Ink Exchange (24 page)

“Stop holding all those darker feelings in, and I’ll give you the answers you need.” Irial smiled like they were friends who’d been having a reasonable conversation. “Just let yourself feel your emotions, Niall. That’s all I ask, and I’ll share information commensurate in worth with what you feel and how fully you feel it.”

“How will you—”

“Gancanagh…would you rather I ask for other favors? I’d rather not bargain with baser coins, not with you, not with anyone I have affection for.” Irial leaned close enough and smiled such a wicked smile that Niall
was reminded of more pleasant times with Irial long ago, before Niall knew who and what Irial was, before he knew what he himself was.

So Niall let his temper reign, released his hold on that pit of anger at Keenan’s betrayal, let it bubble over. It wasn’t an emotion he often let reign, but it was the one he’d been trying to quell for hours. It was almost a relief to feel the rage.

Irial’s pupils dilated. His hands clenched. “That’s one.”

Niall thought about the mortals he’d wooed and left wasting away when he knew no better, thought of Leslie pliable and eager in his arms. He could picture her, kiss-drunk, and he wanted that—wanted
her
with a longing that was heavier for being denied.

“Two…Just one more emotion, Gancanagh,” Irial murmured.

And Niall imagined wrapping his hands around Irial’s throat, letting free the jealousy that he felt at the idea of Irial’s hands on Leslie—or of her hands on Irial.

With a shaky hand Irial lit another cigarette. “You play the game well, Gancanagh. I wondered once what you’d do with the knowledge.”

Niall watched, studying the Dark King with a distant calm now, feeling no true emotions at all. “What knowledge?”

“The dark fey starve without emotion, darker emotions. It’s what”—Irial took a drag off his cigarette—“sustains us. Food, drink, air. Everything. There’s a great secret, Niall.
There’s the thing that the others would use against us if they knew.”

Niall hesitated. Part of him wondered why Irial would take such a risk, why he would reveal his secrets, but another less easily embraced part knew exactly why Irial would do so: he trusted Niall. He looked away, lamenting the fact that Irial’s trust wasn’t misplaced. “So why doesn’t Keenan notice? Or Sorcha? How did
I
not know?”

“His volatile nature? Her imperviousness to anything she doesn’t like?” Irial tapped his ash onto the ground. “And you…I don’t know. I thought you’d figured it out back then, and when I realized the kingling didn’t know, I hoped that what we—”

“All of your court feeds like this?” Niall stopped him, not wanting to think about his time with Irial, the realization that Niall’s blurry weeks of mad pleasures had nourished Irial—as, no doubt, had the horrific things that followed when Niall ran.

“They do, or they get weak.” The Dark King’s face revealed a raw pain that was almost embarrassing to see, like glimpsing someone’s most private aches. “Guin died…from a mortal bullet. She was shot.”

Irial stared at the crowd. A barefoot girl was dancing on the hood of a parked car. The driver was holding out her shoes and gesturing at the ground. Irial smiled at them before turning back and adding, “You care for Leslie. If you had known she was already mine, you would’ve tried even harder to keep her from me. You’d have fought for her.”

I knew Irial wanted her and
—Niall stopped himself, uneasy with the fact that Irial could read what he was feeling, and more important, that Niall could use this knowledge to destroy Irial. If the courts knew that they were so easily read and assessed, it would be hard to convince any of them to tolerate the Dark Court’s continued existence.

“Beira knew all of this,” Niall said.

“We needed her. She needed us. Else I wouldn’t have helped her bind the kingling. She kept things in upheaval when my fey needed it.”

“And Leslie fits in how?”

“I needed a backup plan.” Irial smiled, but this time it was dark and deadly, tinged with more than a little challenge. “I need her.”

“You can’t have her,” Niall started. But Irial gripped his arms: every lovely memory Niall had run from and every whispered horror of the Dark Court came rushing to his mind in a morass—then Niall felt like he was swallowing it, like he’d been drinking that too-sweet, forcibly forgotten wine. “Stop.”

