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“I am Ankou.” She leaned closer to it. “You must open.”
The gargoyle blinked at them, and for a moment, Far Dorcha wondered if the new Dark King could prohibit their entry. Is he as unexpected as the nearly dead king? Then, the gargoyle yawned, and the door cracked open.
Before they could cross the threshold, several Hounds stepped forward. They were battle-bloodied, but they were no less daunting for their injuries.
“I am Ankou,” she announced. “I have work here.”
A growl behind the Hounds caused them step to either side. There stood the Gabriel, the Hound who led the Hunt. He looked haggard. His eyes were darkened, and his skin seemed sallow.
“The king won’t let you take him,” Gabriel said in a low rumble. “Can’t reason with him just now.”
“The body is about to be empty.” Ankou stepped toward the Hound.
Gabriel nodded. “I know.”
“I should be able to take it.”
“Him,” Gabriel corrected. “Irial. The last king. He is not an it.”
“The body is,” Ankou said.
On both sides of Gabriel, the Hounds surged forward, and Far Dorcha reminded himself that his sister needed guidance. “She could free him from his—”
“No.” Gabriel held out his tattooed forearms. On them, the Dark King’s commands spiraled out, etched there in flesh for any and all to read. The Hound, and thus his whole Hunt, had orders to protect the last Dark King.
Ankou reached out with her bone-thin hand as if to grip the flesh where the orders were written. “So be it.”
Far Dorcha caught her hand in his. He entwined those fatal fingers with his own, lacing their hands together, and told Gabriel, “You cannot stop Death. If we choose to enter, you will all die.”
“I know.” Gabriel shrugged. “I obey the Dark King, though. Not everyone’s pleased with his choices, but the Hunt stands with him.”
“At what cost?” Ankou prompted.
“My pup died. More will fall. I know mortality, and it’s good that Iri rates your attention. Didn’t see the ones who took Tish’s shell away.” The Hound’s expression grew tenser still, but he shook his head. “Can’t take Iri yet, though. King says. I obey the Dark King . . . regardless of the cost.”
Far Dorcha nodded. “I will speak with your king soon.” Then he turned to his sister. “Come, Sister, there is time yet.”
When Ankou nodded, Far Dorcha released her hand—and she extended it faery-fast to cup Gabriel’s cheek.
“You should not interfere with my work,” she told the Hound. “I could have offered mercy.”
Then, Ankou leaned up and brushed her lips over his cheek, marking him for a fate that only she could see.
“Come, Sister,” Far Dorcha repeated, and then he led Ankou away from the Dark King’s house.
Chapter 10
Gabriel slammed the door behind the departing death-fey. “No one is to open the door. Was I not clear?”
The Hunt scattered as he turned around and snarled at them.
“The king . . . both of them . . . need to be guarded, and letting them in will not help anyone.” He looked from Hound to Hound. “Niall needs a little time to—” The door chime sounded as the gargoyle on the outside of the door bit someone.
Gabriel spun around and yanked the door open again. “What?”
But it was not the death-fey; instead, one of the Winter Queen’s Scrimshaw Sisters stood on the step. She curtsied. “The Winter Queen—”
“King’s not receiving visitors,” Gabriel cut her off. He shoved the door, but the implacable faery put a hand out and stopped it from closing.
