Burned

25

After the walls fell last Halloween (and I was no longer Pri-ya), with most of Dublin’s inhabitants dead or gone, I got to indulge one of my greatest teenage fantasies: I walked into Brown & Taylor and shoplifted everything I wanted.

An Alexander McQueen scarf of black skulls on pink leopard silk, a pair of totally come-fuck-me Christian Louboutin heels adorned with silver spikes that perfectly complemented the black dress I snatched off a Chanel rack, a classic Burberry raincoat lined with checked silk, a glamorous smoky faux-fur stole. A Louis Vuitton limited edition satchel, Prada wallet and purse, Dolce & Gabbana python boots, lingerie to die for!

Then I went next door and raided Estée Lauder’s makeup counter, before moving on to Lancôme. I’d crammed my backpack with all those expensive moisturizers I’d never been able to afford and filled another with foundation and blush, eye shadow and mascara.

I’d commandeered two rooms on the fourth floor of Barrons Books & Baubles (last time I saw them they’d decamped to the fifth and switched sides) and set up my own private store stocked with feminine essentials: nail polish and remover, cotton balls and lotions, makeup and perfume and insanely expensive jewelry. (Over time, I added three diamond-crusted Rolexes I found lying in the streets to my hoard.)

I’d packed four enormous closets full of boxes of tampons and those invaluable skinny liner pads for heavy days when a tampon isn’t enough. I’d lugged home crates of vitamin D, aspirin, cold medicine, and soap. Then I went back for more and piled mountains of toilet paper in the second room. I raided three pharmacies and stashed away antibiotics and various medicinal supplies and ten years of birth control and condoms. At that point I figured I’d be lucky if I lived that long.

But there’s a second fantasy I never got to indulge that I’m fairly certain I won’t outgrow: wanting to go places I’m not allowed to go so I can see things I’m not supposed to see.

I can now.

I’m invisible.

I’M FREAKING INVISIBLE!

It’s incredibly difficult having something inside you that’s sentient and pretty much brilliant, and not at all nice, that can skim your mind to an uncertain degree, observe everything you do, study and analyze you, and wait forever for the perfect moment to seize the upper hand.

It’s worse than sleeping with the enemy, it’s living with a parasite inside you that is pathologically obsessed with a single goal: take you over, annihilate your will, and do whatever it chooses with what used to be your body. We’re conjoined twins, forced to share blood and oxygen, battling daily, sneakily to be the one who controls the supply.

Last night, when I stood in Rowena’s study bluffing the Book, outwaiting it, trying to force its hand to save us, that’s all I was initially doing.

Bluffing.

But my bluff became conviction, and the moment it did, the Book stepped in and saved our asses by turning me invisible.

Not just invisible — undetectable!

I’m no longer stalked by suffocating, smelly wraiths. Last night, they vanished, and I haven’t seen them in eighteen blissful hours.

I’m still corporeal — that was the first thing I tested after I dashed from the study, a split second before the fourth stone was placed. I didn’t look back. I ran faster than a demon from Hell breaking out with Cerberus snapping at its heels. I ran until I burst through the front doors of the abbey, into the steamy, nearly tropical night beyond, where I’d stood in the driveway, gasping for breath. I’d looked down and seen nothing but two small indentations in the grass where I was fairly certain my feet were.

I’d headed straight for the fountain, scooped up a handful of water, and heaved a sigh of relief when it worked. Although the warm water had turned invisible the moment I cupped it, I’d felt its wetness, been able to dribble it from my hand and watch it become visible again. For a moment I was afraid I was a ghost. I’d hastened to one of the large standing stones and forced myself to place a hand against its eerie, obsidian coolness. It, however, had not vanished. Apparently only small things did.

As I’d made the long trek back to Dublin on foot, not willing to boost one of the SUVs and stir any suspicions, the Sinsar Dubh had insisted I leave this world because they would never stop hunting us.

I refused.

We argued all the way back to Dublin, which had taken most of the night. It threatened, cajoled, bullied, even tried to charm.

I’d been unmoved.

So long as I don’t draw my spear, which spurs a mindless killing frenzy, I remain in control of my feet, and I’m staying on this world, period, the end.

I’ve drawn my line in the sand, and the Book had damn well better toe it. There’s no question this is war. A lukewarm one at the moment but war nonetheless.

We’ve established a détente of sorts. The Book is now willing to toss me a bit of aid because — although it taught me the hard way that if I draw my spear to kill, it can make me kill others — last night I taught the Sinsar Dubh a harder lesson: I’m willing to sacrifice myself to save the world from what I might do to it.

It’s never going to let that happen.

So it’s keeping me invisible. Any small items I pick up or put on also vanish from the realm of the seen.

When I arrived in the city early this morning, I further tested the extent of my corporeality by shouting at two See-You-in-Faery girls hanging outside Chester’s while chucking a couple of rocks in their direction. They heard me, and were hit by my inexplicably materializing rocks. It was deliciously fun. Upon my return to the bookstore, I experimented more and realized if I wasn’t careful I could give myself away by sitting on a soft chair or sofa, creating a petunia-shaped indent. It appears minor things become invisible when I touch them but major things don’t. When I walk across the rug, my invisibility has no impact on it. When I press the handle to flush the toilet, it remains visible.

I suspect if I tried to turn myself over, the Book would take further measures to impede me. No worries there. I’ll sacrifice myself if there’s no other choice but I certainly won’t go hunting for the opportunity.

In the meantime, the Sinsar Dubh has decided to keep me as cloaked as a Klingon Bird of Prey.

“Works for me,” I say cheerfully as I bang out the front door of Barrons Books & Baubles. It’s two in the afternoon, the time of day the erstwhile ex-owner of my shop and man who dominates the top of my lengthy shit-list never comes around. I just finished showering (carefully wiping down the tile before hiding the damp towels in the back of a closet) and changed clothes (into the first outfit I’ve liked in a long time, pity that no one can see it, including myself, topped off with a lovely skull-bedecked pink scarf that I no longer have to worry about getting stained and smelly), pulled on soft-soled boots, and grabbed a few protein bars from my stash. I was actually stupid enough to look in the mirror, prelude to putting makeup on. Ha. That’s not going to happen. No need to style my hair either. Eating was a special challenge, since I can’t see myself or the food and you don’t realize how heavily you rely on a peripheral visual awareness of your body to eat until you no longer have it, but after stabbing myself in the nose and chin a few times (I decide against washing my face again, if I have chocolate smudges, no one can see them), I managed.

It’s time to find out what’s going on in the world, all those details I’ve been missing. Time to do some long overdue investigating.

MacKayla Lane: unstoppable supersleuth.

For the first time in months, it’s fun to be me.

Unfortunately, being corporeal means I’m as subject to the elements as everyone else, and it’s once again raining in Dublin; a torrential spring downpour, good for the newly planted flowers and trees but bad for me.

Once I grabbed it, my umbrella became invisible, too, but that just makes me a larger, unseen obstacle, and foliage isn’t the only new addition to Dublin’s streets, there are people out walking, just like old times, hurrying to and fro, chins chucked down beneath hats and umbrellas.

Twice passersby collided with me when I didn’t sidestep fast enough, and both times I nearly lost my parasol and took a brief but thorough drenching. This being invisible is tricky stuff. It may take me a while to get the hang of it. I make a mental note that once I reach my destination, I’m going to have to dry off so I don’t leak a trail of water everywhere I go.

I’m halfway to Chester’s when I turn the corner and run smack into the Dreamy-Eyed Guy who’s standing outside an old brownstone converted to condos, looking up.

I flail for balance, taking a third soaking which I hardly even notice.

My savior is here, standing before me in the flesh! He’ll take back his Book and I’ll be visible again and go saunter around in front of Green Camo girl and prove I’m no longer a threat!

“There you are,” I exclaim excitedly.

“Not quite,” the Dreamy-Eyed Guy says. “But then you aren’t quite either. Quite the couple we make. You’ve chocolate on your face.”

Freaking figures. I scrub irritably at my chin, my cheek. “We need to talk.” I snatch the human form of the Unseelie King by his arm before he vanishes on me again. Like other large objects I touch, he remains visible.

He locks surreally beautiful eyes with mine, staring right through my invisibility cloak, but why wouldn’t he? It’s an illusion perpetrated by a part of him.

“What have you done now, Beautiful Girl?”

“Not me. You. It’s your fault.”

“Fault schmault. Lies in the stars.”

Not about to get sucked into an existential debate, I get to the point. “Get your Book out of me.”

“Talking to it?”

“No,” I deny instantly. “It talks to me. I almost never answer.”

“Cold fire. Jumbo shrimp.”

“Huh?” I don’t want the half-mad king. I want the sane one.

“Almost never: oxymoron. Risky couplings. Gray lies.” He removes my hand from his arm. “Not my book.”

“Bullshit. You made it.” I latch onto his arm again. No way he’s leaving without fixing me this time.

“So you say.”

“It’s a fact.”

“Nasty little buggers. Sport Halloween masks. Trust none of them.”

“Get. It. Out. Of. Me,” I grit.

“How many times must your king say it? Can’t eviscerate essential self.”

“Oh! I knew you were going to say that! It’s not my self. It’s yours. And you’re not my flipping king.”

“Didn’t say I was. Certainly not flipping. Although occasionally I do a cartwheel.”

He’s making little sense. But he rarely does. I suspect it’s even more difficult for the virtually omnipotent being to communicate when he’s functioning than it is for one of his multiple human parts. The only way the Unseelie King can walk among humans is by parceling out his vast sentience and power among a dozen or so human bodies. “I can’t live with your monster inside me. I shouldn’t have to.”

“Ah,” he clucks with mock sympathy, “because it’s not fair. And life always is. There is that whole ‘sins of the father’ thing.”

“You’re not my father. And no, it’s not fair.”

“In a manner of speaking, you are unequivocally the king’s and always will be. Caveat: what you fear most will destroy you.”

“Exactly. So, get it out of me.”

“Stop fearing it.”

“You dumped it. Why shouldn’t I?”

“And we’re back to square one. BG wake the fuck up, can’t eviscerate essential self.”

I stare at him. “What are you saying? You never got rid of it? Are you trying to tell me you dumped all your evil into a book and it infected me and made me evil — and it didn’t even work for you?”

“Try to behave with it.”

Then the Dreamy-Eyed Guy was gone, just gone, leaving a final cryptic comment floating on air.

