Burned

PROLOGUE

The Unseelie King stared down at the unconscious woman in his wings. She was his soul mate. He knew it the moment he found her. He’d been tortured by it every moment since he’d lost her.

In the brief time they’d shared together, he’d experienced the only true joy of his existence. Before that, darkness had ebbed and flowed in him as incessant as a stormy sea. He’d thought perhaps it was because he was young and in a quarter of a million years, give or take a few, the disquiet might ease.

To pass the restless eons, he’d made things, scraping together matter and reshaping it into mountains and trees, oceans and deserts, planets and stars, galaxies and black holes. All but one power was his: the Song of Making, which legend said had begun it all and could call forth the very fundamentals of existence. That magic belonged to the queen of his race alone.

The Seelie Queen rarely used any portion of the cataclysmic melody. As with all great power, it demanded great price. Legend held their race had stolen the sacred song in times more ancient than any of them recalled, as humans had stolen fire from their gods. If this seemed to imply the Fae had gods, the king knew better. There was nothing out there but him. He’d been looking for a long time.

Epochs passed. Civilizations rose and fell. Bored, dissatisfied, the king built and wrecked worlds and built again. He made a halfhearted attempt to live for a time at court with the Seelie Queen and count the centuries by her petty intrigues. The ancient tapestries claimed she had been sung into existence just for him. But her views were cold and limited, her court too gaudy and bright for eyes that had stared for eons at black velvet and stars, and theirs was a discordant melody with no fire.

Again, he wandered. Edgy. Alone. Seeking something he couldn’t name.

On a tiny world in a tiny corner of a tiny and utterly unimpressive universe he wasn’t even certain why he’d visited, he found her. Unpredictable, high-tempered, happy on her own, and nearly untamable, she was a challenge to seduce. It hadn’t helped that he was broody, arrogant, selfish, and a god.

She didn’t want a soul mate, she told him. And she certainly didn’t want one with wings and an attitude problem.

Yet she’d not run. She stood her ground and watched him circle around her looking for a way into her heart. They fought, tested each other, challenged and demanded.

She knew what she wanted: the best.

He knew what he was: the best.

They enhanced each other’s finest qualities, as true love will. He opened her provincial mind to galaxies of opportunity. She reminded him what it was to feel wonder and brought freshness to creations gone dull and stagnant. Together they spun universes more beautiful and imaginative than anything he’d created before.

Yet his happiness was tainted by something he’d never felt. He loved. He could lose. Human, she possessed a mere fifty more years at best, and with the passage of time would wither and die.

Unable to bear her mortality, the king constructed an opulent cage beyond time where death could never touch her.

Wild at heart, she’d despised his cage, but loved him more and agreed to dwell within it until that day came she could no longer bear it. They met in a shared boudoir of shadows and light and their love knew no bounds.

Still the king could not rest. He knew his woman’s high temper, her need for freedom, and wanted her to have no limits. He sought the Seelie Queen’s aid, but jealously she refused to use her magic to make his lover immortal.

On that day, he vowed to re-create the Song of Making himself, if it took him half of forever and cost him all that he held dear.

Vows, like wishes, are dangerous things.

Precision matters.

In time, the king came to understand part of the song’s essence, glimpsed the fundamental building blocks. The fragments he melded into the partial song that birthed his dark, imperfect Unseelie were composed of exacting frequencies that interlocked seamlessly and made of their parts a far richer melody than their individual notes, chords, and vibrations.

Eons passed while he worked, until the day came he rushed to his lover’s chamber with the results of his latest experiment, so certain of his success that he’d brought a vial of the new elixir to her himself — only to find her dead by her own hand.

Or so a treacherous enemy had made him believe.

They are replaceable, one and all, the Fear Dorcha, dark traveling companion through the king’s subsequent madness, had insisted. You will forget her.

But he never had.

Grief will pass, lisped the Crimson Hag, one of his more exquisitely terrible creations.

But it never did.

Even the grotesque Sweeper, who fancied himself a god, collector of broken, powerful things with which he liked to tinker, had lumbered beside him for a time, offering solace or perhaps merely studying him to see if he, too, could be collected, fixed.

He, who had once been whole, was halved, without hope of ever being complete again. And when you’ve known that kind of love, to endure the creeping passage of time without it is to live a half-life where nothing ever feels real.

He fabricated their reunion in countless illusions, slipping in and out of insanity, talking to her as if she were beside him, answering.

He’d lived lie after lie to escape the unbearable truth: she’d left him by choice, killed herself to escape him.

She’d left him a poisoned barb of a note that to this day infected him still: You have become a monster. There is nothing left of the man I love.

He carried it still, a small scroll tied with a lock of her hair. Despite Cruce’s confession, he would carry it until the day she told him she was not its author.

The king stirred from his reverie and stared down at the unconscious female in his wings. It had been half a million years since he’d found her lying, lifeless, in their chamber. Since he’d dumped all the forbidden, arcane magic he’d used for his experiments into an ensorcelled tome, thinking to be free of that which she’d so despised.

Since he’d last held her. Touched her.

It was no illusion. She was here. She was real. Joy, that elusive, priceless commodity, was once again his.

He inhaled. She smelled the same as she had on the day he’d met her, of sunshine on bare skin, moonlight on silver oceans and enormous, sky-no-limit dreams. He closed his eyes and opened them.

She was still there.

After an eternity of grief and regret, he held the only thing he’d ever wanted as much as he wanted to be God.

A second chance.

Gazing down at her now, he found it simple to pardon Cruce for stealing her, forcing her to drink from the cauldron and erasing all memory of their time together, because somehow his soul mate was at long last the very thing he’d struggled to make her: Fae, immortal unless killed in one of a very small number of ways. He would eradicate those ways in short order.

He was whole again.

The Unseelie King bent his head and brushed his lips to hers. Lightly. Reverently. He’d sliced open his being and bled it out over memories of the woman he would never kiss again.

If there was anything divine in the Cosmos besides him, it was this moment, occupying space with her, the frequency of the vibration of her fundamental essence and his combined. Deep in his chest thunder rolled.

Lashes fluttered. She opened her eyes.

He drew back and stared down at her, unable to speak. Creator of worlds, God, Devil, he who toyed with the very matter of galaxies, words failed him now. His black wings shuddered with the intensity of his emotion. He shifted and resettled them.

There was wonder in her gaze as she stared up at him: a moment of precious, preconscious dawn where all is dew and promise and anything at all might bloom.

Beginnings are fragile things.

Was it as he hoped? Was the power of true love greater than the power of the Cauldron of Forgetting? Did the body recall, despite the damage done to the mind — memory, carved into gray matter, never obliterated? What would she say? What would her first words to him be?

Time ground to a halt and, as a human might hold his breath, the Unseelie King held his existence in silence, occupying the frozen moment with the study of tiny miracles: the silver-blond waterfall of her hair, the blush of her lips, the elegance of her bones.

Was that a flicker of confusion? Of duality preceding recognition? He knew her face intimately, had never forsaken a nuance, yet these were expressions he’d had no cause to learn.

After all she’d been through — eternities about which he knew nothing and might have contained any number of atrocities spent as they were at the Seelie Court with Cruce but more recently kidnapped, interred in a tomb of ice, and nearly killed by the power-hungry prince — he sought to reassure her by simplifying himself, reducing his essence again and again until it was small enough to string word to word and form sentences: alien to the stuff of which he was made but so necessary for finite beings.

“My love, you are safe. I have you now.” He paused, to lend emphasis to his next words, a pledge he would keep until the end of time, which he was fairly certain he was in some fashion or another. “And I will never let you go again.”

Envisioning their joyous future together as immortals, he waited for the first sound of her voice in half a million years.

She screamed.

1

So I’m blowing through the streets of Dublin — after ditching Ryodan’s Humvee, giving him one less excuse to come looking for me, not that he seems to need any, other than because he likes to piss all over my day — trying to prioritize my plans for the future.

At the top of my list is figuring out how to save Christian from the Crimson Hag, publishing a much-needed Dani Daily to let folks know the latest scoop, rescuing folks stranded by the killer ice storm, while simultaneously devising stellar new ways to irritate the owner of Chester’s.

After that are a few dozen subgoals I’m having a hard time putting in the right order, like getting in the know with the new Haven at the abbey, testing Dancer’s Papa Roach weapon, figuring out who’s stockpiling supplies and where so I can raid them, setting up new hidey-holes no one can find, and putting the big kibosh on Jo and Ryodan.

Problem is, I want to make breaking up Jo and Ryodan number one on my list, which is stupid because there’s nothing but personal satisfaction I’d gain from it, and while I’m all about personal satisfaction, I’m beginning to see a pattern: jumping on the short-term-gratification train always seems to wreck me off the rails somehow. But criminy, he doesn’t deserve her! And they’re not even in the same league, and seeing them do that campfire-cuddle thing tonight about made the top of my head pop off!

Second problem is I keep bumping into snowdrifts, which knocks me out of fast-mo and butchers my concentration. Since I’m getting nowhere fast with my sublist and it’s more important than me actually getting to any particular place fast, I drop out of freeze-frame and start trudging around ice-crusted snowdrifts.

Bugger it, I forgot how cold it was down here!

In hyperspeed I vibrate too fast to feel. Slow-mo, my breath frosts the air and my eyeballs chill like little shrimp cocktails on ice.

I scowl when I realize where I am — Temple Bar, not too far from Barrons Books & Baubles.

I don’t walk these blocks often. I may have defeated one of the worst Unseelie of all time tonight at the abbey but the silence and desolation of what once was the heart of the boisterous, craic-filled Temple Bar District dampens my exuberance every time I encounter it.

I can’t forget how this part of the city used to be, crammed with people laughing and partying, musicians playing on the streets for tips, lamps glowing, neon colors splashed everywhere, the smell of flowers and grass and oh, feck me, the glorious scent of bangers and mash and thick Irish stew and all kinds of food I haven’t had in ages! I’d been quick enough to zip in and snatch anything I wanted from any plate. It was the most exciting, wondrous place I ever been, with adventures around every corner.

Knowing Mac was just a few blocks down and over, and if I blew in the door we’d go kill things and hang, made life pretty much perfect. Barrons Books & Baubles was my mecca, Mac and Barrons epic fellow crusaders, and the city a thrill-a-second battlefield.

I want my Dublin back.

I want this bloody ice gone.

I want the pubs open and the streets shiny with gaslights smudging the cobblestones and people living and laughing everywhere I turn. I want to whiz around on my bike, investigating stuff, and be fourteen and crack up with Dancer and idolize the girl that treated me like a sister.

People in Hell want ice water.

As I stand there a sec, getting broody-like, I feel the tip of something sharp and pointy in my back.

“Drop your sword, Dani,” Mac says behind me.

My stomach cramps and I’m instantly sick to it. What the feck, did I conjure her with the mere power of my thoughts? Do I have another sidhe-seer talent I didn’t know about, latent until now? Cripes, I hope not! I’ll never get away from Ryodan! I’m always pissed at him, which means I’m always thinking about him. As soon as I think that, I realize I got concrete proof I don’t have a new superpower, because, hey, if I did, he’d be here with me right now. I decide I’m hallucinating from lack of sleep and being forced to listen to too much Jimi Hendrix and Black Sabbath tonight. Which is, like, half a song of either.

There’s no way Mac’s behind me. I’d have heard her. I have superhearing. I’d have seen the lights of her MacHalo, brightening the glow cast by mine.

“Yeah, right, like I’m actually falling for this,” I mutter. Sometimes I have an overactive imagination.

The tip digs harder into my back. I go still and draw a slow inhale. I know Mac’s scent and that’s it. A dry chittering starts on the rooftops, swelling into thousands of rattlesnake tails shaking, making me even more nauseated. I don’t need to look to know what’s up there. Oh, yeah, Mac is really behind me, bizarre entourage in tow. The few times I’ve seen her lately, she’s had a flock of Unseelie ZEWs — Zombie Eating Wraiths is what I christened the gaunt, black-robed caste that glides on air and likes roosting on top of the bookstore — following her around like enormous, carrion crow waiting for a juicy corpse to pick clean.

Ain’t gonna be mine.

I dig out a protein bar, rip it open, and cram it in my mouth for an instant rush of energy. I never avoid battle. Tuck tail and run isn’t in my blood. Problem is, I only know two ways to fight: kill clean or kill messy — both of which involve killing unless I’m up against that feck Ryodan who can pluck me from hyperspeed and kick my ass ten ways to Tuesday.

There’s no way I’m killing Mac. I’ll take Door Number Two, a thing I never do, and run. Only for her.

I slap up a hasty mental map of the street and get my grid locked down as perfect as I can with all this snow and ice. I slit my eyes half closed in intense concentration and freeze-frame.

Nothing happens. My feet are rooted in the exact same spot, and I’m still feeling the tip of Mac’s spear in my back.

My superpowers just disappeared in a moment of need for the third time. Un-fecking-real! What’s the commonality? Why does it keep happening?

“I said drop your fucking sword.”

I exhale gustily. Not because I feel sorry for myself. Self-pity is wasted emotion. It merely prolongs whatever trauma you suffered by keeping it alive in your head. Dude, you survived it. Move on.

But there are some things I wish had been different like, say, Ro had never taken me to the abbey after Mom died, made me her personal assassin and taught me to kill before I got around to figuring out what I thought was right and wrong, because when you do figure out what you think is right and wrong — if it’s foursquare against the things you been doing — you got some tricky minefields in your head to dodge. Guilt, regret — things I almost don’t even know how to spell they’re so alien to me — I about drown in them every time I look at Mac.

Fortunately she’s behind me at the moment, so I don’t have to think about how she looks so much like her sister, don’t get smashed upside the head by visuals of the last night I saw Alina, on her hands and knees in an alley, begging me not to let her die.

“Seriously, kid, drop it. I won’t say it again.”

“Not a kid. Dude.”

“Danielle.”

Gah! She knows I hate that wussy girl name! I test my freeze-framing abilities. They’re still absent. There’s no telling how long it’ll be until they come back. Five seconds. Five minutes. Maybe five hours. I got no clue why it’s happening and it’s beginning to worry the crap out of me. I turn to face her, coat back, hand on the hilt of my sword, steeling myself for a whole-body flinch, and still I jerk.

She’s different from the Mac I met a year ago. Glam girl turned sleek warrior woman. She was pretty when she came to Dublin; now she’s lean, strong, and beautiful. Once, she said I was pretty and that I’d grow up to be beautiful, too, one day. As if I give a rat’s arse about that kind of thing.

What is she thinking, pulling her spear on me, ordering me around? There’s no way she knows I’m stuck in slow-mo. No one knows it happens to me. Cripes, if word of that got out!

She stares at me, green eyes narrowed with fury. She has every right to try to kill me. A better person might even cooperate a little out of guilt and remorse. I’m not a better person. I wake up every day with a single imperative: live. By any means necessary. The only way Death will ever get his slimy bastard hands on me is over my dead body.

I wonder if she has some new sidhe-seer skill I haven’t heard about that makes her willing to hit me up like this, so cool and confident. My superspeed guarantees my victory in any battle against another sidhe-seer unless I make a mistake, and I don’t. She isn’t wearing a MacHalo, which perplexes the feck out of me. Nobody walks Dublin, dark. Not even me. Maybe the ZEWs on the rooftops are her private army now, defending her against the Shades and assorted nasties.

I frown when another thought occurs to me. Did she set me up for quid pro quo down to the dirty details?

Dark alley nearby — check.

Me — check.

Hungry Unseelie — check.

I get a mental snapshot of me dying just like Alina. It’s practically glowing on Mac’s pupils.

I want to tell her revenge is a devil you don’t want to worship. In destroying your enemy you become it.

You will take the girl to an alley on the south side of the River Liffey. Unseelie will meet you there. Sometimes I still hear Ro’s voice in my head even though we burned her body and dumped the ashes in the sea. Not like a true haunt, just ghosts of memories still swimming down deep in my subconscious where I keep most of what I did for her when I lived at the abbey.

Why? I want to ask her, but she touches my forehead with something that’s wet and smells bad, and mutters words I don’t know, then I can’t talk.

I know you’re in there, I hear Ro saying, as if from a great distance. Remember the hell you endured. You’re the one I want.

I don’t know what she’s talking about. I’m right there. Looking at her. Even though it feels like from a million miles away.

Och, child, she says, I couldn’t have raised you better myself to fragment you into usable pieces. When I found you when you were five I knew God had forged the beginning of a very special weapon. Just for me.

Old bat couldn’t even keep track of my age. I was eight when she found me almost dead in a cage. Only time in my life I ever waited to die. Counting my breaths. Wondering which would be the last. There was a whole week back there I couldn’t remember, just gone. From the day Ro took me in, I began losing hours and then I’d be somewhere else and wouldn’t know how I’d gotten there. And there was usually something I didn’t like seeing. Other times I was seeing it all happen except not in control, stuck in the sidecar of the motorcycle, where I couldn’t steer or hit the gas. There was never a brake when things got weird like that. I was always just along for the ride, glued to the seat. Like the night I killed Mac’s sister. Second worst thing I ever did and I relive it in nightmares, down to the last excruciating detail. Sometimes I wondered if the crazy old bat had been able to choose to let me see the things she sent me to do, or shield me from them.

If I dwelled on that thought I’d go nuts. Hate eats the hater. Ro messed with me enough while she was alive. She’s dead now, and if I let her keep fecking with me, it’ll be my own fault and she’ll win. Even from her watery grave, she could steal hours, days, weeks of my life. Sometimes when really bad things happen, you put them in a box and never look at them again because they’ll cost you the rest of your life. Some wounds never heal. You excise the savaged flesh and become the next thing.

“Drop your sword and I’ll put down my spear,” Mac says.

“Yeah, right. Then what? You order your creepy little army of Unseelie to drag me down that alley and eat me? No, let me guess: We head back to BB&B, make hot chocolate, hang out and talk?”

“That’s the general idea. Minus the bookstore and hot chocolate. And they’re not my creepy little army.”

“Like, talk about what? Me killing your sister? And they sure look like your creepy little army to me. Go everywhere you do.” Feck, it’s good to see her. I missed seeing her. I was always scanning every room, every street, hoping to see her. Dreading it.

She flinches. “Maybe you could try not to say it that way. And I said they’re not.”

“Why shouldn’t I? It’s what happened,” I say defiantly. Fecking pointless. She’s never going to see it any other way. My fingers tighten on my sword. “I killed your sister. There it is. Fact. Dude. Never gonna change. I. Killed. Alina. You came to Dublin hunting her murderer. Here I am.” I raise a hand and wave it around just in case she’s missing the point, overlooking me somehow.

“Dani, I know you’re—”

“You don’t know nothing about me!” I cut her off hard and fast. I hate sentences that begin with my name followed by the claim — indubitably erroneous — that the speaker knows something about me. Those kinds of sentences rank right up there with the ones that begin with You know what your problem is? That’s always a doozy. Talk about a trick question. Nothing worth hearing ever follows that preface. I snarl, “You hear me? I said you don’t know nothing! Now get the feck out of my way and take your creepy little groupies with you!”

“No. This ends. Here. Tonight. And I said. They’re. Not. Mine.” She cuts a look up and mutters, “They stalk me. I haven’t figured out how to get rid of them. Yet.”

Instantly I want to be on the Dublin News-Channel-X investigative team, ask probing questions, get immersed in solving a thrilling mystery with Mac, but those days are gone and about as likely to come back as dinosaurs. I look at her, and she’s giving me this totally fake I’m-not-going-to-kill-you look that’s supposed to lure me close enough to get killed. But her fingers sure are tight on the hilt of her spear. And she’s balanced real light on the balls of her feet like I am. I know that stance. It’s preattack. Face says one thing. Body says another. I listen to the body. Keeps me alive.

She’s wearing boots with low heels, fashionable, stupid shoes for ice. It doesn’t matter how new and improved MacKayla Lane is, part of her will always be as pink and girly as the nails on the hilt of her spear.

I’m wearing sneakers.

Even slow-mo I’m faster than she’ll ever be in those boots. There’s no way Mac’ll throw her spear at me. No more than she would put it down in a show of good faith. She’s like me with my sword. We don’t let them out of our hands. Not willingly. Well, I did it tonight for a Highlander who’s mostly Unseelie Prince but I got no fecking clue why. The only unknown are those ghastly Unseelie on the rooftops — are they or aren’t they here to kill me?

One way to find out.

I try to freeze-frame but don’t even get a chug-a-chug of the engine, my battery’s deader than dead. Feels like it’s not even in the car anymore. Got cables leading nowhere.

I lunge for her and shove her off balance.

She grabs at me but I duck under her arm and push past her. When she snatches a handful of my coat from behind, I turn my head and bite her hand. Not swing my sword or blow something up. Bite. Like a child that doesn’t have any other weapons.

“Ow! You bit me!”

“Wow, gee. See Mac’s brilliant skills of observation,” I say irritably. What am I going to do next — pull her hair? Then she might slap me and break a nail and we’ll call each other names. The sheer humiliating wussiness of this might goad me into drawing my sword and killing her. I can’t fathom how normal folks stand this. Above us, the wraithlike ZEWs chitter louder but stay put. “Get off me, stupid,” I hiss. I try to yank free, but she’s stronger than I remember.

The second I tug my coat from her fingers she grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls.

“Ow! You pulled my hair!” It hurt. Give me swords and spears and guns any day of the week.

“Wow, gee. See Dani’s brilliant skills—”

“Stow it! Think up your own insults, unless it’s too much work for your—”

“—of observation. And I did not pull your hair. I’m just trying to hold you. You’re trying to get away. You’re the one pulling your hair.”

“—puny little brain! And of course I’m trying to get away, you fecking twit! And I’m not biting you now so let go of my hair!” I reach up, grab my hair, and we do this idiotic tug of war, then she lets go so abruptly, I crash forward onto my hands and knees.

I surge up instantly but duck again and roll fast out of the way twice, three times, when I hear the whine of her spear behind me. The ZEWs explode upward, rustling and shrieking like a flock of startled buzzards. Guess the spear slicing air freaks them out, too.

For a stupid, vulnerable instant I crouch near the ground and can’t even move, trying to process that Mac really just swung her spear at me, made an undeniable attempt to kill me, as in remove me from this planet, as in end me forever. Seems I was holding on to a crippling hope of absolution, secret even from me. The air feels colder behind me, as if a murderous rage looms there. If you think emotions don’t throw off energy, you’re wrong.

I shoot to my feet, scrubbing at my cheeks with the balls of my fists. Ice chips must’ve flown up into my eyes when I rolled, making them sting and tear.

I break into a run.

My backpack drops like a stone from my shoulders. Bugger, she missed me but she caught the straps of my bag as I ducked, and all my food is in my pack! I don’t know a single store in a fifty-mile radius with stock on the shelves. My superspeed will come back, and when it does I’ll need food ASAP. I skid to a slippery stop on ice and turn to grab it.

Mac is standing, one boot planted on my backpack, spear raised, shining alabaster. The edges are razor sharp. I can see my name written all over them.

Message is clear.

“You can’t go anywhere without food, Dani. Stop running. I just want to talk to you.”

“You’re not tricking me!” I hate it that she keeps pretending. Full frontal attack I can deal with. This sneaky crap is lower than low.

“I’m not trying to.”

She sure as feck is. She just tried to slice off my head, for cripes sake.

The ZEWs resettle on the rooftops and resume that nerve-wracking racket again.

“So, what? I’m supposed to believe you came looking for me to tell me you, like, forgive me? Just how stupid do you think I am?”

Her eyes fill with shadows and she looks sad. “Life is complicated, Dani.”

“What the feck does that mean?” I could just pop out of my skin like an overpressured grape from sheer frustration. I hate it when people throw big sweeping generalizations at you that you can’t even begin to interpret. Life is complicated so I’m going to kill you quick? Life is complicated so I’m going to torture you to death slow and talk the whole time, driving you batshit crazy in the process? Life is complicated ergo I might forgive you if you perform Herculean tasks of redemption? The options are endless. Who doesn’t know life is complicated? What I want to know is how to apply that to the nuts and bolts of my existence. Folks never tell you that part.

“Sometimes the things we think will set us free … only make more chains. You either wear them or break them, and I … well, I don’t want to wear them.”

“Dude, ain’t no chains here. I don’t see nothing but you and me and weapons and death, if you don’t get off my pack and walk away. Besides, even if you did say you forgive me, I’d never believe you! I’ll always be waiting for the second you decide to try to kill me. You want me dead. Admit it. Just say it. Be honest, for feck’s sake! You know you want me dead! I see it in your eyes!”

She doesn’t say anything for a couple seconds, like she’s thinking hard about what she’s going to say next, and I don’t even know I’m holding my breath waiting until she begins talking and it kind of explodes from my lungs.

“I don’t want you dead, Dani. That’s not why I came looking for you.”

“Well, why the fuck not?” I yell. “I deserve to die!”

My hand goes to my mouth like maybe I can cover up what I just said or scrape the words back inside somehow. I’m horrified. I don’t even know where those words came from. There aren’t many sins in my bible. Giving up is the greatest one of all. I just broke my own cardinal rule. Life is a gift. You fight to keep it. You never quit. Never.

Nobody wants you. Your own mother locks you in a cage, leaves and forgets you. Just die. It’ll end everyone’s misery, including your own. Maybe then she can have a life. One of you should.

I can’t believe I just said I deserve to die. Maybe I’m possessed. Maybe I got one of those sneaky, diaphanous Unseelie Grippers inside me but it’s only fecking with me sometimes (’cause I’m so super it can’t possess me all the time!), making me say things I don’t really feel and shorting out my powers. And maybe that Gripper has some kind of bizarre obsession with Ryodan. Weirder things have been happening in Dublin lately.

Mac shakes her head, giving me a totally fake compassionate look. “Oh, Dani—”

“I’m not falling for this so just shut up! Leave me alone or I’ll kill you like I killed your sister. I swear I will. I’ll kill you and then I’ll kill everybody you care about. That’s what I do. I kill people. I kill and kill and kill. That’s who I am. That’s who she made me.” I used to daydream Barrons found me in the cage that day, instead of Ro, and imagine what I’d have turned out to be then, but he didn’t. She did. It is what it is.

I run.

She follows faster than I would have thought possible. I wonder if Barrons did something to her, maybe that thing Ryodan said he would do for me. Is she as unkillable as them now? Is that where her balls are coming from? If so, I’m seriously pissed and even more jealous.

I leap snowbanks, dash down alleys, double back around, leading her on a merry chase through Temple Bar, and still she manages to stay hot on my arse. I keep testing every couple of seconds to see if I can freeze-frame but my superpowers have taken the same vacation my conscience went on years ago.

She’s yelling stuff but I don’t listen. I hum my favorite playlist to tune out her and the racket of her creepy army.

I don’t realize my feet have taken me to Barrons Books & Baubles until it looms up in front of me, only holy place I’ve ever known: amber lights and polished wood and diamond-paned windows and endless possibilities. Deep in a limestone arch, fancy columns and sidelights and brass sconces and a stained-glass transom frame the door I used to go banging through a million miles a minute, and just above it on a shiny brass pole hangs that colorful hand-painted shingle that might as well have once said Welcome Home but never would again for me.

I love this place more than any other. Gas fireplaces and big comfy couches you can really stretch out on and magazines and books you can read and dream about all the places in the world you’re gonna see one day, and wicked-cool antique weapons and kick-ass modern ones, and killer muscle cars and cakes and presents and friends you thought you had. The hours I spent there are filed away in my storage vaults in superhigh-gloss Technicolor, brighter than any other memories. Sometimes I pull one out and relive it real slow, savoring it down to the last morsel. I love Mac. I miss her so bad. I wish—

Wishes aren’t horses and I don’t get to ride. ’Scool. I got feet that are usually superhero grade.

The bell on the door tinkles.

A man steps out.

Strong. Brilliant. Controlled.

Predator.

Unbreakable. Feck, to be so unbreakable!

He’s everything I admire plus things I can’t even begin to put into words.

I crush on Jericho Barrons violently.

My brain almost shuts down every time I see him and that’s a lot of gray matter to stupefy.

Used to be, if I couldn’t fall asleep I’d fantasize all kinds of ways I’d impress Barrons by killing monsters or saying something really smart or saving the world, and he’d see me as a grown-up woman and I’d glow just from the expression on his face, like that time I killed the Unseelie Prince in Mac’s cell and he looked at me like he really saw who I was. Most folks don’t. They fence me in with teenage rules that don’t hold me for shit, seeing how I grew up. You can kill but don’t cuss. Break any rule necessary to save the world but don’t watch porn or even think about having sex. How do they come up with this stuff — hold parental powwows for brainstorming diametrically opposed ethics? Then Ryodan began popping into my Barrons fantasies like he had some kind of business being there, and he’d look all, well … like … Ryodan, and he’d laugh and do that husky groan thing he did on level four, so I terminated that happy little exercise in somnolence.

Now, I count sheep.

Lately even those buggers look like Ryodan, with clear, cold eyes and some weird kind of hypnotic hold on me.

Fecker.

I’m beginning to think I’m going to have to figure a way to kill him, permanent-like, just to get him out of my head.

“Dani.”

I shiver. He has that effect on folks, throws off some kind of charge, supersaturates the space in his vicinity. All his dudes do, but Jericho Barrons has it in spades. I play it real cool. Shove a hand in my pocket, thumb out. Cock my hip at a jaunty angle. “Barrons.”

Time was, I planned on growing up and giving him my virginity. Or V’lane. It’s a big deal to me, the divesting of it. One of the few things I got left that’s gonna be my choice: the who, the how, the when. It’s gonna be Epic with a capital E!

But the Seelie Prince V’lane turned out to be the Unseelie Prince Cruce. And Barrons is Mac’s as much as something like him is ever anyone’s, a fact that’s never going to change, and I don’t want it to.

A piece of paper flaps on the column behind his head. I get a bad feeling and take a sec to scan it.

“Gah! Are you fecking kidding me?” How the heck did they get something printed already? Even in hyperspeed, I couldn’t have gotten a rag out this fast! But there it is, waving in the air like a great big slap in my face.

I can’t read any more. I know they’re getting ready to dis me. But my traitorous eyeballs sneak another peek and sure enough there it is!

… a certain bragging teenager that JEOPARDIZED the mission and was single-handedly responsible for getting many good, innocent people KILLED and taken CAPTIVE!

“Buh! Who is writing this drivel?” I was the hero tonight! I saved the fecking day with my winning combination of brains and skills. They even made the font size bigger on the slander about me! I know the tricks of the trade. Talk about your biased press! I feel my face getting hot and red. It pisses me off so much I’d rupture a gonad if I had one. WeCare sure as feck has them out the wazoo!

“Stop her!” Mac shouts.

I don’t stand a chance against both of them. Heck, I don’t stand a chance against Barrons by himself. He’s like Ryodan. I can’t compete on my best day.

Yet.

I fist my hands and take rapid deep breaths, clearing my head of the Wemightcarebutsureasfeckdon’ttellthetruth bull-crap. It takes me a sec to analyze possibilities and figure out how I’m getting myself out of this one. The answer is so simple it takes my breath away. I’m wired to survive on a gut level. My subconscious brought me exactly where I needed to be.

I duck past him and totally catch him off guard — or more likely he decides not to chase me for some mysterious reason, because there’s no way I can outrun Barrons, not even in freeze-frame — then can’t help myself and dart back and snatch the slanted scrap o’ crap from the column and wad it up ’cause I sure as heck ain’t letting it hang there, then I’m back behind the bookstore, hurrying to the first building on the left side of the Dark Zone.

Last time I was here was the night me and Christian searched the Unseelie King’s library, the night the words in the Boora Boora books crawled off the pages and stung me like fire ants, and I accidentally set the Crimson Hag free.

Christian. The Hag. Cripes, I got some cleanup work to do.

When he showed me the hidden portal in the wall that’s really a secret passageway into the ancient mirrors the Fae once used to travel between worlds, I’d committed the precise, unremarkable spot of bricks to memory. All weapons and escape routes — good. Not even Ryodan with his stupid contract on me can track me Fae-side. I figured if the city ever got too hot for me, I could always ditch it for a while.

It’s feeling way too hot right now.

“Dani, don’t!” Mac cries.

I leap into the brick. It’s weirdly spongelike, then so am I, then I’m standing in a large, windowless, doorless room with blank white walls and a white floor and ten enormous mirrors of varying shapes and sizes suspended in the air. They hang without visible means of support, some motionless, others twirling lazily. No surprise there. Fae stuff, animate and not, rarely give a wink and sure as heck no nod to human physics. It’s why Dancer’s so fascinated by them. Some of the mirrors have intricately carved frames, while others have thin edges of welded chain-link. A few of the looking glasses within the frames are as black as night, some milky white, and others crammed with shadows you don’t want to look at hard.

It’s a good thing I know which mirror to take — second Silver on the right plops you smack inside the infinite, a-fecking-mazing White Mansion. I been itching to explore it anyway. If they follow me through, I’ll use the labyrinthine corridors to lose them or unstopper another distraction because Rule Number One in the Mega O’Malley Handbook is and will always be: survival first, damage control second. Which is only logical. You can’t do damage control dead.

If they don’t follow me in, all I have to do is wait long enough for my superpowers to return, then come back because it’ll be a couple days, if not a couple weeks later in Dublin. When Christian and me went through last time, we lost almost a month! Time doesn’t pass the same in Fae realms. No way they’ll sit in the White Room 24/7 waiting for me. I hate losing Dublin-time that I could be using to help my city but I can’t help my city at all if I’m not alive.

Mac explodes through the wall behind me like she was shot by a cannon, slams into my back and nearly pushes me into the wrong mirror, and all I can think is what a disaster that would have been. I got no clue where the other ones go. Might be a world without air, a direct path into the Unseelie prison, or a galaxy filled with Hunters, or Shades, or gray women! I got a special hate on for the gray-folk caste of Unseelie. One of them almost killed me and forced Mac to make a promise she shouldn’t have made.

I shove her off me and she stumbles back, nearly crashing into Barrons, who just entered the room with his usual stalky animal grace.

Jericho Barrons is an unshakable, undestroyable constant. He’s the cornerstone of my universe. Or maybe together they are. I don’t know. I only know as long as the two of them and BB&B still stand, some part of me that never used to feel okay, does.

I can’t help myself — I watch them a sec. I love watching them together. I slow-mo it to absorb every detail.

Mac draws up short to keep from slamming into Barrons, and her blond hair swings back over her shoulder, brushing his face as it does, and my hearing is so good I catch the rasp of it chafing the shadow stubble on his jaw, then one of his hands grazes her breast and his eyes narrow when he looks at what he touched in a hungry way I want a man to look at me like one day and, as they continue to recover from the near-collision, their bodies move in a graceful dance of impeccable awareness of precisely where the other is at all times that is unity, symbiosis, partnership I only dream of, wolves that chose to pack up and hunt together, soldiers who will always have each other’s backs no matter what, no sin, no transgression too great, ’cause don’t we all transgress sometimes and it fecking slays me, because once I got a little taste of what that was like, and it was heaven and they’re so beautiful standing there, the best of the best, the strongest of the strong, that they practically glow to me, on fire with all I ever wanted in my life — a place to belong and someone to belong there with.

Together they mean to kill me and go on living, all happy, like I didn’t even mean anything. They’ll eat and have sex and adventures and I’ll be nothing but six feet under in dirt — assuming anyone even bothers to bury me. Gone. Over. Finis. Done. Quit. Before I ever even got the chance to live.

I’m not sure I’ve ever been hap—

I terminate that idiotic train of thought. As soon as my sidhe-seer gifts come back, I’ll get over this wimpy little emotional meltdown I’m having. Losing the superpowers that make me special plus seeing Mac up close and personal for the first time since she found out what I did is temporarily messing with my head. Key word there, temporarily.

Fourteen blows.

Hormones suck.

I wish I’d just grow the hell up in a hurry and everything would even out and start to make sense and folks would stop seeing me as a kid and I could finally—

Bugger it all! What am I waiting for?

I close my hand on the hilt of my sword and dive headfirst into the mirror, laughing as I go. I always crack up when I leap into the unknown. It’s cotton-candy fuel, there’s a big-top tent full of carnival magic in a good belly laugh.

Next grand adventure here I come!

The last thing I hear is Mac shouting, “Oh, God, no, Dani, not that one! We moved them! That one goes to—”

2

“—the Hall of All Days!”

If not infinite, the ancient Fae “airport” that serves as hub for a nexus of Silvers is so vast it isn’t worth splitting hairs over.

