Old Habits
Page 12
“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.”
Chapter 7
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.
“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.”
Chapter 7
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.
