as if days passed as they stood together. Then he leaned toward her. In the void where she somehow now was, she felt his movements. Nothing existed before or after him. His voice was of corn husks whispering in barren expanses as he told her, “My name is Far Dorcha. The Dark Man.” Aislinn knew that it had been only a few moments that she’d been in the void, but when Far Dorcha pulled his hands away from her, she stumbled. The world was too harshly lit; the ice that hung from the trees in the distance glistened so brightly that she had to avert her gaze. Only he, the Dark Man, was painless to see. “You’re . . . death-fey.” She’d met a couple of his kind, and while they weren’t a proper court, they were under his dominion. Death faeries had no need for a court: they had no enemies. Immortal creatures weren’t imprudent enough to tangle with those who could and would kill them with as much effort as they expended on breathing. Aislinn took several steps backward. She’d willingly consented to a caress from the faery equivalent of Death. What was I thinking? If not for the things Keenan and Niall had taught her about faery bargains, that could have gone very poorly. It still might. “They hadn’t told me you could’ve been so near my reach. Almost dead. Almost mine.” Far Dorcha frowned slightly as he peered into her face as if to read words written on her flesh. “Winter stabbed you.” At that, Aislinn’s worries over the bargain were replaced. Near death? She had known she was injured, had felt doubt that she would survive, but she’d come to believe that it had simply hurt worse than it was. Before she could find words to reply, he exhaled his cloyingly sweet breath. She stumbled as the pain and emotions of that injury came to her as clearly as they had been that day. The scent of funereal flowers made her body remember what her mind wished to deny. Had Donia meant to wound me so badly? It was a subject they hadn’t discussed: the Winter Queen’s ice could’ve easily been fatal. If not for Keenan. He’d saved her, and in doing so, he’d pushed her—and pushed Seth—into confronting the undeniable connection between the Summer King and Queen. However, it wasn’t the pleasure of her king healing her that she felt now: it was the pain of ice coursing through her body that washed over her anew as she breathed in the death-fey’s sugar-sweet breath. She put her hand on her stomach. “What . . . how . . .” “You weren’t completely in my reach before your king interfered,” Far Dorcha said. The Dark Man sighed again, and Aislinn felt memories tugging her back. She could feel slivers of winter buried inside her body; she could feel the horrible sense that this wound was the one to end her newfound immortality. This injury will be fatal. Aislinn felt her knees give out. “Enough.” She clutched the grass, seeking the buried fecundity of the earth to steady her. This isn’t an injury; it’s a memory. The pain was still intense enough that she stayed on the ground for a moment longer, letting the warmth of summer life flow from under the ice through the soil and to her. Then, her guards were there. A rowan had her arm, as if to steady her, but she shook him off and stood. She took a step toward Far Dorcha. Be confident. Aislinn could almost laugh at taking advice from the faery whose injury to her she was now reliving. I am the Summer Queen. I can do this. “You do not come here and attack a regent,” she said. “Attack?” The Dark Man laughed. “We had a bargain, little queen. It is not my fault that you are uncomfortable with the results.” With sunlight pulsing into her body as truly as if Keenan had stood beside her, sharing his light with her, she pushed her sunlight into Far Dorcha’s chest, not as a strike but as a reminder of what—who—she was. “I don’t know what you are doing, but that’s enough.” None of the guards touched Far Dorcha, but one did step closer to her. “My Queen? Perhaps—” Aislinn held up a hand. “I didn’t agree to that . . . whatever it was.” “Remembering,” Far Dorcha said. “I’m only remembering.” “It’s not your memory.” Aislinn motioned for the guards to stay where they were even as they tensed. A queen kept her court safe, and she was pretty certain that attacking the head of the death-fey wasn’t likely to go well. “It should’ve been my memory,” he said. “If he hadn’t found you when he did, you would’ve been dead not long after.” Far Dorcha exhaled again, sending that sugar-sweet breath toward her in a prolonged sigh. Aislinn turned her head to avoid inhaling. Expression pensive, Far Dorcha looked past her. Then he said, “Some wounds take longer to kill. I should’ve been summoned. Your king has questions to answer, Summer Queen.” “Well, I’ll be sure to mention that to him.” She motioned to the street. “I agreed to your escorting me to my door—” “Another day,” Far Dorcha said absently, and with as little sound as he’d made when he arrived, he left. The temper she couldn’t fully repress flared to life as Aislinn strode through the cluster of her guards, letting them scurry to reorganize themselves as they escorted her. By the time she reached the loft that was now her home, her temper had faded and clarity struck her: there must be a reason the head of the death-fey was in Huntsdale—and she couldn’t think of any reasons that didn’t worry her. Who has died? Will die? Her mind swirled with thoughts of Seth and Keenan, of her court, of faeries who weren’t hers but whom she’d