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“My Queen?” He walked toward her, waiting a heartbeat between steps to see if she’d let vines tangle his path or if she’d remake a passageway for him.
She glanced his way, and the undergrowth vanished in a narrow corridor. Briars reached from plants that were typically without thorns, tracing dozens of thin scratches on his arms and feet. It wasn’t necessarily a conscious strike at him: the world around them bent to her will, but Sorcha had long since stopped noticing. It was like noticing that her heart beat. It simply did, and if her will injured others, so be it.
It’s not personal.
“I can’t see him,” Sorcha whispered. “He’s out there in the world. What if he’s hurt? What if he’s in danger?”
“You’d know,” Devlin assured, as he had every day since Seth left. “You’d know if he was hurt.”
“How? How would I know? I’m blind.” The Queen of Order looked far from reasonable. Her skirt had tears in the hem. Her hair, usually as vibrant as liquid fire, was pale and snarled at the ends. Since Seth, the newly made faery, had gone back to the mortal world, Sorcha was increasingly not herself.
“I need to know that Seth is safe.” She folded her arms over her chest. Her voice steadied. “I see her, the Summer Queen, and he is not with her. That’s why he went back. Her. She should treat him better.”
Misty figures formed in front of Sorcha. Somewhere in the mortal world, faeries were unaware that she was watching them. In the haze of the garden, Devlin stood near his queen and watched the faeries who were the focus of Sorcha’s attention. Unless the faeries’ or mortals’ threads twined too closely with her own thread, Sorcha could see into their lives.
The Summer Queen, Aislinn, stood in front of a fountain, talking to one of the water fey, Aobheall. In the background, the land flourished even though fall had come. In the patch of earth the Summer regents had claimed, Winter wouldn’t ever reign again. Shrubs bloomed out of season, and faeries danced over green earth. Aislinn laughed and sat down on the edge of the fountain. One hand idly traced patterns on the surface of the water, and in its wake, water lilies blossomed.
Aobheall lazed in the fountain like a half-bared Grecian statue come to life. The water streamed around her in a small waterfall. “I think that dress is the one you wore just a few moons ago. We could shop, or”—Aobheall leaned forward—“get a dress made for you.”
“I don’t know.” The Summer Queen glanced behind her to where several members of her Summer Court were weaving flowers into garlands. “Does it really matter what I wear?”
Aobheall frowned. “It should matter, Aislinn.”
“I know … and … choose happiness, right?” A too-bright smile lit the Summer Queen’s face. The Summer Queen had reigned for barely more than a mortal year, but during that time she’d had to deal with intercourt conflicts, being stabbed, losing a friend to the Dark Court, and trying to make sense of centuries of rivalry, allegiances, and old angers. An illogical urge to send her good advisors flared to life in Devlin, but he quashed it: the Summer Queen was not his priority.
Sorcha jabbed a finger toward the misty tableau, sending ripples through the image. “How can she be happy if he’s not?”
“She chooses to pursue happiness for the good of her court,” he pointed out. “It’s not the same as true happiness. You can’t fault her for trying to keep her court strong.”
Sorcha obviously disagreed: thorns continued to grow, weaving together like threads on a loom until they formed a daunting barrier between Sorcha and Devlin.
“Tell me, Brother.” She sounded fragile, not at all like the confident queen she’d been since the moment Devlin had first drawn breath.
“Summer is happy by nature,” he reminded, but even as he said it, he watched the Summer Queen. Her eyes were shadowed as if she wasn’t sleeping, and her mannerisms were out of synch with the frolicking around her. Aislinn was doing what Sorcha should be doing: making the best of whatever sorrows plagued her. Of course, the difference was that the High Queen shouldn’t be lost in sorrows at all. Emotional flux was not a High Court trait: it was out of order.
“I want him home,” Sorcha whispered. “Their world is unsafe. Bananach grows stronger. The courts are in discord. If there is true war there, the mortal world will suffer. Do you remember the times she has been strong, Brother? The mortals die so easily. He will not stay out of her path.… He is too recently mortal. He needs to be here where he is safe.”
“Soon.” Devlin didn’t try to reach through the thorns that now twisted around his queen like a cloak. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her that he was there, but such displays of untoward emotion had always offended her. He’d made a life of hiding the emotions that proved that he was not truly High Court, not truly hers, not worthy to advise the Queen of Reason. The rest of the court might not realize that he was filled with illogical emotions, but she knew. She’d always known—and found it abhorrent.