“ ’Ware the Sweeper, BG. Don’t talk to its minions either. It’s not about eating the candy. It’s about giving away words.” Soft, enormous laughter rolls through the rainy streets like thunder. “Even that broody ass poet’s.”

Try to behave with it? That was his useless advice? Sweeper? Minions? Candy? What the hell is he talking about?

I stomp my foot on the sidewalk, slip and fall on my ass into the overflowing gutter. “Fucking fairies,” I yell, shoving wet hair from my face. “I hate you. All of you. Fuck you, Dreamy-Eyed Guy!”

A sudden breeze snatches the umbrella from my hand, turning it visible again and sends it whirling down the street, chute over handle, before smashing it into a brick wall. Metal spokes snap and it collapses on itself. Lightning crashes and thunder rolls.

I’m not sure but I think the Unseelie King just said “Fuck you, tiny insignificant very wet human” back.

After a moment I drag myself up, collect my battered umbrella, and begin slogging through the rain toward Chester’s.

After drying myself off thoroughly in one of the restrooms, I make every effort to stride purposefully across the crowded dance floors of Chester’s, but were I visible, someone watching would see an erratic zig followed by a stumbling zag that vaguely resembles a drunken bumblebee. It’s impossible to avoid people who have no idea I’m there.

I take two pops to my rib cage from flailing elbows, a backhand to my jaw (they call this dancing?), and a fist to my thigh (really, who gyrates like that?) before I even clear the first subclub.

I pause in an unoccupied space between clubs, assessing my surroundings, seeking the clearest path.

It’s easy to find. Behind a tall dark mountain of a man for whom the crowd parts with the same mystical obedience as the Red Sea opening for Moses.

“Barrons,” I growl.

Thanks to the challenges of my recent transformation, coupled with the Sinsar Dubh’s endless harangue about why I should leave Earth this very second, quadrupled by how pissed I am the king didn’t even seriously consider my request — perhaps the king’s parts are all different, some more sane and logical than others, and I should start hunting McCabe — I’ve not had time to brood about what Barrons did to me.

Bristling with righteous indignation, I stalk off into his Red Sea wake. With only a few minor mishaps, I move in close behind him. I may be invisible but my body still responds to him and it makes me even madder. I’m tense at first, worried he’ll sense or smell me, but whatever the Book is doing that keeps my stalkers from locating me seems to work on Barrons, too. I wonder why he’s here. I wonder what he thinks happened to me. I’m itching to know what transpired after I left the abbey.

As we pass the guards (Fade and a massive white-haired man with burning eyes) and ascend the sleek chrome stairs to the upper level of the club, I breathe more easily and focus on watching his every move so if he suddenly stops I don’t crash into his backside. Despite disliking him intensely at the moment, I have to admit it’s a damn fine backside. He strides with the purpose I was aiming for, directly to Ryodan’s office, slaps a palm to the wall and steps inside, oblivious to one Ms. Lane, superspy, hot on his heels.

I realize, as the door hisses closed behind us, that I’m about to eavesdrop on an unguarded conversation between Barrons and Ryodan. Fascinating. To say I’m all ears is the understatement of the century. I glance down to make sure I’m not dripping, grateful the floor is glass and I’m not leaving indents in carpet that might give me away.

Ryodan is sitting behind his desk toying with a blackhandled, curved black blade that looks ancient. With the exception of the dark knife, the desk is empty. I imagine he had it cleaned more than a few times after Lor’s unexpected tryst last week. The ebony blade is highly polished and reflects the low light as he rolls it between his hands.

He’s dressed as impeccably as ever in tailored dark pants and a crisp pinstriped shirt rolled back at the cuffs, revealing thick, scarred forearms and a silver cuff that matches the one Barrons wears. It reminds me of the one I saw on Jada’s wrist last night, and I wonder absently where she got it. I didn’t get a clear look since it was half covered by her sleeve.

I move forward, taking care to not bump into anything, which is trickier than you think when you can’t see yourself, and inspect him curiously. Though I’d never let him know I think it, Ryodan is hot as hell. If I were visible, I’d never stare this hard. Something about him discourages it. His chiseled features are stonier than usual, his jaw shadowed with stubble. Rather than his urbane businessman self, he seems more a savage mercenary forced to wear a suit. His thick short hair, nearly shaved at the sides, is standing up as if he’s been running his hands through it. Repeatedly. From those small details, I know Ryodan is deeply disturbed.

“No longer pretending to do paperwork,” Barrons mocks.

Ryodan doesn’t bother to glance up. “She sent me a message this morning. Said if I don’t give her Mac, she’s going to demolish Chester’s. You believe that shit. Threatening me. Few weeks ago she was a kid. Now she’s a fucking woman. A grown-up, self-possessed woman with a mind like my blade, cold as ice and on fire at the same time. Dangerous as hell. She was dangerous when she was a kid.”

“I sent a message to the abbey,” Barrons says. “Said if they don’t give me Mac, we’re going to raze the fucking place.”

Ah, so both sides think the other whisked me off somehow. The night must have ended in a hostile standoff. I’m surprised Ryodan didn’t head straight back to the abbey this morning with the Nine, abduct Jada, and lock her in his dungeon.

“You believe they have Mac,” Ryodan says.

“Undecided. One moment I felt her, the next I didn’t. Haven’t felt her since.”

“Worried about her.” It’s a question, though Ryodan’s voice doesn’t rise at the end. I wait expectantly for Barrons’s answer.

“No.”

I bristle. That’s it? A lousy no? Doesn’t he care? Is this what our relationship is going to come down to: me finding out while invisible that I don’t even matter to him?

“She’ll be back,” Barrons says.

“She’s a vessel for the Sinsar Dubh, has virtually unlimited power at her disposal, there for the taking. I’m not certain you or I could resist such temptation.”

He’s not? Shit, shit, shit. That’s it. I’m doomed.

“She managed it once. She’ll do it again. Mac’s got a light inside her that’s inextinguishable.”

I beam, feeling ten feet tall and bulletproof. If Barrons’s faith in me is that unshakable, I can do anything. Then I scowl. If he had so much faith in me, he would have trusted me to handle what happened between us that first day. Eyes narrowed, I flip him the bird.

Ryodan says, “She looked eighteen, nineteen.”

“Physically, I’d put her at twenty,” Barrons says. “Mentally, closer to thirty, in hard war years.”

If they’re talking about Jada aka possibly Dani, I agree with Barrons.

“She’s cold as ice.”

“You used to worry she’d get herself killed before she managed to grow up,” Barrons says. “Moot point now.”

“She’s fucking beautiful.”

Barrons studies him a moment then says, “Old enough for you.”

“That’s not why I watched over her.”

“Bullshit. We all saw the woman she could become. Just didn’t think she’d do it so quickly.”

“I wanted her to have— Ah, fuck, it doesn’t matter.”

“The childhood she missed. It’s gone. Adapt.”

Ryodan smiles faintly. “I loved watching her be young. Cocky. Swaggering around like she was invincible. She was supposed to have years of it.”

“She’s still swaggering. And feeling invincible.”

“She was healing. Until she and Mac fell out. It fucked with her head. I was going to be the concrete pillar that held up the roof while she redecorated her bunker. Give her time to choose who she wanted to be. Thought if I could keep her from having to make any brutal choices for a few years, she’d merge. Let her rebel against me rather than taking on the whole world. That opportunity is gone now.” Ryodan doesn’t say anything for a long moment. When he speaks again his voice is low, rough. “It’s as if my Dani died.”

I catch myself about to suck in an audible shocked breath. I may be unseeable but I’m not unhearable. The grief in his voice made me abruptly aware of my own. If Jada really is Dani, I’ll never again see that gamine grin, those sparkling eyes, listen as she mutilates the English language as only Dani can. The night I chased her through the Silver was goodbye, my last look at the teen I’d grown to love as a sister. He’s right, it is as if my Dani died. The fourteen-year-old is gone, just gone, never coming back.

“When do we abduct her?”

Ryodan carefully places the dark blade on the empty desk and looks up. “We don’t. It won’t work with ‘Jada.’ She’ll only get more remote, harder. Lor’s going to lose it when he sees her. He adored the kid.” He rubs his jaw and for a moment the only sound in the office is the scratch of rough beard against hand. I hold my breath, suddenly acutely aware of every noise my body might make. “Speaking of Lor, how the fuck am I supposed to get him back from being Pri-ya.”

Barrons says, “He’s not Pri-ya.”

“Mac said—”

“She lied,” Barrons says flatly.

Gee, could you rat me out a little quicker, Barrons?

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“There are a few things you didn’t tell me either. You knew Dani had an alter.”

“Mac knows too much,” Ryodan says, changing the subject.

“So does ‘Jada.’ It’s a different world now. Women are different. We evolve. As does our code.”

“Convenient for you. Tell that to Kasteo. Ah, sorry you stupid fuck, you chose the wrong millennium to try to keep the woman you wanted.”

“That’s not why we did what we did and you know it.”

“What I know, brother, is you break every goddamned rule for Mac.”

“Back at you, Ry. Difference is, I’ll help you do it.”

“Lor has never been Pri-ya.” Ryodan shakes his head in disgust. “The princess can’t turn us. Son of a bitch, Mac’s ass is—”

“Mine,” Barrons says flatly. “You will never go there. You have a problem with Mac, you work it out with me. I am her shield, I am her second fucking skin.”

Whuh. I don’t currently need one but it’s kind of a turn-on.

Growling, Ryodan pushes up and is out the door so fast, I freeze, uncertain who to stick with. Then Barrons makes my decision for me by taking off after Ryodan, and I have to run to keep up with them. I scowl down at my shoes. Though my boots have rubber soles, they’re still making noise. Fortunately, so are theirs.

I have no doubt where Ryodan’s going and I’m not missing it.

If Lor thinks this means he doesn’t still owe me a favor, he’s wrong. He got nearly the full two weeks he bargained for.

Barrons ratted him out. Not me.

26

“Under my thumb, that Siamese cat of a girl”

“You are, hands down, the hottest fuck I’ve ever had,” Jo tells me as she collapses back on the bed, laughing. Her short dark hair’s a mess, her makeup’s gone, she’s slick with sweat and kinda glassy-eyed from lack of sleep.

And one damned hot fuck herself.

“God, where do you men come from? Are there more like the nine of you out there?”