Fashioned of gold from floor to ceiling, the endless corridor is lined with billions of mirrors that are portals to alternate universes and times and exudes a chilling spatial-temporal distortion that makes you feel utterly inconsequential — think dust mote in a galaxy-sized barn.

Time isn’t linear in the hall, it’s malleable and slippery and you can get permanently lost in memories that never were and dreams of futures that will never be.

One moment you feel terrifyingly alone, the next as if an endless chain of paper-doll versions of yourself is unfolding sideways, holding cutout construction-paper hands with thousands of different feet in thousands of different worlds, all at the same time.

Compounding the many dangers of the hall, when the Silvers were damaged by Cruce’s curse (a thing he tried to blame on his Unseelie brothers, in typical Cruce fashion), the mirrors were corrupted and the image they now present is no guarantee of what’s on the other side. A lush rain forest may lead to a parched, cracked desert, a tropical oasis to a world of ice, but you can’t count on total opposites either. No handy Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is propped on a convenient foyer table, near a cool beverage and tasty snack inside those time-tortured walls.

Barrons steps between the mirror and me, folds his arms across his chest, and spreads his legs wide. He’s a tall, dark mountain of man I can’t push my way through or around. I meet his implacable gaze and we have one of our wordless discussions.

But we have to—

No we don’t.

But we can’t—

Yes we can.

But she doesn’t—

She’ll figure it out.

But it’s—

Not your fault and not your problem.

But I’m the one—

Bloody hell, Ms. Lane, how many “buts” are you going to throw at me besides the only one I want? He rakes a hungry gaze over my ass and I shiver.

After all we’ve been through together, he still calls me Ms. Lane, with one exception: when I’m in his bed. Or on the floor, or some other place where I’ve temporarily lost my mind and become convinced I can’t breathe without him inside me.

“Sometimes I don’t know why I even bother talking to you.”

He lifts a brow an infinitesimal amount in a silent makes two of us.

Barrons thinks words are pointless and dangerous. If I played it his way, we’d rarely speak, ocular or otherwise. Funny thing is, the more time I spend around him, the more I understand why he feels that way.

“But she’s in the hall. It’s a terrible place. I’ve been there. People don’t escape.” During my brief time in those ancient corridors, the glossy, seductive floors had been littered with skeletons. I’d nearly become one of them. In those mindbending halls, you could live any reality you chose, die on the floor believing you were living a genuine, happy life somewhere real. The place is a consummate mind-fuck.

“You did,” he says aloud.

“That’s different. I’m the exception. To a lot of things.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Modest, too. So is she.”

“I had the stones.” Chiseled from the Unseelie King’s realm, they’d reacted to each portal I went through, changing the way the environment behaved and working ultimately to expel me.

“If you follow her through, you will only force her to take the nearest escape route. Any door, any Silver. She’s not going to stop running from you. What if she chooses a world that has no air or is too close to a sun? She needs time to use that powerful brain of hers. You made it out. She will, too. Drop it. There are other things you need to be focused on. Besides,” his gaze locks on mine, then I feel like he’s sweeping my eyeballs aside and sifting through my mind, analyzing, discarding, hunting, “ah, yes, I thought as much. You’re not ready yet. You will leave her alone until you are.”

Autocratic has a picture of Barrons next to it in the dictionary. Unfortunately so does addictive. I poke Unseelie on both sides with my elbows and change the subject. “Haven’t you found a way to get rid of them yet? It’s been months.”

One after another black-cloaked, chittering wraiths continue to pop through the portal behind me. I have no idea why they’ve chosen me to stalk. I’m swiftly becoming the only human in an Unseelie sardine can, and just as smelly. It’s bad enough they stalk me, but where they brush against me they leave a greasy, pungent yellow dust on my clothes. That’s the least of the reasons I want them gone.

With rare exceptions — like tonight, when they inexplicably decided to roost up high — they make it impossible to fight. I can’t get to my enemy without first slaughtering a few dozen of the ones smothering me. By the time I slice and stab my way clear, whatever I really wanted to kill has disappeared. My sidhe-seer talent, nulling, or freezing them in place for a few seconds, doesn’t work on them.

As if that’s not bad enough, every time Ryodan sees me he grills me about why an Unseelie caste is following me around, and when that man gets a bone he strips the gristle with his teeth and gnaws until the marrow is gone, so I’ve stopped going to Chester’s or anywhere in public that I might run into him or his men, which is pretty much everywhere given the close watch they keep on Dublin and the surrounding districts. I’m bookstore-bound most days and nights, and me, cooped up, bored, gets riskier with each passing hour — idle hands make the devil’s work and all.

Not the devil, beautiful girl. Angel. Your angel.

Yet another voice I pretend not to hear.

You wish to be rid of them? Your wish. My command.

Oh, yeah, fully deaf now.

I killed the first fifty or so Unseelie when they began stalking me, but it didn’t matter how many I slayed, more appeared. Compounding my disgust, they release a huge cloud of that stinking yellow dust as they die, coating me and making me sneeze my head off. I haven’t seen them feed on any humans, and as their only offense seems to be stalking me and ruining my clothes, I no longer kill them. It’s pointless and disturbing.

I shoot Barrons a look. He has a full five feet of personal space around him in all directions. I, on the other hand, am a human dog with Unseelie fleas. “So, can you get rid of them or not?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Can’t you tattoo me or something?”

“Now she wants me to tattoo her. Will wonders never cease.”

“It’d be better than walking around with these … these … these bloody flipping odiferous gnats!”

“Have yet to find one that works.”

“Well, whatever’s keeping them out of the bookstore should keep them away from me, right? Can’t you just do to me what you did to it?” Inside those walls and beneath his garage are the only places I have any privacy.

“I’ve not isolated the precise element responsible. And no, I can’t do all of that to you. You’re animate. You might not be when I was done. I prefer you animate. Most of the time.”

Most? I bristle but refuse to be distracted. “Just how many elements are involved in protecting a bookstore? Five? Ten? A hundred?” When he betrays nothing of his secret protection spell — not that I expected him to, Butt-the-fuck-out-of-my-business is his middle name — I press, “Have you considered asking the Keltar if they can help? They’ve been druids to the Fae for thousands of years and maybe—”

This time the look he cuts me holds a glitter of crimson and I shut up. I’ve seen that flash when he’s on top of me, hands bracketing my head, eyes dark with lust. I’ve seen it when he’s killing. I know what it promises: primal passion or primal destruction. Hard as it is to believe, I’m in the mood for neither at the moment. My problems have bred entire subsets of problems, which are no doubt having birth pains to spawn yet more problems, even as I pause to brood about them. Mentioning the clan of sexy Highlanders to Barrons is never a good idea, which I would have remembered if I’d not been distracted by the sudden realization that I’m wearing the last clean outfit I own and will have to do laundry tonight. Again.

I’m sick of hiding. Tired of washing clothes. Fed up with sitting back and doing nothing to help my city, my people, myself. Arguably the most powerful person in Dublin, possibly on the planet — with the exception of one currently frozen prince — I lay low so no one discovers the psychopathic, homicidal embryo I carry inside me — a complete copy of the Sinsar Dubh, the most dangerous, twisted, evil book of black magic ever created.

I know where to find the spell to be rid of the Unseelie that stalk me. I even know where to find the magic to hunt and destroy whatever has been freezing people and icing our city. In the pages of a book I don’t dare ever open, not even for one tiny peek inside. The dark book possesses anyone that reads it, takes them over and corrupts them completely. I’m carrying a lethal bomb around inside me. As long as I don’t touch it, I won’t blow up into the greatest evil mankind has ever known.

For the first week after I refused to take the spell to lay Barrons’s son to rest, the Sinsar Dubh was silent. For eight and a half blissful days I believed I’d gotten my happily-ever-after, and could settle down to a peaceful life of killing Unseelie, rebuilding Dublin, gardening with Mom, driving supercars with my dad, fortifying the abbey, bonding with my sister sidhe-seers, and having phenomenal fights and even better sex with Barrons. All I had to do was ignore the Sinsar Dubh. Never open it. Never use the limitless power at my disposal. Easy, right?

Not.

Temptation isn’t a vice you triumph over once, completely, and then you’re free. Temptation slips into bed with you each night and helps you say prayers. It wakes you in the morning with a friendly cup of coffee, and knows just the way you take it, heavy on the sin.

Every blasted day it’s that afternoon outside the bookstore all over again, only instead of refusing the spell to save one man’s son, I’m refusing to save an entire city.

It took me all of five minutes suffering the Sinsar Dubh’s goading to devise a plan of action.

Get rid of it.

Before someone finds out or I lose control and rain down death and destruction on everyone I care about. I’m not living this battle every day for the rest of my Fae-elixir-enhanced life. And hopefully the stalkers that impede my ability to move at every turn will vanish along with it.

While our city has been fighting the ice monster, Barrons and I, trailed by my ghouls, have been wasting weeks at a time making trips into the ever-changing White Mansion, sorting through endless libraries, scouring old manuscripts and scrolls, hunting for a ghost of a whisper of a legend: an infamous spell to summon the Unseelie King back to Dublin, so he can strip his damned book out of me.

Barrons thinks it’s wasted effort and is getting impatient. He spent countless millennia searching ancient books for spells — and now I have him searching ancient books for a spell again. He says even if we manage to get his attention, the half-mad king will simply laugh, vanish as quickly as summoned.

I refuse to believe that. The king is my only hope. Besides, he has a soft spot for me. Sort of. I think. That’s about as conclusive as one can be with the entity that calls himself Unseelie King.

“You will obey me, Ms. Lane. You will not follow her. That is all.”

Jericho Barrons turns in a ripple of muscle and beautifully tailored Armani and stalks through the portal, leaving me alone with too many questions, two few choices, and a hundred-odd Unseelie.

That is all, my ass. I’m my own woman. I’m Death walking. I’m the possibility for Complete and Total World Destruction. I can sure as hell make my own decisions.

I ponder the Silver, eyes narrowed.

I know Barrons.

If I follow Dani, he’ll follow me, as will my confederacy of Unseelie. I imagine the parade we make: pretty blonde with the scary eyes followed by big, dark, tattooed man with the really scary eyes, trailed by a hundred eerily gliding, cobweb-dusted, black-cloaked, stinking wraiths. Hell, I’d take one look at us and run, even if I didn’t know we had good reason to be pissed at me.

Barrons is right. Dani will only keep fleeing, anywhere, any way, possible.

And it’s not our bizarre cavalcade causing it.

It’s me.

You’re not ready yet, he said.

It’s my fault she went through the Silver. I’m getting better at recognizing pivotal moments, and there was one back in the alley where I might have been able to reach her, stop her from running. Or at least not drive her into Faery.

It didn’t escape my notice that Dani hadn’t attempted to use one ounce of superstrength in our absurdly normal mean-girl scuffle, nor had she freeze-framed out, which made it clear how desperately she hoped I would forgive her.

I’d pulled my punches, too, wishing desperately to forgive her. Turn back time to half-past innocence. But that clock’s lying on its side, hour hand spinning wildly, in a dirty Dublin alley near a gold makeup pouch half concealed by trash, and an address carved in stone by a dying woman.

Broken.

You can’t count on Dani remaining in normal-speed for long — there’s no telling what might startle her up — so when she stumbled and the opportunity presented itself, I’d swung my spear to slice the straps on her pack, take her food, and eliminate the possibility.

I swear that was all I was after. Her food. Nothing more.

But the moment I raised my spear, I flashed back over all the evil I’ve been fighting and I saw my sister dead in that alley, and Mallucé torturing me to death, and the Unseelie Princes raping me, and Rowena slitting my throat in the cell beneath the abbey, and the Sinsar Dubh’s endless games, and for a moment I despised the world because I used to know who I was, and I used to be good, with no bad in me, or at least that’s what I thought and there really is a degree of bliss and charmed innocence in ignorance. But when you fight evil every day, stare it in the face, engage it, learn to think like it, you face a choice: Be defeated by the limits of your own morality, or summon a beast in yourself that obeys none.

That I have such a beast, plus my psychotic hitchhiker, keeps me as frozen as my compatriot prince, but while Cruce was imprisoned against his will, I’ve chosen my useless stasis.

Either way, we’re both iced.

I do nothing. And my self-contempt grows.

Lines are thin. So easy to cross.

Impossible to uncross.

It had taken every ounce of willpower I possessed to pull my swing just enough to slice only nylon not flesh and bone, and if I had to do it all over again, I’m not sure I could.

I love my sister. I loved Dani.

Some things the gut distills to their essence no matter how hard you try to factor in compassion and mercy and understanding.

One of them killed the other.

And there is violence in my heart.

I couldn’t blame this one on the Sinsar Dubh’s seductive whispering. This one was all me. I’d failed to convince Dani that I didn’t want revenge.

I hadn’t convinced myself.

3

I crumple the paper without bothering to read past the propaganda for more of their slanted journalism. I despise that this flyer is where I get my news about the city. Once I was the news about the city because I was out there, fighting and making a difference, calling the shots … or at least having a clue what the shots were.

I want to see a Dani Daily flapping on a pole in the breeze. I want to read her bragging about her most recent kill. I want to know what the latest Unseelie threat is, in all the entertaining, flamboyant detail she liked to tell it. I’m still in no frame of mind to actually see her, but I sure would like to know she’s okay.

That it was from WeCare’s button-pushing rag I discovered what happened at the abbey the night the Hoar Frost King was destroyed offends me endlessly. I toss the wadded paper into a battered trash can.

I should have been at the abbey but we’d been in the Silvers again, had gotten back that very night, about an hour after the big showdown took place. We hadn’t even known it was happening. If I’d gone, maybe no one would have died. I might have been able to save Christian from the Crimson Hag. I miss the sexy young Scotsman with the killer smile that I met during my early days in Dublin. I refuse to believe he’s lost to us now. They say he’s turned full Unseelie Prince. I hear his uncles have been hunting him but no luck so far.

They say.

I hear.

The voice of my news is as passive as I’ve become.

Hunting for Christian is yet another mission I should be on. He holds me responsible for the fix he’s in from feeding him Unseelie to save his life. That, combined with whatever went wrong with the Keltar ritual Barrons attended at the circle of stones in the Highlands on Samhain, seemed to have sealed his fate. He blames Barrons and me equally for his transformation. Which is total bullshit. I stood in the Hall of All Days and chose to go through to the desert world with four radioactive suns on which he was stranded, risking my own life to save his. Little thanks I’ve gotten for it.

I shove my hair back with both hands, prelude to tearing it out in frustration.

It’s been twenty-one days since Dani dove through the Silver into the Hall of All Days, and I have no idea if she’s dead or alive. I’ve been searching the city, entourage in tow, risking exposure, seeking any sign of her return. Standing in the alley, eyeing that damn spot of brick with increasing frequency, questioning everything I believe about myself.

I’ve discovered that, like the Fae, Ryodan and his men aren’t as active on the streets between the afternoon hours of one and five, which gives me another hour to continue searching for a flamboyant new D carved into the cobblestone at the site of one of her more impressive kills, a note in the General Post Office that she’s answered, or maybe I’ll run into her friend Dancer. It’s not as if she’s going to let me know when she gets back.

I step up my pace. Behind me, beside me, my chittering troop doesn’t miss a beat. I nudge them away with my elbows. It works for a few seconds, then I’m smothered in dusty, smelly Unseelie again. I brush cobwebs off my sleeves. Dani was right, they are gruesome.

They shall be your priests, MacKayla. Command them.

I had no desire to know that.

I do something Barrons taught me, mentally envision a shining gold and obsidian book, slam it shut and lock it, adding cartoonish touches for levity: dust exploding from its cover, an eye on the gilded face of the book closing as if euthanized. I finish by flushing it down a giant toilet.

It’s right. I could conduct my search far more efficiently if I dispatched a hundred Unseelie to look for her. I could send them into the hall.

Not.

Despite the fruitlessness of my endeavor, it’s been good to get out of the bookstore. Dublin is coming back to life, thanks to my mom and her New Dublin Green-Up group. Once the Hoar Frost King was destroyed, the ice melted dangerously quickly, the city flooded, and most people holed up indoors to wait it out.

But not Rainey Lane. She attacked on multiple fronts, organizing teams to sandbag and protect while dispatching others to truck fertilizer, agriculture, and rare livestock from outlying areas not decimated by the vampiric Shades. The moment it was dry enough, she mobilized yet more teams to remove abandoned cars that have blocked the streets since last Halloween, when the walls fell and riots ripped through Dublin.

When the streets were cleared of the largest debris, Mom got down to work in earnest, overseeing the fertilizing and sowing of grass, bushes, and trees. The new bloom on Dublin restored hope, motivating others to join up and begin repairs. The famed flags on the Oliver St. John Gogarty were rehung, the boxes above Quay’s are overflowing with flowers, and it looks as if someone’s planning to reopen Temple Bar.

My daddy, Jack Lane, settles what civil disputes don’t end in brutality first (which doesn’t leave him many cases to hear) and supervises one of the teams restoring power and getting street sweepers out again. The streetlamps now wink on at dusk and blink out at dawn, the civic centers are offering shelter to the homeless. What few doctors remain have set up a makeshift hospital at Dublin Castle, with Inspector Jayne and the ex-Garda that are now the NDG: New Dublin Guardians. Dad says soon we’ll be fully up and running and generators will no longer be necessary. Seems Ireland had its fair share of engineers and hackers and they weathered the fall of our city better than most.

Food and medicine are the hottest commodities. Dublin’s grocery and convenience stores are empty, the hospital and pharmacies ransacked, and we’ve lost so much farm-rich land to the Shades that rebuilding is going to take time. One of the few positive things about having half the human race erased from the planet is that many supplies are out there, if you can survive the long, dangerous trek, filled with Fae and human predators alike, to find them. WeCare was trying to get a corner on the supply market but failed, squeezed out by ruthless competitors.

There are currently three places to obtain food in Dublin, where the prices vary according to whim: Chester’s, the Fae, and the black market. If you ask me, they’re all black. Of course nobody does ask me because nobody sees me because I lay low all the time and I’ve got a boyfriend who isn’t much for talking.

I snort. I just thought of Jericho Barrons as my “boyfriend.” I doubt that cataclysm was ever a boy and he certainly can’t be called friendly.

It’s official. I’m losing it.

Solitude and inaction are unraveling me right down to the core.

Forty-five minutes later I’m on my way back to the bookstore, another wasted day beneath my belt, headed for another thrilling evening reading dusty, crumbling manuscripts. I used to love to read. But I used to read hot romances and great murder mysteries and autobiographies. Now I read one thing: dry, archaic Fae history and legend.

I decide to cut through the Dark Zone adjacent to BB&B, see what’s happening, and make sure it’s still empty. That’ll make me feel better. I may not be able to actively fight, but at least I can keep tabs on one of my enemy’s favorite campsites, ascertain they haven’t come back.

My Unseelie swarm turns with me as I head down a narrow cobbled lane.

Nearly a year ago, my second day in this city, I’d gotten lost in these forgotten, trash-strewn blocks filled with dilapidated industrial warehouses and docks, crumbling smokestacks, abandoned cars, and thick, porous husks scattered all over the place, oblivious to the amorphous danger lurking in the shadows.

When I’d finally stumbled out of danger, or rather into danger of another sort in Barrons Books & Baubles that afternoon, it had been love at first sight — with the bookstore. The owner was another matter. That was war at first sight. I’m not sure much has changed, except that we both really enjoy the war.

Later that night Barrons had come to my rented room at the Clarin Hotel and tried to bully me into leaving. It hadn’t worked. I might have been pink and pretty and terrified, but I’d stood my ground.

I frown and rub my forehead then pinch the bridge of my nose. Something’s itchy in my skull. Something weird just happened while I was thinking about that night. As if there’s a neatly wrapped bundle tucked away in my head and something disturbed it, kicking up dust, drawing my attention somewhere I might never have looked. Thanks to the Sinsar Dubh eternally infiltrating and attempting to usurp my thoughts, I’ve become a pro at navigating the dimly lit corridors inside my skull, sidestepping certain things, packing others deep into the shadows, picking up still more and carrying them into the light.

But this … I’m not even sure what it is.

It doesn’t feel like part of the Book and it doesn’t feel like me. As if someone else tucked a parcel away, taped it up in thick packing blankets, and left it in a small cave where I might never—

“You made oath, pledged détente,” a voice hisses. “This is my territory now.”

My gaze snaps outward and I’m surprised to find myself seven or eight blocks into the Dark Zone. My body is instantly battle ready, my hand on my spear. My wraiths chitter and flock upward to the roofs above, apparently liking the leprous, beauty-stealing Gray Woman no more than I. I really wish I could figure out what makes them decide to vacate my space at odd moments.

I savor the lack of constriction and expand my shoulders from the drawn-forward hunch I assume when they press close. With the exception of the night I saw Dani, it’s been months since I’ve been able to stand in the street alone.

Now I’m face-to-face with an Unseelie enemy — one-on-one, with nothing in my way. It’s exhilarating, like old times.

A good nine to ten feet tall, covered with open, oozing sores, the Gray Woman is hideous. I get briefly fixated on the long thin hands covered with suckers that nearly killed Dani that night, remember how I’d forced the vile Unseelie to give the teen back her life in exchange for a dirty bargain I should never have made, and would make all over again to keep Dani alive.

I stare up into her rotting face and think about the lisping Fae that killed my sister and the many times this bitch has fed, the countless lives ruined and lost.

I’ve seen none of Ryodan’s men on the streets.

My flock isn’t hemming me in.

The moment is perfection. I’m a sidhe-seer and a powerful Null. I have a weapon that kills the Fae. I don’t need anything from my inner psychopath. My spear is enough. There’s no taint of the Sinsar Dubh in this. I’ve sometimes wondered if the Book is responsible for the wraiths that stalk me, if it summoned them to torment me, believing if it prevents me from fighting the good fight long enough, I’ll flip and succumb to its endless goading.

Not a chance.

I’m going to walk home today with a bounce in my step and a good feeling in my heart, knowing I got rid of one of our many enemies. I’m going to feel like the old me again, out there batting for the team, saving who knows how many thousands of lives by ending this foul, malevolent one.

“You will leave this place. It is mine. You swore free passage and a favor owed,” the Gray Woman hisses.

This is what I’ve needed for months: a golden opportunity to kick self-doubt squarely in the teeth, remind myself that although the Book might needle me, I’m in control. I make the decisions, not the Sinsar Dubh. It can talk all it wants, it can intrude into my thoughts and tempt me endlessly, but at the end of the day it’s me that’s walking my body around and calling the shots.

The Unseelie are vermin; they’ve killed billions of people and would happily gorge on our world until there was nothing left. I despise them and I despise myself for not killing more of them.

My spear glows white when I battle. I’m the good guy.

“Guess what, bitch.” I lunge for the Gray Woman. “I lied.”

Yes, the Sinsar Dubh whispers.

And everything goes dark.

I claw my way back to consciousness, gasping for breath. I’m on my knees, in a gutter — no real surprise there — I’m intimately acquainted with Dublin’s gutters, having puked in more than a few of them.

I hurt everywhere. I’ve wrenched my lower back, my arms burn, my knees are bruised, and I’m drenched.

I peer up, wondering if it’s raining again. It does that a lot here.

Nope, sun is still out, well, sort of. It’s kissing the horizon beyond the — I frown. What just happened? Where am I? Not in the Dark Zone anymore, I’m halfway across the city.

A soft chuckle rolls in my head. Land of the Free, MacKayla. Home of the Brave, Beautiful, and Homicidal. You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that, the Sinsar Dubh says silkily.

Something splatters on my head, drips down my face.

I touch my cheek and pull my hand away to look at it. It’s covered with green goo.

And red blood.

My fingernails are stained. There’s stuff beneath them I refuse to examine.

Not looking up, not looking up.

Keep acting like this, Princess, and I’ll kill you myself. Don’t think I can’t.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, the Book says in a singsong voice and pastes an image of me, holding a gun to my own head, kneeling on the floor in Barrons Books & Baubles, on the inside of my lids. Just kidding. Never let you do it. I got you, babe, it twangs in a cheesy, over-the-top Sonny and Cher impersonation.

Grimacing, I open my eyes and peer warily up.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Impaled on the streetlamp beneath which I crouch, the Gray Woman has been tortured, flayed, and dismembered.

And left alive.

Bits of her wriggle in agony. Suckers open and close convulsively and she’s somehow still making noise: moans and whimpers of horrendous pain.

I drop my head, and nearly vomit into the gutter.

Onto a human hand. Torn off at the wrist.

He got in the way.

“No,” I whisper. I recognize the tatter of uniform attached to the wrist. It’s one of Inspector Jayne’s Guardians. I would never kill a human. Never harm an innocent. I may not like Jayne’s methods — he took Dani’s sword from her and would cheerfully relieve me of my spear if he thought he could — but he and his men perform a dangerous and much needed job for this city.

You did. And loved every minute of it. You are every bit as much a beast as you accuse me of being.

I shake my head violently, as if I might manage to expel the Book from my skull.

I’m in control, the Sinsar Dubh mocks in falsetto. I make the decisions. Lovely MacKayla, when will you learn? You’re the car. I’m the driver. But I can only drive you because deep down you want to be driven.

I shiver, chilled to my soul. I do not.

I watched the Book “drive” other cars. I count myself lucky there are only two dismembered human hands in the street with me. I crouch on my hands and knees, head hanging down, eyes closed, trembling from the exertion of the awful things I just did and from self-loathing. Part of me wants to lie down right here and quit. I was so sure of myself, so certain I was in control.

And so unforgivably wrong.

There are only two ways an enemy can defeat you, Ms. Lane, Barrons said to me the other night, more lessons at the bookstore like old times. You die. Or you quit trying. Then you die. Is that what you want? To die?

I want to live. I have so much to live for.

I’m sure the man I killed did, too. My chest is hot and tight, my muscles locked down. I can’t get a breath. I crouch in the gutter, trying to suck air, heaving soundlessly.

Get up, Mac, I can almost hear him growl. Get the fuck up.

The man orders me around even when he’s not present. I hang my head and try willing my rigid muscles to relax. It doesn’t work. I’m growing dizzy from lack of oxygen. Can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe! I’m starting to panic.

Sometimes if you get too focused on a goal, Ms. Lane, you make an unwanted element of it sticky.

Not getting it, I’d said.

Fear of the power you believe someone or something has over you is nothing but a jail cell you choose to walk into. By obsessing over freeing yourself from the Book, you become more certainly its prisoner.

I force myself to do the counterintuitive, the opposite of what I want: exhale instead of inhale.

Air screeches back into my lungs so fast I choke. I crouch in the gutter, sputtering, panting.

After a few moments I push myself shakily to my feet.

How did this happen? How did the Book gain control of me without me even realizing it?

I look around slowly. Commit my crimes to memory.

Bits of Unseelie and human flesh are scattered everywhere.

There is no piece larger than a tea saucer.

I sort through them and, after a time, gather the hand of the man I murdered, cradle it to my chest, and weep.

4

It’s summer in the Highlands, white and purple heather has taken over the countryside, carpeting the meadows and bens. Lavender thistles explode from fat prickly pods and pale pink wild roses tumble over rocky outcroppings.

The devil is in the details.

So, sometimes, is salvation.

I focus on the soft crush of grass beneath my bare feet, the wind in my hair as I run.

We race down the hill, my sister Colleen and I, to swim in the icy early-summer slate water of the loch. It’s one of those perfect days, the sky a cloudless blue above a scooped-out grassy bowl that sprawls for miles between the majestic mountains of our home.

Nothing compares to my Highlands, nothing ever will. The land brings me peace and joy.

Although I hear truth in lies, although I’m sometimes feared and the villagers cede me a certain aloof respect, this is where I fit. The Keltar name is known and it’s a proud one. We’re integral to our village, our people, feeding the economy when it wanes with work on our land and castles. We understand that when those in our care prosper, we’re ten times stronger than we are alone. It’s the meaning of the word “clan”—so much more than family.

Scotland is the passion in my blood. She is where I was born and will die, my bones planted in the cemetery behind the ruined tower ivy claimed, past the slab etched with Pict runes, but not quite to the tomb of the Green Lady, where the roots from the tree at the head of her grave twisted themselves to form a lovely nude moss-covered body with a fine-featured face.

Family is everything. I’ll wed and raise my bairn behind the strong walls of Castle Keltar near the circle of standing stones known as Ban Drochaid, or White Bridge, whose purpose is known only to us and where magic beats like a living heart in the soil. I’ll teach my sons to be druids like their da and granda before him, and my daughters to be like the Valkyries of old. I feel a keen sense of belonging. I know exactly who I am: Christian MacKeltar, descended from thousands of years of an ancient, revered bloodline.

The first of my clan walked the Hill of Tara before Tara was named. Before names were, we tilled the soil of Skara Brae, gathering stones to build enclaves for our women and children. Before even that we stood on the shores of Ireland in the churning surf as the clouds exploded with light and watched the fiery descent of the Old Ones from the stars. Bidden by these new gods, we removed to the Highlands to uphold the Compact between our races.

My ancestors’ ghosts walk the castle corridors on the blessed evenings of the feast days of Beltane and Samhain when time is thin and reality liminal — my ancestors who embody duty, loyalty, and honor.

We are the Keltar.

We fight for what’s right.

We protect and honor.

We do not fall.

When the Crimson Hag rips out my guts again and pain burns through me until I am nothing but torment, my flesh on fire with agony, every nerve screaming as my entrails are torn again from my ragged abdomen, I struggle to remain alive though this body of mine keeps trying to die because every time I die and consciousness slips away — I lose my Highlands.

Staked to the side of a rocky cliff a thousand feet above a hellish grotto, I breathe deep to smell the heather of my homeland, I run faster to feel the dense spring of grass and moss beneath my feet. I gather roses as I pass between bushes, and bloody hell — there was a thistle in that bunch!

I plunge into the icy waters of the loch, break surface and shake water from my hair. I throw back my head and laugh as Colleen dives in beside me, missing me by inches, drenching me all over again.

Below me, inside me, there’s a pit that’s dark and comforting and quite completely insane. If I sink into it, I can be free of all torture.

But I am Keltar.

I will not fall.

5

“You told them what?” Incredulous, I pace the rug in front of the gas fireplace in the rear sitting area of Barrons Books & Baubles, which is really Mac’s B&B, but my name on the hand-painted shingle doesn’t carry the same cachet. I turn and pace the other way. After what happened this afternoon, my nerves are raw. I can’t deal with this. Not now.

He gives me a look. I feel it stabbing between my shoulder blades; the stress of that man’s regard is palpable, even with my back to him.

“Your heels are damaging my rug. It’s an eighty-thousand-dollar rug.”

I say, “You like me in heels. Money doesn’t signify anymore. And at least I’m not burning holes in it.”

Does he smell the blood on my hands? Barrons’s sense of smell is atavistically acute. I showered for an hour after I got home. I cleaned beneath my nails with a scrub brush until they bled. Yet I feel dirty, stained.

Still, I see the Guardian’s hand, the silver wedding band on his third finger, etched with Celtic infinity knots; a pledge of forever.

I found his wallet. I know his name.

I’ll scream it in nightmares, whisper it in prayers. Mick O’Leary had a wife, a young daughter, and a newborn son.

“A wiser woman wouldn’t remind me of that time. I’m still pissed about it.”

The night Fiona tried to kill me by letting Shades into the bookstore and turning off all the lights seems so long ago. I was reduced to lighting and dropping matches all over one of his sixteenth-century Persian rugs in my desperate bid to survive. The way I feel right now he’s lucky I’m not burning holes in the entire bookstore. The news he just gave me is unacceptable, and I’ve got fifteen minutes to vacate the premises before the event begins. He pretty much just said, I’ve decided to put you under a microscope in front of all the people who might be able to figure out what’s wrong with you, plus two of the Unseelie princes that turned you Pri-ya. So buck up, little buckaroo. “Well, I’m not staying here for it,” I say. “You’re on your own with this one, bud.”

Bud. He looks at me and I remember calling him that the night he showed up at the Clarin House, dwarfing my tiny room with its tiny bed, communal, impossible-to-get-your-turn-in bathroom down the hall, and four crooked hangers in the closet. My suitcase, so carefully packed with pretty outfits and accessories, had found a home in neither closet nor city. I wonder where all those clothes went. I haven’t seen them for a while.

He’d reacted much the same then to my scornful appellation. Few call Barrons anything but “master” and live to tell of it.

Mockery gleams in his dark eyes. Tread lightly, Ms. Lane. The floor upon which you walk is only as solid as the respect you cede it.

The floor. I get a sudden strange vision that has nothing to do with the Sinsar Dubh: me falling forward onto the hardwood planks of my room that night, catching myself with my hands, rolling over and striking the back of my head, hard, and not caring. I was doing something … something that was utterly consuming. I frown. What? Looking at a picture of Alina? Reading a book about Irish history? Folding my clothes? It’s not like I had a lot of fascinating choices in that tiny, cramped room.

How did I fall? Why? And why do I keep thinking about that day?

I have a fragment of a feeling, emotions sprung from an occasion for which I can locate no originating event. Exhilaration. Freedom. Excitement. Shame. Regret.

Normally that would bother me so much I’d go rooting around in my memory, but at the moment I have more pressing issues to deal with.

I shake it off and drop down on the chesterfield, glowering across the room at him. “You seem to have forgotten the small problem I have, Barrons. I’m hiding from all the people you invited here. I have been for months.” The princes I can’t even address. That he’s permitting them in my bookstore offends me beyond expressing. “Why do you want this blasted meeting anyway? And why here?”

He cuts me a hard look. See Mac cower. See Mac die.

“Are you trying to piss me off?” I growl.

He gives me the ocular equivalent of a yawn. Only Barrons can pull off such a thing and still look menacing. It’s not as if there are any repercussions to consider. You wouldn’t kill a scorpion if it was stinging your ass.

I study my nails. There’s a speck of blood beneath one. I don’t know if it’s Mick O’Leary’s or mine from scrubbing so hard. He’s wrong about that. I look up at him. “You have no idea what I’m dealing with.”

Ah, such as a beast within? he mocks.

“Your beast is different.” I continue talking aloud, refusing to accept the intimacy of a wordless conversation. We’ve had this argument. We’ll continue having it until the day the king frees me. Neither of us will capitulate. I’m not sure either of us can even spell that word.

Perhaps not so very.

“Yes, but mine is more powerful,” I say irritably. Powerful enough to fool even me — someone intimately acquainted with its seductive, evil ways.

His dark eyes glitter with challenge. Care to test that, woman?

The look he gives me sends shivers down my spine, and I feel it slip it into a gentler curve that achieves down-and-dirty doggie-style with sure, supple grace. There is no battlefield I prefer to the one I’ve found in this man’s bed. We fight. It’s what we do. I feel so much more intensely alive around him than I’ve ever felt with anyone else.

I’m obsessed and addicted and ripped-down-raw in love with Jericho Barrons.

Of course, I don’t tell him that. Barrons isn’t a pillow talk man. Sleeping with him, acknowledging our feelings for each other, has changed everything.

And nothing.

In bed, we’re one couple.

Out of bed, we’re another.

In bed, I steal moments of tenderness when sex has finally exhausted me to the point where I’m too bone weary to fret anymore about the enormous capacity for evil that’s taken up squatter’s rights inside me. I touch him, put all those things I don’t say into my hands as I trace the red and black tattoos on his skin, the sharp planes and hollows of his face, bury my hands in his dark hair. He watches me in silence when I do, eyes dark, unfathomable.

I sometimes wake up to find he’s pulled me close to him and is holding me, spooned into my back with his face in my hair, and those hands that don’t speak like mine don’t speak move over my skin and tell me I’m cherished, honored, seen.

Out of bed we’re islands.

Ms. Lane and Barrons.

The first time he retreated into distance, it hurt. I felt rejected.

Until I realized I’d done it, too. It wasn’t just him. Our boundaries seem sewn to our clothes; we can no more put one on without the other than take them off separately.

I sometimes wonder if our passion is so obsessive and enormous that we need distance between the bonfires. I’m a moth to his flame and it frightens me how willingly I’d burn my wings off for him. Destroy the world. Follow him to Hell. It’s scary to feel like you can’t breathe without someone. That a man has so much power over you because you love him as much as, if not more than, you care for yourself.

So I fly away for a while — maybe just to know I can — and he vanishes to do whatever Barrons does for whatever reasons he does it.

I always come back. He does, too. Actions speak.

I shift restlessly and change the subject. “You invite my enemy here. That’s bullshit.”

