Ink Exchange

Epilogue

As he often had over the past few weeks, Niall watched Leslie step out into the street. The mortal boy waiting there shrugged off whatever she said to him with a smile. He watched her with a protectiveness Niall approved of— putting his body streetside, keeping alert to the passing mortals. She needed friends like him. She needed the way the mortals made her laugh. Not me. Not now. The shadows under her eyes were fading; her stride was steadier, more confident.

"Looks good, doesn't she?" said an unwelcome voice behind him.

"Go away." Niall pulled his gaze away from Leslie, turning to face the king of the Dark Court.

Irial lounged against the newsstand, hat tipped low on his brow.

How did I not notice him?

"Healthier too, without that wretch of a brother causing her trouble," Irial added. With a friendliness that seemed at odds with the situation, he stepped forward and draped an arm over Niall's shoulder. They were of equal height, so it was an almost embracing gesture.

Niall shrugged off Irial's arm and asked, "What do you want?"

"To check on our girl—and you." Irial watched Leslie with a strange look that Niall would call protective if it were anyone else.

He's not capable of that, though. He's the heart of the Dark Court. But Niall knew he was trying to lie to himself, knew he'd been lying to himself for centuries: Irial wasn't what Niall had let himself believe. He was neither as awful as Niall believed nor as kind as he'd first seemed. He still doesn't deserve to be near her.

Leslie had been joined by several other mortals. One of them said something that made her laugh out loud.

Niall stepped in front of the Dark King. "She's free of you. If you—"

"Relax, boy." He laughed softly. "Do you really believe I'd hurt her?"

"You did hurther."

"I took away her choices when I didn't warn her about the ink exchange. I used her. I did what we have both done with mortals forever."

Niall started, "It's—"

"Exactly what your last king did with his lovely queen and the rest of his formerly mortal playthings" — Irial paused, a strange solemn look on his face—“but you'll figure it out soon enough." Then, staring past Niall toward Leslie and her mortal friends, Irial said, "Once I gave you the choice between giving me the mortals you'd addicted or giving me yourself. You gave me yourself. That's what a good king does, Gancanagh—makes hard choices. You know what we are, yet you kept our secrets. You're setting aside your love for Leslie for her best interests. You're going to make an excellent king."

And before Niall could react, Irial pressed his mouth to the long scar that he'd once allowed Gabriel to carve on Null's face. Niall felt his knees give out under him, felt a disquieting new energy flood his body, felt the awareness of countless dark fey like threads in a great tapestry weaving his life to theirs.

"Take good care of the Dark Court. They deserve that. They deserve you." Irial bowed his head. "My king."

"No," Niall stumbled back, tottering on the sidewalk, nearly falling into the traffic. "I don't want this. I've told you—

"The court needs new energy, Gancanagh. I got us through Beira's reign, found ways to strengthen us. I'm tired—more changed by Leslie than I'll admit, even to you. You may have broken our tie, seared me from her skin, but that doesn't undo my changes. I am no longer fit to lead my court." Irial smiled sadly. "My court—your court now— needs a new king. You're the right choice. You have always been the next Dark King."

"Take it back." Niall felt the foolishness of his words, but he couldn't think of anything more articulate.

"If you don't want it—"

"I don't."

"Pick someone worthy to pass it on to, then." Irial's eyes were lightening ever so slightly. The eerily tempting energy that had always clung to him like a haze was less overwhelming now. "In the meantime, I offer you what I've never offered another—my fealty, Gancanagh, my king."

He knelt then, head bowed, there on the busy sidewalk. Mortals craned their necks to stare.

And Niall gaped at him, the last Dark King, as the reality settled on him. He'd just grab the first dark fey he saw and … turn over this kind of power to some random faery? A dark faery? He thought of Bananach and the Ly Ergs circling, seeking war and violence. Irial was moderate in comparison to Bananach's violence. Niall couldn't turn the court over to just anyone, not in good conscience, and Irial knew it.

"The head of the Dark Court has always been chosen from the solitary fey. I waited a long time to find another after you said no. But then I realized I was waiting for you to leave Keenan. You didn't choose me over him, but you chose the harder path." Irial stood then and took Niall's face in his hands, gently but firmly, and kissed his forehead. "You'll do well. And when you are ready to talk, I'll still be here."

Then he disappeared into the throng of mortals winding down the sidewalk, leaving Niall speechless and bewildered.

Irial didn't look back, didn't turn toward Leslie or Niall. He kept moving until he was lost in the crowd of mortals whose feelings he could read but not drink.

Not without her.

He could feel her out there, confident in her world, seeing the things that watched her from the shadows and not flinching. Sometimes he felt teasing tastes of her longing—for him and for Niall—but he'd not go to her, not now, not with her happy in her new world. She was making up the courses she'd missed during her time with him, proud of herself, rebuilding herself. She'd start college in the fall.

Not mine, not his, but Her Own. It pleased him, knowing that, and having those brief bursts of connection with her. He'd had a fear that relinquishing his throne would also end his tie with Leslie. He'd let that fear delay his stepping down. Fear of losing my last link to my Shadow Girl. Her actions had burned away the tendrils of vine where they'd burrowed into her flesh. He'd felt it, like losing feeling in a limb, setting him off-kilter so badly that he'd been despondent at the loss. But he could still taste the echo of her— not always, not even often, but there were moments when he felt her—like phantom pains in a missing limb. It was his craving for those moments that proved his inadequacy to lead his court. He might be out of her skin, but she'd left him as something other than what he'd been before—not mortal, but not strong enough to deserve the title of Dark King.

What does it mean when nightmares dream of peace? When shadows wish for light?

She might not be bound to him, but she was still his Shadow Girl. He'd given her his vow: to take care of her, to keep her from hurt or pain, from wanting for anything. Her leaving didn't negate his promises; they weren't conditional. And if Niall wasn't bound to a court, kept tied to some cause or purpose, he'd eventually go to Leslie. Their Gancanagh might mean well, but his nature—like Irial's— was to be addictive to mortals. He was still a thing of shadows despite how long he'd run from who he was. Not now. Now that Niall was bound to the Dark Court, his addictive nature was nullified. And mine is returned. Like Irial had once been, Niall was strengthened by his court, just as the court would be strengthened by Niall.

To look after the Dark Court, Irial had found them a better king. To care for Niall, Irial had given him the court. And to love Leslie, Irial would stay away from her. Sometimes love means letting go when you want to hold on tighter. It was the only way he knew to protect the court, the faery, and the only mortal who'd ever mattered to him.