still mourn. Seth and Keenan are away. It’s not them. Right? Where are they? She raced up the stairs, shoved open the door, and called, “Tavish! I need advice. Now.” Instead of her trusted advisor, Quinn came into the main room. “Tavish is with the Summer Girls, but I’m here.” The birds that used to be Keenan’s swooped around manically as Aislinn’s temper spiked again. “I need answers.” Quinn ducked as one of the cockatiels flew dangerously close to his ear. He was wise enough not to swipe at the bird, but the scowl he flashed it wasn’t fleeting enough for her to miss. “Can I help?” Aislinn extended her arm for the offending bird. It settled on her wrist and walked sideways up to her shoulder. She wasn’t going to tell Quinn about her encounter with Death, but there were other subjects that he could address. Be assertive. She’d been patient for almost six months, waiting for the Summer King to return to his court. She’d waited for Seth while he was in Faerie. Is Keenan hiding in Faerie now? Is that where Seth is again too? Seth had disappeared several days ago, and given that he had been claimed as a child to the High Queen, Aislinn suspected his disappearance was tied to her. Keenan might not be close with Sorcha, but he’d had centuries of dealing with her. Did he go to Faerie for something too? The High Queen had answers, and had been at odds with her mad twin sister, Bananach, for centuries longer than Aislinn had lived, but she wasn’t coming to offer aid to any who now dealt with the strengthened War—and Aislinn didn’t expect her to do so. According to Keenan, the High Queen had kept herself withdrawn from the centuries of conflict between Winter and Summer. And I cannot ask her for insight because I can’t go to her. I can’t even go find out if my king or my . . . Seth . . . is with her. “How is it that I’m not aware of how to enter Faerie?” Aislinn let her temper simmer in her voice and on her skin. “Where are the gates to Faerie?” “My queen—” “No,” she interrupted before he could begin another litany of the dangers of entering Faerie without the High Queen’s consent. “Everyone else seems to know how to enter Faerie. Seth knows. Niall knows. Keenan knows. Why do I not know?” “If you’ll forgive the impertinence, my queen, the others are not new to being fey, aside from Seth, who is the Unchanging Queen’s. . . . She is fond of him.” At the flash of light that sizzled from the Summer Queen’s skin, Quinn added hurriedly, “But in a different way than you are, my queen. She knows he is your . . .” Quinn’s words faded, and he ducked his head rather than try to finish that sentence. What is Seth? Once he’d been her friend; then, he’d been her everything. Then he’d become a faery, and she’d made some stupid mistakes. Now she wasn’t sure what he was. Which doesn’t mean Seth should take off without telling me. Aislinn scowled. Neither should’ve Keenan. Her king had walked out on her, left her in charge of a court with only half the strength of the regency, and she was trying her damnedest not to flounder too much. Be assertive, she reminded herself. Maybe I should do so with Keenan and Seth too. “Aislinn?” Quinn said her name cautiously. “What?” She looked at him, only to realize that the room was filled with rainbows from the tiny rain shower and sun-bursts that had begun while she was thinking. “Oh.” The plants and the birds and the various creatures that lived in the stream they’d put in the room all thrived under these conditions, but Quinn looked a bit perturbed by his sopping clothes. There’s a psycho faery who thrives on violence and has noticed Seth and who took him to Faerie once already. My king has bailed. Oh, and Death is visiting. She shook her head. “Send Tavish to me.” Quinn tried to wipe the rain from his face surreptitiously. “For?” The Summer Queen paused midway through turning away from Quinn and glanced back at him. “Excuse me?” “Is there a message?” Quinn’s expression was the carefully bland one that she’d quickly learned to identify as a mask. “The message, Quinn, is that his queen—your queen— has summoned him.” She smiled, not kindly but with a cruelty that she’d had to learn when Keenan left her to rule the Summer Court on her own. With a deceptively soft voice, she asked, “Is there a reason you want to know what I say to another faery? A reason you question your queen?” Quinn lowered his gaze to the muddy floor. “I hadn’t intended to insult you.” For a breath, she considered pointing out that she noticed that he had avoided the question she’d asked. Misdirection, omission, and opinion were the faery standbys to work around the “no lying” limitation. Quinn, and a number of other faeries, seemed to think that her relatively recent mortality and her age made her easier to mislead. And sometimes it has meant that. Not always, though. She kept her own expression as mask-bland as his. “Fetch Tavish. Find some answers on where in the hell Seth and Keenan are. I’m tired of excuses . . . and I want instruction on how to enter Faerie,” she said. Then, before her mask of confidence slipped, she turned away. Chapter 5 “My staying here in Faerie is not an option,” Seth repeated to his queen. “You know that as well as I do.” Sorcha turned her back to him, as if the movement would hide the silver tears that trailed down her cheeks, and walked away. “Mother.” He followed her into the garden that had replaced the wall of his room as she had approached