Old Habits (5 page)

“Huh.” Gabriel snorted. “Didn’t waste any time trying to protect you, did he? Threaten her or sleep with her or both?”

Niall didn’t answer that, but he suspected Gabriel knew the answer well enough. Irial might not have spoken to the Hound yet, but they’d been a team for as long as Niall had known Irial. Before the day was through, Irial would seek out Gabriel and tell him the things he thought necessary to assure that Niall was safe.

And not once think about the way he endangers himself now.

A regent could prevent any of his or her subjects from seeing the gate, and a strong solitary could impose restrictions on weaker fey. A part of Niall thought stealing others’ will was wrong, but he understood now that there were times that choices were a matter of opting for the lesser of several wrongs.

“It is my decree that none of the
subjects
of Dark Court may enter Faerie without my consent.” Niall looked at Gabriel’s forearms as the command appeared there. “Until such time as I speak otherwise, the gates are unseen to my subjects.”

The Hounds didn’t offer fealty, so they could go to Faerie. Of course, they wouldn’t do so unless Gabriel directed them. Irial, however, could no longer see the gates or enter Faerie.

“He’s going to be furious,” Gabriel said mildly.

Niall shook his head and admitted, “I don’t want him getting himself killed.”

“Knew that years ago, when you showed up regularly even though you were in another court.” Gabriel laughed. “So did he. Why do you think he got in so many scrapes? He spent centuries trying to get your attention back, Niall.”

“Well, he has it now,” Niall grumbled. “Maybe not the way he wanted, but . . . he’s going to have to learn that he will obey me or he can just take the court back.”

“Unstoppable force and immovable object. This will be fun.” The Hound laughed, clapped Niall on the shoulder, and said, “I’ll ready the Hunt for Devlin’s arrival.”

“Good.” Niall walked away before he admitted that he was looking forward to the impending violence—and putting Irial in his place.

Sorcha didn’t respond when Devlin walked into her gardens. She’d long since stopped acknowledging him when he did so.
As if it will make the future less difficult.
She hated that he was an anomalous creature—almost as much as she treasured it. He would be her undoing if she let him. Perhaps he would be even if she tried to stop him. In some matters the threads of possibility were seemingly determined.

“My Queen?”

She didn’t turn. Facing him as they lied in their omissions made the whole business even less palatable. “Brother.”

“I have blinded the mortal as you commanded. I go now to the mortal world.” His voice was as empty as it often was, but that too was a lie of sorts. Her brother might pretend to be High Court, but she was under no illusion that he was solely her creature.

“I have business in the mortal realm that needs tending,” she said.

He’d expected as much, but he’d hoped otherwise. She could see the resignation in the infinitesimal moment in which he frowned. The expression was gone too fast for most anyone to see, of course, but she saw much that no one else would. The pause before replying was infinitesimal, but it was still there.

“Whatever you command,” he said.

She turned. “Indeed?”

Before she could catch his gaze, he dropped to his knees. “Have I failed you?”

Sorcha didn’t speak.
Have you?
She knew he would, but had he? Her vision of the past was unclear. The present and future took her focus so fully, and eternity stretched longer than she could grasp.
Have you?
She waited, looking down at the first faery she’d made. Before he existed, there were only two, Discord and Order, twins who had once created one thing together.
You.
She reached down and ran her fingers through his multihued hair. It was unlike that which graced any other faery, and it was resistant to her will. He couldn’t be altered by her touch, not now that he was real. Other faeries couldn’t be either, but they weren’t her creations.

They’d stayed this way for hours before. Devlin had the patience and willpower to kneel for as long as she required it. He didn’t falter, didn’t sleep, didn’t wince. He simply waited. She wondered idly if he could outwait her.

“Could we spend decades thus, Brother?” she murmured.

He lifted his gaze. “Sister?”

“If I demanded it, how long would you kneel thusly?” She traced up his cheekbones and down the outside of his jaw with her fingertips. “Would you falter from exhaustion before I would?”

“You are my queen.”

“I am,” she agreed. She cupped his face in her hands and held him still. “That’s not an answer.”

