“Do you deny me entrance?” Irial held his hand out, palm up as one would for any number of feral beasts.
The first Hound sniffed Irial’s hand. Then he stepped closer and sniffed the air near Irial’s face. “Smells like the other place.”
“Faerie,” Irial murmured.
The second Hound growled. “Can’t run there. She says no visits. Wants us asking permission first.”
“I bring word of violence.”
At that, both Hounds’ attitudes shifted. One pushed off the building and pulled the door open. “Go ahead in. Gabriel’s in the ring.”
As always, the Hounds’ steeds were in various forms. Cars, motorcycles, and beasts waited in wooden stalls. A few of the steeds sat in rafters in various guises. Here, they could adopt whatever form they preferred. Irial felt a twinge of longing for Faerie then. Once, forever ago now, these steeds could wear whatever form they wanted all of the time. At first they continued to do so in the mortal world, but now they were more cautious—for obvious reasons: the sight of the vibrant green dragon that slept in the center aisle would alarm most mortals.
The dragon stirred enough that a clear lens flickered over one its massive eyes. It yawned, giving Irial a glimpse of teeth as big as his own arms. Then, scenting him, its nostrils flared. It had awakened.
Both of the creature’s eyes were now focused on Irial.
“I’m here to speak with the Gabriel,” Irial said. “I bring word of blood for the Hunt. A guest from Faerie will be coming here.”
The dragon flicked a thin purple tongue out, not far enough to touch Irial, but close enough that for a moment, Irial thought he’d misremembered how close one could stand and still be at a safe distance. But then the tongue retracted, and the beast closed its eyes.
Irial resumed walking toward the ring at the far back of the building.
The scent of blood and the cacophony of snarls and rumbling voices were unaltered, but Irial had no doubt that they all knew he approached. The steeds shared nonverbal communication with their riders—and with the Hound who led them all. Everyone in the stable knew what Irial had said to the Hound at the door and to the steed that rested in the form of a dragon. That did not, however, mean that any of them saw reason to interrupt whatever fight was in progress. The Hunt had different priorities than the less feral faeries often understood.
Irial closed the distance, prepared to wait for the match to end. However as he reached the edge of the crowd, the Hounds parted to let him walk to the front. At the edge of the roped-off ring, Irial stopped.
There were few things that would be as unexpected as the sight before him: Niall stood in the center of the ring. Blood trickled from a set of teeth marks on his forearm and soaked the denim around a jagged tear on his leg. His opponent, an average-sized Hound, growled as Niall landed a punch that rocked the Hound’s head backward. Before the Hound could respond, Niall followed through with a second punch to the throat that had the Hound toppling to the straw-covered floor.
As Irial stared, Gabriel came up beside him. “Always was a ruthless bastard in a fight.”
“Does he do this often?” Irial watched his king put one boot-clad foot on the fallen Hound’s chest.
“Most every night since you made him king.” Gabriel’s emotions tangled between amused and content. “Seems to be taking to the job if you ask me.”
“Perhaps I should’ve asked you,” Irial murmured. He felt a curious wave of sadness that Gabriel had kept this from him. It wasn’t wrong of Gabriel, but it was yet another loss.
Niall looked over his shoulder then and stared at Irial. While the Hounds couldn’t taste emotions, the rest of the Dark Court could. Of course, that didn’t mean that they always understood the reason for the emotion—which was abundantly clear in the surge of fury that Niall felt.
The Dark King grabbed the Hound at his feet and hauled him upright. He shoved the injured Hound toward the rope and snarled, “Next.”
If they had been any other two faeries, Irial would’ve pulled his king aside and explained that the sorrow was not over seeing Niall battering the fallen Hound, but over Gabriel’s secrecy. They weren’t any other faeries though, so Irial did the next best thing: he stepped forward.
“Don’t be absurd,” Niall ground out.
Without taking his gaze from his king, Irial ducked under the rope. “If you wouldn’t mind giving us use of the ring in private, Gabe?”
Ignoring the question for a moment, Gabriel said, “Hear we’re expecting blood. Who’s visiting?”
“Devlin. Sorcha undoubtedly would like him to make a statement. It is traditional.” Irial waited for a moment, listening to the receding footsteps and motors already coming to life. The Hunt was vacating the stable, undoubtedly at Gabriel’s silent command.
Softly, Irial added, “The pups should stay close to home for a few days.”
Gabriel’s teeth snapped and a low snarl emanated from him. “My pups are—”
“Safe enough,” Irial interrupted, “if they stay out of sight. Sorcha has standing orders to take halflings, so just tell them to stay low for a few days.”
Niall took a step toward Irial and said in a low voice, “This is why I need you here. You have centuries of dealing with the nuances. The court needs that wisdom.” He did not add that he needed Irial too, but the emotion was there for Irial to taste—as was the resentment. “I require your presence and your safety. The gates to Faerie are unseen to you now, Irial.”