Darkest Mercy

  The room began to fill with even more faeries. Faeries that should belong to the Summer and Winter Courts joined Ly Ergs, some thistle-fey, and solitaries that Seth had seen around town. They all came crushing into the warehouse. With mad grins and bloody hands, they expressed their joy.

  Bananach sat in the regent’s place and gestured regally. “Come, my errant ones, and offer me your fealty.”

  To Seth’s horror, they did. One after the next they knelt before her and bowed their heads. They retracted their oaths to Niall and called Bananach “my liege,” and they offered vows of fealty.

  At least he’s alive. . . .

  Seth had seen Niall fight Bananach twice, and he doubted that anyone else had the skill to do so—especially if Bananach had control of the Dark Court—but the unbalanced Dark King was currently in no shape to fight anyone successfully.

  I don’t want to oppose Niall.

  No other High Court faery remained on this side of the veil.

  When a regent is meant to be, he can make it so. Seth pondered the words that Bananach had used to explain her ability to become queen. Either she’s wrong, and it doesn’t matter; or she’s right, and this will work.

  When Bananach’s hordes were done offering their promises to the raven-queen, they watched her with rapt adoration.

  “I am the . . . Dark King’s balance,” Seth said as quietly as he could. “I am the faery that will balance Niall. I am the son of Order; I am made of the High Queen; I am your brother, Niall.”

  He felt ridiculous, but he kept repeating the words over and over as he looked down at the faeries that stood before the self-declared Dark Queen.

  “I balance you, Niall . . . order to your darkness,” Seth whispered.

  Bananach stood and took two steps away from her throne.

  “I am Order on this side of the veil.” Seth stood and gripped the bars of the cage. “I am the Order to your Darkness.”

  The raven-faery let her gaze travel over the assembled fey. She glanced up at Seth briefly.

  “The other regents would not give me the word I needed; they refused my hunger for war; but I am a regent now.” Bananach lifted her voice and said the words that the other courts refused: “The Dark Queen, your queen, speaks War. They will bow before us, or they will be trampled under our feet.”

  Chapter 31

  When Donia woke, she looked upward to see icicles and snow arches. For a moment, she wondered if she’d slept outside, but sheets were tangled around her legs. My home. My bed. She sighed happily. A wintery heaven filled her room to the point that she could hardly believe she was inside a house. She looked up at the crystalline ceiling over her head, and then at the faery sleeping beside her.

  I want to stay right here forever.

  Unlike the previous times she’d touched Keenan since she’d been fey, this time his skin was unbruised. Her ice didn’t injure him as it had when he was the Summer King. She propped herself up on one arm, and with the other, she carefully slid her fingers through his hair, and then on to his bare shoulder. No steam lifted from his skin as it had when they’d spent Solstice together; no bruises formed as they had when she’d touched him other times. After decades of wanting this, of believing it could never truly happen, they were together.

  “If I pretend to be asleep, will you keep touching me?” He kept his eyes closed, but he reached out and slid his knuckles down her bare arm.

  When she didn’t answer, he looked at her. “Don?”

  “Tell me again.”

  With the same wicked smile that had stolen her breath when she’d met him, he pulled her into his arms and rolled her under him. He braced himself over her and stared into her eyes as he reminded her, “I love you, Donia.”

  Snow fell on him from somewhere above the bed as he lowered his lips to hers and told her, “And I will spend the rest of eternity loving you. Every day.”

  “And every night,” she added with a smile.

  “Mmmm, and every morning?” he asked.

  To that question, there weren’t any words that would do justice the way actions would, so Donia answered him with her touch and her kisses.

  Afterward, when hungers of other sorts necessitated leaving the pleasures of the bed—and the snow-covered floor—Donia couldn’t stop smiling. They walked through the house hand in hand.

  Her faeries looked on approvingly, much to her surprise.

  “I want you to stay here,” she blurted.

  Keenan paused. “Right now?”

  “No.” Donia turned so they were face-to-face. “Stay here, live here, be here.”

  The look of joy on his face made her realize that the things she’d thought alluring when he was filled with sunlight were only a fraction of what he was now that he had only Winter within him. His eyes glimmered with the sheen of a perfect frost; his features seemed somehow sharper as she looked at him.

