“Someone came in the night and slaughtered the little lamb’s mother, and the Dark King himself has protected her all these years.” Bananach’s thumb stroked the skin under his eye. Her talon scraped the flesh so that a small cut trickled between his skin and her palm. “And you… I saw you watching her at their club. I knew.”

He had no idea what to say. Truth or misdirection could go poorly, but leaving would end any chance of learning what she sought from Ani. “You notice much.”

She smiled. “It was a test, but I—”

“Not a test.” He reached up to Bananach’s hand and pulled it away from his face. Entwining his fingers with hers, he added, “I would not test you.”

Bananach sighed. “You did, but I figured it out. The little one’s blood will give me strength they cannot fathom.”

“Indeed.” Devlin felt the stirrings of a fear that he’d never felt before, not for queen, or court, or Faerie itself. It was for Ani—but after an eternity of repressing emotions, he shoved the fear inside where his sister would not notice and gave her words she’d expect of him. “You would fight the High Queen then.”

“Of course!”

He stared at Bananach, not arguing, not speaking.

She donned a glamour to look like Sorcha and laughed happily. “You’re such a perverse child, Dev. I always knew you’d betray me. When I heard what you’d been doing”—Bananach paused, still dressed in the High Queen’s image—“I was shocked. Disappointed. You’re nothing like me, Devlin. You don’t belong in Faerie. You never really did.”

“Stop.”

Bananach’s own visage returned. “You’ve always liked her better, haven’t you?”

She leaned heavily against a chain-link fence. The force of her body flopping against it made the metal rattle unpleasantly.

Devlin faced her. “Do I tell her where you hide?”

“If she hid, would you tell—”

“Stop.” Devlin’s calm was evaporating steadily. “She is my queen. She gives me home and life and reason to be.”

“One day I’ll take my rightful court or kill her, and then you’ll swear loyalty to me.” Bananach looked heart- broken as she said it. For centuries, she’d fixated on the same thing—not always, not even regularly, but when she was lost, her fallback plan was regency and sororicide. “You’ve used the Hound as a test, but I see what she can do for us. You doubted that I’d figure it out, but I did.”

“I don’t test you, Sister,” he repeated. He didn’t add that tests were their domain. Bananach’s entire relationship with him was solely about competition with her twin, Sorcha. He was just an instrument to be wielded in their conflict.

“Where shall we dine?” he asked.

“We could stop for a bit of killing?”

“Perhaps.” He’d done worse in her company—and not always at her behest.

And she was appeased. She linked her arm around his waist, and he obediently draped his arm across her shoulder. She adjusted the fall of her feather-hair so it wasn’t pinned by his hold but fell like a solid cloak over his arm and down her back.

Afterward, he walked to the one house where he knew neither sister would want him to be, seeking not the king but the one in the Dark Court who’d best know how to deal with his sisters. A thistle-fey admitted him, led him to a room accessed by sliding a large surrealist painting to the side, sealed him in, and fled.

In the darkened room, Devlin found the faery he sought: Irial wasn’t a monarch, but he retained enough power that if he truly wanted his court back, he could take it. He was not king, but not just a faery. Like me. There were some stronger faeries in the courts, but most of the truly strong ones were solitary—unless something more than power motivated them.

Two chairs sat on either side of the divan where the former Dark King now lounged.

Irial lifted a decanter from one of the alcoves in the wall. He poured a glass and held it up. “Drink with me?”

Devlin nodded, so Irial poured a second glass.

Irial held out a glass. “Many a good evening can start with a willing mortal… or a halfling perhaps.”

Devlin ignored the intimation that Irial knew about Ani. He accepted the glass and took a seat on the chair to Irial’s right. “Perhaps, but that’s not appropriate for those of my court.”

“And which court would that be, Devlin?” Irial never missed a chance to ask that particular question. Like the Dark Kings and Dark Queens before him, Irial saw things that Devlin would rather keep locked away.

“I belong to Sorcha’s court,” he said.

“Why? You aren’t like them. We both know that. If—”

“Stop.” Devlin drank, keeping his expression bland as he watched Irial. “I have no interest in what you think you know.”

“Aaah. You certainly are cruel enough to be High Court.” Irial looked briefly wounded, but the momentary sadness faded under the faery’s habitual wicked expression.

Devlin thought—not for the first time—how much different life would’ve been if he’d claimed the Dark Court when it was first created. Irial, like all the Dark Kings before him, was temptation personified. He had no need to repress his baser urges; he had no need to hide anything.

Unlike me.

Irial lifted his glass, peering into the amber liquid as if he’d see some truth waiting there. “You were at the Crow’s Nest.”