Darkest Mercy

  Seth sat in the middle of the cage and stared back at the Dark King.

  As if he were a bird, he’d been provided with a bowl of water, a bowl of dry cereal, and a pile of newspapers in the corner. The only concession to civility was the bucket beside the newspapers. Seth couldn’t decide if the cleaner but very public cage was better or worse than the too-small cell. All he did know was that both were preferable to the cell with the metal spikes in place of a floor.

  When their king finally looked away from Seth, he seemed surprised by his faeries’ presence. He frowned and said, “Depart. All of you.”

  Niall watched as all too eagerly they fled. His rage and grief had made him capable of cruelty they hadn’t expected. What he hoped to do now was a step beyond grief. He was willing to bargain for things that he shouldn’t, but he felt as if his mind was only barely in order. Even before Irial died, Niall had stopped feeling anywhere near sane. He’d heard of humans “snapping,” and that was as close to an explanation as he could get. In one sudden moment, he’d felt like the parts of himself that weren’t already grieving, worrying, or raging were all swept away. Something inside of him tore.

  If I had been clearheaded, could I have found a way to save Irial?

  The Dark King shook his head. He wasn’t clearheaded. Great chunks of time had vanished, and he had no idea what had happened in them. Yesterday, he came to himself with Seth caged, and he wasn’t sure how long they had conversed or what had been said.

  “What are you going to do?” Seth asked.

  “You see the future. You know what I’m about to do.” Niall glanced at the warehouse door. “Will it work?”

  “Niall—”

  “Tell me. He’ll be here any minute. How do I make him give me what I want?” Niall’s abyss-guardians flashed into their semisolid state and patted his arms consolingly.

  Mutely, Seth shook his head.

  And then the Dark Man walked into the warehouse.

  Death had entered the Dark Court’s center, and Niall bowed low to him as if a supplicant before a deity. “I ask a boon.”

  “No.”

  “You haven’t even heard what I seek.” Niall’s voice was barely more than a snarl, but it wasn’t offensive.

  Yet.

  Far Dorcha sighed. “You seek what they all seek when grief becomes madness.”

  Undeterred, Niall offered, “I would trade my life for Irial’s. Another’s life. Anyone.”

  “Listen to yourself,” Seth hissed. “This is not how you make a faery bargain, Brother.”

  Neither of the faeries present looked at Seth.

  Far Dorcha prompted, “Anyone?”

  “Anyone.” Niall leaned forward in his throne. “There are those I’d gladly give you, but there are others I would mourn. . . . Tell me which faeries you would accept. We can make an exchange.”

  Far Dorcha waved his hand, and a table and chairs of carved bone formed. One of the chairs slid out as the Dark Man approached it. The bone legs scraped across the cement floor.

  “What about the girl? Leslie.”

  “Leslie’s not of your domain. She’s mortal,” Niall protested. “You cannot . . . no.”

  “Irial lent her his strength, let her leach bits of his immortality, bound her to the Dark Court with tears and blood. His essence is in her flesh.” Far Dorcha sat in the chair at the head of his bone-made table. He rested his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together in front of him. “These things are so, yet you say she is not mine? If I ask for her, would you bargain?”

  Niall came to stand beside the other chair. It slid out for him, but he did not touch it.

  “If I said I would trade her still-briefer-than-fey life for his, what would you say?” Far Dorcha watched Niall with cavernous eyes. “Would you sacrifice one love for another?”

  “No, but you can have my life,” Niall proposed. “I would offer myself at the table.”

  Far Dorcha stood, but his hand remained on the chair. “Are you sure? She has some of his immortality.”

  “Not Leslie . . .” Niall’s words faded as the table vanished.

  “Then we are done,” Far Dorcha said. “She would’ve done it if you asked, and the only trade I will take is one who is willing and one you will mourn.”

  “There are numerous faeries in my court who would—”

  “Not by choice.” Far Dorcha’s gaze darted to Seth, acknowledging him for the first time. “Would you offer him? Sorcha’s child.”

  Niall scoffed. “He wouldn’t offer himself willingly.”

  “And if he would? Would you mourn him?”