it. “You needed me, and I came.” She nodded, but didn’t face him. Tiny insects that were neither dragonflies nor butterflies darted toward her, fluttered briefly, and zipped away. The metallic glint of their wings made the air around her appear to glitter. “I’m not going to respond well to being caged. You knew that when you chose to be my mother.” He put a hand on her shoulder, and she turned toward him. “I can’t see you, and their world is . . . treacherous.” She pursed her lips in a pout that made her seem childlike. “If I were the sort to abandon those I love, I wouldn’t have come home to you,” Seth pointed out. For all of her centuries of living, parenthood was new to Sorcha. Emotion was unfamiliar to her. There was bound to be a bit of adjustment. Her adjustment just about ended the world. He put his arm around her and led her to a stone bench. If she were angry. . . The thought of a furious almost-omnipotent queen made his skin grow cold. Devlin had done the right thing in closing the gate to the mortal world, trapping Sorcha here in Faerie. Sorcha clutched his arm so tightly that he had to hide a wince of pain. “What if she kills you?” “I don’t think Bananach will.” Seth pulled her to him, and she let her head rest on his shoulder. “I can’t go after her.” Sorcha, the very embodiment of reason, sounded petulant. “I tried the gate.” “I’m sure you did.” He bit back a smile, but she still lifted her head and looked at him. “You sound amused, Seth.” “You’ve been all-powerful since you first existed, and now there are restrictions . . . and emotions . . . and”—he squeezed her briefly—“you wanted to change, but it’s not as easy as you expected.” “True . . . but . . .” She frowned. “How is that humorous?” He kissed her cheek. “Your worry and your desire to be near those you love are very human. For someone who isn’t my birth mother, you have traits I share. I return to the mortal world to be with those I love.” She leaned her head against his shoulder again. “I would rather you stay here in Faerie, where I can keep you safe.” “But you understand why I’m not going to?” he prompted. For several moments, she didn’t answer. She stayed next to him, and together they were silent. Then she straightened and turned to face him. “I don’t like it.” “But you understand?” He took both of her hands in his so that she couldn’t walk away. “Mother?” She sighed. “If you get killed, I will be vexed.” “And if I kill your sister?” “I would be pleased.” Sorcha’s voice became softer. “Was that your plan when you made me a faery?” Sorcha didn’t flinch from his gaze. “I needed you to be bound to my court even more than you were bound to the others. By giving you a part of me, I knew I would be no longer balanced by Bananach. I believe now—as I did then—that you are the key to her death.” She looked away. “I thought you might die as a result, but not that your death would matter to me.” “We cannot see our own futures,” he reminded her. “I saw yours until you became mine. You would have died. If I hadn’t remade you, you would be dead now. My sister would have tortured you, and your Ash would have led her court to a battle they could not win.” Sorcha frowned. “I would not object to the Summer Queen’s death, but I did not want War to have what she sought. If I gave you this”— Sorcha motioned around Faerie—“you would be mine to use as I required.” Seth felt the flash of unease he’d felt when he first met Sorcha, remembered how alien she was to him, but he also remembered that mere days ago she had come near to destroying Faerie because she missed him. He smiled at his mother and assured her, “I don’t blame you. You gave me what I sought—even if it was for your own selfish reasons.” “And for your selfish reasons, Seth.” The High Queen almost laughed then. “You are impertinent, but I am glad that you are mine.” Seth felt his tension vanish. His queen, his mother, was serene again, and she’d admitted that which she hadn’t wanted to tell him, that which he’d known already: she’d intended to use and then discard him. “Devlin’s decision to close the gate to you was wise,” he said. Sorcha leveled an unreadable gaze on him, but she said nothing. “I saw that,” Seth said. “Not with future sight, but with logic, and I can guarantee that if I don’t survive, he will be here for you. You may not call him your son”—he held up a hand as she opened her mouth to object—“but he is. He loves you, and he will be here if you need him. Faerie is in good hands.” “You are impertinent,” she repeated, but her tone was undeniably affectionate. “I love you too.” He kissed her cheek. “Far Dorcha walks in Huntsdale. He is, like all death-fey, able to bring about the end of life for any faery. Unlike most death-fey, he is the only being allowed to do so without consent or order.” The High Queen paused. “When War strikes, he will be there, as will his sister, Ankou. You must not let them touch you.” “I will do what I must do. It’s why you made me, Mother. Bananach won’t stop,” Seth reminded her. “Those within Faerie will be safe. You are safe. Sealing the gate has done that . . . and I will go to Huntsdale and do what you sought: I will try to kill her. I’ve been training with the Hounds for this reason. They will want her death now. Niall will. It’s what we all want.” Sorcha turned away to watch the garden as it shifted around them, and Seth felt as much as saw the moods she was trying to keep in order. She was