A Day in the Life: You search manuscripts for a spell that may not exist. You paint your nails. You clip your nails. Ah, let us not forget you examine your nails.

I scowl. “I do more than that. And leave my nails out of this.”

You don’t visit your parents. You don’t go to the abbey. You’re barely eating, and your clothes—

I cut him off by pretending to examine my nails again. This week they alternate black diamond, white ice, black diamond, white ice. The color scheme comforts me, as nothing else in my life is so tidily delineated. I’m acutely aware of the sorry state of my recent outfits and have no desire to hear what he thinks of them. It’s difficult to care when you’re always covered with yellow dust. He’s silent so long I finally glance warily up to find him regarding me with an expression women have been on the receiving end of since time immemorial, as if I’m a species he simply can’t fathom.

Do you think I can’t protect you should you persist with your idiotic passivity?

Idiotic passivity, my ass. As today proved, activity is far more idiotic, and deadly. Is that why he arranged this meeting? To force me to be involved? “Of course not.” I change the subject.

It’s time. He says his next words aloud and there’s a gentleness to them that undoes me. “You’re not living anymore, Rainbow Girl.”

I melt when he calls me that. There’s something in the way he says those two words that makes it seem he’s said a thousand and they all make me glow. It says he sees the pretty-in-pink Mac I was when I first arrived, the black, kick-ass Mac I’ve become (unless covered with Unseelie fleas), plus every incarnation in between, and he wants them all.

I know I’m not living anymore. No one could be more excruciatingly aware of that fact. It’s driving me bugfuck. Passivity isn’t my nature and I’m choking on it, drowning in it, my balls held firmly hostage by a Book.

I stare up at him and tell him the words I can’t bring myself to say out loud.

I killed the Gray Woman today.

A corner of his sexy mouth lifts. “Banner fucking day. About time.”

I also killed one of the Guardians.

“Ah, he got in the way.”

I have no idea what happened. I blacked out.

A human would be shocked, horrified, demand to know what happened. Barrons’s gaze doesn’t change and he asks no questions. He tallies debits and credits. “You took two lives and saved thousands.”

Bottom line it all you want, the end doesn’t justify the means, I say silently, pissed that he elevated the conversation I don’t want to be having to a verbal level.

“Debatable.”

I lost control of myself. It took me over and made me kill. Said I’m the car and it’s the driver. The unspoken words hang like knives in the air anyway, cutting me.

“We train harder.”

I hate mys—

“Never say that.”

“I didn’t,” I mutter. Not technically.

“You are what you are. Find a way to live with it.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Someone told you life was easy. You believed them,” he mocks.

“I just don’t see why they all have to come here. Why not hold this little powwow at Chester’s?” I change the subject swiftly.

Like a verbal dancer, he follows my lead, and I know why: as far as he’s concerned the discussion is over anyway. He has the blood of countless victims on his hands, while I’m having a hard time dealing with one. To him, this day is no different than any other: I’m possessed by a malevolent demon and I sinned. Tomorrow I’ll try again. I might sin again. I might not. But tomorrow always comes. For me and the demon. Despite my screwup, my action will ultimately save countless lives. Barrons has the thousand-yard stare and conscience of an immortal. I’m not there yet. I don’t know if I’ll ever be there. I ended a life before its time today. A family man. A good man. I must find a way to atone.

“I have wards in my bookstore that neutralize the princes’ power while within my walls,” he reminds me.

“You’re inviting my rapists into my home.” I toss the dual reminder that he wasn’t there to save me the night the Unseelie Princes captured me in the church, and that it’s my bookstore, without inflection, still it detonates in the room.

Abruptly the air is so charged with savagery that I feel squished into a corner on the chesterfield. Barrons saturates space when he’s in a good mood — not that I would ever really call any mood Barrons exhibits “good”—but when he’s furious, it’s hard to breathe. He throws off energy, crams the air with intensity and mass, forcing everything else to retract into itself.

“Or have you forgotten that little fact?” I want them dead. I think he should want them dead. I fondle the spear in my thigh sheath lovingly. “We could kill them together.” I snatch my hand away hastily and busy myself plucking imaginary lint from my black Disturbed concert tee-shirt, which I’m wearing not because I’ve been enjoying their music so much but because it’s how I feel. The images the Sinsar Dubh threw at me the second I touched my spear were graphically detailed and from this afternoon.

“You will not kill them when they come here. Nor will I.” The three words are guttural, accompanied by a thick rattle in his chest. It’s the sound of his beast trying to claw its way out of his skin. I can barely understand his last word. “Yet.”

“Why?”

His chest expands so enormously it threatens to pop buttons on his shirt. He says nothing for a moment, face impassive, his body frozen on an inhalation. Finally his ribs relax and he exhales carefully. I admire his self-control. I want it for my own. I may be more sparing with mention of my gang rape in the future. Although I enjoy baiting this bear, I don’t enjoy his pain. Just his fire.

When he speaks again, his words are precisely enunciated. “They are a known quantity, capable of controlling the masses. I’ve watched countless civilizations rise and fall. I’ve isolated seven components necessary to achieve the future I seek. Destroy the princes at this particular moment and it won’t happen. They are currently linchpins. They will not always be.”

The future he seeks? I want to know what Jericho Barrons plans, to be privy to his goals. I don’t ask. He shares when he’s ready and his reply was already generous for him.

And fascinating. I know what linchpins are.

When I was child, Daddy used to ride me around on his lap when he cut grass. I loved those hot Georgia days, drenched with the smell of a fresh mowed lawn, magnolia blossoms bobbing heavy in the humid, sticky air, a glass jar of sweet tea steeping on the front porch, near two ice-filled glasses topped with a sprig of mint from the garden.

One day I “helped” Daddy change the tire on the lawn mower and he taught me about linchpins. I think I fell in love with all things with wheels that day, sprung of a golden summer hour with the man who can always make me feel like both princess and warrior.

A linchpin is a fastener that keeps the wheel from falling off the axle. It’s inserted crosswise directly through the axle’s end, where it stays securely in place until manually removed. The end of the pin usually has a loop of metal so it’s easy to pull out.

In a broader sense, a linchpin is a key component that holds the elements of a complicated structure together. Some theorize if you can isolate the linchpin of a social, economic, or political assemblage, you can destroy it in one fell swoop with a minute nudge or adjustment. Conversely, if you identify linchpins and protect them until you’ve achieved your desired result, you can shape the outcome. It doesn’t surprise me Barrons lives and breathes The Art of War. “I can kill them when they’re not?” I want to be perfectly clear about this.

“The instant they’re not, I will.”

We’ll fight about who does the honors later. I’ll just have to make sure there are no humans in the vicinity when it happens.

“You could let Ryodan host this summit. At Chester’s.”

“And have your ghoulish army in attendance?”

“You could ward the club against them.”

He snorts. “Now I’m your personal warder. You have no idea how complicated such magic is.”

Actually, I have a fairly good idea. He hasn’t died in a while and his chest is covered, both arms are fully sleeved, and half his back is tattooed with black and crimson protection spells. The magic in which he dabbles is dangerous. Speaking of magic, “Barrons, it’s been three weeks since Dani disappeared. Isn’t there some kind of spell you can do?”

“Ward this. Spell that. How did you navigate life before you met me?”

I shrug. “It’s kind of like realizing you married Bewitched. Except not in the married sense,” I add hastily. “But you know what I mean. Why break your back vacuuming when a saucy twitch of the nose can clean the whole house?”

“My nose has never twitched, saucily or otherwise. And that was an utterly absurd premise. The only price for using magic was compounded human stupidity. Humans consistently engender chaos without violating alchemical principles.”

“Oh, my God, you watched—”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you—”

“Did not.”

“You just said—”

“Inescapable pop culture.”

“Oh, you so watched it.” I imagine this big, barbaric man stretched out on a tangle of silk sheets, naked, one arm behind his head, watching the comic antics of Darrin and Samantha Stephens on a large flat-screen TV. The idea tickles me, turns me on somehow. It’s so anachronistic, it makes me want to hunt down old DVDs, stretch out beside him, and lose myself in a simple show from a simpler time when the only price for magic was compounded human stupidity. Laugh together, do something mindless and fun. Then of course do something else mind-blowing. I’d love a few long rainy carefree days in bed with this man.

“Repetition of an erroneous assertion fails to alter reality. And you know we can’t track her in Faery. That’s why she went.”

Great, now I’m hearing the theme song from Bewitched in my head. It’s always a hard one to get out. “When she gets back, I want somebody tattooing her. The instant she gets back.”

“Bloody hell, after all the grief you gave me. Have you forgotten our tattoos haven’t worked right since the walls fell? Give it time. We’ll find her. At the moment the most pressing matter on our agenda is this meeting.”

The meeting. I shift restlessly and my amusement vanishes just like that. “Are you sure we can’t move it somewhere else?”

“It happens here. You will attend.”

He asks little of me and gives much in return. I can’t imagine the world without him and don’t want to. Once, I almost destroyed it because I believed him gone forever.

“Aye aye, master,” I mutter crossly.

He smiles faintly. “You’re learning, Ms. Lane, you’re learning.”

Katarina McLaughlin, Rowena’s replacement as headmistress of the abbey, is the first to arrive.

The slim brunette’s patient gray gaze searches mine the instant I open the door, reminding me why I’ve been avoiding her. Her talent is emotional telepathy and I have no idea how deep she can go. In nightmares, she peels me like a pearly onion and reveals the rotted inner bulb.

I hold my breath while she completes her inspection. Does she sense the malevolence of the Sinsar Dubh? The guilt of my afternoon murder?

“How are you, Mac? We’ve not been seeing much of you lately.” You weren’t at the abbey, defending us, is the message I think I read unspoken in her eyes and am shamed by it. But I’ve been a little paranoid lately so I’m probably wrong.

I breathe a little easier. “Good, Kat. You?”

“Why weren’t you at the abbey the night we battled the Hoar Frost King? We could have used your support, and that’s for sure,” she says in her soft, Irish lilt.

There it is, the knife through my already perforated heart. Nice to know I wasn’t being paranoid, after all. Leave it to Kat to be so direct.

“Barrons and I were in the Silvers. I didn’t get word until it was over. I’m so sorry, Kat.”

Her sharp gaze moves from my left eye to my right and back, and she slowly nods. “It’s as well. We lost many of our sisters that night. We can’t afford to lose you. Speaking of losing — have you seen Dani? She’s not been by the abbey since we defeated the Hoar Frost King. I’ve had girls out searching but they’ve found no trace of her and I’ve not seen a single of her papers. It’s as if she’s simply vanished.”

I don’t bat a lash. “I thought she was staying with you.”

“We were arguing that night about where she should live. I believed she was trying to make a point by staying away, but the longer she’s gone the more I worry. These are dangerous times, even for her. Would you mind keeping an eye out? And if you see her, tell her she’s sorely missed. I want her to come home.”

“Of course.” I want her to come home, too.

“I’m hoping you’ll drop by the abbey sometime, Mac. Spend a night with us, or a week if you’ve the mind. I’ve been wanting to hear the tale of how you managed to bring the Sinsar Dubh to us.” She pauses then adds, “There’s another thing I’d like to be discussing with you, if you’ve the time. About Cruce. Seeing how you know more about Fae princes than any of us.”

“His cage is holding, right?” That’s another of my recurring nightmares. Cruce gets out, somehow turns me Pri-ya again, and I run off with him to another world where we get down to populating it with little book-babies. Seriously. Books with feet and arms that cry all the time and want some kind of milk I don’t have. My dreams have been beyond warped lately.

“Of course.” She pauses again. “But there are other concerns I’d prefer to discuss in private. If you’ll just come to the abbey, you’ll see what I mean. This thaw … I thought when the fire-world threatening our home was gone … och, but then it didn’t and it turns out it wasn’t …” She trails off and for an instant her composure slips.

I glimpse an unexpected uncertainty in her and think, Oh no, not her, too. Coming into sudden power can do funny things to you if you care deeply about the world around you, and we both do. It’s like suddenly getting a Murcielago LP 640, V-12 with a testy clutch when you’re used to a six-cylinder Mercedes. You drive badly at first, jerky on the gas and brake, don’t trust your own feet, sometimes even rear-end the folks in front of you when you try to start from a stop, until you get a feel for it. Or, like me today, crash into a wall and decimate whatever’s in the way.

“Kat, what’s wrong at the abbey? What’s going on?”

“You’ll just have to—” She glances past me. “Barrons.”

“Katarina.”

I feel his energy behind me, sexual, electric. Every cell in my body comes alive when he’s near. He moves past us, into the alcoved entry of the bookstore, and I shiver with desire. My need for sex seems directly proportionate to how much emotion I repress, and I’m repressing violently today. When I first came to Dublin, I talked and probed and poked into everything, splashed my feelings all over the place, like the rainbow colors of my wardrobe. Now I wear black and let almost nothing I feel show.

Until Barrons undresses me. Then I explode. I vent the fire and fury of everything I feel on him and he blows it right back at me, a hot, dangerous sirocco that levels and reshapes, and it binds us in a sacred place that needs no sun in the sky, no moon or stars. Just us.

The bell tinkles as he opens the door. I love that sound and imagine it chimes Welcome to Mac’s home each time it rings.

“The Unseelie Princes will be coming back with him,” I warn Kat as I watch him go.

“And one Seelie Prince who is fool enough to claim to be king,” Barrons growls as the door closes behind him.

“Can he really control them?” Kat asks.

She’s visibly nervous. I don’t blame her. The Unseelie Princes are deadly. The two joining us today rode the Wild Hunt in ancient times with two others of their kind, and became renowned far and wide as the fabled Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Cruce is War. I suspect Christian is becoming Death, which means Pestilence and Famine are soon to be my houseguests. Lovely. “He says he can keep them neutralized inside the store.”

Kat says flatly, “You do realize he’s not there, right?”

“Excuse me?” The man is certainly “there” enough for me. All six feet three of him and two hundred forty-five pounds of dense, solid, rough-and-ready muscle.

“Barrons. He’s like Ryodan. I feel nothing when I reach for either of them with my gift. It’s more than a void of emotion, there is no existence there. The space they occupy is blank.”

“Maybe they can block you. Erect a shield around themselves. Barrons knows wards like nobody’s business.” Okay, he seriously needs to teach me that trick. I’m blocking with everything I’ve got, yet I suspect if Kat decided to probe me, I’d be in a world of trouble.

“I can also discern the presence of wards, Mac. Nothing just walked out that door. A complete absence of anything recognizable as life.”

“Perhaps their wards are beyond our perception.” I want to get off this topic of assessing people with her gift. I don’t want her to think about doing it to me. “Kat, I’d love to come to the abbey. How’s next weekend?” I’ll find some excuse or another to no-show. I take her arm and begin gently steering her back and up the stairs, to the tables Barrons arranged for the meeting. “Hey, would you like something to drink? I’ve got soda, sweet tea, and water. I even brought some milk back last time I went through the Silvers,” I lie. Barrons brought it from Chester’s and I feel a little guilty getting so many perks. But not too guilty to drink it.

“Milk? Does it taste like ours?”

“Sure does. A little creamier.”

“I’d love a glass!” she says, and we both laugh because the things we used to take for granted are now luxuries. That’s the way it goes when the world falls apart.

You never appreciate what you’ve got till it’s gone.

Barrons Books & Baubles has spatial issues. I suspect the Silver connecting the store to hidden levels beneath the garage where Barrons has his lair is partially responsible, but I doubt it’s the only thing affecting this particular point of longitude and latitude. I sometimes dream an ancient god or demon coils slumbering in the foundation.

BB&B is four stories most days but other days five, and on rare occasions lately, seven. On Tuesday the mural on the ceiling was roughly seventy feet above my head, today it seems a quarter mile, minuscule in the distance. The harder I try to focus on it, the more difficult it is to see. I don’t understand why anyone would paint such a blurry scene on the ceiling. I used to ask Barrons about it but never got an answer. One day I’ll hunt down construction scaffolds so I can lie on my back beneath it and figure out what the darn thing is.

During my first months in Dublin, I stayed in the residential half of the bookstore and grew accustomed to my borrowed bedroom shifting floors. It even got to the point where hunting for it was kind of fun.

I expect nothing to be easy in these walls. And here is where I’ve known the finest hours of my life.

I stand with Kat at the balustrade that overlooks the bookstore, facing the front entrance. The main room is about a hundred feet long by sixty feet wide. The upper floors are half the depth of the store, accessed by an intricate, curving, red-carpeted double staircase that reminds me of the Lello bookstore in Portugal. On the upper levels are a fabulous array of antiquities and treasures in glass cases or mounted on a wall. Here a plaque of the Green Man sees all, there an ancient sword shines above a war-battered, tarnished shield. I sometimes wonder if all these “baubles” are really Barrons’s possessions collected during various centuries of his life.

Gleaming bookshelves line the perimeter walls from base to cove molding. Behind elegant banisters, narrow passages permit access, and polished ladders slide on oiled rollers from one section to the next.

As I gaze down, to the right is the magazine rack, fully stocked with last October’s editions near more freestanding bookcases. To the left, the old-fashioned cash register sits waiting to ring up a sale, silver bell tinkling, and there’s my pink iPod on a Bose SoundDock ready to play “Bad Moon Rising” or “Tubthumping” or “It’s a Wonderful World.”

Or maybe “Good Girl Gone Bad.”

When the Unseelie Princes enter, flanked by Barrons and Ryodan, I inhale sharply and go rigid.

CRUSH THEM DESTROY THEM IMPALE THEM ON POLES, my inner Sinsar Dubh trumpets.

I close my eyes and dredge up one of the tricks I’ve learned. Occupy my head so thoroughly with something else that the Book can’t get through.

When I was young Daddy used to read poems to me. The more lyrical and musical, the more I’d enjoyed them, and I guess I always had a morbid bent, and he must have, too, because he’d indulged me, on soft summer evenings in the kitchen while Mom did dishes and listened, shaking her head at our choices. I’d understood little of the meaning, just liked the way the words flowed. “The Cremation of Sam McGee” had charmed me. I’d found “A Dream Within a Dream” hypnotic, “The Bells” mesmerizing, I’d obsessed over T. S. Eliot’s “Ash Wednesday” and in seventh grade recited “The Raven” for a school project, briefly earning for myself the label of nerd until I’d taken extreme fashion measures to change that. Now, looking back, I can see it was a grim choice, but at the time, grief and brutality had possessed the cartoonish proportions of childhood. It had taken weeks to commit the many complex stanzas to my brain.

Remember what the princes did to you, sweet thing, how they ripped you apart and turned you into a mindless animal. As if I could ever forget, the Sinsar Dubh slams me with images so graphic they give me an instant headache.

I block them, focusing instead on how Daddy taught me to break down the poem to memorize it: eighteen stanzas of six lines each, most comprised of eight syllables with a hypnotic placement of stressed syllables followed by unstressed. Trochaic octameter was what he’d called it. I only knew it was fun to say and he was proud of me for learning it, and I’d have done pretty much anything to make Jack Lane proud.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

Break them, the Book demands, force them to their knees before you, make them call you Queen.

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

The rhythm of the poem captivates me as it always did, and I feel like a child again, whole and good and loved.

“ ’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door — only this and nothing more.”

Unlike Poe, I don’t have to open the door. I can slide the dead bolt.

I keep reciting until at last there’s blessed silence. Only then do I open my eyes.

“What on earth?” Kat murmurs beside me, staring down.

Gone are the wild, naked, primitive princes, with kaleidoscope tattoos rushing beneath their skin and mad, iridescent eyes.

They’ve civilized themselves.

In their place stand two black-haired, dark-eyed males that exude power, lust, and otherworldly magic. Torques of the royal Unseelie House glitter like diamond-crusted obsidian at their necks. I know how icy those torques are to the touch, how they vibrate with a hypnotic guttural cacophony, while the torques of the Seelie House croon an irresistible, complex symphony.

No longer do their heads swivel in an eerie, inhuman fashion; they have adopted human mannerisms and movements right down to the smallest nuance. The black wings I felt closing around my naked body as I died a thousand deaths beneath them are gone, concealed by glamour.

“I thought they were at war with each other,” I say.

Kat says, “I thought they were insane, terrifying and revolting. We were both wrong. They recently joined forces. I hear the Crimson Hag has them worried.”

“Christian,” I murmur, and try hard not to think of what he must be enduring.

“He saved us, you know. Possibly the world. Dani was hesitating, trying to decide between her sidhe-seer sisters and the Hoar Frost King. It would have destroyed her to carry the deaths of our entire abbey on her conscience. His sacrifice spared her that horror. We owe him a tremendous debt.”

“Any word on Christian’s whereabouts?”

“His uncles are searching. All of us at the abbey are eager to help mount a rescue, if they find him.”

Although it horrified me that he’d given himself up to the Hag, it also relieved me because it meant the man I knew was still in there, despite the madness. Deep down, he still cared about the world around him. I made a mental note to ask Barrons to aid in the search. He could lean on Ryodan to enlist some of the Nine to go scouting. We couldn’t just leave Christian out there, being tortured and killed over and over. We owed him rescue for the sacrifice he’d made. What he was suffering in the Hag’s sadistic hands would only drive him deeper into Unseelie madness. We needed to save him before he lost all trace of his fundamental humanity.

The princes ascend the stairs, identical but for a few inches’ height difference. I realize I’m looking directly at them without weeping blood. I glance at Kat to see if it’s just me or if she, too, can regard them directly. She can. And is — with fascination.

“They’ve fed enough to gain control of themselves,” I say softly. When they first arrived in Dublin they were like rabid animals from long confinement and starvation, and flat-out terrifying. “They’re studying us, learning from us.” I get it: pacify the sheep before the slaughter. A panicked kill makes for a soured stew. These two, the worst of the Unseelie, are now the ultimate bad boys. Women will flock to them, lemmings on a suicide march over a cliff.

These are my rapists, the ones that turned me inside out, ripped my mind from my body and shredded it. They are also, unfortunately, hot as hell.

I want them dead.

Yes, yes, yes, KILL, the Book surges to life again.

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December; and each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

The rhythm takes over. I roll the many internal rhymes and dazzling alliteration over my tongue silently while I assess the princes, building the syllables, brick by brick, into a mental wall.

My rapists are dressed like Barrons. Sleek. Masculine. Sexy. It pisses me off.

“Son of a bitch,” Kat says softly. Kat doesn’t curse. “Do you know how my girls will react to them? Cruce is bad enough.”

“Son of a bitch,” I agree.

Behind the balustrade, four long cherry tables make a square.

The Unseelie Princes take one side.

Barrons, Kat, and I take the opposite.

It’s all I can do to not lunge across the space separating us and attack them. Two things stay my hand: Barrons wants them alive, and I’m afraid I’ll black out again. Kat is vulnerably human.

After a few moments, Ryodan drops into a chair beside us, sandwiching Kat and me between a gentle hum of power. He pushes a hand through thick, dark hair, cut close at the sides, and assesses me with that clear, analytical gaze of his. I meet it impassively. His chiseled features are untouched by lines, and I’d guess him frozen in time, however he stopped aging, at about thirty, plus however many thousands of years he’s actually lived.

Like all of Barrons’s men, he’s powerfully muscled and sports multiple scars, the most prominent running from his jaw down his neck and over his chest. He appreciates the finer things in life and pursues them without scruple. I want to know the history these men will never tell me. Although an animal exists beneath each of their skins, Ryodan hides his the best. He’s the businessman of the Nine of whatever-they-are, managing financial concerns, maintaining their vast empire.

Barrons is the taciturn, primal leader of their small immortal army, the one to whom they all answer. He usually lets Ryodan do his talking. Probably because Barrons knows he would lose patience the moment one of his orders isn’t instantly obeyed and butcher everyone in sight. Ryodan excels at chess, crushes his opposition in five or fewer moves. Barrons eats the board, with blood for ketchup.

“Got a lot of Unseelie outside the bookstore, Mac,” Ryodan says.

“Got a lot inside Chester’s,” I rejoin coolly.

“He understands our needs,” one of the Unseelie Princes says.

“They don’t trail me everywhere I go,” Ryodan says.

“Then again you understand them, too, from personal experience,” the prince reminds me silkily.

I ignore it. “Guess you don’t smell as sweet,” I tell Ryodan.

“Or as rotten,” he returns.

“I’ve been testing wards on them.” Barrons puts the issue to swift rest.

Ryodan laughs but lets it go.

The six of us sit eyeing one another in silence. There is no air in the room, only hostility and rage. I breathe shallowly of it and slide my hand to the comforting hilt of my spear. And snatch it away, assaulted by horrific images again.

“You will remove the ward that prohibits our sifting, or you will take away her spear.” The taller of the princes speaks to Barrons, but his gaze is moving, hot, sexual, devouring, over my body.

Barrons goes so motionless next to me that for a moment I’m not sure he didn’t just vanish in that stealthy way of his. I inhale shallowly, wondering if this meeting is going to end before it even begins.

Then Barrons says softly, carefully, “Ms. Lane.” I feel the tension in his body, mirroring the same tightly coiled rage in mine.

“I’m not giving you my spear,” I say just as softly. “It can deal with it.” Time was, they could weave the illusion that they’d taken it from me, but I got wise to their trick and it doesn’t work on me anymore.

“I am not an ‘it.’ I am Prince Rath of the second royal Unseelie House created,” the tall Unseelie says coldly. “My brother is Kiall, from the third. Once, you whimpered our names. As you begged us for more. Without the spear you are nothing. Human. Weak.”

Neither Barrons nor I speak for a moment. Then he says, tonelessly, “I’m not removing the wards.”

“Fine, they can leave,” I say just as tonelessly. I am nothing, my ass. They don’t know about my inner psycho.

Barrons shoots me a look. I feel it on my ear, needling me to turn my head.

“Look at me,” he commands.

I scowl but look.

You said you trusted me to protect you. If I drop the ward, others can sift in. Unacceptable risk. Do not push me. My beast wants them dead.

Well, at least our beasts are in agreement, I retort saccharine-sweet. Seething, I slip the spear from my sheath and slap it into his palm before I get any more reminders of this afternoon.

Rath and Kiall rustle and chime in the bone-chilling, inhuman fashion that had been their only mode of communication when they first arrived in Dublin, crazed with hunger. I’d felt that chiming deep in my bones, as my mind slipped away. When Barrons hands the spear to Ryodan, who tucks it beneath his jacket, they resume their polished facade.

“Right, he can have it but I can’t,” I grouse.

“He does not consider past minor insult bar to future gain. Women are weak that way. Valuing things that mean nothing at all. Lamenting events they clearly enjoyed,” Kiall says, raking me with a knowing, intimate sneer. “What was lost that night? Nothing. What was gained? An experience beyond compare. Your human women kill each other for our amusement, to eliminate the competition for the privilege of such a night with us.”

I don’t know who goes more rigid beside me, Kat or Barrons. The room is a volcano waiting to blow.

I inhale, count to ten, exhale. At some point, when I’ve mastered my inner demon, I’ll pay a visit to the gothic monstrous mess of a mansion on the outskirts of Dublin where the princes have surrounded themselves with worshippers. With my spear. And those women that chirp bright, vapid nonsense like “See you in Faery” will stop killing each other to lose their sanity in a monster’s bed.

When R’jan, the Seelie Prince who claims to be the new king, enters, the Unseelie snarl like feral beasts.

R’jan reminds me of V’lane, before he dropped the mask, revealing his true Unseelie self, Prince Cruce. Gold-dusted skin pours like velvet over a powerful body; he has the face of a stunning, imperious Archangel. Long blond hair falls past his waist, unbound. He, too, has modified himself into something elegantly human, with fawn leather pants and dark boots, a creamy cashmere sweater, a gold torque at his throat. R’jan laughs and dismisses his dark brothers with a regal, condescending wave as if shooing a bothersome fly from a banquet surely called in honor of him.

The Unseelie leap from their chairs, Barrons rises, Ryodan joins him, and for a moment all the males in the room posture, assessing, debating the pleasure to be gained from turning this room into a slaughterhouse against whatever it is they’re after that made them agree to this meeting. Just when I’m certain they’re going to succumb to savagery, Kat and I are going to be sprayed with blood and bone fragments, and I’m going to end up taking back my spear and using it after all, Barrons growls, “You will all sit. Now.”

No one moves. I laugh softly. That’s a mistake.

Ryodan is abruptly gone.

When he reappears, he’s holding R’jan from behind, a scarred forearm around the Fae’s throat. He presses his mouth to the prince’s ear and says softly, “Need I remind you what I did to Velvet.”

R’jan hisses.

“He said sit. He doesn’t repeat himself. Nor do I.”

When Ryodan shoves him away, R’jan drops down on the third side of our square, eyes blazing with challenge and hatred. Kiall and Rath slowly take their seats with elaborate indolence, as if they do so because they wish to and for no other reason.

I eye the fourth side, wondering who else we could possibly be waiting for. When our final guest walks up the stairs and sits at our table, it’s my turn to bristle.

I know the face of an O’Bannion mobster when I see one. I helped kill two of them. Our final guest is black Irish with a light complexion, thick, dark hair and eyes, and the blood of a distant Saudi ancestor in his veins. Broad-shouldered and handsome in a rugged, outdoors way, he moves with long-limbed grace.

Kat half rises, looking ashen. “Sean?” she says. “What on earth are you doing here?”

I glance between the two. I don’t need a sidhe-seer gift to know there’s deep emotion between them.

“Yes, what is an O’Bannion doing here?” I say.

“The name is Sean Fergus Jameson,” the man says in a thick Irish brogue.

“First cousin to Rocky O,” Ryodan says. “He tends to omit his surname in certain quarters.”

“Why is he here?” Kat says again, resettling slowly.

Ryodan says, “You’re looking at the three primary suppliers of goods in this city: myself, the princes, and the black market — like his fathers before him, also known as Sean O’Bannion. Seems your boy learned a trick or two working in my club, little cat. Bribed my suppliers. Got himself into the game.”

“Only because you were charging half an arm and most of a leg for a simple meal,” Sean says hotly. “We’ve women and children in our streets who’ve no way of paying such high prices. They were dying for want of milk and bread.”

“You show your true colors, O’Bannion,” Ryodan says.

“A good and honest heart?” Kat says sharply.

The look Sean gives her tells me everything: they’re lovers, and I suspect they have been for a long time. How does he think to stand his ground against this kind of competition? He’s a human among beasts.

Ryodan cuts Kat a hard, flat smile. “That’s often how it starts. Just not usually how it ends. If the two of you had been talking about any of the things you should be talking about, you’d have known.”

“You will stay out of my business,” Kat warns softly.

Ryodan leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “Start taking care of your business and I might. Business unattended is free trade.”

“You had no right to force him to work at Chester’s,” Kat says. “The debt owed was mine, not his.”

Sean gives her a quizzical glance. “Force? What debt? My working there had nothing to do with you.”

Kat blinks and looks sharply at Ryodan. “You said the price was demanded of him, not me.”

Ryodan lifts a brow and gives her a mocking smile.

“What price?” Sean says.

“I said, precisely, Katarina, that I’d had difficulty staffing lately, my servers kept dying, and your Sean was good enough to fill in. I also told you he was free to go. Both were true. From the first. When he decided to thieve on my turf, I fired him.”

His tone makes it clear how lucky she is that he didn’t kill him. I wonder why he didn’t kill him. No one takes from Ryodan and survives … unless the cool-eyed manipulator has a long-term goal that makes him willing to suffer the poor fool’s existence as Barrons does the princes.

“You pigs talk and talk and say nothing of interest to us. Too many of you here. Not enough of us. Or slaves,” Rath says. “We demand more Unseelie at this table.”

“Find another prince and we might take it under advisement,” Ryodan says dryly. Cruce is locked down and the Crimson Hag has Christian. In other words, never going to happen.

R’jan says nothing. If any of the Seelie Princes remain, he wants no competition for the Fae throne.

Sean says, “Why is Katarina here?”

I say, “As headmistress of the sidhe-seers, she’s the front line of human defense and protection.” I don’t add: and she sits on Cruce and keeps watch so he doesn’t get out. I really hope she hasn’t confided that to him. They say every person with whom you share a secret will inevitably share it with at least one more, that it grows in exponential leaps and bounds until the entire world knows what you wish it didn’t.

Sean assesses me. “Why are you here?”

Ryodan replies, “She has her uses. Any more fucking questions, take them up with Barrons. You don’t like who sits at this table, figure out how to get rid of them. But be careful, it’s not hard to figure out how to get rid of you. Human.”

Kat snaps, “You will leave him alone.”

I glance at her but she’s trying to send a silent message with her eyes to Sean. Unfortunately, he’s now staring too fiercely at Ryodan to notice.

She exhales gustily and I echo it.

The males at this table are ruthless. The only way Sean can hope to compete in business with them is to be equally ruthless. As the princes adopted a degree of civility to optimize their survival, Sean will have to adopt a degree of barbarism to optimize his.

Leaving me to wonder the same thing I know Kat’s thinking: how much of the man she loves will remain?

6

The woman moves through dark streets, thick with fog blown off the sea. Dusk cloaks her in mist and shadow as if she’s a secret the night has sworn an oath to protect. Moonlight illuminates wet cobblestones and rain-streaked windows but glances off her as if deflected by an invisible cloak.

Like the Shades, she’s a smudge in the darkness.

Born of long and unforgettable habit, she avoids the pale yellow pools of streetlamps.

Better to see than be seen.

Being heard is another thing. Sound skitters and reverberates, and unless one is a highly skilled hunter, it’s difficult to secure the target in one’s crosshairs by noise alone.

She can do it. She’s as infamous as the legendary Queen’s Huntsman. She’s never missed her mark.

Her enemy isn’t so skilled. The one she seeks tonight is sloppy, blinded by gluttonous appetite, but to lure it she’s not enough. She needs an attractive, sexually viable man.

Stiletto heels that gleam silver kick gusts of fog into lacy, sharp-edged patterns as she strides through Temple Bar toward Chester’s nightclub, where she will select her bait. She’s dressed to kill, weapons concealed: gun strapped to her thigh, knives flush to her skin, a sexy chain of a belt that distracts the male eye as it swings at her hips, a lethal garrote. The ricochet of her shoes on pavement is loud, deliberate. She knows she’s difficult to see and at the moment desires to be accessible.

Immediacy is efficiency.

Contempt for death is her way of life.

Nothing touches her.

To be touched is weakness.

As she turns down an alley, mist swirls back from long, bare, lightly oiled legs, the edgy hem and neckline of a black spandex dress, the supple body of a dancer, long hair pulled back in a high ponytail, the serene face of a stone-cold killer, before enveloping her again.

She’s beautiful.

It’s a weapon.

She has suffered the worst the world has to offer.

And thrived.

She’s compiled a list of names.

And will hunt them one by one.

When at last the fog parts upon the face of her enemy, she will have no mercy.

This world had none for her.

7

“Who am I?” the blonde kneeling between my legs demands.

I need to come so fucking bad my teeth hurt.

I know the answer she wants. She wants me to call her “mistress.” Like she’s the Dom. She’s already tried to get me to say it twice, sneaking it in like she thinks I won’t notice because of the mind-blowing stuff she’s been doing with her lips and tongue and that flawlessly executed glide of teeth so few women ever master when giving head.

She’s wasting her time. It’s never going to happen. There isn’t a submissive bone in my body. I’m alpha to the motherfucking core.

I pull her head from my groin and grin down at her. Hot, horny blondes are a dime a dozen at Chester’s. Riots may have sacked Dublin last Halloween and a killer freeze might have shut the city down for a while, but it’s rebounding fast. People have been flooding in, resettling both sides of the River Liffey, drawn by the thaw, restored power, and supplies, but most of all by the endless parade of sexually insatiable Fae that pack the bars and dance floors of 939 Rêvemal Street every night of the week, hunting human lovers. The hottest, most deadly nightclub in Dublin is bigger, better, and badder than ever: Chester’s is Sin Central — if you want it, we got it.

“You’re not that good, honey.” I flash her a grin. My comment is guaranteed to spark one of two things: either she’ll get up and walk out pissed or I’ll get even better head.

I know by her confidence — and the hungry way she’s been watching me all night — she’s not walking.

She laughs and runs her tongue over her lips to make them even wetter, shiny with the spit of a pro and pre-ejac. I lean back against Ry’s desk, since he’s off at some meeting for a few hours, looking forward to her amped-up performance, watching her, watching the club through the glass floor beneath my boots, loving life. As long as women walk this earth, I’ll be a happy man. If they ever get wiped out, I’m done. I’ll go in search of K’Vruck.