  “You’re trying to distract me.” Niall’s mind grew clouded. “Tell me how to get Irial back. The court needs him.”

  “No,” Far Dorcha said.

  In the next heartbeat, Niall stood looking down at his own hand—and the knife in it. Between the words he’d heard and the moment he was now in, he’d shoved his knife hilt-deep into Far Dorcha’s stomach. He didn’t realize that he’d even moved. The memory of doing so was absent, but the knife and the hand were his own.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that. It has never helped.” Far Dorcha reached down and covered Niall’s hand with his own. He squeezed so that he held Niall’s hand to the hilt and then tugged both the hand and the knife away from his body.

  “What . . .” Niall looked at the knife in his hand; he let go, and it fell to the floor with a clatter.

  “You ruined a perfectly fine shirt.” Far Dorcha motioned with his fingers in a come-here gesture. “Give over.”

  “Give what over?” Niall blinked and realized he was now squeezing Far Dorcha’s throat. He looked at his hand and then back at Far Dorcha. Carefully, he released his grasp. “What . . . what happened?”

  “Give me your shirt.” Far Dorcha peeled off his ripped shirt. “You ruined this one.”

  Niall shook his head. “You’re a madman.”

  Far Dorcha snorted. “You stabbed Death, child, so I wouldn’t be throwing around any slurs just now.” He tossed his shirt at Niall, who caught it reflexively. “It’s cold.”

  Niall shucked off his coat. Then, he yanked his shirt over his head and threw it onto the ground at Far Dorcha’s feet. “Fine.”

  Far Dorcha looked down at the shirt and then back up at Niall. “Are you trying to piss me off?”

  “I’m the Dark King.” Niall’s voice was steady. Despite the oddity of the time gaps, he was not going to show his fear.

  Especially because of it.

  “And?”

  “And I’m asking you to help me.”

  “The dead queen”—Far Dorcha frowned—“the last dead one. Beira. She asked too.”

  Seth started, “Niall—”

  “No!” Far Dorcha interrupted. “You will stay silent unless you want to cross me. I’ve met your beloved. I doubt you’d like me to visit her house or your mother’s.” Then he told Niall, “The dead Winter Queen asked for un-dying. She wanted me to return the Summer King she’d killed. I tell you what I told her: I cannot.”

  “There has to be a way,” Niall pleaded. “I feel a . . . madness threatening. My mind . . . Please?”

  Far Dorcha lifted Niall’s shirt from the ground and shook it. “There are rules, even for fey. The dead king is not within my reach.”

  The Dark King grabbed Far Dorcha’s throat. “You’re Death. You can . . . help.”

  “I will not.” Far Dorcha shoved the Dark King. “Accosting me again would be unwise. You know the rules. The dead cannot reveal themselves to the living, and the living cannot compel the dead—including death-fey—to obey them.”

  Then, the Dark Man narrowed his gaze. “And no matter what foolish games you play here, you cannot break the rules unless you want the one you protect to die. You got into this situation; you will have to deal with it.”

  “What?” Niall blinked. “What situation?”

  Instead of answering, Far Dorcha pulled on Niall’s shirt and smoothed a hand over the fabric. “
Very nice.”

  Then he turned and sauntered away.

  Chapter 24

  Donia stepped into the street outside the Summer regents’ building and paused. I can do this. I can lead my court, and I can be an ally to Keenan’s court. The alternatives all seemed to lead to violence. We can work together. The world they knew was unstable, but they were not their predecessors. Going into the Summer Court and not reacting with anger proved that. That doesn’t mean I will stay there a moment longer than I must. Standing in the home he shared with Aislinn and trying not to think about them together was more than she was ready to handle. She didn’t wait for guards to arrive, but Sasha had already appeared and now loped alongside Donia. Most of the time, the wolf didn’t follow anyone’s whim but his own, and if he thought she should be accompanied, she would be.

  As Donia walked, she thought about the past, the moments she and Keenan were at odds, and the times they were close. He’d never wanted to hurt her, had never wanted to hurt any of the girls who’d tried to love him. Instead, he’d assigned guards, and of course, given Sasha to the first Winter Girl. Once, a long time ago, Donia had thought the unnaturally large wolf was a part of the Summer Court. He’d been there when she lifted the Winter Queen’s staff, had helped her when she stumbled that first day.