balanced now, but she was still unused to having emotions. After several moments, she turned her attention back to him. “I do not like when the consequences of a choice are not what I wish them to be. I want you to . . . I want you to not go, but since you are going, I require a promise that you will not get injured as Irial did. He could have avoided it. If you can avoid injury, you will do so.” Wisely, Seth decided not to answer. Instead, he asked, “Did you know he would do that?” Sorcha nodded. “And you?” “I did,” Seth admitted. “I looked at the other possibilities. They were worse.” “It would be better if Niall did not know of your foreseeing Irial’s death.” She frowned, and the garden became less orderly. “He cares a great deal for Irial’s well-being. He’s denied it for centuries, but his denial was transparent to many of us.” “And the new Shadow Court? How will that affect him?” Seth prompted. “My court balanced the Dark for forever. Without the balance, Niall will be . . . unwell.” The High Queen lifted one shoulder in a delicate shrug. “The gates are sealed to me, so that world is not my concern.” “You know he matters to me, Mother. He’s my sworn brother. When I was vulnerable, surrounded by faeries, he protected me. He gave me family before I found you, and he’s taken me into his.” Seth frowned. “I want him to be well; I need that.” “I will be his balance again. . . . Simply convince the Shadow Court to disband; convince them to unlock the gates from Faerie to the mortal world,” she suggested. “No.” “Then there is nothing I can do. Niall will fall, or he won’t. I am unable to assist in either path.” Sorcha kissed both of Seth’s cheeks. “No foolish sacrifices.” “I can’t make that promise,” he admitted. “There are three faeries I’d sacrifice myself for. Two of them are in the mortal world.” “In fairness, you should know that I would kill them to keep you from doing that.” Sorcha began to walk toward his quarters, and he followed. “Which is yet another benefit of the gates being barred to you,” Seth said. The High Queen stopped and turned around. The assessing gaze she leveled at him reminded Seth that this faery had existed since before he could fathom, before— by her admission—she could remember. He wasn’t yet old enough to legally drink, and although he’d been on his own for a couple of years, he had lived only a moment compared to her. “Do not vex me, Seth.” Sorcha closed the distance between them and brushed his hair back. “I am well aware that you were influential in encouraging that Hound and Devlin to create a new court. I do not forget that you had a role in barring me from the mortal world.” “I want you to be safe,” he reminded her. “And unable to reach the mortal world.” She kept her hand on his head. “You are mine. You matter to me as no one else ever has, but it would be wise of you to remember that I am not mortal. Don’t forget that when you make such decisions in the future.” “I didn’t forget any of it. I also won’t forget that you love me enough to destroy your world.” Seth put his hand over hers. “Don’t threaten me, Mother. I’m bound by our agreement to come to Faerie every year for the rest of eternity, but I’m not bound to love you. I do love you, but you are not the only one in my heart.” They stood for several moments, and then the High Queen nodded. “Be careful of Niall’s temper . . . please?” “He is my brother. It will be fine,” Seth promised, and then he left her and went in search of the Shadow King. Chapter 6 “He will not wake,” the new healer said. Niall’s abyss-guardians flashed into existence at the pronouncement. “Get the next healer,” the Dark King ordered. A Hound whose name he couldn’t recall nodded. With a quick look at the Dark King, she grabbed the offending faery’s arm and hurriedly escorted him out of the room. “Stab one or two healers, and everyone overreacts,” Niall said. No one answered. Irial had fallen into unconsciousness and was not rousing. Yet. Niall drew out the cloth from the basin on the bedside table. He leaned down and pressed his lips to Irial’s forehead. “Your fever isn’t any worse. It’s not better yet, but it’s not worse.” As he’d been doing most of the past day, he sat next to the unconscious faery and dabbed the wet cloth on Irial’s face and neck again. “I can stay with him,” Gabriel said from the doorway. “If he wakes, I can send someone for you.” “No.” He didn’t tell Gabriel about the peculiar dreams that he and Irial seemed to share now. It didn’t make sense to think he was really in the same dream with Irial. But it is real. It feels real. Niall had lived a long time, wandered for years, spent time in three different courts. He’d never heard of being able to dream together as he and Irial seemed to be doing. Is it madness? In his dreams they’d talked about all of the things they hadn’t spoken of in centuries; they’d been close as they hadn’t been in far too long. Am I imagining it? The Hound tried again: “You need to rest. Court’s strength is from you. If you’re sick—” “Don’t.” Niall glared at him. “Leave us.” Gabriel ignored him. Instead of departing, he came farther into the room. He stood beside Irial’s bed and lowered one hand onto Niall’s shoulder in a gesture of support. “My pup is dead. Ani and Rabbit are over in Faerie. Irial’s hurt. I understand.” The grief in the Hound’s voice almost undid the scant self-control Niall was desperately clinging to. “I can’t,” he admitted. “I