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“I don’t think you were summoned, kingling, or”—the body that was Niall’s looked up at him—“that you’re strong enough to withstand the Dark King’s rage.”
“I know Niall, and you aren’t him.” Cautiously, Keenan peered into a face that he knew as well as his own. “Tell me that you are truly Niall, or tell me what you’ve done to him.”
“Curious theory,” the imposter said.
Keenan stepped closer to the body that looked like his friend, but was not him. “Who are you?”
“I am the Dark King, and you”—he leaned back and stared at Keenan—“ought to know better than to question me. Do you forget what the Dark King can do? Do you miss that curse?”
The faery opened the cigarette case on the table and extracted one of the noxious things. The motions were decidedly not Niall’s. Niall was many things, but he wasn’t that easily arrogant.
Or dismissive. Or deliberate.
“Irial?” Keenan asked, testing his theory.
The Dark King leaned back and offered Keenan a sardonic smile. “War killed Irial.”
“You don’t appear to be dead.” Keenan shook his head. “Is that why he’s acting so . . . vile? You’ve taken his body and—”
Irial snorted. “No. He’s grieving. Believe it not, kingling: he’s mourning my loss.”
“Yet you’re here.”
“You are observant, kingling.” Irial pointed at Keenan with the unlit cigarette. “In his dreams and when I can get through in his waking hours, I’ve tried to explain that I’m really here, but he’s struggling. He refuses to sleep properly since my death, and I was unable to speak to anyone to reveal my presence to the living until someone figured it out.”
“Why?”
Irial gave Keenan a decidedly droll look. “Because he’s mourning. . . .”
“No, why couldn’t you tell anyone you were in there?” Keenan asked as patiently as he was able.
“There are rules, kingling. I hinted as best I could, but I forgot how slow some of you lot can be. I all but told you when you were at the warehouse,” Irial said.
Only Irial would find a way around truly dying. The former Summer King felt a grudging respect for the dead king.
When Keenan gestured for Irial to continue, the dead Dark King inhabiting Niall’s body added, “It’s like lying: there are unbreakable geasa. Shades—even those of us not fully untethered—cannot tell the living of our postdeath experiences or presences unless the living call us out by name. It’s only in Niall’s mind that I can speak freely, and he’s been obstinate.”
“But you can talk to him in his dreams because . . .” Keenan rubbed his temples. “How are you dead, but here?”
The body that was Niall smiled a mocking smile that was pure Irial. “Before I died, our dreams were stitched together. I was dying, and I saw a chance”—Irial shrugged in faux modesty—“so I took it. Unfortunately, Niall has half convinced himself that if he’s dreaming of me now, perhaps the dreams we shared after my stabbing but before my death weren’t real either.”
Keenan couldn’t imagine what the two Dark Kings had dreamed that Niall wished were real—nor did he want to imagine those dreams. He might accept Niall’s forgiveness of Irial some day, but the truth was that Keenan loathed Irial. The former Dark King had bound Keenan’s powers; he had hurt Niall; and now he was possessing Niall. None of that evoked positive emotions.
“Could you go away?” Keenan asked.
“If Niall wanted me to, yes.” Irial tapped his still-unlit cigarette on the table. “First, though, he needs to accept that I’m here before he decides whether or not to cast me out.”
“Can you take”—Keenan gestured awkwardly—“the body at will?”
“Not unless he lets go of his control.” Irial lifted the cigarette and lit it. After he took a long drag, he exhaled a plume of smoke in Keenan’s direction. “I’m surprised you noticed. Even with the hints, I was thinking you wouldn’t get it. I’m glad you did, but surprised that you were the one to catch on.”
“He is my friend,” Keenan said simply.
Irial stood up and walked toward Keenan. When they were face-to-face, Irial said, “I hated your mother, you know, but her grief was great when your father died. It made her do things that were awful.”
“He was dead because she killed him.”
“Yes, well”—Irial gestured dismissively—“that is true. Still. She was grieving, and she was afraid.”
