Old Habits, Page 3

“Looking for you.” Irial walked over to a bench that faced the library and sat down.

  As expected, Niall followed. “Why are you looking for me?”

  “I went to Faerie . . . to see her.” Irial stretched his legs out and watched a few mortals slide around on wheeled boards. It was a curious hobby, but he found their agility fascinating.

  With a nervous bit of hope, Niall joined him on the bench—at as much of a distance as possible, of course. “You went to see Sorcha.”

  “I thought she should know that there was a change in the court’s leadership.”

  “She did know,” Niall snapped. “No one goes there without her consent.”

  “The Dark King can,” Irial corrected. “You are not the Dark King.” Niall’s temper flared. “You threw it away.”

  “No,” Irial said. “I gave it to the rightful king. Don’t be absurd.”

  The emotions coursing through Niall were a delicious treat. Irial had to force his eyes to stay open as the flood of worry, fear, anger, shock, outrage, and a tendril of sorrow washed over him. It was best to not mention that he could read all of this. In theory, only the Dark King could read other regents, but for reasons Irial didn’t care to ponder, he had retained that particular trait. Most of his gifts of kingship had vanished: he was vulnerable to any faery who struck him, and he was once again fatally addictive to mortals. The connection to the whole of the court was severed, and the ability to write orders on Gabriel’s flesh was erased. These and most every other kingly trait were solely Niall’s, but the emotional interpretation was unchanged.

  Even as his emotions flickered frantically, Niall spoke very calmly. “If she had wanted to, she could’ve killed you.”

  “True.”

  Several more moments of delicious emotional flux passed before Niall said, “You can’t tell me you’re going to be my advisor, and then get killed. A good advisor advises. He communicates. He doesn’t do idiotic things that can result in infuriating the High Queen.”

  Innocently, Irial asked, “Does he do idiotic things to infuriate the Dark King?”

  “You are far more trouble than you’re wor—” Niall’s words halted as he tried to speak that which was neither true nor his true opinion. He scowled and said, “Don’t be an ass, Iri.”

  “Some things are impossible to order, my king.” Irial grinned. “Would you like me to apologize?”

  “No. I’d like you to do what you said you would—advise me. You can’t do that if you piss off Sorcha enough to get killed or imprisoned or—”

  “I’m here.” Irial reached out, but didn’t touch Niall. “I went to find out why Bananach visits her. The High Queen and I have had an . . . understanding these past centuries.”

  Niall opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  Irial continued, “I needed to know that she wouldn’t support her sister in any attempts on your throne. I know chaos is good for the court, but I will not sacrifice you for the court if it is ever in my power. Not again.”

  “A king’s duty is to his court,” Niall reminded.

  “And that, my lovely Gancanagh, is why I am not qualified to be a king,” Irial said gently. “There are two people I would put before the court. It is not a matter of being tired of my court, or throwing it away, or punishing you, or trapping you, or any of those very diabolical things you would like to believe of me. It is, quite simply, the fact that I would damn them all if it meant protecting you or Leslie. The court requires a regent who will put court needs first.”

  “And you think I would?” Niall asked.

  “I know you would.” Irial smiled to let Niall know that this was a good thing, but the taste of Niall’s guilt was still heavy. Neither of them commented on what that meant about Niall’s loyalties—or the choices Irial had made in the past. Choices that put Niall second to the court. There was nothing to say that would lessen the ugliness of those choices.

  “If you are my advisor, I will know where you are. I will not need to worry that you are trapped in Faerie or dead by Devlin’s hand because you angered Sorcha,” Niall said, with more of a snarl than Irial expected.

  “Yes, my King.” Irial kneeled. “Do I take this to mean that my understanding with Sorcha is discontinued as well?”

  Niall dragged his hand over his face. “Nothing’s ever simple with you.”

  “I can ask her permission to visit her in the future . . . or simply remain here. I’m sure I can find other—”

  “Until such time as I say otherwise, you will not enter Faerie to consort with Sorcha,” Niall interrupted. “What else did you learn?”

