Ink Exchange (27 page)

“I am.” His voice sounded jagged, not tender this time, not reassuring. “I’m terrified.”

She swayed back and forth as the wind batted against her.

In that implacable way he always seemed to have, Irial began, “We’ll get better at this and—”

“Will it hurt you if I step forward?” Her voice was dispassionate, but she felt excitement at the idea.
Not fear, though.
There still wasn’t any fear, and that’s what she wanted—not to hurt, but to feel normal. She hadn’t been sure before, but in that moment she knew that’s what she needed: the whole of herself, all the parts, all the feelings.
And they’re as far gone as normal is.

“Would you feel it? Would
I
feel it if I fell? Would it hurt?” She looked down at him: he was beautiful, and despite the fact that he’d stolen her choices, she looked at him with a strange tenderness. He kept her safe. The mess she was in might be his fault, but he didn’t abandon her to the madness it caused. He took her into his arms no matter how often she sought him, no matter that he’d had to move his court, that he looked positively exhausted. Tender feelings surged as she thought about it, about him.

When he spoke, it wasn’t to say anything gentle. He pointed at the ground. “So jump.”

Anger, fear, doubt, rolled over her—not pleasant, but real. For a brief moment, they were hers and
real
this time. “I could.”

“You could,” he repeated. “I won’t stop you. I don’t want to steal your will, Leslie.”

“You have, though.” She watched Gabriel walk up and whisper to Irial. “You did this. I’m not happy. I want to be.”

“So jump.” He didn’t take his gaze away from her as he told Gabriel, “Keep everyone back. No mortals. No fey in this street.”

Leslie sat down again. “You’d catch me.”

“I would, but if the fall would please you”—he shrugged—“I’d rather you were happy.”

“Me too.” She rubbed her eyes, as if tears would come.
They won’t.
Crying wasn’t something she did anymore—neither was worrying, raging, or any other of the unpleasant emotions. Parts of her were gone, taken away as surely as the rest of her life. There were no classes, no melodramatic Rianne; there’d be no laughing in the kitchen at Verlaine’s, no dancing at the Crow’s Nest. And there was no way to undo any of the things that had changed.
Going backward is never an option.
But staying where she was wasn’t true happiness either. She was living in a hazy dream—or nightmare. She didn’t know if she could tell the difference just now.

“I’m
not
happy,” she whispered. “I don’t know what I am, but this isn’t happiness.”

Irial began climbing the building, grabbing hold of crumbling brick and broken metal, piercing his hands on the sharp edges, leaving a trail of bloody handprints as he made his way up the wall to her.

“Grab hold,” he said as he paused in the window frame.

And she did. She clung to him, holding on to him like he was the only solid thing left in the world as he finished scaling the building. When he reached the barren rooftop, he stopped and lowered her feet to the ground.

“I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.” He cupped her face in his hands. “I know everything you feel, love. You feel no sorrow, no anger, no worries. How is this a bad thing?”

“It’s not real…. I can’t live like this. I won’t.”

She must have sounded serious enough because he nodded. “Give me a few more days, and I’ll have a solution.”

“Will you tell—”

“No.” He watched her face with something almost vulnerable in his eyes. “It’s best for everyone if we don’t talk of this. Just trust me.”

C
HAPTER
32

Irial had spent several days watching Leslie struggle with the urge to feel something of the emotions she’d lost now that he drank them through her. It was an unexpected dilemma. She’d stepped into traffic, provoked the increasingly aggressive Bananach, and interfered in an altercation with two armed mortals: the moment he relaxed his guard she was out endangering herself. She didn’t make sense to him, but mortals rarely did.

Today she was exhausted—as was he.

He pulled the door to the bedroom closed, tearing his attention away from his sleeping girl. She required so much careful handling, so much hiding of his true feelings. He’d not expected a mortal to change him; that wasn’t part of the plan.

Gabriel looked up as Irial sat at the other end of the sofa and resumed the conversation they’d been having every time Leslie napped. “We haven’t had a good party with mortals in
a while.” He held out an already open long-neck bottle.

