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“The Winter Queen,” she repeated, “seeks audience with one of the Hunt.”
Then the faery turned and walked away as if staring into the face of the Hunt had not been terrifying at all. Gabriel grinned for a moment as he closed the door, but as he walked through the darkened house and into the room where the Dark King paced restlessly beside Irial’s deathbed, his grin vanished.
“Niall?”
The Dark King looked at him, and for a moment, there was no recognition in Niall’s eyes. He stared at Gabriel, but did not speak or indicate awareness in any way. Then, the shadows in the king’s eyes flickered, and Niall said, “I am awake now, right?”
“You are.”
“I don’t want to be,” Niall rasped.
“I know.” Gabriel had thought about his options: he couldn’t bring Sorcha here; Keenan was still away from Huntsdale; that left Aislinn and Donia. The Summer Queen wasn’t as powerful as the Winter Queen, and Niall had unpredictable reactions to her. Donia, on the other hand, wanted to talk to a Hound and was friend to the Dark King. Hoping his emotions were hidden, Gabri
el told Niall, “My Hounds are here. I’ve called in others
we trust, Niall. We’ve hired solitaries whose loyalty can be bought.”
“Good.” Niall wasn’t looking at Gabriel now; his attention was once more on Irial. “That’s good.”
“I can get more aid.” Gabriel stepped over to stand beside the king he’d served for centuries and the grieving king he’d sworn to protect at cost of his own life. “I can bring help.”
Niall glanced at Gabriel. “Aid? Healers?”
Gabriel weighed the words he needed; as the head of the Hunt, he was not used to needing to twist truth. The faery he sought was not a healer, but a regent who could hopefully help his king. Gabriel looked at Niall and said, “I think I can get aid for my king.”
Niall nodded. “Yes. The other healers were wrong. They had to be.” The Dark King motioned to the far corner, where a faery was sprawled motionless. “That one said Irial was past saving.”
“Chela will keep you safe while I go,” Gabriel assured Niall, but the Dark King had already turned away.
Silently, Gabriel gathered the healer, gave orders to his second-in-command, and went to see the Winter Queen.
Chapter 11
“Where the hell is Keenan?” Aislinn grumbled. “I’m not ready for a war. I’m not ready for a grief-mad Dark King, either. . . . I don’t know how to do this on my o—”
A knock at the study door interrupted her, and barely a blink had passed before Tavish was in front of her. Even here in the loft, he kept himself between her and the door. A sword hung at his side, and she knew that another weapon, a sliver-thin steel blade, was strapped to his ankle. The very fact that he could wear cold steel spoke of how strong—and old—he was.
The door opened, and Seth walked into the room. “Ash?”
Her first instinct was to run to him, to throw herself into his arms and cling to him, but that wasn’t where they were—not anymore, perhaps never again. She brushed her hands over her skirt, smoothing it down, and smiled at him. “Seth.”
“I will find you answers, my Queen. Summer is to be happy if we are to be as strong as we need, my Queen. Indulge in your happiness, if not for you, then for your court.” Tavish gave her a pointed look and then turned to Seth. “I am glad you were not killed in the fight with Bananach.”
Seth quirked a brow. “Me too.”
“Indeed.” Tavish nodded and left.
For a moment after the door to the study was closed, Aislinn simply stared at Seth. He looked tired. Dark circles were under his eyes, and his shoulders were drooping slightly. His left cheek was discolored, and his bottom lip had a cut. There were no other visible marks, but she couldn’t see through the shirt and jeans he wore. The shirt, however, did confirm that he’d been to Faerie. Instead of one of his usual T-shirts, he wore a silky shirt that fit him as if it had been tailored especially for him.
And probably was.
“I . . . I know it sounds repetitive, but I wouldn’t have vanished without telling you if there was a choice,” he said. “There was a fight with Bananach and her Ly Ergs.”
“I know. Tavish told me . . . and about Tish.” She couldn’t look away from Seth. “You’re okay?”
“Mostly. Bruised up, but”—he shrugged, though his eyes gleamed with pride—“after all the training with Gabriel’s Hounds, I held my own.”
The thought of it, of Seth fighting War and her minions, overruled the fear of rejection, overruled the fear of what could come. If not for me, for my court, she told herself. Happiness is a choice. She wanted to choose Seth; if it were that simple, she would’ve already done so. If it’s between love and duty . . . She still wanted love.
