Darkest Mercy (24 page)

help him.”

“I know.” Keenan waved the smoke out of his face. “And I’ll tell him you’re . . . here—assuming he listens. I gather that’s what you want.”

“Yes.” Irial smiled, and seeing the familiar half-laughing smile of the former Dark King on Niall’s face was disconcerting. “You do know, of

course, that he’s not forgiven you. He’s a grudge holder, so you’ll need to try to convince him. Ahhh. I could tell you something delectable that no one

else would know. A little detail to convince him our dreams were real—what do you think?”

“Go away, Irial.”

Laughter greeted Keenan’s discomfort, and then Irial said,

“If you’re sure . . . I’d take a step or two back if I were you.

Then again, I never did like

you, so . . .”

Keenan rolled his eyes, but he retreated all the same as Niall came back into possession of himself.

Confusion flickered over Niall’s face. “You cannot just walk into my home.” He shoved Keenan against the wall, and then paused.

He peered into Keenan’s eyes. “What did you do? You’re .

. . different.”

“I gave up my throne.”

Niall’s anger fled under shock, but he still had one hand pressing Keenan against the wall. “Why?”

“The Summer Court needed a stronger regent.” Keenan ticked the reasons off on his fingers. “I needed to be with the faery I love; the Summer

Queen needed to be with the one she loves; and you need a temporary advisor.”

“A temp— you . . .” Niall looked from Keenan to his own hand. He released Keenan and frowned, seemingly confused by the sight of the lit

cigarette between his fingers. “Why would I accept you ?” Keenan kept his voice even. “You were there for me, Niall.

Let me be here. The courts all need to be strengthened.

Bananach will destroy us all

if we don’t do something. Irial wants you to know—”

“No!” Niall slammed Keenan into the wall a second time.

“Irial—”

“Is inside your body somehow. I just spoke to him. You.

Him in your body. He wants you to know he’s still here.” Keenan stayed perfectly still. “Do

you remember me arriving?”

“No, not really.” Niall’s voice held a thread of hope as he asked, “Irial is here?”

“He is. Inside you.”

“I’m not mad?”

Keenan shook his head, and then looked pointedly at the cigarette that was now burning a hole in his shirt. “I won’t swear to that , Niall, but

you’re not mad for thinking Irial is here . . . there. With you somehow.”

Silently, Niall released him. “I hear him. I thought . . . I thought I was fractured .”

“You imprisoned Seth. You skewered your faeries.” Keenan shook his head again. “I’m not going to pretend to understand what you are doing,

but whatever else is going on, you’re not imagining him.

He said something about stitched dreams. Does that make sense?”

Niall turned his back to Keenan, but he nodded.

“He also said your shared dreams were real,” Keenan added.

The Dark King tensed at that revelation. His sudden stillness alarmed Keenan, and the awkwardness of the moment stretched out. When Niall

finally spoke, he said, “I don’t expect you to understand.”

“He hurt you,” Keenan said simply. “When I was a child, I remember the way you looked when I asked about your scars. He let them hurt you, did

nothing to keep you safe. I don’t understand how you can forgive him for failing you.”

“Donia almost died for your mistakes.” Niall turned to face him. His expression was unreadable. “You used me like a weapon against the Dark

Court. Are you so sure you want to discuss forgiveness?”

“I made decisions that I thought were best for my court and my subjects—including you then.” Keenan didn’t flinch away from the censure that

had entered Niall’s eyes as he spoke. “Kings aren’t always at liberty to let emotions overrule duty.”

“Exactly,” Niall said.

They stood at an impasse. Keenan clung to his hatred of Irial, but he was relieved that Niall was speaking to him civilly.

Niall walked away, and Keenan followed him farther into the wreckage of the Dark King’s home. The destruction was somewhat expected: he’d

known that Niall wasn’t dealing well with his grief. What was unexpected was the sight that greeted him as they entered what appeared to have

been a study: in the doorway stood the mortal who had been the source of Niall’s ire at Keenan.

“What is he doing here?” Leslie folded her arms over her chest.

The Dark King turned his back to Keenan. “Les? I thought you were still sleeping.”

The mortal marched across the room with a selfconfidence utterly at odds with the broken spirit he’d last seen in her.

