Beyond them, Far Dorcha stood and held out a hand to the shade of Evan. Other shades walked with Donia’s fallen guardsman. Their forms were almost as visible as when they were still alive. Far Dorcha looked past the dead to lock gazes with Donia.
“We could go with Gabriel,” Donia suggested to Chela.
“I’d like to, but no. He’s bright enough not to give me many orders, but when he does, I am still bound to obey. In battle, he is my Gabriel first, my lover second.” Chela scowled a little. “If it weren’t mutiny, I’d follow, but as his second, I stay here and mind our pack.”
The faery who had stood with Far Dorcha now strode through the combined Winter Court and Dark Court forces that fought Bananach’s faeries. Far Dorcha did not follow her, but he watched her with a studious gaze. She stopped at Evan’s bleeding body.
Chela’s arm tightened around Donia’s waist, forcing the Winter Queen to stay on the steed.
“You must not let her touch you,” Chela implored in a low voice. “Death-fey are not to be trifled with, Winter Queen.” The Hound raised her voice: “Ankou.”
Ankou glanced at Chela, but her attention quickly shifted to the fallen rowan. “I will take this.”
“No.” Donia exhaled a plume of frost with the words. She could not reach the faery to strike her, but she wasn’t limited to what she could reach. The wintery air she exhaled encased Evan in a thick, icy shell.
Ankou frowned. “He is dead.”
“And?” Donia tensed.
The faery shrugged. “What is dead in battle is mine to take. The body will be trampled here. The fallen dead are mine.”
“No,” Donia corrected. “He is still mine.”
“The rest?”
“Please, do not challenge her,” Chela urged Donia. “There are fights you cannot win. Do not make this one of them.”
“You are not welcome in Huntsdale. I know what you both”—Donia lifted her gaze to Far Dorcha—“are, but I will not allow you to take him. You do not need to. I will give him burial.”
Ankou frowned. Her paper-thin skin seemed likely
to tear at the slightest wrong movement. “I collect the battle-slain. It is why I come here. More will fall. He”—she gestured behind her—“will take the other part when they are not-living.”
At Ankou’s vague hand wave toward him, Far Dorcha crossed the street. “Sister, she wants to keep this one.”
“And she will treasure the body?” Ankou asked.
“Yes. I do treasure him.” Donia’s voice wavered, but she did not hide her grief, not here, not from Death.
Ankou nodded and stepped past the Dark Man as a cart rolled up. To any watching mortal, it would appear to be a white paneled van. Ankou opened the back doors and began filling it with the bodies of the fallen.
Far Dorcha turned his back on the corpse collector’s
work. Around him, the shades of the dead waited—including Evan.
Her slain friend looked up at Donia. He touched two fingers to his lips and then lowered them as if directing a kiss toward her.
“He does not regret his choice,” Far Dorcha said softly. “He would rather you do not either.”
Donia watched her friend, guard, and advisor stride away and vanish. Once Evan was gone from her sight, she angled her body toward Far Dorcha and said, “She killed him for no reason.”
Behind Donia, Chela tensed, but the Hound remained silent this time.
“She cannot keep killing our own,” Donia announced.
“While I am here in your village, she can be ended more easily.” Far Dorcha looked only at Donia. “If Disorder ends, one will need to take her place. She . . . cannot be negated.”
“What does . . .” Donia started, but her words dried up as the Dark Man sauntered away.