can’t leave him. . . . Something’s not right.” Gabriel snorted. “Lots of things aren’t right. Probably easier to list the things that are right.” Silently, Niall dipped the cloth into the basin again. He stared at the water, trying to make sense of the feelings that had come over him. His reaction to Irial’s injury seemed too intense. Unpredictable thoughts clouded his mind; he couldn’t follow them from moment to moment with much clarity. Urges to violence pressed against his better judgment. In the couple days since Bananach had stabbed Irial, Niall had gone from angry to positively unhinged. He knew it. He’d felt emotions overwhelm him, but there was something else. Something is wrong. “Niall?” The Dark King shook his head. “I’m not sure what I’ll do if I walk out of this room. I’m coming unraveled . . . without Irial. . . . I can’t do this alone, Gabe. I can’t. I’m not right.” “You’re grieving. Normal reaction, Niall. You two have . . . issues, but you both knew what you were to each other.” “Are, not were,” Niall corrected halfheartedly. Gabriel took the cloth from Niall. “You’re not alone, either. Most of the court is here. The Hunt stands with you. I stand with you.” When Niall looked up at the massive Hound, Gabriel extended his arms. “Give me a command, Niall. Your words, my orders. Tell me what you need.” Niall stood. “No one touches Irial without my consent. No one not of our court enters this house unless I summon them. No speaking of his injury to anyone outside the house. Increase the guards on Leslie.” The Dark King paused as the fear of the only other person he loved being injured by Bananach swelled inside him. Gabriel nodded, and the Dark King’s orders appeared in ink on Gabriel’s flesh as the words were spoken. “Leslie will be safe,” he promised. Then after a minute, he prompted, “And Bananach? And the ones leaving the court to stand with her?” The Dark King blinked at Gabriel. “She cannot enter our home, but Irial said we could not kill her without killing Sorcha and, thus, all the rest of us. I will not send forces after her. . . . The others . . . I don’t care what you do to them once we get through this. Not right now. Right now, Irial is what matters.” A brief frown flashed across Gabriel’s face, but he nodded. Niall walked over and dimmed the light. “Wake me when the next healer arrives.” And then he lay down on the floor beside Irial’s bed and closed his eyes. Chapter 7 As Seth approached the gate, Devlin had one hand raised as if to touch the fabric that divided the two worlds, the veil that now separated the twins. Seth had spent the past hour thinking while he sought Devlin. He would’ve liked to ponder longer, but time didn’t allow for it. He’d been in Faerie less than a day, but every four hours in Faerie was a full day in the mortal world. That meant he’d been gone two days, and he had no idea what had been happening in the mortal world during that time. Irial had been stabbed, and the Hounds were fighting with Bananach’s allies when he had come to Faerie with Ani, Devlin, and Rabbit. Did they all survive? Is Niall okay? Is Ash safe? Until he went back, he had no answers. “Have you thought about the consequences?” Seth asked. He felt a loyalty to Faerie, but he was of both worlds. Devlin, however, was not. He turned to face Seth, but did not speak. The new Shadow King was the oldest male faery, the first, the one Sorcha and Bananach had created. In sealing Faerie, he’d assured that neither of his sister-mothers could kill the other. Asking him to consider the consequences beyond that appeared to perplex him. “For them”—Seth gestured to the other side of the gate—“now that Faerie is closed?” It was clear to everyone in Faerie that they were safe now. For that, Seth was grateful. However, he didn’t live solely in Faerie, nor did he intend to do so. If Sorcha could forbid him from leaving Faerie, she would, but he wasn’t going to give up on Aislinn—or abandon his friends. “They are not my concern.” Devlin let his hand drop toward the sgian dubh he carried. “The good of Faerie is my concern.” “I’m not here to fight you, Brother.” Seth held his hands up disarmingly. “I will fight Bananach, though.” Devlin’s frustration was an interesting thing to see. After an eternity of repressing emotions, the new Shadow King was now letting emotions influence him. That, too, was good for Faerie. “And if Bananach’s death still kills your mother?” Devlin asked. “Why should I let you cross over there, knowing that it could bring disaster on us?” Seth smiled at his brother. “You cannot keep me here. The terms of her remaking me were that I can return to the mortal world. Even you cannot negate her vow.” “If they came home, if the other courts returned here . . .” Faeries giving up power? The arrogance of every faery monarch Seth had met made the idea especially illogical. Seth laughed at the thought of proposing such a thing to any of them. “Do you think that Keenan would give up the Summer Court? That Donia would give up her court? That Niall would become a subject to you or to our mother? Pipe dreams, man.” “They would be safe here now that Bananach cannot enter.” Devlin didn’t see that he had already become like them, thinking that his idea, his rule, held the answers for the others. The sense of clarity, of surety, was an essential trait in a faery monarch, but his suggestion wasn’t feasible. Seth shrugged. “Some things are worth more than