Melissa Marr - Ink Exchange

"But you're strong enough, Les, really," Ani had insisted.

"And if I'm not?"

"You will be. It's for Iri. We need him to be strong." Ani had hugged her. "You're his savior. The court's so much stronger. He's so much stronger."

Ignoring the Hounds, Leslie walked along the river until she came to a warehouse where she and Rianne used to go to smoke. She slid open the window they'd climbed in together so often and made her way to the second floor— just high enough to see the river. Out here, away from everyone, she felt the closest to normal she had since the morning she'd left her house with Irial.

She sat watching the river race away. Her feet dangled out the window. There were no mortals, no faeries, no Irial. Away from all of them, she felt less consumed. The world was back in order, more stable somehow now that she was on her own. Is it the distance?

It didn't matter, though: she felt his approach. Then Irial was in the street, looking up at her. "Are you going to come down from there?"

"Maybe."

"Leslie—"

She stood up, balancing on the balls of her feet, hands above her head like she was preparing to dive into a pool. "I should be afraid, Irial. I'm not, though."

"I am." His voice sounded jagged, not tender this time, not reassuring. "I'm terrified."

She swayed back and forth as the wind batted against her.

In that implacable way he always seemed to have, Irial began, "We'll get better at this and—"

"Will it hurt you if I step forward?" Her voice was dispassionate, but she felt excitement at the idea. Not fear, though. There still wasn't any fear, and that's what she wanted—not to hurt, but to feel normal. She hadn't been sure before, but in that moment she knew that's what she needed: the whole of herself, all the parts, all the feelings. And they're as far gone as normal is.

"Would you feel it? Would I feel it if I fell? Would it hurt?" She looked down at him: he was beautiful, and despite the fact that he'd stolen her choices, she looked at him with a strange tenderness. He kept her safe. The mess she was in might be his fault, but he didn't abandon her to the madness it caused. He took her into his arms no matter how often she sought him, no matter that he'd had to move his court, that he looked positively exhausted. Tender feelings surged as she thought about it, about him.

When he spoke, it wasn't to say anything gentle. He pointed at the ground. "So jump."

Anger, fear, doubt, rolled over her—not pleasant, but real. For a brief moment, they were hers and real this time. "I could."

"You could," he repeated. "I won't stop you. I don't want to steal your will, Leslie."

"You have, though." She watched Gabriel walk up and whisper to Irial. "You did this. I'm not happy. I want to be."

"So jump." He didn't take his gaze away from her as he told Gabriel, "Keep everyone back. No mortals. No fey in this street."

Leslie sat down again. "You'd catch me."

"I would, but if the fall would please you" — he shrugged—"I'd rather you were happy."

"Me too." She rubbed her eyes, as if tears would come. They won't. Crying wasn't something she did anymore— neither was worrying, raging, or any other of the unpleasant emotions. Parts of her were gone, taken away as surely as the rest of her life. There were no classes, no melodramatic Rianne; there'd be no laughing in the kitchen at Verlaine's, no dancing at the Crow's Nest. And there was no way to undo any of the things that had changed. Going backward is never an option. But staying where she was wasn't true happiness either. She was living in a hazy dream—or nightmare. She didn't know if she could tell the difference just now.

"I'm not happy," she whispered. "I don't know what I am, but this isn't happiness."

Irial began climbing the building, grabbing hold of crumbling brick and broken metal, piercing his hands on the sharp edges, leaving a trail of bloody handprints as he made his way up the wall to her.

"Grab hold," he said as he paused in the window frame.

And she did. She clung to him, holding on to him like he was the only solid thing left in the world as he finished scaling the building. When he reached the barren rooftop, he stopped and lowered her feet to the ground.

"I don't want you to be unhappy."

“I am.”

"You're not." He cupped her face in his hands. "I know everything you feel, love. You feel no sorrow, no anger, no worries. How is this a bad thing?"

"It's not real. … I can't live like this. I won't."

She must have sounded serious enough because he nodded. "Give me a few more days, and I'll have a solution."

"Will you tell—"

"No." He watched her face with something almost vulnerable in his eyes. "It's best for everyone if we don't talk of this. Just trust me."

Irial had spent several days watching Leslie struggle with the urge to feel something of the emotions she'd lost now that he drank them through her. It was an unexpected dilemma. She'd stepped into traffic, provoked the increasingly aggressive Bananach, and interfered in an altercation with two armed mortals: the moment he relaxed his guard she was out endangering herself. She didn't make sense to him, but mortals rarely did.

Today she was exhausted—as was he.

He pulled the door to the bedroom closed, tearing his attention away from his sleeping girl. She required so much careful handling, so much hiding of his true feelings. He'd not expected a mortal to change him; that wasn't part of the plan.

Gabriel looked up as Irial sat at the other end of the sofa and resumed the conversation they'd been having every time Leslie napped. "We haven't had a good party with mortals in a while." He held out an already open long-neck bottle.

"That's because they break too easily." Irial took the bottle, sniffed it, and asked, "Is this actually real beer? Just beer?"

"Far as you know." Gabriel leaned back on the sofa, legs stretched out, boot-clad feet tapping in tune to some song that only he heard. "So, party with the mortals?"

"Can you get some that'll survive for a few nights?" Irial glanced at the closed door, behind which his own too-fragile mortal slept fitfully. "It'll be better if we don't need to replace them each week. Just gather the same ones up every few days until we see how it goes."

He didn't add that he wasn't sure how well Leslie would cope with channeling too many mortals' deaths, fear, and pain. If there were enough of them and they were terrified and angry and lustful enough, she'd be so intoxicated that he doubted that she'd notice a few deaths, but if too many of them died at once, it could upset her.

"A bit of war might be good too. Bananach is testing every boundary you set. Give her a small skirmish?" The fact that Gabriel had mentioned it at all was reason enough to worry.

"She doesn't have the support yet to get very far." Irial hated that she was always there at his heels, looking for weaknesses, stirring her small mutinies. In time, she would wear him down. If he didn't keep the court strong enough, she would rally them to true rebellion. It wouldn't be the first time. He needed to lull her back to moderate rumblings of war, not give her reason to get more bold. First get Leslie situated.

"Bananach tried for Niall again." Gabriel flashed his teeth in his glee. "Boy still holds his own in a fight."

Irial would've enjoyed seeing that. Niall tended to go for logic before violence, but when he did indulge in a fight, he did it like he did everything: with singular focus. "He's … well still?"

Gabriel shrugged, but his gleeful expression wasn't dimming. "He'll come back sooner or later, Iri. You need to think long term, that's all."