She slaps the head of my dick then closes her mouth over it in one long perfect slide all the way to the base … does some kind of swirly thing, then an intense suck back out.

I nearly stagger.

Son of a bitch, she’s good.

She has her hands on my ass, face grinding into my groin, my dick is down her throat, and I’m a frigging volcano about to blow. Problem is, I been ready for a good twenty minutes, but whenever I get close she mixes it up and shoves it out of reach. What was initially a turn-on has become a pain in the ass. Not to mention the balls. I’m beginning to think they might rupture. I’m dripping sweat and I’m not even the one doing the work, although I’m looking forward to getting down to it. The woman has one damn fine body.

I take her head in my hands and try to move her mouth on me the way I want.

She resists with a muffled laugh.

I pull her mouth off me and she looks up, smiling. Takes my breath away for a second. Her hair is a hot mess around her face, just the way I like it — bed-head always makes me want to fuck. Then again, pretty much everything does.

“Let me come, honey,” I say. “There’s plenty more after, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Do I look worried? I know exactly what to expect from a man like you. Who am I?” She flicks her tongue over the swollen head of my dick.

I start to hit it, I’m so close, but then she does this twisting thing with her hands and mouth at the same time, and I get needles on my dick.

Pleasure killed by pain.

Velvet of her mouth.

Needles.

It’s starting to chafe more than I like. And I’ve been known to play rough with the right woman. Or three.

“Mistress,” she purrs. “Is it really so much to ask? For what I make you feel?”

I consider. She is blond with big, beautiful tits. Whole world knows I got a weakness for the combo. That’s how I’d ended up in the boss’s office, leaning back against his desk, leather pants around my ankles, buck-naked brick shithouse between my legs while the bass of Rob Zombie’s Pussy Liquor—and when the hell is she ever gonna give that up? It’s one of my finest skills and I haven’t even gotten the chance to dazzle her — rumbles in the desk beneath my ass, pounding up from one of the subclubs below.

I love this place. One of our better investments.

“I’m giving you the best head you’ve ever had,” she says. “Admit it.”

Not a problem. I say so to every woman that sucks me. Women enjoy doing things they excel at, praise guarantees repeat performances, every repeat performance is more practice for the woman, which guarantees the next man even better head. Given how long I’ve been at this, and on how many continents, I’m pretty sure I’ve single-handedly improved the quality of head around the world.

“Sure, babe, you’re the best. Head. Ever.” Damn close anyway.

“Who am I?” she purrs.

I groan. “The bitch sucking my dick.” We agreed on no names. She asked me to call her bitch downstairs when we were doing shots at the bar. Said it turned her on. Later, with a laugh, she switched it to princess. Now she wants mistress. High maintenance. Some women are worth it.

She cups my balls and squeezes, then begins sucking them with exquisite precision. All the muscles in my abdomen clench and I exhale explosively. I’m beginning to think this might be the best orgasm I’ve ever had. If I ever get around to the bloody fucking thing.

“You really don’t get this, do you?” she says. Laughter tinkles and the hair on the back of my neck feels weird all the sudden. There’s a darkness to the sound that might worry me if she wasn’t so frigging hot.

Speaking of hot, I look down to see sweat running down my six-pack, dripping down my legs. I’m practically standing in a puddle of my own sweat. What the hell did Ry do? Crank up the heat in Chester’s to a hundred? I’m burning up. Light-headed, like I have a fever. Which is impossible.

“Don’t care. You’re here. I’m here. Do that thing with your tongue again. The swirly thing.”

“I’ll give you a clue,” she says, and somehow she’s smiling while she’s sucking and for a second I think I see rows of tiny needle-sharp shark teeth. Not what a man wants to hallucinate with a woman’s hot wet mouth on his dick. I blink and wipe sweat from my eyes. Trick of the light. She has perfect teeth, movie-star white, framed to perfection by smears of crimson lipstick, most of which is all over my dick and stomach. Oh, yeah, I’ll take a blonde with cherry red lipstick every day of the week that ends in y. Life is sweet. I laugh.

She cuts me a look then shoves me back on the desk and I’m cold where her mouth was burning, then she’s on top of me, slamming down onto me, and I’m pushing up into her. I’m a grenade, pin out. Feels like my whole body is going to hit it, blow apart, come from head to toe. Bloody hell, sex has never been like this. I’m on fire, so frigging hot I’d swear the desk is burning.

Wait a second, it is.

Orange flames are licking up around us, like my sweat is some kind of gasoline sloshed across the lacquered ebony. We must have spilled some tequila. Must’ve been a candle on the desk. I’m sprawled on my back in fire and can’t even feel it. She leans into me, joins me in the flames, fists her hands in my hair and we kiss.

It’s unfucking real.

I half expect celestial trumpets to blare. I feel like my skin is melting and we’re merging into each other. Strange shit. But my dick has never felt better.

“Who am I? Is it so difficult to give me such a tiny thing? A little respect. That’s all I’m looking for, honey. I can give you so much in return.”

Christ, she sounds just like me, right down to her inflection on the word “honey.” I always get them to call me whatever I want. I’m always in control. Isn’t much I like more than a beautiful woman tied to my bed while I make her come till she passes out. So what’s my problem? Like she says, it’s a small thing. What can one word hurt? It isn’t like letting a woman have the power for a change can bring about the end of my world as I know it, for fuck’s sake.

I open my mouth and suck her tongue deep, grinding in, sliding out. I feel my dick inside her, and I also feel what she’s feeling: me filling her, giving her all she wants except for this one tiny little thing that is so important to her for some reason. Maybe some man treated her like shit and now she needs to be called mistress to get back some of her own. Maybe I’m part of the healing. Maybe it’ll make her come as violently as I know I’m going to. I like women. I want them to feel good. It’s practically been my mission in life.

“Who am I?”

I try to shape the word twice and still fail. I’d honestly like to give her what she wants but submission just isn’t the stuff I’m made of.

She clamps down on me and … aw, shit, she squeezes! She has muscles that could milk a herd of Holsteins dry. I buck and nearly get off but then she’s soft again and I get the feeling she could do this all night if she wants. And this crazy babe might just want to.

“Mistress,” I manage to growl. “Now make me come or get the fuck off me ’cause I’m jacking off.”

“Tell me you want me more than life itself,” she croons, all soft and sultry.

“Sure, honey.” I’ve gone this far. If Ryodan ever finds out I called some babe mistress, I’ll never hear the end of it.

“Would you die for me?” she asks breathlessly.

I’m beginning to see no matter how hot this woman is, despite her plentiful talents, she has serious-ass issues. Looking for some big strong man to play hero for her. Who the hell isn’t? Every woman downstairs. I excel at the role. And I need to come. Simple enough exchange.

I grab her ass, grind up and drive deep. “Protect you. Rescue you. Guard your frigging honor if you have any left by the time I’m done with you, woman. Now squeeze.”

“But would you die for me?”

I don’t tell her I might kill her if I don’t come soon. I might turn. She’s kept me on the brink too long. I’m getting edgier than is safe with a woman. “Sure, honey. Whatever.” She doesn’t know I can’t. She doesn’t even know my name.

She pulls back and smiles down at me with rows of needle-sharp shark teeth.

Blond hair darkens to blood-black.

Red lips fade to white. Then ice-blue.

Flames leap up around us. Takes me a second to process — also blue.

Aw, fuck.

I stare up, a little slow to get it.

I’m too close to coming to think real fast. Hell, her tits are too far in my face for me to think real fast.

Unseelie. The bitch is Unseelie. I can’t believe I didn’t pick up on it. I’m not easy to fool. Well, sans blond hair and curves enough to happily smother a man.

She’s dark Fae. Twisted buggers, one and all, some more than others.

And she wanted me to call her Princess …

Unseelie. Princess.

I narrow my eyes, staring up at her.

Nah.

The dark king never got around to making them. They’re a myth. They don’t exist. Damn good thing, too. The Unseelie Princes are problem enough.

Oh, honey, she purrs in my mind, we certainly do. Trapped in a library for a small eternity. One of yours let us out. Good thing, too. Men have too much power on this world. We will fix that.

“Get the fuck off me.”

You called me mistress. You said you would die for me. I own you.

I laugh. “Yeah, right. Try pursuing that thought.” I shove her off me but my hands go the wrong way, fly up over my head, and abruptly I’m slammed flat on my back, with both wrists manacled to one end of the desk.

Links snake around my throat.

My waist. My ankles.

Fuck me.

I’m chained.

I lunge up, testing the links, snarling. Magic doesn’t work on me. Neither does glamour. Yet both seem to be. What the hell is going on?

We are a singular recipe. His final creation. Improved by the Sweeper. She smiles and there are those frigging shark teeth again.

I’m immobilized, pants at my ankles, dick sticking straight up, and this bitch has shark teeth. I’m beginning to think this might not be one of my finer nights.

“Say it again,” she says, but now she’s all icy, imperious princess. “Who am I?”

No way I’m saying it again.

Ever.

My mouth opens and it says, “Mistress,” offending every goddamn fiber of my being. I think my balls actually shrivel.

She slaps me. Hard across the face.

“I’m going to kill you, you crazy motherfucking bitch,” I say tenderly. My kind doesn’t get loud when we’re about to annihilate. We go soft and gentle. See us like that: worry. She doesn’t know I’m one of the few in existence that can actually make good on that promise. She doesn’t know who or what I am.

She’ll be calling me master before she dies.

“Who am I?” she says.

I clamp my mouth shut and strain against the Fae compulsion, and still my vocal cords grit, “Mistress.”

Oh, yeah, definitely killing her. Ten different ways, and slow.

“That’s a good boy, Lor.”

What the hell, she knows my name?

“Now we’re really going to play,” she purrs.

8

An hour into our meeting, we’ve got more problems on the table than I knew we had. Despite the bloom on New Dublin, our city has deeper shadows in which to die than ever before.

It’s been an enormous test of self-restraint, negotiating concessions with the two Unseelie Princes that raped me; a Seelie Prince that’s been shooting me looks like he wants to; Ryodan, whom I’ve never been able to get along with for more than a few sentences of conversation — oh, wait, I can’t even do that; and the first cousin of the mobsters that put a price on my head. The Sinsar Dubh has been attempting to make its voice heard at every turn, but I pump up the volume on my seventh-grade recitation and drown it out.

A part of me wishes they’d all just stand up and battle to the death. Make it simple. Take control through bloodshed and war. I have no doubt Barrons would be the last one standing.

But humans would die, and in the Fae way of things, more princes would be born, or get transformed like Christian, and we would end up slaughtering one another all over again¸ losing more humans every time.

I’m beginning to understand why Barrons wanted this meeting. Before the walls between worlds crashed, there was a system in place to run the city, the country, the world. But when that system collapsed, it was only a matter of time before someone or something stepped in and tried to become the new system. Though Barrons and his men prefer to wield power from the shadows, they’ll step into the light long enough to reestablish the social order that best affords the existence they enjoy.

When Ryodan imparted the latest rough count of Fae and humans in Dublin, I was staggered. I had no idea how drastically our population was exploding. According to his sources, thousands more Seelie and Unseelie arrive in Dublin every day, intrigued by the news that the princes have settled here and the feeding ground is rich with humans willing to be enslaved.

The more Fae in Dublin, the more humans will follow, drawn by their power, sex, and ability to provide comfort and luxury — or at least the illusion of it — in a time of such hardship and food shortages. Our city is growing too quickly to be controlled by any one of the males at this table.

A shattered, rapidly growing world requires multiple fiefdoms to rebuild it into a unified territory before a single king or democracy can hope to take it over.

During the transition period, clever enemies work together, or there’ll be no kingdom to govern. As each male in this room believes he’s the one who will ultimately be in charge, they’re willing to play nice until one of them decides the moment is ripe for a swift and bloody coup.

At which point everything will go straight to Hell again.

It seems a rather futile and endless cycle, either way. Yet a truce offers the benefit of a period, however brief, of peace and — more importantly — the possibility that something might change during it, perhaps making it possible to tip the balance of things in human favor and get rid of all the Fae for good.

Even the one inside me.

For the moment, we concede that none of us can hold the population in check, so we’ve agreed to divide Dublin into territories and permit certain atrocities in exchange for a modicum of civility for the masses. Kat looks as miserable as I feel but there’s no other way. Not yet. We justify our heartless calls by our commitment to one day defeat all our enemies so the people can live the remainder of their days in peace and prosperity.

We’ve become politicians.

Kat demanded the abbey be off limits to all Fae, and that Barrons and Ryodan immediately secure the perimeter with stronger wards, to which the majority agreed, five to three — then, of course, the Unseelie argued again for more Unseelie at the table so they could gain the upper hand, which, of course, the majority overruled, six to two, with R’jan on our side. The Unseelie seem unaware of what lies beneath the abbey walls. It appears the Seelie who were with us that night aren’t talking. I pray it stays that way.

Rath and Kiall insisted their lairs be off limits to us, governed by their laws and none other. Any who enter belong to them. And all may enter if they choose.

R’jan demanded we recognize him as king of the Fae, but the Unseelie Princes instantly declared war against him and he recanted. For now. The three princes are a war waiting to happen. It’s just a matter of time. Each will work tirelessly in coming weeks to pack the most Fae possible behind their claim for the throne.

The Song of Making could restore the walls between our worlds, shut them all out, and preclude possibility of war further ravaging our planet. I think I have a pretty good idea where it is. But my problem with doing anything to pursue it is twofold: the only one capable of using it is the concubine/Seelie Queen who’s missing along with the king, and I don’t dare go anywhere near the all-powerful song with the Sinsar Dubh inside me. I won’t put that final, fantastical magic in its hands.

Deep down I feel the Book stir, sniffing around the edges of my brain, trying to skim my mind.

I swiftly bury all thought of the song in one of the many padlocked boxes in my brain and resume reciting silent poetry, vowing to never think about it again until the king has removed his parasite from my body.

And the silken, sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before …

Ryodan lobbied successfully to restore the euro as the only acceptable currency, which baffled me at first. It couldn’t be more worthless … unless every supplier of goods in the city agrees to provide for nothing but the euro. Then it becomes the only thing worth having all over again.

He argued that a unilaterally enforced currency was essential to achieving sustainable order, a point that wasn’t easy to make with the three princes, as currency is an alien concept in their society. I agree it will restore a much-needed sense of normalcy to our city’s inhabitants. I’m surprised the men are willing to give up the barter system with its immediate benefits for the chance to be king, but these are wild days and this summit attended by primal males that thrive in times of chaos.

Barrons says little. His presence says enough.

For the past twenty minutes we’ve been debating the finer nuances of how to get the money out there and reestablish it as the norm. I wasn’t surprised to learn Ryodan cleared out the city’s bank vaults in the early days right after the fall. He’s always miles ahead of everyone in matters of business.

“What of the new sidhe-seers?” Kiall suddenly demands.

New? “Nothing about the sidhe-seers,” I say instantly. “They are mine.”

Beside me, Kat gently clears her throat.

“ ‘Ours,’ ” I amend. “We already discussed that. You stay off their land.”

He sneers. “It is not her group that concerns us. They are no threat compared to the other. I am surprised they have no representative at this table.”

I glance at Kat, who looks as shocked as me. Chester’s nightclub is the pulsing heartbeat of Dublin, and if there are new sidhe-seers in town, he knows about it. “Ryodan?”

Ryodan affirms it with a silent nod.

“There’s another group of sidhe-seers in town?” Kat exclaims. “Why didn’t they come to the abbey? We’d be happy to have them.”

“They would not be so happy to have you,” Rath mocks. “You are nothing alike. You are weak and pliable. They are steel.”

Barrons says, “All sidhe-seers are off limits to you.”

“Fuck you,” Kiall says. “One of them infiltrated our compound and took out thirty of my finest before we were able to stop her. I keep her in a cage, happily mindless.” He slants a look at me. “She sucks my dick at my command with the zeal of one I knew before.”

Barrons’s chest expands and I don’t have to look at him to know his eyes are glittering bloodred. I see the change in the princes’ faces across the table. Fury explodes in my blood so hot and hard, it hits my heart like a sledgehammer. Some days I’m made of nothing but triggers. Rape scars deep.

Destroy them now. You know you can, my dark companion purrs. They humiliated and used you, made you feel powerless — you who possess more raw power than they could ever hope to achieve. Remind these pigs that the Fae have always been ruled by a woman.

Sure, toss me a few crimson runes, I mutter at it. I’d kill to get my hands on those again, the strange binding runes it shared with me at critical moments, believing I would never figure out that I could also use them to seal the physical Sinsar Dubh’s cover closed. Until Cruce tricked me into removing them. I knew I shouldn’t have pulled the damned things off down there in the cavern the night we sealed it on the stone slab. Or at least held onto a few for future use, rather than let Velvet sift them away.

I’d love to see if they’d also work on my inner copy somehow, but although the Sinsar Dubh goads endlessly, even saddled and rode me today, it offers me no runes or spells to use without price as it did before. A once-robbed John, it won’t remove its wallet from its trousers again until it gets the action it paid for.

Nice try, sweet thing. NOT.

I pick up with my mental chant where I left off last time, muttering the fourth, fifth, and sixth stanzas of “The Raven.” Beneath the table, I feel Barrons’s hand move to my thigh, and in the strength of his fingers is his commitment to destroy them with me, the reminder to be patient. It cools my blood enough that I retain my impassive stare.

The Unseelie Princes hold a sidhe-seer Pri-ya. I wonder what her talent is, if they exploit it. I worry about her soul. She has no Barrons to rescue her. Inside me, the Sinsar Dubh falls silent. “Tell me about these sidhe-seers,” I say to Ryodan.

“They’re black-ops trained and militarily focused, led by a woman they seem willing to follow to death. Word is they connected after the walls fell. Some were soldiers, stationed in Iraq, others hail from Asia, skilled in martial arts.”

“We want them all dead,” Rath growls.

Before I can say it, Kat asks, “Have you met their leader?”

Ryodan says, “We’ve been tracking her but no luck so far. They speak her name like she’s some bloody damned mystical warrior, protected by the elements. Their home was destroyed; they want a new one and intend to make it here.”

I feel Kat’s tension. I say, “You are in charge at the abbey. She won’t take it from you. If we must enforce it, we will.”

“I’m not so sure I’d be entirely sorry to see it go,” she murmurs.

I look at her, startled, wondering if I heard her right. She’s looking at Sean, her expression bleak. I ponder the irony that she denounced her mafia parents years ago to escape this very fate, yet now sits with us making barbarous laws in a barbarous time, enforcing them without mercy.

Black-ops trained. Mystical warrior. Lovely. Probably sporting egos the size of K’Vruck. Who knows what gifts they possess? It’s possible that one of them, like me, can sense the Sinsar Dubh and she’ll follow its siren song straight to my front door.

Distantly, I hear Ryodan and Barrons agreeing the princes may do whatever they want with any sidhe-seers who invade their walls, but those who steer clear are to be left alone.

I don’t think this city is big enough for us all.

9

When she enters Chester’s, both men and women pause in conversation to turn and watch her pass. It might be the body. It might be the walk.

It’s definitely the attitude.

An enormous palace of chrome and glass, the underground club is a hot mess of humans and Fae, reeking of sex, spices, and cigarette smoke, divided into countless subclubs where anything can be obtained for the right price.

Music breaks over her in waves as she transitions from one club to the next.

She could find her own personal Jesus on the matte black cement floors where hundreds of meaty, tusked Unseelie that resemble rhinoceroses stamp the floor with hooves and indulge their taste for voluptuous women and Marilyn Manson; or do it her way, which is all she does anyway, where Sinatra croons from speakers mounted on the polished wood of a stately, old-fashioned bar presided over by three enormously fat Unseelie females with multiple breasts; or acknowledge that she is, in fact, Titanium, as Sia belts out above a mirrored dance floor that pulses with flashing neon lights, crammed with young, mostly naked men and women, attended in air and on foot by golden, sparkling Seelie.

She scans bodies and faces, seeking the one she desires: the more beautiful, the better.

She would select one of the mysterious Nine that work behind the scenes of this club, but the monster she hunts may find them too barbaric or perhaps too dangerous to take the bait. Their formidable reputation precedes them into distant lands.

She has found mention of the Nine in millennia-old annals, tracked them into present times through paintings and photographs. She has identified six of them by name, knows a seventh only by his long silver hair and dark burning eyes. She found a very old portrait of him in Romania that astounds. She knows two of them are half brothers, with different fathers, although the world would never guess it by looking. She knows the sorrow the one she will permit to live may feel, but her ledgers must be balanced. She has been unable to cement either face or name for the remaining two into the meticulous compartments of her memory. The single time she saw all nine of them in one place, one was hooded, the other’s face too heavily painted to see.

Knowledge is power.

Kasteo, Barrons, Fade, Ryodan, Lor, Daku.

She nearly smiles at the last name. He was once a gladiator for sheer love of the game, and in another century and land, an epic samurai. She anticipates their battle second most.

Their ways are as vile as the Fae, yet two of the six names she knows are not on her list. Two of them she will permit to live.

She hears and dismisses snatches of conversation as she passes.

“Who is she?”

“Never seen her before.”

“Fuck, the bitch is hot!”

“You don’t stand a chance, Bruegger. She’d tear you up.”

“And I’d die a happy man.”

“Think she’s Fae?”

“Dunno. She sure as hell moves like one.”

The Fae she has studied, as well, dissected and assimilated what she found useful. There are many of them on her list.

But she’s not Fae. She’s human.

She moves silently through the subclubs. In her wake, a man who was foolish enough to try to grab her ass as she passed clutches a broken and bloodied hand, and howls with drunken pain and fury.

This time she does smile.

No one touches her except in the clash of a battle she has chosen.

High above, behind the glass balustrade that shapes a perimeter walkway into an inner courtyard for the private upper levels, she spies the perfect worm for her hook and contemplates the anomaly: humans are not permitted up there. Only the Nine and their few chosen. Yet he is both human and up there. Unattended. Stripping and tossing his clothing over a chrome railing to a delighted crowd of women below.

He is nude then and she assesses him clinically. Yes, perfect.

As she approaches the glass staircase that provides access to the levels where the Nine are rumored to maintain their residences, in addition to the owner’s office, the electronic heart of the enormous club, she processes the second anomaly: the stairs are not guarded at the bottom by two of the Nine, a minor challenge for which she was prepared. Inconceivable, were it not fact.

She would escalate to high alert, but she lives there.

Silently, without questioning her luck — luck always favors the arrow that knows its goal — she ascends the stairs.

10

It’s midnight, our meeting ended hours ago, and I’m alone in the bookstore. After Kat left with Sean, Ryodan said something to Barrons about cleaning up after the Hoar Frost King, which made no sense to me since the last of the ice melted weeks ago.

Barrons left to do whatever he does when he comes back with his heart beating, eyes brilliant, fury cooled. He won’t have sex with me if he’s hungry. I have my theories about why.

I once asked him what he ate and he said gently, None of your fucking business. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t signify. He is what he is. You take it or leave it, and I’m not leaving. The man isn’t vegan. He has a toothbrush. Life goes on.

After wasting hours poring over yet another tattered, disintegrating volume we brought out of the Silvers with a title that translates roughly as The Fae Obscene, I busy myself dusting and polishing shelves and counters, then check on the weapons I’ve hidden around the store. Anything to keep from thinking about this afternoon, and the terrible thing I’ve done. The terrible things I might continue to do unless I silence the Book forever. I consider going to see Inspector Jayne, learn the location of the O’Leary family, see what their needs are and fill them, but every time I begin to ponder it, I double over with guilt and grief, too sick to my stomach to move.

It’s been a while since I tended my cache. I miss my weapons, but I’m not willing to carry them. After today, I’d rather not carry the spear, but I won’t leave it lying around where someone else might find it, not even at the bookstore. Barrons despises the ancient Fae hallow because it could kill me. I like it for the same reason. A gun can kill you, too. You have to respect it.

I break down my Glocks, PPQs, my Sig and my Kimber, clean, reload, and rack. I save my Nighthawk Custom Falcon Commander.45 for last, because it’s my current favorite, then move on to my rifles. I line them up on the counter, admiring them. I enjoy handling the metal and plastic, the cool iron of the bullets Dani and I made. I practice throwing my switchblades at a Bob I set up in a back room. I even polish my spear, holding it carefully, practice trying to block the horrific images the Book throws at me.

Eventually I run out of idle tasks and begin to pace restlessly, wondering why Ryodan didn’t mention Dani tonight.

He must know she’s missing. Surely he’s looking for her. If she were here, she’d be arguing for a seat at our table. She’s always battled for Dublin, made it her first priority, even when Ro was alive, threatening her, controlling her sword, directing it.

I used Voice on Rowena after I stabbed her, and know she used her gift of mental coercion to force Dani to kill my sister, but I don’t know the details.

I thought I’d made peace with her part in my sister’s death. But it’s one thing to sit in my bookstore, telling myself I can forgive her, entirely another to look her in the face, feel that forgiveness in my heart and communicate it to my arm — as the night we met for the first time since I learned the truth had proven.

I’d lashed out. Barely managed to pull back. I’m just grateful I didn’t black out and lose complete control. I wonder why I didn’t, what was different about the night I drew my spear on Dani and this afternoon when I drew on the Gray Woman.

“Alina, Alina, Alina,” I whisper.

Sometimes I say her name in litany as if mere repetition might have the power to resurrect her from the dead. What no one tells you is that when someone you love dies, you lose them twice. Once to death, the second time to acceptance, and you don’t walk that long, dark passage between the two alone. Grief takes every shuffling, unwilling step with you, offering a seductive bouquet of memories that can only blossom south of sanity. You can stay there, nose buried in the petals of the past. But you’re never really alive again. Spend enough time with ghosts, you become one.

Still, I long for a summer day on the sand in Faery, a Corona in my hand with lime pulp dripping down the sides, near a volleyball net, even if only with the illusion of Alina.

Make it so, my hitchhiker purrs. We can.

“Been there, done that temptation,” I mutter. “Get a fresh idea. The answer is still no.”

The bell suddenly flies off the top of the front door in an explosion of hardware and screeching metal, shoots straight up in the air then crashes to the floor, where it gives a final, defiant tinkle.

I glance from it to the open door that used to be locked, startled and offended. I loved that bell. “You could have knocked,” I say irritably to Ryodan, who’s standing in the entrance. “I would have unlocked it.”

“I assume you have the spear,” he says.

“Of course I do.” I hadn’t breathed easy until Barrons handed it back to me when our meeting ended.

He jerks his head toward the door. “We’ve got problems. At Chester’s. Now.”

I’m not about to head off with the incessantly scrutinizing owner of Chester’s only to have my dark parade fall into step behind us, and get slapped on a slide beneath a microscope again. The meeting tonight was bad enough. “You told me I could never enter your club armed, and I’m not responsible for your—”

“Cut the bullshit. The rules have changed. I don’t care how many Unseelie follow you. I don’t even care why. You get a free pass tonight. Move. Now.”

I bristle. I don’t take orders from anyone but Barrons, and I don’t even do that well. I lean back against the counter and cross my arms. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

“We don’t have time for this.”

“I let you goad me into action once. We killed Barrons.” Another thing I find hard to forgive.

“It was necessary to save your ass. What wasn’t necessary was you waiting so long to obey me that you got me killed, too. Then you consorted with the enemy—”

And here we go. “Consorted? Really? What century do you and Barrons get stuck in sometimes? I did not have sex with Darroc. Furthermore, it’s none of your business who I have sex with.”

“As long as you’re fucking Barrons it is.”

Sarcastically, I retort, “I thought you killed each other’s women, not took an interest in their fidelity or lack thereof. Speaking of fidelity and lack thereof, just exactly what are you doing with Jo, Ryodan? What kind of screwed-up wolf ‘consorting’ with the lamb situation is that?”

He makes a sound of impatience. “She wants. I give.”

“I doubt it’s that simple for her. Last time I was in Chester’s—”

“Which was a month ago, and if you think that means I’m not aware you’ve become high priestess to the only caste of Unseelie that once attended the king in his private quarters, you’re wrong.”

That was what they were? How did he know that? Best way to stay out from under a microscope is to keep turning it around on the person trying to view you through it. “I watched the two of you together, and it’s obvious she’s in love with you—”

“She’s a grown woman and understands what she can and can’t have. I’ve never—”

“You just keep smashing through life, wrecking everyone else’s to satisfy your own desires, don’t you?”

“—misrepresented my intentions. You should talk. And there are reasons for what I do. Christ, woman, do you ever shut up.”

“If you’d start talking about things I want to hear I might.”

“You’re pissing me off.”

“You’d be surprised how easy it is for me to live with that.”

He assesses me and I see him contemplating tossing me over his shoulder and loping away.

“I wouldn’t if I were you. I’m a wild card, remember?”

He snorts. My threat rolls right off him. But I see in his eyes the moment he decides I’m on a bitching bent and not about to stop, that humoring me will take less time and ensure more efficient cooperation. “There’s an Unseelie in my office. With Lor.”

“So?”

“She’s a princess.”

I frown. “I thought the king didn’t make any.”

“You were wrong.”

“Well, what’s the problem? Throw her out.”

“He’s having sex with her. On my desk.”

“Little confused here. What do you want me to do? Pop by with a fresh pack of Handi Wipes to tidy up your desk when they’re through?”

“He’s chained. Lor doesn’t get chained. He chains.” He pauses and I can see how much his next words offend him. “There was a time no threats to us existed on this world. The Fae changed that. It appears she may have turned Lor Pri-ya.”

My jaw drops in disbelief. Lor is Pri-ya? The thought boggles the mind. “But Fae magic doesn’t work on … whatever kind of things you are.”

“He’s calling her ‘mistress.’ Obeying commands.”

“Lor is calling a woman mistress?” The ultimate caveman caved? Never. This could actually be a problem.

I lean back against the counter, study my cuticles, pretending to look bored, wondering what he wants from me and what he’s willing to trade for it.

I want a favor owed from one of the Nine and have been trying to figure out how to get it for a while. Some things about me haven’t changed in the least: all weapons — good.

There are numerous things I can imagine I might want at some point in the future that one of the Nine could easily accomplish. For now I’ll take a blank check: one big, fat, juicy “I Owe Mac.” Ryodan might be ruthless and drive me batshit crazy for so many reasons I could write a book about it, but he honors his debts.

“You don’t want an Unseelie holding one of us Pri-ya. Besides, the bitch is in control of my office. Move. Now.”

I still can’t fathom what he wants from me. “Why don’t you just kill her?” It’s not like he can’t. I know for a fact Barrons killed a Seelie Princess once. I was in his head, watching it happen. He shut me out before I figured out how he’d done it, what weapon he’d used.

He looks beyond me for a moment then cuts a hard look back to my face. “Until we know whether she can turn one of us Pri-ya, we’re not getting close to her. None of my men saw through her glamour. Lor didn’t know what she was until it was too late. There may be more of them walking around in my club right now. I need someone who can see what they are and has one of the weapons that kills them.”

“Ask Dani. Doesn’t she work for you?” I fish. I want to know if Barrons told him what I did, if he’s hunting for her and how hard, if she’s back and hiding from me.

His eyes change and I catch my breath. Crimson glitters. Not because of the Unseelie Princesses at his club, but at the mere mention of Dani’s name. “I haven’t seen her in twenty-one bloody fucking days. Not since the night we put the ice monster down. I’ve torn this city apart looking for her. Searched and interrogated and — fuck.” A muscle works in his jaw. “If she’s hiding from me, she’s gone deep. She thinks she’s invincible but she’s just a kid. You.”

I shake my head instantly, not about to confess my part in things with that glitter of crimson flashing. “We have to find her.”

“I’m bloody well trying. At the moment we have a more pressing problem.”

Time to negotiate. “What’s in it for me?”

He flashes a mocking smile, and I don’t know if he uses mystical powers of persuasion to pack his words with a little extra visual punch in my brain or if I’m just that visually motivated where certain things are concerned.

“Ah, Mac, consider what isn’t: Barrons chained to a desk. Or maybe a bed. Getting fucked senseless.” He pauses to lend his next words greater emphasis but I’ve already figured out where he’s going and I don’t like it one bit. “Not by you.”

I’m out the door before he even finishes speaking.

11

We step from the bookstore beneath a black velvet sky filled with stars and a three-quarter moon haloed in orchid. The Fae-kissed moonlight gilds the damp cobblestones an otherworldly silver and lavender.

New Dublin has skies so clear and pollution-free they compete with my rural hometown. Since the walls came down and Fae magic spilled into our world, things aren’t the same colors they used to be. Now, new moon to full, the halo around it alters from pale gold to turquoise, orchid, and finally to crimson at the lunar peak.

In the distance I hear an unexpected noise: people talking, laughing, the rhythmic beat of music. I wonder if Temple Bar reopened tonight and inhale deeply of night-blooming jasmine drifting down from planters on top of the bookstore, reveling in the knowledge that Dublin is also blossoming, growing beautiful, craic-filled, and strong again.

“Last time you saw Dani,” Ryodan says, as I climb into the passenger side of a black military Humvee. I have to shove two Unseelie that are blocking the opened door out of the way before I can close it. I hear thumps on the roof as they settle in.

Ryodan shoots a look of disgust upward then rakes it over me.

“Not my fault and I can’t help it.”

“You stink, Mac.”

I grit my teeth a moment then say, “You said you wouldn’t bring it up. Any facet of it.” I used to be girly, pretty in pink, and smell good. I miss it sometimes. Especially the smelling good part.

“Dani. When.”

“Thought you didn’t repeat yourself,” I say pissily.

He gives me a look.

“Not sure,” I say.

“You really need to get over what happened with your sister.” He drops it so flat and cold, it takes my breath away.

“What do you mean?” I say warily. How much does he know?

“Dani’s involvement.”

“How do you know about that? Did Barrons tell you? He shouldn’t have. It wasn’t his to tell. And if you ever tell anyone, I’ll deny it,” I say hotly.

I won’t let the world persecute her for it. I’ve never told Mom and Dad, and I never will. In my more rational moments — like when I’m not looking at her — I understand Dani was the weapon and you can’t blame the gun. Well, actually people can and do, which is why I’ll take this secret to the grave. It was Rowena who loaded the bullets, aimed, and pulled the trigger. In my more rational moments I see Dani’s pale face, eyes enormous, as she cries, “Well, why the feck not? I deserve to die!” And I want to take her in my arms and shake her, and tell her she doesn’t, and to never say that again.

“I knew when it happened. We were watching her. You tell anyone that, I’ll deny it. If you tell Dani, I’ll kill you myself.”

Dark power surges to homicidal life inside me. A heavy, gilded book cover threatens to explode open. I drop down cross-legged on top of it, mentally muttering:

Open here I flung the shutter when, with many a flirt and flutter, in there stepped a Stately Raven of the saintly days of yore …

Five stanzas later I’m composed enough to say, “You watched Dani kill Alina and didn’t stop her?” Well, maybe I’m not so composed. I’m across the Humvee, half on his lap, and my hand is around Ryodan’s throat, squeezing.

His fingers band my wrist hard enough to bruise. His other hand closes on my throat and there’s about an inch between our noses.

Silver eyes stare coolly into mine. Being close to him is almost as disturbing as being near Barrons. He’s every bit as sexual, though more contained. You don’t feel like you’re getting squished when Ryodan walks into the room. More like all your atoms are being caressed with a sensual electrical charge.

“Stop leaping to faulty conclusions, Mac. You’ll fall. And I’ll let you. I was watching Dani that night. She lost me. I didn’t find her again until it was too late.”

“Impossible. Dani can’t outrun you.” She was always bragging that one day, however, she would.

“She can give me a run for the money when she chooses.”

“No, she can’t. She used to complain about it all the time.”

“Get your fucking hand off my throat.”

“You first.”

We drop our hands at the same time and I recoil to my side of the Humvee. Belatedly, the full impact of what he just said sinks in. “Wait a minute, you knew since the day I got here who killed my sister and didn’t tell me?” I say incredulously. “You let me waste all that time, hunting others?”

“Dani didn’t kill Alina.”

“She told me herself she did,” I refute instantly.

“It’s not what you think.”

“What is it, then? Because the Unseelie that ate Alina sure thought so, too. They asked if Dani would bring them another ‘blondie’ like my sister.” My hands fist at the memory, nails digging deep. I have Mick O’Leary’s blood on my hands. I may as well have my own.

I search his profile. A muscle ticks beneath his left eye. Both hands are on the steering wheel, knuckles white. For an instant I see Barrons in him, a violently passionate man who controls it flawlessly, so the world thinks him ice.