  And I don’t have to resist now.

  With a satisfied sigh, she pulled him to her and kissed him. When she stepped back, his lips parted and his eyes widened in surprise.

  “Say yes,” she urged.

  “I’m yours, Donia.” He leaned his forehead against her head. “You don’t need to offer anything you aren’t ready—”

  “Are you serious?” She laughed. “I’ve waited most of my life for you.”

  “You’re a queen. I’ll accept whatever you—”

  She kissed him again, and then asked, “Do you want to live here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then don’t be a fool, Keenan. I want you here.”

  “Once Niall is stable, and we know that Bananach won’t slip in at night and kill us in our beds . . .” He scowled. “I don’t know what we’re going to do about her.”

  Donia interlaced her fingers with his. “You’re not a king. It’s not your duty now.”

  “Oh.” He paused and then nodded. “I will fight . . . or what do you need?”

  “You were going to go to Niall,” she reminded him. “Have you changed your mind?”

  “No,” he said very carefully, “but I want to . . . I didn’t know Evan was gone, and I don’t want . . . Not that you can’t defend yourself, but . . .” He raked his hand through his hair.

  Gently, Donia suggested, “You’re a solitary faery, Keenan. Not my subject. Not anyone’s subject. You can do as you will.”

  He nodded.

  “What are you going to do? What do you want to do?” she prompted.

  “I’m going to go try to help Niall. He’s not acting like himself, and I have a theory on what’s wrong,” he told her. “Then afterward I’m going to ask you to marry me.”

  She stepped backward, her knees strangely weak. “Faeries don’t . . . That’s not exactly done.”

  “I’ve dreamed of it. The ceremony, the vow”—he stared at her with an intensity that made her sit down suddenly—“I thought about it a lot. Faery vows are unbreakable. If I phrased it right, you’d know that I belong to you. Only you. Always.”

  She blinked several times, and as casually as she could manage, pinched her wrist. I am awake. Keenan is here in my home telling me he wants a faery vow and a wedding. This was the part where she was to say something encouraging; she was sure of that. Instead, she stared at him silently.

  He knelt, like a mortal man, on one knee before her. “Faeries don’t make fidelity vows often, but we can. We can.”

  “Yes.”

  But he misunderstood and continued, “When I come back, I’ll get a ring. First, I am going to help Niall. Something is wrong with him, and I’m going to try to figure out how to get him back to himself.”

  Too stunned by the utter unexpectedness of the morning, she nodded and repeated, “Yes.”

  “We can do anything, Don. We’ll defeat Bananach, help Niall. . . . Everything is possible now. You make me believe in the impossible. You always have.” He stood and kissed her until she really wasn’t sure if she was awake or dreaming, and then he said, “I’ll be back. We’ll stop B
ananach, and then we’ll have forever.”

  And he was gone before she could think clearly enough to explain that her yes was a Yes, I’ll marry you.

  Chapter 32

  This time, Keenan sought the Dark King at his house. It was a place he’d never thought to visit voluntarily, and he wasn’t sure that he would be able to gain entry. However, the Dark Court fey he’d seen had all suggested that Niall would be at the house. Of course, they’d also all suggested—with varying degrees of humor and fear—that Keenan had better be prepared to bleed if he was going to enter the Dark King’s house.

  Keenan arrived as a thistle-fey was leaving, so he avoided the awkwardness of getting past the gargoyle at the door. Inside the house, the evidence of Niall’s rage was everywhere. Shattered glass and broken furniture were intermingled with twisted bits of metal. Dark stains made obvious that the damage wasn’t merely to the inanimate.

  The former Summer King walked through the debris until he stood in the doorway of the room where Niall sat.

  “I don’t think you were summoned, kingling, or”—the body that was Niall’s looked up at him—“that you’re strong enough to withstand the Dark King’s rage.”

  “I know Niall, and you aren’t him.” Cautiously, Keenan peered into a face that he knew as well as his own. “Tell me that you are truly Niall, or tell me what you’ve done to him.”

  “Curious theory,” the imposter said.

  Keenan stepped closer to the body that looked like his friend, but was not him. “Who are you?”

