Darkest Mercy (8 page)

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.

If it’s between giving in to that fate or sacrificing our court’s safety, I’m not sure what choice we have.

Chapter 9

Far Dorcha stood outside the Dark King’s home, waiting.

Inside the house, the nearly dead king’s shade lingered.

Unfortunately, the

complications that Irial had created in his last days made the situation unprecedented.

Clever maneuvering.

It was enough to make Far Dorcha smile. The Dark Court could be counted on for the unexpected.

“The door isn’t open.” Ankou suddenly stood beside him.

Her winding-sheet dress hung from her gaunt body, but he wasn’t sure if she’d grown

thinner or if he misremembered how delicate she appeared. “The body is in there, but the door—”

“Sister.” He brushed a lock of white hair back and tucked it behind her ear. “I wondered when you’d arrive.” Ankou frowned. “The door should be open.”

“The old king’s shade is still anchored in the world,” Far Dorcha said. He didn’t remind her that no one could deny him entrance, that no one

could fight him if he chose to stop them, that his very presence could impose mortality on a faery if he willed it.

Resorting to such measures was

crass.

“Perhaps you ought to knock,” Far Dorcha suggested.

His sister closed her eyes and drew in the air around them. He felt the stillness grow heavier and, as always, chose not to question how the air

could take on weight. Something about the change in it felt like pressure in his lungs, as if soil filled them. Ankou blinked and approached the door.

This was why he was at the last Dark King’s house with her—not to protect her, but to keep her from disturbing an already untenable situation.

Bananach’s machinations had drawn faeries from all of the courts, as well as from among the solitaries. She’d poisoned the former Dark King,

and in doing so set herself against the court to which she’d always been allied. A declaration of war must be spoken by at least one regent before

Bananach can have the fight she seeks. And none of the courts were declaring war.

“Open.” Ankou hammered her fist on the door. “I am Ankou. Open .”

A gargoyle that clung to the door opened its mouth, but predictably, it didn’t speak. The invitation to shed blood for entry was clever. What else

for a king clever enough to dodge death?

“Sister?” he prompted. “It seeks a taste.” She narrowed her gaze.

“If you place your hand here”—he gestured at the open maw—“the creature can find you acceptable or not.”

“I am Ankou,” she repeated. “I am always acceptable. We are Death. How could that be unacceptable?” Far Dorcha took her hand in his. “May I?” She nodded, so he extended her skeletal hand to the creature. It sank fangs into her flesh, and she stared at it dispassionately. Once, Far

Dorcha had let another beast remove every drop of his sister’s blood. It was an experiment born of curiosity, nothing more, but it was as

meaningless to her as other seemingly cruel experiments he’d tried. Ankou watched; she waited. When she was called upon, she collected the

corpses where they fell. All of her tenderness was reserved for fallen faeries. Even he was only important to her because of his connection to the

dead.

He tugged her hand free and suggested, “Tell it again.”

“I am Ankou.” She leaned closer to it. “You must open.” The gargoyle blinked at them, and for a moment, Far Dorcha wondered if the new Dark King could prohibit their entry. Is he as unexpected as

the nearly dead king? Then, the gargoyle yawned, and the door cracked open.

Before they could cross the threshold, several Hounds stepped forward. They were battle-bloodied, but they were no less daunting for their

injuries.

“I am Ankou,” she announced. “I have work here.” A growl behind the Hounds caused them step to either side. There stood the Gabriel, the Hound who led the Hunt. He looked haggard. His eyes

were darkened, and his skin seemed sallow.

“The king won’t let you take him,” Gabriel said in a low rumble. “Can’t reason with him just now.”

“The body is about to be empty.” Ankou stepped toward the Hound.

Gabriel nodded. “I know.”

“I should be able to take it.”

“Him,” Gabriel corrected. “Irial. The last king. He is not an it .”

“The body is,” Ankou said.