“That’s because they break too easily.” Irial took the bottle, sniffed it, and asked, “Is this actually
real
beer? Just beer?”

“Far as you know.” Gabriel leaned back on the sofa, legs stretched out, boot-clad feet tapping in tune to some song that only he heard. “So, party with the mortals?”

“Can you get some that’ll survive for a few nights?” Irial glanced at the closed door, behind which his own too-fragile mortal slept fitfully. “It’ll be better if we don’t need to replace them each week. Just gather the same ones up every few days until we see how it goes.”

He didn’t add that he wasn’t sure how well Leslie would cope with channeling too many mortals’ deaths, fear, and pain. If there were enough of them and they were terrified and angry and lustful enough, she’d be so intoxicated that he doubted that she’d notice a few deaths, but if too many of them died at once, it could upset her.

“A bit of war might be good too. Bananach is testing every boundary you set. Give her a small skirmish?” The fact that Gabriel had mentioned it at all was reason enough to worry.

“She doesn’t have the support yet to get very far.” Irial hated that she was always there at his heels, looking for weaknesses, stirring her small mutinies. In time, she would wear him down. If he didn’t keep the court strong enough, she would rally them to true rebellion. It wouldn’t be the first time. He needed to lull her back to moderate rumblings
of war, not give her reason to get more bold.
First get Leslie situated.

“Bananach tried for Niall again.” Gabriel flashed his teeth in his glee. “Boy still holds his own in a fight.”

Irial would’ve enjoyed seeing that. Niall tended to go for logic before violence, but when he did indulge in a fight, he did it like he did everything: with singular focus. “He’s…well still?”

Gabriel shrugged, but his gleeful expression wasn’t dimming. “He’ll come back sooner or later, Iri. You need to think long term, that’s all.”

Irial didn’t—
couldn’t
—ponder what Niall would do just now. He had hopes, but hope wasn’t a solution. Gabriel was right: Irial did need to think long term. He’d been too focused on his initial ideas. It had been too long since he’d needed to truly plan. During the nine centuries Beira ruled unopposed, Irial had allowed himself to grow weak, to assume that their nourishment would always be so easy. The past few months of having a true Summer King and a new Winter Queen had shown him how quickly change could come—and he hadn’t been ready.

“Tell Bananach to gather whoever wants to go and start a little chaos with Sorcha. I can’t nourish everyone long term. If the seasonal courts are determined to be uncooperative for now, let’s see what we can do with her royal tediousness. If anyone can provoke Sorcha, Bananach is our best choice.”

Gabriel’s forearms grew dark with the details he’d carry
to Bananach—and hopefully satisfy her enough that she wouldn’t be underfoot for a while.

“And Ani”—Irial paused to measure his words carefully—“bring Tish and Rabbit to stay with her. Have them move into the house where we took Guin. With Sorcha’s penchant for stealing half-fey, they’ll be too much at risk once Bananach starts her assault. Now that peace is here, Sorcha won’t keep the High Court in seclusion.”

For a moment, Gabriel hesitated. Then he said, “You’ll be careful with my pups. Ani’s being able to feed off mortals doesn’t make her any less mine. Experimenting on—”

“We won’t do anything she doesn’t consent to.” Irial lit a cigarette. He’d taken to smoking more frequently since Leslie had come to them.
Worry, for her.
He took a few drags before he spoke again. “Let Ani loose with the mortals, too. I want to see what she can drink off them. Maybe she’s what we need to sort this all out.”

“That’ll mean two…parties…because I’m not going in there if my pup is.” Gabriel’s menace had vanished under his disgust at the idea of his pup loose in a crowd. “She’s a good girl.”

“She is, Gabe. Pick a few Hounds you’d trust to mind her. Two rooms, the ones across the hall. We’ll see what it’ll take to fulfill me—and the court, before Leslie slips into a coma. We’ll watch her, keep track of her reactions, and stop when we get close to her limits.” Irial cringed at the idea. A few of the mortals seemed to suffer neural damage if they were pushed too far.

“Gather up a few of Keenan’s Summer Girls too. They work well as enticement for good behavior. Prizes for those with the most surviving mortals come dawn.” Irial lowered his voice at the sound of movement in the bedroom. Leslie shouldn’t wake just yet, but she was too stubborn to sleep as she should.

