Ink Exchange (Wicked Lovely 2)

“I don’t.”

“Pick someone worthy to pass it on to, then.” Irial’s eyes were lightening ever so slightly. The eerily tempting energy that had always clung to him like a haze was less overwhelming now. “In the meantime, I offer you what I’ve never offered another—my fealty, Gancanagh, my king.”

He knelt then, head bowed, there on the busy sidewalk. Mortals craned their necks to stare.

And Niall gaped at him, the last Dark King, as the reality settled on him. He’d just grab the first dark fey he saw and…turn over this kind of power to some random faery? A dark faery? He thought of Bananach and the Ly Ergs circling, seeking war and violence. Irial was moderate in comparison to Bananach’s violence. Niall couldn’t turn the court over to just anyone, not in good conscience, and Irial knew it.

“The head of the Dark Court has always been chosen from the solitary fey. I waited a long time to find another after you said no. But then I realized I was waiting for you to leave Keenan. You didn’t choose me over him, but you chose the harder path.” Irial stood then and took Niall’s face in his hands, gently but firmly, and kissed his forehead. “You’ll do well. And when you are ready to talk, I’ll still be here.”

Then he disappeared into the throng of mortals winding down the sidewalk, leaving Niall speechless and bewildered.

Irial didn’t look back, didn’t turn toward Leslie or Niall. He kept moving until he was lost in the crowd of mortals whose feelings he could read but not drink.

Not without her.

He could feel her out there, confident in her world, seeing the things that watched her from the shadows and not flinching. Sometimes he felt teasing tastes of her longing—for him and for Niall—but he’d not go to her, not now, not with her happy in her new world. She was making up the courses she’d missed during her time with him, proud of herself, rebuilding herself. She’d start college in the fall.

Not mine, not his, but Her Own. It pleased him, knowing that, and having those brief bursts of connection with her. He’d had a fear that relinquishing his throne would also end his tie with Leslie. He’d let that fear delay his stepping down. Fear of losing my last link to my Shadow Girl. Her actions had burned away the tendrils of vine where they’d burrowed into her flesh. He’d felt it, like losing feeling in a limb, setting him off-kilter so badly that he’d been despondent at the loss. But he could still taste the echo of her—not always, not even often, but there were moments when he felt her—like phantom pains in a missing limb. It was his craving for those moments that proved his inadequacy to lead his court. He might be out of her skin, but she’d left him as something other than what he’d been before—not mortal, but not strong enough to deserve the title of Dark King.

What does it mean when nightmares dream of peace? When shadows wish for light?

She might not be bound to him, but she was still his Shadow Girl. He’d given her his vow: to take care of her, to keep her from hurt or pain, from wanting for anything. Her leaving didn’t negate his promises; they weren’t conditional. And if Niall wasn’t bound to a court, kept tied to some cause or purpose, he’d eventually go to Leslie. Their Gancanagh might mean well, but his nature—like Irial’s—was to be addictive to mortals. He was still a thing of shadows despite how long he’d run from who he was. Not now. Now that Niall was bound to the Dark Court, his addictive nature was nullified. And mine is returned. Like Irial had once been, Niall was strengthened by his court, just as the court would be strengthened by Niall.

To look after the Dark Court, Irial had found them a better king. To care for Niall, Irial had given him the court. And to love Leslie, Irial would stay away from her. Sometimes love means letting go when you want to hold on tighter. It was the only way he knew to protect the court, the faery, and the only mortal who’d ever mattered to him.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

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I wanted the representation of all things tattoo-related to be as accurate and respectful as possible, so every tattoo reference in this book was handed to my tattoo artist, Paul Roe, to examine. Along the way, I’ve learned a great deal about the history of the art, the assembly of the machines, and minutia ranging from the metals one could use (what with faeries being sensitive to steel/iron) to why tattoo artists position the canvas in various ways. If there are errors, I hope you’ll forgive me. If there aren’t, the credit goes to Paul.

Leslie’s tattoo is at the center of Ink Exchange. I knew that early on; I just didn’t know exactly what the tattoo looked like. It needed to be a representation of Irial’s nature, and while I had the words that made Iri come to life for me, I didn’t have a visual that captured his essence. The universe gives us what we need, though; I believe that. What I needed was Paul’s art and wisdom. To say that he was essential to the creation of this novel would be an understatement.

As with the tattoos I wear on my skin, I gave Paul my words; he answered with his images. The final result was the art that’s hung in my direct line of sight for the past year. Thanks to Paul, Irial’s eyes look back at me every day while I work.

It’s an amazing thing when two people’s muses can dance together.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The past year plus has seen Wicked Lovely (my first book) go from revision to being on shelves—and Ink Exchange go from concept to completion. This was daunting, but the warm encouragement I’ve received has made it possible. To everyone at HarperCollins US and HarperCollins UK; to my publishers abroad (especially Franziska at Carlsen in Germany); to librarians, booksellers, readers, parents, journalists, teachers, and the folks at the fansite (especially Maria); to my amazing financial manager, Peggy Hileman; and to the innumerable others I’ve met online and in person: I’ve been humbled by your kindness and support. Thank you, all.

Special thanks go to Clare Dunkle, who has touched my heart first with her novels and then in the past year with her wisdom. It’s been a privilege.

My agent, Rachel Vater, makes chaos look like order. Whether you’re talking me down, keeping me company as I wander, or flashing those pretty fangs, I am ever grateful.

My two passionate editors, Anne Hoppe and Nick Lake, continue to exceed expectations. Your insights, notes, and hours of chatting have made the text clearer and closer to the ideals I strive to reach.

Kelsey Defatte read the very earliest versions of this manuscript. Craig Thrush read through my conflict scenes. I am indebted to you both. And I am extremely indebted to Jeaniene Frost for hours of talking, revision letters to rival editors’ letters, and so many epiphany-stirring observations. Thanks, J.

My tattoo artist, Paul Roe, read the tattoo sequences and answered innumerable questions on the minutiae of the art and its history. For this, for decorating my skin, and for all the rest, you have been essential to me.

Some rare people have given me their affection through years of chaos and calm—Dawn Kobel, Carly Chandler, Kelly Kincy, Rachael Morgan, Craig Thrush, and most of all, Cheryl and Dave Lafferty. Thank you for keeping me steady. Words can’t cover what you mean to me.

None of the rest of this would’ve meant a thing if it weren’t for the people who enrich every aspect of my life—my parents, children, and spouse. I’m fairly certain I exist only because you are beside me.

—June 2007

About the Author