Sorcha watched the translucent figures silently. In the hazy images, the Summer Queen startled and looked up. She smiled, looking hopeful. Whatever or whomever she saw was invisible to them, and in a blink, Aislinn vanished as well.
“He’s there,” Sorcha murmured, “with her.”
“Perhaps.” Devlin suspected that it was Seth, but there were others whose presence was invisible to Sorcha—some of whom Devlin had hidden from her.
“Do you think he is well?” Sorcha caught and held Devlin’s gaze. “What if he needs to talk or … art supplies … or … to come home? Maybe he wants to come home. Maybe he is unhappy. How am I to know?”
“I will visit him again.” Devlin would rather bring Seth back to Faerie, but Sorcha had given Seth a choice, and he had chosen to return to the mortal world where his beloved Summer Queen lived. Devlin had objected. Killing Seth or keeping him in Faerie would be better for Sorcha—and therefore for all of them.
“Perhaps you should stay there.” The High Queen’s voice didn’t sound noticeably different as she said this, but Devlin felt increasingly uneasy. In all of eternity, Sorcha had never sent him away for more than a quick trip.
“Stay there?” Devlin had traveled back and forth to the mortal world too often of late, and, as a day in Faerie was almost a full week in the mortal world, the disconnect of such travel was beginning to wear on him. His own emotions, more easily contained when he stayed in Faerie with his queen, were becoming increasingly present. His sleep was restless, leaving him tired—and prone to emotions.
“You would have me stay in the mortal world?” He spoke the words slowly.
“Yes. In case he needs you. I’m … I need you more there than here.” She stared at him, as if daring him to question her.
He wanted to: there was more to this than Seth’s protection, but Devlin didn’t know what his queen was hiding. “He’s with Irial and Niall, my queen. Cloistered safely in the Dark Court but for when he’s with the Summer Queen. Surely—”
“Do you refuse my orders? Have you finally decided to disobey me?”
He knelt. “Have I ever refused your orders?”
“You have acted without direct orders; but refused? I don’t know, Devlin.” She sighed softly, a whisper of air that made the garden seem to hold its breath. “You could, though. I know that.”
“I am not refusing your order,” he said. It was not a real answer. Truth would lead them into a discussion he had avoided for fourteen mortal years: it would mean admitting that he had disobeyed her direct order to kill one half-mortal child.
An offense for which I could be executed, abandoned, cast out of Faerie … and rightly so. A feeling that he recognized as guilt twisted inside him. I am High Court. I am Sorcha’s to command. I will not fail my queen ever again, he repeated his daily reminders silently to himself. Aloud, he added, “I am not refusing, but I am your advisor, my Queen, and I do not recommend leaving you alone when you seem …”
“Seem what?”
Devlin’s position was one of obeisance, but he caught and held her gaze with a boldness none other in Faerie would dare. “When you seem to be developing emotions.”
She ignored the reality he’d spoken and said only, “Tell him I wish he would come home. You will stay there … for as long as he needs you.”
“I am yours to command, my Queen.”
“Are you?” Sorcha leaned into the veil of thorns that had grown around her, and just as the jagged edges would pierce her, they vanished. Then, thorns sprouted from the earth at his knees, around her feet. The vines climbed her body, and crept over her arm to her fingers. She raised her hand and pressed it to his cheek, so that the sharp edges pierced them both. “Are you truly mine, Brother?”
“I am.” He did not move away.
“You will see her.” Sorcha’s blood dripped onto his skin, mingling with his own.
His body absorbed the blood she offered. As with the twins who’d created him, Devlin needed the nourishment of blood. Unlike them, he needed the blood of both Order and Discord.
“I will see Bananach,” Devlin admitted, “but she does not command me. Only you. I serve the Unchanging Queen, the High Court, Faerie.”
The vine crawled from her flesh onto his, where the nourishment she’d filled it with was his to take.
“For now.” Sorcha brushed her hand across his cheek. “But nothing lasts forever. Things change. We change.”
Devlin couldn’t speak. This was the closet to open affection his mother-sister had ever shown him. He wasn’t sure whether to be happy or alarmed. Reason wasn’t to act thusly, but in some hidden part of his mind, he’d wondered if she felt tempestuous emotions, if she merely hid them away better, if she’d chosen to let logic reign over her.
