One of the waitresses, a wraith with crescent moons glowing in her eyes, paused. One of Far Dorcha's kin. Death-fey didn't usually linger in the too-cheerful Summer Court. Here was another lovely distraction. He beckoned her closer. "Darling?"

She glanced at the cubs, the rowan guards, and at Niall's glowering face—not in anxiety, but to track where they were. Wraiths could handle their own in almost any conflict: no one escapes death's embrace, not if death truly wants you.

"Irial?" The wraith's voice drifted over the air, as refreshing as a sip of the moon, as heavy as churchyard soil on his tongue.

"Would you fetch me some nice hot tea" — Irial made a pinching gesture with his first two fingers—"with just a kiss of honey in it?"

After a low curtsy, she floated around the assembled fey and headed behind the bar.

She'd be lovely at home. Perhaps she'd be willing to wander.

With a lazy smile at the scowling group, Irial followed her. None of them stepped in his way. They wouldn't. He might not be their king, but he was a king. They wouldn't— couldn't—assault or impede him, no matter how many of their delicate sensibilities he offended.

The little wraith set his tea on the slick slab of obsidian that made up the bar.

He pulled out a stool and angled it so he had his back to the Summer Court's guards. Then he turned his attention to the wraith. "Precious, what are you doing with this crowd?"

"It's home." She brushed his wrist with grave-damp fingers.

Unlike the rest of the faeries in the club or on the streets, the wraith was immune to him: he'd not provoke any fear in her. But she would pull it from others: hers was a sort of unpleasant beauty that they all feared—and sometimes longed for.

"By anchor or choice?" he prompted, unable to resist pursuing her—not when she'd be such an asset to his fey.

She laughed, and something quite close to the feel of maggots sliding into his veins assailed him.

"Careful," she said in that moon-sliver voice. "Not everyone is unaware of your court's habits."

He tensed briefly, watching her across the rainbow of color flaring in the obsidian bar. Between the purple streaks reflecting from the stone and the blue lights of the bar, she looked more terrifying than many of his own fey on their best days. And she brought fear to him with her intimation of knowledge. During the centuries of Beira's cruelty, the Dark Court's particular appetite wasn't hard to hide. Violence, debauchery, terror, lust, rage—all their favorite meals were amply available, floating in the very air. These new days of growing peace ruined that, required more careful hunting.

The wraith leaned forward and pressed her lips to his ear. Though he knew better, images of serpents coiled over his skin as she whispered, "Secrets of the grave, Irial. We aren't so forgetful or oblivious as the merry ones." Then she pulled back, taking the slithering sensation with her and offering a genuinely disturbing smile. "Or so chatty."

"Indeed. I shall remember that, my dear." He didn't look behind him, but he knew everyone there had watched, just as he knew that none would ask the wraith what she said. To learn a death-fey's secrets was to risk paying a price too high for any fey. He merely said, "The offer is there, should you ever want to wander."

"I'm content here. Do what you need before the king arrives. I've business to tend." She wandered away to wipe down the bar with a rag that looked like a remnant of a shroud.

She truly would be a lovely prize.

But the look she gave him made clear that she found the whole situation more amusing than persuasive. Far Dorcha's kin might not be organized within a court, but they didn't need to be. Death-fey walked freely in any house, separate from the squabbles and follies of the courts, seeming to laugh at all of them. If he amused her enough, she might deign to visit his house someday. That she chose to linger among Keenan's court spoke well of the young kingling.

However, it didn't change what Irial needed, what he'd come to find—sustenance. He lingered, teasing the other waitresses, inciting the glares of the cubs and the rowan-men. Finally, the waitresses watched him through heavy-lidded gazes; the guards stood tense and angry, glaring at him. The combined dark temptations—to violence and lust—of the group still weren't enough to offer a proper meal, but it took the edge off his hunger.

He sighed, hating that he missed the last Winter Queen—not her but the sustenance she'd given him all those years. Her price had been painful, even by dark fey standards, but he'd rarely had a decent meal since her death. The ink exchange with Leslie would change that.

Maybe get a decent bit of chaos with the Summer Court too.

On that happy note, he stood and bowed his head to the wraith, who was now waiting attentively. "My dear."

Face as emotionless as when he'd arrived, she curtsied.

Irial turned to Niall and the scowling guards. "Tell the kingling I'll catch him on the morrow."

Niall nodded, bound by his fealty to his king to pass on the words, bound by law to tolerate the presence of another regent unless it threatened his own regents.

And hating it.

Irial pushed in his chair and stepped up to Niall. With a wink, he whispered, "I think I'll see if I can find the little morsel that was in here dancing. Pretty thing, isn't she?"

Niall's emotions flared, jealousy tangling with possessiveness and yearning. Although it didn't show on Niall's face, Irial could taste it. Like cinnamon. Niall had always been such fun.