I’m not going to say it. I don’t say stupid things like, “Better than the boss?”

Her face tightens and she closes her eyes. I kick myself mentally. There’s not a whole lot going on up there right now so kicking it doesn’t take much. Like, one foot and two toes. Not even the big one.

Jo’s been in my bed for twenty-four hours straight, leaving only to eat and piss, before climbing back in and going at it again, one second a tigress spitting fire, the next snuggling up to me, a tiny slip of a woman under one of my arms, cheek on my chest like I’m not the bloodthirsty monster ancient cities called the Bonecrusher, who gorged on blood and death for breakfast and fueled their worst nightmares and lived by the motto “If you can’t fuck it, eat it, or use it for a weapon, kill it.”

I’m also not going to skim her mind for the answer she didn’t offer. People think we can read thoughts. We can’t. We just hear what they’re thinking real loud, some of us better than others, on top of their brains. Humans give stuff away all the time, practically tattooing their darkest secrets in neon on their skulls for anyone to see. Perverse fuckers. If they shouldn’t think about it, they do. If they should think about it, they don’t. “What the fuck do you mean ‘not a chance’?” I bellow indignantly.

She props herself up on her side, elbow bent, cheek resting on a dainty fist, and stares at me with fascination. Her short spiky hair is sticking straight up around her delicate face and she looks abso-frigging-lutely delectable. “What are you doing? Reading my mind? Can you do that?”

She not as disturbed by the possibility as most humans. I unclench my jaw and growl, “You could have taken out a goddamn billboard as loud as that last thought was.”

Her eyes sparkle with delight. “Can you help me find things in there? Maybe create a filing system?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

She drops back on the pillow, smiling. “I’ll make it worth your while. God, I can’t tell you how glad I am that I took Mac’s advice and came here! She was right. You are just what I needed.”

“Mac told you to fuck me? As in sent you here?” I’m having a hard time deciding what I’m most pissed off about: that she thinks the boss is hotter or that Mac took advantage of my supposedly Pri-ya state by lining up her friends to score an epic fuck. Women.

“I’m so glad you won’t remember any of this,” she says cheerfully. “I can say anything. Do anything. Do you know how freeing this is? I may stay here for weeks!”

It’s like the thousandth bloody time she’s said the same bloody thing and I’m getting bloody sick of hearing it. I’m so glad I came to see you! And even gladder that you won’t remember any of it! Fuck that noise. I’m remembering every goddamn detail.

“Exactly how is Ryodan hotter?” I don’t believe he is. “What does he do that I didn’t?” I can’t believe I just said that. But I’m doing all kinds of shit I don’t do lately, getting trapped in magic, making deals with Mac, screwing a brunette for the first time in forever.

See, I got this hierarchy, and if blondes knew about it, they’d probably stop lining up at my bed. The lighter the blonde, the more perfect the roots, the less tempting they are to keep around. No woman over twenty-five is still platinum to the roots. Just ain’t happening if the babe ain’t Fae. The kind of woman that dyes her hair platinum is on the prowl for exactly what — and all — I’m willing to give: a fuck.

The darker the hair, the more complicated the deal. If she’s not obsessively maintaining her roots, her nails, her clothes, she expects things like discussions, dates, disclosures. Bloody hell, she wants respect. Which I’m all about giving. I respect them the entire time they’re sharing my bed and I treat them great when they’re not, flirting them up, telling them how beautiful they are, while pointing them at the next man to help them get over me. I even get food for their kids, medicine and shit, ’cause times are tough. But if one of them starts to get clingy, I suddenly got a whole lot of work to do. Like, in another country.

By the time you work your way down the hierarchy to a brunette, you got yourself a woman who knows who she is, likes it enough that she ain’t gonna change, and is probably gonna try to change you, if push comes to shove.

Pushy, that’s what brunettes are. Even the dainty, fragile-looking ones.

Big-boobed blondes are all about the fun, the sparkle, the bling, the heat, the moment. I love ’em. I’m bugfuck crazy about ’em. They keep my life simple and sweet. They don’t inspire any of the feelings that made me the Bonecrusher.

“It’s not what Ryodan does,” Jo says slowly. “It’s more what he is.” Her eyes take on a serious sheen. “He’s like, unbelievably brilliant, ten steps ahead of everyone else all the time.”

Bullshit. He’s not that smart. I beat him at Triad. Once. About ten thousand years ago.

“I used to think he didn’t care about anything or anyone, but he does. Just not me. His passion runs deep. That’s why he’s always so controlled.”

Give me a motherfucking break. He’s controlled because he’s a control freak, plain and simple. Damn near every time he moves us, he ends up running the empire: king, dictator, or rutting pagan god.

“I think he’s the glue that holds you guys together. You’re his family and he’d do anything to preserve it.”

Okay, so she’s right about that. We had some dark times. Without the boss, I’m not sure where we’d all be. Scattered across the globe, if not galaxies. Living alone. Living hard. But he forced us to stay together. And we’re glad he did. Well, most of us are.

“I see how he feels about his world and I want to be one of the parts he prizes. I want to be worth fighting for. Worth the same kind of effort he puts into the things that matter to him. Like Dani.”

I don’t tell her no human matters to the boss like Dani. “What the fuck does any of this have to do with sex? You aren’t talking about hotness, babe. You’re talking about wanting the man that doesn’t want you as much as you want him, and probably only for that reason. Boss is no fucking prize.” Chicks. Christ. They just don’t get it sometimes.

“Ryodan’s—” She breaks off and shakes her head sharply and I see the moment she decides to lighten it the fuck up—thank you! — but then she goes and screws things up by saying with a soft laugh, “Well, for one thing he’s not blond.”

I glare at her suspiciously and shove a hand through my blond hair. I refuse to believe a woman—any woman — practices my hierarchy in reverse. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“Blond guys are hot and sexy and … well, fun and all that, but for some reason I usually avoid them. It’s the dark-haired guys that get me. I don’t know, I take them more seriously. They come off as more …” She sighs dreamily. “… dangerous. Ryodan is definitely more dangerous than you. I mean, really, what do you do? You screw blondes and act like a caveman. But back to what I really want to know: can you read minds and could you help me organize my thoughts? And if so, what do you want in exchange?”

“Ryodan,” I manage to say without snarling. Well, okay, so maybe I snarl a little. “You think he’s more dangerous.” She not only just insulted my dick and what I do with it, she’s now moved on to insulting my fucking existence.

“I don’t want to talk about him. I came here to forget him. Can we just not talk about him?”

“You’re the one who brought him up.”

“I did not.”

“Indirectly. Don’t tell me I’m the hottest fuck if I’m not.”

“I’m surprised you’re still talking. I thought Pri-ya meant pretty much brain-dead. Don’t you have better things to do with your mouth?”

“Oh, honey, I got plenty of better things to do with it. Better than any fuck out there.” And I’m gonna prove it. She likes danger? I’ll show her danger. “And some of us got too many brains to kill.”

She laughs. “You? Yeah, right.”

I growl. A few chains would definitely help. We’ll see just who she thinks is the hottest fuck by the time I’m done with her.

When she pushes herself up to climb on top of me again, I shove her back and snarl, “Arms over your head, woman.”

With a husky laugh, she falls back and complies.

She’s gonna stop laughing real soon.

Scowling all the while, wishing I had chains in this room — bloody hell, how can she look at this face of mine and not see danger? — I dig around in the sheets for the scarves my parade of blondes donated to the cause, knot them around her wrists, and tie her real tight to the posters at the top of the bed.

Then do something I never let myself do, and tie her feet down, too, thinking, Man, she should not be letting me do this, followed by, Man, I know better than to do this.

I got Jo spread-eagled naked, legs wide, totally at my mercy, and I’m not gonna have one fucking ounce of it. She’s not getting out of this bed until she’s had the most explosive orgasm of her life, followed by a few hundred more. I’m keeping her for weeks.

I’m keeping her until she’s telling me I’m the hottest fuck she’s ever had and means it. Until she’s Lor-Pri-ya. Until she sees there’s a little more going on here than Mr. Fucking-Second-Rate-Nice-Guy who’s fun, for fuck’s sake, and wasn’t one of the most vicious killers the old world knew. I can keep it under control. I’ve been soaked in sex for the past week and a half. The lethal edge is off my appetite. Mostly.

We’re a competitive bunch at Chester’s. We don’t take kindly to being called second best. It’s why we don’t poach each other’s pussy. We get territorial, even if we screwed ’em just once. Level 4’s turnover is the highest in the club.

She’s looking straight at me, catches her lower lip with her teeth. “I never let Ryodan do this to me,” she says breathlessly.

Wise woman. Not so wise now.

Score one for Lor. I’m doing something the boss didn’t do.

I’m about to do a few other things I guaran-damn-tee Ryodan didn’t do, too.

27

Being invisible in a closed elevator with Barrons and Ryodan is quite possibly one of the most stressful experiences of my life. It nearly ranks up there with being tortured by Mallucé.

You don’t think about the many ways your body has of announcing your presence until it’s absolutely essential you remain one hundred percent silent. I could sneeze. Hiccup. Pass gas. If I forget to walk with my feet slightly apart, my jean-clad legs will swish against each other. One of my joints might pop. I may be young but my bones keep getting broken and occasionally my knuckles remind me of it. A single belly growl would out me in an instant. These are men with dangerously acute senses.

I make a mental note to forgo eating when I decide to go sleuthing next time so I won’t have to worry about my stomach gurgling as it digests. Then I realize if I don’t eat, it might growl from hunger. I conclude I’ll have to eat frequent, small, easily digested meals to minimize the likelihood of either from happening while I scout the restricted half of my world.

I press back in the far corner opposite them, trying to be as small as possible, holding my breath and praying it’s a short ride.

Although it feels interminable, we stop after only two levels. Ryodan stalks off the elevator with Barrons behind him. Again I have to run to keep up.

A few doors from the end of the hall, Ryodan slams his palm against the wall and roars, “Get the fuck out here now, Lor!”

I catch up to them as the door whisks open and stand behind them, peering in.

Ryodan storms into the room. And stops. Mid-step.

I lean forward and — Oh. Wow. Oh. Looks like Jo took my advice. Plunged into it with alacrity and abandon.

I wonder irritably how many times I’m going to have to watch Lor have marathon sex this week. The universe seems to be taking some kind of perverse pleasure rubbing my face in his carnal abundance and my lack thereof.

