Ink Exchange (Wicked Lovely 2)

Neither of them spoke for a few moments.

Finally, she picked up the blanket and stood. “You sure you don’t mind if I crash back there?”

“Lock the door. It won’t hurt my feelings, and you’ll sleep better.”

She nodded and walked away. In the hallway, she paused and said, “Thank you.”

“Get some sleep. Later, you need to talk to Ash. There’s other things….” He paused and sighed. “She should be the one to tell you. Okay?”

“Okay.” Leslie couldn’t imagine what sorts of things Aislinn could say that would be any more awful or weird than what Leslie already knew, but she felt nervous at the tone in Seth’s voice. She added, “Later. Not tonight.”

“Soon,” Seth insisted.

“Yeah, soon. I promise.” And then she closed the door to Seth’s room and turned the lock, hating that she felt compelled to do so but knowing that she’d feel safer with it in place.

She stretched out on top of Seth’s bed, not pulling back the covers but wrapping up in the blanket he’d given her. She lay there in the darkened room and tried to focus on thoughts of Niall, of how carefully he’d held her when she was dancing with him, of his soft laugh against her throat.

But it wasn’t Niall she dreamed of when she fell asleep: it was Irial. And it wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare to rival the worst ones she’d had: Irial’s eyes staring back at her from the faces of the men who’d raped her, the men who’d held her down and done things that made the word rape seem somehow tame.

It was his voice that echoed in her head as she fought to wake and couldn’t. “Soon, a ghrá,” he whispered from those other men’s mouths. “Soon, we’ll be together.”

CHAPTER 14

Since the Summer King was looking elsewhere for him, Irial had gone to the place where the court’s darlings were most likely to be, the Rath and Ruins. Better to let Keenan stew a bit longer before meeting. The more the Summer regents panicked, the more emotional they’d be, and Irial could use a good meal. In the interim, he’d had the fun of watching Niall snarl over Leslie with a possessive streak that was quite unlike the Summer Court.

It made sense that the Gancanagh was already drawn to Leslie. Her growing bond with Irial was enough to make her tempting to everyone in the Dark Court. While Niall might have rejected the Dark Court so very many years ago, he was still connected to them. It was his rightful court, where he belonged whether or not he chose to accept it.

As does Leslie. She might not know it, might not realize it, but something in her had recognized Irial as a fitting match. She’d chosen him. Not even riding with Gabriel’s Hounds was as satisfying as knowing that the little mortal was soon to be his, as knowing that he’d have her as a conduit to drink down emotions from mortals. The hints and teasing tastes he’d already been able to pull through her were a lovely start to how it would soon be. The Dark Court had fed only on fey for so long that finding nourishment from mortals had been lost to them—until Rabbit had started doing the ink exchanges. So much would be better once this exchange was finished. And she might be strong enough to handle it. Now he just had to wait, bide his time, fill in the hours until she was fully his.

Idly, Irial needled Niall, “Shouldn’t you have a keeper or something, boy?”

“I could ask the same of you.” Niall’s expression and tone were disdainful, but his emotions were in flux. Over the years, the Gancanagh had continued to worry over Irial’s well-being—though Niall would never say it aloud—and something had made that worry far more pronounced than usual. Irial made a note to ask Gabriel to look into it.

“A wise king has guards,” Niall added. His concern had an edge of genuine fear now.

“A weak king, you mean. Dark Kings don’t need to be cosseted.” Irial turned his attention to finding a new distraction: Niall was too easily provoked just now, and Irial felt too much affection for him. At best, it was a bittersweet indulgence to taste Niall’s emotions.

One of the waitresses, a wraith with crescent moons glowing in her eyes, paused. One of Far Dorcha’s kin. Death-fey didn’t usually linger in the too-cheerful Summer Court. Here was another lovely distraction. He beckoned her closer. “Darling?”

She glanced at the cubs, the rowan guards, and at Niall’s glowering face—not in anxiety, but to track where they were. Wraiths could handle their own in almost any conflict: no one escapes death’s embrace, not if death truly wants you.

“Irial?” The wraith’s voice drifted over the air, as refreshing as a sip of the moon, as heavy as churchyard soil on his tongue.

“Would you fetch me some nice hot tea”—Irial made a pinching gesture with his first two fingers—“with just a kiss of honey in it?”

After a low curtsy, she floated around the assembled fey and headed behind the bar.

She’d be lovely at home. Perhaps she’d be willing to wander.

With a lazy smile at the scowling group, Irial followed her. None of them stepped in his way. They wouldn’t. He might not be their king, but he was a king. They wouldn’t—couldn’t—assault or impede him, no matter how many of their delicate sensibilities he offended.

The little wraith set his tea on the slick slab of obsidian that made up the bar.

He pulled out a stool and angled it so he had his back to the Summer Court’s guards. Then he turned his attention to the wraith. “Precious, what are you doing with this crowd?”

“It’s home.” She brushed his wrist with grave-damp fingers.

Unlike the rest of the faeries in the club or on the streets, the wraith was immune to him: he’d not provoke any fear in her. But she would pull it from others: hers was a sort of unpleasant beauty that they all feared—and sometimes longed for.