Keenan struggled—and failed—to hide a flash of despair. A tiny rain shower began on the dance floor. The patrons squealed and laughed, no doubt explaining it away with a mundane answer—a faulty sprinkler head or leaky pipe.

"Niall is better off with me. His loyalty is to my court; that's cause enough," Keenan said.

"Did you know that he has seen Gabe of late?" Irial lowered his voice conspiratorially and added, "He's been under watch by Bananach. Do you think she'd bother with him if he weren't a part of my court?"

The heat radiating from Keenan's skin made the water in the room hiss into a steam. "He's not Dark Court. He belongs among faeries who don't torment him. He's happier—"

"No. He's not. The best we can hope for, kingling, is to find ways to be at peace with what we are. You understand that, don't you? He's teetering on the edge. You've given him the keys to his own destruction." Irial watched Keenan, saw the acknowledgment he knew he'd find if he pushed hard enough.

"Don't go there." Keenan was carefully not glancing at his queen, carefully not admitting that he'd manipulated Niall and put Leslie at risk.

"Walk away from this, kingling," Irial warned. "This isn't a conversation you really want to have. Is it?"

The Summer King lashed out, a sharp wind that burned across Irial's face, drawing blood to the surface. The intensity of the fury made it all the more nourishing for Irial.

Aislinn kissed Keenan's cheeks. "Go on. I can deal with him." She waved her hand at the crowd of mortals. Too many of them were watching, curious and eager. "They don't need to see this."

Keenan made an abrupt gesture toward several of the rowan-men, and the guards—who looked like nothing more than the ominous young men in the dark alleys of most cities—moved closer. They leaned against a nearby wall, shooting menacing looks at Irial. It was a charming little show, their posturing—as if any Summer Court fey could daunt the head of the Dark Court. Without another word, Keenan vanished into the half-drenched crowd on the dance floor.

Irial smiled at the young Summer Queen. "Now that he's gone, let's you and I get to know each other."

Aislinn gave him a smile that was caught between mortal innocence and faery cunning.

I could grow fond of this one. She was a more challenging adversary than Keenan right now.

"You shouldn't try Keenan like that. I'm not sure what secrets you two were exchanging, but this is my court now. Needling him isn't going to help." She didn't bother to keep the heat out of her voice, but unlike her king's, Aislinn's temper wasn't a concentrated slap. Instead the blistering summer heat pushed against Irial like a sudden gust, causing him to swallow hard against the taste of sand on his tongue.

Delicious. He drank down her acrid temper with relish. "Secrets? Keenan was brought up longing for power— power I took from him under the will of the Winter Court. We have a history … not quite as fulfilling as my bond with Niall, mind you, but the kingling has impotence issues with me."

"I know what your court is. I know what you do. You're responsible for the evil—"

"Evil?" He laughed then, letting every bit of his courts true nature into the sound.

The Summer Queen caught her breath. Her face flamed red, and the waves of anger radiating from her brought blisters to his skin.

"Not evil, child, and I'd rather you didn't insult me so" — Irial leaned closer, watching her face as she wrestled her emotions back into place—"because as much as I like your reaction, you've too many complications to interest me that way."

"If Keenan hears—"

"Tell him. Give him the extra reason to attack me." Irial licked his lips as if sand were truly a tangible thing, not simply a flavor in the air.

She switched topics. "Why are you trying to cause him troubles with Niall?"

"It behooves me." Irial saw no reason to be other than honest. "I understand addiction: it's one of my court's coins. Niall doesn't belong with Keenan, not now, not anymore. Keenan's mistreated him more than you know."

Aislinn's placid smile didn't waver, but tiny sparks of sunlight showed in her eyes. "What difference does it make to you?"

He leaned back and stretched his legs out in the aisle, as comfortable as he could be in the crowd of frolicking mortals. "Would you believe I care for Niall?"

"No."

"Fey don't lie."

"Not overtly," she amended.

"Well, if you won't believe that" — he shrugged—"what can I say? I enjoy provoking the kingling." He reached out for her hand. Unlike most faeries, the Summer Queen had enough speed to avoid his touch—sunlight can move as quickly as shadows—but she didn't. Keenan would've.

Queens are so much more pleasing to deal with.

Irial was assailed by the seeping heat of summer's languor, steamy breezes, and a strange-sweet taste of humid air. It was lovely. He held on to her hand, knowing that she felt his court's essence as surely as he felt hers, watching her pulse flutter like a captured thing, caught and struggling.

She flushed and pulled her hand away. "Being tempted isn't the same as being interested. I'm tempted by my king every moment of every day … but I'm not interested in sex for empty pleasure, and if I were, it wouldn't be with you."

"I'm not sure who I should envy more—the kingling or your mortal toy," Irial said.

Sparks illuminated the club as her temper finally became less stable. But even as her mood vacillated, she wasn't as temperamental as Keenan. "Seth is not a toy" — she appraised him then with a clarity Keenan didn't have—"any more than Leslie is a toy to you. Is she?"

"Keenan won't understand that. When he took mortals, he took their mortality."

"And you?"

"I like Leslie's mortality the way it is." He shook out a cigarette, tapped it on the table. "This isn't a secret you'll get from me … any more than I'll tell you the kingling's secrets or Niall's."

"Why not just let her go?"

He stared at her, wondering idly if she'd light his cigarette. Miach, the last Summer King, used to derive curious amusement from lighting things afire. Somehow, Irial doubted Aislinn would, so he pulled out a lighter. "I'll not answer that, not now, not without a reason. She's mine. That's all that matters."

"What if I told you our court would take her back?"

He lit his cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled. "You'd be wrong."

Irial didn't mention that the Summer King didn't care one whit about Leslie. The Summer Queen might care for his Leslie, but Keenan? He didn't truly care for anyone other than his own fey and his queen. And not always to their best interests.

Irritated but still in control of her emotions, Aislinn gave Irial a look that would send most fey to their knees. Before she could speak, he caught one of her hands again. She struggled in his grip, her skin growing hot as molten steel.

"Leslie belongs to me, as surely as your Seth belongs to you, as the Summer Girls belong to Keenan."

"She's my friend."

"Then you should've done something to protect her. Do you know what's been done to her? How lost she's been? How afraid? How very, very broken?"

As much as he found it touching that Aislinn cared for his girl, it wasn't reason enough to sacrifice Leslie. They hadn't protected her, hadn't kept her safe, hadn't made her happy. He would do those things. "When she adjusts to the changes—"

"What changes? You said she was still mortal. What did you do?"

Tiny storm clouds clustered around them until the club was hazy with them. The conversation wasn't going to improve, so Irial stood and bowed. "My court deals in darker things than yours. The rest is not mine to say. Later, if she wants to, she'll tell you."

Then he left the Summer Queen and her retinue of scowling guards. Despite his court's need for dissension among the denizens of Faerie, he had no patience for politics, not now. He had something—someone—more important to attend to.