Old Habits (8 page)

For a moment, Niall considered forcing the matter, but if it had taken him centuries to change, it was far from unreasonable for Irial to ask for a few years. Niall nodded. “Done.”

“May I rise
now
?” Irial asked.

“Actually, no. You can stay like that. In fact, maybe you should always stay like that when you bring me news.” Niall dropped the barrier and told his court, “I am a member of this court, not merely your king.”

They paused, a calm rippling over the melee for a moment.

One faery asked, “So we can hit you?”

“You can try,” Niall challenged, and then he launched himself into the fracas. He was a part of them, rejoicing in the violence that fed them, standing alongside them as he hadn’t done since he’d walked away so many centuries ago. He felt their excitement at his inclusion in their fight, and he smiled.

This, at least, I understand.

Irial felt unconscionably proud of his king as Niall waded into the fight that was now more than a conflict between Devlin and the Ly Ergs. The fight had evolved into the sort of raucous brawl that erupted often in the Dark Court. It was a way to let off steam and a way to create nourishment for one another. What would look like senseless violence to outsiders was, in actuality, a way of caring for one another. They created fear and anger in one another, and in doing so, they created that which they fed on. It wasn’t Irial’s preferred sustenance, but he could see the beauty of it.

Especially when Niall fights.

Niall had always fought with the sort of unrestrained passion that awed Irial. The Dark King was in the thick of the fight, swinging at Hounds and Ly Ergs and Vilas.

Glass shattered over Irial and rained down on him. With it came the remains of a bottle of merlot. The dark wine dripped on Irial, but he stayed exactly where his king had told him to stay: kneeling in the midst of the chaos of a beautiful, bloody battle.

The fight now included a full three score of faeries. More than a few faeries took advantage of the melee to pelt things at him or at the walls and ceiling. Debris rained on him. At least three blows struck him. He didn’t ignore them, but fighting while remaining kneeling was a new challenge.

Finally Niall came over and grabbed him by the upper arm. “Get up.”

Silently, Irial obeyed. He could barely restrain the joy he felt, but, overjoyed or not, he had obeyed—and that was the point. He brushed bits of glass from his arms and shook splinters of wood from his hair.

“Stay next to me or next to Gabe,” Niall demanded as he swung at an exuberant thistle-fey. “Clear?”

“Yes.” Irial grabbed a length of what appeared to be a chair and sent it like a spear toward Devlin.

The High Court assassin knocked it from the air with a nod. He wasn’t injured in any visible way, but he was blood-covered and smiling. Devlin might choose to ignore the fact that he was brother to both Order and Chaos, but here in the midst of the Dark Court’s violence, it was abundantly clear that he was not truly a creature of the High Court.

Another faery went sailing through the air, knocking into Devlin as if a running leap would make a difference. It didn’t. The High Court’s Bloodied Hands swatted the faery from the air and moved on to the next opponent.

“They lack structure,” a Hound grumbled as she stomped on a fallen Vila’s hand. “No plan in the attack.”

“Was there supposed to be a plan?” Irial asked.

The Hound looked past him to Niall, who nodded. Then she answered, “No. Gabe thought a bit of sport would be good for everyone. The king agreed.” She lowered her voice a touch and added, “
He
fights well enough that I’d follow him.”

“He is remarkable.” Irial glanced at Niall. The Dark King was enjoying himself as the fight began to evolve into a contest of sorts. In one corner, Devlin stood atop a pile of tables and wood; in another, Gabriel stood with his back to the wall; and beside Irial, Niall stood on a small raised platform. All around the room the Dark Court faeries scrabbled toward one of the strongest fighters. Without speaking, the brawl began to resemble nothing so much as a bloodier version of King of the Hill. Everybody wanted to topple one of the best fighters, if even for a moment, and all of them were having fun.

Devlin had more than held his own against the Dark Court’s fighter, reminding them that he was not to be ignored. All of the faeries in the room had more nourishment than could’ve been hoped for as a result of the flare of violence and blood sport.

And Niall made his point.

The new Dark King had played them all like pawns.