“Everything changes in time, Brother,” Sorcha whispered. “Go to Seth, and … be wary of War. I would rather you were not injured.”
He opened his mouth to question her, but she turned away, leaving him silent in her gardens.
CHAPTER 3 (#u2b921e75-9bf0-5674-a73f-7d18306faa0d)
Ani had gone to the Dark Kings’ home knowing it would be another painful experience—and not the fun kind of pain.
Irial held one of her hands in his. It was a comfort of sorts. “Are you ready?”
“Take it.” Ani extended her other arm toward the former Dark King. She stared at the fleur-de-lis wallpaper, at the flickering candles, at anything other than the faery sitting beside her. “Take all of it if that’s what you need.”
“Not all, Ani.” He squeezed her hand once more before releasing it. “If there was another way—”
“You’re my king. I will give whatever you ask of me. Do it.” She watched as he jabbed a thin tube into her skin. Bruises from the last several tubes decorated her skin like love bites.
“Not your king now. Niall’s the Dark King.”
“Whatever.” Ani didn’t resume the argument she’d lost too often: Irial might be king-no-more, but he had her loyalty. Truth be told, he had the loyalty of many of the denizens of the Dark Court. He might not rule them, but he still looked after them. He still handled those matters too disquieting for the new Dark King. Irial cosseted Niall.
Ani, however, wasn’t sheltered. Not anymore. When Irial learned that Ani could—that I need to—feed from both touch and emotion, he’d begun trying to find out how to use that for the Dark Court. According to Irial, as a halfling, she shouldn’t have either appetite. She certainly shouldn’t have both; and she definitely shouldn’t be able to find nourishment from mortals. Irial believed that Ani’s blood might hold the key to strengthening their court, so she’d become the subject of his experimentation.
Which is fine. For my court. For Irial.
“More?” she asked.
“Just a bit.” Irial bit the cork that sealed the next vial and tugged it out. He spoke around the cork held between his teeth and added, “Tilt down.”
She lowered her arm, clenching and unclenching her fist to pump the blood faster. She wasn’t sure if it actually helped the flow of blood, but it did give her the illusion that she was doing something. Bloodletting hadn’t become easier despite the number of times she’d done it.
With her free hand, she took the cork from his mouth. “I have it. Grab the next one.”
As the vial filled, Irial took another empty one from the rack and lifted it to his lips. Once it was uncorked, he switched the empty vial with the now full one. “Take this?”
Silently, she accepted the glass container with the same hand that held the cork. She sat it beside the other vials, all recorked, all filled with her blood. Then, she pushed the cork into the top of it.
“Last one,” Irial murmured. “You’re doing great.”
Ani stared at the empty space in the sixth rack; the others were all filled with vials of her blood. “Good.”
Irial handed her the last tube of blood and pressed a kiss to the inflamed extraction site. Neither of them spoke as he took the final container, settled it with the others, and carried all of it to the doorway and handed it off to a faery she didn’t see.
Their experimentation was a secret that neither Niall nor Gabriel knew of, but it was one of the myriad things Ani would do if Irial so much as hinted that he wished it of her. Not as painful as what I have done. At Irial’s request, she had let a trusted thistle-fey embrace her on one particularly unpleasant evening. Her hair and skin were collected by his touch. Should the court at large know of Irial’s experiments on her blood and flesh, should they learn why he sent samples to be tested and hopefully copied, she’d be at risk.
As would Iri.
Few faeries knew of her abnormalities—and she was grateful for that—and while Niall did know that she was unlike other faeries, he did not know of the experiments. He thought her ability to feed on the emotions of both faery and mortal was hidden from those who would kill, use, or champion her. Niall was a humane king. He allowed their faeries to do as they must, but he kept the court on a leash.
In a time when Bananach—the carrion crow, the bringer of war—grew stronger, leashes were dangerous. The faery courts, at least those on the mortal side of the veil, were on the verge of violence. The growing conflict nourished the Dark Court, who fed on the chaotic emotions, but it was also a threat to those Ani held dear. Upheavals between courts, whispers of deaths to come, these were all well and good—up to the point at which her own court was in jeopardy.
And Bananach will not spare the Dark Court. Or the mortal world my family lives in.
Irial did as he had done when he was king: moving pieces behind the scenes, making bargains, bending rules. This time, though, Ani’s safety was one of the rules he bent.
With my consent.
