Darkest Mercy. Melissa Marr

Donia felt a flush of guilt.

      Faeries from all of the courts had been slipping away, and Donia knew that they were joining Bananach. Can she form her own court? The mortality of the newer monarchs caused more than a little unease, and War had made sure to nettle to heighten the tension. Likewise, worries over the interrelations between courts caused traditionalists to rally around Bananach. Niall wasn’t openly sympathetic to the Summer Court, but his centuries advising them made his faeries ill at ease. Her whatever-it-was with Keenan had a similar effect on some of her court, and Summer’s attempts at imposing order on their court made faeries who were used to freedom chafe.

      Donia wished that a new court was what Bananach sought, but the raven-faery was the embodiment of war and discord. The odds of her settling for a peacefully created court—if such a thing was even possible—weren’t high. Mutiny and murder were far more likely goals for Bananach and her growing number of allies.

      War comes.

      Once the others were out of sight, Evan announced, “I have word of trouble from the Dark Court.”

      “More conflict?” she asked, as Evan led her around a group of junkies on the stoop of an abandoned tenement building. When she’d walked with Keenan over the years, he’d always sent a cloud of warm air to such mortals. Unlike him, she couldn’t offer them any comfort.

      Keenan. She felt the fool for being unable to stop thinking about him. Even now. Every other thought still seemed to lead to him, even though he’d been gone for almost six months. With no contact.

      She exhaled a small flurry of snow. In almost a century, she’d never gone very long without seeing him, or hearing from him, even if it was nothing more than a letter.

      “Bananach attacked the Hounds two days ago,” Evan said, drawing Donia’s attention back to him.

      “A direct attack?”

      Her guard and advisor shook his head. “Not at first. One of the Dark King’s halflings was caught and killed, and while the Dark King and the rest were mourning, Bananach attacked them with her allies. The Hunt is not reacting well.”

      Donia paused mid-step. “Niall has children? Bananach killed his child ?”

      Evan’s lips curved into a small smile. “No. Neither Niall nor the last king has children of his own, but the former Dark King always sheltered his court’s halflings. His fey— Niall’s fey now—are amorous creatures, and the Hounds mate with mortals far more than any other fey. It is an old tradition.” Evan paused and flashed a faux-serious look at her. “I forget how young you are.”

      She rolled her eyes. “No, you don’t. You’ve known me most of my life. I’m just not ancient like you.”

      “True.”

      She waited, knowing he wasn’t done. His patterns were a familiar rhythm by now.

      “The Dark has a regard for family that is unlike the other courts.” With a slight rustling of leaves he moved closer. “If Bananach is killing those dear to Irial . . . the court will be unstable. Death of our kind is never easy, and the Hounds, in particular, will not deal with pointless murder. If it were in battle, they would accept it more easily. This was before the battle.”

      “Murder? Why would she kill a halfling?” Donia let frost trail in her wake, giving in to the growing pressure inside. It was not yet spring, so she could justify freezing the burgeoning blossoms.

      Evan’s red eyes darkened until they barely glowed, like the last flare of coals in an ashy fire. He was watchful as they moved, not looking at her but at the streets and shadowed alleys they passed. “To upset Irial? To provoke the Hunt? Her machinations aren’t always clear.”

      “The halfling—”

      “A girl. More mortal than fey.” He led Donia down another street, motioning for her to step around several more sleeping vagrants.

      She stopped at the mouth of the alley. Five of Niall’s thistle-clad fey had captured a Ly Erg.

      When Donia stepped into their field of vision, one of the thistle-fey slit the Ly Erg’s throat. The other four faeries turned to face her.

      She formed a knife of her ice.

      One of the thistle-fey grinned. “Not your business.”

      “Does your king know—”

      “Not your business either,” the same faery said.

      Donia stared at the corpse on the ground. The red-palmed Ly Erg was one of those who often lingered in the company of War. They were all members of the Dark Court, but the Ly Ergs gravitated to whoever offered access to the most fresh blood.

       Why are they killing their own? Or is this a result of factions in the Dark Court?

      The murderous faeries turned their backs to leave.

      “Stop.” She froze the metal fence they were about to scale. “You will take the shell.”

      One of the thistle-covered faeries looked over his shoulder at her. The faery flashed teeth. “Not your business,” he repeated again.

      The Winter Queen advanced on him, icy blade held out to the side. It was a sad truth that the fey, especially those of the Dark Court, responded best to aggression. She raised the blade and pressed it against the dominant faery’s throat. “I may not be your regent, but I am a regent. Do you question me?”

      The faery leaned into her blade, testing her resolve. Some residual thread of mortality made her want to retract the blade before it was bloodied, but a strong faery—especially a queen—didn’t fold under challenges. She willed serrated edges to form along the blade and pressed it hard to the faery’s skin. Blood trickled onto the ice.

      “Grab the body,” the faery told the others.

      She lowered the blade, and he bowed his head to her. The thistle-fey held their hands up in a placating gesture, and then one after another they scaled an unfrozen section of the aluminum fence. The rattle of the metal joined the growing din of traffic as morning broke.

      The last faery heaved the corpse over the fence, and then they ambled off with the body in their hands.

      Beside her, Evan said quietly, “Violence is here, and conflict is growing. Bananach will not stop until we are all destroyed. I would suggest that you speak to the Summer Queen and to the Dark Kings. Divisiveness will be to our detriment. We need to prepare.”

      Donia nodded. She was tired—tired of trying to bring order to a court that couldn’t remember life before Beira’s cruel reign, tired of trying to find a balance between discipline and mercy with them. “I am to see Aislinn soon. Without Keenan . . . between us, we are communicating better.”

      “And Niall?” Evan prompted.

      “If Bananach is striking Irial’s family, she is either testing for weaknesses or has found one already.” Donia whistled, and Sasha came toward her, the wolf appearing from the shadows where he’d waited. “We need to find out who the girl was before I seek out the Dark King. Summon one of the Hounds.”

      Evan nodded, but his expression darkened. “It is the right course of action,” she said.

      “It is.”

      “The Hunt is not all bad.”

      Evan snorted. The rowan had a long history of discord with the Hounds. Her advisor did not, however, object to her plan. She took comfort in that. The tranquility of Winter was pervasive in her fey. Typically, they could consider the situation, weigh the possibilities, and bury their tempers under the cold. Most of the time. When those tempers came screaming to the surface, the winter fey were a terrifying force.

      My terrifying force.

      As comforting as it was to have such a strong court, the pressure was daunting. She’d never