Darkest Mercy (Wicked Lovely 5)

The Dark Man wasn’t threatening her, not overtly, but the reminder carried the force of a threat. Her fey tensed further. She laid the palm of her hand against Evan’s back and stepped to the side so that she was able to look up at Far Dorcha. In doing so, Donia drew his attention back to her.

“Do you come for me?” she asked.

“No. I was here”—he motioned around the cemetery—“because of the gate. I was in Huntsdale for other business matters.”

Evan tensed. “Who?”

Keenan? Aislinn? Niall? Irial? The head of the death-fey wouldn’t come for just any death. Who will die?

Donia asked, “Why are you here?”

“Ah-ah-ah.” Far Dorcha shook his finger. “Not telling you. The surprise is part of the fun.”

The Dark Man sighed, and Evan bodily blocked that exhalation from touching her. Her guard had his head turned to the side as he did so, yet as she watched, he swallowed with some difficulty. His hands fisted.

“Evan?”

“Please, my Queen, not now.” His voice was ragged, but he didn’t move.

“Curious. Despite her temper then, you chose to be hers.” Far Dorcha’s gaze lifted from Evan to fix her in a stare. “Did you mean to kill them? Petulant behavior, striking out at the Summer King’s guards. You’ve taken lives for no reason.”

The calm of Winter filled Donia. “You are not a judge. I am not your subject, nor was I then.”

“I am Death. Killing is always mine to judge.” Far

Dorcha didn’t blink. The lack of any semblance of humanity made his scrutiny more uncomfortable. Most of the human-looking fey had adopted various human behaviors. He hadn’t.

She stepped around Evan. “I was almost killed by the last Winter Queen, and if I or those I protect are threatened, I will kill again. I am not a mortal, Far Dorcha. You might be Death, but unless you are here to kill me, do not try to intimidate me.” The snow that she’d relied upon to hold her temper at bay was no longer enough. Ice rose up, and she felt a rime of it coat her skin. “Unless you have reason to touch them, you will leave my fey alone.”

Far Dorcha laughed, and visions of scurrying things in the dark washed over her. Wet soil and absolute silence. If there was humor in those tones, it was beyond her comprehension.

“The young king has chosen well,” he pronounced.

“What?” Donia’s temper slipped a little further, and a snowstorm flared to life.

“Two queens.” Far Dorcha stood untouched by the battering winds. In the whiteout, the black of his eyes and red of his lips were impossible to look away from. The stark white of his skin blended so that he was barely there. “He found two queens. I doubt that your predecessor expected that.”

“There is only one Summer Queen.” Donia’s words were clear despite the shrieks of wind that came rushing from her lips.

“And you are very obviously not her,” he murmured.

Her faeries were all around her, and the weight of winter spread out from the spot where she stood. Grave markers dotted a whitened ground. Ice shimmered over branches. The world was hers.

But Keenan is not.

Far Dorcha reached out, but instead of touching her, he caught a silver veil that she hadn’t seen. “The gate has been locked against those on this side. Faerie is not open.”

Donia gaped at him. “How did—”

He let the cloth in his hands slip free, and as soon as he wasn’t touching it, it vanished. “No one closes a door I cannot open if I choose to do so.”

“Who did that?” She pointed at the once-more-missing gate. “Why? Do they live?”

“They live.” Ignoring the rest of her questions, Far Dorcha glanced around the cemetery. His gaze lingered on the deep snowfall, and the jagged spears of ice that had formed between him and her faeries. “I am pleased.”

“Can you tell me anything?” she asked with the calm she felt now that the earth was cloaked in snow as it should be.

“There are rules.” Far Dorcha tilted his face to the sky and let snow fall on his cheeks. “None that would stop me from speaking, but”—he looked at her with snow clinging to his skin—“I don’t feel inclined to speak yet.”