“Answer me,” I snap. “Did she or didn’t she kill my sister?”

His only response is a rattle deep in his chest, the kind Barrons makes when he’s deeply disturbed.

“Have I fallen down a rabbit hole into an alternative reality where you actually have feelings?”

He gives me a feral look and I glimpse fangs. He closes his mouth swiftly, is motionless a moment, then says carefully, “I protect the best and brightest.”

IYCGM, Barrons’s shorthand for If You Can’t Get Me, is a number I can call on my cell phone that Ryodan always answers, but it’s never proved useful. Eyes narrowed, I tell him that.

“Precisely.”

“Do you sit around thinking up things to say to antagonize me?”

“Back at you, babe. When did you see her last.”

Why doesn’t he want her to know he was there that night, following her? Why is he saying Dani didn’t do it? What does he mean by “It’s not what you think”?

Since he’s already refused to answer those questions, I try another. “Why would you deny it if I told her?” When he says nothing, I say, “Quid pro quo, Ryodan. Take it or leave it.”

“There are things Dani doesn’t know about herself,” he says finally. “It’s a delicate situation.”

I frown, not liking the sound of that. “What kind of things? What are you saying?”

“I answered your question. Answer mine.”

I want to find Dani. Now doubly so. Is there something I don’t know about the night Alina died? Something that might change everything? I should have enlisted his help from the beginning. The man has his ways. I sigh. “The night I chased her through a portal into Faery.”

He grits, “Talk. Now.”

By the time we get to Chester’s, we’re not speaking. Hostility is a wall between us. He blames me for chasing her through. He says if she dies, it’s on my head. Like I don’t know that. He insists I go looking for her. I tell him Barrons vetoed that for good reason.

He gets on his cell phone, which shouldn’t work, and barks orders to his men. Says they’re better off in Faery right now than at the club and orders them to start searching for Dani.

Then he’s talking to Barrons and arranging for him to meet us at Chester’s. I don’t like that one bit. I have no doubt he’s putting Barrons in the presence of at least one, perhaps multiple Unseelie Princesses, to encourage me to deal with the situation swiftly. It’s one of his demands with which I intend to fully comply. I’m too starved for Barrons myself to tolerate the idea of another female touching him.

I stalk into Chester’s, hand on my spear, a wave of grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous Unseelie trailing me like a morbid bridal train.

At the top of the chrome and glass stair, the woman pauses and looks down. The air inside Chester’s just altered, charged by the presence of powerful newcomers.

She is highly attuned to subtle nuances from years of training and meditation. She has battled blind and deaf. And won.

These auras are far from subtle.

Three have entered from two different locations. She scans the dance floors, picking them out: there is the one called Ryodan, polished, bestial owner of this club; a second of the Nine known as Barrons, that keeps largely to the shadows¸ collector of antiquities and the most versed of them all in dark magic; and a young, blond woman that leads a small army of Unseelie as black as the shadowy nimbus that surrounds her.

All exude enormous power.

She glances at her bait, nude, perfect, and prime for the hook, then below.

There are possibilities. There are choices.

There is never emotion involved.

Two of the three who’ve entered are on her list but each will be a difficult kill, taxing her many skills, and to attempt it with both present would be suicide.

She plays to win at her choice of time, place, and method.

As they move through the subclubs, approaching her, one from the east, two from the west, she aborts her mission, slips down the stairs and exits Chester’s.

She will reconvene with the others, dispatch tasks for the night, move to the next name on her list.

Once, 939 Rêvemal Street was an elegant aboveground nightclub frequented by Dublin’s young, bored, and beautiful. It’s now a fetish-filled underground orgiastic ball from a Daliesque painting.

The first time I came here was with Dani. It’s gotten a lot worse since then. Or better, depending on who you are and what you want.

For the See-you-in-Faery girls, who call the Fae the new vamps, and will do virtually anything for the high of eating Unseelie flesh, the place is paradise. More Fae stake out their bizarre corner of the sex trade here every night.

As I push into the mass of people, laughing, drinking, eating things I try really hard not to look at, I toss coolly over my shoulder, “How do you justify the number of people who get enslaved and killed here every night in order to grow your damned empire?”

“Like prison camps, the darker side of Chester’s could only be born in a vacuum of morality. I didn’t create that vacuum,” he murmurs behind me, close to my ear. His hand on the small of my back, he steers me around a raucous tangle of mostly naked people.

“But you exploit it. That’s just as bad.”

“We’re all animals. Wolf or sheep. Shark or seal. And some are useless strutting peacocks.”

I don’t dignify his barb with a response. Let him think me a peacock. Better that than the Sinsar Dubh walking.

“I do nothing more than allow my patrons the right to choose which animal they aspire to be. If they say, ‘Excuse me, Mr. Ryodan, may I be lamb to the slaughter?’ I say, ‘Good-the-fuck-riddance. Quit breathing oxygen someone else deserves more.’ ”

“You despise them.”

“I don’t despise them. I despise what any warrior would.”

“Weakness? Not everyone can be as strong as you and me.”

He laughs softly, near my ear, that I put myself in his category. “I despise their willingness to die. Humans come to Chester’s of their own free will. I give them what they want. I’m not responsible for how fucking soulless their wants are.” He closes a hand on my shoulder. “Slow down. You will first determine if there are other princesses in my club. Only when you’ve ascertained there are none will you ascend those stairs.”

I bristle but he’s right. I was hurrying, absorbing nothing. In my haste to eliminate anyone who could chain Barrons to a bed, I’d completely forgotten about searching for additional princesses.

I stop walking and go completely still — well, as still as I can with my train of Unseelie that never interpret my body language correctly slamming into me with soft puffs of yellow dust.

I push them away and permit the carnal madness of the place to wash over me, embrace it, open myself up and seek the lovely, cool sidhe-seer center in my mind.

Use me. I’m better, the Sinsar Dubh purrs.

I let Poe do my talking, refuse to engage. It pounces and runs with any answer I give, no matter how innocuous, like a psychotic ex-boyfriend craving emotional engagement. So long as I keep my mind occupied reciting the complex lines, I can’t hear the Book as well, and it has the added boon of keeping me from replying absently, distracted by external events.

It used to be, when I first arrived in Dublin, that the presence of Fae made me nauseous, some more than others. I felt them in the pit of my stomach, a psychic acid. The afternoon I walked unwittingly into the Dark Zone adjacent to Barrons Books & Baubles, I’d nearly been on my knees puking for the final few blocks.

But repeated exposure to anything desensitizes — repeated exposure to Barrons excluded, of course, which seems to have the opposite effect — and lately on the rare occasions I’ve removed my carefully constructed blockade against the incessant din and reached out to sense Fae, in the absence of crippling nausea, I’ve discovered each caste emits a different frequency.

In the acres of chrome and glass known as Chester’s, beyond what the average human ear can hear, there’s a secret symphony going on. It’s the music of the Fae: the guttural, militant hum of the Rhino-boys; the piercing chime of the tiny, flying, puckish death-by-laughter fairies that look deceitfully like exuberant Tinker Bells; the ominous knell of the red and black uniformed guard that once served Darroc; the siren-song of Dree-lia and her new consort, who looks so much like the deceased Velvet he must be his brother.

I eliminate the diversity of each subclub until only one song remains: Seelie and Unseelie combined.

It’s jarring, cacophonous. It gets on my last nerve. I wonder if they hear it, and if that’s why the dark and light courts tried to eliminate each other all those eons ago — they literally couldn’t stand each other’s music. Humans kill for less.

If I could hear only the Seelie, it would be lovely. The Unseelie alone would be beautiful, too, in an eerie way. But together they chafe, antagonize, instilling and intensifying tension. I wonder how long we have until the light and dark courts war again, ripping apart our world in the process. For the moment, they’re drugged on the endless availability of pleasure to be had. I know better than to think it will last.

I identify various castes and swiftly discard. There’s at least one Unseelie Princess in here, and if I isolate her frequency, I can scan for more.

You’d think it would be so powerful, so unique, it would be easy to find.

It’s not.

I stand there for five solid minutes grasping and coming up empty-handed. I begin to worry she can conceal herself even from me.

Behind me Ryodan and my Unseelie troop grow restless.

“Mac, time’s wasting. What are you doing.”

“I’m working on it. Shush.” I just got a flicker of an anomalous frequency somewhere upstairs. The anomaly fades. Then it seems to be nearing.

“Do you feel something,” Ryodan says suddenly.

Abruptly it vanishes.

“Mac, I feel — ah, fuck, where’d it go.”

I think: What, Ryodan has sidhe-seer senses, too? Impossible. I sink deeper into my center, shed layers of muscle and skin, detach from everything and everyone, block out the world, block out myself. I become primal, ancient sidhe-seer without self, constraint, or definition.

Then there’s something beyond the top of those stairs again, dark, chaotic and pounding, potently seductive, energizing, inflammatory: a version of Wagner’s March of the Valkyries. From Hell. On steroids.

Once I’ve got it burned into my brain, ears attuned for only it, I let the physical world back in, become me again, resettling into flesh and bone.

And I realize why I had such a hard time pinpointing the princess.

I wasn’t tuning myself out.

The same dark march is coming from me.

I open my eyes to find Ryodan watching me intently. “There is only one,” I say, and begin pushing through the crowd.

There’s a simple explanation, I decide as we ascend the stairs, then turn down a long glass corridor. A complete copy of the Sinsar Dubh is inside me. I possess all the Unseelie King’s dark magic and spells from which he created his many castes. I probably sound like each and every one of them at varying times. I just never noticed it before because I had no reason to listen to myself.

Still, as I prepare to place my palm to the right of the door leading into Ryodan’s office, I’m assaulted by a sudden image of whatever’s inside swiveling her head and saying, “Hey, sis, what’s up?” Since the day I arrived in Dublin, I’ve never been entirely certain who and what I am. I understand why Barrons rejects labels. You only know who you are in opposition to something, what you choose to fight for and against. The rest doesn’t matter.

“Wait a minute.” I turn back and am darkly amused to see that even my Unseelie “priests” have abandoned me. They huddle, facing one another, chittering with what almost seems nervous dissension ten feet behind Ryodan, who’s standing half the length of the corridor away from me, allowing no opportunity for the princess to turn him into a mindless sexual slave. I forget what I’m saying, momentarily distracted by that thought. I’m a monogamous woman. I don’t like to share. Yet the idea of this man as a mindless sexual slave is … I shake my head. This is Ryodan, I remind myself.

Then Barrons joins him and eclipses the notion. His eyes are brilliant, his body emanating heat and power. If I pressed my ear to his chest, his heart would be thudding, slow and strong.

“How do you know what’s happening in there if you can’t see inside?” I ask Ryodan. The two-way glass is dark from the outside, transparent only from within.

Ryodan places his cell phone on the floor and slides it across the slick glass floor. It stops at my feet. “Tap the Skull and Crossbones app.”

Of course, he has an app for everything. Figures he’d be able to watch the central hub of his universe from the phone that shouldn’t work, via an otherworldly Wi-Fi network that doesn’t exist.

I open the app, blink once then forget how to. “Oh, my gosh, he’s … that can’t be … holy cow.” My face gets hot.

“Give me a break,” Ryodan says irritably. “And give me my phone back.”

I want to keep it. See what else is on there. I’ve heard rumors there’s a level in this club reserved only for the Nine.

Barrons snorts. Barrons has reason to snort. I got the best one. I glance up and give him a charged look.

Yes, you did.

“Quit procrastinating,” Ryodan says. “And get rid of the bitch. My phone.” He extends his hand.

Not a chance. Not when I’m not sure how the princess will react to me.

I place my palm on the wall and the door whisks aside with a faint hydraulic hiss. Sex slams me in the face, scorching, drugging, volatile.

“I said, my phone.”

I stand at the threshold and look in. The princess has her back to me, and Lor is beyond noticing anything. Ryodan and Barrons are another matter. They’re too observant by far. There is also the small matter of the enormous possessiveness I feel where Barrons is concerned.

I step inside and place my palm on the interior panel.

Two males roar in unison.

“Ms. Lane, you will not close—”

“Mac, you will give me my fucking—”

The door hisses closed behind me.

12

Once I would have thought what was taking place in Ryodan’s office was no more than what it appeared to be: an Unseelie of the royal caste subjugating a human, getting drunk on the pleasure they siphon from our souls. Immortal, jaded, void of anything that passes as passion, Fae royalty is incapable of emotion, but they can experience it through a human vessel. Especially during sex. Or torture. Preferably both at the same time. They either use the human up completely and kill it or leave a shell of a sex-starved slave. Death is the better option there.

But the Unseelie Princes just shocked the hell out of me, proved themselves to be ambitious and goal-oriented, willing to adopt a mien of civility to achieve their aims, and channel what used to be a maelstrom of uncontrolled hunger into deliberated action.

Considering the Fae have always been matriarchal, I have reason to assume the princesses are no less driven or capable of evolving than their dark counterparts. I wonder where they’ve been all this time. Feeding in private? Learning self-discipline and — control? Plotting to take over our world?

She’s not throwing off the whirlwind of insanity and insatiability with which the princes first razed our world when freed from their prison, nor does she seem bent on the vicious, obsessive hunt of the Crimson Hag determined to complete her gut-gown. She appears composed, even dispassionate. I consider that perhaps like human women, she’s not as governed by hormones, or whatever passes as Fae motivation, as the males. Perhaps the genders of any species share certain traits. As far as I know, it’s the female Fae that bears what few young they manage, and may be biologically more pragmatic, to ensure their offspring’s survival. I hope so because I don’t want to kill her. Not now, not here with so many humans in the vicinity. As much as I want her dead, I have to find another way.

Then arrange a safer place to hunt her.

I take a deep, slow breath and release it. “We could cut to the chase,” I say to her beautiful back. Iridescent, sparkling tattoos shimmer on each side of her spine, furling and unfurling as if caressed by a sultry Fae breeze only she can feel. They vaguely resemble wings.

Silver embellishments glitter along her backbone as if she’s adorned her spine with metal piercings, with more of them on each side of her neck. Though immune to Fae thrall, watching Lor do what he’s doing to her is getting me hot and bothered in a purely human way. No wonder the blondes keep lining up at his bed. He’s a massive, lethal lion of muscle, sex, and power. He growls as he grinds up into her, and the sound is so rough and ready, so freaking hot and sexy, that my heart begins to hammer in the back of my throat and my mouth goes dry. I swallow hard and wet my lips before I continue, “What do you want?”

She glances over her shoulder with that telltale inhuman head swivel, assesses and disregards me.

She should take a deeper look.

“Mac, get her the fuck off me,” Lor snarls. Then he groans again, in spite of himself.

“You will not speak,” the princess commands Lor, and just like that he loses control of his vocal cords. Nice talent. I wouldn’t mind having it myself.

“I said, What do you want?” I repeat coldly.

“Nor will you speak,” she hisses over her shoulder at me.

My vocal cords don’t feel any different. I test them by clearing my throat. It works.

Her head swivels again and she rakes an imperious, frosty glance from my boots to my hair. Her hips never stop moving. “What are you?”

“The one not killing you,” I say, working hard to ignore the graphic sex happening right in front of me. “For the moment. What. Do. You. Want.” I push my hair back, not surprised to realize it’s damp, I’m actually sweating from watching them have sex. I’m overdue for some of my own.

“You are not human.”

“I am, too,” I say flatly. I may not be sure of much, but I was born. I was carried in a womb. And infected there.

“My power works on everything but Fae of the royal castes.”

“You didn’t come here to have sex,” I evade. “You could do that anywhere. You came specifically to this club and chose specifically him. Why?” It’s a ballsy move, stalking so openly into Chester’s, alone, targeting one of the Nine and turning him Pri-ya in the owner’s office. Why haven’t we seen any of the princesses before? Cruce claimed all the Seelie were dead. He’d also claimed no Unseelie Princesses were made. Was anything he told me true? Where has she been? Is she newly arrived, jockeying for position by abducting one of the most powerful males in the city?

She wets blue lips and tilts her head to the side. Her eyes darken to inky pools that are suddenly neon cobalt. Beyond long, thick lashes, vertical slitted pupils dilate and shrink, dilate again as if she’s taking my measure with vision humans don’t possess. For a moment I think I glimpse stars in those pupils. She’s different from the princes. There’s a … vastness to her that exceeds theirs.

He made us last. We are his best. Enhanced.

Without thinking, I seek confirmation of that from the only place I could possibly get it.

Yes, open me, read me, it agrees instantly.

I sigh, resuming my chant, imagining Poe would enjoy that although his narrator was unable to silence the bird, his poem silences my book.

But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door …

The princess’s eyes narrow, as if she hears my inner dialogue but can make no sense of it.

“Cruce said he was the king’s last,” I say. “And best.”

“There are things Cruce does not know. Where is our brother?”

“Dead,” I lie.

“Did you kill him?”

“Yes,” I say.

There go the pupils again, dilating, narrowing. “It seems you would offer aid. I am unconvinced you possess anything that may interest us.”

“Perhaps we share common desires.” Where did this cold place inside me come from? Is it because I sat with my rapists tonight and made pacts? Or because I know how much I have to lose if I don’t stay cold? “I have a great deal to offer. If the price is right. It’s you who may not have enough to barter with.”

She gathers a fall of blood-black hair from her face, twists it into a long tail then knots it at her nape before disengaging and sliding gracefully from the desk.

I can’t help but stare at what she left behind. What hot-blooded woman wouldn’t? Lor is chained naked to a desk, legs spread, affording me a gloriously intimate view. He’s magnificent. A tall, massively muscled Viking with thick blond hair and not one spec of it on his body. Though his abdomen and thighs are crisscrossed with scars, the rest of his skin is sleek and velvety as the head of his—Stop staring!

I drag my gaze away, force it to the princess.

“I do not barter with humans. I command. But you have … Hmmm, you have something … What is it you have?”

I say nothing. Reveal nothing. I’ve learned from the best. I meet and hold her gaze, expressionless.

Time spins out. Finally she says, “The Unseelie Princes, fools that they are, think to rule this world.” She spits on the floor. “We came to enslave this male and use it as our weapon because the dark princes are immune to our ways. Word reached us it can kill things that are difficult to kill, even our brothers. Fae magic is matriarchal. The light princesses are dead. This world is ours.”

I realize if she came for Lor to eliminate her competition, rather than Dani or me, she must not know about the spear and sword. “This world belongs to us,” I say. “If you try to take it from us, it will be war.”

“A war you will lose.”

“Try me.”

Nude, she begins to pad a slow, predatory circle around me. I turn with her and she laughs.

“No, you most certainly do not wish one such as we unseen behind your back.”

“Nor do you wish me unseen behind yours,” I purr.

She laughs again and it’s a caress to my ears. She’s amped up her death-by-sex Fae heat. I feel it expanding around her, yet it doesn’t touch me.

When I don’t respond, her eyes widen, her mouth shapes a perfect, lush O of surprise. The sexual energy she’s channeling pulses hotter. On the desk, Lor bucks and strains against the chains.

I wonder if I could somehow accept the energy she’s so generously (foolishly?) throwing off, while rejecting the sexual component. As I consider it, she pads to a stop in front of me. We’re the same height. She leans in as if to kiss me.

“Oh, what are you, you delicious thing,” she says, and wets her lips. “Not like them, not like us yet like us. You smell of …” She trails off and stops in front of me, sniffing deeply, leaning into my neck. I don’t move. I feel her snuffling at my throat. “Oh, yes, I like that smell very much but there is … something … it is most …”

She’s definitely unaware I have the spear. I wonder if she even knows such weapons exist. She seems oddly out of the loop.

She recoils like a cobra, drawing up to her full height, back arched away, eyes narrowing, and hisses, “Oh! You smell of them. We will not go back. It finished with us. It said so. We will never go back.”

She vanishes.

“About fucking time you got rid of her.” Lor recovers his voice with a snarl. He sounds hoarse, from hours of yelling.

I stand, blinking at her sudden, unexpected disappearance.

She shouldn’t have been able to sift out of the club. Then again, she shouldn’t have been able to get inside in the first place. Either Ryodan’s wards aren’t working or she’s beyond their compulsion.

I frown, trying to decide what she thinks I smell like that drove her away so completely. There are multiple possibilities. The stain of her brothers’ rape lingering on my soul? The green goo of the Gray Woman I butchered? Perhaps she detects the sworn enemy of the Fae, my sidhe-seer sisters on my skin, in my blood. Or maybe the oily residue of the Unseelie that stalk me who — as if summoned by that last thought — swiftly begin popping, one after another, into the room with me, crushing close, giving Lor wide berth. Apparently it was the princess they were avoiding. I wish I knew why. I’d make Eau d’Unseelie Princess perfume of her flesh and spray myself with it if I thought it might work.

She said “them,” so obviously it wasn’t the singularity of the Book she sensed inside me, and that she would not go back. Go back where? And who’d put her there to begin with?

On the desk, Lor makes a sound of such raw sexual need that I shiver. “Mac,” he growls. “I need. Get your ass over here.”

Pri-ya is a hellish thing to be. It reduces you to a whimpering, broken, pathetic sex addict that will do anything for anyone at any time. I have memories I’ve interred deep. Places in my mind I’ll never visit again.

Whimpering and broken are the key words there.

“What do you need, Lor?” I say dryly.

“What the fuck do you think I need? Sex. Constantly. I’ll die if I don’t have it all the time. I’m Pri-ya.”

“Hm. Pri-ya.”

“Sure as shit, the bitch made me Pri-ya. You saw her. I had an Unseelie Princess on top of me. My dick hurts so bad it’s gonna explode. I need sex. I can’t live without it. This is torture. So either get on it, or find me a hot blond babe that will. Which is any hot blond babe in the club,” he adds cheerfully.

I like Lor. He’s aggressive, domineering, and part caveman, but he doesn’t have a cruel bone in his body, and he flat-out adores women and children. I sometimes think if the other eight weren’t around, Lor would be a very different man.

Leave it to him to try to capitalize on the princess’s visit, use it as an excuse to spend the next few months in bed, receiving a steady stream of women whose sole purpose is to have sex with him 24/7.

I know what Pri-ya looks like — and he’s not it. Though part of her magic somehow worked on him, the Nine are apparently impossible to turn Pri-ya. I wonder if they’re too basely sexual to begin with. Perhaps the charge they throw off cancels out her sexuality, or at least dampens the full effect of it. I decide I’ll stick close to Barrons until I figure out how to get rid of her and if there are others out there. She might not have turned Lor into a permanent slave, but a temporary one is bad enough. Deep in my sidhe-seer center, I activate an antenna of sorts to listen at all times for the gothic, dark march of the princess.

I move toward the door. Ryodan can unchain Lor. I’m not getting close to the man while he’s naked. He told me once he prefers a club over a woman’s head because charm wastes energy better spent fucking, and I believe him. Although I see no club in the office, there are other heavy objects.

“Aw, c’mon, Mac,” he says, sounding aggrieved, “would it really kill you to let them think I’m Pri-ya? What have I ever done to you? Tonight was traumatic. Bitch actually made me call her ‘mistress.’ I need some good old-fashioned fucking to ease my pain. Maybe a sexy ‘Yes, master’ or two. Or two hundred. What’s wrong with that?”

I raise my palm and prepare to press it to the wall.

“Seriously, honey, I promise I’ll only take a few weeks to get better. I won’t drag it out. I’m sitting on the jackpot right now. I’ll do something for you. Anything. Name it. Well, not anything. But there’s gotta be something you want.”

I smile and retract my hand before it touches the panel.

Five minutes later I open the door and shake my head, tears welling in my eyes.

“We didn’t get to him in time,” I tell Ryodan. “She’s gone but I was too late. She’d already turned him Pri-ya. Send all the blondes you can spare to take him somewhere private. Hurry. And I wouldn’t go near him if I were you. It’s not pretty. You won’t want to remember him this way.”

“She can turn us Pri-ya.” Ryodan says.

“Afraid so.”

There’s a bounce in my step as I rejoin Barrons. I got what I wanted tonight, after all. A favor owed from one of the Nine is worth its weight in pure Faery dust. And now I finally get to go have sex with Barrons, and from the way he’s looking at me, it’s going to be one seriously long, hot night.

“You’re going the wrong way,” Ryodan says behind us.

I glance over my shoulder. “What do you mean? We’re going back to the bookstore. I did what you asked. I got rid of her.”

“You just told me she can turn us Pri-ya, and our wards don’t prevent her from sifting while within the walls of my club. You will remain in residence, guarding against all princesses until we resolve the situation. You’ll find ample quarters in that direction.” He points the other way. “Perhaps you’ll do what you should have done this time, and kill her next time.”

My bounce vanishes “You didn’t tell me to kill her.”

“It was self-evident.”

“No, it wasn’t,” I say pissily. “I took a page from your negotiating-with-the-princes book. And you sent all the others into Faery. They’re not even here to protect.”

“I’m still here.”

I look up at Barrons, who stopped walking and is regarding me intently, eyes narrowed. He looks as if he’s about to speak, debates, folds his arms and says nothing.

“You could stand up for me,” I grouse. “Tell him we’re going back to the store, period.”

He smiles faintly. “It would hardly be fair if you ‘protected’ only me.”

His light emphasis on the word “protected” gives him away. No idea how, but he knows I lied. And he’s amused. And he’s going to sit back and watch it play out, see how stuck I get in the sticky spiderweb I’ve begun to spin.

Guess he really is sick of my “idiotic passivity.”

So am I.

But as I learned today, it’s way the hell better than idiotic activity.

Confined to Chester’s with no escape from my carrion stalkers, forced to contend with Ryodan on a daily basis, surrounded by monsters, inhabited by a monster, I’m afraid there’s more of it coming.

13

She needs to kill.

Purpose is strength and hers was impeded tonight.

No matter, when one avenue is blocked, another is revealed.

There are two on her list in the direction she’s headed. They will be dispatched differently than her prior intended target, swiftly, with more mercy than they deserve. Though their crimes are many, unlike the Unseelie she seeks, they are human. She eliminates humans quickly.

She takes no pleasure in the kill. There is satisfaction in seeing debts collected, ledgers balanced. There are those she will protect at any cost.

As she turns a corner and enters a dimly lit street, her gaze lifts to the shattered streetlamp, then down to lightly misted cobblestones and back up again.

She pauses to absorb the scene: the Unseelie blood dripping from the jagged glass that housed the light; the many pieces of unmoving Fae flesh tossed in a heap; the small pile of human parts with wilted flowers placed carefully on top; the footsteps in the scattered debris, trails of blood and smears of green that map out movements.

She moves closer. Someone placed the human’s picture ID on top of the flowers so he would be found and identified, bestowing the blessing of closure so those who cared might not wonder endlessly if their husband or father might one day walk in the door again.

If not for the blossoms, she would think it an act of vengeance, not compassion.

A killer followed by a merciful passerby?

She closes her eyes, analyzes, assesses, processes all she saw and factors in what she has come to understand about humans and monsters in her years of war. Working methodically, logically, she re-creates the events that transpired in this street.

She eliminates the possibility of two separate actors. This was the work of one.

Someone killed a Fae and butchered a human by accident in the process.

Someone killed her Fae.

If she felt, which she doesn’t, her emotions would run the gamut from stunned to furious.

Neither disrupts her serene features.

Someone else adjusted her ledgers.

She wants to know who.

She steps closer to the pile of Unseelie flesh, notes the suckered fingers, the gray skin.

The individual spear wounds in each small piece by which the dismembered-yet-still-alive Unseelie was granted death.

From the shape of the wounds, she knows the killer.

Her name is also on her list.

She covets the weapon. Once she has acquired it, she will be unstoppable.

She lifts her head. A Fae is moving toward her, rapidly. Powerful. Unseelie. She has been hunting this one but not to kill.

“You wish the Unseelie Princes dead,” she says to the night. She knows the night is always listening. “I will do it for you. But you must do something for me.”

She finds it necessary to repeat herself three times before the princess with ice-white skin and cobalt hair appears in the damp street before her.

“What makes you think I won’t kill you where you stand?” Imperial ice drips from the princess’s words.

“Perhaps you could. Perhaps you couldn’t. Perhaps you could use an ally in this city whose strengths chink your weaknesses. Perhaps we both could. Not that either of us have many weaknesses. Still, there are those few. You and your brother princes are immune to one another, powerless to spell or destroy one another. I deem that a significant weakness.”

Starry eyes narrow as the princess takes her measure.

Jada says, “There is the devil that can’t get the job done and won’t eat you, and the devil that can get the job done but might. We are both the latter. I agree not to eat you.”

The princess’s eyes narrow and she appears to be reconsidering her initial assessment. “Perhaps we can aid one another. If the price is acceptable.”

“You will locate a certain Unseelie for me.” She tells her the one she seeks.

“Even I do not approach that one,” the princess hisses.

“Then I will not kill your brothers.”

“It is impossible!”

“I said ‘locate,’ not kill. That is the price. It is non-negotiable.”

“How do you think to kill the princes? You are human.”

“I know where to obtain a weapon that kills Fae.”

“There is no such thing.”

“There is.”

“All Fae?”

“Yes.”

“And you can get this weapon?”

“Yes.”

The princess is silent a time, then finally says, “Perhaps you have useful knowledge. I will not kill you tonight. You will show me this weapon and demonstrate its power.”

“You will locate the one I seek first. Then you will take me there.”

“Locate. That is all.”

“Both. Or nothing.”

“That would be two services rendered. The weapon becomes mine.”

“Two princes for two services,” she says flatly.

Ancient, cold eyes regard her. She is acutely aware of the precariousness of the moment. But one that fails to venture never gains.

Finally the princess says, “In times of war allies are useful.”

“I will offer my services for your future needs. The weapon will be part of those services.”

“I will consider it.” The princess vanishes.

14

My gift, if you can call it that, is an empathetic heart. I began crying the moment I was born and wept until I was five years, three months, and seventeen days old — the afternoon Rowena came to my parents’ house and began teaching me to shield myself from the constant barrage of others’ emotions.

I often think I’ve learned nothing, except how to stop crying, don a mask, and pretend the world isn’t too much for me to bear.

I know how fragile we are, how biased the war that rages on this planet where the angels are made of glass and the demons of concrete. All you have to do is drop one of us and we shatter.

Last night I watched Sean across the dangerous expanse of a treaty table and realized our love is glass, too. I must become diamond dust to strengthen the mix.

In the days preceding the Hoar Frost King’s defeat, Margery enlisted Ryodan’s aid to tether a dangerous, drifting fragment of Faery that was about to demolish our abbey, and the price Ryodan called due from me the night I went to pay our debt was Sean filling in as a waiter at Chester’s for a time.

So the dominos began to fall.

Sean can’t bear to watch people suffering any more than I, and confronted by those in need, he became their provider. It’s a strength I admire with all my heart.

Yet it’s also the same treacherous foundation upon which both our families were built. Our fathers possessed an enormous sense of responsibility for their own. And their own came to them with problems and requests, each more difficult to address, to satisfy, than the last.

Over time, it corrupted them. The lime of murder, the viscosity of revenge, cemented the blood in their hearts until they, too, were poured of concrete.

I move through the dance floors of Chester’s with purpose, my shields as high as I can raise them, yet I cannot block the immense loneliness of this densely crowded place, the hunger and despair, desperation and need. So many angels, so many cracks. They don’t even require dropping, a fair jostle would do the trick.

I have the care of two hundred seventy-one women in Dublin. The eldest, Tanty Anna, my wise, gentle, ancient advisor whose eyes seemed to stare straight into heaven, is a month dead, murdered by the Crimson Hag. Christian paid the ultimate price for our freedom that night and I’m powerless to help save him. One of my younger charges, Dani, enormously gifted and enormously impulsive, has been missing for weeks now, and I fear the worst. Margery seethes and plots daily to take the reign I would gratefully relinquish, just not to her.

My soul mate has assumed charge of the black market and put himself in direct competition with two Unseelie Princes and a ruthless male that defies quantifying.

Now there are new sidhe-seers in Dublin, led by a woman not even Ryodan has been able to track. I’ve never felt so inept in my life. I want to rebuild my abbey. I want to fill the walls a thousand strong again. I want the strength of concrete without the price of it.

When I came here months ago, seeking Ryodan to repay my debt, he said a thing I’ve been unable to stop thinking about: Drop your blinders and raise the sewer to eye level; admit you’re swimming in shit. If you don’t acknowledge the turd hurtling down the drain toward you, you can’t dodge it.

I’ve come to get out of the toilet bowl and become the commode that flushes the shit.

The fragment of a Faery fire-world I prayed was responsible for the grass that grows tall and green beyond my bedroom window, directly above Cruce’s icy prison, is gone now, yet the meadow is more verdant than before, exploding with poppies, red, fat, bobbing, opium-drenched blossoms that drug my senses on warm evenings when the projection of a great, black-winged prince circles my bed.

I have warded him out of my tangle of linens with blood-magic, an art I’d sworn never to practice, a line I wouldn’t cross.

But it is no longer only myself I must protect.

Elaborate golden trellises have pushed up from the earth all over the abbey’s grounds, draped with black roses that reek of exotic spices and far-off lands.

Dozens of standing stones have appeared in the gardens, etched with symbols I can’t read. A pair of megaliths awaits a cover stone to become a dolmen. It makes me shiver when I pass.

Pearl benches frame a vast, brilliant, many-tiered fountain in which water sparkles as turquoise as a Caribbean sea.

Animals I’ve never seen before peek at me from trees fringed with lacy vines that grow strange beyond our walls, shedding brown bark for ivory threaded with silver, sprouting low-hanging canopies of sapphire leaves.

The floors in my section of the abbey are changing from stone to polished gold.

At night I hear male laughter echoing down our halls and corridors. The lights within our walls glow soft gold day and night, without electricity to source them. Our fires blaze, without wood to feed them. Our generators run only a small number of lamps. We removed the bulbs. Still they glow. Something unholy powers the rest.

Cruce is changing our home, taking it over, and I know it’s only a matter of time before the jailer is evicted by the jailed, Paradise lost.

We talk of it amongst ourselves but so far have said nothing to outsiders. This is our home, for many of us the only good one we’ve known. If we do not find a way to stop the transformation, we will be forced to leave.

Soon.

We are not yet ready to admit defeat.

If we are driven forth, who will watch the abbey? Will we sit idly beyond its walls, praying the prisoner never breaks free?

I cradle my belly with one hand protectively. I’ve not yet begun to show. I devote most of my energy to shielding it. I must secure our future.

When I reach the bottom of the glass stairs in the glass house that the concrete demon Ryodan calls home, he is waiting for me.

But of course.

“Why did you lie about Sean?” I ask him.

“I didn’t lie. You sewed my words into a cloth of your choosing. If you’ll recall, I urged you to talk to him that night. Had you heeded my advice, you would have known, soul mates and all, confiding everything.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“Don’t make it so easy.”

“You said you were collecting my debt from him.”

“I said I was willing to accept the replacement of a missing server as full payment, and let you off the hook.”

“And put me on another.”

“You chose to become the worm. A little conversation goes a long way, Katarina. You’ve still not told Sean that Cruce fucks you in your dreams.”

I say nothing and he laughs.

“Yet here you are. Seeking me again. Come for more answers to which you won’t listen. I only waste my breath once. Leave.” I remain where I am.

He sweeps me with that cool silver gaze and arches a brow. “Be very certain you know what you’re doing, Katarina,” he warns softly. “If you ask something of me, I will not stop until I feel the request has been satisfied. As I deem fit.”

I fix on two words he uttered. “You do not feel.”

“It’s you, my ever-serene cat, that fails to feel, denying at your own peril the hunger of your heart.”

“Nor do you know anything of the heart, mine or any others.”

“State your cause. I have pressing matters to attend.”

I stare up into the face of the man that does not exist, that according to my empathic senses is not even standing there, and choose my words with care. I can proceed with nothing less than one hundred percent commitment to my course, and am fully aware this path will make or break me. I wish I could predict which one it will be, but I’m untested, unproven.

I resist the urge to cradle my abdomen. I must not telegraph in front of this man. I must become something else. He has a bold hand and a sharp chisel. The clay has chosen the sculptor. This male, whatever he is, possesses power beyond my humble skills. He and his men know what I do not: how to protect what is theirs. They are ruthless and hard. And successful.

If I think to care for my charges, for my child, I must learn to be similarly successful.

“I’ve come to acknowledge the turd.”

He smiles. “It’s about time, Katarina.”

