Ink Exchange (Wicked Lovely 2)

Vendors were selling sweets from their carts; drunken mortals laughed and shouted. A game of some sort or perhaps a concert must be letting out. People crowded the streets so much that traffic was unable to move. The Dark King wove through the stopped cars and angrily honking drivers, past a group of mortals singing quite poorly and doing what they seemed to think was dancing.

Once in the park, Irial motioned to a stone bench his fey had just finished clearing. “This is your sort of place, isn’t it? Would you rather go—”

“It’s fine.” But Niall stood, leaning against a tree, not at ease with having his back to the fey roaming the street.

Irial shrugged as he folded himself gracefully onto the bench, looking perversely like an ingénue unaware of the effect he had on the gaping mortals around them. “So”—he lit a cigarette—“I expect you’re here about my Leslie.”

“She’s not yours.”

Irial took a long drag off the cigarette. “You think?”

“Yes. I do.” Niall turned slightly, watching several faeries who were approaching from the left. He didn’t trust Irial or the solitary faeries who were watching or—actually he didn’t trust anyone right then.

Irial motioned several of his faeries closer and directed, “I want the immediate area empty.” Then he turned his attention to Niall. “Sit. I’ll not allow any harm to you while you sit with me—my vow on that.”

Stunned by the generous vow Irial’d offered him—no harm at all, thus saying his own safety was secondary to Niall’s—he sat and stared at the Dark King. It didn’t change things, though: a moment of kindness didn’t undo Leslie’s situation or Irial’s long-ago cruelty.

“Leslie’s not yours,” Niall said. “She’s her own, bond or not. You just don’t realize it yet.”

“Aaah, you’re still a fool, Gancanagh.” Irial exhaled a cloud of smoke and leaned back. “A passionate one, but a fool nonetheless.”

Niall said it then, the words he’d never thought to say to Irial, the start of a conversation that had once been his greatest nightmare. “Would you trade for her freedom?”

Something

indecipherable flashed in Irial’s eyes as he lowered his cigarette. “Perhaps. What are you offering?”

“What do you want?”

A weary look passed over Irial’s face. “Sometimes, I’m not sure anymore. I’ve held this court through the wars between Beira and the last Summer King, through Beira’s fits of temper, but this new order…I’m tired, Niall. What do I want?” Irial’s usual facade—half amused and half callous—returned then. “What does any king want? I want to keep my fey safe.”

“How does Leslie fit into that?”

“Are you asking for the kingling or for yourself?” Irial’s tone was once more the needling one he so often used when they spoke: the Dark King had never quite forgiven Niall for running. They both knew that.

“What do you want from me in exchange? I’m here to bargain. What’s your price, Irial?” Niall felt such a swirl of emotions at actually saying the words—self-disgust that he’d failed Leslie, anger that his king had failed him, dismay that he was touched by Irial’s kindness. “I know how this works. Tell me what you’re willing to give up and what it’ll cost me.”

“You never did figure it out, did you?” Irial asked incredulously. But before Niall could speak, Irial held up his hand. “Revel in the feelings you’re fighting not to show me, and I’ll answer you.”

“Do what?” Niall had heard of odd bargains, but here he was exposing himself to Irial’s whims, and the Dark King offered answers in exchange for “giving in to his feelings.” Niall scowled. “What sort of—”

“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.”