  “I am the Dark King, and you”—he leaned back and stared at Keenan—“ought to know better than to question me. Do you forget what the Dark King can do? Do you miss that curse?”

  The faery opened the cigarette case on the table and extracted one of the noxious things. The motions were decidedly not Niall’s. Niall was many things, but he wasn’t that easily arrogant.

  Or dismissive. Or deliberate.

  “Irial?” Keenan asked, testing his theory.

  The Dark King leaned back and offered Keenan a sardonic smile. “War killed Irial.”

  “You don’t appear to be dead.” Keenan shook his head. “Is that why he’s acting so . . . vile? You’ve taken his body and—”

  Irial snorted. “No. He’s grieving. Believe it not, kingling: he’s mourning my loss.”

  “Yet you’re here.”

  “You are observant, kingling.” Irial pointed at Keenan with the unlit cigarette. “In his dreams and when I can get through in his waking hours, I’ve tried to explain that I’m really here, but he’s struggling. He refuses to sleep properly since my death, and I was unable to speak to anyone to reveal my presence to the living until someone figured it out.”

  “Why?”

  Irial gave Keenan a decidedly droll look. “Because he’s mourning. . . .”

  “No, why couldn’t you tell anyone you were in there?” Keenan asked as patiently as he was able.

  “There are rules, kingling. I hinted as best I could, but I forgot how slow some of you lot can be. I all but told you when you were at the warehouse,” Irial said.

  Only Irial would find a way around truly dying. The former Summer King felt a grudging respect for the dead king.

  When Keenan gestured for Irial to continue, the dead Dark King inhabiting Niall’s body added, “It’s like lying: there are unbreakable geasa. Shades—even those of us not fully untethered—cannot tell the living of our postdeath experiences or presences unless the living call us out by name. It’s only in Niall’s mind that I can speak freely, and he’s been obstinate.”

  “But you can talk to him in his dreams because . . .” Keenan rubbed his temples. “How are you dead, but here?”

  The body that was Niall smiled a mocking smile that was pure Irial. “Before I died, our dreams were stitched together. I was dying, and I saw a chance”—Irial shrugged in faux modesty—“so I took it. Unfortunately, Niall has half convinced himself that if he’s dreaming of me now, perhaps the dreams we shared after my stabbing but before my death weren’t real either.”

  Keenan couldn’t imagine what the two Dark Kings had dreamed that Niall wished were real—nor did he want to imagine those dreams. He might accept Niall’s forgiveness of Irial some day, but the truth was that Keenan loathed Irial. The former Dark King had bound Keenan’s powers; he had hurt Niall; and now he was possessing Niall. None of that evoked positive emotions.

  “Could you go away?” Keenan asked.

  “If Niall wanted me to, yes.” Irial tapped his still-unlit cigarette on the table. “First, though, he needs to accept that I’m here before he decides whether or not to cast me out.”

  “Can you take”—Keenan gestured awkwardly—“the body at will?”

  “Not unless he lets go of his control.” Irial lifted the cigarette and lit it. After he took a long drag, he exhaled a plume of smoke in Keenan’s direction. “I’m surprised you noticed. Even with the hints, I was thinking you wouldn’t get it. I’m glad you did, but surprised that you were the one to catch on.”

  “He is my friend,” Keenan said simply.

  Irial stood up and walked toward Keenan. When they were face-to-face, Irial said, “I hated your mother, you know, but her grief was great when your father died. It made her do things that were awful.”

  “He was dead because she killed him.”

  “Yes, well”—Irial gestured dismissively—“that is true. Still. She was grieving, and she was afraid.”

  Keenan wanted to strike out, but it wasn’t truly Irial: Niall’s body would feel any blows. “Do you have a point?”

  “I don’t fully regret binding you. I did what I had to do for my court, but I respected Miach enough to be sorry that I had to hurt his son. Beira’s grief led to troubles. It’s why Bananach manipulated your parents. She has been manipulating us as she did them.” Irial blew smoke in Keenan’s direction again. “Niall’s grief would be more deadly, if not for actions I took. He is unbalanced and grieving. He needs friends. Allies. You need to 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.”