safety.” “I cannot speak of what would happen to our . . . to your queen if you died.” Devlin stared through the veil. “I would come with you, but protecting Faerie comes first. I cannot risk Faerie for the mortal world.” “And I can’t abandon Ash or Niall.” Devlin paused. “Tell me what you see.” “Nothing. Over here, I’m mortal. I see nothing until I go back. . . .” Seth bit his lip ring, rolling the ball of it into his mouth as he weighed his thoughts. “I don’t see anything, but I’m worried.. . . Ash is dealing with her court alone. Sorcha was to balance Niall, but now you balance her. What will that mean for him? Irial was stabbed. Gabe was outnumbered. Bananach is murderous and only getting stronger. . . . Nothing there makes me think everything is going to be all right.” For a few moments, they stood silently at the veil, and then Devlin said, “When you are ready . . .” Seth stared at him for a moment. He hated the necessity of the words he needed to say—that Devlin needed to hear—but that didn’t change reality. “If . . . you know . . . I die, she’ll need you. She doesn’t like admitting it, but she will.” Silently, Devlin put his hand on the veil. He didn’t answer the question implicit in Seth’s words, but Seth knew that Devlin had chosen the path he’d taken in order to protect not just Faerie, but also his sisters. Devlin had acted out of love for his family, for his beloved, and for Faerie. As I do. Seth put his hand to the veil. Together, they pushed their fingers through the fabric and parted it. Then Devlin put a hand on Seth’s forearm. “It will not open for you to return unless you call to me to be here also.” “I know.” Seth stepped into the mortal world, leaving Faerie, leaving his mortality, and becoming once-more-fey. The return of his altered senses made him pause. He didn’t stumble. Much. He took several breaths and then he started through the graveyard. Behind him, he heard Devlin’s words: “Try not to die, Brother.” Seth didn’t look back, didn’t falter. The logic that he possessed in Sorcha’s realm was tempered in the mortal world. Here, he felt the fear that he could ignore in Faerie; here, he knew that he was running from safety and headed toward danger. He might die. So be it. Fear didn’t outweigh love. Try not to die. Seth smiled and said, “That’s the goal, Brother.” And then he went to find Aislinn. Chapter 8 Aislinn paced in the study. Once, she’d felt uncomfortable in the room, and then it became a place to relax with her king, and now . . . it was hers. Somehow, Keenan’s absence had made her feel proprietary of a lot of things that were his first. And a lot of people. She had already felt connected to her court, but his choices had made her feel a protectiveness that bordered on maternal. She looked up as the door to the study opened, and one of the few faeries she now trusted without hesitation stood there. Tavish was an excellent advisor. Where Quinn was intrusive and bordering on belligerent, Tavish was steady. He’d been the voice helping her see what traits were best employed as queen. He’d reminded her that Summer was both playful and cruel, that her new volatility was a tool to harness, that her maudlin worries were best surrendered to passions. If she thought on it, his skill in advising her was unsurprising: he had been the guiding force as Keenan grew into being the Summer King. Along with Niall, he had taught one Summer regent how to rule—and done so when that regent was her age—so teaching a second Summer regent was well within Tavish’s abilities. Tavish came into the room and held out a glass of what he habitually claimed was a “healthy vitamin drink” but she was pretty sure was vegetables and moss or something else equally unpleasant. “Drink.” She waved the glass away. “I’m good.” “My Queen?” “I’m not thir—” The lie she started was unutterable. She sighed and muttered, “Those are disgusting.” “Keenan always thought so too.” Tavish continued to hold the glass out to her. “Fine.” She accepted it and took a gulp. After forcing it down, she set the glass on the coffee table. “Some things aren’t meant to be in liquids, Tavish.” “Winter isn’t kind to Summer regents. Neither”—he picked the glass up—“is the stress you are trying to hide. Drink it.” She drank the rest of the noxious stuff. “Promise me that if you ever poison me, it will at least taste better than this.” “I will never poison you, my Queen.” In a move too graceful for even most faeries, Tavish dropped to his knees. He stared up at her as he knelt in front of her, and despite the peculiarity of the setting, Aislinn suddenly felt as formal as if she were on a dais in front of her court. For a moment, Aislinn simply stared at him. “I wasn’t being literal.” “You are my queen. I’ve spent nine centuries seeking the mortal who would free this court, who would save my best friend’s son, who would save the lives of the rest of the girls who were not you. I’d die before I’d allow harm to you.” He bowed his head. “I didn’t think . . . I know you’re trying to look out for me, Tavish.” She reached out and touched his shoulder. “I trust you. You know that, right? I mean, I’m not great at all this stuff, but you know I trust you, right?” “I do.” He lifted his gaze. “The words are true all the same. You are our queen, Aislinn. You’re a good queen, and gods know, that isn’t an easy thing to be when you are tossed into the fray with no warning—and with the bias you had against