The three of us stand, staring.

Jo and Lor are frozen, staring back. Then again, Jo’s pretty darned well restrained so I’m not surprised by how immobile she is.

Barrons laughs softly. “Didn’t see this one coming.”

Jo is tied to the bed, spread-eagled, with Lor straddling her. They’re not actually having sex at the moment, but by the tangled sheets, how sweaty Lor is (gotta love a hardworking man), and Jo’s bed-head, it’s obvious this isn’t their first go-round.

I’ve seen way too much of Lor naked lately. I scowl at Barrons, wishing we’d had sex more recently. Like five minutes ago.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Lor growls.

“You’re a dead man,” Ryodan says softly.

Straining futilely against the scarves — even from my limited perspective I can see Lor knows how to tie knots right — Jo says, “Ryodan, it’s not his fault! It’s mine. He didn’t want to sleep with me, I forced him—”

“Where the fuck do chicks get that phrase?” Lor growls. “No man wants to sleep with a woman. He wants to fuck her. And nobody forces me to do shit.”

“—to do it. I heard he was Pri-ya. I took advantage of him.”

“He’s a dead man because he lied to me, Jo. Not because he fucked you. Though I’d rather not have seen it.”

I peer at Ryodan from the side. He’s watching Jo through narrowed eyes and I realize it really does bother him seeing them together but it’s not emotional. It’s purely territorial. Still, that’s something and I’m glad Jo got the satisfaction.

Jo meets his gaze and says quietly, “I didn’t mean for you to see it.”

“He’s not Pri-ya. He’s faking. That’s what he lied about.” Ryodan drops the bomb casually and watches it detonate.

Jo blanches and her gaze flies back to Lor’s face. “Is that true? You’re not Pri-ya?”

“What the fuck’s the difference? You wanted to fuck me. You asked me to get the boss’s taste out of your mouth. I did.”

“Taste out of your—” Ryodan says. “Christ, Jo.”

“It’s not like I thought the idea up all by myself,” Jo says defensively. “Mac’s the one who—”

“Get off her, Lor,” Ryodan orders.

Great, now Ryodan has one more reason to dislike me.

“—told me to do it because she thought it would be—”

“Don’t go getting pissed about it now,” Lor cuts her off. “I’m the one that should be pissed. This didn’t have a damned thing to do with me. Just my dick. You know how many times you told me how glad you were I wouldn’t remember this? Well guess what, Jo? I remember every goddamn detail. Etched into that puny-ass little brain you think I have.”

“She thinks you have a puny-ass little brain. And she told you that,” Barrons marvels.

“Apparently. She also thinks I’m not dangerous.”

“Ah. I see why you tied her up.”

“You’re faking?” Jo says again, like she just can’t wrap her brain around it. “The whole time I’ve been saying and doing anything I felt like because I thought you were—”

“Been right here with you, babe,” Lor says with a savage smile. “Whole. Time. Every bloody word, every confidence, every howl of pleasure. Want to tell me some more how perfect my dick is and how hot I am?”

I study Lor, realizing I might be seeing a little more than a mere territory dispute on his face. Did Jo get under his skin?

Jo pales. A parade of expressions stampede across her fineboned features: embarrassment, fear, self-consciousness, wariness. It takes mere seconds for her emotions to march to the beat of a different drum as she concludes the thought she began a few seconds earlier. “Wait a minute,” she snaps. “Does Mac know you’re not Pri-ya?”

Aw, shit. That was never supposed to come out because no one was ever going to learn about our little pact. Glad I’m invisible.

“Sure does,” Lor says flatly.

Why does everyone rat me out so fast?

“Get the fuck off Jo. Now,” Ryodan says.

“Jealous, boss?”

“Don’t push me. In the corridor. Unless you prefer we air our business in front of Jo. In which case she dies.”

Jo gasps.

Ryodan turns and stalks from the room so suddenly I almost don’t get out of the way fast enough. I flatten myself back against the wall outside the door and hold my breath again, but not too long because that can result in a huge, noisy exhale. I ease it out slowly when Jo demands, “Untie me.”

“Not a chance,” Lor snaps. “I’m not done yet.”

Then Lor joins us in the corridor. Naked. Still hard, too. He slaps a palm against the door, and as it slides closed, I hear Jo yell, “Hey! I said untie me! I never would have come here if I’d known you weren’t Pri-ya!”

“Not scoring any points with me, honey,” he says over his shoulder.

“You can’t leave me like this!”

“Sure can,” he says. “Don’t worry, babe. I’ll be back to finish what I started.”

“That’s not what I—” The door closes, cutting off the rest of Jo’s words. The rooms around here are seriously soundproofed.

“The fuck you will,” Ryodan says.

“Because she’s yours?” Lor says. “She’s done with you.”

Ryodan glances at the door, making sure it’s closed. “I was done with her months ago. Kept waiting for her to move on. Just not with you. It seems you’ve forgotten two of our critical rules: we don’t fuck one another’s women. We don’t lie to one another.”

“It wasn’t as if I went looking for it. She came in and sent all my babes away and she was crying, for fuck’s sake, and you know damn well I can’t stand it when chicks—”

“Dani’s back. She looks five years older. Possibly more. She’s taken over the abbey.”

Lor goes motionless. “How the hell did that happen?”

“We don’t know,” Barrons says. “She’s not talking to any of us.”

“So encourage her,” Lor says.

“She’s more difficult to encourage than she used to be,” Ryodan says.

“How is she? What happened to her? Is she okay?”

“Get your fucking clothes on. In my office in five.”

“What about Jo?”

“I’ll take care of Jo,” Ryodan says coolly.

“You’re not killing her,” Lor says sharply.

“Never said I was. But that’s the third rule you seem to be forgetting: I run this place. I run you. If you don’t like it, too fucking bad. You’re not leaving, so I suggest you get back on the program. Fast.”

Ryodan stalks off. Looking amused, Barrons heads off after him.

Fascinated by the perks of my new state — my own personal reality TV, I’m getting all the juicy dirt! — I hurry after them.

28

When we reach Ryodan’s office, Barrons says he’s got things to do and I’m abruptly divided, but I make a snap decision to stick with Ryodan. Although I’m dying to know what kind of “things” Barrons does when he goes off by himself (and intend to fulfill that fantasy very soon), I’m also riveted by the intimate look I’m getting at the man behind Chester’s, who I’m beginning to realize is far more complex than I thought.

He protected Jo’s feelings. He was done with her months ago and waited for her to dump him without ever betraying it. That’s hard to pull off in any relationship. I can’t reconcile the ruthless, bottom-lining man I know with the one who went out of his way not to hurt a human woman.

When he steps into his office, I follow, realizing only after the door slides shut that I’m stuck in here until he decides to leave again. When he pulls out his cell phone that shouldn’t work and taps a number, I hope he’s not summoning a woman to get the taste of Jo and Lor out of his mouth because I really don’t want to watch Ryodan have sex.

Well, okay, so maybe I wouldn’t be entirely adverse to that, if I didn’t know him and have to see him all the time, but really. Not in the mood for more of the sex everyone else is getting to have at the moment. Between my new invisibility and extreme irritation at the only man I want to have sex with, my prospects are slim.

“Fade, get your ass down to Lor’s room and untie Jo.” He’s silent a moment. “It’s none of your fucking business why Jo’s tied up there. Just do it. And I don’t care what that woman says or does, I don’t care if she’s suddenly snatched up by a tornado and dropped straight on your dick, you will not fuck her.” Another silence. “Yes, she’s naked. No, that’s not ‘cool.’ Fuck you, Fade. Forget it. Take one of the waitresses down. You will remain outside the door while she goes in and unties her. Then tell Jo she’s fired.” Silence. “I don’t care what the waitress thinks. Fire her, too.”

He ends the call, shoves the cell phone in his pocket, drops down into the large leather chair behind his desk, picks up the dark blade and starts toying with it again. I’d really like to know what his deal is with that knife.

When the door swishes open I debate leaving while I can.

While I stand there, pondering options, the Unseelie that Dani called “Papa Roach” stumps in, and I shiver with revulsion. I totally get why she nicknamed it that. Papa Roach is segmented, made by thousands and thousands of roachlike creatures clambering up on top of one another to form a larger being. They are the same bugs the waitresses permit beneath their skin to feed on their fat. Papa Roach, the collective, is purplish-brown, about four feet tall with thick legs, a half-dozen arms, and a head the size of a walnut. It jiggles like gelatin when it moves as its countless individual parts shift minutely to remain coalesced. It has a thin-lipped beaklike mouth and round, weirdly lidless eyes. As it moves into the room, a few of the roaches skitter off. I press back against the wall, creeped out by the nasty things, in no mood for a few of them to scurry over the toes of my boots. I imagine they’re small enough to turn invisible, which could be a problem if anyone was looking.

Ryodan barks, “Keep your shit together when you’re in my fucking office.”

The bugs scurry back up Papa Roach, scale a leg, and settle into a knee.

I don’t heave the sigh of relief I feel.

When Papa Roach speaks, I shiver again. Its voice is pretty much exactly what I’d expect a roach to sound like: a dry, malevolent, insectile rustle. “The one you call Jada has left the abbey. We lost her a few blocks from here.”

“Kasteo.”

“Hasn’t spoken a word. The woman has only just begun to talk to him.”

I wonder, What woman?

“The black hole at the church.”

“Is minutely larger.”

“The Unseelie Princes.”

“Plot to take the spear from the woman and kill R’jan.”

My hand goes instantly to my spear. This time, however, I’m not assaulted by images of death and destruction. My Book is oddly still.

“Their fortifications.”

“Remain unchanged. They grow lax since meeting with you. Believe you think them leashed. Think they have an edge you don’t know about. Believe you’ve overestimated yourself.”

I expect Ryodan to press that issue but he says only, “R’jan’s location.”

“Three days ago moved into McCabe’s old house and is fortifying it. It appears he plans to stay.”

“Bring me precise details on his defenses. Within the hour. Sean O’Bannion.”

“Spoke last night at Temple Bar. Offered jobs rebuilding the pubs and stores for pay, and made it clear he will accept only currency in exchange for goods.”

“The Unseelie Princesses.”

“So far we have seen only the one. Met recently with Jada. They conspire to trade services.”

“For.”

“Jada offered to kill the Unseelie Princes in exchange for the location of the Crimson Hag. The princess is considering it.”