Irial started to back away, and the Hound next to him clamped a hand on his arm. Irial glanced from her to Niall, who grinned, dodged a punch from a glaistig, and came over to stand beside him. “I don’t think you were dismissed.”

The Hound and the glaistig both laughed.

I love my court.

“As you wish.” Irial stepped around the Hound to lean against a wall out of the fight. He had more than his fill of fighting. If he could fight Niall, it’d be different, but fighting for random sport wasn’t his preferred entertainment.

Almost an hour later, Devlin bowed to Gabriel and then to Niall.

The faeries dispersed, limping, bleeding, stumbling— and chortling with glee.

“The High Queen sends her greetings,” Devlin said as he approached Niall. “She reminds the new Dark King that he is no different than any other faery and that she expects him to abide by the same restraints the last”—Devlin looked at Irial then—“Dark King observed.”

None of them voiced the unspoken truths about the numerous visits that Irial had paid to the High Queen in Faerie, but they all knew of those visits.
Such is the way of it.
Irial kept his gaze on his king rather than reply to Devlin. It was the
king
who needed to answer the invitation implicit in those words.

Niall didn’t disappoint.

“Please let Sorcha know that her greeting was received, that her Assassin has made her willingness to strike at me and mine abundantly clear, and”—Niall stood face-to-face with Devlin—“if she ever touches those under my protection without just cause, I will be at her step.”

Devlin nodded. “Will you be requesting an audience with her?”

“No,” Niall said. “There is nothing and no one in Faerie right now that interests me enough to visit.”

For a breath, Irial thought Devlin was going to strike Niall, but the moment passed.

Then Niall smiled. He gestured behind him and a Vila escorted a sightless mortal man into the room.

“Blinding them and leaving them helpless”—Niall didn’t turn to look at the mortal—“is unacceptable. My court has offered this man protection. He will not be taken to Faerie or otherwise accosted.” He kept his gaze on Devlin.

The ghost of a smile flickered on Devlin’s face, but all he said was: “I shall relay the message to my queen.”

“And any discussion she has on Dark Court matters”— Niall stepped forward—“will be handled between regents or via official emissaries.”

Devlin did smile this time. “My queen has only one emissary. Do you have a chosen proxy?”

“As of this moment, no, but”—Niall glanced at Irial— “perhaps that will change
in time
.” The Dark King turned his back on all of them then and said only, “Gabriel.”

The Hound inclined his head toward the door, and Devlin preceded Gabriel toward it. The two faeries walked out of the building, and then Irial and Niall were left alone in the destruction.

Irial waited for the words that went with the frustrated anger that he could taste. He counted a dozen heartbeats before his king turned to face him.

“Don’t push me again, Iri,” Niall whispered. “I rule this damnable court now, and I’ll do it with you on my side—
as you promised—
or with you under my boot.”

Irial opened his mouth, but Niall growled.

“You tell me you care about them, and about me, so you better prove it.” Niall blinked against a trickle of blood that ran into his eye. “I don’t expect you to change today, but you need to trust me more than you have.”

“I trust you with my life.” Irial ripped the edge of his shirt off and held it out.

“I know that,” Niall muttered. “Now try trusting me with
my
life.”

And to that, Irial had no reply. He kept his mouth closed as Niall stomped through the destruction and left. The Dark King was here, truly and fully, and Irial would do what he could to serve his king.

As truthfully as I can.

There was no way to tell Niall everything, but he had three years before he had to be fully honest. An otherwise unoccupied faery could get a lot accomplished in three years, and the sort of king Niall was could get his court in order in far less time than that. All told, the Dark Court was better off than it had been in quite some time.

And so is Niall.

Niall walked through the ruins of the tattoo shop. Shards of painted glass crunched under his boots. The floor was strewn with vials of ink, unopened needles, electric apparatus he couldn’t identify, and other things he’d rather
not
identify. The Dark King had known rage before, known grief; he’d felt helpless, felt unprepared; but he’d never before had all of those emotions converge on him at once.

