Page 81 of Dark Sun (Wicked Lovely 6)

Irial glanced at the shroud. Written in ashes on the scrap of grave cloth was only:I have Leslie.

“Niall? Read this.”

They exchanged a look, and then Niall was off, calling for guards, for someone to summon the Hunt, for the Scrimshaw Sister to tell him everything.

Irial couldn’t move.Was it Urian?He’d started to feel like he knew his son, exchange a few coded letters even. If he was wrong, if his trust meant that Leslie was in peril . . .

“Getup.” Niall grabbed him by the wrists. “Whatever panic you have, it’s on hold. Our . . .” He faltered over the word. There was no title for what she was-- Queen? Consort? Heart?—nothing was quite right. Niall shook his head. “Leslie needs us.”

Irial picked the shroud up carefully. Any scent on it was their best bet. The Hunt could track the slightest scent.

He looked at the words again:I have Leslie.

It was as close to a declaration of war as any words could be. He hoped it wasn’t his son, but no matter who it was, this was nowallthat mattered.

The story will continue in

Wicked Lovely Faery Court Book 2: Moonlit Stars

Love Hurts (Bonus Content)

NOTE: Because I believe that this novel wouldn’t make as much sense without the story that tied it to COLD IRON HEART, I’m including it here as an extra for anyone who missed that book. If you read CIH, this is the same story I included there, so you can skip it!

XO

Melissa

Set after the Wicked Lovely series

Irial looked at the letters that had been delivered to the current house in Huntsdale. He stood in the doorway, exposed in his bare feet and bare chest. Spring, fortunately, was a true and reliable event the past few years. If anything, the former Dark King was wondering if the season had come a touch early this year. Trees were erupting in new growth, and the ground seemed speckled with flowers. If not for the curious, hand-delivered package, he’d be debating popping over to Winter’s abode and asking for a last frost, just a brief freezing before the Summer Queen had her way with nature.

Not that he minded an early summer, of course, simply that hewasthe embodiment of Discord. Stirring a minor tiff over the greenery seemed the right path. It had, in fact, been his plan. Now, though, he couldn’t focus. In his hand was what appeared to be the key to his unraveling. Yellowed pages were covered in protective sheaths. It was the word on the top that left him, the man who had led the Court of Nightmares and Monsters, terrified.

Da

Dadaih.

Athair.

Father.

Irial was the embodiment of chaos, of discord. He’d fought, slain, and even died. He’d loved and lost—more than once. His first love, Niall, abandoned him for many centuries. His next love, Thelma, left and died without their even reuniting. The third love, Leslie, had risked death to leave him.

Dadaih.

The script went from childish to mature. The sophistication of the words changed, and the tone grew cold.

Father.

With a jolt, Irial realized that the door was still open. Still, he stood at the threshold of his home, a house he shared with the current Dark King, and read. Flowers bloomed outside, and the sky was clear. Somehow, Irial felt as if a storm was about to erupt. Sadly, his was not a court of nature, as the Winter Court and Summer Court were. He could not send storms free to vent his feelings. All he could do was draw shadows to his skin.

Da.

Irial read that one word in all its forms repeatedly. He didn’t need to read the pages that were stacked in the other envelope to know that sender’s name. Thelma was the only of the three people he’d loved who had died. She was gone.

And between leaving me and dying, she had my child.

Niall stood in the grand lobby of the Benedum Center, appreciating the now-familiar chandeliers of theater. In the latter part of the 1900s, it had been a concert hall of a different sort. He’d seen both Prince and Bob Marley there in the ‘80s. These days, it housed both opera and ballet, and as much assomefaeries mocked his fondness for both, the current Dark King knew that anyone who doubted the appeal of opera simply hadn’t been paying attention. It was often terribly tragic stuff, rife with manipulation, murder, and mayhem. Any faery worth his salt would like theatre.

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