“Take the princess a message. She will trade services with me, not Jada. I will make it worth her while. The Highlanders.”

I thought he was worried about her! Why the hell did he force me to stick around if he’s willing to meet with her without me present?

“R’jan has provided them with three sifting Seelie to help them search in exchange for protection against his various enemies. Seems they have Fae lore he finds useful.”

I listen, gaping. Ryodan’s network of spies is standing right in front of me in a single entity comprised of thousands and thousands of sentient “bugs.” He literally has the whole freaking city bugged. Papa Roach divests various “roaches,” sends them scurrying beneath doors and into cracks to eavesdrop on everything that happens in Dublin and report back. No wonder Ryodan knows everything all the time!

“The Unseelie King.”

“Does not appear to be in Dublin.”

He’s wrong about that.

“Mac.”

“As if she’s vanished.”

I smirk.

“Dancer.”

“Succeeds in evading us occasionally. Not certain how. He spends a great deal of time in the labs at Trinity performing various experiments. He has taken recent interest in a female musician.”

“In what capacity.”

“We have not seen them fuck.”

“The cavern beneath the abbey.”

“We are no longer able to enter. The doors have been closed. Not so much as a crack left to us.”

Okay, what the heck? We tried and tried to close those doors. Who closed them, how and when?

“Recently you neglected to mention details of significance. If the environ at the abbey or either of the princes’ lairs alter in any way, no matter how small, you will report it to me instantly.”

“Understood.”

Papa Roach waits, and when another demand isn’t forthcoming rustles, “Our servitude is nearly up. If you wish to renew our contract again, it will cost you more. There are others who value our services now.”

“For the first time in millennia you can walk among humans in your natural state, only because the Fae have come out and the world thinks you’re one of them. Piss me off and I’ll drive the Fae from this world, sending you back into the cracks and crevices and trenches of war in which you’ve scrounged for rotting carcasses since the dawn of time. You will renew your contract for the same terms. I have always seen to your needs.”

I blink, stunned. Papa Roach isn’t Fae? What the hell is it, then? What a vast, complicated world Ryodan manages!

Then I have a worse thought: Criminy, have all roaches since time immemorial been spies? Or only certain ones, and that’s why every now and then you find one in your bathtub that just won’t die no matter how much hair spray you coat it with or how hard you try to squish it?

Papa Roach makes a dry, grinding sound deep in its throat that’s creepy as hell.

“Our needs have increased.”

“You enjoy parasitic relationships with humans that were never permitted before.”

“We wish it to be required that all humans host one of us.”

I shudder.

Ryodan picks up the dark blade and toys with it. “We will discuss it at your next contract renewal.”

Papa Roach’s round eyes fix on the black blade, and its beak parts, revealing rows of tiny sharp teeth.

I suddenly think I know what the blade does. Kills whatever Papa Roach is.

“As you wish.”

When Papa Roach leaves, Lor walks in.

Dressed.

I decide to stay a little longer and leave with Lor. Who knows what I might learn next?

“Sit,” Ryodan barks.

Lor moves to the desk and drops down into a chair, shoving his blond hair back with a hand, looking wary. I don’t blame him. Ryodan is unpredictable as hell. They don’t call his way of dealing with things the “gavel effect” for nothing. He’s famed for biding his time, gathering information, processing it, then when he makes a decision, the gavel falls and everyone that pissed him off or offended him or just breathed wrong dies.

“What’s up with Dani?” Lor says.

Ryodan lays the knife on the desk. “Remember Fade telling us he’d found a kid who could move like us and was blowing through the streets, pretending to be a superhero.”

Lor laughs. “Fuck, yeah. We all accused each other of breaking covenant and making her. Skinny redhead with balls the size of mine. I’d go watch her even when it wasn’t my turn just to see what she’d do next. Kid’s better than Netflix.”

“I didn’t give her a second thought until I found a warded house where Rowena did her dirty work. Old woman kept journals Hitler would’ve enjoyed. Book after book of notes about the experiments she performed. Dani wasn’t her only unwilling subject. She recorded every detail. The drugs, the black arts, the manipulation and coercion, how she caged her, dehumanized her, turned a child into an animal, watchdog, fetch-it girl, assassin. Made her grateful for any crumb of kindness. Completely controlled her mother until—” Ryodan breaks off, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

Lor growls, “Until what?”

“Doesn’t matter. Point is, the headmistress was in Dani’s life long before she remembers it. There were a dozen volumes, filled cover to cover. When I finished reading them, I went hunting.”

Ryodan — an avenging angel? Knock me over with a feather.

“What happened? Mac killed the old bitch.”

Now that I’m hearing this, I’m sorry I didn’t kill her sooner. And make it last longer.

“Not Rowena.” Ryodan says. “I went hunting Dani. It was the kid I meant to kill. First.”

There goes the feather. This is the man I fight with incessantly.

“That’s fucked up, boss. That’s beyond fucked up.”

I nod vigorously, scowling.

“You went hunting Dani instead of Ro? You don’t kill the victim. You kill the perp.”

“I thought the kid’s life was like that of another child I knew. Grown men can withstand things children can’t. For centuries I took care of Barrons’s son while he searched for a way to end his torment. For an eternity I shared their fucking pain. I couldn’t put my nephew out of his misery, but I could spare the girl a hellish existence.”

I’m slammed by a one-two punch of shocks and my mouth drops open. Nephew? Freaking nephew? Is he serious? Ryodan and Barrons are brothers? I study his face intently, looking for similarities. So, when Ryodan called him “brother” earlier, he really meant it. I’d thought it was just guy-bro-talk. Brothers in arms or something like that. I narrow my eyes with a scowl. That makes me and Ryodan almost like … family or something. Ew. The second shock is more palatable: there was something of avenging angel in his actions, after all. Mercy from Ryodan. Who’d have thought.

“Why the fuck are you telling me this? And why now? Figured you’d be chewing my ass over Jo not telling me shit you never talk about.”

I was wondering the same thing. Ryodan doesn’t explain himself. Ever.

“I’m telling you because for some unfathomable fucking reason Dani likes you. That means you may prove useful in getting her back. The more you know, the more you can help.”

“Getting her back from where?” Lor demands. “What did the bitch do to her? Where are those journals? I want to see them.”

“It wasn’t just Rowena. And I suggest you leave it.”

“I suggest you go fuck yourself.”

“Once you called me king. Now you lie, fuck my ex, and tell me to fuck myself. Tread lightly, Lor. You may have changed. I have not.”

“You’re talking about my favorite human. I want names. Details. I’ll rip out their hearts. I’ll flay their fucking hides.”

“I already took care of them.”

My hands are fists, nails digging into my palms. I force myself to unclench them so I don’t drip blood on the floor. Other people abused Dani? Who? I want to kill them, too.

“Yet you let the old bitch live after you found out. What the fuck’s with that?”

Something inhuman rattles deep in Ryodan’s chest. “The moment Barrons got the Sinsar Dubh, I planned to lock Rowena away in a dark, hellish pit. Keep her alive so that if one day Dani remembered, she could exterminate her. Some crimes are so personal, blood-vengeance belongs only to the one who suffered them. It was the only gift I could give her.”

“Dani doesn’t remember? How’s that possible?”

“She fragmented. Not sure if the old bitch managed to intentionally cause it or if it had already happened to some degree before she came on the scene and she just drove wedges in the door to lodge it open. When I chained Dani up in the dungeon, it wasn’t because she’d killed Unseelie in my club. I was trying to discover what she recalled of Ro’s experiments. I’d begun to suspect it was little. Skimming her mind was time-consuming and tricky as hell. Kid’s got more locked doors in that megabrain of hers than a high-security prison. Dani remembers some of it but it seems the worst memories were embedded in her other personality’s psyche, or never fully absorbed. It was difficult to read her, even unconscious. There are things she may never remember. If we’re lucky. Our super-girl carries her own kryptonite, right there in her head.”

“You gotta be kidding me. My little darlin’s a split personality?”

“Not so little anymore. And she calls herself Jada now. She’s the survivor, aware of Dani. Jada has ledgers and objectives. Dani has hopes and dreams. Dani doesn’t know about Jada. She has what she thinks of as an ‘Other’ but doesn’t realize it’s a fully formed persona.”

Lor shakes his head. “How the fuck did I miss it?”

How did I miss it? I narrowed my eyes, replaying memories, searching for clues.

“They’re hard to tell apart. Nearly identical, but one feels, the other doesn’t. One’s on fire with life, the other’s cold as ice. One butchers the English language. The other obeys it to the letter. Not a flicker of emotion, not an ounce of humanity. Their posture is subtly different. I’ve watched her change four times. She pulled back a fifth time, recently, outside the club while she was trying to figure out what the Hoar Frost King was after, as if she’d dipped in a toe but pulled out quickly. Each time she changed, she was unstoppable. The other has double her talent and abilities. You never saw it, then.”

Lor rubs his jaw. “No. You ordered us to stay back, out of sight. We just thought she was a helluva fighter. Stone cold at times but that’s my little honey. Couldn’t be more proud of her.” He grins but it quickly fades. “You said you went to kill her. Why didn’t you?”

“The memories Dani retains are enough that she should hate the world. Kevlar her heart. Never trust anyone or anything.”

“Sounds like someone I know.”

“I feel.”

“With your dick, maybe.”

“Hands and tongue, too.”

“So, why didn’t you kill her?”

“I found her standing outside Temple Bar, watching street mimes. Eyes brilliant, up on her tiptoes, at the back of the crowd, one hand shoved in a pocket, the other cramming a cheeseburger in her mouth. Bouncing from foot to foot trying to burn off some of that excess energy she always has. There were guts from a recent Unseelie kill in her hair. Never had friends, went to school, celebrated a birthday or Christmas, none of those rites of passage by which humans mark their time and so highly prize.”

I blink. Ryodan is talking about human experiences like he understands them? Like he’s actually given one ounce of thought to a moment of it?

“Alone. Living on the streets. Dirty. Torn jeans. Two black eyes, bruises everywhere. Not one person in the world gave a bloody damn she was alive except to use her. And she knew it.”

“That’s why you didn’t kill her? Because she was young and dirty and a beat-up, unwanted kid? World’s fucking full of ’em.”

“It was what she did next.”

What could make the implacable, imperious Ryodan change his mind? This was a man of steel who made rules and enforced them without question.

