Мелисса Марр – Darkest Mercy (страница 1)

To Anne Hoppe, for loving Donia even more than I do, for faery wings and temp tattoos, for putting the “good parts” at the end of the letter, for arguing and for not arguing, and for skipping your tea one Saturday morning to fall for these characters

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the author

Also by Melissa Marr

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

Niall walked through the ruins of the tattoo shop. Shards of painted glass crunched under his boots. The floor was strewn with vials of ink, unopened needles, electric apparatus he couldn’t identify, and other things he’d rather not identify. The Dark King had known rage before, known grief; he’d felt helpless, felt unprepared; but he’d never before had all of those emotions converge on him at once.

He paused and lifted one of the mangled bits of metal and wire from the floor. He turned it over in his hand. Only a year ago, a tattoo machine—maybe this one—had bound Irial to the mortal who had brought the former Dark King and Niall together again after a millennium. Irial was the constant, the one faery that had been a part of Niall’s life— for better and worse—for more than a thousand years.

Niall stabbed his bloodied hand with the broken tattoo machine. His own blood welled up and mingled with the drying blood on his hands. His blood. Irial’s blood is on my hands because I couldn’t stop Bananach. Niall lifted the broken machine in his hand, but before he could stab himself a second time, a Hound grabbed his wrist.

“No.” The Hound, Gabriel’s mate, Chela, took the machine. “The stretcher is here, and—”

“Is he awake?”

Mutely, Chela shook her head and led him toward the living room, where Irial lay.

“He will heal,” Niall said, trying the words out, testing the Hound’s reaction to his opinion.

“I hope so,” she said, even as her doubt washed over him. Irial was motionless on the litter. The uneven rising and falling of his chest proved that he still lived, but the pinched look on his face made clear that he was suffering. His eyes were closed, and his taunting grin was absent.

The healer was finishing packing some sort of noxious-smelling plants against the wound, and Niall wasn’t sure whether it was worse to look at Irial or at the bloodied bandages on the floor.