Irial let go of him. “I know Keenan has misled and deceived you. I know he was sending you to our girl, putting her in your path. Gabriel watched you struggle with your response to her…. I will not mislead you, not again. I would welcome you back into my home, where Leslie will be. I would still offer you my throne when you are ready.”

Niall blanched. He’d been willing to endure whatever
he’d needed to in exchange for Leslie’s freedom.
Kingship? Affection?
That was not at all what he’d expected.
It’s a ruse, just like always. There was never anything real in what we once were.
Niall ignored all of it. “Would you let her go free in exchange for my fealty?”

“No. She stays, but if you want to be with her, you are ever welcome.” Irial stood and bowed from the waist as if Niall were his equal. “I won’t let my court suffer, even for you. You know what my secrets are, what I am, what I offer you still. I can promise you that she will be kept as happy as I can make her. Beyond that…come home with us or not. It is your choice to make. It has always been your choice.”

And Niall stared at him, speechless, unsure of what answer he could offer that made any sense. He’d spent a long time not remembering the bond he’d shared with Irial, not longing for those years, and not admitting any of this each time he’d crossed paths with Irial. He realized now, though, that no matter how carefully he’d guarded his secrets, he’d been transparent to Irial. If the Dark King could read his emotions, could taste them, he’d known of Niall’s weaknesses each time they’d met.
I’ve been exposed to him the whole time
. Irial didn’t shame him for it. Instead he held out the same acceptance he’d offered centuries ago—and Niall didn’t, couldn’t, reply.

Irial said, “It’s been a long time that you’ve been living for Keenan, paying back some perceived debt. We are what we are, Niall, neither as good or as evil as others paint us.
And what we are doesn’t change how truly we feel, only how free we are to follow those feelings.”

Then he slipped away into the crowd, dancing with mortals as he went and looking every bit like he belonged there among them.

C
HAPTER
28

It was evening when Leslie woke in her own room, wearing the same clothes she’d worn the night before. She’d slept for more than twelve hours, as if her body were fighting off a flu or hangover. She still didn’t feel right. The skin around her tattoo felt tight, stretched too thin. It didn’t burn, or itch, or anything that would make her suspect infection. If anything, it felt too good, as if extra nerves were throbbing there.

Downstairs she could hear cartoons. Ren laughed. Someone else coughed. Others spoke in low voices and broken sentences she couldn’t quite understand. She started to feel the familiar panic, terror that she was here, that she had no clue which of the others were down there.

Idly she wondered when her father had last been home. She hadn’t seen him.
Someone would call if he died.
She didn’t worry over him as she had done for so long.
I should.
Panic started to choke her. Then it just vanished. She knew
that she had changed, and that Irial, who’d caused that change, wasn’t human.

Am I?

Whatever Irial had done, whatever Rabbit had done, whatever her friends had hidden from her…She wanted to feel angry. Objectively, she knew she should feel betrayed, feel despair—rage, even. She tried to summon those feelings, but only the shadows of them rose. The emotions weren’t hers for more than a moment before they fled.

Then Ren was calling up the stairs in a strangled voice, “Leslie?”

With a calm that should have been impossible, she rolled out of bed and went to her door. She was unafraid. It was a remembered feeling, one she liked. After turning the locks—which someone had thrown—she walked to the top of the stairs. As she looked down, she saw him, Irial, standing there beside her brother.

“What are
you
doing here?” she said. Her voice was even, but she shivered. This emotion, excitement, didn’t flee. Unlike the others, this one stayed and grew.

“Seeing you.” He held out a hand. “Assuring that you are well.”

Ren stood beside Irial, trying to get his attention. “Umm, you need…anything? Anything at all?”

“Careful,” Irial murmured, unmindful of everyone but her. His hands were on her hips then.

How did he get up the stairs so quickly?

“Don’t. Please?” She wished she didn’t feel so comforted
that he was here, wished she were sure what she was asking when she repeated, “Please?”

“I’m not here to hurt you,
a ghrá
.” He stepped backward, not looking as he walked down the stairs, not removing his hands from her hips, either.

“You didn’t lie, did you?”

“We don’t.”

Leslie stared at Irial. “Who are you?
What
are you?”