“What?”

His face changes, eyes distant on a memory, and he smiles faintly. I realize I might not know him at all. Perhaps no one does.

“She threw her head back and laughed. The kid fucking laughed, eyes shining. Like there was no greater adventure she could possibly be on. Like life was turning out to be the most exhilarating, fantastic roller-coaster ride she could ever have imagined. Fuck the pain. Fuck the misery. In the middle of the hopeless, brutal hell her short existence on this Earth had been, that girl laughed,” he finishes on a near whisper.

That was Dani. Nothing broke her. Ever. Not even if it meant splitting herself into pieces to deal with things, so she could laugh and want to go on living.

“You don’t snuff a life like that,” Ryodan says softly. “You honor it. You take measures to protect it, even from itself when necessary, and keep it alive.” The ghost of a smile vanishes and his face is once again a smooth, urbane mask. He clips, brisk and businesslike, “She was reckless, convinced of her own invincibility. She’s no longer reckless and far more powerful. We currently have two primary objectives: stop the cosmic anomalies that threaten to destroy this world, and get Dani back. Not necessarily in that order. I expect your full attention on those two matters. Nothing else. I’ve others addressing my secondary concerns.”

Ryodan stands up and walks around the desk, a signal even I can read for Lor to get up and leave. I’m surprised he’s letting him. Lor’s got hell to pay, and Ryodan is the devil that collects.

Taking his cue, Lor rises. “Sure, boss.” His brow furrows like he’s hunting for words. After a moment he adds, “Like I said earlier, I didn’t go looking for Jo.”

“But you plan to fuck her again.”

Lor rubs his jaw, sighs but doesn’t answer.

Ryodan changes into the beast faster than I believed possible. One instant he’s a man — the next his clothing is in tatters on the floor.

A nine-foot-tall, horned, black-skinned slathering monster with feral crimson eyes slams his fist through the wall of Lor’s chest and rips out his heart.

The beast holds the bloody thing up — God, it’s still beating! — narrows its eyes then licks it, forked black tongue unfurling with grace around the delicacy.

Then he looks at Lor, who’s jerking convulsively, gushing blood from a huge jagged-edged hole in his chest, framed by an explosion of bone fragments, taps him lightly on the shoulder and pushes him over.

Despite enormous fangs distorting his words, I have no problem understanding them.

“Never. Fucking. Lie. To. Me. Again.”

Lor crashes to the floor, dead.

The beast drops Lor’s heart on the floor where it lands with a wet splat, turns and swipes the wall panel with a prehensile, taloned claw, and stalks out.

I stand staring dumbly, then realize my chance to leave without risking exposure is leaving. As I race through the door after him he changes back into a man as quickly as he became the beast.

A naked man.

I close my eyes.

Well, most of the way.

29

We’re halfway down the hall and I’m hot on his heels, wondering how Ryodan manages to change so swiftly from beast to man, when it takes Barrons a full minute or two to complete the transformation. Then I move on to wondering exactly where Ryodan plans to go naked, thinking maybe I’m about to see the man’s private quarters, which I’m admittedly anticipating, when my hair suddenly shoots straight up in the air, blasted by a brisk wind.

I know that gust of wind.

It’s Dani, passing me in freeze-frame.

Ryodan recognizes it, too. She’s got balls exploding in here when she knows he’s around.

We spin instantly to follow her (me much more slowly, I’m beginning to despise my lack of speed compared to theirs) and I barely get out of the way in time to keep from being flattened by a very large, very naked man.

I skid back into the office a split second before the door hisses closed.

The room appears to be under siege by an army of poltergeists. Drawers are flying open, papers exploding everywhere.

I’m stunned to see Lor’s body is already gone. I knew they vanished when they died, I just didn’t know how quickly it happened. It’s as tidy as the way vampires “poof” on Buffy, which I never watched before in my life until a few months ago when I got obsessed with paranormal TV shows, as if I might glean useful clues from them. I frown. But Barrons’s corpse didn’t vanish that quickly in Faery the day Ryodan and I killed him. Then again, that shouldn’t surprise me, nothing works the way you expect it to in Faery.

“If you’re looking for the contract,” Ryodan says, “I put it away where you won’t find it. Give me Dani back and I’ll tear it up.”

Jada materializes in the middle of the study, cool and remote as ever. She has a long curved knife strapped in a sheath to one of her thighs, a Glock tucked in the front of her waistband, an automatic machine gun slung over a shoulder, pushed behind her back, and rounds of ammo draped across her chest. She looks fierce, savage, stunning.

Dani used to sport bruises from freeze-framing. Looks like Jada got that under control. The way she moves that sleek, long-legged body, grace could be her middle name. In black leather pants, combat boots, and a black tee, long auburn hair swept up high in a sleek ponytail, she reminds me of Angelina Jolie in Lara Croft, Tomb Raider, her face chiseled-porcelain beautiful, strong and icy. Besides a thin silver chain belt, her only other adornment is a silver and gold cuff. I stare fixedly at it, trying to remember where I’ve seen it before. Or one very similar to it.

Her gaze sweeps down over Ryodan’s nude body, a muscle flexes in her jaw. She yanks her gaze back up and trains it on his face.

I press back against a wall, studying her, grateful she’s no longer freeze-framing. It’d be far too easy to get smashed if they both start doing that Tasmanian devil thing again.

My heart sinks.

Jada is Dani.

There’s no question in my mind. I can see the teenager in the woman’s face now. It’s there in her bone structure, in the way she carries herself, in the fiery hair she must flat-iron every time she washes it or gets rained on (which means she must be flat-ironing constantly, considering how much it rains in this city).

I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.

Actually, yes I can. Not only did I have no reason to expect Dani to abruptly age four or five years in a few weeks, the years from fourteen to nineteen or twenty are enormously transformative. Ugly ducklings become swans, sometimes swans lose their youthful beauty and become ducks. Fourteen to twenty is the most transfiguring rite of passage a man or woman completes, mentally, emotionally, and physically.

I press a hand to my chest, as if it might somehow ease the pain in my heart.

I did this.

I chased her through the portal and she lost years in there, where whatever she had to do to survive forced what was once a temporary split to become permanent, burying Dani pretty much the same way the Book would like to bury me.

I have to get her back. Unfortunately the only thing Jada wants to do to me is lock me up next to Cruce.

“The one that signed that contract is no longer here to honor it.” Jada’s gaze takes an involuntary dip over Ryodan’s body again and her face tightens. I get that. His body is surreal, powerful, perfect. I see his kinship to Barrons now. Criminy. He’s not hard — yes, I’m frigging looking, and I’m not about to feel bad about it because you try not looking at a hot, naked man standing in front of you when you’re twenty-three, perfectly healthy, and full of a lot of aggression you’d like to vent. I think men don’t realize women think dicks are beautiful. Not all dicks. But some men get the mother lode, just the right length and thickness covered with beautiful olive-toned, velvety skin that has a luscious pink undertone and makes the head of their dick look like a succulent lollipop, and since Ryodan is totally waxed or lasered or trimmed recently—

I catch myself about to audibly clear my throat. I glue my eyes to his face, where they will remain until I leave this room, so help me God. I’m staring at Barrons’s brother naked. It makes me feel vaguely unfaithful somehow.

Ryodan stalks across the room, stops a few feet from her, close enough to unnerve, not so close that she won’t — if there’s as much red-blooded woman in her as I think there is — have as hard a time keeping her eyes locked on his face as I am.

Great, now I have to not look at his ass. With a distant part of my brain I admire that Jada/Dani doesn’t comment on Ryodan’s nudity, ask where his clothes are or demand he put some on. Ignoring it makes it irrelevant. No man wants his nudity to be irrelevant.

“One would think you wouldn’t bother to come looking for it, then.”

“It offends in letter only, not verse.”

“You know it has power. Over even you. Should I choose to exercise it.”

“Should you choose to exercise it, you’ll die more quickly than I currently plan.”

“You admit you’re Dani, then.”

“It would be inefficient for me to continue to deny that which we both know was once true. ‘Was once’ are the key words there. Dani is dead.”

“You’ve got that wrong. You’re the one who’s dead.”

“I’m alive. She was never as alive as me. She was in constant pain. I terminated it.”

“By terminating all emotion.”

“I feel.”

“Bullshit. The currency of life is passion, and as with any coin, it has two sides: pleasure, pain, joy, sorrow. Impossible to slip a single side of that coin into your pocket. You take all or nothing.”

She cocks her head and says coolly, “Perhaps we are alike, you and I, and I prefer my pockets empty.”

“My pockets are far from empty.”

“Says the man whose face is etched by neither laugh nor frown lines. Feeling nothing is called traveling light. It’s called freedom.”

“It’s called being dead inside. You will return her to me.”

“I won’t. She was too stupid to live.”

“Is,” he corrects. “And she’s not. She’s the one who’s smart enough to live. You merely survive.”

“One of us must. You were no help. You lost her the instant she stepped through the portal and entered Faery. You didn’t save her. She waited, thinking you were different from those who used and betrayed her. She believed you would find her, come charging to her rescue. That belief was as misplaced as the monsters we faced were deadly. The day came she finally lost her faith in you, and I was there as I’ve always been there when she needed me, and she was grateful. I saved her. Not you. You failed her. Failed as in: did not accomplish the specified, desired objective; performing inadequately or ineffectively; neglecting to honor promises, implied or contractual—”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Like I need a fucking dictionary.”

“It would seem you do. You broke her finger that night in Chester’s. I’ve not forgotten. I forget no wrong done to her.”

“It was unintentional. Sidhe-seer or not, I’m unaccustomed to young humans. Their bones are different.”

“I’m no longer young.”

“I’m bloody fucking aware of that.”

“ ‘I’m aware’ would have sufficed. ‘Bloody fucking’ is superfluous and contributes nothing to the sentence in either connotation or denotation.”

“I’ll bloody fucking decide what’s bloody fucking superfluous.”

“You’re so … human. It’s inefficient.”

“Wrong on that score. And efficiency is no guarantee of survival. Nor is intellect. What it takes to be the last one standing is an unquenchable hunger to live. He who wants it the most wins. It takes fire, willingness to burn down to your motherfucking core.”

“You’re ice. Yet you live.”

“Not as cold as you think.”

“Omission or commission. You said you would break more bones that night.”

