Darkest Mercy

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.”

“Exactly,” Niall said.

They stood at an impasse. Keenan clung to his hatred of Irial, but he was relieved that Niall was speaking to him civilly.

Niall walked away, and Keenan followed him farther into the wreckage of the Dark King’s home. The destruction was somewhat expected: he’d known that Niall wasn’t dealing well with his grief. What was unexpected was the sight that greeted him as they entered what appeared to have been a study: in the doorway stood the mortal who had been the source of Niall’s ire at Keenan.

“What is he doing here?” Leslie folded her arms over her chest.

The Dark King turned his back to Keenan. “Les? I thought you were still sleeping.”

The mortal marched across the room with a self-confidence utterly at odds with the broken spirit he’d last seen in her. She stepped in front of Niall, putting herself between the two faeries, and pointed at Keenan. “Don’t you upset him.”

Keenan held up his hands disarmingly.

“He’s . . .” She glanced over her shoulder at Niall, and her ferocity vanished. “He’s going to be fine. He’s already much clearer today, so you can just walk out of here.”

“Les?”

She looked at the Dark King.

“Did you know?” he asked. “About Iri?”

“That he died?” Leslie took Niall’s arm and led him farther away from Keenan. “You told me, but I knew when I got here.” She shot a glare back at Keenan. “We talked about this. When you woke up, Niall, you were better than before. You weren’t thinking right because of fatigue, but it’s better. You’re better, and I’m going to stay a few days, help you get settled with the . . . things that he handled.”

“He’s not dead,” Niall told her. “He’s still here. Keenan said—”

“Get out,” Leslie snarled at Keenan. She stepped away from the Dark King faster than a mortal should be able to move and advanced on Keenan. “He’s upset, and whatever you did or said made him worse—”

“Irial is inside Niall,” Keenan said.

“Get out!” Leslie grabbed Keenan’s shirt and started to tug him toward the door. “Get out. Stay out. Just leave us alone.”

“Shadow Girl? Leslie, love?” Irial-Niall grabbed her hand and tugged her away from Keenan. The Dark King kept hold of her as he turned her to face him. “The kingling is telling the truth. I couldn’t tell you last night. I wanted to, but there are rules.”

“Iri?” Leslie gaped at the Dark King. “Honestly?”

“I’m here.” He pulled her into his arms. “I’ve been here since I died. Every moment.”

“Iri . . . oh gods, I thought . . . He . . .” She leaned against him, and whatever she said next was muffled against his chest—or Niall’s chest, in actuality.

“Far Dorcha is still in town because of you,” Keenan announced. The missing detail suddenly became clear. The head of the death-fey had come to Huntsdale because of the peculiarity of Irial’s state of death.

As Irial-Niall turned, he kept one arm around Leslie, and for an odd moment, Keenan wasn’t entirely sure which of them was currently in possession of the Dark King’s body. “Yes.”

Leslie looked at Irial-Niall. “Who?”

“Death,” Keenan answered. He sat down on the edge of a relatively clean table near the unlit fireplace. “I will do whatever Niall needs, but we have to have a plan. Far Dorcha can’t stay in town. Bananach is already trouble enough.”

“Her,” Leslie muttered. “She needs to die an ugly death.”

“My bloodthirsty girl.” Irial smiled at Leslie, and the proud darkness in that smile made quite clear that it was the former Dark King in control.

Leslie scowled. “I’m not bloodthirsty, but . . . seriously, she killed you. She needs to be dead.”

“Except killing her could kill every faery, love,” Irial pointed out. He glanced at Keenan and added in a level voice, “That’s the problem. It’s the only reason our boy hasn’t gone after her. Perhaps you might take it up with your ex-queen’s . . . What is he?”

“Ex-queen?” Leslie’s eyes widened. “Ash isn’t Summer Queen now?”

“She is,” Keenan said. “I’m no longer Summer King, though.”

Leslie leaned her head against the Dark King’s shoulder. “How about we start at the beginning?”

Irial tilted her chin up so that he could stare at her. “In a moment.”

Without looking at Keenan, Irial made a shooing gesture with one hand.

And Keenan walked out to give them their privacy. He’d only left the Summer Court a day ago, but embracing his Winter Court nature meant that the complicated relationships of the Dark Court were unsettling now. After centuries of spending much of his free time pursuing girl after girl, the idea of eternity with only one faery was his sole desire.

Before he could begin that eternity, Keenan needed to help his former advisor—and the dead faery who’d once helped bind Summer—figure out how to nullify Bananach, and convince Far Dorcha to depart.

Keenan sighed.

No problem.