Melissa Marr - Darkest Mercy

Smaller areas of fighting continued, but the forces who opposed Bananach’s fey were obviously going to prevail.

That leaves Bananach.

“I can either help Niall or leave the wall in place,” Aislinn said softly. “Any advice?”

“He is not winning, and the one who would seal the wall appears to be unable to repair it,” Tavish said. “If you can help him, do it. We are running out of options.”

The Summer Queen exhaled, and the ice melted.

The flood of it rolled through the warehouse. The water fey pulled it to them, lifting it until a section of the room was underwater. It had the effect of a giant, wall-less aquarium. Which is impossible. The faeries that she had seen blended into the water. Some of the land faeries tried to swim in the vertical river, but it was futile.

And then, the water itself—and the whole of those contained within it—exited the warehouse in a rush.

Aislinn was left in a much less crowded warehouse. Hounds and rowan formed a line of defense behind Aislinn, and in front of her, Niall and Bananach fought on.

“Ash,” Niall said. The Dark King was bleeding from more places than Aislinn could count, but he’d cut through the faeries and then stood against War while the rest of them barely made it to his side.

Or fell when we got here.

The Summer Queen took a steadying breath.

I would offer mercy if I could.

Summer is not made for murder.

But even as she reminded herself of those things, she knew too that Summer was deadly. Droughts and fires, storms and floods, mud slides and parched bodies—those were the domain of Summer as well.

We are past the point of mercy.

The Summer Queen concentrated the heat that radiated through her body and sent it as a single beam toward Bananach. The raven-faery couldn’t knock away the sunlight, although she did lift a shadow-made shield. Some of the sunlight was absorbed by the shadows, but enough of it pushed through that it charred flesh and feathers.

Bananach glanced at Aislinn and snapped her beak-mouth in a wordless threat.

While she was turned away, Niall slashed at her with a short sgian dubh . Fresh blood dripped down Bananach’s arm. Feathers clung to the wound.

“Your forces are defeated,” Aislinn said.

“Not all,” War crowed. “Not me . Snow is done. He”—she bashed Niall over the head with the shadow shield—“is faltering more by the moment.”

“I am not faltering,” Aislinn said softly. “I’ve energy to spare.”

The derision in Bananach’s eyes would’ve been daunting once— had been daunting —but Aislinn wasn’t a mortal, wasn’t an unsure queen, wasn’t anything to be daunted. She was the Summer Queen, the first faery regent in almost a millennium to be fully in possession of the strength that begged to escape her body now.

“Niall, shield. Now.”

And without waiting but a moment, she exhaled sunlight; she pushed it from her skin; she sent it forward in a solar flare that set Bananach on fire.

In that split instant between Aislinn’s warning and action, the Dark King had pulled his abyss-guardians to him. They tangled into a solid wall of shadows, shielding him from Aislinn’s sunlight.

Vaguely, she was aware of his presence, of the faeries behind her watching, of Bananach’s screams of pain. Sunlight. Burn away the disease. The Summer Queen walked toward the burning faery. Sunlight rolled ahead of her steps, a blazing forest fire contained in only a few feet. Purify. Protect. Aislinn glanced at Niall. She remembered him striking her once, threatening her. Friend or not?

Summer had no words to ask such questions. She stared at him, trying to remember if she should burn him away too.

“Ash?” he said. He was battered, limping, yet he stepped between her and the screeching faery. “I will finish this.”

The Summer Queen shook her head. “She hurt Donia. She killed Evan . . . Irial. . . Gabriel, Tish, and she killed my fey . ”

The Dark King nodded. His shadowy guardians were watching, but immobile. Their bodies were illuminated by the flames.

Bananach shook off the fire, shed it and most of her wings in a horrific shudder.

“Move.” Niall raised a sword.

“No.” Aislinn let vines come to her hand. Soil. Vines need soil. So Aislinn drew earth to her in a great tug, heard the roar of it coming behind her, and watched as it rolled in on either side of her and covered Bananach.

The raven-faery’s body was drowning in the weight of the now-boiling mud, tangled by the miniature white roses that sprang from the earth.

“She cannot kill now,” Aislinn pronounced.

The Dark King stepped into the mud and drove a shadow-wrought broadsword into the earth up to the hilt.

“Blood feeds the magick,” a corn-husk-dry voice said.

Aislinn turned to see Far Dorcha watching.

“Death feeds the soil,” he added.

In front of them, Niall sat down in the mud. Despite his battered and bruised body, the Dark King was smiling. He looked at her and said, “Seth was right.”

The Dark Man nodded. “He was.”

Perplexed, Aislinn looked from one to the other.

With one hand, Niall still held on to the broadsword; with the other, he wiped blood and sweat from his face. “Seth said we could kill her without all of us dying. Wasn’t sure if he was right.”

Far Dorcha chuckled.

“Where is he?” Aislinn’s poise faltered. “I looked during the . . . during . . . Is he? Where is he?”

“I put up a barrier to keep Seth safe when I got here,” Niall said. “He’s safe, Ash. Bananach couldn’t reach him.”

A strange look passed between Niall and Far Dorcha, but Aislinn wasn’t interested in asking why. Later, maybe, but right now, she had two more pressing matters to tend to. She nodded at Niall and then called to the death-fey, who had turned away already. “Far Dorcha?”

He paused. His expression was no more readable than it had been when she’d met him, but she thought a flicker of sorrow crossed his face.

“You offered me an exchange when we met,” she reminded him. “I know what I want.”

“What do you ask?”

“Whatever Keenan and Donia need,” she said. “If necessary, I will owe you a favor. Not a death, but I would put myself in your debt if I had to.”

Far Dorcha stared at her, but he said nothing. Instead, he nodded, and then strode away.

If he had it all to do over, the Dark Man didn’t think he would change any of it. There was sorrow over the death of so many of the fey, but it wasn’t the first time they’d been so destructive. In the past, their quarrels had bled into the mortal world. They didn’t squander their immortality often, but they still made foolish—or brave—choices from time to time. The losses reminded them that they weren’t impervious to some wounds.

Brutal wounds.

Steel-inflicted wounds.

Faery-made wounds.

He watched his sister collect the corpses, saw the shades gathering in the air around him, and shook his head. It was not joyous to have a sudden influx of shades to contend with.

I don’t seek subjects.

Ankou stopped, frowned at him, and then gestured in a wide arc around her. He stood invisible to faery eyes—just as shades were—and watched the former Summer King grieve.

The Winter Court could be his if Donia died. It was a natural order. The child of Winter would take his mother’s court. He would grieve, grow bitter, and eventually his mourning would warp into something malicious.

Which would be tedious.