Hesitantly, Niall asked, “What emotions? The High Queen doesn’t . . . does she?”
“She does in the presence of the Dark King.” Irial held Niall’s gaze as best he could with one eye swollen mostly shut. “I asked if you were ever going to be the next king, and she felt both excited and sorrowful. I didn’t know for sure then, but I hoped—and now, I think that she knew—that she looked forward to you being this.”
They sat silently, but not without communicating. Over the centuries, Irial had read Niall’s emotions without his knowledge. Tonight, for the first time, Niall consciously revealed his emotions for the purposes of sharing the things he couldn’t verbalize. The years had changed them both, but those changes had only made Niall more suited to being the Dark King. Niall was both relieved and disappointed that this was so. He was also happier than he’d been since he’d left Irial’s side more than nine centuries ago.
As am I.
Eventually, Niall stood. “Things will never be like they were before.”
“I didn’t think they would.” Irial stared up at him.
Unexpectedly, Niall extended a hand—and then grinned as he tasted Irial’s shock. “You fight better than I remember.”
“You broke several ribs.” Irial accepted Niall’s hand and was pulled to his feet. “I can’t see from one eye, and I think something in my knee ripped.”
“Exactly.” Niall released Irial’s hand and grinned.
“Maybe next time I’ll do better.” Irial regretted the words as soon as they were out, but he wasn’t going to admit that. Admitting that he hoped to do this again, that he’d settle for abuse at Niall’s hand if that was what he needed to do to be nearer Niall, was the sort of thing liable to send Niall further away. Irial concealed his emotions and stilled his expression as best he could.
For a moment, Niall said nothing; his emotions were likewise locked down tightly enough that they were out of Irial’s reach. Then Niall shrugged. “Maybe. I’d rather it be me injuring you than anyone else doing it.”
“I am yours to command.” Irial lifted the rope for Niall to duck under.
They walked out together in silence. Niall did not tell Irial to depart as they walked to the house that had once been Irial’s, nor did he invite Irial to stay. At the step, they paused, and for a foolish, hopeful moment, Irial waited. Then, Niall reached out to the gargoyle that adorned the door, and Irial left for his current residence. It was a peaceful parting.
Things might be all right after all.
Irial knew they both were keeping secrets that could change the trust they were building, but it was progress. For now, that was enough.
Once we get past the visit from the High Queen’s emissary. What Irial had learned in his conversations with his spies had directed a course of action he’d intended to discuss with Gabriel tonight, but Irial had long since discovered the importance of improvising. A chance to mend his relationship with Niall outweighed the benefits of informing Gabriel of his plans. He could handle matters quietly, and then apologize to Niall if he was found out.
Chapter 8
Despite the things left unsaid, Niall knew that the house he lived in was not intended to go to the new Dark King. If the last king died, Niall would be entitled to all his predecessor’s belongings. The last king, however, was far from dead. He is very much here. Thankfully. Niall smiled—and then paused. Do I forgive everything? He had set aside centuries of dislike for Irial in a few short weeks. No. Niall walked across the foyer, knowing that servants waited in hopes of his needing something, anything. There were those in the Dark Court who seemed to thrive on being given orders. It was perplexing to him. Forgiving everything will never happen. That didn’t mean that Niall could cling to the illusions that he’d held to these past centuries: he couldn’t forget the good things any more than the bad.
Ignoring the faeries that waited in every alcove and around every corner, Niall made his way to his chambers. He opened the door and stopped.
“He said you needed me.” She stared at him, not moving, not crossing the thick carpet to stand nearer him. Once, she would’ve. Now, she watched him and said, “The Hound. He brought me here because you needed me.”
“No,” he corrected. “I needed a body to be here. Not you. It’s what I am now. I have need of a body.”
She shrugged. “I am a body.”
“No.” He wasn’t exactly happy to find one of the Summer Girls waiting there. He tried to think of her that way: one of the Summer Girls. He tried not to think of her as someone he’d once protected. It didn’t work.
“You could be anyone.” He slammed the door closed. “You—”
“You don’t need to try to make me upset, Niall.” Siobhan gave him a sorrowful smile. “Tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“What you need,” she supplied. Even in this place, far different from her court, she swayed a little as if she heard music still. The long brown hair that she usually pinned into curls hung straight today.
“The last Dark King invited us here often enough. Tonight, though . . . I hoped it was you I was here for when I saw the Hound. I would’ve come without that hope, but I’m glad to have been brought to you.”
Niall hadn’t thought about it overly much. It made sense, though: the Summer Girls were without Keenan’s hatred of the Dark Court. They were creatures of pleasure, the embodiment of only the joys of Summer. Later, he’d ask Gabriel how often the Summer Girls had visited the court—and how often they could visit safely. Even in his fury with Keenan, Niall still believed that the Summer King would not sit idly by if the Summer Girls were harmed. His former liege manipulated as freely as every other powerful faery did—including me—but often that was out of the protectiveness he felt for his faeries. The Summer Girls, former mortals who’d been cursed to be faeries dependent on Keenan for their very sustenance, were particularly important to the Summer King.
“He always asked about you. The last king”—she unfastened her sundress—“I thought of telling you sometimes. More than once, he asked me to come to him right after I’d lain in your arms.”