  “Even now, I want to protect him,” she told Sasha. “It’s never going to change, is it? I wish I could stop loving him, but . . . you should’ve seen him. He hates Irial—for good reason—and has had conflict with Niall, but if I asked him to go to the Dark Court, he would. He’s good, even if he’s not good for me.”

  The wolf paused and stared at her. He didn’t, of course, answer, but she was certain that he understood her. Sasha wasn’t an ordinary wolf. Wolves don’t live for centuries. What he was, she didn’t know. Keenan hadn’t known either: a “creature of Faerie” was all he’d said.

  Sasha nudged her with his massive head, and Donia resumed walking.

  She trailed a thin line of frost in her wake. It wasn’t enough to destroy all of the new buds that were starting to force themselves through the earth, but she wasn’t trying to destroy them. A flux between seasons was natural and right. It wasn’t yet time for true spring. Soon. This year, when spring came, she thought she might retreat to the far north. If I survive the coming fight.

  After walking several blocks, Donia realized she was being watched. On the roofs nearby, crows lined up. One after the next, they came.

  “You could go,” she told Sasha. “Run.”

  The wolf glared at her and then continued to pad silently at her side.

  The crows did nothing, but more and more of them swooped in and settled on every visible ledge. Mortals started pointing at the birds. Just what we need. Bananach was flaunting the rules. She was stronger than she’d ever been in Donia’s life, and in her strength, she was brazen.

  With a rush of wings, the embodiment of discord and violence dropped to the ground in the middle of the street. Cars honked, and drivers yelled. Bananach didn’t deign to look at them. Her attention was fixed on Donia.

  Her feathered wings were fully visible—even to mortals, whose hurled insults made clear that they thought she was “some freak.” She was smiling, a terrible expression of contentment that unnerved Donia. The raven-faery had her hair bound into a long braid that she’d looped up on the back of her head. Some of her black feathers jutted out at odd angles.

  “Snow! How lovely to see you,” Bananach called out as if she were speaking to a friend she’d encountered by accident.

  “I can’t say the same.” Donia rested a hand on Sasha’s back, as much to steady herself as for the comfort of touching the wolf.

  Bananach narrowed her eyes. “Well, that’s not very sociable.”

  A car careened to the side, darting into oncoming traffic to avoid hitting the raven-faery. She glared at the mortal driver, and then smiled as a bevy of crows dived down from the awning of a nearby building and effectively blinded him with their number. The car slammed into another—parked—car, and alarms sounded.

  “I’ve come to discuss the future.” Bananach swiveled her head back to stare at Donia. “You want a future, don’t you, Snow?”

  “I do, and I have a future.” Donia felt the approach of her guards. The tendrils that tied her to her court tightened inside of her. They were here, and she was alternately relieved and terrified. Bananach was behaving so far outside the normal faery-mortal interactions that Donia didn’t know what to expect of her.

  “I need you to declare war,” Bananach urged. “Pick a court. We will decimate them.”

  “No.”

  “Do not test me.” Bananach shook her head. “I’ve no time for this. Not now. Tell me: do we strike the Dark? Eliminate the Sunlight? Both?”

  Donia shook her head. “I have no quarrel with them. I’ve made peace with Summer.”

  The caw that came from the raven-faery’s mouth was a hideous sound, more so as it echoed through the street from scores of crows’ beaks. “No. You will not ruin my plans. You are strong, and you can bring me the war I seek.” Bananach nodded. “Then, the Darkness. We can start with that.”

  “No. Winter stands as ally to the Dark Court. I’ve made that clear to the king’s Gabriel and, previously, to the present and former kings.” Donia let her ice extend into a long sword. She’d not spent nearly enough years training to fight, but she wasn’t going to stand idly by while Bananach killed her. “We shall have peace between the courts.”

  “Do you know what would enrage the Summer King? I know,” Bananach singsonged.

  Winter Court faeries—invisible to mortal eyes—came up behind their queen.