  Irial remained kneeling, but he lifted his gaze. “Devlin will visit.”

  “For what purpose?” Niall made an impatient gesture. “And get up. You’re far too amused by this posture, and it’s not the least bit about re—” The words froze again.

  Irial laughed, but he stood. “It is a little about showing respect, my king.”

  “Irial,” Niall started.

  “Devlin often seeks respite in the mortal world that he cannot find in Faerie. I have long offered him the court’s hospitality; however”—Irial stared at his king then— “Sorcha knows of his visits. I am anxious over this first visit with there being a new king. Sorcha would not be remiss in making a statement. As your advisor, I’m strongly suggesting you keep the Hounds in house. You should have Bananach’s staunchest supporters in your presence. Devlin tends to get bloody in his visits, and this could be a particularly . . . energetic visit. We can make use of that to rid ourselves of the disloyal. It serves several purposes—for us and for Sorcha.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “About this? Nothing.” Irial shook his head. “I will stand at your side, as will Gabriel, and we will make quite clear that the Dark Court is not weak.”

  “We are weakened. If we weren’t, you wouldn’t have done the ink exchanges.”

  Irial stared at Niall. “The violence Devlin will bring will nourish them. It is part of why I make him welcome. This time, it will nourish your court, and therefore you.”

  “I require more than violence.”

  “Call some of the Summer Girls, summon the Vilas, a Hound”—Irial paused as he weighed the words—“anyone you desire is yours. Human or faery or halfling. Gabriel’s daughter is strong enough to relax with you.”

  “No.”

  Irial repressed a sigh. “You weren’t celibate in the Summer Court.”

  “I’m not ready to—”

  “Leslie is gone, Niall.” Irial crouched down and looked at his king. “She left. She needs a life in the mortal world, for now at least. You, my Gancanagh, require the pleasures you’re denying. If I thought you’d forgive me, I’d arrange them delivered to you as they once were. You weren’t so reticent then or when you were in the Summer Court. You are the king of the Dark Court. They are all yours to command.”

  “Now that I’m their king, they might not feel free to say no.” The fear in Niall’s expression was only a tiny portion of the overwhelming fear Irial could taste. Niall lowered his voice, “I don’t want them to feel trapped.”

  “Don’t be foolish.” Irial caught Niall’s gaze. “I would offer you anything you need. They would too. It’s not a trap to offer happiness to one’s regent.” Irial’s affection for Niall was not the least bit hidden. “If you worry, I will collect solitaries for you, or perhaps you ought to go see Sorcha yourself. . . . There are those who are not your subjects. Is that what you seek? Tell me, and I will make it so.”

  “No. I simply don’t want . . . emotionless sex.” Niall looked away. “After Leslie—”

  Irial growled. “She left.”

  “I know.” Niall glared. “It’s only been a moment, though, and . . . I can’t.”

  “As your advisor, I am strongly suggesting that you listen to my advice. Don’t weaken your court by being maudlin. You’ve never once been monogamous in your life, and if you think you could’ve been so with her, you’re a fool. You
were a Gancanagh. Now, you’re the King of Temptation. You are what you are.”

  “You’re a bastard. You know that?”

  “I do.” Irial stood. “By tomorrow Devlin will be here, and if you expect to be your best, I’d strongly recommend that you go get—”

  “I hate that you made me their king,” Niall said, and then he walked away.

  After he was gone, Irial smiled.

  That went surprisingly well.

  For a moment, he sat and stared at the library. The door was showing signs of disrepair again. He made a mental note to send funds for its renovation, and then went to deal with the rest of the tasks he had to attend before the High Queen’s Bloodied Hands came to their step.

  Chapter 5

  Niall stood at one of the gates to Faerie. Once he’d marveled that mortals didn’t cross it more often, but unlike faeries and halflings, most mortals didn’t see the gate. The mortals and halflings who ended up in Faerie were taken or stumbled there unawares. The High Queen wasn’t particularly tolerant of uninvited guests, especially those of his court. The Dark Court’s exodus from Faerie had happened long enough ago that the whole of Faerie was her domain, while the mortal world was shared among the rest of the fey.

