Darkest Mercy

Chapter 19

Early the following morning, Donia stood at the veil to Faerie. Her requests for an audience with the Dark King were refused, so she decided to try the next regent on her list. She put her hand out into the air, grasping at nothingness again. The fabric should twist around her skin; it should writhe like a living thing. It did neither.

“It’s not here.”

Beside her, Evan nodded. “That’s what I was trying to explain.”

“It can’t not be here.” Her hand sliced through the empty air. “Do they move? I mean, I haven’t been a faery for that long. In the past, did they move?”

“No.”

“That doesn’t work, Evan.” She turned to face him, and as she did so, she absently reached out to touch Sasha. The wolf had been growling as Donia grew increasingly agitated. He kept a watchful gaze around the cemetery as if seeking out whatever threat had unsettled his mistress.

“If I had an answer, I’d offer it to you.” Evan’s tone was uncommonly sharp.

Donia drew a calming breath and then exhaled a plume of frigid air. “I’m sorry. I know that.”

Her advisor nodded. His berry-red eyes were still widened, and his posture was as tense as she felt. For a winter faery—or for a rowan—it was akin to hand-wringing. Evan started walking, and as they began pacing through the cemetery, more of her faeries joined them. The lupine loped at the edges of the cemetery in a loose formation. Several Scrimshaw Sisters drifted alongside the lupine. Others of her court fanned out in scouting patterns, and still more faeries assumed the position of guards.

“What does it mean? Is Faerie gone?”

“We would know.” Evan stared at the air, as if to find a trail, a hint of something that made sense of the vanishing of the gate to Faerie. “We would. We’d have to know.”

“Do you think she . . . they . . . oh gods, Evan, if it vanished . . . the people and the faeries there. The deaths.” Donia lowered her voice until it was little more than a whisper. “It’s just the gate that’s gone. It has to be.”

“The Summer Queen’s beloved goes to Faerie. He would know something.” Evan motioned to the faeries who were looking, unsuccessfully, for some other gate to have appeared to replace the one that had vanished. “It is necessary to call on the Summer Court or try the Dark Court again. The boy will be with one of them.”

“And War? Could she have done this?” As her faeries moved closer, Donia spotted a stranger among them. A tall, pale faery walked through the cemetery toward her. “Evan? Who is that?”

Evan stepped in front of her so suddenly that she had to put a hand on his back to steady herself. “Stay behind me.”

Scrimshaw Sisters fluttered toward Donia and encircled her. In barely more than a breath, the lupine were gathered around them. One particularly anxious Hawthorn hovered, her eyes flashing angry red.

“A wall of faeries between us, Donia?” The faery shook his head. “Surely, this is not how one greets old friends.”

“We’ve never met,” Donia said.

“Forgive me.” He bowed his head briefly. “I saw you in a memory. Icicles like knives tipped those dainty hands.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “You skewered the Summer Queen quite neatly.”

A wave of something like regret filled Donia at the thought of that day. “She healed.”

“Curiously, she healed better than one would expect.” The faery straightened to full height then. “I am Far Dorcha.”

Donia hoped her expression didn’t betray the terror she was attempting to resist. I am Winter. I am at my strength. Unfortunately, every assurance she could think of was quashed when she realized that the faery before her was the Dark Man, wielder of true death. He mightn’t be a king, but the death-fey obeyed him without hesitation—in part, perhaps, because his touch could end their lives as well. Only Far Dorcha could kill any of the death-fey. It made for a degree of instant obedience that other regents couldn’t demand.

“You’ve not been fey but a blink.” He took another step toward her.

Evan extended a hand, but didn’t actually touch the Dark Man. “Keep your distance.”

“Evan.” Far Dorcha shook his head. “You’ve switched courts again, I see.”

Again?

“I serve the Winter Queen,” Evan said in a perfectly level voice. “I organize her guard, and I would lay down every life here for hers.”

Far Dorcha laughed, a horrible sound of claws scrabbling over metal floors. “And when they were all gone, I would still reach her . . . if that was my desire.”

