Old Habits
Page 10
“Seeing the changed world after so long is troubling to them,” she’ d said. “This is kinder.” He’ d disagreed, but Sorcha had merely smiled and added, “The fanciful ones, the artists, are fragile. Seeing us after they’ve left is far crueler.”
The walk through Huntsdale wasn’t long, but it was long enough that solitaries and those of other courts saw him. None spoke to him, but more than a few faeries stared in blatant curiosity. The sensation wasn’t displeasing: he was opposing the High Court and doing something that soothed his sense of guilt over past follies.
As he approached his new home, a thistle fey scurried forward and opened the front door.
“Gabriel,” Niall called.
The Hound—who had once been a friend, more recently an enemy, and currently Niall’s most trusted resource— entered the foyer with a silent grace that should’ve been impossible for such a bulky creature. “My King.”
“King?” the man murmured.
“Her opposition,” Niall soothed as he lowered the man’s feet to the floor. “You are safe here.”
Gabriel shook his head. “You trying to start trouble?”
“Perhaps,” Niall admitted, “but I don’t suppose that’s a problem, is it?”
The grin on Gabriel’s face was matched by his mellow tone as he said, “Nope, just making sure I understand.”
“The High Queen blinded this man. I have offered him safety here.” Niall made a beckoning gesture to one of the Vilas who always lingered wherever Gabriel walked. “You can go with this woman. She’ll find you a chamber to rest while you decide what you want.”
The man reached out awkwardly, clearly not yet used to his lack of sight.
Niall took the man’s hand and started to lead him to the Vila. “This is Natanya and—”
“What’s your name, king?”
The belligerence in the man’s voice made both Niall and Gabriel grin. This was not a mortal who would curl into himself and give up. His bravery made him even more worthy of protection.
“Niall.”
“Am I safe from her here, Niall?” The man tilted his head. “They might be pretty, but they’re monstrous. You know that, don’t you?”
“We do,” Niall said.
“Are you all pretty too?” the mortal asked.
It was an obvious curiosity, but it stilled everyone all the same. Natanya stared at Niall; Gabriel shrugged. Niall wasn’t sure what answer was truth. Pretty? Gabriel was akin to a sort of menacing mortal who lingered in disreputable bars: slow to rile, but quick to strike if angered. He was lean, scarred, and silent. The gray-eyed, gray-skinned Vilas were all beautiful; even in violence, their movements were elegant; but they were as likely as not to dab blood on their lips for color. And Niall . . . being fey meant possessing an innate attractiveness to mortals; being a Gancanagh meant he’d been born to seduce. Pretty? He’d thought so once, many centuries ago, but that was not a word he’d found fitting for a very long time. He’d been proud of no longer being “pretty”: he kept his hair shorn to emphasize the scar that he was certain made him anything but pretty. The trouble was that Niall didn’t see the Dark Court denizens as ugly either, even while he hated things that happened in the court, even when he’d found a vast number of their faeries terrifying, he’d never thought them either pretty or ugly. They simply were.
“The High Court thinks we are monsters.” Niall let his own emotions into the words. “I suspect that if you saw us, you’d think many of us are too. What we aren’t, though, is calmly cruel. What we aren’t is like them.”
The man nodded.
Natanya and Gabriel were both smiling, and there was little doubt in Niall’s mind that his own acceptance of his court was likely to be repeated throughout their number.
“Natanya?” Gabriel motioned toward the mortal. “Look after him for your king and for me.”
“As if he were your own child, Gabriel.” The Vila beamed at Gabriel. The silver chains that held her bone-hewn shoes to her feet clattered as she moved across the room to take the mortal’s hand in hers. She led the man away, and for a moment Gabriel was silent.
He shot an assessing glance at Niall. “Salt in a wound when they learn that you brought one of Sorcha’s discarded mortals here.”
“That is true.”
“She’s already likely to make a statement to be clear that her earlier fondness for you won’t make her soft on you. Now this. . . . She’ll strike,” Gabriel said.
Niall shrugged. “She would have whether or not I took this one in.”
“True. So we prepare. The only two faeries she could strike that would truly weaken your court—or make you look weaker—are me and Irial,” Gabriel pointed out. “Those are the logical choices. I’m not going over there and if I’m not able to face Devlin, I need to be replaced as the Gabriel, so I’m not needing protection. Irial, on the other hand . . .”