I suffered my father’s disappointment mere days after I was born, although at the time I didn’t know it for what it was, only that I was rejected and alone. As the years passed, his anger and disgust at the useless daughter he couldn’t barter away to further cement his position grew so oppressive, I learned to avoid him whenever possible. My mother’s greed and impatience, shallowness and fear, were my childhood companions.

Then there was Sean, with whom I grew, who loved me, uncomplicated from the first, even as I wept. Still, it’s often difficult to bear the nuances of his every emotion. Filet mignon or rib eye, we’re all imperfect cuts, marbled by fears and insecurities, even the best of men.

As we move deeper into Chester’s, the barrage of chaotic emotions begins to subside, affording me a rare and blessed respite: the volume of the world’s endless sensations has been reduced from a ten to a four. We navigate one glass corridor after the next, and I wonder that he leads me so deep into his club where others are not permitted. After a time, he glides his palm over a smooth glass wall and an elevator appears.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask as the elevator door closes, sealing me in a much too small compartment with a much too large man. I feel like Dante, descending into the inferno, but I have no Roman poet as my guide.

“From this moment on, any questions are mine. Assuming you wish to be concrete, without the price.”

I stare up at him. How can he possibly know that? “You can read minds.”

“Human thoughts are loud. We take what’s offered. Humans offer too much. Of everything.”

“What are you going to do? Teach me to fight?” I glance down at my slender arms. Though strong from gardening, milking, and working our land, I doubt I possess the ability to hurt another human being. I would feel their pain. I don’t invite that.

“Not me.”

He escorts me from the elevator into the most blissfully silent corridor I’ve ever walked. I turn in a slow circle, listening but hearing nothing. This level must be powerfully soundproofed. There’s no faint beat of music, not even white noise, only the perfect absence of sound. “Who, then?”

He guides me down the hall with a hand at the small of my back, opens another door, and we step into a dimly lit, long room with faintly illuminated rectangles that lead to additional rooms beyond.

There are no furnishings here. No table, sofa, rug, or chair. The floors are polished ebony. The walls are ivory. A diffuse glow emanates from the perimeter of high, coffered ceilings with stamped leather insets above Romanesque cove moldings. There are large corbels on two of the walls, as if once treasures were displayed. The room is refined.

The occupant is not.

A man is stretched on the floor, staring up, arms crossed behind his head. Like the rest of Ryodan’s men, he is tall, wide, powerfully muscled, scarred, and not there. He wears black camouflage pants low at his hips, feet bare. His arms are tattooed, his head nearly shaved, his face shadowed dark with stubble. He looks like a rogue military commander from a unit the world never hears about.

“Kasteo will be your instructor.”

I stare at him in disbelief. Jo has told me tales of the Nine, though they’ve been of little use. Kasteo is the one that does not speak. According to Jo, something transpired a long time ago and he hasn’t uttered a word since.

“Is this your idea of a joke? He doesn’t talk!”

“You don’t listen. Match made in heaven.” Ryodan stalks over to Kasteo and looks down at him. “Kasteo will be your instructor,” he says again, but this time it’s an order and a warning to the man on the floor. “The woman feels the pain of the world. You’ll teach her to stop feeling it. Then you will help her learn to control her environment. Finally, you will teach her to fight.”

Kasteo, of course, says nothing. I’m not certain he even heard. He appears in a trance, elsewhere.

Ryodan walks to the door. “You’ll remain with him until I decide you’ve gotten what you came for.” The door closes behind him, and I stand there a moment, staring blankly at it, then at Kasteo.

I rush to the door and place my palm to the wall where Ryodan pressed it, but nothing happens.

I hammer on the door. “Ryodan! I must return to the abbey! Ryodan, let me out!”

The only response is the most enormous silence I’ve ever heard.

“This is not what I meant!”

I hammer until my fists are bruised.

“Ryodan, you can’t do this! My charges need me! There are things you don’t know! I came here to tell you!”

I feel as if I’m in the bowels of the earth, forgotten.

I shout until my throat burns.

The man on the floor never stirs.

I’m unable to count the passage of time in this silent, empty place.

After a length of it, I sink to the floor and lean back against the wall, one hand resting lightly on my belly.

Surely he’ll feed me.

Surely there is a bathroom here somewhere.

Surely he’ll come back so I can convey to him the urgent state of our abbey.

I sit and stare like the unmoving, unblinking man on the floor. After a time, I become aware of the simplicity of the moment. Not only is there no sound on this level, there seems to be a dearth of emotion.

Cautiously, I lower the shields I’ve held since I was five years old, barriers that have shut out the world, and walled me in.

Nothing.

Again, I lower, lower. When I continue to encounter nothing, I take a deep breath, brace myself, and drop them flat.

I gasp.

Still — nothing!

I feel no anger or greed, no lust or fear or pain or need. That’s always the worst for me: the many crushing, painful needs that can never be satisfied. Here, deep below Chester’s, there is absolutely no emotion charging the air, compressing me, forcing me into a defensive posture.

It’s sublime. My heart can breathe.

For the first time in my life, I feel only me.

I didn’t even know what I felt like.

For the first time in my life, I can hear myself think.

15

I hear music in my dreams. I heard such exquisite melodies during my teens that one day I decided I was fated to be a brilliant composer, put songs to paper, and share them with the world. I joined the band that very day. I even signed up for extra classes and asked Mom and Dad to hire a tutor to help me learn to read and write sheet music. I plunged into the world of an aspiring musician with enormous enthusiasm, certain of my predestined success.

In less than a month my tutor stalked out of our house and refused to come back, and the high school band director asked me to please do the entire band a favor: quit.

I have no musical talent.

My clarinet sounded like an apoplectic yak. For the brief days I blew the trumpet, a hostile-sounding pig snorted along in jerky fits and starts with the rest of the irritated band. I never knew when a sound was actually going to come out of the horn and it always startled me when it did. My violin unleashed a trio of enraged, tone-deaf banshees, and I couldn’t blow the flute well enough to make any more sound than with my lower lip on a soda bottle. Something about the pucker eluded me. The drums turned my arms into a pretzel-prison from which there was no escape. I would have given the tambourine a try — I really think I might have excelled at the hip-bump — but sadly the instrument wasn’t offered at my school. I think that’s why I love my iPod so much. I have music in my soul and can’t get it out.

This morning, like the two before it, the melody of my subconscious has been different. Three mornings in a row I’ve awakened with the strains of a symphony fading from my mind that is beyond horrific. Last night was the worst yet, as if I’m becoming attuned to it, hearing it louder, feeling it more intensely.

My psyche is bruised, my spine hot, and my stomach cramped. The new song is unlike any of the others I’ve heard in my dreams. It doesn’t leave me glowing, feeling uplifted and free, nor do I see dreamy, fantastic images while it plays.

I can use none of my usual vocabulary to describe it. I lie in bed with my head under the covers, trying to figure out what was so disturbing about the melody that I woke with pillows clenched to my ears, arms aching from the strain of having held them there half the night.

I search for words: scary? No. Worse.

Depressing? No. Worse.

Capable of making me insane if I had to listen to it too long?

Worse.

Is there worse than insane?

I roll over and poke my head from beneath the mound of pillows and blankets. I’m alone in bed, which I often am, at least while I’m sleeping, since Barrons doesn’t require it.

However, I am not alone in the room.

Without the wards on the bookstore to keep them at bay — Barrons said it would take weeks to collect more of the necessary ingredients — my grim stalkers huddle close, pressed to three sides of the bed, on the fourth roosting atop the headboard, bony shoulders hunched upward, swallowing their heads and necks. Two crouch on the bed right next to me. My pajamas have cobwebs on them. I’ve been sleeping in pj’s, not about to risk being unconscious, nude around any Unseelie.

Needless to say, sex hasn’t been happening here. Although when Barrons is touching me, or even just next to me, I enjoy the same wide berth they grant him, I don’t get off on being an exhibitionist, at least not to Unseelie.

Not only am I bitchy, bored, and too powerful for my own good, I don’t get to vent on Barrons’s big, hard body, and I’m massively overdue for it. I’m beginning to think it’s all some part of the universe’s conspiracy to see just what it takes to make MacKayla Lane snap.

Like a wake of vultures, every last one of them is facing me, peering down.

Well, in as much as they might face me, peering down, considering I’ve never seen beneath those voluminous hoods and can’t even say whether they have faces or eyes. I used to think they were clothed. They’re not. The dusty, cobwebbed, cowled cloaks they wear have the texture of black chicken skin and are part of them.

Ryodan said they were the caste that once attended the king in his private chambers. Do they stalk me — not because the Book within me deliberately summoned them — but because, like K’Vruck, they sense me as part of the king they once served? If so, when the king takes the Book out of me, they should vanish, too.

At the moment they’re mute. Not a chitter, not a rustle.

I find their silence nearly as disturbing as the dark symphony of my dreams. Had it gotten so loud they could hear it in my head? Did it button the lips of even my loquacious tormentors?

I wonder if, like the vultures they resemble, they, too, have highly corrosive stomach acid that makes them capable of digesting putrid carcasses infected with bacteria and parasites dangerous to their species.

At least they don’t vomit like vultures when threatened or urinate straight down their legs to cool themselves and kill the bacteria they pick up wading through rotting corpses.

Good the fuck morning to me.

It’s a broody one, as usual.

“Back up, you bastards,” I mutter, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed.

They don’t. They brush against my pajama bottoms, leaving it covered with cobwebs and yellow dust.

I can’t get back to BB&B fast enough. At least there I slept in peace, got to have sex, and woke in a room free of vermin.

I perch on the edge of the mattress, staring up at my flock. The Sinsar Dubh said they were my “priests” and that I could command them. I know better than to trust the Sinsar Dubh and I worry that if I issue even one tiny command such as, “Get the hell away from me and that’s an order,” the Book will somehow own a piece of my soul.

Or maybe if you start ordering this caste around, it antagonizes them so much they eat you. Or perhaps they’ll start vomiting and pissing, and then I’ll be walking around all the time in upchuck and urine, stinking of three different things instead of a single bad smell.

One thing I do know is things can always get worse, most often at the precise moment you’ve decided they can’t.

And so I remain, as Barrons would pithily say, idiotically passive.

I sigh and begin to dress, thinking I might kill for a Starbucks, heavy on the espresso.

I lose sense of time in Chester’s. There are no windows, and if you stay there a while it messes with your circadian rhythm. I think I’ve been here three nights now, listening for the music of an Unseelie Princess, and trying to figure out how to get past Ryodan’s wards and explore the many secrets of Chester’s.

Time and again I’ve turned around and walked away rather than call on something inside me to push past a particularly sticky spot, allowing the Book no opportunity to goad me.

I lost two and a half hours in the street that afternoon and have no idea what the Book did with me. I don’t know if I spent all of it torturing and killing, or — I terminate that thought. No point in going there. It’s done. I can’t undo it. I can only never let it happen again. Brooding about it will only make me feel worse, and when I feel my worst is when the Sinsar Dubh talks the most.

As I round the perimeter balustrade and approach the top of the stairs, flanked by my gaunt ghouls, I realize it must be early morning, as the club is empty except for the many waiters and waitresses wiping things down. I hope they use antibacterial cleanser because virtually every horizontal surface gets used as a bed at some point. There are only a few hours when the dance floors are deserted. Ryodan closes the doors at dawn and doesn’t reopen to the public until eleven A.M. I’ve heard that’s when he gives his infamous nod to some woman and takes her upstairs. I’ve also heard that for an uncommonly long time it’s been the sidhe-seer, Jo. Really, how much of a relationship can she think they’re having when he’s still “selecting” her every morning?

As if I’ve summoned the event merely by thinking of it, I turn the corner to see Ryodan standing at the top of the stairs, looking down.

Lucky me. I get to witness the nod. Woohoo. Could my morning get any better?

I stop abruptly and bony vultures pile into my back. They’re still silent. It creeps me out.

I glance down to my right, past the railing. There’s Jo, looking up, waiting. I wonder again what the hell he thinks he’s doing with her. What she thinks she’s doing with him. Anyone can see they’re no match. Anyone can predict how this disaster will end. One morning Ryodan will walk to the stairs.

He’ll look down and Jo will look up.

And Ryodan will look beyond her, to some other woman, and nod.

Jo will never share his bed again.

Barrons and his men are something else. I may not care for Ryodan, we have baggage between us, but I have to admit any woman takes one look at him and wonders. And wants. It’s visceral. You know that when one of the Nine gets down to fucking, your world is about to get rocked like never before. And like it never will again. Unless you become a Nine groupie. Which I can honestly say might have its merits.

If I was Jo, and it was Barrons at the top of these stairs, what would I do? Like Jo, would I choose to take what I could get of the hottest, dirty, intense sex and passion I’d ever experience, and deem it worth a shattered heart?

There’s no question it will break hers.

I see the hunger in her face. I see the light in her eyes as she gazes up at him. I see the tenderness and the desire and need in every line of her body.

It’s not there in his.

He’s untouched by her. She burns for him.

I want to grab him, shake him, demand he stop before he destroys her. I want to grab her, shake her, demand she stop before she’s destroyed.

I hold my breath in silence. It’s not my place to choose for Jo a path I’m not sure I’d be willing to walk myself.

Life is short. At the buffet of it, who doesn’t want the best dessert?

Ryodan nods, Jo’s cue to toss her cleaning rag and race up the stairs into his arms. They’ll pass me and disappear into his office or a nearby bedroom, and I’ll go downstairs and pilfer precious eggs from the Nine’s private kitchen, whip up an omelet, and break into their espresso machine. Maybe even find some milk to add to my coffee. Oh, happy day.

Jo holds Ryodan’s gaze for a long moment.

Her lashes drop to shield her eyes.

Slowly she turns her back on him and resumes wiping tables.

I gape, stunned.

Nothing against Jo, but I didn’t think she had it in her. I want to leap up on the rail and cheer her choice to pull the plug before the bathwater drowns her.

Ryodan stands unmoving, looking down at Jo’s back.

I begin to inch backward, feeling suddenly like the voyeur I am, in no mood to be caught at it.

Jo turns around and looks up at him. I know what she wants to see. She’ll never find it on that implacable face. I want to shout at her to turn away again. Stop mining for gold where there is none. I tear my gaze from her and glance back at Ryodan.

Again, I gape. That’s me, the flapping jaw this morning.

I didn’t expect this. Not from him.

He drops his head forward in a gesture of sorrow and lets it hang a moment. Then he inclines it slowly in acceptance and respect, and I see the tension in Jo’s body ease a little when he acknowledges her as a valued loss.

I hold my breath, waiting for the bastard to nod to the next woman. The waitresses are all staring hungrily up, bristling with excitement that the boss’s bed is once again open and their lives just got so much more thrilling. Some other lucky woman is about to get her world rocked and lord it over all the other waitresses until she, too, is rejected. She won’t care. It’s a status symbol. Like the disgusting Unseelie roaches they invite beneath their skin as fat burners.

Ryodan turns from the railing and is abruptly walking directly for me.

There goes my jaw again. I might need to muzzle myself to keep it in place this morning.

I search his face, trying to read it.

“Don’t mine for gold where there is none, Mac.”

“Stay out of my head.”

“Wouldn’t be so easy to get in there if it wasn’t so empty.”

“Jackass.” I scowl at his back as he vanishes down the hall.

I’m heading up the stairs after breakfast when Barrons opens the door to Ryodan’s office and inclines his head, motioning me in. I didn’t know he was back. I suck in a breath. I wonder if we can evade Ryodan’s radar and slip off to the bookstore. For heaven’s sake, I’d take fifteen minutes. Anything would help. Part of his neck is now tattooed and I wonder what he’s been up to while I was sleeping.

A good-looking kid stands inside. Tall, lean, and lanky, with thick dark hair that hasn’t been cut in a while and beautiful aqua eyes behind glasses, I put him at about eighteen to twenty. He has a sort of brainy Canterbury scholar look, even in jeans and a blue tee-shirt. He gives me an appraising once-over as I step inside, then cocks his head as if processing some anomaly.

“Tell her what you told us,” Ryodan says to the kid, closing the door on my ghoulish procession. I don’t tell him it’s pointless. He’ll figure it out soon enough.

The kid says to me, “Who are you? And why do you smell so bad? Don’t you have showers in this place? I can hook one up for you.”

I have to unclench my jaw to answer. “I’m Mac. Who are you?”

The kid whistles soft and low. “Ah, so you’re the one who broke her heart.”

I don’t ask her-who. I don’t want to go there.

The kid goes there anyway. “Dani calls out your name when she sleeps. A lot. Sometimes Alina.”

Ryodan seems to suddenly expand and saturate the air like Barrons does. “You won’t be hearing it again. Dani sleeps at Chester’s now.”

I say nothing, keep my mask on.

“She doesn’t sleep anywhere lately, old dude. Thought we established that last time you came calling. And the first time. And the twentieth time.”

“Kid, you want to be careful around me.”

“Ditto,” the kid says mildly. “Old dude.”

“You haven’t seen her either?” I ask hastily, trying to stave off a completely unmatched battle.

“Nope,” the kid replies. “But she’s disappeared before, like I told the boss man here. And his lackeys. And his lackeys’ lackeys. I hate it when she does this.”

I almost smile. He calls Ryodan’s men lackeys. I’d like him for that alone.

Unseelie begin sifting into the office since they can’t use the door. The room doesn’t hold many, considering how wide a berth they give all three males. Not just Ryodan and Barrons, who they always steer clear of by ten feet or more, but also the boy that must be Dancer if he’s heard Dani talk in her sleep. I grow more aggravated by the moment as they cozy up to my backside. Dancer? Really? They don’t bother a teenage kid?

Barrons and Ryodan are eyeing him, too, no doubt wondering the same thing.

Dancer shrugs. “Guess they don’t like my soap. They certainly like something about you. And dude, do they stink. So, what gives with this?” he asks me. “Why do they like you so much?”

“I find that fascinating myself,” Ryodan says. “Answer the kid.”

Barrons gives him a look. “Tell her what you just told us,” he says to Dancer.

Dancer pushes his glasses up on his nose, managing to look adorably brainy and hot in a collegiate hunk way. I get what Dani sees in him. He’s pretty much perfect for her. If only he had a few superhero parts. Dani is going to be hell on a man’s self-esteem when she grows up, and while Dancer doesn’t seem to suffer in that department, in this world caring about a mere human is a liability.

“After we defeated the Hoar Frost King, I couldn’t let it rest. Something was bothering me. I get obsessive like that when facts don’t gel, or do so in a way that seems to imply impending catastrophe. Then I have to—”

Ryodan says, “Not one fucking ounce of interest in your personal problems.”

“Christ, you’re a cranky bloke,” he says to Ryodan. To me, he says, “Each of the Unseelie has a favorite food. The Unseelie that was icing Dublin and its inhabitants was devouring a specific frequency.”

Okay, that’s weird. “Why would an Unseelie feed off a sound?”

“Dani and I speculate it was trying to complete itself. That it was aware it was derived from an imperfect Song of Making and was attempting to obtain the correct elements to evolve into something else.”

“Go on.”

“I was able to isolate the precise frequency: the flatted or diminished fifth.”

I had less than a month of music theory. “What’s the flatted fifth?”

Dancer says, “Mi contra fa est diabolus in musica—where the mi and fa don’t refer to the third and fourth notes of the musical scale but to the medieval principle of overlapping hexachords.”

I say impatiently, “Clarify.”

“Also known as Satan’s music, or the Devil’s tritone, it’s an interval spanning three whole tones, such as C up to F# or F# up to C, the inverted tritone. It’s used in sirens, can be found in the hymn ‘A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,’ Metallica’s ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls,’ ‘Purple Haze’ by Jimi Hendrix, ‘Black Sabbath’ by Black Sabbath, Wagner’s Götterdämmerung, the Dante Sonata by Liszt, Beethoven’s—”

“We get the picture. Get on with it,” Barrons growls.

“Mathematically speaking, harmonies are created by notes sounding together in proportion to one another that can be expressed in numbers. The Devil’s tritone is commonly assigned the ratio of 64/45 or 45/32, depending on the musical context … And your eyes are glazing and I haven’t even gotten started,” Dancer says. “Okay, then, it’s jarring, disconcerting, some even consider it depressing. There’s a lot of controversy about whether or not ecclesiastical sorts banned it in medieval times out of fear it could summon the devil, him—” He breaks off and grins at me. “—or herself. How’s that for laymen speak? Personally I find it challenging, invigorating—”

“Again with the we-don’t-give-a-fuck,” Ryodan says. “Tell her what you told us.”

The grin fades. “Like music, all matter is composed of frequencies. Where the Hoar Frost King took his ‘bites’ of melody from the world, it completely consumed that frequency.”

“What are you saying? We have no flatted fifths left?”

He gives me a look like I have two heads. Math and physics have never been my strong suits.

I guess again. “It’s quieter in the places he iced?”

Dancer says, “In a sense. Cosmically. And that’s only part of the problem.”

“What’s the real world application?” I growl. Nobody likes feeling dumb.

“I’m getting there. I had a hunch. I’ve been going back to the scenes every day. I didn’t find what I was looking for until a few days ago and have been observing it since, taking measurements, projecting and speculating on the potential ramifications of—” He breaks off and looks at Ryodan. “I think we better show her. Telling her doesn’t seem to be working. I thought you said she was smart.”

“I took Barrons’s word for it.”

“Apparently he was misinformed,” Dancer says.

I have the beginnings of a headache. “Oh, shut up both of you, and just show me what you’re talking about.”

“I think the church is the closest spot where she can get a good look,” Dancer says. “The one outside Chester’s is still forming.”

Ryodan looks pissed. “I’ve got one closer.” Whatever it is, and wherever, he’s not at all happy about it.

I follow the three of them to the door of one of the many sleekly concealed elevators in the club.

Because there isn’t enough room for my volt of vultures to maintain their distance from the men when we step inside, I get a respite. I hear thumps as they settle on the roof of the compartment.

We ride down. And down. Through the walls of the elevator, I watch the levels of the club whiz by as we descend into the chrome and glass belly of the beast. Like the city hidden beneath the abbey, the private part of Chester’s is enormous. There’s no way they built it all recently. I wonder if it’s been standing as long as or longer than the sidhe-seers’ hallowed enclave, and if so, where they got the building materials back then.

We continue dropping for half a mile or more. I can feel tons and tons of earth around and above me and shiver. I’ve always hated being underground but my interment in Mallucé’s lair beneath the Burren escalated dislike to near claustrophobia. I can barely breathe down here.

As we begin to slow, Ryodan says, “Do not exit until I do. Then follow me, remaining behind me at all times.”

The compartment settles and the door swishes open.

I move into the dark, silent corridor behind his broad back.

The air is chillingly cold.

It’s so dark that I instinctively open my sidhe-seer senses to scan for the unique Shade frequency — a trick I perfected last month when I discovered a ship down near the docks where several of the vampiric Unseelie had holed up — and instantly my head explodes with pain.

I fall to my knees, clutching my skull with both hands, crying out.

I haven’t felt pain like this since the night I went to meet Christian at Trinity College. I made it only a few blocks before the Sinsar Dubh reduced me to a gibbering, drooling mess in a gutter in Temple Bar, crushed by the agony it was inflicting.

Spikes pound through my brain. My stomach cramps and my spine becomes a red-hot poker impaling my body.

Pain fills me until I’m nothing but a single, giant exposed nerve alternately being raked over coals, then diced and iced, before getting seared again.

Barrons has me then, his arms strong, sheltering. “What the fuck, Mac?” he growls. “What’s happening?”

We are definitely not having sex so I must be dying. He called me Mac. “Music,” I grit through clenched teeth. “That … damned … music!”

“You hear music down here?” Dancer sounds incredulous.

My only response is a whimper.

Distantly, through the pain, I’m aware Barrons is carrying me back onto the elevator.

“Get a picture of it,” Ryodan says to Dancer.

“Already got a dozen, other places.”

“When I tell you to do something, don’t think. Don’t talk. Don’t breathe.”

“Reality check, thinking and breathing, necessary to take pictures. Otherwise I might end up with shots of—”

“Fucking do it.”

“—your nose hairs, or mine, or—”

“You won’t have a fucking nose left, you keep talking.”

I hear a cell phone camera snapping.

Whatever it is, I want to see it for myself. I didn’t make the miserable trek belowground and suffer this pain to leave without getting a good look at whatever our latest problem is. I drag my pounding head from Barrons’s chest and peer into the darkness beyond.

Ryodan shines the wide beam of a powerful flashlight out the door. My stalkers have begun popping into the corridor.

Halfway down the hall, I see a low-hanging round black globe. Not because Ryodan’s flashlight has illuminated it, but because the beam has lit everything but the circular area suspended in the air.

One of the Unseelie sifts in close to it, and as more arrive, it glides back to make room, and inadvertently brushes the black globe.

The instant it touches it, the ghoul contorts, is stretched long and thin into a tatter of black-skinned robe and bones, and screams with such terror that the skin all over my body prickles in goose flesh. As its hood elongates impossibly, I catch a glimpse of something shiny, metallic, where I think its face should be.

The black globe swallows it whole. Which is impossible, given the globe doesn’t have a twentieth the mass of the Unseelie.

My ghouls jostle and shove in panic. Each one that brushes the globe suffers the same fate. Stretched long and thin, then gone. The screaming is deafening, far worse than the hideous chittering. Some sift out. Others stand frozen.

The elevator doors close.

“Now do you get it?” Dancer says.

I’d shake my head but it would explode. I peer at him with pain-blurred eyes and whisper, “No.”

“When the Hoar Frost King bit chunks of frequency from our world, it created a cosmic deficit. The fabric of our universe began to unravel. That alone was problematic enough, but compounding it, at each site where it fed it also deposited something, like an overfed scavenger, regurgitating unwanted bones. Whatever it expelled possesses astronomically compact mass and density.” He pauses. When a lightbulb doesn’t instantly brighten over my head, he says with elaborate patience, “It’s. Deforming. Space-time.”

“Are you saying what I just saw is a black hole?” I manage. The farther we get from the globe, the less pain I feel.

Dancer says, “I lack the ability to perform the tests I’d like to run. Speculation aside, I can only observe these facts: they share certain similar characteristics to black holes, they were no larger than pinpricks at first, they absorb everything they come in contact with, and they’re growing. The one we just saw is the largest I’ve seen at any of the sites.”

“It’s the first place that got iced,” Ryodan says.

“You didn’t tell me any of this,” I mutter crossly to Barrons. Barrons shoots me a dry looks that says, Far be it from me to disrupt your brood. You might be motivated to do something and then I wouldn’t know who you were anymore.

I wrinkle my nose at him and don’t dignify it with a response.

“I didn’t know you had one in the club,” Dancer says. “I thought the one out front would get the honors. Dude, Chester’s is going to be swallowed from the inside!”

“Dude me one more time and you’re dead.”

We ride the rest of the way up the shaft in silence.

16

The Unseelie King settles into what passes as an enormous red crushed-velvet chair in what might loosely be called a theater room before a stage so vast the edges furl out into night skies filled with stars. On the left, the Milky Way shimmers. To the right, a nebula stains the sky rainbow-bright.

He rests his head of sorts on a hand of sorts and broods.

His woman retains no memory of him at all.

She knows him only as the Seelie Queen’s greatest enemy and believes that since the Unseelie Prince was unable to kill her, the king himself came to finish the job.

Though she conceals it with defiance, she is terrified of him.

To see his beloved gaze upon him with fear … there are no words. Neither split into dozens of humans, as he must be in order to walk among the tiny, strange, absurdly determined creatures who face such futile odds, nor as a god.

The joy that burned inside him upon seeing her again is ash.

He changes a channel of sorts with a remote of sorts and one of the more interesting cities on one of his more interesting worlds takes the limelight.

It is dying, as he suspected.

No matter, another will come.

But another of her will not come. In all this time, no one has touched him as she has. To have her back again and not have her at all is almost worse than believing her gone. It is as if a replication has risen from the dead, a perfect mirror image, nothing within. Should he take her into the White Mansion? Confront her with the residue of their love?

“Is that Dublin?”

Her voice is beautiful. She had names for him, endearments she called him. He would raze worlds to hear them again.

She stands behind him. Close enough that if she chose she could place a hand on his shoulder, were he not the size of a skyscraper and she the size of a pea. Once, she wore a glamour that met him size for girth, wing for wing, crown for crown. He does not bother to answer. Temple Bar is red, the River Liffey silver. She has eyes. She knows this world.

“Am I prisoner here?”

“You are.” He was never letting her go. He would not turn and gaze fifty floors of wing and blackness down at her. He was uncertain what he might do if he did.

“What are you doing to Dublin? It ails. I feel it.”

He doesn’t want to see that beneath a cloak of ermine fur she’s wearing a diaphanous gown of white that does nothing to conceal her exquisite body, her hair bound in a platinum braid. He would commit genocide on a dozen planets to see her in a gown of bloodred, pale hair spilling to her ankles, joy in her eyes, a smile of greeting.

“I do nothing. They do it themselves.”

“Attend it,” she says imperiously. “My druids are there.”

“Give me an incentive.”

“My druids are there.”

“That is not one.” He doesn’t bother to conceal his bitterness. Should he take her beneath him? Discover if that makes her recall, if memory can be forced to return?

“You will not coerce intimacy where none is granted,” she says sharply.

He goes very still. “I did not say that.”

“You did.”

She can still hear him. She may not remember him or the epic love they share but she hears his desires, as she always has.

“I would never.”

“You would. You are the Unseelie King. You slew the one who ruled before me. You care for nothing and never have. You think you create but you destroy. That is all of which you are capable.”

Anger and something deeper ruffles his wings. Her words are too similar to the note he still carries. “That is untrue.”

“Show me. Help my druids.”

“God does not step in and adjust minute details on a whim.”

“You are not God. You are the Unseelie King, once the true queen’s consort. You built an army of monstrosities and took them to war against my people. And destroy is precisely what you do.”

Once, she helped shelter his monstrosities. Believed they deserved the light. That they could be perfected, freed. “For you, my love.”

“I am not your love. I am Aoibheal, queen of the Fae. Return me to my court. I am needed there.”

“Return you for what? You can do nothing to repair the rift between your world and theirs, the many rifts in them both. Abandon it and abandon your foolish, petty court.” Choose me, he doesn’t say. Not that insignificant world. Not those tiny, inconsequential beings.

“To live with a foolish, petty king?”

She thinks him a fool and petty. He will not acknowledge the arrow shot as a question. She calls him a destroyer. She sees nothing of his glory, recalls no details of the worlds they once made together, so beautiful they often rested on a nearby star for time uncounted to watch them bloom.

“You say you love me,” she says. “Show me. Restore Dublin. Heal their world and mine.”

“Why have you always cared so much about these tiny worlds?”

“Why have you never?”

He had once. When she’d cared about him. He’d made himself small for her and walked in her manner, tending small things. But being small was so much more complicated than being God. “If I do this for you, will you share my bed of your own volition?”

He feels her anger, her instant denial.

On stage, he weaves for her a brutal, horrific glamour of what’s to come. Dublin falling, the Earth dying, the lovely blue and white planet blinking out then gone. Attached to it by a planetary umbilical cord, the Fae realm also goes black and disappears.

Behind him, she gasps then says stiffly, “That is your price?”

“That is my price.”

“And you will fix our worlds?”

“I will.”

“And you can?”

“I can.”

“One time only,” she says tightly.

“I specify the duration.”

“It is limited to a single human fortnight. Then you will never come to me again. You will not seek me. You will never cross my path.”

“Before.”

“When it is done. That is non-negotiable.”

“Everything is negotiable if the correct pressure is applied.”

The look she gives him is venom and ice.

He will concede for her. Always only for her.

“Say it,” he demands.

“Yes,” she hisses.

She said yes. Even spat with fury, the single word is an aria to once deafened ears. None has ever been sweeter on her lips. He will taste her assent before, like her memory, it too vanishes.

“Your tithe to this compact between us will be a kiss.” He begins reducing himself to make it so. He will turn and touch her, take her in his arms.

He doesn’t tell her that it’s too late.

He will have, at the very least, a single kiss.

Without the Song of Making — which she has never known and he turned his back on long ago — none can save either world: Fae or human.

17

I’m an aimless, trapped barfly, stalked by Unseelie ghouls who have once again replenished their numbers, confined to Chester’s by Ryodan’s insistence that I guard against a threat that isn’t the threat he thinks it is, while driving myself crazy worrying about a genuine threat of cataclysmic proportions.

There’s a black hole, or its close approximation, growing beneath my feet, and who knows how many more forming beyond the club’s walls. There were numerous icings in Dublin, more outside the city, and according to Ryodan, hundreds in various countries around the world.

Are innocent people, like the Unseelie ghouls, accidently brushing up against them and dying? How large are the other globes? Was Ryodan’s really the first or has the Hoar Frost King been in our realm longer than we know? Perhaps it started in China, or Australia, or even America. How solid is our information? How soon can we send scouts to learn more?

How close have I walked to one of those quantum pinpricks, not realizing Death was right there in the street with me, a misstep away?

Tired of wandering from one dance floor to the next, growing increasingly aggravated by the patrons, I decide to stake out the Sinatra subclub. The old world elegance appeals to me and it’s mostly empty — or at least it was before me and my dark, smelly army arrived. “Get off those stools!” I try to shoo them. They resettle with what I imagine are scornful looks beneath voluminous hoods. I recall the metallic flash I glimpsed as one of them was devoured by an impossibly dense globe of corrupted space-time and wonder what would happen if I tried to yank back one of their cowls to see a face.

I decide against it. I’d rather not know just how hideous my second skins are. I have enough nightmares.

I perch on a leather bar stool between them and begin watching an obviously inebriated bartender in a dirty, wrinkled tux that looks like he slept in it make the worst martinis I’ve ever seen.

Clubs call pretty much anything a martini now, and there’s no question he got his credentials at the school of life. He should be ashamed. I rummage in my purse, pop an aspirin in my mouth, and crunch it to dispel headache residue.

Barrons went through the Silvers to join the rest of the Nine, hunting for Dani. I prefer him there than wandering around the city without me. Though I’ve not gotten the faintest tweak from my inner antenna, it won’t be long before the princess resurfaces somewhere. And it’s not going to be on top of Barrons.

Dancer says we need Dani now more than ever. She was the one who figured out what the Hoar Frost King was doing, and he hopes their brains combined hold the key to relocking the doors that are opening in great yawning black holes all over our world.

If it can even be done.

According to physics, what we seek is impossible but since the walls came down between Man and Faery, human laws of physics no longer apply. I wonder if the fragments of Faery worlds I call IFPs are contributing to the black-hole problem. The boundaries of our world are a mess and have been for a while, creating a highly unstable environment where pretty much anything could go wrong, as it did eons ago in the ancient Hall of All Days and the Silvers. I wonder that we didn’t see something like this coming.

I munch an olive to get the taste of aspirin out of my mouth.

“Hey, you didn’t order a drink! Stay the fuck outta my condiment tray!” the bartender barks, hostile, and a little slurry.

Whatever happened to pretty girls getting free drinks? Or at least one damn olive.

I peer up at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. There I am, blond hair, blue eyes, terrific white teeth (thanks Mom, Dad, and braces!), a nice mouth with a generous lower lip, clear skin. I think I’m pretty.

“And you guys”—the bartender snaps at my ghouls, and I think, Good luck with that—“order drinks or get off my stools!”

“You’ve been grazing on candied cherries for the past ten minutes,” I tell him. “You’ve eaten half a jar. Stow it.” People are starving in Dublin but Chester’s has condiments.

He flips me off with both hands and rotates the birds around each other.

I turn sideways on the stool so I don’t have to see him and resume my brood. The city I love is finally coming back to life, and although I have personal problems, they are slightly more manageable — or at least a little less urgent at the moment — than our newfound global issues.

My dark companion attempts to seize the moment.

Read me, open me, I possess the answers you seek, it lies. I will show you how to heal this world.

Again with the been-there-done-that. I don’t believe the Unseelie King dumped any knowledge about how to patch holes in worlds into his book of dark magic. It’s another fake carrot at the end of the Sinsar Dubh’s endless profusion of sticks.

Besides, it wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about saving this world. It would leave and find another. And another. Ad infinitum. I’ve not forgotten it once said to me: Can there be any act of creation that does not first destroy? Villages fall. Cities rise. Humans die. Life springs from the soil wherein they lie. Is not any act of destruction, should Time enough pass, an act of creation?