Irial held a hand out to Leslie as she walked into the room. She took his hand and curled into his arms.

“You’ll take care of the party plans then?” Irial asked, absently petting Leslie’s hair as she nestled closer.

Gabriel nodded. “Need at least two days, though.”

“That works.” Irial turned his attention back to his girl then, pleased to hear the soft click of the door closing behind Gabriel. “If you can be patient for two more days, we can work on your feeling a little less trapped by this.” He motioned to the feathered vine that bound them together.

“What are—”

“No questions, Leslie. That’s the condition.” He kissed her forehead. “You want more freedom, room to roam?”

She nodded mutely.

“I just need you to stop putting yourself at risk. If you keep doing that, I won’t be able to give you your space.” He watched her face as he spoke, wondering yet again what she’d be like if she could keep some of her emotions, not all of them, but a few.

“Will what you’re doing hurt?” She looked excited at the idea for a moment, interested in the idea of feeling the very thing from which she’d been seeking oblivion.

“Did the first couple weeks with me hurt?”

“I don’t remember.” She licked her lips as if she could taste his worries. She couldn’t because of their tie, but sometimes he felt the tug as she tried to reverse the flow, as if she’d steal
his
emotions. “I don’t have many clear memories of
that.
”

“Exactly.”

“You’re cruel, Irial.” She wasn’t angry, accusing, none of those things. She couldn’t be.

And for a moment, he realized that they both wished she could be.
My Shadow Girl.
He kissed her before he made the mistake of saying what he was thinking.

“I can be, Leslie. And if you keep trying to do damage to yourself, I will be.” He had a brief hope that—even without feeling fear—her basic intellect would be enough to make her realize that this wasn’t something either of them wanted. But she sighed, as if it weren’t a threat but a reward, so he asked, “You remember Niall’s scars?”

“I do.” She watched him carefully, staying motionless.

“You won’t like me if I’m cruel.” He lifted her to her feet.

She stood motionless, hand outstretched. “I don’t like you now.”

“We don’t lie,” he reminded her as he took her hand and pulled her into his arms yet again.

“I’m mortal, Irial. I can lie all I want to,” she whispered.

He let go of her, hating that it was hard to do. “Get changed, love.”

They had a riot to attend. He hadn’t walked her through
hospitals, sanitariums, or the like—
yet
—but tonight he’d take her to the feasts of anger. If he filled her up with all the darkness she could stand and channeled it out to his court, then he could let her breathe for a little while. It was either that or lose her, and right now, that didn’t feel like an option. He’d been trying to build her tolerance slowly, but her stubborn streak—and his desire not to destroy her—had made his timeline no longer workable. Not for the first time since the damnable peace had begun, Irial wanted nothing more than to walk away from his court, from his responsibilities—except now he wanted to take Leslie with him.

C
HAPTER
33

Over the next week, he pushed her until she was so shadow drunk that she retched, but they didn’t discuss it.

They fell into a routine she thought she could accept. Irial didn’t tell her what happened during the nights, and she didn’t ask. It wasn’t a solution—not really—but she felt better. She told herself it was progress of a sort. Sometimes, she felt brief tendrils of lost emotions when Irial kept the connection between them tightly closed, when the shadowed vine stretched like a sleeping serpent between them. In those moments she could lie to herself and say she was happy, that there were benefits to being cosseted so—then the weight of what she had become rolled over her until the cramps of need made her insensible.

No different than any other addict.

Her drug might have a pulse and a voice, but he was a drug all the same. And she’d sunk to depths that would make her dissolve in shame if such feelings were still in her
reach. They weren’t, though: Irial drank them down like some exotic elixir. And when the awfulness reached its pinnacle, Irial’s touch was all that would assuage the maw that yawned open inside of her.

What is it doing to me? Will the darkness consume me?

Irial didn’t have that answer; he couldn’t tell her what it would do to her body, her health, her longevity—anything. All he could tell her was that he was there, that he’d protect her, that he’d keep her safe and well.