Darkest Mercy

“Done,” she echoed.

Then he cradled her face in his hands, and the world became utterly silent around her. Neither sight nor sound remained. There was only darkness, complete and absolute. If she hadn’t secured a promise that no injury would come to her, Aislinn would have been convinced that she’d left her body and fallen into a void.

What have I done?

To her mind, it seemed as if days passed as they stood together. Then he leaned toward her. In the void where she somehow now was, she felt his movements. Nothing existed before or after him. His voice was of corn husks whispering in barren expanses as he told her, “My name is Far Dorcha. The Dark Man.”

Aislinn knew that it had been only a few moments that she’d been in the void, but when Far Dorcha pulled his hands away from her, she stumbled. The world was too harshly lit; the ice that hung from the trees in the distance glistened so brightly that she had to avert her gaze. Only he, the Dark Man, was painless to see.

“You’re . . . death-fey.” She’d met a couple of his kind, and while they weren’t a proper court, they were under his dominion. Death faeries had no need for a court: they had no enemies. Immortal creatures weren’t imprudent enough to tangle with those who could and would kill them with as much effort as they expended on breathing. Aislinn took several steps backward. She’d willingly consented to a caress from the faery equivalent of Death. What was I thinking? If not for the things Keenan and Niall had taught her about faery bargains, that could have gone very poorly.

It still might.

“They hadn’t told me you could’ve been so near my reach. Almost dead. Almost mine.” Far Dorcha frowned slightly as he peered into her face as if to read words written on her flesh. “Winter stabbed you.”

At that, Aislinn’s worries over the bargain were replaced. Near death? She had known she was injured, had felt doubt that she would survive, but she’d come to believe that it had simply hurt worse than it was. Before she could find words to reply, he exhaled his cloyingly sweet breath.

She stumbled as the pain and emotions of that injury came to her as clearly as they had been that day. The scent of funereal flowers made her body remember what her mind wished to deny. Had Donia meant to wound me so badly? It was a subject they hadn’t discussed: the Winter Queen’s ice could’ve easily been fatal. If not for Keenan. He’d saved her, and in doing so, he’d pushed her—and pushed Seth—into confronting the undeniable connection between the Summer King and Queen.

However, it wasn’t the pleasure of her king healing her that she felt now: it was the pain of ice coursing through her body that washed over her anew as she breathed in the death-fey’s sugar-sweet breath. She put her hand on her stomach. “What . . . how . . .”

“You weren’t completely in my reach before your king interfered,” Far Dorcha said.

The Dark Man sighed again, and Aislinn felt memories tugging her back. She could feel slivers of winter buried inside her body; she could feel the horrible sense that this wound was the one to end her newfound immortality. This injury will be fatal. Aislinn felt her knees give out.

“Enough.” She clutched the grass, seeking the buried fecundity of the earth to steady her. This isn’t an injury; it’s a memory.

The pain was still intense enough that she stayed on the ground for a moment longer, letting the warmth of summer life flow from under the ice through the soil and to her.

Then, her guards were there. A rowan had her arm, as if to steady her, but she shook him off and stood. She took a step toward Far Dorcha.

Be confident. Aislinn could almost laugh at taking advice from the faery whose injury to her she was now reliving. I am the Summer Queen. I can do this.

“You do not come here and attack a regent,” she said.

“Attack?” The Dark Man laughed. “We had a bargain, little queen. It is not my fault that you are uncomfortable with the results.”

With sunlight pulsing into her body as truly as if Keenan had stood beside her, sharing his light with her, she pushed her sunlight into Far Dorcha’s chest, not as a strike but as a reminder of what—who—she was. “I don’t know what you are doing, but that’s enough.”

None of the guards touched Far Dorcha, but one did step closer to her. “My Queen? Perhaps—”

Aislinn held up a hand. “I didn’t agree to that . . . whatever it was.”

“Remembering,” Far Dorcha said. “I’m only remembering.”

“It’s not your memory.” Aislinn motioned for the guards to stay where they were even as they tensed. A queen kept her court safe, and she was pretty certain that attacking the head of the death-fey wasn’t likely to go well.

“It should’ve been my memory,” he said. “If he hadn’t found you when he did, you would’ve been dead not long after.”

Far Dorcha exhaled again, sending that sugar-sweet breath toward her in a prolonged sigh.

