Page 82 of Dark Sun (Wicked Lovely 6)

Luckily, even the fey like the Hounds, who might not understand his love ofthistype of art, appreciated arts and music in general. Even better, Leslie shared his interest. Typically, Irial did, too.

Tonight, they had planned to seeFaust,a French opera of the medieval scholar who makes an ill-fated deal with a devil. Niall had, not so secretly, always wondered if Méphistophélès was inspired by Irial. An unwise bargain with a “devil” who is clever . . . the idea seemed rather more fitting than a mortal dealing with the fey, and although Irial never owned up to it, Niall recalled the years the courts all gathered in Germany. Goethe met fey creatures.

Of that, Niall was certain.

But the devil in question, Irial, had made excuses to miss the opera tonight. Worse yet, he’d done so badly. Now, Niall was left trying to convince Leslie that all was well—an illusion neither she nor he believed.

A glass of wine. A smile. A stroll under beautiful chandeliers that sparkled in the high-ceilinged lobby that was filled with mortals and more than a few fey things. It should’ve been lovely.

“You look beautiful,” he told his date again.

“And you look handsome,” Leslie replied.

This is when Irial would’ve made an inappropriate remark, fished for praise, or simply kissed one of them. His absence rankled. The lights all seemed to dim at once as shadows swarmed to Niall like a ripple of midnight seeping into the evening.

Leslie’s hand tightened on his arm, and Niall sent his emotions like a nourishing elixir toward the rest of his court. Some of his faeries perched in nooks in the high ceiling, and others languished in the room, dressed in human guises, pretending to be nothing more than ruffians amongst the gentry in their fine dresses. It was far from the theatre of the past, where everyone was bedecked in gems and formal attire, but it was still very much a crowd where those whohavewanted to be clear that they were superior.

Or maybe they were as smitten by the grand spectacle of the opera as he was. His box seat was not a statement of status. It was simply a space where he could have privacy. No one notwithhim was in the box. The idea of reserving only a few seats in the box seemed odd. Privacy mattered.

He and Leslie made their way to the Dark Court’s seasonal box and took their seats.

She was silent, uncharacteristically so, but he was attempting to respect that. They were never awkward, with or without Irial at their sides, but tonight things were tense in a palpable way. Irial had asked Niall to excuse him, had put Niall in the position of misleading Leslie. There was no good answer, so Niall had chosen evasiveness as his solution to the mess.

Leslie vibrated with tension at his side. The lights dimmed, and he thought that the moment of risk was over. Then she leaned closer.

“He’s not ill?”

And as much as Niall wished he could lie, he could not do so. “No.”

“Injured?”

As much as he did not want the former Dark King to be ill, he could not help the flicker that came over him in that moment. “Not yet.”

Leslie smiled wanly.

“I don’t understand either,” Niall admitted. “He’s avoiding me.”

The show began, and with every tear that trickled down Leslie’s cheek, Niall thought about strangling Irial. AvoidinghimNiall could forgive. Avoiding her? There was no excuse that Niall could imagine accepting.

After the show, Niall and Leslie walked to the street, and there a steed waited. It was a living creature, one that had the heart of a wild steed but chose to serve as Leslie’s personal guard. Not quite a horse, not exactly a car, it was a member of the Hunt, but was riderless and technically remained so. Leslie was not a Hound, so she couldn’t be its rider—and the steed tolerated no other unless Leslie was there, too. Tonight, it wore the illusion of being a fire-red convertible.

Leslie caressed the side of the car, much the way one greets a beloved pet. The fact that this particular “pet” was a monstrous beast with fire glimmering where eyes ought to be was immaterial. She was beloved by the whole of the Dark Court.

“He’ll explain, or we’llmakehim,” Niall swore to her as he walked around to the passenger seat.

The engine roared when Leslie’s hands touched the steering wheel. She didn’t steer, not really. The steed carried her home or wherever else she wanted, as if it were a car. And Niall chose not to linger long on the thought that this once-mortal woman had tamed a steed so thoroughly that it functioned as her car—and seemed quite content to do so.

When they reached the apartment where she lived—in a building he’d recently and stealthily bought when the landlord was causing her anxiety—Leslie stayed in the car, as it purred loudly enough to mimic a fine engine. She stroked the dashboard and steering wheel. After a moment she announced, “I’ll handle Irial.”

And Niall wasn’t fool enough to argue. If anything, he was certain that when he returned from his trip the issue would be resolved. Leslie wasn’t meek, and she’d become downright formidable these last few years.

“Should I warn him?” Niall asked lightly.

“Not unless you want to get caught in the crossfire.” Leslie stepped out of the car. “I won’t have him ruin our night, though. Join me?”

If Méphistophélès were a woman, she’d be no more tempting than Leslie as she held out a hand. Niall would give her his soul, his vow, whatever she wanted. He was certain Irial would, too.

“Forever,” Niall told Leslie as he took her hand.

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