Radiant Shadows
Page 7
He opened his mouth to question her, but she turned away, leaving him silent in her gardens.
Chapter 3
Ani had gone to the Dark Kings’ home knowing it would be another painful experience—and not the fun kind of pain.
Irial held one of her hands in his. It was a comfort of sorts. “Are you ready?”
“Take it.” Ani extended her other arm toward the former Dark King. She stared at the fleur-de-lis wallpaper, at the flickering candles, at anything other than the faery sitting beside her. “Take all of it if that’s what you need.”
“Not all, Ani.” He squeezed her hand once more before releasing it. “If there was another way—”
“You’re my king. I will give whatever you ask of me. Do it.” She watched as he jabbed a thin tube into her skin. Bruises from the last several tubes decorated her skin like love bites.
“Not your king now. Niall’s the Dark King.”
“Whatever.” Ani didn’t resume the argument she’d lost too often: Irial might be king-no-more, but he had her loyalty. Truth be told, he had the loyalty of many of the denizens of the Dark Court. He might not rule them, but he still looked after them. He still handled those matters too disquieting for the new Dark King. Irial cosseted Niall.
Ani, however, wasn’t sheltered. Not anymore. When Irial learned that Ani could—that I need to—feed from both touch and emotion, he’d begun trying to find out how to use that for the Dark Court. According to Irial, as a halfling, she shouldn’t have either appetite. She certainly shouldn’t have both; and she definitely shouldn’t be able to find nourishment from mortals. Irial believed that Ani’s blood might hold the key to strengthening their court, so she’d become the subject of his experimentation.
Which is fine. For my court. For Irial.
“More?” she asked.
“Just a bit.” Irial bit the cork that sealed the next vial and tugged it out. He spoke around the cork held between his teeth and added, “Tilt down.”
She lowered her arm, clenching and unclenching her fist to pump the blood faster. She wasn’t sure if it actually helped the flow of blood, but it did give her the illusion that she was doing something. Bloodletting hadn’t become easier despite the number of times she’d done it.
With her free hand, she took the cork from his mouth. “I have it. Grab the next one.”
As the vial filled, Irial took another empty one from the rack and lifted it to his lips. Once it was uncorked, he switched the empty vial with the now full one. “Take this?”
Silently, she accepted the glass container with the same hand that held the cork. She sat it beside the other vials, all recorked, all filled with her blood. Then, she pushed the cork into the top of it.
“Last one,” Irial murmured. “You’re doing great.”
Ani stared at the empty space in the sixth rack; the others were all filled with vials of her blood. “Good.”
Irial handed her the last tube of blood and pressed a kiss to the inflamed extraction site. Neither of them spoke as he took the final container, settled it with the others, and carried all of it to the doorway and handed it off to a faery she didn’t see.
Their experimentation was a secret that neither Niall nor Gabriel knew of, but it was one of the myriad things Ani would do if Irial so much as hinted that he wished it of her. Not as painful as what I have done. At Irial’s request, she had let a trusted thistle-fey embrace her on one particularly unpleasant evening. Her hair and skin were collected by his touch. Should the court at large know of Irial’s experiments on her blood and flesh, should they learn why he sent samples to be tested and hopefully copied, she’d be at risk.
As would Iri.
Few faeries knew of her abnormalities—and she was grateful for that—and while Niall did know that she was unlike other faeries, he did not know of the experiments. He thought her ability to feed on the emotions of both faery and mortal was hidden from those who would kill, use, or champion her. Niall was a humane king. He allowed their faeries to do as they must, but he kept the court on a leash.
In a time when Bananach—the carrion crow, the bringer of war—grew stronger, leashes were dangerous. The faery courts, at least those on the mortal side of the veil, were on the verge of violence. The growing conflict nourished the Dark Court, who fed on the chaotic emotions, but it was also a threat to those Ani held dear. Upheavals between courts, whispers of deaths to come, these were all well and good—up to the point at which her own court was in jeopardy.
And Bananach will not spare the Dark Court. Or the mortal world my family lives in.
Irial did as he had done when he was king: moving pieces behind the scenes, making bargains, bending rules. This time, though, Ani’s safety was one of the rules he bent.
With my consent.
When Irial came back into the room, she watched him warily. For all of her adoration of him, she knew that he was rarely influenced by weakness or tenderness. He hadn’t held the throne of the court of nightmares for centuries by being easily swayed.
“You know I wouldn’t do this if there were better options.” His words weren’t a lie; they weren’t fully true either. Unless there was one clear option that would assure his court’s safety, he would do this—and much worse.
Yet, the former Dark King still thought of her as a child, as one foolish enough to accept the misdirection in his words. She wasn’t a child.