Our worries about rebuilding, parceling out districts, and reinstating currency now seem insignificant, but Ryodan insists we carry on. Barrons agrees that not only must we pursue an illusion of normalcy, but conceal from the general populace the danger the world is in. They contend if people believe the world might be ending, it’ll be the riots of Halloween all over again.

Oh, yeah. Politicians R Us.

I seriously doubt we’re going to be able to hide it long. If they’re still too small to spot, it’s only a matter of time before they’re not. People will start seeing them, messing with them, vanishing.

I half expected Barrons and Ryodan to say: screw it, pack up, we’re leaving. They’re immortal and there are countless worlds. There’s nothing to stop them from circling their wagons and heading off for the universe’s vast, untamed Wild West.

Yet, they stay and I’m glad they do because there’s no way I’m giving up on my world. This is what we’ve been fighting about since the dawn of time when the Fae first arrived on our planet and began messing with it. Earth is ours. I’m not letting them have it. I’m not letting them destroy it.

Not on my watch.

Too bad I have no idea how I’m going to back up my ballsy position, but I’ve been in impossible situations before and got out of them.

My brain processes what I just watched happen. Apparently I couldn’t keep my eyes off the pathetic excuse for a bartender and turned back toward him at some point without realizing it. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, you just ruined that drink! Who taught you to pour?”

“Fuck you, bitch. Ain’t your bar.”

I stand and hurry around the counter. My flock rustles in behind me. “It is now. Get out. I’m taking over.” I can’t let him tarnish my profession anymore. He just served a smoked martini that had begun promisingly, with gin and a dash of single malt Scotch — then apparently forgot what he was doing and added vermouth, and insult to injury, an olive, pimento intact, instead of a lemon twist. Yellow was Alina’s favorite color and I used to take my time making my lemon twists as complex and pretty as they could be, little origami fruit peels. My mouth puckers in sympathy for the silver-haired gentleman sipping the drink. It’s no wonder the world no longer knows what martinis are.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” the bleary-eyed bartender snarls drunkenly as I approach. “This is my bar. Get your ass back on that stool and buy a drink or leave, you stupid cunt. And get those smelly fucks out of here!”

I see red. Like I’d drink anything he poured. And I really hate the c-word. No clue why. It just doesn’t work for me. Seems I have my own event horizon: inactivity, worry, and frustration have devoured my patience, sucked it away into a deep dark hole from which it may never return.

I walk straight for him and pop him in the face with my fist. Not too hard. Just hard enough to get him to go away.

His nose spurts blood—

YES BLOOD YES! the Book explodes. Kill him, worthless piece of human trash! Take this bar and take the club and we will K’VRUCK THEM ALL!

I rummage for my seventh-grade performance — where did I leave off? I remember being eleven. I was happy then, in a much simpler world. Or so I thought.

Bloodred like the blood of Mick O’Leary, the man you RIPPED to pieces with your bare hands then CHEWED—

For a second I can’t find my place, the word “chewed” throws me off so badly, and instead of focusing I wonder if I had blood in my mouth that day and didn’t notice. Panicked, I plunge into my recitation at the first place I can think of and shout, “ ‘Prophet!’ said I, ‘thing of evil, prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether tempter sent or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore—’ ”

The bartender clutches his nose and stares at me like I have three heads. I toss him the positively filthy bar towel he’d been using to dry clean glasses. Well, as clean as they could be considering the water in the sink behind the bar is disgustingly black with weak gray soapy suds. I realize I’m still spouting poetry and terminate mid-twelfth stanza.

“You’re off your fucking rocker!”

“You have no idea. I don’t have a rocker anymore. I don’t even have a fucking porch to put it on. And there certainly aren’t slow paddling fans or magnolia trees blossoming above aforementioned missing chair.” God, I get homesick for the South sometimes. A sunny day. A polka-dot bikini and a swimming pool. One day I’m going back to Ashford. I’ll walk around and pretend I’m a normal person. Just for a day or two. “I’ll punch you again. So move.” I crowd him with my body and force him to walk backward through my throng of Unseelie, out from behind the lovely bar I realize I’m really looking forward to tending.

It’ll feel like old times, soothe me. Ground me to the real Mac Lane again.

“I’m telling the boss, you freaky bitch!”

“You do that. Tell him the name’s Mac when you talk to him and see how well that goes over. Now get out. And stay out.”

I turn to the gentleman who’s completely unfazed by our bizarre altercation — this is Chester’s — and is currently studying his awful martini as if trying to decide what went so wrong with it, and pluck the glass from his hand. It wasn’t even the right glass.

“Smoked?”

He nods.

“Be right up.”

I pull the drain on the filthy water, rummage beneath the bar for clean towels, wash my hands, grab a chilled glass, and stir a perfectly proportioned smoked martini. I’m so used to dealing with my wraiths, I slide smoothly through them.

When he tastes it, he smiles appreciatively and the ground beneath my feet solidifies just like that. Familiar routine is balm to a fragmented soul.

I begin rearranging the liquor on my shelves the proper way, humming beneath my breath.

Inside me a book whumps closed. For the time being. Looks like I’ve learned one more way to temporarily shut it up. Poems and bartending. Who’d have thought? But Band-Aids for my disease aren’t what I’m after. I want a surgeon to perform an operation that leaves a deep incision where something nasty used to be, followed by a scar to remind me every day that it’s over and I survived.

And for that I need a half-mad king. Not getting any closer to finding the spell stuck in this place.

“Hey, Mac,” Jo says, dropping onto a stool. “What’s with all the Unseelie behind your bar?”

“Don’t ask. Just don’t even go there.”

She shrugs. “Have you seen Dani lately?”

That question has become a stake through my heart. One of these days I’m just going to snap, Yes, and I’m the jackass that chased her into the Hall of All Days, so crucify me and put me out of my misery.

I give my standard, noncommittal reply.

“How about Kat?”

“Not for a few days.”

Beneath a cap of short dark hair, shimmering with blond and auburn highlights, Jo’s delicate face is pale, her eyes red from crying. I shake my head and debate saying something about what I saw this morning.

My brain vetoes the idea. My mouth says, “I saw what you did this morning,” proving my suspicion that the road between the two is as bad as the highways around Atlanta, under eternal, hazardous construction.

“What do you mean?” she says warily.

“Ryodan nodded and you turned away. You dumped him.”

She inhales sharply and holds it a moment, then, “I suppose you think I’m crazy.”

“No,” I say. “I think you’re beautiful and smart and talented and deserve a man that can feel with something besides his dick.”

She blinks and looks surprised, and it pisses me off because she should know all of that.

“I understood from the beginning what he was, Mac,” she says tiredly. “What it was between us. But he has such … and I never felt … and I started wanting to believe even though I knew better. Began telling myself all kinds of lies. So I moved on before he did. Pride was all I had left to salvage.”

“Doesn’t make it any easier though, does it?” I say sympathetically. I feel my bartending skills blossoming: the pouring, listening, steering away from complete anesthetization with alcohol toward something that might actually help, change the person’s life, shake it up in a good way.

“I don’t think I’m strong enough to stay away from him, Mac. I’m going to quit working here. I can’t see him every day. You know what they’re like. He may not have taken anyone else up those stairs this morning, but he will. I’m going to ask Kat if I can move back to the abbey.”

“Know the best way to forget a man?”

“A frontal lobotomy?”

I snort, thinking of that song we used to play back home in the Brickyard that went, I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy. “No. With two men.”

She smiles but it fades swiftly. “I’m afraid I’d be needing ten to clear my head of that man.”

“Or perhaps,” I say, “a single incredible one.” Stupendous sex is a drug, addictive, consuming. I know from personal experience.

“Sounds like you have someone in mind. I’m so not in the mood, Mac. He’d only pale in comparison.”

“Maybe not.” I lean across the counter and speak softly into her ear.

When she leaves, wearing a thoughtful expression, I ponder the seed I planted, hoping it yields healthy fruit. I think it will. I think it’s exactly what she needs to buffer her heart, cleanse her body from craving the touch of a man we both know she can never hold.

Besides, there’s a possibility it will piss Ryodan off, in a territorial sort of way, which will still further ease the sting to Jo’s wounded heart.

Heaven knows the man I pointed her at won’t mind.

I smile and line a few choice bottles up on my counter, and try my hand at pouring high and flashy. Patrons love a good show.

When I glance up to greet a couple of new customers, I inhale sharply and stare right past them, staggered by the vision I see, unable to process my abrupt change in fortune. Talk about tall, dark, and utterly unexpected.

Time grinds to a halt and everything goes still around me, the thronging patrons receding beyond the edges of my periphery, leaving only one: the Dreamy-Eyed Guy, wearing an amused expression, is standing three clubs away, watching me toss my bottles flamboyantly, and I recall a night I watched him do the same.

He inclines his head, dark eyes starry. Nice show.

The Unseelie King is back in town, wearing his old skins again!

We’ve been scouring ancient books and scrolls for months, trying to find the spell to summon him, and the surgeon I need just arrived out of the blue! The one with butterfly fingers who creates and destroys worlds and can surely remove this great staining darkness inside me!

I didn’t think he’d ever come back willingly, off with his concubine somewhere, rekindling her memory and reclaiming her love.

Elation floods me. I can get my life back, and while I’m at it, get rid of my smelly Unseelie, too. Approach the queen about the Song of — I swiftly terminate that thought and repadlock it.

I vault the counter, sending glasses flying and shoving startled patrons off their stools, but by the time my feet hit the floor, the Dreamy-Eyed Guy is gone.

18

The next few days pass in the closest thing to hopeful peace I’ve known in months. Even surrounded by the debauchery of Chester’s, my inner book remains silent. I don’t know if seeing the king made it shut up for some reason, if familiar routine makes me that much stronger, or if it thinks it has me trapped in the cesspool of life here at Chester’s and my capitulation is only a matter of time.

I tend bar amid my Unseelie coven, watch for the various forms of the king, keep an eye out for princesses, and await Barrons’s return, hopefully with Dani in tow. I can’t wait to tell him the king is back and we can quit losing time in the Silvers.

When the ruler of the dark Fae took an interest in Dublin before, his various incarnations often came to the club. The Unseelie King is too vast to walk among humans in a single human body. He has to divide himself into multiple skins, and when he does, not everyone sees him the same way. Where I saw a young, hot guy with gorgeous eyes, Barrons saw a frail old man, Christian saw a Morgan Freeman look-alike, Jo saw a pretty French woman. It’s only a matter of time before we see one of them again, or I hear of a McCabe sighting or run into the old news vendor on the streets. I’ll be faster next time because I won’t be struck dumb and motionless by his unexpected return.

The thought of living divided like this, tempted every day by power I can’t use, tortured by thoughts of what my inner monster might be able to make me do if I’m not vigilant one hundred percent of the time, is more than I can stand.

Can’t eviscerate essential self, the king once said. But this copy of the Book isn’t my essential self. It’s his.

And I’ll be damned if I’m keeping it.

At least now I can stop considering a risky plan B. The king came to Dublin once before because his book escaped. It seems logical if Cruce escaped, the king would return and re-ice him and I could demand he free me. Unfortunately I’m not entirely convinced the king would (a) return or (b) give a shit about any of it. His priorities spring of stars and infinity, not the tiny moments that span a human life. And there we’d be, with Cruce loose.

Dicey plan.

Humming beneath my breath, I finish polishing my bar. It’s eleven in the morning and I’ve just opened my subclub for business. The glasses sparkle, so clean they squeak. Ice is stocked, glasses frosted, condiments fresh, liquor replenished.

I’m bent over, reaching in the fridge to pull out lemons and start making my twists, when I hear a deep baritone say, “Laprhoaig. No ice.”

The accent is Scottish, the voice one I’ve heard before. I glance up into eyes strikingly similar to Christian’s, before he began turning Unseelie. They bore into mine, cheetah-gold, assessing. Same five o’clock shadow, chiseled features, and beautiful dark skin. Serious power rolls off the man.

It’s Christian’s uncle, the Keltar they call “the Inhabited.” He once opened himself up to thirteen ancient, dark druids and has never been able to exorcise them.

I can sympathize with that problem.

The last time I saw him was the night we interred the Sinsar Dubh beneath the abbey. He was with his twin brother, Drustan, a druid who died in a fire but somehow came back to life and allegedly possesses an incorruptible heart; another of Christian’s uncles, Cian, who spent a thousand years trapped in a Silver; and Christian’s father, who was also druid to the Seelie. Talk about your messed-up family.

“Dageus, right?”

“Aye.” He palms the glass I slide him and takes a sip. “What’s with all the Unseelie behind the bar with you, lass?”

Another question I’m sick of. I get it a hundred times a day, at least once from every person that takes a stool and orders a drink, and as the day goes on, half a dozen times from the really drunk ones. I’ve heard every variation on every joke they could possibly slap lamely together in their inebriated, sex-obsessed minds.

“Ghosts,” I say, “of all the Unseelie I killed. They haunt me.” I’ve found it usually shuts people up. He doesn’t look at all surprised, but then why would he? His ghosts haunt him from the inside.

“Where’s the bastard that runs this club?”

“Around somewhere. Are you here because you’ve located Christian?” I ask hopefully.

“Nay. We’ve tried summoning the queen repeatedly to request her aid, but she’s no’ responding to any of our rituals.”

I wonder if buried in their countless records and annals they have a summoning spell for the king. Although I don’t appear to currently need it, I file the thought away for future reference, aware that asking such a question might only open a new can of worms, and turn more pairs of intensely penetrating Keltar eyes my way than I’d like.

“Now that the Compact is broken, we’ve no influence over the Fae world. Christian’s gone, without trace. The only thing of which we’re certain is he’s no’ in Ireland anymore. We’ve fair torn the country apart searching.”

“Can’t you try tracking the Crimson Hag instead?”

“We’ve naught of her to use in such a spell. We’d need flesh, bone, a gut from her gown might serve.”

“No recent sightings?”

“The Unseelie Princes claim she tried to capture them shortly after she took Christian, but they’ve since joined forces, and she’s no’ been seen again.” He rubs a stubble-shadowed jaw. “It happened differently than I foresaw,” he says heavily. “I was watching for the wrong signs.”

I’m about to ask what he’s talking about when Ryodan takes a stool beside him. “Keltar. Hear you’re looking for me.”

Translation: he was sitting upstairs in his office, watching his endless cameras, eavesdropping. I’m surprised he came down. Appears he has enough respect for the Highlander to do more than he does for most: acknowledge his presence and appear as requested. Interesting.

Dageus says just as coolly, “Hear you met with a Seelie Prince, had negotiations. You will be summoning him for us now.”

Ryodan cuts him an amused look. “Will I.”

“Aye.”

“Think again.”

“What do you want with R’jan?” I ask Dageus.

“He’s a sifter and is currently in control of all Seelie. I want him to dispatch other sifters to hunt the Hag for us.”

“Couldn’t you send some of your men as well?” I say to Ryodan quickly. “If Christian hadn’t distracted the Hag and she’d kept killing that night, who knows what might have happened. We owe him, Ryodan. All of us. We can’t just leave him out there, being killed over and over again.”

“It’s keeping her busy and out of my fucking hair,” Ryodan says.

I should have known better than to try an emotional entreaty with him. I employ reason in my next attempt. “If we don’t save him from the Hag, he’ll be more problematic to you, to all of us, should he eventually escape. He was sane enough to sacrifice himself. That sanity won’t last long in her hands.”

Ryodan shrugs. “We put him down if he returns. No different than any other Unseelie Prince. If he’s not useful, he’s disposable.”

“No other Unseelie Prince would have sacrificed himself,” I snap.

“He is Keltar, and that is all the difference necessary,” Dageus says. “In exchange for your aid, we’ll help you reclaim the abbey from those who’ve taken over.” He drops the bomb quietly.

“What?” I practically shout. “Someone has taken over the abbey?” I look at Ryodan and my hands curl into fists. He knew! And said nothing to me. “When did you find out about this?” I demand. “And why didn’t you tell me? You do remember what’s under there, right?”

“I’ll handle it when the others return. And don’t say that again in here.”

I grit my jaw. I can’t believe I just said it. Here of all places. No, I didn’t spell out what was beneath the abbey but I said enough that a curious eavesdropper might decide to go looking.

Dageus says, “Three have already met their deaths. No doubt more will be finding graves the longer you delay.”

Not if I have anything to say about it, and I could write a dissertation. I strip the apron from my waist and begin closing my bar down. I shiver, dreading the answer to my next question. All good coups begin with the deposing of the current leader. “Is Kat okay?”

“I’m sure she is. She’s a survivor,” Ryodan says.

I glare at him. He’s never said anything that nice about me.

Dageus finishes his drink and slides it back for another. “I doona ken the names of the slain. During battle for possession of the grounds, a sidhe-seer escaped. We found her stumbling, badly injured, along the road toward Dublin. Drustan took her to the hospital at Dublin Castle. Your Inspector Jayne said he will commit the aid of his Guardians but only if the sidhe-seers turn over either the spear or sword to his troops. Permanently.”

I slap lids on the condiments and shove them in the fridge. Not a chance in hell. “What happened, Ryodan? You were supposed to place more powerful wards around the grounds. That was part of our negotiations.”

“My men have been busy, in case you’ve forgotten. Besides, you asked us to place more wards against Fae. Not humans.”

“Humans took control?” This just keeps getting worse. “Who?”

“The new sidhe-seers say it’s their home now.”

I narrow my eyes and snarl. Sidhe-seers came into our town and took our home? I promised Kat we wouldn’t let this happen. I promised her we would protect the abbey. We’re the home team. Nobody takes our stadium. “How many are there? What weapons do they have? How did they take the abbey? Didn’t Kat put up a fight?”

Dageus says, “If your Kat who was with us that night is in charge now, that may explain things. The woman we found said their headmistress has been missing for nigh a week, and someone inside their own group, Margery, invited the new sidhe-seers in.”

Nearly a week? That means she disappeared the day after our meeting! “Have you seen her?” I ask Ryodan.

“What do you think, she comes to visit me,” he says. “This is Katarina we’re talking about.”

“Bar’s closed,” I snap at a guy about to sit down.

He looks at Ryodan and Dageus. “They’re sitting here.”

“I said it’s closed.”

“Pour me a drink, bitch. It’s a free fucking world.” He drops a leg over the stool.

Ryodan smashes a fist out sideways, squarely into the guy’s face without even looking, while saying, “Assuming I arrange this meeting, the Keltar will aid in regaining control of the abbey regardless of the outcome.” The guy flies backward off the bar stool and crashes to the floor.

“Unlike you, we are men of our word. Unlike you,” Dageus growls, “we are men. As in human.”

“Humans break.” Ryodan doesn’t say it, doesn’t have to, it hangs in the air: We don’t.

The guy Ryodan punched picks himself up, gives us looks like we’re all crazy, and backs away into the crowd.

I tell Dageus, “The meeting with R’jan happens after we free the abbey.”

“It happens before or no’ at all,” Dageus says flatly.

“More sidhe-seers could die!” I say heatedly.

“Aye. Once. Christian is being butchered o’er and o’er again every day.” The Highlander’s brogue thickens. “Who kens it — perhaps he’s died a hundred times so far. Have you any idea what that can do to a man?”

I shiver. Yes. It sounds too similar to the hell Barrons’s son suffered. Regenerating only to be killed each time he was reborn. It turned the small boy into an animal, drove the child deep into madness from which there was no return. What is the same fate doing to Christian, even as we speak, who was highly unstable to begin with? He certainly hasn’t had an easy time of it since I arrived in Dublin: catapulted unarmed into the Silvers for years by a botched ritual, fed Unseelie by myself, locked in a desperate battle for control over what he’s becoming, and now held captive by a monster that rips out his guts every time he heals.

“His mind is fragile. His body is no’. ’Tis a dangerous and deadly imbalance that can go terribly wrong.”

It certainly is.

To Ryodan, I say, “Summon the prince for Dageus or I’m moving back to the bookstore, and leaving you on your own with the Unseelie Princesses. With Barrons in Faery, you’re the only one I’m protecting anyway.”

To Dageus, I say, “Get your clan ready to fight.”

“Och, MacKayla, ’tis no’ a thing for which the Keltar need preparing. We were born ready.”

19

“Think you missed a spot,” I tell the voluptuous blonde that’s washing my dick.

I’m Pri-ya, I can’t be expected to bathe myself. They’ve been giving me sponge baths ’cause I’m pretty much covered from head to toe in pussy juice. They feed me and fuck me and clean me. Reminds me of the good old days when a man protected women with his club and they took care of him in return.

This week has been one of the finest of my existence — well, at least in the past century anyway — a veritable fuck-party 24/7, with five to ten women in the room at any given time, their sole reason for existing to sate my many needs, all blond, all buxom, all horny as hell. Life rocks. It’s better than Woodstock.

At first I pretended to be completely senseless, incapable of speech, but that gets old fast. Can’t tell a woman what you want next if you’re not talking, can’t ask what they want, although I never have a problem figuring that out. You watch their faces, listen to the sounds they make. Do they whimper, or do that sudden inhale that turns into a killer, husky purr? Do they growl and turn a good fuck into a better fight? Most women in these times got a whole lot of frustration to take out in bed, when they know they got a man big and tough enough to handle it. Are they the kind that tries not to make any sound at all, like they’re too tough to crack? That’s just waving a big-ass red flag at this bull. Those are the ones that always end up making the most noise by the time I’m done with ’em. I especially like the ones that hiss like a cat when I fuck ’em hard from behind, rubbing back, horny and passionate and wild.

Damn, I love women.

One thing that seems universal is that after a good hard fucking, most of ’em love to lay back and have a man take his time with them, stroking ’em from head to toe, licking, petting, telling ’em how beautiful they are, making ’em come over and over, especially with their hands tied, not that I’m into your run-of-the-mill S&M. I like to know the woman in my bed wants to call me master. That being said, I do like chains. Something about the heavy links against soft, silken skin, telling me I can take my time doing whatever I want. Test their sexual limits.

“There’s another sticky spot.” I point to my groin where a smear of honey lingers. She licks it off with catlike delicacy. Then starts sucking. Christ.

Once I realized the boss had fallen for my charade and wasn’t checking on me, I quit being so disgustingly Pri-ya. According to the promise I made Mac, I got one more week of this, then it’s back to the grind.

I mean to make the most of it. Then I’ll hunt and kill the Unseelie bitch that has some kind of strange magic that actually worked on me.

Turn me Pri-ya? You can’t amp up my sex drive. It’s already over the top.

Aw, fuck me, this blonde’s got a tongue that could strip copper tubing clean! I grab her head and pull her up to kiss the honey from her mouth. As I roll her beneath me, crushed between a tangle of naked, horny women, and about to drive in deep, I hear a woman say sternly, “Get out of here. All of you.”

What the fuck? I didn’t even hear the door open. Has the boss figured me out? Did Mac rat on me?

I ignore it. They’re gonna have to drag me out of this bed.

“You know I’m Ryodan’s girlfriend. You know he listens to me. You want to keep your jobs?”

I freeze, halfway in. It’s Jo. What the hell is she doing here?

Reluctantly, with a pissed off sound, the woman in my arms tries to disengage. I groan and hold on, won’t let her go.

“In five seconds anyone that’s still in bed with Lor is fired.”

In two seconds my bed is empty. None of these women are willing to lose such a highly valued commodity as a place to work, food, and shelter, not in times like these. Not even for the glory of my dick.

I sigh then turn it into another weird-ass moan. I don’t moan. I fucking roar. This Pri-ya business is taxing.

I roll onto my side and give Jo my ass, hoping she’ll just say whatever she has to say and go away, send back my babes.

I try to summon a pathetic whimper but it comes out sounding too much like me: a pissed off, sexually frustrated grunt. My dick was ready, almost home sweet home, and now it’s been relegated to a cardboard box beneath a bridge, cold and alone. It’s swollen and painfully compressed between the bed and my thigh.

I’m supposed to be a sex slave, so I can hardly roll over and ask her what the fuck she’s doing here.

I hear a rustling sound then feel her weight settle on the bed next to me.

Then there’s the sound of a washcloth drizzling water as she wrings it out into the basin, and I think, what the hell, Jo’s gonna finish the bath the blondes were giving me?

When she settles a hand on my back, I jerk. This is Jo. This is Ryodan’s territory. I don’t mess with the boss’s stuff. Nobody does. It’d be nearly as stupid as pissing off Barrons.

“Mac told me you’re Pri-ya,” Jo says. “She says she doesn’t remember anything from that time. That it’s all just a blur of sex.”

I’m instantly defensive: she looking to cheat on the boss? Women don’t cheat on Ryodan. Fuck, they don’t cheat on any of us. You don’t give up the best.

She runs her hand over my back, down my ass. I tense but stay perfectly still, thinking.

“God, you’re beautiful,” she says softly.

Wait, I’m supposed to moan. I try but get another frustrated grunt. Shit.

“I need a blur of sex,” she continues, talking and touching.

Who doesn’t? My dick gets harder. She’s not even my type. She’s petite and brunette with huge eyes and a delicate face. She’s exactly what I steer clear of.

But I’m supposedly Pri-ya.

I sigh. Looks like my game is ending sooner than I planned. I grunt with sheer frustration and roll over, look up at her to tell her to get her ass back to the boss and we’ll just forget all about this. My dick snaps straight up pointing to heaven, expressing firm opposition.

I clamp my open mouth shut again, thinking, Aw, no, no, no, no, don’t do that, honey, anything but that. She’s staring down at me with big, beautiful eyes filled with tears.

“You’re not really there, right?” She searches my face and I instantly make my eyes go glassy. I been doing it for days, it’s second nature now. She looks down at my dick and I try to will it limp but it doesn’t work for shit. It’s a simple beast. A woman is an occasion. My dick rises to it.

“I couldn’t stand it if I thought you’d remember this. It’s just that I broke up with Ryodan—”

Aw, shit.

“—not that you can really even call it a breakup because I knew from the beginning we weren’t really together—”

Sometimes the boss really pisses me off. We never keep a woman more than a few weeks. Human women fall in love. It’s just what they do, so you gotta be real clear from the get-go that things aren’t permanent, and Ryodan did stupid things like sometimes putting his arm around her, and the fact is, I knew all along he was just doing it to keep better tabs on Dani, ’cause we’d pretty much all do anything to watch over that kid. We been watching her for years, keeping her alive, giving her the chance to grow up. It ain’t been easy; the kid’s a handful and we all kind of wonder what kind of woman she’s gonna be one day. Can’t help it. When you live as long as we do, you find yourself in bed with women you watched get born. It’s weird and not at the same time. I know we gotta protect our own, by any means necessary, but when you’re as addictive as we are, you gotta be careful who you let in the candy store and how far. And there’s some candy you just don’t put on the shelves. Not with humans.

“I knew all along he was just keeping an eye on Dani and the abbey,” she surprises me by saying. “At first I was doing the same. Watching your back, trying to divine your secrets, decide if you were friend or foe. At least that’s what I told myself. Kat wanted someone on the inside at Chester’s and it made me feel special that she’d asked me. That he wanted me in his bed. I thought about it for all of one minute. There was no way I was going to pass up that kind of chance. Great sex on top of spying? I felt like a female James Bond.”

She gives a soft, sad laugh that ends on a sob. “I didn’t get a sidhe-seer talent like the others. I don’t have a superpower. Just this damn sticky memory that doesn’t even work because I imprint everything I see and end up with so much useless detritus in my head that I can never find anything useful. I have the meaning of every word stored up there but I don’t know the filing system. Who am I? Jo, the busy researcher. Want a fact? I can’t remember where to find it in my mind, but I can recall where I saw it well enough to know where to look.”

She flicks herself lightly in the forehead with a finger. “I don’t understand the point of my gift. It’s useless. Everyone else is out saving the world while I hole up with books and hunt for answers. I wanted to feel extraordinary. Like I was doing something for a change. I didn’t realize how hard it would be to go back to ordinary. Nothing changed at all. I just got hurt.”

She starts crying harder and I’m fucking horrified. I can’t stand tears. Not from a woman. I only know one thing to do. Kiss them away.

She’s not my type.

She places her small hands on my face and bends over me, her mouth a few inches away. “Erase him for me, Lor. Make me forget him. Take the taste of him out of my mouth. Fill it up with you. You’ll never remember that you helped me forget. Please, Lor, make love to me.”

Ahhhh! I fucking hate that phrase. I don’t make love. I fuck. That’s it. Plain and simple. Fuck. Clearly defined. No strings attached. As in rut and grunt and get my rocks off. I’m the caveman. I’m the sexual barbarian. I open my mouth to tell her that but all the sudden she pulls back from me and yanks her shirt off over her head and these positively fucking perfect small breasts pop out.

Don’t know the last time I saw little tits. I forgot what they looked like. I stare and feel my eyes going glassy all on their own. Tiny waist, creamy skin flushed with embarrassment and desire, and pretty pink nipples that — Aw, shit, here I go.

Damn nipples. They get me every time.

“Lor, please,” she says, hot tears falling like rain on my skin. “Make love to me, make me forget.”

Slow and sweet, she bends over me and traces my lips with her tongue, breath warm, smelling faintly of peppermint.

I don’t do this kind of woman.

Never this kind of woman.

And sure as fuck not the way she wants it.

Next thing I know I’m hiking that sweet, short skirt up over her sweet round ass, breaking my own rules, gonna screw a brunette, on the highway to Hell.

20

Situated on one thousand acres of prime farmland about two hours from Dublin, Arlington Abbey is a self-sustaining fortress with multiple artesian wells, a dairy, beef cattle, orchard, and acres of vegetable gardens.

Whether Rowena performed powerful spells to protect it or the Shades simply chose to go in another direction when they decamped the city en masse a few months ago, about thirty minutes from the ancient mother house, the countryside was left untouched by their voracious appetites.

It’s difficult to believe I haven’t been out this way since mid-May, the night we sealed the Sinsar Dubh in the vast, heavily runed underground chamber beneath the fortress.

Time flies.

Especially when you keep losing it inside the Silvers.

After we defeated the Sinsar Dubh, Barrons and I retreated to his lair beneath the garage, leaving bed only when near-starvation forced us out.

A few days later we laid his son to rest, finally freeing the father from a small eternity of torment, and began discussing plans to return to the mother house and take further measures to protect the world from the great-winged prince beneath the abbey that has stood as a prison, in one form or another, in the middle of a grassy Irish field since the unlucky day the king selected our planet for that purpose.

I’d proposed pumping the chamber full of concrete the very night the king iced Cruce. Barrons later argued for removing the prince, intact in his prison of ice, and transporting the chamber into the Hall of All Days, to dump on some other unsuspecting world.

We did neither.

Obsessed with my quest to rid the world of the other book, the next thing I knew, we were stepping from the Silver behind the bookstore into a city so heavily iced it was nearly impassable. Our new enemy wasn’t one that could be physically battled, not that I was currently effective in that department anyway. Getting involved would have turned too many eyes my way, raised questions about my stalkers, and put me in closer proximity to Dani than I was ready for. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done to trust that others would handle the problem while I attempted to handle my own.

I stare out the window, watching the scenery whiz by. What the Shades didn’t devour, the Hoar Frost King decimated. But spring has begun transforming the ice-ravaged landscape, pushing buds from skeletal limbs, and a thin carpet of grass shimmers in the moonlight. After the violent, killing frost, it may be years before the emerald isle regains its legendary green.

I sprawl in the passenger seat in the Humvee, one booted foot on the dash — Ryodan refused to let me drive, no surprise there, we’re both control freaks — bracing myself for the upcoming battle. My dark flock is hitching a ride on the roof.

I ponder the upcoming confrontation like a poker game I’m about to enter, and the various ways the cards might play out.

The metaphor is appropriate, given bluffing appears to be my strongest suit.

I love a good battle, especially on the right side, and we are. The abbey belongs to us. Assuming I go inside, what cards can I safely allow myself to play?

My spear is useless. I’ve been mulling over the two times my flock ascended to the rooftops and I drew my spear: the first against Dani, the second against the Gray Woman, trying to decide what pushed me over the edge the second time and gave the Book the leverage it needed. Until I can isolate the precise moment I lost control, the how and why, I’m not using my spear again.

I left my guns at the bookstore but have a switchblade in each boot. I won’t use those either. Violence is the door the Book kicks through, sticks in a foot, and wedges open.

Barrons keeps the amulet locked in a vault beneath the garage. I wouldn’t touch it anyway. We decided months ago that it was too risky to attempt to fool it twice the same way. Besides, I’ve thought of it so many times, I’m not certain it’s not an idea the Book keeps planting. Nearly all my mental terrain is suspect to me. On days when it hasn’t stirred much, I get worried.

You can’t seek a weapon to use against it. You must become that weapon, Barrons has said over and over.

I know Voice. I’m good at it, too. There’s a useful tool. If we get into a heated battle, I can keep a circle clear around me merely by barking orders. I get a mental picture of myself, standing, unarmed and passive in the middle of a raging battle, shouting: Stay away from me! Don’t touch me! Drop your weapon!

I blow out a frustrated breath.

I can Null, but that’s only effective on Fae. Present ghoulish company excluded.

I’m good in hand-to-hand combat. Assuming I don’t black out.

My cards in this poker game suck. I need a redeal. Or at least a few wild cards.

I’m itching to meet the supposedly legendary sidhe-seer leader, stand in front of her and take her measure. I wonder about the women she commands, what their talents are, whether one of them might be like me, able to sense the Sinsar Dubh. I try to assure myself the likelihood is slim.

But if the Unseelie King really did make us to serve as prison guards for his dark disaster, it seems logical he’d also have made more like me, in case it ever got out.

I heave a conflicted sigh and decide I’m being paranoid. The sidhe-seers told me no one in their entire history at the abbey was ever able to sense the Book like Alina and me, none of them are Nulls, and considering we come from the mother house in the originating homeland where it was interred by the king himself, I sincerely doubt the “away teams” were likewise gifted. In fact, they’re probably diluted from millennia of living in far-off lands, divorced from their heritage. Good military fighters but little more.

“Christ, stop sighing, you’ll blow us off the fucking road. Something you want to talk about, Mac.”

I look over at Ryodan, inscrutable as ever in the dim light from the dashboard.

I doubt my threat to quit “protecting” him was motivation. Ryodan pursues his own agenda. “Why did you agree to help free the abbey? You never do anything unless there’s something in it for you.”

“I want their new leader off the streets. She and her followers are killing Fae. Bad for business.”

“What are you going to do with her? Kill her?” I don’t like that thought. Though I, too, intend to see her deposed, I want her neutralized, not dead. There’s been too much death in Dublin.

“Perhaps she can be recalibrated into a useful weapon. If not, then yes.”

“What happened when you and Dageus met with R’jan?” Dageus had insisted on privacy for the meeting in Ryodan’s office. I’d loitered outside, wishing I still had his cell phone with the handy eavesdropping Skull & Crossbones app. “Did he agree to send an army to hunt the Hag?”

“In exchange for an additional seat at our table.”

“Who? There are no other princes.” I wonder about that. Where are the replacements? Are they trapped somewhere, like Christian was in the Unseelie prison, becoming? Did eating Unseelie really hasten his transformation?

“An advisor whose vote will tie his with those of the Unseelie.”

“And you allowed it?”

He says nothing, but I don’t need him to. Of course he did. “The Unseelie and Seelie will always vote against each other out of sheer, stupid principle, canceling each other out, giving you the permanent upper hand.”

When he still says nothing, I resume staring out at the scenery. And jerk. “What the hell?” I exclaim.

Ryodan looks over at me, then out the window beyond me. He slams the brakes so hard my ghouls catapult from the roof and explode in a tangle of chittering black robes on the road in front of us. “Fuck, I didn’t even notice.”

The scenery has changed. Drastically. Here, just ten minutes from the abbey, spring has been at work, not with gentle brushes, but wild splashes from the vats of a painter gone mad.

“Back up,” I demand, but he’s already doing it.

We find the line of demarcation, similar to the one the Shades left outside Dublin, an eighth of a mile back.

I leap from the Hummer and straddle the line, one booted foot on each side. My ghouls pack in beside me, behind me. I tune them out, a thing I’m getting better at the more smelly, dusty time we spend together.

To my left is a thin covering of grass and weeds. To my right is a carpet of grass too tall and dense to be cut by anything but perhaps a strong man with a scythe. Fat poppies bob, black and velvety in the moonlight, and atop willowy stands of tall reeds, shadowy lilies sway.

On my left are newly budded trees with young, tender leaves.

On my right enormous, ancient live oaks, massive branches stretching skyward, others reaching low to sweep the earth, explode with greenery, draped with lush vines.

