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Brutal wounds.
Steel-inflicted wounds.
Faery-made wounds.
He watched his sister collect the corpses, saw the shades gathering in the air around him, and shook his head. It was not joyous to have a sudden influx of shades to contend with.
I don’t seek subjects.
Ankou stopped, frowned at him, and then gestured in a wide arc around her. He stood invisible to faery eyes—just as shades were—and watched the former Summer King grieve.
The Winter Court could be his if Donia died. It was a natural order. The child of Winter would take his mother’s court. He would grieve, grow bitter, and eventually his mourning would warp into something malicious.
Which would be tedious.
“Let’s hope you make better choices than your parents did, Keenan,” Far Dorcha said.
The Dark Man had offered all the assistance he could without being asked. He could aid the injured Winter Queen because of his debt to the Summer Queen, but there were still natural rules. Some sacrifices must be made willingly. He walked past the guards, and just as he approached the mourning faery, he made himself visible again.
When Death stood over them, Keenan wasn’t sure whether it was to take Donia or not, but he wasn’t going to give her up.
Not now. Not ever.
“Far Dorcha.” Keenan bowed his head as reverently as he could with Donia clutched in his arms. “I need your help.”
The Dark Man’s expression was completely unreadable. “What do you have to offer?”
“I want to give her my Winter,” Keenan said. “My life if she needs it.”
Far Dorcha laughed.
“Mercy,” Keenan begged. “I’ll give everything I have if you save her.”
“And if Bananach were to escape because of your choices? What of the court you’ve served? Of her”—he stroked a hand over Donia’s bloodied shoulder—“court? Of Niall? Of Aislinn? What of all those who—”
“I don’t care. Only Donia matters,” Keenan insisted.
“If I offer you the choice between her life and all of theirs?”
“Hers,” Keenan answered without hesitation.
The Dark Man gestured in the air beside him, and a stone altar, the top covered in thick furs, appeared. “Your immortal life or hers?”
“Take mine; take whatever you need.” Keenan glanced at the altar.
Far Dorcha pointed at the fur-covered thing. “I mean her no harm.”
Carefully, Keenan lowered Donia onto the altar. “What do you need?”
“Do you willingly offer your Winter and your immortal life for hers?” Far Dorcha asked. “If you say yes—”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps wait to hear the terms?”
Keenan shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
The Dark Man shrugged, and in less than a heartbeat, Keenan collapsed to the ground. He felt like everything inside of him was being ripped out. As he stifled a cry of pain, a gasp escaped, and with it a breath of icy air stretched toward Donia.