She stepped in front of Niall, putting herself between the two faeries, and

pointed at Keenan. “Don’t you upset him.” Keenan held up his hands disarmingly.

“He’s . . .” She glanced over her shoulder at Niall, and her ferocity vanished. “He’s going to be fine. He’s already much clearer today, so you can

just walk out of here.”

“Les?”

She looked at the Dark King.

“Did you know?” he asked. “About Iri?”

“That he died?” Leslie took Niall’s arm and led him farther away from Keenan. “You told me, but I knew when I got here.” She shot a glare back

at Keenan. “We talked about this. When you woke up, Niall, you were better than before. You weren’t thinking right because of fatigue, but it’s

better. You’re better, and I’m going to stay a few days, help you get settled with the . . . things that he handled.”

“He’s not dead,” Niall told her. “He’s still here. Keenan said—”

“Get out,” Leslie snarled at Keenan. She stepped away from the Dark King faster than a mortal should be able to move and advanced on

Keenan. “He’s upset, and whatever you did or said made him worse—”

“Irial is inside Niall,” Keenan said.

“Get out!” Leslie grabbed Keenan’s shirt and started to tug him toward the door. “Get out. Stay out. Just leave us alone.”

“Shadow Girl? Leslie, love?” Irial-Niall grabbed her hand and tugged her away from Keenan. The Dark King kept hold of her as he turned her to

face him. “The kingling is telling the truth. I couldn’t tell you last night. I wanted to, but there are rules.”

“Iri?” Leslie gaped at the Dark King. “Honestly?”

“I’m here.” He pulled her into his arms. “I’ve been here since I died. Every moment.”

“Iri . . . oh gods, I thought . . . He . . .” She leaned against him, and whatever she said next was muffled against his chest—or Niall’s chest, in

actuality.

“Far Dorcha is still in town because of you,” Keenan announced. The missing detail suddenly became clear.

The head of the death-fey had

come to Huntsdale because of the peculiarity of Irial’s state of death.

As Irial-Niall turned, he kept one arm around Leslie, and for an odd moment, Keenan wasn’t entirely sure which of them was currently in

possession of the Dark King’s body. “Yes.” Leslie looked at Irial-Niall. “Who?”

“Death,” Keenan answered. He sat down on the edge of a relatively clean table near the unlit fireplace. “I will do whatever Niall needs, but we

have to have a plan. Far Dorcha can’t stay in town.

Bananach is already trouble enough.”

“Her,” Leslie muttered. “She needs to die an ugly death.”

“My bloodthirsty girl.” Irial smiled at Leslie, and the proud darkness in that smile made quite clear that it was the former Dark King in control.

Leslie scowled. “I’m not bloodthirsty, but . . . seriously, she killed you. She needs to be dead.”

“Except killing her could kill every faery, love,” Irial pointed out. He glanced at Keenan and added in a level voice,

“That’s the problem. It’s the

only reason our boy hasn’t gone after her. Perhaps you might take it up with your ex-queen’s . . . What is he?”

“Ex-queen?” Leslie’s eyes widened. “Ash isn’t Summer Queen now?”

“She is,” Keenan said. “I’m no longer Summer King, though.”

Leslie leaned her head against the Dark King’s shoulder.

“How about we start at the beginning?” Irial tilted her chin up so that he could stare at her. “In a moment.”

Without looking at Keenan, Irial made a shooing gesture with one hand.

And Keenan walked out to give them their privacy. He’d only left the Summer Court a day ago, but embracing his Winter Court nature meant that

the complicated relationships of the Dark Court were unsettling now. After centuries of spending much of his free time pursuing girl after girl, the idea of eternity with only one faery was his sole desire.

Before he could begin that eternity, Keenan needed to help his former advisor—and the dead faery who’d once helped bind Summer—figure

out how to nullify Bananach, and convince Far Dorcha to depart.

Keenan sighed.

No problem.

Chapter 33

A block from the Dark Court’s warehouse, Chela held up one gloved hand. Three faery messengers and one Hound directly behind her paused.

She told the messengers, “Obey him.”

The messengers nodded.