Perhaps foolish, but not naive, not innocent, not easily misled.
Chapter 3
Ani had gone to the Dark Kings’ home knowing it would be another painful experience—and not the fun kind of pain.
Irial held one of her hands in his. It was a comfort of sorts. “Are you ready?”
“Take it.” Ani extended her other arm toward the former Dark King. She stared at the fleur-de-lis wallpaper, at the flickering candles, at anything other than the faery sitting beside her. “Take all of it if that’s what you need.”
“Not all, Ani.” He squeezed her hand once more before releasing it. “If there was another way—”
“You’re my king. I will give whatever you ask of me. Do it.” She watched as he jabbed a thin tube into her skin. Bruises from the last several tubes decorated her skin like love bites.
“Not your king now. Niall’s the Dark King.”
“Whatever.” Ani didn’t resume the argument she’d lost too often: Irial might be king-no-more, but he had her loyalty. Truth be told, he had the loyalty of many of the denizens of the Dark Court. He might not rule them, but he still looked after them. He still handled those matters too disquieting for the new Dark King. Irial cosseted Niall.
Ani, however, wasn’t sheltered. Not anymore. When Irial learned that Ani could—that I need to—feed from both touch and emotion, he’d begun trying to find out how to use that for the Dark Court. According to Irial, as a halfling, she shouldn’t have either appetite. She certainly shouldn’t have both; and she definitely shouldn’t be able to find nourishment from mortals. Irial believed that Ani’s blood might hold the key to strengthening their court, so she’d become the subject of his experimentation.
Which is fine. For my court. For Irial.
“More?” she asked.
“Just a bit.” Irial bit the cork that sealed the next vial and tugged it out. He spoke around the cork held between his teeth and added, “Tilt down.”
She lowered her arm, clenching and unclenching her fist to pump the blood faster. She wasn’t sure if it actually helped the flow of blood, but it did give her the illusion that she was doing something. Bloodletting hadn’t become easier despite the number of times she’d done it.
With her free hand, she took the cork from his mouth. “I have it. Grab the next one.”
As the vial filled, Irial took another empty one from the rack and lifted it to his lips. Once it was uncorked, he switched the empty vial with the now full one. “Take this?”
Silently, she accepted the glass container with the same hand that held the cork. She sat it beside the other vials, all recorked, all filled with her blood. Then, she pushed the cork into the top of it.
“Last one,” Irial murmured. “You’re doing great.”
Ani stared at the empty space in the sixth rack; the others were all filled with vials of her blood. “Good.”
Irial handed her the last tube of blood and pressed a kiss to the inflamed extraction site. Neither of them spoke as he took the final container, settled it with the others, and carried all of it to the doorway and handed it off to a faery she didn’t see.
Their experimentation was a secret that neither Niall nor Gabriel knew of, but it was one of the myriad things Ani would do if Irial so much as hinted that he wished it of her. Not as painful as what I have done. At Irial’s request, she had let a trusted thistle-fey embrace her on one particularly unpleasant evening. Her hair and skin were collected by his touch. Should the court at large know of Irial’s experiments on her blood and flesh, should they learn why he sent samples to be tested and hopefully copied, she’d be at risk.
As would Iri.
Few faeries knew of her abnormalities—and she was grateful for that—and while Niall did know that she was unlike other faeries, he did not know of the experiments. He thought her ability to feed on the emotions of both faery and mortal was hidden from those who would kill, use, or champion her. Niall was a humane king. He allowed their faeries to do as they must, but he kept the court on a leash.
In a time when Bananach—the carrion crow, the bringer of war—grew stronger, leashes were dangerous. The faery courts, at least those on the mortal side of the veil, were on the verge of violence. The growing conflict nourished the Dark Court, who fed on the chaotic emotions, but it was also a threat to those Ani held dear. Upheavals between courts, whispers of deaths to come, these were all well and good—up to the point at which her own court was in jeopardy.
And Bananach will not spare the Dark Court. Or the mortal world my family lives in.
Irial did as he had done when he was king: moving pieces behind the scenes, making bargains, bending rules. This time, though, Ani’s safety was one of the rules he bent.
With my consent.
When Irial came back into the room, she watched him warily. For all of her adoration of him, she knew that he was rarely influenced by weakness or tenderness. He hadn’t held the throne of the court of nightmares for centuries by being easily swayed.
“You know I wouldn’t do this if there were better options.” His words weren’t a lie; they weren’t fully true either. Unless there was one clear option that would assure his court’s safety, he would do this—and much worse.
Yet, the former Dark King still thought of her as a child, as one foolish enough to accept the misdirection in his words. She wasn’t a child.
Perhaps foolish, but not naive, not innocent, not easily misled.
