Irial widened his eyes in faux innocence. “Greeting a guest to the Dark Court. We were both in the street, and—” Irial’s words were lost under another growl.

Utterly implacable as always, Devlin merely looked at the assembled Hunt as if they were nothing more than a group of mortal schoolchildren. “On behalf of the Queen of Faerie, I seek audience with the Dark King.”

“Irial?” Gabriel said in a slightly clearer voice. “Go inside. Now.”

Something in him rankled at being ordered so, but Gabriel had always been prone to treating Irial as an equal instead of as a king. And now I am not a king. Irial shrugged, glanced at Devlin, and said, “My offer stands.”

The resounding snarls that greeted his words brought a look of true amusement—and matching burst of emotion—to Devlin.

“Iri!” Gabriel extended his left arm; on it, the Dark King’s commands spiraled out and made quite clear that Irial was to be kept safe. “I act on your king’s order. Inside.”

Devlin smiled broadly now. He glanced from the ink on Gabriel’s arm to Irial’s face. “Your king seems to disapprove of your propensity for protecting him.”

At that, Irial shook his head. “Understand this: if you so much as lift a hand to my king, I will bring such destruction into Faerie as would make War in all her fury seem like an infant in a snit. There are more than a few who owe me debts I will not hesitate to call due.” Irial lowered his voice, not to hide his words from those standing near him, but in hopes of keeping it from any hidden watchers. “I’ve spoken to those who carry word of the High Queen’s orders. Whether it is now or for the rest of eternity, any who strike at him will answer to me.”

“You unman him with such a threat,” Devlin remarked. “No,” Irial corrected. “I protect him. It is no different than what you would do for your queen.”

Devlin paused a heartbeat too long before murmuring, “Perhaps.”

“Inside on your own, or they’ll move you.” Gabriel clamped a hand on Irial’s shoulder. “I will not disobey my king—nor will you.”

Several of the Hounds shifted restlessly. They would obey their Gabriel, but after centuries of protecting Irial, they were uneasy at the idea of manhandling him.

They all dropped their gazes then, and Irial turned around to find Niall watching. The waves of fury radiating from the Dark King made Irial shiver. There was no doubt that this was the true King of Nightmares.

They locked gazes silently. The Hunt waited, and the moment grew rich with the promise of far more violence than even Irial had expected.

Then Devlin said, “Your words are noted and will be relayed to my queen.” He bowed his head, either to hide his expression or out of respect. Irial wasn’t sure which.

“Inside,” Niall said in a deceptively soft voice.

Niall was fuming as they entered the building. A barricade of solid shadow snapped into place around the two of them, sealing out everyone else. “What were you thinking? Did you ignore everything I said yesterday?”

“No.” Irial was unabashed. He put his hand against the shadow-formed wall. “You are able to do the things I struggled with as easily as if you’d been king for several years.”

Niall had the overwhelming urge to strike his advisor. “At least one of us is adjusting well.”

At that, Irial paused. “What do you mean?”

“You offered me the court, your fealty, your advice, yet you hide things that as your king, I should be told.” Niall’s fury was barely in check. When Gabriel had delivered one of Irial’s spies who revealed what Devlin’s orders were—and that Irial had known—Niall had reacted calmly. When he’d given his orders to Gabriel, he’d remained calm. But seeing Irial stand foolishly willing to allow Devlin to beat him made that composure vanish. Despite that, Niall’s voice remained level as he said, “Instead of hiding the fact that you were informed that Devlin was to strike you or Gabriel, you should have told me.”

For a moment, Irial stood in silence. “If Gabriel were to be injured, the Hounds could replace him, and we cannot be certain that another Hound would support you as Gabriel will.”

“I know.”

“So of the two, I am more expendable.” Irial shrugged.

“You are not expendable. . . . And I couldn’t speak it if it were untrue”—Niall held up his hand before Irial could interrupt—“neither could you, so we both believe we speak truths. You told me of this visit, advised me how to proceed, and then undermined me. You should have told me what you learned.”

Irial kneeled. “I’m not very good at serving.”

“I noticed,” Niall said.

The truth was that even as he was apologizing, Irial was not subservient. Kings weren’t meant to become subjects, and after centuries of being a king, Irial wasn’t likely to change overnight. Or at all. The consequence of that truth, however, was that the one faery in the Dark Court best able to advise Niall was also the one least suited to being anyone’s subject.

“We need a solution or you need to go,” Niall started.

Irial lifted his gaze. “You would exile me?”

“If you work against me, yes, I will.” Niall frowned. “Tell me what you know. Maybe we need to do so every day. A meeting. . . . Or a memo, or I don’t know.”

Irial started to rise to his feet.

“No,” Niall whispered. “You will kneel until I say otherwise.”