Darkest Mercy (Wicked Lovely 5)

The faery walked several steps closer to her. “One question now, and one held in reserve. What if I know things you’ll want to know later? What if a question owed could be an asset to your court?”

“One question now, and one question or favor later, and”—she took one more step away—“your assurance that no harm will come to me by your touch . . . which can only last for less than a minute.”

He stopped a few feet from her. “I’ll allow the terms, if you allow me to escort you to your loft.”

“To the door, but not inside, and we walk there directly with no detours, and my guards will join us.”

“Done.” He came forward.

“Done,” she echoed.

Then he cradled her face in his hands, and the world became utterly silent around her. Neither sight nor sound remained. There was only darkness, complete and absolute. If she hadn’t secured a promise that no injury would come to her, Aislinn would have been convinced that she’d left her body and fallen into a void.

What have I done?

To her mind, it seemed as if days passed as they stood together. Then he leaned toward her. In the void where she somehow now was, she felt his movements. Nothing existed before or after him. His voice was of corn husks whispering in barren expanses as he told her, “My name is Far Dorcha. The Dark Man.”

Aislinn knew that it had been only a few moments that she’d been in the void, but when Far Dorcha pulled his hands away from her, she stumbled. The world was too harshly lit; the ice that hung from the trees in the distance glistened so brightly that she had to avert her gaze. Only he, the Dark Man, was painless to see.

“You’re . . . death-fey.” She’d met a couple of his kind, and while they weren’t a proper court, they were under his dominion. Death faeries had no need for a court: they had no enemies. Immortal creatures weren’t imprudent enough to tangle with those who could and would kill them with as much effort as they expended on breathing. Aislinn took several steps backward. She’d willingly consented to a caress from the faery equivalent of Death. What was I thinking? If not for the things Keenan and Niall had taught her about faery bargains, that could have gone very poorly.

It still might.

“They hadn’t told me you could’ve been so near my reach. Almost dead. Almost mine.” Far Dorcha frowned slightly as he peered into her face as if to read words written on her flesh. “Winter stabbed you.”

At that, Aislinn’s worries over the bargain were replaced. Near death? She had known she was injured, had felt doubt that she would survive, but she’d come to believe that it had simply hurt worse than it was. Before she could find words to reply, he exhaled his cloyingly sweet breath.

She stumbled as the pain and emotions of that injury came to her as clearly as they had been that day. The scent of funereal flowers made her body remember what her mind wished to deny. Had Donia meant to wound me so badly? It was a subject they hadn’t discussed: the Winter Queen’s ice could’ve easily been fatal. If not for Keenan. He’d saved her, and in doing so, he’d pushed her—and pushed Seth—into confronting the undeniable connection between the Summer King and Queen.

However, it wasn’t the pleasure of her king healing her that she felt now: it was the pain of ice coursing through her body that washed over her anew as she breathed in the death-fey’s sugar-sweet breath. She put her hand on her stomach. “What . . . how . . .”

“You weren’t completely in my reach before your king interfered,” Far Dorcha said.

The Dark Man sighed again, and Aislinn felt memories tugging her back. She could feel slivers of winter buried inside her body; she could feel the horrible sense that this wound was the one to end her newfound immortality. This injury will be fatal. Aislinn felt her knees give out.

“Enough.” She clutched the grass, seeking the buried fecundity of the earth to steady her. This isn’t an injury; it’s a memory.

The pain was still intense enough that she stayed on the ground for a moment longer, letting the warmth of summer life flow from under the ice through the soil and to her.

Then, her guards were there. A rowan had her arm, as if to steady her, but she shook him off and stood. She took a step toward Far Dorcha.

Be confident. Aislinn could almost laugh at taking advice from the faery whose injury to her she was now reliving. I am the Summer Queen. I can do this.

“You do not come here and attack a regent,” she said.

“Attack?” The Dark Man laughed. “We had a bargain, little queen. It is not my fault that you are uncomfortable with the results.”

With sunlight pulsing into her body as truly as if Keenan had stood beside her, sharing his light with her, she pushed her sunlight into Far Dorcha’s chest, not as a strike but as a reminder of what—who—she was. “I don’t know what you are doing, but that’s enough.”

None of the guards touched Far Dorcha, but one did step closer to her. “My Queen? Perhaps—”

Aislinn held up a hand. “I didn’t agree to that . . . whatever it was.”

“Remembering,” Far Dorcha said. “I’m only remembering.”

“It’s not your memory.” Aislinn motioned for the guards to stay where they were even as they tensed. A queen kept her court safe, and she was pretty certain that attacking the head of the death-fey wasn’t likely to go well.

“It should’ve been my memory,” he said. “If he hadn’t found you when he did, you would’ve been dead not long after.”