He paused and lifted one of the mangled bits of metal and wire from the floor. He turned it over in his hand. Only a year ago, a tattoo machine—maybe this one—had bound Irial to the mortal who had brought the former Dark King and Niall together again after a millennium. Irial was the constant, the one faery that had been a part of Niall’s life— for better and worse—for more than a thousand years.

Niall stabbed his bloodied hand with the broken tattoo machine. His own blood welled up and mingled with the drying blood on his hands.
His blood. Irial’s blood is on my hands because
I couldn’t stop Bananach.
Niall lifted the broken machine in his hand, but before he could stab himself a second time, a Hound grabbed his wrist.

“No.” The Hound, Gabriel’s mate, Chela, took the machine. “The stretcher is here, and—”

“Is he awake?”

Mutely, Chela shook her head and led him toward the living room, where Irial lay.

“He will heal,” Niall said, trying the words out, testing the Hound’s reaction to his opinion.

“I hope so,” she said, even as her doubt washed over him. Irial was motionless on the litter. The uneven rising and falling of his chest proved that he still lived, but the pinched look on his face made clear that he was suffering. His eyes were closed, and his taunting grin was absent.

The healer was finishing packing some sort of noxious-smelling plants against the wound, and Niall wasn’t sure whether it was worse to look at Irial or at the bloodied bandages on the floor.

The Hound, Gabriel’s second-in-command, lowered her voice. “The Hunt stands at your side, Niall. Gabriel has made that clear. We will fight at your side. We will
not
let Bananach near you.”

Niall came to stand beside Irial and asked the healer, “Well?”

“He’s as stable as can be expected.” The healer turned to face Niall. “We can make him comfortable while the poison takes him or we can end his suffer—”

“No!” Niall’s abyss-guardians flared to life in shared rage. “You will
save
him.”

“Bananach stabbed him with a knife carved of
poison
. He’s as good as d—” The rest of the words were lost under the Dark King’s roar of frustration.

Irial opened his eyes, grabbed Niall’s hand, and rasped, “Don’t kill the messenger, love.”

“Shut up, Irial,” Niall said, but he didn’t pull his hand away. With his free hand, he motioned for the waiting faeries to approach. “Be careful with him.”

Niall released Irial’s hand so that the faeries could lift the stretcher.

As they left the tattoo shop, Hounds fell into formation around Niall and the injured king, walking in front, flanking them, and following them.

The former Dark King’s eyes closed again; his chest did not appear to rise.

Niall reached out and put a hand on the injured faery’s chest. “Irial!”

“Still here.” Irial didn’t open his eyes, but he smiled a little.

“You’re an ass,” Niall said, but he kept his hand on Irial’s chest so that he could feel both pulse and breath.

“You too, Gancanagh,” Irial murmured.

Far too many miles away from Huntsdale, Keenan leaned against the damp cave wall. Outside, the desert sky glimmered with stars, but he wanted to be home, had wanted to be home since almost the moment he’d left.
Soon.
He’d needed to be away, needed to find answers, and until he did that he couldn’t go back. Being on his own was unheard of, but despite the challenges, he was certain he was doing the right thing. Of course, he’d been certain of a lot of things. Surety was not a trait he lacked, but it did not always lead to wise choices.

He closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

“Is this what you freely choose, to risk winter’s chill?” Sunlight flickered under his skin, and he reveled in the hope that this time it would not end, that this time,
this girl,
was the one he’ d been seeking for so long.

She didn’t look away. “It’s what
you
want.”

“You understand that if you are not the one, you’ll carry the Winter Queen’s chill until the next mortal risks this? And you agree to warn her not to trust me?” He paused, and she nodded. “If she refuses me, you will tell the next girl and the next”—he moved closer—“and not until one accepts, will you be free of the cold.”

“I do understand.” She walked over to the hawthorn bush. The leaves brushed against her arms as she bent down and reached under it—and stopped.

She straightened and stepped away from the staff. “I understand, and I
want
to help you . . . but I can’t. I won’t. Maybe if I loved you, I could, but . . . I don’t love you. I’m so sorry, Keenan.”