“A necessary threat, one I knew she wouldn’t test. I’ve rescued her in Dublin’s streets more often than you. Saved her times uncounted without her knowing. She’s not as unbreakable as she likes to believe. The day Jayne took her sword, I was there before Christian. It was I who nudged Christian in her direction.”

“You do nothing without motive.”

“She needed to see what he was becoming. Not hear it from me. She has never been unprotected, from the day I learned of her existence. First my men, then I, watched over her. But you know that. The night the gang of drunken men attacked her near Trinity, it wasn’t you who got her out of that one.”

“Only because she fought me instead of them. She should have killed them. I would have.”

“Unlike you, she prefers not to kill humans.”

“You make it sound like a virtue. Protecting those sheep. Rather you should knit sweaters from their skin and roast mutton of their flesh. Three nights ago I finished what you failed to complete those many years ago. They’re dead now.”

“There are lines. You’ve dragged her across enough. I’ll do whatever it takes to preserve what humanity she retains, and guarantee she lives long enough to master her staggering power and intellect—”

“My staggering power and intellect.”

“—while keeping you out of the driver’s seat—”

“I belong in the driver’s seat.”

“—and giving her a chance to fly.”

“They’re my wings.”

“It’s her sky. You were made, not born. It’s Dani’s life.”

“Was. She was a fool. She wept like a helpless child that night at Chester’s while the entire club watched. Not because you broke her finger or threatened her but because you were alive and she was that happy to see you. She was always happy to see you. She lit up inside. You lost her. You let her be lost.”

“I ripped this city apart for a month looking for her.”

“That month was five and a half years for me.”

Ryodan flinches almost imperceptibly.

“Five and a half years in Hell. Don’t berate me for being. Thank me. She was weak. She needed me. I became.”

“She was never weak. She was a child. Treated abominably. Yet she shined.”

“I was never a child. I couldn’t afford that luxury. She made mistakes. She is dull. It is I who shine. You of all people should see that.”

“That’s why you’ve come today. To show me you’re all grown up and display your dazzling new persona.”

“As if I care what you think. I came for the contract, nothing more.”

“Because you believe it’s the only hold I have on you. You’ve been back for weeks and haven’t tried to kill me. I’d imagine, considering how hard I was on Dani, I must rank high on your list of scores to settle. Yet you’ve avoided me. You fear me.”

“I fear nothing.”

“Or perhaps you can’t quite bring yourself to kill me and have begun to wonder if my contract somehow mystically prevents you from harming me.”

Jada tenses slightly, and I realize Ryodan’s nailed it. Barrons told me a few months ago that Ryodan had coerced Dani into working for him, that he was being tough on her, trying to make her see that she wasn’t indestructible, curb some of the recklessness that would one day get her killed. Jada would surely despise Ryodan for controlling Dani. So why has she been back in Dublin for weeks and not once tried to get even with him? That’s not Dani’s way at all, and since Jada appears to be Dani on steroids, well … I hold my breath, waiting for her to answer.

“Let me make it simple for you.” Ryodan reaches beneath his desk, presses something, and a hidden panel slides soundlessly out.

“I would have found that,” Jada says instantly.

He pulls out a sheet of paper and glances at it. “Said contract. Signed in blood. By Dani. In your hand. Binding both of you. You think this keeps you from killing me. You want to kill me, pick up the blade on my desk.”

“You would only come back. When I kill you I will do so for good.”

“Get a little practice. See what it feels like to drive a knife through my heart. Relish it. Watch the light fade from my eyes, stare into my dying, taste it, see how you like it. There’s a moment in death that is unlike anything else in all existence.”

“You think I don’t know that. I began killing far younger than you.”

“Not even close. I’m here now. So are you. Do it.” He rips the contract in half, drops the pieces to the floor. “Contract void. Kill me. Dani.”

Jada says nothing. Her gaze drifts down to the knife on his desk, then back to Ryodan, but not starting at his face. It makes it there only after a false start from his feet.

“Pick up the fucking knife,” Ryodan orders.

“You don’t order me around. I’m not she who once obeyed.”

He steps forward, closing the space between them. I wonder how many of the Nine I’m going to watch die today.

Ryodan takes the knife from the desk, grabs her by the wrist and slaps the hilt into the palm of her hand. “I said kill me,” he says softly.

And all I can think is, God this is a terrible bluff. He’s trying to force Dani to stir behind Jada’s implacable countenance, force her alter ego to do something he believes Dani won’t let her do because she lit up whenever he was around.

She closes long, elegant fingers around the hilt. “Fine,” she says coolly.

She draws back her hand and, aiming at his heart, stabs him.

At the last moment, however, her wrist stutters, jerks, and twists around. The blade skids sideways, flat to his chest.

She goes motionless, fist resting on his bare skin and they stare at each other. Emerald ice meets silver steel.

I angle myself sideways, spellbound, trying to get a read on what’s going on by their expressions but, Christ, it’s like trying to read two standing stones. I’m startled to realize Dani didn’t merely grow up — she grew tall. The top of her head comes to Ryodan’s jaw, and since I know he’s six-foot-four, she’s got to be all of five-foot-ten, plus two inches of thick combat boot soles.

They both begin to shift subtly as if they’re fighting a silent war of the wills with their bodies. Ryodan’s stance becomes even more aggressive, intimidating, coercing. But unlike Dani, who would have backed away, Jada molds herself farther into his space, demanding her share of it.

For nearly a minute they stand there like that, staring at each other, trying to force the other to yield in some small way.

It’s Ryodan who breaks the volatile silence. “I’ll give you a choice. Kill me.”

“By definition ‘choice’ mandates a minimum of two possible avenues of action.”

“I wasn’t done. Or kiss me. But do one or the other. Before I do one or the other to you.”

Jada stares at him a long moment, then slowly, deliberately, presses the full length of her body up against his naked one, black leather to nude man, soft, feminine curves to heavily muscled, scarred chest.

Ryodan doesn’t move a muscle, just stands there.

She wets her lips and angles her head so that her mouth is a breath away from his, and I’m a mess of quivering frigging nerves in the corner because she just stays like that and her eyes fix on his mouth, and his fixes on hers and I think, Shit, this room is going to blow, then I think, Shit, this is Dani and Ryodan. But it’s not.

It’s two cataclysmic forces of nature that are brilliant and stubborn and strong, who cut their teeth on razor blades and live on a razor edge of violence at all times. I’ve learned a few things about the world, about myself, during my sojourn in Dublin. In the great pasture of life there are really only four kinds of creatures: sheep, as Dani likes to call them; shepherds who try to guide the sheep and keep them on the straight and narrow; sheepdogs who run them from field to field, prevent them from straying, and fight off the predators that come to slaughter and feast; and wolves, savage, fierce, and a law unto their own.

I know what I am. I’m a sheepdog. If my food supply ran out and I was stranded on a mountain with the flock, I would starve before I ate one of the sheep. Nature or nurture, I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter. I protect the flock. To my dying breath.

Ryodan’s a wolf. He’d eat the whole damn flock if his survival depended on it.

Dani is a sheepdog, too.

Jada is a wolf.

Two wolves stand in this room, with a complicated past and an uncertain future, their lips a breath apart, and I’m not sure if they’ll kiss or kill each other. Probably both.

Then Jada reaches up and cups the back of his head with one hand, pulls his head forward and down.

And presses her mouth to his.

Ryodan holds perfectly still, still as stone.

So do I. Holy freaking cow.

She kisses him, lips parted, slow and sexy, lightly touching his lips with her tongue, offering wonders that would rock his world, while delivering nothing. Open mouthed, seductive, warm, inviting and … dangerous. Even I can feel the explosive sexual energy held in check behind her bare feather of a touch. She’s making sure he feels it, slapping him in the face with all she could offer — but isn’t. I’ve kissed men like that before.

It’s a challenge. It says “You think you have what it takes to handle me? Oh, honey, prove it.”

Still, he doesn’t move. Just stands there, letting her kiss him, making no response.

Against his lips she murmurs, “You’ll never kill me.”

Then Jada puts her arms around his neck and pulls him against her, melting against him until there is no space between their bodies. She turns her face slowly to the side and rests her cheek against his, her chin on his shoulder. Laces her fingers into his short thick hair.

His hands move to her waist, stop. Drop to his sides. They stand there like that, sort of hugging but not. Pressed together, staring past each other.

Intimate yet a million miles apart.

It’s one of the most subtly erotic moments I’ve seen.

She closes her eyes and for a fleeting instant every bit of tension in the fine muscles of her face vanishes. If pressed to define the moment, I’d call it basking, a cat soaking up sun on an icy winter’s day. Savoring something she’s wanted for a long time, and I wonder, did she think of him while she battled whatever demons she faced for the past five and a half years, lost in Faery? Did she hear his voice in her head during her darkest hours? Did she find strength in the hard truths he’d battered her with? Does touching him make her feel the way I do when I press my body against Barrons — like coming home?

“I’m all you have left of Dani,” she tells him softly. “Be very careful how you push me, Ryodan. I’m not a little girl. I could turn you inside out. Play you the way you play the rest of the world. You’re not a singularity anymore. I’ve become your equal in every way.”

Then she shoves him back and pushes past him with that long-legged gazelle walk, gracefully swipes the palm pad and glides out the door. He may think Jada doesn’t feel, but there is pure fire in the way she moves. She’s sexy, confident, strong. I’ve walked that way myself. It feels good.

I glance between him and the door, dying to stay, knowing I should go. I’ve seen more than my brain can process for one day.

He drops his dark head forward and stands there, unmoving.

As I slip out, just before it slides closed, I hear him murmur, “Ah, Dani, yes you have. As I always knew you would.”

30

Jada leaves at normal speed — what Dani used to call walking like a Joe — and I follow her to the top of the stairs, trying to decide who, in my new ghostlike state, I want to haunt next.

I’m eager to see if Ryodan’s wards can detect me should I decide to explore the lower levels of his underground fortress, or if the Book’s cloak will keep me from tripping them. Worst-case scenario, I set one off and run. Then again, knowing Ryodan, enormous steel doors will come slamming down, barricading me in a tiny space of corridor until he releases some high-tech vapor-dye that paints me visible on his monitors, drags me out, and locks me up in his dungeon.