On both sides of Gabriel, the Hounds surged forward, and Far Dorcha reminded himself that his sister needed guidance. “She could free him

from his—”

“No.” Gabriel held out his tattooed forearms. On them, the Dark King’s commands spiraled out, etched there in flesh for any and all to read. The

Hound, and thus his whole Hunt, had orders to protect the last Dark King.

Ankou reached out with her bone-thin hand as if to grip the flesh where the orders were written. “So be it.” Far Dorcha caught her hand in his. He entwined those fatal fingers with his own, lacing their hands together, and told Gabriel, “You cannot stop

Death. If we choose to enter, you will all die.”

“I know.” Gabriel shrugged. “I obey the Dark King, though.

Not everyone’s pleased with his choices, but the Hunt stands with him.”

“At what cost?” Ankou prompted.

“My pup died. More will fall. I know mortality, and it’s good that Iri rates your attention. Didn’t see the ones who took Tish’s shell away.” The

Hound’s expression grew tenser still, but he shook his head. “Can’t take Iri yet, though. King says. I obey the Dark King . . . regardless of the cost.” Far Dorcha nodded. “I will speak with your king soon.” Then he turned to his sister. “Come, Sister, there is time yet.”

When Ankou nodded, Far Dorcha released her hand—and she extended it faery-fast to cup Gabriel’s cheek.

“You should not interfere with my work,” she told the Hound. “I could have offered mercy.”

Then, Ankou leaned up and brushed her lips over his cheek, marking him for a fate that only she could see.

“Come, Sister,” Far Dorcha repeated, and then he led Ankou away from the Dark King’s house.

Chapter 10

Gabriel slammed the door behind the departing death-fey.

“No one is to open the door. Was I not clear?” The Hunt scattered as he turned around and snarled at them.

“The king . . . both of them . . . need to be guarded, and letting them in will not help anyone.” He looked from Hound to Hound. “Niall needs a little time to—” The door chime sounded as the gargoyle on the outside of the door bit someone.

Gabriel spun around and yanked the door open again.

“What?”

But it was not the death-fey; instead, one of the Winter Queen’s Scrimshaw Sisters stood on the step. She curtsied. “The Winter Queen—”

“King’s not receiving visitors,” Gabriel cut her off. He shoved the door, but the implacable faery put a hand out and stopped it from closing.

“ The Winter Queen ,” she repeated, “seeks audience with one of the Hunt.”

Then the faery turned and walked away as if staring into the face of the Hunt had not been terrifying at all. Gabriel grinned for a moment as he

closed the door, but as he walked through the darkened house and into the room where the Dark King paced restlessly beside Irial’s deathbed, his grin vanished.

“Niall?”

The Dark King looked at him, and for a moment, there was no recognition in Niall’s eyes. He stared at Gabriel, but did not speak or indicate

awareness in any way. Then, the shadows in the king’s eyes flickered, and Niall said, “I am awake now, right?”

“You are.”

“I don’t want to be,” Niall rasped.

“I know.” Gabriel had thought about his options: he couldn’t bring Sorcha here; Keenan was still away from Huntsdale; that left Aislinn and Donia.

The Summer Queen wasn’t as powerful as the Winter Queen, and Niall had unpredictable reactions to her.

Donia, on the other hand, wanted to talk to a Hound and was friend to the Dark King. Hoping his emotions were hidden, Gabriel told Niall, “My Hounds are here. I’ve called in others

we trust, Niall. We’ve hired solitaries whose loyalty can be bought.”

“Good.” Niall wasn’t looking at Gabriel now; his attention was once more on Irial. “That’s good.”

“I can get more aid.” Gabriel stepped over to stand beside the king he’d served for centuries and the grieving king he’d sworn to protect at cost

of his own life. “I can bring help.”

Niall glanced at Gabriel. “Aid? Healers?” Gabriel weighed the words he needed; as the head of the Hunt, he was not used to needing to twist truth. The faery he sought was not a healer,

but a regent who could hopefully help his king. Gabriel looked at Niall and said, “I think I can get aid for my king.” Niall nodded. “Yes. The other healers were wrong. They had to be.” The Dark King motioned to the far corner, where a faery was sprawled

motionless. “That one said Irial was past saving.”