  Scrimshaw Sisters drifted to stand on either side of Donia, and the lupine prowled the street. As minutes passed, the traffic decreased. Mortals mightn’t see the fey other than Bananach, but they felt the tension in the air. They detoured away from the street, away from War and her violence, farther from the spot where destruction gathered like the storm clouds in the sky.

  “I will allow your court the choice to be with me or under my foot.” Bananach tilted her head and stared at Donia. “What will you choose for your faeries? Shall I kill them, or will they serve me? Give them into my keeping, and I will spare you.”

  “They are mine.” Donia exhaled the words with a scream of wind. “My court will not serve you.”

  The crows all took to the air as one, and as they did so, Evan stepped in front of Donia.

  “So be it,” Bananach said.

  Donia couldn’t properly defeat War, but she could slow her. Donia did what she’d not thought she could do when she’d first faced the raven-faery: she stood against her with every intention of fighting. She exhaled all of winter that she could summon in that instant; ice covered the street, clung to the cars and storefronts. It was the perfect environment for her fey, but War hadn’t ever waited quietly when the climate was cruel: Bananach merely smiled.

  Donia began, “Ev—”

  “Go.” Evan didn’t glance her way. As he advanced on Bananach, the sky turned black with the crush of crows descending.

  And, in the midst of the feathered darkness, an unknown faery arrived and stood staring at them with cavernous eyes. Her body was partially wrapped in a torn gray winding sheet that trailed behind her like the train of a gown. Vivid spots of red stood out on the cloth, like scarlet poppies in a field of ashes.

  The faery made no gesture toward them, no act of aggression, so the Winter Queen forced her attention to stay focused on the more obvious problems rather than the potential ones. Mortals were under attack; her faeries were in danger; and she herself was far from safe.

  “Tend the mortals,” Donia called to her fey, but before her guards could do so, the remaining mortals began to shift anxiously and leave on their own.

  Fear comes tearing toward us.

  Donia looked up as the Hunt arrived. They were invisible to mortal eyes, but the presence of the Hunt unsettled even the most obtuse mortal
s. Gabriel’s steed was in the center of what, to their limited sight, appeared to be a sudden storm.

  None of steeds were in car form. Instead, they looked like a deadly menagerie: an oversized lion snarled next to a lizardlike beast; something that resembled a dragon paced next to a chimera; and scattered among them all were skeletal horses and emaciated red dogs. Atop the steeds were battle-ready Hounds.

  “If we might offer aid to Winter?” Gabriel growled. His steed was a giant black horse with a reptilian head. It opened its maw in a snarl that revealed pit-viper fangs.

  “Your aid is quite welcome,” Donia told the Hound.

  Bananach raised an arm, so that she was pointing at the sky. As she lowered her arm, faeries who allied with War swarmed from the alleys and side streets.

  Cath Paluc stepped forward into the fracas. The great feline faery tore through the Hounds and their steeds. The Winter Guard and the Hunt fought together against Bananach’s faeries as one force, and Donia was grateful for the sudden allies.

  What she wasn’t grateful for was the appearance of Far Dorcha. At the edge of the fight, he waited on a macabre throne of his own making; the seat of his throne looked like nothing more than the spine and rib cage of some creature she couldn’t identify. Far Dorcha himself sat within the splayed-open ribs as if he’d been swallowed by some great skeletal beast.

  The faery in her winding-cloth dress walked toward him, and for a moment Death smiled at her. The fleeting expression was the first proof of any emotion that Donia had seen. In a blink it was over, and he raised his gaze to stare at Donia. He nodded, and then looked over his shoulder to the unfamiliar faery, who now stood with her hand on the edge of his bone-wrought throne. Then, together, Death and his companion watched her faeries fall.

  The Winter Queen turned her back to them and pushed farther into the fighting, bloodying her ice-made sword because it was either that or be bloodied.

  Senseless death.

  War was not to fight in this way. She was to incite discord, but she was not to simply attack regents or their faeries.

  “I come to you not in full numbers, but in warning.” Bananach’s tone was conversational, despite the growing chaos in the street. “If you do not give me my declaration of war, you will die, Snow.”