“Once they’re gone,” she told the Hound, “you will fight, but until the messengers go, you wait.” The thought of missing any of the battle obviously wasn’t appealing to the Hound. His scowl deepened, but he nodded. “I’ll make up for lost

minutes, Gabr— Chela. ”

“I know you will, Eachann. Gabriel will be pleased when he comes back,” Chela said, and then she urged her steed, Alba, forward. No one

would declare her mate dead if she could hold even a sliver of hope.

Some Hounds are daft, Alba muttered in her mind.

Instead of answering, Chela urged aloud, “Faster.” In only a matter of seconds, Alba battered down the warehouse door with his front paws. Unlike her mate’s steed, Chela’s shifted shapes the

way some people changed clothes. Alba wasn’t frivolous, merely awkward with emotions. He chose to express his feelings with his shape. The fact

that their Gabriel was missing meant that Alba was leonine, feral and ready to hunt.

Me too, Alba. She stroked one hand over her steed’s close-cropped fur, and then she extended her voice to the rest of the Hunt and added, No

mercy if Gabriel is . . . gone.

None of the Hounds replied, but they all knew that their Gabriel was either dead or severely injured. As his second, Chela wouldn’t be able to

communicate nonverbally with the pack if he were safe.

She held hope, though. She and Gabriel might have had a few difficulties—including those

over his tendency to sire half-mortal children during their times apart over the years—but they were as faithful as Hounds ever were.

He is not dead yet, she told Alba once again. If the words were lies, I couldn’t speak them.

Her steed was too kind to remind her that opinion didn’t follow the truth rule, but they both knew it. If Gabriel was gone, she’d do what she must.

Gone or not, he’d been injured enough that she was acting in his stead.

She will suffer , Alba growled. We will not stand down.

The faery courts had let things go too long. The Hunt had no such patience. Gabriel had pursued Bananach. That told them where their Gabriel

stood on the issue of striking War.

We will finish the fight our Gabriel began , Chela told them all as they followed her into the Dark Court’s warehouse.

They were silent as they saw confirmation of one of the fears that had brought them here: Bananach sat on the regent’s throne. The raven-faery

snapped her beak at them as the Hunt continued to thunder into the vast room. She stayed spine-straight, ankles crossed and hands dangling

carelessly over the arms of the black throne. Her wings curled forward on either side, so she appeared to be surrounded by a giant shield.

All around her, Ly Ergs and unfamiliar faeries waited. A few Dark Court faeries were in the crowd, but they did their best to duck behind others

as the Hunt poured in. Sparks glimmered in the shadows as the steeds’ claws, hooves, and talons struck the cement floor.

Stay mounted , Chela ordered.

Where is the Dark King? one of her Hounds asked.

Seth is caged, another reported. Left and above the throne. Birdcage.

Is Seth injured? Chela asked.

Yet another Hound replied, Can’t tell. Not moving. Think he’s alive, though.

If he is dead, it’s recent , said the first Hound .

Despite the flurry of reports that joined these in her head, Chela’s outward expression was implacable. She faced War, who had apparently

staged a coup.

Straight up the center, Alba.

Chela’s steed stalked toward the raven-faery.

“Gabriela!” Bananach crooned. “Have you come to show your support of your queen?”

Chela stared directly at Bananach. “I am Chela, mate to the Gabriel, second-in-command of this Hunt.”

“ You are Gabriela, and I am the Dark Queen . . . and this”—Bananach opened her arms wide—“is my court.”

“No. There is no Dark Queen ,” Chela ground out.

Underneath her, Alba growled his accord. The assembled faeries—the whole mutinous lot of them—shifted nervously as other steeds and

Hounds echoed Alba’s growl.

“Yet here I am.” Bananach paused as if confused. “No, I’m sure of it. I am the queen here, and I could use the Hunt.

As I killed him—the last

Gabriel—that would be your decision, Gabriela.” Gabriel is dead. My mate. Chela’s hand tightened on the hilt of the first sword her mate had given her. She drew it from the scabbard with a

slide of metal on metal.

Draw weapons , she demanded.

As the Hunt complied, Chela lifted her voice and her sword: “The Hunt, with Gabriel at the helm or with me, will stand with the Dark King. If you

are here with this imposter”—Chela did not look at the assembled fey, but instead sneered at Bananach—“you are declared enemy to the Hunt.”

“You challenge me, whelp?” Bananach tilted her head to one side and then to the other as if studying Chela.