Darkest Mercy (Wicked Lovely 5)

“Precisely,” Tavish agreed. “And I have no doubt that Bananach struck Irial for these reasons. She is striking at the courts, looking for weakness, and whichever court is not strong enough will be destroyed if she has her way.”

“Our court is not strong enough to stand against any of the others.” Aislinn looked up and saw the somber expression on her advisor’s face before he spoke. She knew where his words would lead, had known for months that the Summer Court was not getting strong enough. “Tavish . . .”

“There is a way to change that, my Queen.”

“He’s not even here, and he doesn’t . . . Keenan and I don’t . . .” Her words faded.

“I suspect the news would reach him if we were to let word be known that you were still willing to consider being his queen in all ways—”

“If that’s what it takes to get him back here, do it.” She did not avert her gaze. “Perhaps it’s time I was the one doing the manipulating.”

“As you will,” Tavish said.

Aislinn hated the fact that she wasn’t sure whether she was more relieved at the possibility of her king’s return or terrified that Donia would see her actions as a threat. Donia is smarter than that. Of course, the Winter Queen already believed that the Summer King and Queen would inevitably become a couple, and sometimes, Aislinn thought that Seth’s refusal to be fully in her life was because he felt the same way.

If it’s bet

ween giving in to that fate or sacrificing our court’s safety, I’m not sure what choice we have.

Chapter 9

Far Dorcha stood outside the Dark King’s home, waiting. Inside the house, the nearly dead king’s shade lingered. Unfortunately, the complications that Irial had created in his last days made the situation unprecedented.

Clever maneuvering.

It was enough to make Far Dorcha smile. The Dark Court could be counted on for the unexpected.

“The door isn’t open.” Ankou suddenly stood beside him. Her winding-sheet dress hung from her gaunt body, but he wasn’t sure if she’d grown thinner or if he misremembered how delicate she appeared. “The body is in there, but the door—”

“Sister.” He brushed a lock of white hair back and tucked it behind her ear. “I wondered when you’d arrive.”

Ankou frowned. “The door should be open.”

“The old king’s shade is still anchored in the world,” Far Dorcha said. He didn’t remind her that no one could deny him entrance, that no one could fight him if he chose to stop them, that his very presence could impose mortality on a faery if he willed it. Resorting to such measures was crass.

“Perhaps you ought to knock,” Far Dorcha suggested.

His sister closed her eyes and drew in the air around them. He felt the stillness grow heavier and, as always, chose not to question how the air could take on weight. Something about the change in it felt like pressure in his lungs, as if soil filled them. Ankou blinked and approached the door. This was why he was at the last Dark King’s house with her—not to protect her, but to keep her from disturbing an already untenable situation.

Bananach’s machinations had drawn faeries from all of the courts, as well as from among the solitaries. She’d poisoned the former Dark King, and in doing so set herself against the court to which she’d always been allied. A declaration of war must be spoken by at least one regent before Bananach can have the fight she seeks. And none of the courts were declaring war.

“Open.” Ankou hammered her fist on the door. “I am Ankou. Open.”

A gargoyle that clung to the door opened its mouth, but predictably, it didn’t speak. The invitation to shed blood for entry was clever. What else for a king clever enough to dodge death?

“Sister?” he prompted. “It seeks a taste.”

She narrowed her gaze.

“If you place your hand here”—he gestured at the open maw—“the creature can find you acceptable or not.”

“I am Ankou,” she repeated. “I am always acceptable. We are Death. How could that be unacceptable?”

Far Dorcha took her hand in his. “May I?”

She nodded, so he extended her skeletal hand to the creature. It sank fangs into her flesh, and she stared at it dispassionately. Once, Far Dorcha had let another beast remove every drop of his sister’s blood. It was an experiment born of curiosity, nothing more, but it was as meaningless to her as other seemingly cruel experiments he’d tried. Ankou watched; she waited. When she was called upon, she collected the corpses where they fell. All of her tenderness was reserved for fallen faeries. Even he was only important to her because of his connection to the dead.

He tugged her hand free and suggested, “Tell it again.”