Faery Tales & Nightmares

into a contest of sorts. In one corner, Devlin stood atop a pile of tables and wood; in another, Gabriel stood with his back to the wall; and beside Irial, Niall stood on a small raised platform. All around the room the Dark Court faeries scrabbled toward one of the three victors. Without speaking, the fight began to resemble nothing so much as a bloodier version of King of the Hill. Everyone wanted to topple one of the three strongest fighters, if even for a moment, and all of them were still having fun.

Devlin had more than held his own against the Dark Court’s fighters, reminding them that he was not to be ignored. All of the faeries in the room had more nourishment than could have been hoped for as a result of the flare of violence and blood sport.

And Niall had made his point.

The new Dark King had played them all like pawns.

Irial started to back away, and the Hound next to him clamped a hand on his arm. Irial glanced from her to Niall, who grinned, dodged a punch from a glaistig, and said, “I don’t think you were dismissed.”

The Hound and the glaistig both laughed.

I love my court.

“As you wish.” Irial stepped around the Hound to lean against a wall out of the fight. He had more than his fill of fighting. If he could fight Niall, it’d be different, but fighting for random sport wasn’t his preferred entertainment.

Almost an hour later, Devlin bowed to Gabriel and then to Niall.

The faeries dispersed, limping, bleeding, stumbling—and chortling with glee.

“The High Queen sends her greetings,” Devlin said as he approached Niall. “She reminds the new Dark King that he is no different than any other faery and that she expects him to abide by the same restraints the last”— Devlin looked at Irial then—“Dark King observed.”

None of them spoke the unspoken truths about the numerous visits that Irial had paid to the High Queen in Faerie, but they all knew of those visits. Such is the way of it. Irial kept his gaze on his king rather than reply to Devlin. It was the king who needed to answer the invitation implicit in those words.

Niall didn’t disappoint.

“Please let Sorcha know that her greeting was received, that her assassin has made her willingness to strike at me and mine abundantly clear, and”—Niall jumped down so he was standing face-to-face with Devlin—“if she ever touches those under my protection without just cause, I will be at her step.”

Devlin nodded. “Will you be requesting an audience with her?”

“No,” Niall said. “There is nothing and no one in Faerie right now that interests me enough to visit.”

For a breath, Irial thought Devlin was going to strike Niall, but the moment passed.

Then, Niall smiled. He gestured behind him, and a Vila escorted a sightless mortal man into the room.

“This”—Niall didn’t turn to look at the mortal—“is unacceptable. My court has offered this man protection. He will not be taken to Faerie or otherwise accosted.” He kept his gaze on Devlin.

The ghost of a smile flickered on Devlin’s face, but all he said was, “I shall relay the message to my queen.”

“And any discussion she has on Dark Court matters”—Niall stepped forward—“will be handled between regents or via official emissaries.”

Devlin did smile this time. “My queen has only one emissary. Do you have a chosen proxy?”

“As of this moment, no, but”—Niall glanced at Irial—“perhaps that will change in time.” The Dark King turned his back on all of them then and said only, “Gabriel.”

The Hound inclined his head, and Devlin preceded Gabriel toward the door. The two faeries walked out of the building, and then only Irial and Niall were left in the destruction.

Irial waited for the words that went with the frustrated anger that he could taste. He counted a dozen heartbeats before his king turned to face him.

“Don’t push me again, Iri,” Niall whispered. “I rule this damnable court now, and I’ll do it with you on my side—as you promised—or with you under my boot.”

Irial opened his mouth, but Niall growled.

“You tell me you care about them, and about me, so you better prove it.” Niall blinked against a trickle of blood that ran into his eye. “I don’t expect you to change today, but you need to trust me more than you have.”

“I trust you with my life.” Irial ripped the edge of his shirt off and held it out.

“I know that,” Niall muttered. “Now, try trusting me with my life.”

And to that, Irial had no reply. He kept his mouth closed as Niall stomped through the destruction and left. The Dark King was here, truly and fully, and Irial would do what he could to serve his king.

As truthfully as I can.

There was no way to tell Niall everything, but he had three years before he had to be fully honest. An otherwise unoccupied faery could get a lot accomplished in three years, and the sort of king Niall was could get their court in order in far less time than that. All told, the Dark Court was better off than it had been in quite some time.

And so is Niall.

EPILOGUE

IT IS INEVITABLE, BROTHER,” SORCHA SAID by way of greeting when he finished his report.

“What is?”

“Her ascending to strength.” Sorcha could not see her twin’s future, but she knew well the results of Chaos’ growing stronger. The world was not as it should be. Deaths that Sorcha would mourn, in her way, were coming.

As Sorcha reached into the seemingly empty space in front of her, she plucked at threads of possibilities. She let them slip through her fingers, each one as unsatisfactory as the next: her former lover dead, her brother dead, a pierced mortal dead, her once-friend dead, Faerie blackened. They were only possibilities, but none were pleasing.

“She is not going to be stilled easily,” Sorcha whispered.

“You are stronger, Sister.” Devlin smelled of blood. It wasn’t visible on him, but the lingering scent of violence clung to him.

A weapon to be used to keep Chaos at bay.

“Will you help me?”

“I serve the High Court, my Queen. I cannot fathom any reason that I would do otherwise.” He stared at her as he spoke. “Do you know of a reason I would do otherwise?”

There was no pleasing answer to that question. She knew many reasons that he would do otherwise: he was Bananach’s creature too; he wanted things not found in Faerie in centuries; he resented her; he enjoyed violence. None of those were new facts. Logically, none were worth speaking.

“There is a mortal I see.”

“An artist? A Sighted one? A halfling?”

Curiously, as Sorcha tried to look at him, the mortal with the metal decorating his face, she saw only blackness. There was nothing. It was akin to attempting to see Devlin’s or Bananach’s future. Or my own future. In the moment between seeing the mortal and speaking of him, he had become part of one of the three of their lives. He matters.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Watch for him. He is young but not a child. He will matter to one of us.”

Devlin bowed.

Sorcha closed her eyes trying to recall other details, but her glimpse of him had been too brief. “He wears an assortment of metal in his skin.”

“Steel?”