He held her gaze, and for an unreal moment she thought she saw shadows clinging to his skin like dark wings. Her body tingled all over, and she was sure that innumerable tiny mouths touched her skin all at once—soothing her, erasing everything but pleasure. She shivered against the sudden onset of cravings that made no sense. Her mouth was dry, her palms damp, her heart thundering in her head.

Without breaking her gaze, he said, “I’ll take care of you, keep you from hurting or pain. You have my vow on this, Leslie. You’ll never want anything again. Say the word, and it’s yours. No more fear or pain. Just shadows of them, and I’ll take them away. You won’t have to feel them but for a moment. Look.” He dropped his gaze to the air between them. A shadowy vine extended from his body to hers, coiling into her skin. She reached out as if she’d touch it; her hands brushed against the black feathers that curled from it like leaves. When she did, they both flinched.

“It’s real. Whatever you did to me,” she said.

“You wanted to be safe. You wanted to be without fear or pain. You have it.” Irial didn’t wait for her to move; he
pulled her closer so she was leaning against him. He smelled like peat smoke, musty rooms full of sex and longing, sweet-strange and dizzying. She rubbed her cheek against his shirt, breathing in the scent of him.

“I’ll never leave you,” Irial whispered. Then he turned to the assembled crowd. “If anyone ever touches her again—”

The dealer started, “When I…I didn’t know she was your—”

Irial made a gesture. Two very scarred guys appeared out of the empty air. They stepped forward and took hold of the dealer.

He was one of them.
Leslie’s knees buckled.
He…
Her stomach burned as she tried to let that thought finish itself. The terror of the other people in the room, of the dealer who was crying out as he was led away—she felt that too, all of it at once. The lust of the mortals—
mortals?
—in the room, the want, the desperate need. She felt a tangle of emotions assailing her. Flashes of need, of terror, of aching—they flooded her body until she swayed.

“Their feelings…I need…” She clenched Irial’s hand.

“Shhh.” He kissed her, and the feelings evaporated. “They just come through you. Those feeling aren’t yours. Just a blink, and they’re gone from you.”

He had an arm around her, leading her to the sofa.

She stared at the door where the guys—
where did they come from?
—had led the dealer away.

Irial was kneeling in front of her. “It’ll all be fine. No one will hurt you again. Ever. You will get used to the rest.”

Mutely she nodded, watching him the way she’d never watched anyone in her life, transfixed. Irial could make everything good, right, happy. He was an answer to a question she’d forgotten to ask. Her body hummed in a pleasant blur. The feelings that had rolled through her were awful, ugly; she knew that objectively. After Irial took them, all she felt was bliss. Something heavy and floral was in her mouth, on her lips.
Lust. His. Mine.
Her veins sang with it, like fire coursing through her body, seeking her heart, flooding her nerves.

Then Niall’s words echoed in her head, “Surviving is what matters. You can do this.”
Do what? Survive what?
There was nothing bad here. Irial was making her safe. He was taking care of her.

“Come now. They’ll pack your things.” Irial motioned at three almost-androgynous guys who were headed up the stairs. “We need to get out of here. Away from so many mortals. Talk.”

“Talk?” She almost laughed. Talking was pretty far from what was on her mind as he knelt there in front of her. Her eyes felt too wide. Every pore in her body was awake and zinging.

“Or whatever else would make you happy,” he added with a wicked grin. “You’ve done me a great honor, Leslie. The world is yours.”

“I don’t need the world. I need—” She leaned forward until she was able to rest her face against his chest, hating the cloth that was in her way, suddenly furious at the
damnable material. She snarled—then froze, realizing that her hand was already tearing at his shirt, that she’d made a sound that was so far from normal, so far from human that she should be terrified.

He pulled her to her feet, keeping her clutched tightly to his side. “It’s fine. Just the initial changes. Shhh.”

And as he breathed deeply, it
was
fine. He was still talking, though, asking, “What shall I do with them?”

Ren and the others were watching with looks of abject terror. But they didn’t matter now; none of this mattered anymore.
Only Irial. Only this pleasure, this confidence.
That was all that mattered.

“Who cares?” she said.