“Chela will keep you safe while I go,” Gabriel assured Niall, but the Dark King had already turned away.

Silently, Gabriel gathered the healer, gave orders to his second-in-command, and went to see the Winter Queen.

Chapter 11

“Where the hell is Keenan?” Aislinn grumbled. “I’m not ready for a war. I’m not ready for a grief-mad Dark King, either. . . . I don’t know how to do

this on my o—”

A knock at the study door interrupted her, and barely a blink had passed before Tavish was in front of her. Even here in the loft, he kept himself

between her and the door. A sword hung at his side, and she knew that another weapon, a sliver-thin steel blade, was strapped to his ankle. The

very fact that he could wear cold steel spoke of how strong— and old —he was.

The door opened, and Seth walked into the room. “Ash?” Her first instinct was to run to him, to throw herself into his arms and cling to him, but that wasn’t where they were—

not anymore, perhaps never

again. She brushed her hands over her skirt, smoothing it down, and smiled at him. “Seth.”

“I will find you answers, my Queen. Summer is to be happy if we are to be as strong as we need, my Queen.

Indulge in your happiness, if not for you, then for your court.” Tavish gave her a pointed look and then turned to Seth. “I am glad you were not killed in the fight with Bananach.”

Seth quirked a brow. “Me too.”

“Indeed.” Tavish nodded and left.

For a moment after the door to the study was closed, Aislinn simply stared at Seth. He looked tired. Dark circles were under his eyes, and his

shoulders were drooping slightly. His left cheek was discolored, and his bottom lip had a cut. There were no other visible marks, but she couldn’t see through the shirt and jeans he wore. The shirt, however, did confirm that he’d been to Faerie. Instead of one of his usual T-shirts, he wore a silky shirt that fit him as if it had been tailored especially for him.

And probably was.

“I . . . I know it sounds repetitive, but I wouldn’t have vanished without telling you if there was a choice,” he said. “There was a fight with Bananach and her Ly Ergs.”

“I know. Tavish told me . . . and about Tish.” She couldn’t look away from Seth. “You’re okay?”

“Mostly. Bruised up, but”—he shrugged, though his eyes gleamed with pride—“after all the training with Gabriel’s Hounds, I held my own.”

The thought of it, of Seth fighting War and her minions, overruled the fear of rejection, overruled the fear of what could come. If not for me, for my

court , she told herself. Happiness is a choice. She wanted to choose Seth; if it were that simple, she would’ve already done so. If it’s between love

and duty . . . She still wanted love.

She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around Seth. The rightness of being in his arms hadn’t ever stopped. For a moment, she rested

her cheek against his chest; then she looked up at him.

Before he could speak, she pulled his mouth to hers. Now that he was fey—and seemingly stronger than he realized—she didn’t worry about

injuring him with her affection. Before, she had to be careful not to break him. Now, the risks of a faery loving a mortal were erased. Barring fatal

injury, he’d live for centuries. She leaned into him, gave herself over to the thrill of his kiss. It wasn’t a trick or faery enchantment. It wasn’t for power.

It was just them.

And I don’t want it to ever end.

When he started to pull away, she tangled her fingers in his hair. “Don’t stop. Please?”

“Ash? Hey? It’s okay,” he whispered in the fraction of space between them.

She felt his words against her lips.

He repeated, “I’m okay. I’m here .”

She didn’t step away. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I’m here.” He smiled. “Right here with you .”

“You’ll leave again, though.” Aislinn tightened her arms around him. “War is fighting with Niall’s fey. Your . . .

mother would come unglued if . . .”

Her words dwindled at the look on his face. “What?”

“She had a bit of a, umm, grief thing over my absence.” Uncharacteristically, he blushed. “She’s new to the whole emotion thing . . . and . . .”