  Not that I’ d want to return the court there.

  If Irial knew, if Keenan knew, if most anyone Niall had called a friend these past several centuries knew how easily he was slipping into the role of Dark King, he’d like to think they’d be shocked. The truth, of course, was that more than a few of them had accepted his new role as easily as he had. Because it was inevitable. He understood that now. When Irial had first offered him the throne, Niall had thought it horrific, but time had a way of removing illusions.

  The complications of Devlin visiting the Dark Court were unclear to Niall. There was obviously some element of the situation that Niall didn’t know. Irial was a lot of things, but he wasn’t prone to exaggeration. If he thought Devlin’s visit was significant, it was.

  Niall splayed his fingers over the veil that separated the worlds. The insubstantial fabric encased his hand as if it were a living thing. I could go to her. Once, Sorcha had been a friend of sorts. Once, Niall had imagined himself half in love with her. He hadn’t been, but she was everything Irial wasn’t. At the time, that was reason enough to try to call his friendship love.

  “Help.”

  Fingers grabbed his hand and tugged. Someone on the other side clutched him, grabbed hold of his wrist, and clung to him. The voice that seemed to accompany the desperate gesture was thin.

  “Please, I can’t see.”

  A second hand grabbed Niall’s arm as if to pull him through, and in that instant, any thought of entering Faerie fled. Niall tugged.

  An old man came tumbling through the veil. He still held tightly to Niall’s arm. “Please.”

  Niall steadied the man, and in doing so glanced down and saw the man’s face: both of his eyes were missing. The eyelids drooped over empty sockets.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “No one,” the man sobbed. “I’m no one, and I saw nothing . . . I promise.”

  “You’re in Huntsdale,” Niall said gently. “Do you know where that is?”

  The relief on the man’s wrinkled face was heartbreaking. He whispered, “I do. Home. This is where I should be. I was wrong before. I thought . . . I followed someone, but”—he shook his head—“she was an illusion. It was all an illusion.”

  There was no need to ask which faery he’d followed. It didn’t matter. Mortals had been stolen away, misled, trapped, and tricked for as long as the two races coexisted. Niall had been guilty of doing it.

  “Let me help you.” Niall had no obligation to the man, but he wasn’t at ease with walking away. The Dark Court wasn’t evil. It would’ve been easier if they were. A clear division between good and evil, right and wrong, would simplify everything, but life was rarely simple. His court was formed of passions, of shadows, of impulses. The Dark Court—and its king—were that which balanced the High Court. In this instant, balancing the High Court meant offering kindness.

  “You’re one of them.” The man yanked his hand away from Niall. “I’m not going back. She had them take my eyes, said I’d be free . . . you can’t—”

  “I have no intention of harming you. Unlike Sorcha, I am not cru—” Niall’s words halted; he was capable of cruelty, but the difference was in the motivations. He’d never understood the High Court opposition to mortals knowing of the fey. He certainly never grasped the logic of breaking them for knowing. “You know we don’t lie.”

  The man nodded.

  “I offer you my protection. I cannot undo what she did to you, but I can offer you a haven.” Niall waited for a moment, trying not to rush the man, but increasingly aware that someone would probably notice that a mortal had exited Faerie without permission. Keeping his voice calm, he added, “You are free to leave any time you choose. There are no punishments for deciding to leave.”

  “She said this”—the man touched his face—“wasn’t a punishment.”

  “I will not cause or allow injury done to you.” Gently, Niall touched the man’s wrist. “If you prefer, I will deliver you to a mortal physician. Either way, we should leave this place.”

  “I don’t need a mortal physician. What would they do? My eyes are gone.” The man turned his head away and remained silent for a moment. Then he nodded once and said evenly, “I’ll accept your offer—for the moment, at least.”

  “I’m going to carry you,” Niall warned, and then he lifted the old man, cradling him like a child. It was akin to lifting an empty sack, and Niall wondered how long the frail thing had been in Faerie. Once, Sorcha had explained that the blinding was for the mortals’ good as well.

