Melissa Marr - Radiant Shadows

Irial ran one hand absently over the side of the marble fireplace. Like everything in his house, it was carved with an appreciation of textures. The sharp edges and smooth curves drew her attention, but she didn’t approach the fireplace or the faery in front of it. Instead, she moved to one of the white leather chairs and traced a finger over the raised gray fleurs-de-lis barely visible on the walls.

“I know this is … difficult for you, pup.” Irial kept his distance, but he let her taste all of his emotions, giving her nourishment to make up for what she’d lost.

Ani caught his gaze. “Do you apologize to Gabriel when he punishes faeries who need it?”

The play of firelight and shadows made the former Dark King appear ominous, but his temper was not stirred. “No.”

“Then drop it. I’ll do what’s necessary for my court.” She fought the urge to fold her arms, forced herself to be calm, even though he knew exactly how unsettled she was. Dark Court faeries couldn’t feed on mortal emotions, but Ani wasn’t entirely mortal.

If Irial had not been there for her when she’d come to live with the Hounds, she wasn’t sure what she would’ve done. He helped her cope with her changes, nourished her enough to keep true starvation at bay. In truth, if not for him she might have died forever ago. He’d protected her—and Tish and Rabbit—for almost all of their lives.

She let him feel the surge of gratitude and whispered, “I serve the will of the Dark Court. I know you have reasons.”

“If we can find a way to filter out your blood, our court will be unstoppable; Niall will be safe; and …” His words faded, but the hope was undeniable. Unlike many faeries, Irial was comfortable with modern science. If they could identify the anomalous component within her, replicate it, and introduce it to others, Dark Court faeries would be able to feed on both faery and mortal emotions. They’d be sated. They’d tried another plan, binding mortal to faery as conduits with tattoos, but those ink exchanges had presented unexpected complications.

“Right.” Ani stood. She’d heard his theories before; there was little Irial could say that would be new.

“You can save us,” he said yet again.

Ani wasn’t sure if his words were truth. Faeries couldn’t lie, but belief was a tricky thing. If Irial believed the words, they were utterable, and he did believe that her blood was the solution they needed to save the Dark Court.

“I’ll be back later. You’ll tell me”—she folded her arms over her chest as if it would still the shivering—“when you need me?”

“Your court needs you every day, Ani. No one else can feed on both touch and emotion; no one else can feed on both faery and mortal. You are the key.” Irial wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. It wasn’t much, but small touches from such a strong faery fed her skin hunger more than a lot of touch from a weak faery or a mortal would.

Ani stayed still, grateful for even the scant contact.

Irial stroked her hair. “You let me keep my promises to stop the ink exchanges, to protect my king.… We do need you, pup.”

She looked up at him. “As long as Gabriel and Niall don’t find out, right?”

“For now.” Irial stepped away, his hands still on her shoulders, and then he unfolded her arms and took her hands in his as he repeated the same assurances he had the past few months. “Just for now. Once we figure out what’s in your blood, they’ll understand why we did this.”

She nodded.

He led her to the door. “Do you need anything else?”

All sorts of things no one will give me.

Ani said nothing. Instead, she hugged him, knowing from other rejections that his offer didn’t include the other things she needed. Irial—for all of his love for court and king, for all his protection for family and beloved—didn’t want to hear what she truly needed. He wouldn’t share his bed with her or force her father to let her run free with the Hounds.

“I need to go,” Ani murmured, and then she turned her back on him before she gave in to the temptation to beg. He gave her enough to keep her from starvation, but the former Dark King wouldn’t help her fully sate her hungers. She would have to find a few tastes here and there to silence the gnawing inside her.

Again.

Rae walked into the image of a tiny kitchen. Ani stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. A memory played out in the adjoining room. The tableau was set in a different era than the one where Rae had lived. It was familiar though: it was a memory that Ani replayed over and over in her dreams. So, Rae waited for the memory to run its course.

“Tell me about her?” Ani asked her sister.

“Who?” Tish paused mid-math, pencil held in the air.

“You know. Her.” Ani practiced cartwheels on the sofa. Until Rabbit came up from the shop to remind her she wasn’t to do it, she’d cartwheel and flip in their tiny living room.

“I was six. How would I know?” Tish rolled her eyes. “I remember she was nice. She read books. There was a blanket Dad gave her. Her hair was light brown like yours.”

“Dad visited her?”

“Uh-huh. “Tish was done talking. She was filled with sadness that she was trying to hide. “Go read or something, Ani.”