faeries. You’ve done it, though. You put your heart into your court, stood up to Bananach when she first came to you, faced down the Winter and Dark Courts. You’ve weathered the king’s manipulations and his absence. You are exactly what we need, and I am here to do whatever you need. At times, I’ll argue with you because that’s how I can help you, but I’d willingly kill or die for you. It would be an honor to do so.” “Right. The problem there is that I don’t want you to need to kill or die.” “Nor do I, but we must face the situation,” Tavish said, sounding characteristically imperturbable. She flopped down on the sofa and patted the cushion. “Sit with me?” With a small frown, Tavish sat in a chair across from her. Aislinn grinned at him. “You know, for a Summer faery, you are awfully proper.” “Indeed,” Tavish said. “Is that on the agenda for our meeting? My propriety? Shall I add ‘frolic more’ to the tasks for my week?” “No. . . . I met Far Dorcha. I’m sure the guards already told you.” She paused, and Tavish nodded. “Right,” she continued. “I need the girls to stay in the loft. Whichever fey have . . . defected are on their own. Those who are mine stay here.” “That is wise.” Aislinn took a steadying breath. “I need to find out where Keenan is. If he’s not home, I’m going into war without him . . . which is not ideal. Someone knows where he is.” “I do not, my Queen. I give you my word that I will find out, though.” Tavish’s restrained facade slipped, and she saw the faery-cruel expression as he asked, “Are there limits to the methods?” At that, she faltered. “Don’t ask me to be a monster.” Affectionately, he reached out and squeezed her forearm. “You are a faery regent, Aislinn, and we are fast approaching war. Monstrosity will be called for. How far will you go to protect your court?” Aislinn winced—as much because of the truth as because she had to admit it aloud. “As far as I must. The longer I am this”—she gestured at herself—“the harder it is to remember how much I loathed what he did to me. He took away my mortality, Tavish. I hated him. I hated all of you. . . .” “And now?” “I hate any who threatens my court.” She sighed. It seemed foolish, but her first lesson in being a faery regent had been to trust her instincts. She hoped that she was not erring as she said, “Speaking of, I don’t like Quinn’s arrogance. He questions me, not to help, but . . . I don’t know his game. He has one, though.” “He is not who I would’ve picked to replace my former co-advisor.” Tavish’s expression was unreadable. Pretending a self-assurance that she rarely felt for more than a heartbeat, Aislinn said, “When Keenan returns, I want to fire Quinn.” At that, Tavish’s lips quirked in a small smile. “For arrogance?” “No.” Aislinn pulled her feet up and tucked them under her so that she was sitting cross-legged. “I’d have to cast out everyone if that were the charge.” Tavish’s slight smile blossomed. “Present company excluded, I’m sure.” For a moment, Aislinn peered at him. “I think you just made a joke.” “I am not as solemn as you’d think, my Queen.” Tavish smoothed a hand over one of his already impeccable sleeves. “I am merely as solemn as I need to be to protect my regent.” With a comfort she didn’t think she’d ever felt before, she told him, “I don’t think you’re truly solemn, Tavish. If you were, you’d be in a different court. You belong to Summer. I’m sure of that. I can feel how strongly tied you are to my court, to me. You’re mine, Tavish. I have no doubt with you.” Her advisor rewarded her with a joyous look, and in the moment, she knew this was the side of him the Summer Girls saw. He was captivating in that faery way that made her think of the old stories where mortals believed them gods. He had uncharacteristically dark eyes, and his hair was silver—not silvered as mortals’ hair turns with age, but true silver. It was, like Keenan’s copper-colored hair, a metallic hue that made clear that he was very much not mortal. She’d never seen his hair unbound; it was kept in a braid of sorts that stretched down his back. The braid bared part of a small black sun tattoo on the side of his throat. That tattoo stood out in a mostly undecorated court. Of course, so, too, did his High Court reserve and his Dark Court eyes. Those eyes were watching her, so she said what she’d wanted to: “I don’t trust Quinn.” “I spoke against his selection.” Tavish’s gaze was focused on her, but it was—as it had been increasingly in the past few months—an approving look he gave her. “My king made the choice.” “Well, your king isn’t here. Until I decide otherwise, watch Quinn. No . . . extreme measures yet, but keep a close eye on him. Who he talks to. When. Everything.” Aislinn knew worry was in her voice, but unlike with the rest of the court, she didn’t need to hide that from Tavish. With her advisor, she could be unguarded. It was a welcome honesty. She twisted her hands together. “Both Seth and Keenan could be . . . in who knows what sort of danger, and neither of them have the sense to tell me where they are.” Tavish moved to sit beside her. “They will both return, Aislinn.” “What if Ba—” “She would’ve told us had she killed them.” Tavish reached out and smoothed back her hair in an oddly paternal gesture. “Their deaths would be of more use to her if you knew of them. They are alive. Bananach attacked Dark Court fey. Seth was there, and he left with the High Queen’s brother.” Aislinn