He didn’t even try to resist. “Do you require me to falter or to succeed in waiting as long as you?”

She smiled then. “Such a wise answer. You will do whatever I require, then? You will strive to not fail me? You will serve me forever?”

“As your servant, your Bloodied Hands, your brother, your advisor, I will do all that you demand.” He bowed his head, and she loosened her grip to allow it. Then he added, “The last of those questions is unanswerable.”

“It is.” She turned her back, fashioned a chair of flowering vines, and sat down. In her hands, a book appeared. She had willed it to be withdrawn from the palace library and appear here. Ignoring her brother, she began to read.

He stayed there kneeling for the next three hours.

Somewhere into the fourth hour, she lifted her gaze to look at him. “I need you to go to the new Dark King. Give him word of the High Court’s acknowledgment of his new station. Stress to him that while we are not at conflict, I will not hesitate to act as required to keep order.”

Devlin stayed silent, awaiting the rest.

“It would be prudent to make clear your willingness to strike at the Dark Court should it be required,” she continued. “Perhaps a fight with the former Dark King? The Gabriel? His mate? The action should be something that emphasizes your assets as the High Court’s weapon.”

“As you will,” Devlin murmured.

The brief look of hurt on his face was reason enough for Sorcha to know that her actions were necessary. It would not do for Devlin to be coddled. Reminding him that he was a weapon to be utilized helped keep his tendency toward emotion in check.

It is for the best.

“Do you require death?” he inquired. “That will limit the potential choices for combatants.”

Sorcha paused and sorted through the threads that had come into focus as Devlin spoke. The consequences of some deaths would be disastrous.
Unexpectedly so.
Later she would mull the import of one such thread, but for now she said only, “Not of that list. Injure one of them, or injure many. A lesser death is allowable, but not the new king’s advisor or thugs. A regent does tend to react poorly to such losses.”

The moment was there, and she knew he would ask. In this, as in so many other things, her brother was predictable. He looked directly at her with those unnaturally dark eyes and asked, “Would your
thug
’s death elicit such a reaction?”

“My assassin is my advisor and my creation”—she pursed her lips in an expression that should convey the dislike she knew was an appropriate emotion—“so I would be sorely inconvenienced by your death. I dislike being inconvenienced.”

He bowed his head again. “Of course.”

“If I were attached to any faery in my court, it would be you, Brother.” She stood and walked over to him. “You have value to me.”

The relief evinced in his slight relaxing of posture was noteworthy for him. This was what he required: reminders of his value, of his use, of his proper role. He never spoke of the fact that his choice of her court was a struggle, but she knew.
As does Bananach.
It was in his nature to crave both Discord and Order.

“I expect there to be violence enough that the Dark Court will be suitably reminded of my strength,” she added.

“As you require.”

She expected that this was a moment in which she should offer him comfort. He evoked that in her, an urge to nurture, but it would hasten the seemingly inevitable future.
When he becomes my enemy.
Instead she said, “You will not allow yourself injured, Brother. The High Court is represented by your success in this. Do not fail me.”

“I will not.” He was still on his knees, still unflinching. “May I depart?”

She set a storm over his head and walked away. “When the next hour ends, you may rise.”

After tending a few business matters that required negotiations that the Dark King didn’t need to know just yet, Irial finally approached what appeared to be a derelict warehouse to follow up on the last task of the day. His spies had reported that Devlin had orders to strike either Gabriel or him—or to entice Niall himself to fight. Devlin was the first male faery, older than anyone save Sorcha and Bananach. He was undefeated in fighting. Allowing him to strike Niall was not an option.

And Gabe is too important to risk.
The Hound could stand against most faeries, so his safety was essential to keeping Niall safe.
That leaves one obvious choice.

Niall would object, but it was the best course of action. So Irial had come to tell Gabriel what he’d learned. The comfort of doing so was a familiar one. Gabriel had been Irial’s chief confidante and guard for centuries. That didn’t mean, however, that entering the Hound’s domain was something Irial did lightly.