“He was already over there. That’s how I know Devlin’s coming here.”
“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.
The walk through Huntsdale wasn’t long, but it was long enough that solitaries and those of other courts saw him. None spoke to him, but more than a few faeries stared in blatant curiosity. The sensation wasn’t displeasing: he was opposing the High Court and doing something that soothed his sense of guilt over past follies.
As he approached his new home, a thistle fey scurried forward and opened the front door.
“Gabriel,” Niall called.
The Hound—who had once been a friend, more recently an enemy, and currently Niall’s most trusted resource— entered the foyer with a silent grace that should’ve been impossible for such a bulky creature. “My King.”
“King?” the man murmured.
“Her opposition,” Niall soothed as he lowered the man’s feet to the floor. “You are safe here.”
Gabriel shook his head. “You trying to start trouble?”
“Perhaps,” Niall admitted, “but I don’t suppose that’s a problem, is it?”
The grin on Gabriel’s face was matched by his mellow tone as he said, “Nope, just making sure I understand.”
“The High Queen blinded this man. I have offered him safety here.” Niall made a beckoning gesture to one of the Vilas who always lingered wherever Gabriel walked. “You can go with this woman. She’ll find you a chamber to rest while you decide what you want.”
The man reached out awkwardly, clearly not yet used to his lack of sight.
Niall took the man’s hand and started to lead him to the Vila. “This is Natanya and—”
“What’s your name, king?”
The belligerence in the man’s voice made both Niall and Gabriel grin. This was not a mortal who would curl into himself and give up. His bravery made him even more worthy of protection.
“Niall.”
“Am I safe from her here, Niall?” The man tilted his head. “They might be pretty, but they’re monstrous. You know that, don’t you?”
“We do,” Niall said.
“Are you all pretty too?” the mortal asked.
It was an obvious curiosity, but it stilled everyone all the same. Natanya stared at Niall; Gabriel shrugged. Niall wasn’t sure what answer was truth. Pretty? Gabriel was akin to a sort of menacing mortal who lingered in disreputable bars: slow to rile, but quick to strike if angered. He was lean, scarred, and silent. The gray-eyed, gray-skinned Vilas were all beautiful; even in violence, their movements were elegant; but they were as likely as not to dab blood on their lips for color. And Niall . . . being fey meant possessing an innate attractiveness to mortals; being a Gancanagh meant he’d been born to seduce. Pretty? He’d thought so once, many centuries ago, but that was not a word he’d found fitting for a very long time. He’d been proud of no longer being “pretty”: he kept his hair shorn to emphasize the scar that he was certain made him anything but pretty. The trouble was that Niall didn’t see the Dark Court denizens as ugly either, even while he hated things that happened in the court, even when he’d found a vast number of their faeries terrifying, he’d never thought them either pretty or ugly. They simply were.
“The High Court thinks we are monsters.” Niall let his own emotions into the words. “I suspect that if you saw us, you’d think many of us are too. What we aren’t, though, is calmly cruel. What we aren’t is like them.”
The man nodded.
Natanya and Gabriel were both smiling, and there was little doubt in Niall’s mind that his own acceptance of his court was likely to be repeated throughout their number.
“Natanya?” Gabriel motioned toward the mortal. “Look after him for your king and for me.”
“As if he were your own child, Gabriel.” The Vila beamed at Gabriel. The silver chains that held her bone-hewn shoes to her feet clattered as she moved across the room to take the mortal’s hand in hers. She led the man away, and for a moment Gabriel was silent.
He shot an assessing glance at Niall. “Salt in a wound when they learn that you brought one of Sorcha’s discarded mortals here.”
“That is true.”
“She’s already likely to make a statement to be clear that her earlier fondness for you won’t make her soft on you. Now this. . . . She’ll strike,” Gabriel said.
Niall shrugged. “She would have whether or not I took this one in.”
“True. So we prepare. The only two faeries she could strike that would truly weaken your court—or make you look weaker—are me and Irial,” Gabriel pointed out. “Those are the logical choices. I’m not going over there and if I’m not able to face Devlin, I need to be replaced as the Gabriel, so I’m not needing protection. Irial, on the other hand . . .”
“He was already over there. That’s how I know Devlin’s coming here.”
“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.