considered rebuking Tavish for not telling her that news the moment he came into the study, but it was of little use to do so: he would only remind her that court matters were her first priority. His withholding that information for the few moments they’d discussed Quinn was negligible. It had to be this way. Court before everything. Before everyone. Before myself. “You learned this when?” “That Seth was safe? Today.” Tavish paused to let her know he was weighing the degree of truth he would offer. “That there was conflict? Two days ago.” Before she could speak, he continued, “You are my queen, and my job is to advise and protect you. If anything could have been served by telling you sooner, I would’ve done so. I know he was in the conflict with Bananach, and that there were injuries and deaths.” Aislinn’s heartbeat faltered. “Who?” “A halfling the Dark Court protected, the Hound- tattooist’s sister, was killed.” She thought about the girls, their seemingly endless energy, and felt grief wash over her at the thought of either of them being gone. “Was it Ani or Tish?” “Tish,” he said. “Poor Rabbit!” Even as she spoke, Aislinn’s thoughts flew to her own family. If Grams were injured in the impending violence, Aislinn wasn’t sure how she’d function at all. “Send Grams away. With guards.” Tavish nodded. “A wise decision.” “I need to know she’s safe and out of Bananach’s reach.” Aislinn crossed her arms, hugging herself to keep from trembling. “Send her on a cruise, so she’s moving around. Somewhere as warm as possible.” Tavish nodded. “There is talk of another death . . . not quite complete. My sources in the Dark Court are not as forthcoming as I’d like, but it is my understanding that Irial has been injured.” “Irial?” Tavish nodded once. “The details beyond that are not available. Yet. It does not bode well. If Irial is . . . gone, Niall will not cope well.” “I don’t understand.” Aislinn disliked admitting ignorance, but there were times that doing so was essential. Tavish was her advisor, and he’d lived longer than she could yet fathom. His ability to explain the long histories of the faeries she had only just met was one of his many valuable skills. Expression inscrutable, Tavish began, “You know that Niall and Irial have a history?” He paused, and she nodded. Tavish continued, “Niall has held on to his anger at Irial’s deceits and betrayals for centuries—and rightly so—but becoming a regent makes one see the challenges that might motivate choices that otherwise appear cruel.” Her advisor paused again and gave her a pointed look. “Some faeries,” he continued, “don’t realize the complexities of ruling as quickly as you have, my Queen. Niall is stubborn, not nearly as willing to listen to advice as a regent needs to be . . . unless he hears it from Irial. The arrangement they’ve settled on has made the former Dark King the advisor to the new king; it is unprecedented.” Aislinn was trying to make sense of the nuances Tavish wasn’t explaining. “So Irial advises Niall, and they’re . . . what?” “Irial has moved back into his home . . . with the new Dark King,” Tavish said. “Right,” she drawled. “You live here. So?” Her advisor lowered his gaze. “With all due respect, my Queen, I have no amorous intentions toward you. I am advisor to the Summer Court. I advised Keenan’s father, Miach; Keenan; and before them, I guarded Miach’s father.” She smothered a laugh at Tavish’s pursed lips. “After a millennium of discord, Niall and Irial have found a sort of peace together,” Tavish added. “And now Irial’s injured. Dying, perhaps.” She took a deep breath and let it out in a slow sigh. “Aside from advising Niall, Irial has been tending to some of the less palatable Dark Court businesses as well. Niall, for all of his recent changes, is not as cruel as the Dark King sometimes must be. Irial has fewer . . . restrictions,” Tavish said in a very quiet voice. “This just gets better and better, doesn’t it?” “Precisely,” Tavish agreed. “And I have no doubt that Bananach struck Irial for these reasons. She is striking at the courts, looking for weakness, and whichever court is not strong enough will be destroyed if she has her way.” “Our court is not strong enough to stand against any of the others.” Aislinn looked up and saw the somber expression on her advisor’s face before he spoke. She knew where his words would lead, had known for months that the Summer Court was not getting strong enough. “Tavish . . .” “There is a way to change that, my Queen.” “He’s not even here, and he doesn’t . . . Keenan and I don’t . . .” Her words faded. “I suspect the news would reach him if we were to let word be known that you were still willing to consider being his queen in all ways—” “If that’s what it takes to get him back here, do it.” She did not avert her gaze. “Perhaps it’s time I was the one doing the manipulating.” “As you will,” Tavish said. Aislinn hated the fact that she wasn’t sure whether she was more relieved at the possibility of her king’s return or terrified that Donia would see her actions as a threat. Donia is smarter than that. Of course, the Winter Queen already believed that the Summer King and Queen would inevitably become a couple, and sometimes, Aislinn thought that Seth’s refusal to be fully in her life was because he felt the same way. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/melissa-marr/darkest-mercy/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.