When Irial came back into the room, she watched him warily. For all of her adoration of him, she knew that he was rarely influenced by weakness or tenderness. He hadn’t held the throne of the court of nightmares for centuries by being easily swayed.
“You know I wouldn’t do this if there were better options.” His words weren’t a lie; they weren’t fully true either. Unless there was one clear option that would assure his court’s safety, he would do this—and much worse.
Yet, the former Dark King still thought of her as a child, as one foolish enough to accept the misdirection in his words. She wasn’t a child.
Perhaps foolish, but not naive, not innocent, not easily misled.
She leaned on the wall. The room was out of focus. “You’ve kept me safe my whole life. Kept Tish safe … and Rab … and … we’re good. It’s fine.”
The world around her spun. Tonight’s experiment had begun with her being as hungry as she could stand before the bloodletting. It wasn’t the least pleasant of the experiments, but it wasn’t pleasurable either.
Irial walked over to feed the fire—away from her so she could have the privacy to pull herself together—and asked, “You okay?”
“Sure.” She sat down, not feeling exactly well. Most days, she was only barely above starved. During the first few months of her hunger, she’d had humans and a few halflings. Since she’d moved to Gabriel’s care, she’d been restricted to the point that her hunger was hurting her physically. She’d been barely nourished by the emotion Irial shared and the scant contact that Gabriel grudgingly allowed her to pursue in court. Hugs and feather touches weren’t anywhere near enough.
Irial ran one hand absently over the side of the marble fireplace. Like everything in his house, it was carved with an appreciation of textures. The sharp edges and smooth curves drew her attention, but she didn’t approach the fireplace or the faery in front of it. Instead, she moved to one of the white leather chairs and traced a finger over the raised gray fleurs-de-lis barely visible on the walls.
“I know this is … difficult for you, pup.” Irial kept his distance, but he let her taste all of his emotions, giving her nourishment to make up for what she’d lost.
Ani caught his gaze. “Do you apologize to Gabriel when he punishes faeries who need it?”
The play of firelight and shadows made the former Dark King appear ominous, but his temper was not stirred. “No.”
“Then drop it. I’ll do what’s necessary for my court.” She fought the urge to fold her arms, forced herself to be calm, even though he knew exactly how unsettled she was. Dark Court faeries couldn’t feed on mortal emotions, but Ani wasn’t entirely mortal.
If Irial had not been there for her when she’d come to live with the Hounds, she wasn’t sure what she would’ve done. He helped her cope with her changes, nourished her enough to keep true starvation at bay. In truth, if not for him she might have died forever ago. He’d protected her—and Tish and Rabbit—for almost all of their lives.
She let him feel the surge of gratitude and whispered, “I serve the will of the Dark Court. I know you have reasons.”
“If we can find a way to filter out your blood, our court will be unstoppable; Niall will be safe; and …” His words faded, but the hope was undeniable. Unlike many faeries, Irial was comfortable with modern science. If they could identify the anomalous component within her, replicate it, and introduce it to others, Dark Court faeries would be able to feed on both faery and mortal emotions. They’d be sated. They’d tried another plan, binding mortal to faery as conduits with tattoos, but those ink exchanges had presented unexpected complications.
“Right.” Ani stood. She’d heard his theories before; there was little Irial could say that would be new.
“You can save us,” he said yet again.
Ani wasn’t sure if his words were truth. Faeries couldn’t lie, but belief was a tricky thing. If Irial believed the words, they were utterable, and he did believe that her blood was the solution they needed to save the Dark Court.
“I’ll be back later. You’ll tell me”—she folded her arms over her chest as if it would still the shivering—“when you need me?”
“Your court needs you every day, Ani. No one else can feed on both touch and emotion; no one else can feed on both faery and mortal. You are the key.” Irial wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. It wasn’t much, but small touches from such a strong faery fed her skin hunger more than a lot of touch from a weak faery or a mortal would.
Ani stayed still, grateful for even the scant contact.
Irial stroked her hair. “You let me keep my promises to stop the ink exchanges, to protect my king.… We do need you, pup.”
She looked up at him. “As long as Gabriel and Niall don’t find out, right?”
“For now.” Irial stepped away, his hands still on her shoulders, and then he unfolded her arms and took her hands in his as he repeated the same assurances he had the past few months. “Just for now. Once we figure out what’s in your blood, they’ll understand why we did this.”