The Dark Man wasn’t threatening her, not overtly, but the reminder carried the force of a threat. Her fey tensed further. She laid the palm of her hand against Evan’s back and stepped to the side so that she was able to look up at Far Dorcha. In doing so, Donia drew his attention back to her.

“Do you come for me?” she asked.

“No. I was here”—he motioned around the cemetery—“because of the gate. I was in Huntsdale for other business matters.”

Evan tensed. “Who?”

Keenan? Aislinn? Niall? Irial? The head of the death-fey wouldn’t come for just any death. Who will die?

Donia asked, “Why are you here?”

“Ah-ah-ah.” Far Dorcha shook his finger. “Not telling you. The surprise is part of the fun.”

The Dark Man sighed, and Evan bodily blocked that exhalation from touching her. Her guard had his head turned to the side as he did so, yet as she watched, he swallowed with some difficulty. His hands fisted.

“Evan?”

“Please, my Queen, not now.” His voice was ragged, but he didn’t move.

“Curious. Despite her temper then, you chose to be hers.” Far Dorcha’s gaze lifted from Evan to fix her in a stare. “Did you mean to kill them? Petulant behavior, striking out at the Summer King’s guards. You’ve taken lives for no reason.”

The calm of Winter filled Donia. “You are not a judge. I am not your subject, nor was I then.”

“I am Death. Killing is always mine to judge.” Far Dorcha didn’t blink. The lack of any semblance of humanity made his scrutiny more uncomfortable. Most of the human-looking fey had adopted various human behaviors. He hadn’t.

She stepped around Evan. “I was almost killed by the last Winter Queen, and if I or those I protect are threatened, I will kill again. I am not a mortal, Far Dorcha. You might be Death, but unless you are here to kill me, do not try to intimidate me.” The snow that she’d relied upon to hold her temper at bay was no longer enough. Ice rose up, and she felt a rime of it coat her skin. “Unless you have reason to touch them, you will leave my fey alone.”

Far Dorcha laughed, and visions of scurrying things in the dark washed over her. Wet soil and absolute silence. If there was humor in those tones, it was beyond her comprehension.

“The young king has chosen well,” he pronounced.

“What?” Donia’s temper slipped a little further, and a snowstorm flared to life.

“Two queens.” Far Dorcha stood untouched by the battering winds. In the whiteout, the black of his eyes and red of his lips were impossible to look away from. The stark white of his skin blended so that he was barely there. “He found two queens. I doubt that your predecessor expected that.”

“There is only one Summer Queen.” Donia’s words were clear despite the shrieks of wind that came rushing from her lips.

“And you are very obviously not her,” he murmured.

Her faeries were all around her, and the weight of winter spread out from the spot where she stood. Grave markers dotted a whitened ground. Ice shimmered over branches. The world was hers.

But Keenan is not.

Far Dorcha reached out, but instead of touching her, he caught a silver veil that she hadn’t seen. “The gate has been locked against those on this side. Faerie is not open.”

Donia gaped at him. “How did—”

He let the cloth in his hands slip free, and as soon as he wasn’t touching it, it vanished. “No one closes a door I cannot open if I choose to do so.”

“Who did that?” She pointed at the once-more-missing gate. “Why? Do they live?”

“They live.” Ignoring the rest of her questions, Far Dorcha glanced around the cemetery. His gaze lingered on the deep snowfall, and the jagged spears of ice that had formed between him and her faeries. “I am pleased.”

“Can you tell me anything?” she asked with the calm she felt now that the earth was cloaked in snow as it should be.

“There are rules.” Far Dorcha tilted his face to the sky and let snow fall on his cheeks. “None that would stop me from speaking, but”—he looked at her with snow clinging to his skin—“I don’t feel inclined to speak yet.”

She raised her hand, and with the gesture, bars of ice encircled him. Outside them, spears of ice were aimed toward him. “Perhaps—”

“Go see other kings, Donia. I am not the one who will speak.” Then he turned and walked through the barriers she’d built.

She saw the ice pierce him, watched red fall to the white ground like raindrops, but he did not pause.