Darkest Mercy

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.