jeopardy.
And Bananach will not spare the Dark Court. Or the mortal world my family lives in.
Irial did as he had done when he was king: moving pieces behind the scenes, making bargains, bending rules. This time, though, Ani’s safety was one of the rules he bent.
With my consent.
When Irial came back into the room, she watched him warily. For all of her adoration of him, she knew that he was rarely influenced by weakness or tenderness. He hadn’t held the throne of the court of nightmares for centuries by being easily swayed.
“You know I wouldn’t do this if there were better options.” His words weren’t a lie; they weren’t fully true either. Unless there was one clear option that would assure his court’s safety, he would do this—and much worse.
Yet, the former Dark King still thought of her as a child, as one foolish enough to accept the misdirection in his words. She wasn’t a child.
Perhaps foolish, but not naive, not innocent, not easily misled.
She leaned on the wall. The room was out of focus. “You’ve kept me safe my whole life. Kept Tish safe … and Rab … and … we’re good. It’s fine.”
The world around her spun. Tonight’s experiment had begun with her being as hungry as she could stand before the bloodletting. It wasn’t the least pleasant of the experiments, but it wasn’t pleasurable either.
Irial walked over to feed the fire—away from her so she could have the privacy to pull herself together—and asked, “You okay?”
“Sure.” She sat down, not feeling exactly well. Most days, she was only barely above starved. During the first few months of her hunger, she’d had humans and a few halflings. Since she’d moved to Gabriel’s care, she’d been restricted to the point that her hunger was hurting her physically. She’d been barely nourished by the emotion Irial shared and the scant contact that Gabriel grudgingly allowed her to pursue in court. Hugs and feather touches weren’t anywhere near enough.
Irial ran one hand absently over the side of the marble fireplace. Like everything in his house, it was carved with an appreciation of textures. The sharp edges and smooth curves drew her attention, but she didn’t approach the fireplace or the faery in front of it. Instead, she moved to one of the white leather chairs and traced a finger over the raised gray fleurs-de-lis barely visible on the walls.
“I know this is … difficult for you, pup.” Irial kept his distance, but he let her taste all of his emotions, giving her nourishment to make up for what she’d lost.
Ani caught his gaze. “Do you apologize to Gabriel when he punishes faeries who need it?”
The play of firelight and shadows made the former Dark King appear ominous, but his temper was not stirred. “No.”
“Then drop it. I’ll do what’s necessary for my court.” She fought the urge to fold her arms, forced herself to be calm, even though he knew exactly how unsettled she was. Dark Court faeries couldn’t feed on mortal emotions, but Ani wasn’t entirely mortal.
If Irial had not been there for her when she’d come to live with the Hounds, she wasn’t sure what she would’ve done. He helped her cope with her changes, nourished her enough to keep true starvation at bay. In truth, if not for him she might have died forever ago. He’d protected her—and Tish and Rabbit—for almost all of their lives.
She let him feel the surge of gratitude and whispered, “I serve the will of the Dark Court. I know you have reasons.”
“If we can find a way to filter out your blood, our court will be unstoppable; Niall will be safe; and …” His words faded, but the hope was undeniable. Unlike many faeries, Irial was comfortable with modern science. If they could identify the anomalous component within her, replicate it, and introduce it to others, Dark Court faeries would be able to feed on both faery and mortal emotions. They’d be sated. They’d tried another plan, binding mortal to faery as conduits with tattoos, but those ink exchanges had presented unexpected complications.
“Right.” Ani stood. She’d heard his theories before; there was little Irial could say that would be new.
“You can save us,” he said yet again.
Ani wasn’t sure if his words were truth. Faeries couldn’t lie, but belief was a tricky thing. If Irial believed the words, they were utterable, and he did believe that her blood was the solution they needed to save the Dark Court.
“I’ll be back later. You’ll tell me”—she folded her arms over her chest as if it would still the shivering—“when you need me?”
“Your court needs you every day, Ani. No one else can feed on both touch and emotion; no one else can feed on both faery and mortal. You are the key.” Irial wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. It wasn’t much, but small touches from such a strong faery fed her skin hunger more than a lot of touch from a weak faery or a mortal would.
Ani stayed still, grateful for even the scant contact.
Irial stroked her hair. “You let me keep my promises to stop the ink exchanges, to protect my king.… We do need you, pup.”
She looked up at him. “As long as Gabriel and Niall don’t find out, right?”
“For now.” Irial stepped away, his hands still on her shoulders, and then he unfolded her arms and took her hands in his as he repeated the same assurances he had the past few months. “Just for now. Once we figure out what’s in your blood, they’ll understand why we did this.”
She nodded.
He led her to the door. “Do you need anything else?”
All sorts of things no one will give me.
Ani said nothing. Instead, she hugged him, knowing from other rejections that his offer didn’t include the other things she needed. Irial—for all of his love for court and king, for all his protection for family and beloved—didn’t want to hear what she truly needed. He wouldn’t share his bed with her or force her father to let her run free with the Hounds.
“I need to go,” Ani murmured, and then she turned her back on him before she gave in to the temptation to beg. He gave her enough to keep her from starvation, but the former Dark King wouldn’t help her fully sate her hungers. She would have to find a few tastes here and there to silence the gnawing inside her.
Again.
Rae walked into the image of a tiny kitchen. Ani stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. A memory played out in the adjoining room. The tableau was set in a different era than the one where Rae had lived. It was familiar though: it was a memory that Ani replayed over and over in her dreams. So, Rae waited for the memory to run its course.
“Tell me about her?” Ani asked her sister.
“Who?” Tish paused mid-math, pencil held in the air.
