Melissa Marr - Darkest Mercy

“I’m not sure we can kill her. She’s strong,” Irial pointed out. “She killed me and cut through Devlin like he was untrained. We’ve got us, the Hounds, and those we can round up from the other courts.”

“Could we contain her?” Keenan asked.

Before anyone could reply, one of the thistle-fey came into the wreckage-strewn room unannounced. “My King!” He half pushed, half dragged another faery in front of him. “War has come.”

Before they could reply, the faery that had been shoved into the room said, “The Hunt has begun the battle, Your Majesties.” He looked from Niall to Keenan and back to Niall. “The Huntswoman sent us to each of the three courts. The fight . . . Bananach sits on your throne, has declared herself Dark Queen.”

“She what ?” Niall— or perhaps Irial —asked.

Keenan repressed a shiver at the darkness in that voice. He’d seen Niall angry, understood the horrible depths that both kings were capable of separately, and now wondered what it would mean to have both of those tempers in the same body.

“We have our answer.” Niall-Irial stood. The Dark King caught Leslie’s hand, and the terrible darkness vanished. “Will you stay here? If things . . .”

“I’ll be here. Not forever, but for a couple days until everything is sorted out.” The mortal girl embraced the Dark King. “Go kick her ass.”

With something like awe in his expression, the Dark King—whichever of them—looked at Leslie and then kissed her briefly.

He turned to Keenan. “Will you fight? Or now that you have no sunlight . . . are you able?”

Instead of answering, Keenan let winter fill his eyes as he looked at the Dark King. “I am not skilled with this element, but I am not exactly defenseless.”

Irial—because that dry tone was clearly not Niall—said, “Well, wouldn’t Beira be . . . shocked?”

“No.” Keenan shook his head. “She knew all along what I could do. I chose to be Summer, and she knew it every day of my life.”

The Dark King smiled. “Your father would’ve been proud.”

Keenan paused and admitted, “I hope so. . . . Niall?”

“No. . . . That was Irial.” Niall shook his head. “I hear him when he speaks now. I hear him speaking in my head to only me, and I hear him when he speaks to you with . . . through me.”

Keenan stared at Niall. “Can you fight like this?”

“I can. I feel better now than I have since he died.” Niall frowned. “I don’t know if it’s from sleeping or knowing he’s still with me or . . .” Niall’s words faded as he put aside whatever thoughts he was trying to make sense of. He looked at Keenan. “Donia knows about your capacity for Winter?”

“She was the only one alive who did know until now.” Keenan looked around the room. The mortal, the Dark Kings, the messenger, and the thistle-fey all stared back at him, and the former Summer King felt like a carnival curiosity. “Do we have a plan?”

“Weapons,” Niall called. “We fight War. Now .”

Dark Court faeries came trooping into the room as if utterly unconcerned by the king’s declaration that they were going to fight War. One tossed a halberd to—or possibly at —Keenan. They were nothing like the faeries he had been surrounded by his whole life. Several of them paused to smile at the mortal girl; Leslie sat peacefully in their midst as if they weren’t loathsome. None of the thistle-fey touched her, but most every faery that crossed the threshold beamed at the sight of her, and many of the not-painful-to-touch faeries stroked her cheek or arm as they passed her. Through it all, Leslie said nothing.

The messenger looked far less at ease.

The messenger . . .

Keenan passed the halberd off to a thistle-fey and grabbed the messenger. “Go to the water, the river, and tell them that the bestia brings deaths. Tell them that Innis promised to aid me. Go.”

The Dark King hefted a broadsword. “You weren’t merely out sulking after all.”

A group of three faeries came in with arms full of weapons—many bloodstained—and tossed them onto the floor. Other faeries sifted through the weapons. The flow of armed faeries started toward the street. They were chortling and grinning.

The messenger fled, and Keenan shrugged. “Having allies seemed wise.”

“Are we allies now, kingling?”

“I’m not a king , but I will fight with the Dark Court and any of those who stand against Bananach, and not”—Keenan stared directly at the Dark King and grabbed several throwing knives from the stack of weapons—“because of a threat by either of you.”

“You are your father’s son,” Irial remarked.

Keenan looked back at the faery who had bound him, who now possessed the king he’d offered to advise. “I won’t ever like you, but my father saw something worthwhile in you, and so does Niall. Summer will, undoubtedly, be there, and I know Winter will.”

“Then let’s move so we’re not last to the party.”

“My Queen!” Tavish’s voice rang through the loft.

Aislinn felt as much as heard the panic bloom in her seemingly imperturbable advisor. She hurriedly pulled a sundress over her head, but she was barefoot when she rushed to the main room of the loft. The onslaught of full Summer inside of her made it hard to stand still, so at the least, the burst of speed to her advisor’s side was refreshing.

“What’s wrong?”

“A messenger arrived, my Queen.” Tavish was moving toward her even as he spoke, and he stood at her side before he continued, “The war has begun.”

The messenger flinched and turned her face from the flash of light that filled the room. New powers; not really the best time to go diving into battles. Aislinn sighed, and eddies of wind tore books from the shelves. With effort, she spoke softly. “Where? Who fights?”

“The Dark Court’s warehouse, my lady.” The doe-eyed faery moved aside as a torn bit of curtain floated to the floor beside her. “The Hunt started the fight when Bananach declared herself Dark Queen . . . and the Gabriela bade me tell you that War has Seth.”

“She has Seth,” Aislinn repeated, with a stillness that was the polar opposite of her emotions. “Has him how ? Where?”

“In a cage.” The faery stepped backward even as she spoke. “Gabriela—”

“Gabriela?” Tavish interrupted.

“Hound that was Chela. The Gabriel’s dead, so she’s Gabriela.” The faery shivered as rain filled the room. “I am blameless, Summer Queen.”

“I’m not angry with you,” Aislinn muttered. Every bit of self-control she had was going into keeping her temper in check.

So really not the time to do this.

Tavish advised, “The rain is fine, my Queen, but the sunlight in here is growing dangerous to any not of our court.”

“Oh.” Aislinn concentrated specifically on dulling the light and heat. She inhaled the warmth with a steady breath and then stared at her advisor with sunlight still pulsing on her tongue. Carefully, she said, “Let’s take it to where it can be dangerous to the right one then.”

Tavish nodded. “The Summer Guard will be ready in fifteen minutes.”

“Fine, but I’m leaving in five, with or without guards.” Aislinn strode off.

The Summer Queen returned to her room to pull on boots and jeans. Getting her feet crushed by flailing faeries was an avoidable injury, and her wet sundress was far from ideal for movement. Or fighting. She shucked off her clothes and yanked on jeans. I can’t fight worth a damn. She’d taken lessons from Tavish, trained with the guard after Donia had stabbed her. It’s not the same as centuries of experience. The handles of her drawer turned to ashes in her hand. Or any experience with all of summer inside me. Ashes slipped from her hand to the floor.