"Stop holding all those darker feelings in, and I'll give you the answers you need." Irial smiled like they were friends who'd been having a reasonable conversation. "Just let yourself feel your emotions, Niall. That's all I ask, and I'll share information commensurate in worth with what you feel and how fully you feel it."

"How will you—"

"Gancanagh … would you rather I ask for other favors? I'd rather not bargain with baser coins, not with you, not with anyone I have affection for." Irial leaned close enough and smiled such a wicked smile that Niall was reminded of more pleasant times with Irial long ago, before Niall knew who and what Irial was, before he knew what he himself was.

So Niall let his temper reign, released his hold on that pit of anger at Keenan's betrayal, let it bubble over. It wasn't an emotion he often let reign, but it was the one he'd been trying to quell for hours. It was almost a relief to feel the rage.

Irial's pupils dilated. His hands clenched. "That's one."

Niall thought about the mortals he'd wooed and left wasting away when he knew no better, thought of Leslie pliable and eager in his arms. He could picture her, kiss-drunk, and he wanted that—wanted her with a longing that was heavier for being denied.

"Two … Just one more emotion, Gancanagh," Irial murmured.

And Niall imagined wrapping his hands around Irial's throat, letting free the jealousy that he felt at the idea of Irial's hands on Leslie—or of her hands on Irial.

With a shaky hand Irial lit another cigarette. "You play the game well, Gancanagh. I wondered once what you'd do with the knowledge."

Niall watched, studying the Dark King with a distant calm now, feeling no true emotions at all. "What knowledge?"

"The dark fey starve without emotion, darker emotions. It's what" — Irial took a drag off his cigarette—"sustains us. Food, drink, air. Everything. There's a great secret, Niall. There's the thing that the others would use against us if they knew."

Niall hesitated. Part of him wondered why Irial would take such a risk, why he would reveal his secrets, but another less easily embraced part knew exactly why Irial would do so: he trusted Niall. He looked away, lamenting the fact that Irial's trust wasn't misplaced. "So why doesn't Keenan notice? Or Sorcha? How did I not know?"

"His volatile nature? Her imperviousness to anything she doesn't like?" Irial tapped his ash onto the ground. "And you … I don't know. I thought you'd figured it out back then, and when I realized the kingling didn't know, I hoped that what we—"

"All of your court feeds like this?" Niall stopped him, not wanting to think about his time with Irial, the realization that Niall's blurry weeks of mad pleasures had nourished Irial—as, no doubt, had the horrific things that followed when Niall ran.

"They do, or they get weak." The Dark King's face revealed a raw pain that was almost embarrassing to see, like glimpsing someone's most private aches. "Guin died … from a mortal bullet. She was shot."

Irial stared at the crowd. A barefoot girl was dancing on the hood of a parked car. The driver was holding out her shoes and gesturing at the ground. Irial smiled at them before turning back and adding, "You care for Leslie. If you had known she was already mine, you would've tried even harder to keep her from me. You'd have fought for her."

I knew Irial wanted her and—Niall stopped himself, uneasy with the fact that Irial could read what he was feeling, and more important, that Niall could use this knowledge to destroy Irial. If the courts knew that they were so easily read and assessed, it would be hard to convince any of them to tolerate the Dark Court's continued existence.

"Beira knew all of this," Niall said.

"We needed her. She needed us. Else I wouldn't have helped her bind the kingling. She kept things in upheaval when my fey needed it."

"And Leslie fits in how?"

"I needed a backup plan." Irial smiled, but this time it was dark and deadly, tinged with more than a little challenge. "I need her."

"You can't have her," Niall started. But Irial gripped his arms: every lovely memory Niall had run from and every whispered horror of the Dark Court came rushing to his mind in a morass—then Niall felt like he was swallowing it, like he'd been drinking that too-sweet, forcibly forgotten wine. "Stop."

Irial let go of him. "I know Keenan has misled and deceived you. I know he was sending you to our girl, putting her in your path. Gabriel watched you struggle with your response to her. … I will not mislead you, not again. I would welcome you back into my home, where Leslie will be. I would still offer you my throne when you are ready."

Niall blanched. He'd been willing to endure whatever he'd needed to in exchange for Leslie's freedom. Kingship? Affection? That was not at all what he'd expected. It's a ruse, just like always. There was never anything real in what we once were. Niall ignored all of it. "Would you let her go free in exchange for my fealty?"

"No. She stays, but if you want to be with her, you are ever welcome." Irial stood and bowed from the waist as if Niall were his equal. "I won't let my court suffer, even for you. You know what my secrets are, what I am, what I offer you still. I can promise you that she will be kept as happy as I can make her. Beyond that … come home with us or not. It is your choice to make. It has always been your choice."