Here, a weak cricket chirps, wakened from the unexpected and brutal winter to a paltry meal.

There, birds trill an exotic aria, tree frogs sing, and the heavily draped limbs rustle as small creatures leap from one vine-fringed branch to the next.

Foreboding fills me.

If you’ll just come to the abbey, Kat had said, you’ll see what I mean. This thaw … I thought when the fire-world threatening our home was gone … och, but then it didn’t and it turns out it wasn’t …

She was trying to tell me. She was asking for my help. Engrossed in my own problems, I’d heard none of it.

There’s another thing I’d like to be discussing with you, if you’ve the time. About Cruce. Seeing how you know more about Fae princes than any of us …

She’d told me his cage was still holding.

Was it a lie? What else could explain this?

I shoot a dark look at Ryodan. “I thought you knew what was going on out here.”

“It would seem there are a few things my sources neglected to mention.”

“Why wouldn’t your men tell you?” I fish.

“My men are not my sources.”

That was half of what I wanted to know. “Who is?”

His slants me a silent, Nice try. Not.

I get back in the Hummer.

On the driver’s side.

And lock the door.

He laughs. “Ah, Mac, I don’t think so.”

I lunge across the wide console, fling open the passenger door, slam it into gear, and start rolling forward.

Fast.

Ryodan curses and does exactly what I would have done, lopes alongside and explodes in, managing to dwarf the cavernous interior. “Strip my gears, woman, you’re dead.”

I shoot him a derisive look. “I haven’t stripped gears since I was ten.” I step on it and shift rapidly.

“Big Wheels don’t count,” Ryodan mocks.

“My daddy’s sixty-four-and-a-half Mustang.” After that debacle, Mom and Dad no longer left any keys hanging by the garage door. Sherriff Bowden brought me home. I’d made it a half a mile of screeching, jerking stops and starts that apparently the entire town of Ashford was witnessing out their nosy windows. The pillows I’d packed in to help me reach the pedals and steering wheel had worked as air bags when I hit the telephone pole.

It had been a while before Daddy got over that one.

Then he’d done what any wise parent would have: taught me to drive.

Give me raw, testy, ferocious power any day of the week.

I can find the sweet spot in my sleep.

I park outside the elaborate new gate on the enormous new stone wall that wasn’t there two months ago.

Ryodan intuits my thoughts. It’s not difficult, given my mouth is slightly ajar. Again. I don’t know why I bother with preconceptions anymore. Even simple ones like expecting that when I close a door the room on the other side still exists, with drywall and carpet and ceiling lights, neatly intact. For all I know, it doesn’t and never has. Perhaps it vanishes until I want it again, stored away on some cosmic zip drive to conserve quantum energy.

“It wasn’t here last month either. Bloody hell, that wall wasn’t here three weeks ago. And she said nothing of it. It seems our headmistress has been keeping secrets.”

“Along with your inept sources.” I’d really like to know who they are. I’d like them working for me. I’d insist on better info.

Right. If you’d wanted better info, my conscience pricks, you could have come out here any time. Maybe listened when she asked for help. Did you really think it was over? Did you honestly delude yourself for even one minute that Cruce would lie dormant?

Has Kat, like Rowena before her, been seduced by the evil that slumbers a thousand feet of stone beneath her pillow? I shiver. Not Kat. But where is she? And why did she tell us none of this?

“Perhaps a different caste of Seelie have settled nearby in large numbers and are affecting the environment,” I propose as an alternative, which would still be problematic. I don’t want any Fae anywhere near the abbey.

“Cruce seduced her,” Ryodan says flatly.

“You don’t know that,” I defend.

“It began the night we laid the Book to rest. He came to her while she slept.”

I look at him incredulously. “You know that for a fact? And you waited until now to say something? If not me, you could have at least told Barrons.”

“I believed she had things under control.”

“The great Ryodan, wrong?” I say in mock astonishment. “The world must be ending.” Why didn’t she tell me? Was that why she’d asked me to come out, so I could see firsthand the power he was using on her, on the abbey, and understand the battle she was fighting? Did she hold her silence because, like me, she feared condemnation and hoped to fix it before anyone else had to know?

Ryodan says irritably, “Bit busy hunting Dani and trying to patch a black hole beneath my club. While you and Barrons were MIA doing unknown things for unknown reasons with the Unseelie King’s personal valets that stalk you for yet more unknown reasons, all of which you could explain anytime now. And yes, if we don’t find a way to fix it, it is.”

End-of-the-world talk doesn’t make me as nervous as it once did. I often wake up in the morning surprised to find myself still here. I consider it icing on the cake if I’m still where I recall falling asleep.

A black SUV with dark-tinted windows pulls up. The Keltar have arrived. They get out, a small army of powerfully built, dark-haired, dark-skinned men. There’s Dageus’s twin, Drustan, a more thickly muscled version of his minutes-younger brother, with shorter hair — although it still falls halfway down his back — and a cool silver gaze, in contrast to Dageus’s gold tiger-eyes. He’s followed by Cian, an enormous Highlander with loads of tattoos and the thousand-yard stare of a man who’s done hard time somewhere; then Christopher, the only one of the lot that looks remotely civilized, a forty-five-year-old version of Christian.

As we get out and join them, Dageus growls, “No’ quite what it looked like last time. Place reeks of Fae.”

Ryodan angles his head back and looks up at the barbed wire strung atop the walls. He breaks a twig off a nearby tree and tosses it high. The branch spits and crackles when it hits, then falls to the ground, scorched.

Beyond the gate the abbey is lit as if by a thousand interior lights. An acre of fountain that also didn’t previously exist shoots water into the sky before spilling into a rippling pool of silver and gold. The gardens are surreal, vast bed after bed of spicy, jewel-toned blossoms I’ve seen only one other place. There’s no longer any question in my mind what egotistical Picasso painted this voluptuous summer atop the canvas of Dublin’s anorexic spring.

Beyond the gate a new sidhe-seer holds the prison that contains — or appears to be rather spectacularly failing to contain — the greatest evil the world has ever known (well, besides me) in the body of the most powerful prince the Unseelie King created. I should have known it wouldn’t work. Cruce probably had a contingency plan all along; the equivalent of a paper clip tucked in his pocket to work his handcuffs loose, or a shoulder that conveniently pops out of its socket.

“Has it broken free, lass?” Dageus asks, looking at me.

Cautiously, I reach out for the Book entombed, hoping the one inside me doesn’t explode into violent life.

KILL THE PRINCE CRUSH HIM DEVOUR HIM DESTROY HIM MAKE HIM BURN!!!!!

I grit my teeth to keep from clutching my head and groaning out loud. Yes, it’s still beneath the abbey, and apparently, much as the king despises his book, my book despises the king’s book. Whatever happened to the good old days when books just got along, cozied up together on bookshelves, hanging out, waiting to be read?

“It’s still beneath the abbey where we left it.”

“Has anything changed?” Christopher demands.

“I can’t tell that from here. We’ll have to see it.” And I won’t. I’ll find a way to refuse. The last time I stood in that cavernous chamber, I didn’t know I had a copy of the Book inside me. I’d still believed it was a lie the Sinsar Dubh had told me to make me doubt myself. Since that night, I’ve had far too many nightmares about getting imprisoned next to Cruce.

March willingly into the abbey, down into the prison, beside the very sidhe-seers and Keltar druids that possess enough power between them to imprison me?

Never.

I feel Barrons behind me before he speaks. My cloak of wraiths retreat, and like a supercar that’s sat too long in the garage and is in desperate need of a hot, hard run to blow out its engine, my body fires on all pistons.

“Ah, fuck.” He moves in, standing close without touching. He doesn’t need to. I sometimes think our atoms are so glad to see each other that they send little messengers back and forth, ferrying desire, strength, and love between the islands we are. “I knew we should have moved it,” he growls.

“At least pumped it full of concrete,” I agree.

“The others,” Ryodan says to him.

“Fade was the only one with me when I got your call.”

While I’m trying to decide just how Ryodan managed to reach Barrons in Faery, Fade glides from the shadows, tall, packed with muscle and scarred like the rest. He’s prowling in that half-invisible way Barrons moves only in private. If you’ve not seen it before, it’s eerie and impossible to mistake for human.

The Highlanders close ranks on themselves.

Fade laughs, fangs gleaming white in the moonlight.

Two of the Highlanders move their hands to ancient, odd knives in sheaths at their waist. I wonder if they have mythic properties like my spear.

Ryodan shoots Fade a look he rebounds with a snarl, but he settles into moving like the rest of us.

Our army is small yet impressive. In two groups we stand, Barrons, Fade, Ryodan, and I, near Dageus, Drustan, Cian, and Christopher, preparing to meet our unknown foe.

And a known one that’s somehow stirring, despite the ice and bars.

Provided war doesn’t break out between us — which could easily happen with this much testosterone in such close quarters — I put our odds of reclaiming the abbey from at least one of our enemies tonight at reasonably good.

The new sidhe-seers didn’t just take an abbey — they took a radioactive one.

I’m no longer certain what worries me more: the danger beneath Chester’s, the one beneath the abbey, or the one inside me. I’d like them all to go away. Reverse order would be just swell. “Do you think things will ever get back to normal?”

Barrons gives me a look. “They were normal? Did I miss that century?”

Ryodan says, “Fuck normal. Give me a good war any day.”

“No shit, boss,” Fade agrees.

Drustan snorts. “You’re daft, the lot of you. I’d give my left nut for a century of peace.”

The rest of the Keltar heartily agree, adding various body parts to the mix.

Surrounded by alpha males that know more magic than all the teachers at Hogwarts, I’m about to ask who’s going to do what to get us through the gate, when it becomes a moot point.

Powered by an unseen hand, it begins to move slowly open.

21

I used to know precisely where I was headed and how I’d handle things when I got there.

Before any event, I’d ponder the possible variables and decide what I’d say or do, if X or Y happened, or maybe Z. Although something as exotic as Z almost never happened in small-town Georgia. We closed schools and held parades when it did.

It’s how I used to prepare for dates in high school: when Billy James asks me out will I say yes the first time or make him wait; will I wear the low-cut top or something flirty and sweet; when he tries to kiss me, will I let him; if he takes me to the less popular party at Amy Tanhauser’s house instead of the party of the year at Heather Jackson’s, will I dump him; if he wants to have sex, am I ready?

Ah, my long-lost shallow life.

Back then, things unfolded so predictably. I wore flirty and sweet, I dumped him when he took me to the wrong party, and I didn’t have sex with Billy but I did have sex with his older brother later that summer.

My careful prep doesn’t work so well anymore.

Each time I think I’m braced for any possible scenario, gravity changes, my trajectory shifts, rocket fuel gets dumped into my gas tank and I end up hurtling at inconceivable speeds at some entirely new crash site I’d never considered, a big, fat nasty planet I didn’t even know existed that explodes on the horizon so suddenly no amount of frantic braking can save you from impact.

How do you brace yourself for a collision with the unimaginable?

The closer we get to the abbey, the more sultry the clime. On both sides of the drive, mist steams from the lush lawn. I feel like we’re taking a bad trip down a yellow brick road, but what waits for us behind that curtain is no charlatan, rather an enormously powerful, staggeringly dangerous wizard of chaos.

Although it’s two hours till dawn, in Ireland, for heaven’s sake, I’m sweating and my hair is sticking damply to my face. It’s hotter here than it was in Dublin. The fountain isn’t the only new addition to the grounds. Golden trellises draped with black roses offer shelter above marble benches, and I suspect the scent of the blossoms would be drugging to anyone foolish enough to pause in the alcove beneath.

“They’ve stones now,” Drustan says, eyeing a cluster rising from the mist, great bleached-bone fingers reaching for the sky.

“I care naught for the looks of them,” Cian rumbles.

Dageus agrees, “Nor do I.”

Cian grunts and points, a darker-haired version of Lor, at two enormous black megaliths. I think they might like each other. Grunts and all.

“A dolmen awaiting the cover stone,” Ryodan murmurs.

Barrons says, “We bring jackhammers next time. I want those stones destroyed.”

I agree. I watched Darroc usher an Unseelie horde into our city through a dolmen at 1247 LaRuhe, in the heart of the Dark Zone adjacent to BB&B. I later asked V’lane/Cruce to crush it. I want this one crushed, too, before it’s completed and who knows what arrives on our planet next.

As we skirt the fountain, I say, “You do realize we’re walking into a trap, right? Do we have a plan? Is someone going to tell me what it is?”

Seven male heads swivel my way.

“Would you shut her up,” Ryodan says to Barrons.

Barrons slants him a cold look that shuts Ryodan up. I’d sacrifice my eyeteeth to perfect that look. Then again maybe that’s precisely what’s required: long, inhumanly sharp ones like theirs to pull it off.

“I doona ken why you permitted the woman to come. We doona risk ours in battle.” Cian’s brogue is so thick it’s hard to follow.

“Tell that to Colleen,” Christopher says grimly. “She’s inside.”

Drustan gives him an incredulous look. “You let her come tonight? And she’s already inside? How?”

“We need all the information we can get if we hope to rescue Christian from the Hag. These women know the Seelie nearly as well as we do, the Unseelie even better. Colleen joined up with the new sidhe-seers a week ago, to infiltrate the abbey and search their archives.”

“The new group? How?” I demand. “She’s not a sidhe-seer.”

“And you allowed this?” Cian explodes.

“Keep it down. They’re going to hear us,” I warn.

“Honey, they opened the front gate,” Fade says. “They know we’re here. Trap. Remember.”

Christian’s father snorts. “Try stopping her.”

“Is she?” I press.

“What?” he snaps.

“A sidhe-seer.”

“She has other … skills.”

“Why the bloody hell are those Unseelie following you, lass?” Drustan demands. “At first I thought they were drawn to all of us for some reason, but the moment Barrons moves away from you, they’re on you like midges. Is there something about you we should know?”

Seven male heads turn my way again.

“She said they’re ghosts of the Unseelie she’s killed,” Dageus says.

“Not a ghost of truth in that one,” Ryodan says dryly.

“Oh, just shut up, all of you,” I say, exasperated, moving closer to Barrons again, reclaiming a little personal space.

We continue walking in silence toward the abbey.

“So, do we have a plan?” I say again after a few moments.

“Walk up to the front door and go inside,” Barrons replies.

“That’s not a plan. That’s a suicide mission.”

“We’re a little hard to kill,” Fade says.

“Some more than others,” I say pointedly. “I’m not so sure the Keltar get back up quite as easily as—” I bite that one off myself when all four Keltar shoot me looks of death.

Clearly, I impugned their virility, when all I was trying to do is remind my team that the other team doesn’t have the same Get Out of Death Free card.

“Why did you bring her again?” Dageus says.

“Because once she gets with the plan, she’s as useful as the rest of us,” Barrons says.

“It’d help if I knew what the bloody plan was,” I grumble.

“Besides, we can use her Unseelie as body shields,” he adds.

Well darn, that was one I hadn’t thought of.

The front door, which was once slats of wood reinforced by steel, now looms black as polished obsidian, covered with ancient runes I’ve seen before.

Below the abbey, in the chamber that houses Cruce.

It swings silently open.

I move forward and pause on the threshold, looking in to get the lay of the land before I inadvertently plant a foot on a mine.

Seven men march past me, boots echoing on the stone floor.

I hurry to catch up. Well, I mostly hurry. I linger a moment, absorbing the raw fearlessness of their stride, the determination to never quit that squares their shoulders, and it fortifies my resolve. I will match the bar these men set so high. They all have their inner demons. And they manage them.

I will, too.

The entry hall is large and rectangular, with a ceiling that soars to open roof rafters. On three walls, fireplaces that could serve as small bedrooms blast more heat into the already warm room.

The sofas are faded and worn, dotted with handmade pillows and crocheted throws, the floors warmed by century-old rugs, the walls hung with antique tapestries. Chairs perch near tables that hold open books and perspiring glasses of iced drinks.

The room is empty.

“Where the bloody hell is everyone?” Dageus growls.

“Quiet. Someone’s coming,” Barrons says.

Several seconds pass before I hear the sound of people approaching. I envy his preternatural senses, rue that my monster has no such benefits.

I offer benefits with which you could retire from this paltry planet and rule galaxies. You refuse them. Embrace your destiny and we will destroy the prince before we leave this world. It will be our parting gift.

Right. As if either Sinsar Dubh would leave my planet intact. Criminy, I can’t even think about it without it stirring. I mutter Poe beneath my breath and watch as four women enter the room. I’m relieved to see they’re ours. I sat at a table with these women not so long ago.

Leading the group is Josie, a skinny dark-eyed girl with platinum hair and goth makeup, followed by Shauna, a petite brunette with hazel eyes and a quick smile, and the twins, Clare and Sorcha MacSweeney. They are the women Kat brought to our clandestine meeting in a pub, after Rowena instructed a group of them to ambush me and try to take my spear. They failed. I accidentally killed a sidhe-seer in the process. Moira. I never forget the names of humans I’ve slain. I catch myself reaching protectively for my spear but stop, unwilling to invite more of the Book’s unwanted commentary so near another copy of itself plus so many vulnerable humans.

“Why have you brought Unseelie inside our walls, Mac?” Shauna says grimly.

I sigh. “I didn’t. They, I—” Shit, how do I explain this one? I blurt, “I was trying to do a spell and it backfired and they’ve been stuck to me like glue ever since.” I practically roll my own eyes. It’s the weakest lie I’ve ever heard myself tell.

Dageus gives me a look.

Ryodan laughs.

“They’re harmless,” I add. “They don’t even kill anything. They just stalk me.”

“The Unseelie doesn’t exist that doesn’t kill,” Josie says coolly.

Sorcha moves past me, inspecting them from a cautious distance. Then she surprises me by saying, “I’m not certain they’re Unseelie, Mac.”

I frown. “What else could they be?”

“I don’t know but they’re … different.”

That would explain why I can’t Null them, but not why my sidhe-seer senses seem to pick up on them as Unseelie. Or do they? Is that yet one more preconception I accepted without bothering to consider simply because they looked like Unseelie, and what else would they be? I realize I’ve never listened past their incessant chittering for their caste’s dark melody. But I will, in the near future. At the moment I want no distractions.

Barrons says impatiently, “Who the fuck cares. They follow her. Where is the one that holds you hostage?”

Josie laughs, a brittle sound. “That’s what you think? We’re being held hostage? The woman saved us!”

“Saved?” I echo.

“Aye, saved. And we’ve no need of your army, Mac. We’re just fine. The lot of you can be leaving now. With your Unseelie.”

“I’m telling you,” Sorcha says, “they’re not Unseelie.”

“We’d be finer if we knew Kat was all right,” Clare says.

“And Dani,” Shauna adds. “Two of our best have gone missing.”

“Dani isn’t one of our best,” Josie says sharply. “She’s a liability, a hotheaded child. And Kat, well … you see where her plans got us.”

Josie doesn’t look much older than Dani herself. And Kat’s plans kept them alive this long.

Clare disagrees, “How can you say that when it was Dani and Ryodan that saved us from the Hoar Frost King?”

“They didn’t save us from Cruce,” Josie says hotly. “Jada did.”

I narrow my eyes. “Who’s Jada?” Was this the name of the supposedly mystical fighter that was leading them now? “And what do you mean you’re ‘fine’? This place is a mess. It’s obviously been taken over by—”

“No, it hasn’t. Not anymore,” Josie cuts me off. “Not since she came.”

“Jada?” I guess dryly.

The skinny goth folds her arms over her chest and tosses her head, looking down her thin nose at me. “Aye, she freed us from our prison. When Kat went missing, the changes to our abbey escalated. The doors and windows closed, trapping us inside. But Jada understands his runes. She was able to open them. Since her arrival the changes have stopped. Completely.”

I mock, “Gee, let’s see, your lights glow without bulbs, your fireplaces burn with no wood or visible source of fuel, and there are Fae flowers and monuments scattered all over your land. Inside a stone wall that wasn’t there three weeks ago.”

“I said she stopped the changes. Not undid them. Yet,” she adds with the fervent faith of a recent convert.

“Where’s Colleen?” Christopher demands.

Clare says, “You must be her father. She’s the look of you. She said you would be coming if she didn’t send word soon. She’s with a group of women in the Red Library, searching our oldest books. Unseelie Prince or not, your son sacrificed himself for us, and we will help you get Christian back. Jada has agreed to make it a priority.”

Her last words rub me a thousand kinds of wrong. “One of your women escaped and told us the abbey was taken hostage and three of your women killed.” They’ve accepted their conqueror, permitted her to choose their priorities. How quickly they’ve abandoned Kat.

Shauna says, “At first we didn’t know what was going on, and aye, we battled, that’s true. There were losses on both sides. But we swiftly realized the asset Jada is.”

“She’s a born leader,” Josie says proudly. “She fears nothing and I’ve never seen anyone with such unobstructed vision. She makes plans and takes action and her plans yield immediate, concrete results. Have you any idea how long we’ve been floundering out here? Hammered by one threat after the next! I’ll fall in behind her any day. You wouldn’t believe what she’s accomplished in the short time she’s been here.”

Sorcha nods agreement. “We aren’t the first group of sidhe-seers to join her. The ones she arrived at the abbey with told us they lost their own leader a few weeks ago. Jada found them wandering Dublin, thinking of returning home. She talked them out of it.”

“Do any of you even know where she came from?” I demand.

Josie slants me a scornful look. “Who cares? She’s the most powerful sidhe-seer we’ve ever seen. Not even you possess such skills. In fact, she should have the spear, not you. They’re training us. Teaching us to fight. Martial arts and weapons.”

I refuse to reach for it. My spear is beneath my arm and there it will remain.

Deep inside me the Book sends out a dark, cold draft of brimstone and damnation, offering all kinds of power.

I don’t need it. I am enough.

Shauna says, “Kat did a fine job keeping us together in the present. But Jada can lead us into the future.”

I glance at Barrons. He’s motionless, processing, assessing. We came here to roust a conqueror and received instead an unarmed welcome coupled with news that the abbey has embraced their conqueror.

Wants to keep her.

Likes her better than Kat.

Whoever this Jada is, I don’t trust her one bit.

“You will bring her to us now,” Barrons says.

Josie tips her head back and says down her nose to him, “We will inform Jada you’ve requested an audience. After Mac and her Unseelie leave our home.”

Seven men blast past her so fast her short platinum hair flies straight up in the air, and one of them must have caught her with his elbow or fist — I’d bet blood it was Barrons — because she crashes back into a couch, goes tumbling over the side, and slams into the floor.

Grimly, me and my cavalcade of whatever they are follow the men.

By the time we reach the wing that houses Rowena’s chambers — I have no doubt that’s where “Jada” has decided to squat, like the Oval Office, mere occupancy confers power — our group has dwindled to Barrons, Ryodan, and me.

The Highlanders insisted on going underground to check on Cruce’s prison after first making a detour to the Red Library to collect Colleen. Ryodan, who trusts no one, insisted Fade accompany them. Clare and Sorcha, who’d caught up with us by then, insisted we ask Jada before going beneath the abbey, and when the men stalked past them, looked impossibly torn before storming off after them. I remained silent the entire time, prepared to lie through my teeth about anything and everything if they tried to make me go down there where I might get caught in the sticky spiderweb of the powers that hold or are failing to hold Cruce.

As we approach Rowena’s chambers, the stone floor changes from pale gray to stone that glitters faintly, as if sprinkled by silver dust, to solid gold etched with elaborate symbols, inlaid near the walls with glittering gems that wink with dark fire.

Ryodan stops abruptly.

“What is it?”

“Getting a read on anything, Mac.”

I expand my sidhe-seer senses, reaching, searching. “Like what?”

“I feel the same thing I felt at the club the night you were supposed to kill the Unseelie Princess.”

“You didn’t expressly tell me to kill her,” I remind crossly. “And you’re not a sidhe-seer, so how could you possibly be feeling anything?” I glance up at Barrons. “Do you feel something?”

He slices his head once to the left and looks at Ryodan, who stands motionless a long moment then says, “It’s nothing. Forget it.”

But he doesn’t look like he’s forgotten it. He looks deeply disturbed by something. I expand my senses again, searching, but still get nothing. I cock my head thoughtfully and eye my stalkers, crowded close, left, right, and behind.

Absolutely nothing. In any direction, with the exception of what’s beneath the abbey. So what the hell are they, then?

Rowena’s chambers are composed of half a dozen rooms: a bedroom, an ornate, regal study, two libraries, an enormous, lovely bathroom with a huge old claw-foot tub, and a stark, uncomfortable waiting room similar to one at a doctor’s office. I snooped through her suite once, but not as thoroughly as I’d like. I suspect there are more secrets tucked away in there, behind warded panels and floorboards, than grains of sand in an hourglass. More than once Dani and I burst through twin sets of French doors and forced our way into her chambers only to find the scowling headmistress had anticipated our arrival.

No such luck making an unannounced entrance today. As we turn the final corner, four armed women stand at the end of the hall, outside the closed doors.

They’re impressive. I can see why our abbey embraced them; it was that or die. Rowena didn’t train her sidhe-seers. She suppressed them, deliberately kept them weak and needy. Jada’s women are draped in ammo, clutch automatic weapons, and stare stonily at us as we approach, military training apparent in their strong bodies and stronger expressions.

I’d like them if I met them on the street. I’d like them a lot. I have enormous respect for our military men and women, the everyday heroes who provide the security the rest of us enjoy.

I don’t like them in front of that door.

Kat belongs inside those chambers, not some outsider whose loyalty and objectives are uncertain.

They scan us, taking in the Unseelie at my back but making no comment. If they crossed continents to get here, they’ve seen stranger things. Criminy, if they served overseas, they’ve seen a small slice of hell.

They raise their rifles in sleek unison, targeting us.

“She’s not taking visitors,” clips a tall woman with short black hair tipped blond at the ends.

I fall back into my hive of Unseelie, a protected queen bee. The body shield idea works for me. I practically cuddle the smelly things. I may be tough to kill, even survived having my throat ripped out, but I don’t need to experience a spray of automatic bullets to know it would hurt like a bitch.

Barrons and Ryodan are suddenly gone. I sometimes forget they can do that, become virtually invisible, melt into the current terrain, and reappear without warning.

Shots go off, guns fly and smash into walls, and ducking the whine of dangerous ricochets, I nestle into my worker bees. Between their hooded heads I watch a brief brawl that ends with four women unconscious on the floor and Barrons pushing the door open.

As I step over them, the black-haired woman uncoils cobra-fast, grabs my leg and yanks it out from under me.

Barrons is on her instantly but I go down backward, hard.

The strangest thing happens as I fall. I get a sudden weird flash of my room at the Clarin House, time slows to a snail’s crawl and I’m suddenly living two different events superimposed.

I’m falling backward at the abbey.

Yet I’m also falling forward in my cramped room at the inn.

Barrons is looking down at me here, subduing my attacker and trying to catch me.

But at the same time we’re at the inn, and he’s the one who just dumped me on the floor.

I’m clothed here.

At the Clarin House I’m missing my jeans, the air is cool on my skin and I’m butt-ass naked.

I hit the abbey floor hard enough to make my teeth clack, and blink, shaking my head.

WTF?

Reality rearranges itself into a single vision.

I’m in the abbey, only the abbey.

Frowning, I push myself up and watch Barrons and Ryodan drag the women down the hall and dump them into a room.

“Time to meet Jada.” Barrons growls her name the same way I feel it, irritably and accompanied by a death wish.

I stand up, eyeing him uneasily, trying to decide what just happened. The only time Barrons was ever in my room at the Clarin House was that night he came to bully me into going home. We’d argued, he grabbed me at one point and got physical, but then he left. The next day I’d hurt from head to toe.

My frown deepens.

I recall thinking the bruises were odd, more around the sides of my rib cage than across my front where he’d actually had his arm banded beneath my breasts. I didn’t wear a bra for days. And I’d hurt all over, not just my ribs. My thighs had ached, the muscles deep in my butt had been sore. I’d just figured the interminable flight over had taken a toll. I’d never flown that far before, or sat so long in between flights on hard airport benches. I scratch my head, staring at him, feeling like I’m trying to put together a puzzle minus half the pieces, with no picture on the box to guide me.

He gives me a look. “Are you hurt? What is it?”

I search his face, searching my memory, trying to reconcile what I just saw with some version of reality I recall.

There is none.

“Get a fucking move on, Mac,” Ryodan snaps.

At a complete loss to explain what just happened, for a novel change, I silently obey him. “Don’t get used to it,” I mutter.

We enter the spartan waiting room, move to the second set of double doors, and I’m on the verge of proposing we pause and listen a few seconds to get a feel for what’s on the other side when Barrons kicks the door open so hard it flies back, slams into the wall, and splits down the middle.

Women shout in alarm but I can’t see past Barrons’s and Ryodan’s backs.

I shut my mouth and step into the room, feeling uncomfortably … obsolete. I may have unique sidhe-seer gifts and there’s no question that without my wraiths hemming me in I’m a seriously badass street fighter, but Barrons and his men are faster, stronger, and more ruthless.

Before, one of my most valuable assets was that I could sense the Sinsar Dubh, but that skill is no longer in demand. Before, I could slay Unseelie better than the best, but now I’m afraid to draw my spear and give my inner demon the opportunity to manifest. Which begs the questions: what makes me any more special than the average sidhe-seer? Enforced passivity has me pondering that question too much of late.

Me. You could crush them in your sleep, said inner demon purrs.

I opt, instead, to crush the twinge of insecurity that invited the Book’s commentary, resuming my silent recitation with a sigh.

Exasperated that I can’t see, I push between them and am rewarded with a quick glimpse of a dozen armed women grouped around a central figure standing in front of Rowena’s ornate desk, but Barrons pushes me back and growls, “Stay there.”

His guttural words spark that freaky collision of dual realities again.

Stay there, he’s growling, back in my room at the Clarin House, I want you that way.

But you said I could—

Your turn next.

This is about me, remember. That’s what you said. I want what I want now.

I catch my breath and hold it. Something’s trying to kick up from my subconscious through murky waters and it’s having a hard time, weighted at the ankles by stones; a swimmer trapped in a dark cave where it was meant to remain forever.

Unless … somehow … the boulder blocking the entrance got jostled … nudged aside, freeing fragments of memory like tadpoles desperate to break the placid surface of my mind.

“She said she’s not receiving visitors,” a woman snaps.

“Put down that fucking gun or you’ll be eating it,” Barrons orders.

“Retreat and we’ll let you live,” she counters. “Don’t move another inch.”

“Try to stop me.”

Try echoes in my mind. In my alternate reality, I hear him saying, Try, Ms. Lane, just try.

“Move away from her,” Barrons growls. “Show yourself, Jada.”

“You move,” the woman counters. “What’s behind you? Show us now!”

Move, you bastard, I’m snarling at the Clarin House.

“You will leave, immediately,” a new voice says in a cool monotone.

Barrons laughs. “I’ll leave when I’m bloody well ready.”

When I’m ready echoes, and in my cramped, rented room, Barrons closes his hands on my ribs.

“Jada, it’s here. They brought it with them!” one of the women cries.

“You aren’t welcome here. I don’t interfere with your world. Don’t interfere with mine. You’ll regret it,” that same cool monotone says.

In both realities my ribs suddenly hurt. Between Barrons’s and Ryodan’s backs, I glimpse a beautiful woman, long hair pulled back in a high ponytail that falls to her waist.

She dwindles as a peculiar tunnel vision overtakes me, then I’m seeing only Barrons’s back.

Then his face, as he stretches his big, hard body over me.

Images smash into me, one brick to my head after another, and I grimace, closing my eyes …

Barrons popping the buttons on my fly.

He makes me a deal: If I’m not wet, we won’t have sex.

If I am, we will.

I’m wet. I’m so damn wet. I’ve never been wet like this before.

He was right. With Billy James’s older brother, and all the boys before him, when it was over, I wondered what the fuss was about.

He was right: If it’s perfectly good, it’s not good enough.

And I knew that night, staring up at him, that touching this man would change my soul, alter me forever, that sex with him would blow my fucking mind.

My sister was dead.

My heart was in pieces.

I was useless and my life was meaningless.

I wanted my mind blown.

Then I’m on the floor, and his big, hard, beautiful body is on me and I’m in a rage of passion I didn’t know I was capable of feeling, grabbing his waistband, busting the zipper, feeling him shove into me, throwing back my head and roaring.

Alive. So damned alive.

“Oh, my God,” I breathe. “I had sex with you that night. All night. I didn’t even know you. I didn’t even like you.”

Barrons mutters, “Ah, fuck. Not now.”

“Jada, they set it free!”

“Are you certain?” the cool monotone says.

“Yes, wait … no it’s — wait, yes … what the hell?”

Ryodan thunders, “I want to see Jada. Get out of my way.”

Out of my way echoes. At the Clarin House, Barrons is saying, I’ll give you until nine P.M. tomorrow to get the bloody hell out of this country and out of my way. Then he bends over me and begins to speak in a voice that sounds like a thousand voices, muttering ancient words.

Here, in the abbey, I freeze.

He didn’t.

He wouldn’t.

Some things are sacred. Until you act like they’re not.

“You used Voice on me.” My lips feel numb, my tongue thick. “You took my memory away.”

“Now is not the time for it, Ms. Lane,” Barrons says tersely.

“The time for it,” I echo incredulously. “It was never the time for it.”

“Yes, Jada, I’m certain,” a woman says urgently. “They set it free!”

“Brigitte, collect the items and return with them immediately,” the cool monotone orders. “Bring Sorcha and Clare.”

“We bloody well did not,” Barrons snaps. “And I said, Ms. Lane, we will discuss this later.”

Barrons and Ryodan disappear then reappear in the middle of the group of armed sidhe-seers and guns go flying. Finally my line of vision is unobstructed! From within a blur of motion, I hear thuds of fists landing and savage female grunts. Then I see a dozen women sprawled on the floor, some holding bleeding noses, others squinting through rapidly swelling eyes, one clutching an arm to her chest that’s obviously broken. Their guns are gone, in a broken pile near the far wall.

Ryodan is standing motionless in the middle of the fallen sidhe-seers, as if he’s carved of stone, staring at the woman that must be Jada. He makes a sound like a soft implosion, a noise I’ve never heard before from any of the Nine, a ragged gasp of pure astonishment and … anguish?

Unable to fathom what could possibly elicit such a reaction from the cold, controlled man, I repress all I’m feeling — betrayal, shock, horror, bewilderment, and no small amount of fury — and move forward for a better look at the focus of his attention.

My age or slightly younger, tall, with a killer body that’s long and lean and muscled and curvy in all the right places, it’s the eyes that get me. They’re emerald ice. They lock with mine for a long, frigid moment. Stone-cold eyes, they chill me, and I’m not easily chilled.

I look down, around me, and realize all the women in the room, including Jada, are staring at me.

Belatedly, I process the comments that were being made while my world was unraveling.

Guess the “away team” ain’t so “diluted” after all. So much for my “rare” ability to sense the Book. One more way I’m no longer quite so special.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter.

“She has the Sinsar Dubh!” a brunette in green camo cries, pushing herself up. “Get her!”

“Bloody. Fucking. Hell,” Ryodan says.

Women lunge up, straight for me.

Barrons moves in front of me like my personal shield. “Over my dead body.”

“It happened before,” Jada says tonelessly. “I’m certain it will again. And again. But that’s how it works with your kind, isn’t it.”

“Bloody. Fucking. Hell,” Ryodan says again.

“I can’t believe you did that to me,” I say numbly.

“Dani,” Ryodan whispers.

“For fuck’s sake, now isn’t the time. Either of you. I said we’ll discuss it later, Ms. Lane. And Ryodan, we’ll find her.” Barrons snarls, “Focus on the moment.”

“I am,” I clip stiffly. “Forgive the fuck out of me if this moment got tangled up with the one you stole from me.”

“Easy to thieve that of which one was so eager to be quit,” he barks, harsh and rapid as hostile fire.

Ryodan says carefully, “We just did.”

“Did what?” I snap, not following him at all. Things are happening too fast. My brain is rubber cement, sticky and nonabsorptive.

I should run. I’m in the abbey. They know what I am. They’re going to lock me up. Imprison me next to Cruce.

“Find Dani,” Ryodan says.

“What the fuck are you nattering about?” Barrons practically shouts.

“Who even says words like ‘natter’?” I know the answer. Men who steal people’s memories.

“I don’t natter.”

“Spell it the fuck out,” Barrons snarls.

“Jada,” Ryodan says tightly, “is. Dani.”