The creatures that filled the building evoked fear and discomfort by their mere presence. When they ran, they were a beautiful nightmare—so much so that even the former King of Nightmares felt a flush of terror roll over him. It was a warning that even regents should heed: inside the stable, the Hunt ruled. No kingship, no law in either world, nothing other than Gabriel’s word mattered once one entered their domain. Consequently, it was one of the few places in this world or in Faerie that Irial would approach with caution.

Irial stopped at one of the doors and waited for a moment.

One of the younger Hounds stepped forward and flashed a sulfurous green gaze at Irial. The sight of the green eyes in the dark was more comforting than menacing, but sharing that detail would elicit an undesired reaction for the Hound. Fighting was rarely one of Irial’s preferred hobbies, so he kept his thoughts to himself.

“I would speak with the Gabriel.” Irial didn’t lower his gaze, but he didn’t stare directly at the Hound.

A second Hound, who leaned against the building, crossed his arms. “Don’t think Gabriel is expecting you.”

“Do you deny me entrance?” Irial held his hand out, palm up as one would for any number of feral beasts.

The first Hound sniffed Irial’s hand. Then he stepped closer and sniffed the air near Irial’s face. “Smells like the other place.”

“Faerie,” Irial murmured.

The second Hound growled. “Can’t run there.
She
says no visits. Wants us asking permission first.”

“I bring word of violence.”

At that, both Hounds’ attitudes shifted. One pushed off the building and pulled the door open. “Go ahead in. Gabriel’s in the ring.”

As always, the Hounds’ steeds were in various forms. Cars, motorcycles, and beasts waited in wooden stalls. A few of the steeds sat in rafters in various guises. Here, they could adopt whatever form they preferred. Irial felt a twinge of longing for Faerie then. Once, forever ago now, these steeds could wear whatever form they wanted all of the time. At first they continued to do so in the mortal world, but now they were more cautious—for obvious reasons: the sight of the vibrant green dragon that slept in the center aisle would alarm most mortals.

The dragon stirred enough that a clear lens flickered over one its massive eyes. It yawned, giving Irial a glimpse of teeth as big as his own arms. Then, scenting him, its nostrils flared. It had awakened.

Both of the creature’s eyes were now focused on Irial.

“I’m here to speak with the Gabriel,” Irial said. “I bring word of blood for the Hunt. A guest from Faerie will be coming here.”

The dragon flicked a thin purple tongue out, not far enough to touch Irial, but close enough that for a moment, Irial thought he’d misremembered how close one could stand and still be at a safe distance. But then the tongue retracted, and the beast closed its eyes.

Irial resumed walking toward the ring at the far back of the building.

The scent of blood and the cacophony of snarls and rumbling voices were unaltered, but Irial had no doubt that they all knew he approached. The steeds shared nonverbal communication with their riders—and with the Hound who led them all. Everyone in the stable knew what Irial had said to the Hound at the door and to the steed that rested in the form of a dragon. That did not, however, mean that any of them saw reason to interrupt whatever fight was in progress. The Hunt had different priorities than the less feral faeries often understood.

Irial closed the distance, prepared to wait for the match to end. However as he reached the edge of the crowd, the Hounds parted to let him walk to the front. At the edge of the roped-off ring, Irial stopped.

There were few things that would be as unexpected as the sight before him: Niall stood in the center of the ring. Blood trickled from a set of teeth marks on his forearm and soaked the denim around a jagged tear on his leg. His opponent, an average-sized Hound, growled as Niall landed a punch that rocked the Hound’s head backward. Before the Hound could respond, Niall followed through with a second punch to the throat that had the Hound toppling to the straw-covered floor.

As Irial stared, Gabriel came up beside him. “Always was a ruthless bastard in a fight.”

“Does he do this often?” Irial watched his king put one boot-clad foot on the fallen Hound’s chest.

“Most every night since you made him king.” Gabriel’s emotions tangled between amused and content. “Seems to be taking to the job if you ask me.”

“Perhaps I
should’ve
asked you,” Irial murmured. He felt a curious wave of sadness that Gabriel had kept this from him. It wasn’t wrong of Gabriel, but it was yet another loss.