Stopping Time and Old Habits (Wicked Lovely 2.50)

“I am worried about them both. I am worried about your sister’s machinations . . .” He watched her slip on her skirts while he spoke.

“She always presses for war . . . but things feel different this time,” she admitted. Part of politics for them had always been admissions that weren’t public knowledge. During Beira’s reign, Irial had come to her for solace; when he lost Niall, he had come to her for comfort; and when Beira murdered Miach, Irial had come to her—with all his unsettling presence exposed in a rare moment of vulnerability—and together they had mourned the last Summer King. That was the first time she’d opted to indulge in the glorious mistakes they’d shared the past few centuries.

Today is the last time.

“Niall holds her reins better than I did of late, but . . .” Irial scowled. “She’s growing stronger.”

“And Gabriel?” Sorcha waited, hopeful that the Hounds’ allegiance to the Dark Court was intact.

“He supports Niall.”

“With the trouble between Summer and Winter and between Dark and Summer . . .” She let the words fade away, not wanting to speak them into being.

“Niall strengthens the Dark Court. Had I stayed king . . . Keenan would’ve attacked in time. He’s not going to forgive my binding him. Nine centuries is a long time for rage to fester.” Irial’s regret was obvious even if he didn’t mention it.

They, and few others, knew the reluctance of his bargain with Beira. Binding Miach’s son wasn’t something the Dark King had wanted to do, but like any good ruler, he made hard choices. That choice had given his court strength. Sorcha, at the time, was grateful that Beira hadn’t set her sights on Faerie. In time, she would’ve, but then . . . then, it was Summer’s fall, Dark’s entrapment, and her staying silent.

“So we wait.” Sorcha reclaimed the calm reserve that was her daily mien. She gestured toward the door. “You need to go.”

“If I learn anything . . .”

She nodded.

“I do enjoy seeing you, Sorch”—his arrogance came back, covering the worry—“as much as we both know you enjoy seeing me.”

Then he unlocked the door and left.

Inside, she was filled with amusement and satisfaction . . . and a good dose of worry, but her face showed none of that as she strode out of the room.

She beckoned the nearest guard and said, “Escort him to the door so I know he’s gone from my home.”

Irial was relieved to taste the High Queen’s lighter emotions as he walked down the austere hallway. He’d actually considered speaking when he tasted the waves of regret she felt as he’d watched her dress. There were few faeries he’d count as friends—and fewer still Sorcha would trust—but for all of their opposition, they’d both valued their friendship. She didn’t speak of such things, of course, but he tasted her emotions. Which she knows. It would never be the sort of camaraderie that lead either regent to act in ways contrary to the good of their courts, but it was a valued bond. One that has ended.

He held hope that the new Dark King would one day find himself in Sorcha’s good graces—for both of their sakes. Centuries ago, when Niall had left Irial’s side, the High Queen had taken him in and cared for him. After I allowed him to be broken. Although she didn’t point it out to Niall, she knew then that he’d be the next Dark King one day. She’d refused to admit it when Irial lamented Niall’s refusal to even speak to members of the Dark Court, but her emotions revealed what her words would not.

There were so many machinations, so many secrets, and so little time to share that with the new king. Irial remembered his own early days of kingship, the errors he’d made, and the dizzying pleasure of finding his place. Niall was different, though; he hadn’t wanted to be king. He’d run from it for centuries, and so when Irial decided to bestow kingship upon him, with it came a silent vow of aid. Irial would do all that he could to allow Niall to settle into his role as easily as possible. It seemed a wise vow at the time.

Unfortunately, the inevitability of his dealings behind th

e thrones—of his court, of the High Court, and over the years, behind the Summer Court and Winter Court— weighed on Irial. Revealing the degree of the machinations that Irial had indulged in over the years took time. Going into Niall’s office and dropping the full extent of the job on him was cruelty that remained unnecessary. Eventually, he’d need to tell Niall everything, but in the interim, Irial would do what business he could.

It staves off boredom anyhow.

He stood at the gate to the mortal realm, and for a moment, he let himself wonder how life would’ve been if he’d brought the court home when Beira’s reign became so overpowering. Back then, when Miach died, the thought had occurred to him. It felt like a wise possibility—but it also felt like retreating. The Dark Court thrived on upheaval, so returning to Faerie instead of letting them grow strong while the young Summer King tried to find his missing queen . . . it simply wasn’t logical.

Irial snorted. Logical. Clearly, he’d been too long in her presence.

He pressed his fingers against the veil that divided the two worlds. The material twisted around his hands, holding him for a moment. It had always done so before, recognizing him as its own. The fact that it still did so comforted him. He was no longer Dark King, but in actions, he functioned as if he still retained a share of the mantle. Like a consort. He smiled to himself at the thought of telling Niall that he’d opted to fill the role of Dark Court consort.

Actually . . .

Telling Niall such a thing was sure to set off an entertaining argument. The new Dark King had the infuriating habit of trying to pretend he was merely a seat-warmer holding the court. He clung to his maudlin mourning— as if Keenan hadn’t been likely to betray Niall since the beginning. Inevitable. That was one thing that Irial knew for certain: some truths are inevitable. There are surprises, pleasant and not, but on the whole, faeries were who they were; courts were what they had always been; and centuries passed without too many unforeseen choices—but those who did take surprising routes were fascinating.

Niall was fascinating; Leslie was fascinating; the new Summer Queen had the potential to be fascinating. To one who had the possibility of living for eternity, encountering so many unexpected faeries and mortals was a treat.

“Irial?” Devlin had caught up with him.

The expected could be entertaining as well. “Mmm?”