Tish’s pencil was making scratching noises on the paper, like the sounds cockroaches made when all of their feet brushed the floor or walls. It was one of the many reasons Ani hated schoolwork. Tish never heard how loud her pencil was though. Her ears didn’t work right.

Ani flipped over and snatched the pencil.

“Tag.”

“Give it back.”

“Sure … if you catch me.”

Tish looked at the clock, just a little glance. Then she snorted. “Like you could ever outrun me.”

And Ani was off, not as fast as she could run because that would make Tish sad, and making Tish sad was the one thing Ani never ever did on purpose.

Ani’s thinking of Tish so protectively wasn’t unusual, but more and more often, the memories of difference, of awareness of the sisters’ dissimilarities, had become central in Ani’s dreams.

“She is well? Your sister?” Rae asked, drawing Ani’s attention away from the memory.

Ani turned to face Rae. “Yeah, Tish is good. I miss her.”

“And you? Are you well?” Rae materialized a sofa that was reminiscent of one from her own long-gone sitting room.

Ani sat on the arm of the sofa, balanced there with no effort. Even in dreams, Ani had innate animal grace.

“I’m mostly okay.” Ani’s gaze skittered away from Rae.

Her words weren’t a lie; if they were, the Hound wouldn’t be able to speak them. Even here. They were together in a dream, but because Rae was a dreamwalker, this, too, was a sort of reality. And some rules, faery rules, are inescapable in every reality.

“Mostly okay?” Rae envisioned a nice cup of tea and a tray of finger sandwiches, pastries, and other assorted treats. In dreams, she could adjust the world around her, so the imagined treats appeared as quickly as the thought had. “Scone?”

Absently, Ani took one. “It’s weird to dream about eating.”

“You needed comfort, so you dreamed of food,” Rae said. Unlike faeries, Rae could lie at will. “You were stressed over thinking about your sister. It makes sense.”

The Hound slid from the arm of the sofa into the seat. “I guess.”

As Ani sat silently and ate, Rae enjoyed the semblance of normalcy. If Ani realized Rae wasn’t a figment of her imagination, they’d stop talking, but Rae had been visiting her dreams since Ani was a child. Ani rationalized Rae’s presence.

“I think I’m lonely.” Ani pulled her knees up to her chest, hugging them to her. “Plus, being apart from Tish is … wrong. What if she needs me? What if—”

“Is she alone?”

“No, but still …” Ani’s voice drifted off as distorted images from her fears formed around them.

A faceless faery reached for Tish.

Hands covered in blood swung at Rabbit.

Ani’s mother, Jillian, lay dead outside a cupboard.

Ani was trapped behind a too-small barrier as a faceless faery reached for her.

Unlike the tea and food, these weren’t things Rae created. They were the terrors of Ani’s imaginings. Here, where Ani felt safe, she envisioned a mix of memories and fears. Rae could alter reality, but the dreamer’s mind also held sway.

“These aren’t real memories,” Rae reminded. “This is not what happened. You don’t even know—”

“She was there, and then she was gone.” Ani glared at Rae. “There was a monster. There had to be. He took her and … did something. Hurt her. Killed her. He had to have. If she was alive, she’d have come home. She wouldn’t have left us. She loved us.”

“You’re a creature that creates fear in others, not one who should dwell in it.” Rae concentrated on remaking the landscape around her. She removed the faceless faery, the dead mother, and the trembling girls. She wiped it all away, and—hopefully—Ani’s fear with it. “Tell me about your court. Think about that. Tell me how things go with the Hunt.”

“I rode again. The wolves were at our feet; the steeds were like shadows.… It’s perfect when it happens. I want it always like that.… I want a steed; I want to be stronger; I want … oh … I want everything.” Ani’s eyes glimmered the strange green of the Hunt’s beasts. Despite her mixed parentage, she was meant to be among faeries; it had been obvious to Rae since she first met the girl.

Ani had no awareness of the vows they’d made and broken so Ani could live. Rae did. She remembered it each time Devlin refused to talk about the Hound, each time he refused to go check on her. They’d spared Ani. The time was coming when they’d have to deal with the inevitable consequences.

Rae reached out and squeezed Ani’s hand. In the dream-scape where Rae walked, she could do that, touch another body. “You’re too impatient.”

Ani pointed at herself. “Hound. What do you expect?”

“Exactly what you are,” Rae said.

Ani wandered into the dreamscape. To her, this was just another dream where her mind worked through fears and worries. And, just then, Ani didn’t want to work through them—so she walked away.