Darkest Mercy (Wicked Lovely 5)

With Irial.

“You need to let me go,” Irial muttered as Niall approached him. “This is no good for anyone.”

“Since when did ‘good for anyone’ matter to the Dark Court?” Niall scowled. “You’re not healing. I don’t know what to do.”

“I’m not going to heal.”

Niall looked away from the weakened appearance of the last Dark King and remade the room. An immense fireplace with a roaring fire appeared, chasing the cold away, as if it would chase the threat of death away. “I sent for another healer. The last one must have missed something.”

“She didn’t.”

“She could have,” Niall insisted.

“But she didn’t. Neither did the fifteen before her.”

Niall dropped to the floor beside Irial’s sofa. “I’ll keep looking. I’ll find the right healer, and until then, I’ll visit you here and—”

“No. My body cannot recover from this. Even you can’t stop it,” Irial said. “If it were possible to stop time, I’d believe it of you. It’s not.”

As he had the past two days, Niall ignored the topic. “Pick a book.”

For a moment, the only sound in the dream room was the crackle and hiss of the fire. Niall didn’t see the benefit of arguing, not over this. He wouldn’t give up on finding an answer, and he knew well enough that Irial wouldn’t give up if possible.

“Do you think you could still surprise me?” Irial’s voice was steady, but it was far from strong.

Niall reached out to collect the book he’d just imagined and began to read: “‘The Demon is always moving about at my side; he floats about me like an impalpable air.’”

Irial laughed. “Baudelaire. Nicely chosen.”

“I’m not giving up. Not now.” Niall laid the book down. “Stay with our court, Irial. With me. I’m getting used to having a demon by my side again.”

“Demon?” Irial chided. “I’m no more evil than you are . . . and you’re far from evil.”

“I’m not so sure about me right now,” Niall admitted. “I want to kill Bananach. I want to test the truth of the whole ‘Bananach’s death kills Sorcha and thus all of us’ theory. I feel wrong when I’m awake.”

“You will take care of our court and yourself, but right now . . . if you’re not going to read”—Irial remade the dream then, replacing the sofa on which he’d been reclining with a massive bed heaped high with pillows—“rest with me. You can’t lead our court if you are too exhausted to think or react. Everything will be fine. You’ll figure out what to do with Bananach, keep our court strong, and find what you need.”

“I need you.” Niall stood, but remained beside the bed.

Irial held out a hand. “I’m right here, Niall. Let us both rest.”

There was something peculiar about sleeping in a dream—and about Irial wanting to sleep—but the edges of the world were blurring.

Why?

“Join me, Niall,” Irial invited.

Niall climbed onto the bed. “Just for a minute.”

“Relax, Gancanagh,” Irial implored.

A few hours later, Niall woke with a startle in the real world. He looked around the room. His room. The light outside the window revealed that evening had fallen while he slept. He reached a hand out to touch Irial’s forehead, to see if the fever had abated.

Niall stared at Irial and roared, “No!”

“My King?” Gabriel suddenly stood in the doorway. “Niall? You . . . yelled.”

Niall shook his head. “He knew. He knew that. Even at the end, he tried to protect me. He never chang—” The word broke as the reality of it settled on Niall. Irial had changed: he was dead.