Aislinn turned her head to avoid inhaling.

Expression pensive, Far Dorcha looked past her. Then he said, “Some wounds take longer to kill. I should’ve been summoned. Your king has questions to answer, Summer Queen.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to mention that to him.” She motioned to the street. “I agreed to your escorting me to my door—”

“Another day,” Far Dorcha said absently, and with as little sound as he’d made when he arrived, he left.

The temper she couldn’t fully repress flared to life as Aislinn strode through the cluster of her guards, letting them scurry to reorganize themselves as they escorted her.

By the time she reached the loft that was now her home, her temper had faded and clarity struck her: there must be a reason the head of the death-fey was in Huntsdale—and she couldn’t think of any reasons that didn’t worry her.

Who has died? Will die? Her mind swirled with thoughts of Seth and Keenan, of her court, of faeries who weren’t hers but whom she’d still mourn. Seth and Keenan are away. It’s not them. Right? Where are they?

She raced up the stairs, shoved open the door, and called, “Tavish! I need advice. Now.”

Instead of her trusted advisor, Quinn came into the main room. “Tavish is with the Summer Girls, but I’m here.”

The birds that used to be Keenan’s swooped around manically as Aislinn’s temper spiked again. “I need answers.”

Quinn ducked as one of the cockatiels flew dangerously close to his ear. He was wise enough not to swipe at the bird, but the scowl he flashed it wasn’t fleeting enough for her to miss. “Can I help?”

Aislinn extended her arm for the offending bird. It settled on her wrist and walked sideways up to her shoulder. She wasn’t going to tell Quinn about her encounter with Death, but there were other subjects that he could address. Be assertive. She’d been patient for almost six months, waiting for the Summer King to return to his court. She’d waited for Seth while he was in Faerie. Is Keenan hiding in Faerie now? Is that where Seth is again too? Seth had disappeared several days ago, and given that he had been claimed as a child to the High Queen, Aislinn suspected his disappearance was tied to her. Keenan might not be close with Sorcha, but he’d had centuries of dealing with her. Did he go to Faerie for something too? The High Queen had answers, and had been at odds with her mad twin sister, Bananach, for centuries longer than Aislinn had lived, but she wasn’t coming to offer aid to any who now dealt with the strengthened War—and Aislinn didn’t expect her to do so. According to Keenan, the High Queen had kept herself withdrawn from the centuries of conflict between Winter and Summer. And I cannot ask her for insight because I can’t go to her. I can’t even go find out if my king or my . . . Seth . . . is with her.

“How is it that I’m not aware of how to enter Faerie?” Aislinn let her temper simmer in her voice and on her skin. “Where are the gates to Faerie?”

“My queen—”

“No,” she interrupted before he could begin another litany of the dangers of entering Faerie without the High Queen’s consent. “Everyone else seems to know how to enter Faerie. Seth knows. Niall knows. Keenan knows. Why do I not know?”

“If you’ll forgive the impertinence, my queen, the others are not new to being fey, aside from Seth, who is the Unchanging Queen’s. . . . She is fond of him.”

At the flash of light that sizzled from the Summer Queen’s skin, Quinn added hurriedly, “But in a different way than you are, my queen. She knows he is your . . .” Quinn’s words faded, and he ducked his head rather than try to finish that sentence.

What is Seth?

Once he’d been her friend; then, he’d been her everything. Then he’d become a faery, and she’d made some stupid mistakes. Now she wasn’t sure what he was. Which doesn’t mean Seth should take off without telling me. Aislinn scowled. Neither should’ve Keenan. Her king had walked out on her, left her in charge of a court with only half the strength of the regency, and she was trying her damnedest not to flounder too much.

Be assertive, she reminded herself. Maybe I should do so with Keenan and Seth too.

“Aislinn?” Quinn said her name cautiously.

“What?” She looked at him, only to realize that the room was filled with rainbows from the tiny rain shower and sun-bursts that had begun while she was thinking. “Oh.”

The plants and the birds and the various creatures that lived in the stream they’d put in the room all thrived under these conditions, but Quinn looked a bit perturbed by his sopping clothes.

There’s a psycho faery who thrives on violence and has noticed Seth and who took him to Faerie once already. My king has bailed. Oh, and Death is visiting.