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The Hounds arrived then like an angry swarm, and before they finished their approach, Bananach and two of her faeries were gone. The third lay lifeless on the sidewalk.
“You do that?” Seth asked.
“I did.” Keenan didn’t look at the dead faery. He had no desire to gloat over the loss of life. He couldn’t say that he was happy the slain faery was fallen, only that he was glad he was not fallen.
I think.
He didn’t cringe, not in front of Seth or the Hunt, but the gouges from Bananach’s talons stung more by the moment.
The Hounds enclosed them in a protective circle. Around them, mortals continued to pass, unaware of the invisible conflict in their midst. They were, however, all easing farther away from the sidewalk where the Hunt waited. As when Bananach approached, the mortals felt an aversion to the faeries. With War, it was the feeling of a discordant presence, but with the Hunt it was the urge to run.
No one spoke for a moment. Neither Gabriel nor Chela was there, but rather than look to another Hound for direction, the Hunt seemed to be awaiting Seth’s command.
“Go see her,” Seth said without looking at him. “They will escort you.”
Keenan stilled. “Her?”
This time Seth did look at him. “Ash. It’s inevitable. No matter which way the threads twist, that’s the next step.”
“The threads . . .” Keenan gaped at him.
“Yeah, the threads.” Seth bit the ring that decorated his lip and looked at the air as if there were answers hovering in it. Then he looked directly at Keenan again and said, “I can’t see everything, or see most things clearly enough, but you . . . you I see.”
“My future?” Keenan felt a fool as he stared down the faery that stood between him and his queen.
He’s a seer.
“Don’t ask,” Seth snarled. “Go to the loft. I just left her to be here, to stop your death, so we’re even now.”
“Even?” Keenan echoed. There were many words the Summer King could choose to describe their standings, but even wasn’t one of them. Seth was a child, a recent mortal, an obstacle to be overcome; Keenan, on the other hand, had spent centuries being near powerless, but still protecting his court—the court that Seth’s very existence endangered.
The Summer King let the heat of his anger slip into his voice and said, “We’ll never be even, Seth.”
“You told me once that you didn’t order my death because it would upset Ash. I came here to keep you from death. That makes us even.” Seth spoke the words in a low voice, but the faeries near them were Hounds. Their hearing was better than most, and at this distance, it was no challenge to listen.
Consequently, Keenan didn’t try to lower his voice. “Killing you wasn’t the right course of action then. If you had died, she would mourn—which she did anyhow when you were in Faerie.” Keenan stepped closer to Seth. Anger that he’d not been able to completely purge filled him. “You left. By choice. She mourned your absence for months. She was in pain, and I was her friend. I waited. I was only her friend for months.”
“During which you knew I was in Faerie.”
Keenan shrugged and immediately decided not to do that again. Carefully keeping the pain from his voice, he said, “If killing you would’ve resolved the situation, I’d have done it. If you stayed in Faerie or got yourself killed, it would’ve been your choice. Why would I cross Sorcha for a mortal I’d rather see out of my way?”
“I get that, but I’m not a mortal now.” Seth bared his teeth in a decidedly not-mortal expression.
“But you’re still in my way.”
“Right back at you,” Seth muttered.
They stood silently for several moments; then Seth shook his head. “You need to go to Ash now, and I need to go to Niall. . . . I am Sorcha’s heir, and”—he looked embarrassed for a moment—“that means that I’m not free to do only what I want.”
“None of us are,” the Summer King said. Then he turned away, moving at a speed that made the mortals he passed clutch their coats and brush hair from their eyes. Some looked around curiously, seeking the source of the gusts of wind that sent dust swirling into the air.
Chapter 16
Whatever slight tether Niall had had to stability had vanished. Time slipped in and out of order. He walked into a rarely used room. Faeries crawled through debris. A fire burned, consuming what appeared to be a sofa or perhaps a small bed. It was hard to tell with the smoke. Obviously there had been a fight of some sort.
Were we attacked?
“Bar the doors.” He drew a knife from a sheath on his ankle and looked around the shambles of the room. “Set guards at every window.”