  “Seeing the changed world after so long is troubling to them,” she’ d said. “This is kinder.” He’ d disagreed, but Sorcha had merely smiled and added, “The fanciful ones, the artists, are fragile. Seeing us after they’ve left is far crueler.”

  The walk through Huntsdale wasn’t long, but it was long enough that solitaries and those of other courts saw him. None spoke to him, but more than a few faeries stared in blatant curiosity. The sensation wasn’t displeasing: he was opposing the High Court and doing something that soothed his sense of guilt over past follies.

  As he approached his new home, a thistle fey scurried forward and opened the front door.

  “Gabriel,” Niall called.

  The Hound—who had once been a friend, more recently an enemy, and currently Niall’s most trusted resource— entered the foyer with a silent grace that should’ve been impossible for such a bulky creature. “My King.”

  “King?” the man murmured.

  “Her opposition,” Niall soothed as he lowered the man’s feet to the floor. “You are safe here.”

  Gabriel shook his head. “You trying to start trouble?”

  “Perhaps,” Niall admitted, “but I don’t suppose that’s a problem, is it?”

  The grin on Gabriel’s face was matched by his mellow tone as he said, “Nope, just making sure I understand.”

  “The High Queen blinded this man. I have offered him safety here.” Niall made a beckoning gesture to one of the Vilas who always lingered wherever Gabriel walked. “You can go with this woman. She’ll find you a chamber to rest while you decide what you want.”

  The man reached out awkwardly, clearly not yet used to his lack of sight.

  Niall took the man’s hand and started to lead him to the Vila. “This is Natanya and—”

  “What’s your name, king?”

  The belligerence in the man’s voice made both Niall and Gabriel grin. This was not a mortal who would curl into himself and give up. His bravery made him even more worthy of protection.

  “Niall.”

  “Am I safe from her here, Niall?” The man tilted his head. “They might be pretty, but they’re monstrous. You know that, don’t you?”

  “We do,” Niall said.
<
br />   “Are you all pretty too?” the mortal asked.

  It was an obvious curiosity, but it stilled everyone all the same. Natanya stared at Niall; Gabriel shrugged. Niall wasn’t sure what answer was truth. Pretty? Gabriel was akin to a sort of menacing mortal who lingered in disreputable bars: slow to rile, but quick to strike if angered. He was lean, scarred, and silent. The gray-eyed, gray-skinned Vilas were all beautiful; even in violence, their movements were elegant; but they were as likely as not to dab blood on their lips for color. And Niall . . . being fey meant possessing an innate attractiveness to mortals; being a Gancanagh meant he’d been born to seduce. Pretty? He’d thought so once, many centuries ago, but that was not a word he’d found fitting for a very long time. He’d been proud of no longer being “pretty”: he kept his hair shorn to emphasize the scar that he was certain made him anything but pretty. The trouble was that Niall didn’t see the Dark Court denizens as ugly either, even while he hated things that happened in the court, even when he’d found a vast number of their faeries terrifying, he’d never thought them either pretty or ugly. They simply were.

  “The High Court thinks we are monsters.” Niall let his own emotions into the words. “I suspect that if you saw us, you’d think many of us are too. What we aren’t, though, is calmly cruel. What we aren’t is like them.”

  The man nodded.

  Natanya and Gabriel were both smiling, and there was little doubt in Niall’s mind that his own acceptance of his court was likely to be repeated throughout their number.

  “Natanya?” Gabriel motioned toward the mortal. “Look after him for your king and for me.”

  “As if he were your own child, Gabriel.” The Vila beamed at Gabriel. The silver chains that held her bone-hewn shoes to her feet clattered as she moved across the room to take the mortal’s hand in hers. She led the man away, and for a moment Gabriel was silent.

  He shot an assessing glance at Niall. “Salt in a wound when they learn that you brought one of Sorcha’s discarded mortals here.”

  “That is true.”

  “She’s already likely to make a statement to be clear that her earlier fondness for you won’t make her soft on you. Now this. . . . She’ll strike,” Gabriel said.