Ink Exchange (Wicked Lovely 2)

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.”

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“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.”

CHAPTER 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?”