On the subject of the Book, it’s been perversely silent since I arrived back in the city this morning. I’d pause to wonder why but I’m busy enjoying being invisible and not stalked at the moment, plus my head is spinning from all that I’ve learned. I’m beginning to see that my view of the world was very limited. Life is an iceberg and I’ve only been seeing the tip.

Jo had sex with Lor! Ryodan saw it happening, and it turns out he’s actually got a code of ethics that accommodates humans. Lor might have a bit of a thing for Jo. That would be nice for her. I frown. Maybe. Then again she seemed pretty furious about the whole situation, and Ryodan fired her, so now, insult to injury, she’s out of a job. Barrons and Ryodan are brothers! Ryodan’s been keeping tabs on Dani for years. Papa Roach isn’t Fae, serves as the urbane owner of Chester’s spy network and has been doing so for thousands of years. All roaches are now suspect! Dani’s always had a second persona and I never figured it out. Ryodan killed Lor. Jada kissed Ryodan! Criminy. Never saw that coming. Dani and Ryodan? Weird. Jada and Ryodan? Not weird at all. Sexy as hell. I’d been tense, heart hammering, waiting for that damn kiss. I’d wanted it to happen.

It’s like my own private soap opera. Plus I’ve seen two of the Nine naked today. Nice bit of eye candy for a woman with a ferocious sweet tooth and no way to satisfy it.

Fade stops Jada at the top of the stairs, or rather Fade moves in front of Jada and she consents to briefly pause. I have no doubt she could blast past him and quite possibly outrun him.

“The boss wants me to ask if you remember the first iced scene he took Dani to see beneath the club.”

Jada inclines her head.

“Boss said he thinks you should see it.”

“I have no interest in his club. Less in his thoughts.”

“He said to tell you if what’s down there continues to grow, it’ll destroy the world, and the same thing that’s down there got left at every place that was iced,” Fade delivers coolly. “Said to warn you not to touch it because they behave like black holes with event horizons. Whatever the fuck those are. Black holes I get.”

“An event horizon is also called the point of no return. In a sense of general relativity, it’s the point at which the gravitational pull becomes so great escape is impossible. Some theorize quantum gravity effects become significant in the vicinity of such an occurrence.”

“Whatever. Boss said some college kid thinks your brain is the only one that has a chance of cracking it.”

I glimpse Dani in Jada then, not in a jauntily cocked hip, but a small, telltale straightening of her spine.

“You may tell Ryodan I will inspect it. But I won’t work with his ‘college kid.’ That’s non-negotiable.”

“I’ll tell him. We’ll see what he says. Wait here and I’ll get someone to take you down. I’m on bouncer duty.”

When he turns away, Jada vanishes on a brisk wind.

I could have called that one. And I can predict she sure as hell isn’t going down below. She’ll find another place to examine.

Oh well, it’s obviously not going to be Jada I haunt. She’s gone with the wind. What next? As I descend the chrome stairs I’m startled to see Jo coming out of one of the restrooms dressed for work in the subclub where the waitresses wear short plaid skirts and baby doll heels, and burst out laughing before I can catch myself. The woman just keeps surprising me. Ryodan may have fired her. But Jo didn’t quit. And from the expression on her face, she’s not going to go easily if he tries to enforce it. I don’t blame her. He doesn’t get to fire her just because she slept with someone else. That’s bullshit, and I’d tell him so myself if I wasn’t currently relishing my invisibility.

Fortunately, my disembodied laugh gets swallowed up in the general din of the club.

I melt into the crowd, ducking and dodging as I go. I’m beginning to get the hang of this invisibility stuff.

I sort and discard various destinations. I don’t trust myself to go spy on the Unseelie Princes. I’d be tempted to use my spear, and although I pretty much think any humans stupid enough to go there deserve to die, I have no guarantee my resultant killing spree would be confined to the grounds of the Escheresque gothic mansion.

I could head out to the abbey, slip in and eavesdrop. Go down below and check on Cruce.

I shudder. No thank you.

Search Chester’s?

I’ve had enough of Chester’s for one day. My brain is on overload, and there’s really only one person I want to spy on now. He deserves it. I won’t feel one ounce of guilt for invading his privacy. He invaded the fuck out of mine.

I slip from the club amid a cluster of drunken revelers and navigate the surprisingly busy streets back to the place I call home: Barrons Books & Baubles.

I find Jericho Barrons sitting in his study at the back of the bookstore watching a video on his computer. He exudes tall, dark, and dangerous, even dressed casually in faded jeans, an unbuttoned black shirt, and boots with silver chains. His hair is wet from a recent shower and he smells like clean, damp, deliciously edible man. His chest is nearly covered with tattoos, black and crimson runes and designs that look like ancient tribal emblems, his rock-hard six-pack abs on full display. His sleeves are rolled back over thick, powerful forearms, and the cuff that matches the one Ryodan wears glints in the low light, reminding me they are brothers, reminding me of Jada/Dani’s cuff. There’s something anciently elegant poured over the beast that is Barrons, Old-World-Mediterranean-basted barbarian. The interior lights are set to a soft amber glow and he sits in the darkness, all hot, sexy coiled muscle and aggression and, oh God, I need to have sex.

I shove that thought from my mind because it’s highly unlikely in the near future. No point in torturing myself when the world’s been so busy doing it for me. I wonder what Barrons watches. Action/adventure? Spy movies? Horror? Bewitched?

Porn?

The sounds coming from the monitor are base, guttural. I ease into the study, walking like an Indian in the quiet, stealthy way Daddy once taught me on a camping trip: heel to toe, heel to toe.

Barrons touches the screen, tracing an image, dark gaze unfathomable.

As I move around the desk and glimpse the monitor, I bite back a soft, instinctive protest.

He’s watching a video of his son.

The child is in human form, naked on the floor of his cage. He’s in the throes of hard convulsions and there’s blood on his face, ostensibly from having bitten his own tongue.

This isn’t what Barrons’s son looked like the only time I ever met him. Then, he seemed a lovely, helpless, innocent, and frightened child, and although it was but an act to lure me close enough to attack, it was one of very few times in his tortured existence he’d looked normal. I still remember the anguish in Barrons’s voice when he asked me if I’d seen him as a boy, not the beast.

As I watch, his son begins to change back into his monstrous form, and it’s a violent, excruciating transformation, even more torturous to watch than when Barrons turns back into a man.

The beast his son is becoming on-screen makes the rabid beast-form of Barrons that stalked me on a cliff in Faery look like a playful puppy.

Shortly after his son tried to eat me, Barrons told me he used to keep cameras on the boy at all times, reviewing them endlessly for a single glimpse of him as the child he’d fathered. Over the millennia, he saw him that way on only five occasions. Apparently this was one of them.

Why is he watching it now? It’s over. We freed him. Didn’t we? Or did the oddly malleable universe in which I seem to find myself lately find some way to reshape that, too?

The tips of his fingers slide from the screen. “I wanted to give you peace,” he murmurs. “Not erase you from the cycle forever. Now I wonder if it was my pain or yours I sought to end.”

I wince and close my eyes. My life hasn’t been completely blithe and carefree. When I was sixteen, my adopted paternal grandfather was diagnosed with lung cancer that metastasized to his liver and brain. Daddy’s grief cast a palpable shadow over the Lane household for months. I’ll never forget the crippling headaches Grandpa suffered, the nausea from chemo and radiation. I watched Daddy wrestle with decision after decision, ultimately withholding IV antibiotics to treat the pneumonia that took Grandpa more quickly and far more gently.

Barrons is voicing the legitimate question of anyone who’s ever agreed not to resuscitate, to cease life-sustaining measures for a loved one, to accept a Stage 4 cancer patient’s decision to refuse more chemo, or euthanize a beloved pet. Throughout the caretaker experience, your loved one’s presence is intense and exquisitely poignant and painful, then all the sudden they’re gone and you discover their absence is even more intense and exquisitely poignant and painful. You don’t know how to walk or breathe when they’re no longer there. And how could you? Your world revolved around them.

I should have seen this coming. At least I have the comfort of believing Alina is in heaven. That maybe someday I’ll gaze into a child’s eyes and see a piece of my sister’s soul in there, because the fact is I do believe we go on. Then again, maybe I’ll never see a trace of her, but I still feel her. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s as if she’s only a slight shift of reality away from me sometimes, in what I think of as the slipstream, and if I could only slip sideways, too, I could join her. And one day I think I will slip sideways and get to see her again, if only as ships passing on our way to new destinations in the same vast, magnificent sea.

Perhaps it’s a sentimental delusion to which I cling so I don’t drown in grief.

I don’t think so.

Barrons says softly, “Eternal agony or nothing. I’d have chosen agony. I gave you nothing. You weren’t cognizant. You couldn’t make the choice.”

What do we crave for those terrible decisions we’re forced to make in the course of an average lifetime?

Forgiveness. Absolution.

There’s no possibility Barrons will get it, in this lifetime or any other.

We K’Vrucked his son to grant him rest. We didn’t merely kill him, we annihilated his very being. As the Sinsar Dubh put it, a good K’Vrucking is more final than death, it’s complete eradication of all essence, of what humans like to think of as a soul.

I don’t know that I believe in souls, but I believe in something. I think each of us has a unique vibration that’s inextinguishable, and when we die it translates into the next phase of being. We may come back as a tree, or a cat, perhaps a person again, or a star. I don’t think our journey is limited. I look up at the sky, ponder the enormity of the universe and simply know that the same well of joy that birthed so much wonder gave us more than a single chance to explore it.

Not so with his son. The child is no longer in pain because he is no longer. No heaven, no hell. Just gone. As Barrons said, erased. Unlike me always sort of sensing Alina out there, Barrons can’t feel him anymore.

Who knows how long he took care of his child, searched for the way to free him, sat in his subterranean cave watching him, cultivating the hope that he would one day find the right spell, or ritual or god or demon powerful enough to change his son back.

A few months ago the never-ending ritual that had shaped his existence for thousands and thousands of years ended.

As did the hope.

And the true, long overdue grief began.

I know a simple truth: mercy killing doesn’t hold one fucking ounce of mercy for those that live.

I wonder how many times he’s caught himself walking toward his son’s stone chamber, as I caught myself walking down the hall to Alina’s bedroom with something I just had to tell her, this very moment, on the tip of my tongue. The hundredth time I did it, I realized it was either go join Dad in his black hole of depression, drink myself quietly to death at the Brickyard and die by the age of forty from liver disease — or fly to Dublin and channel my grief into a search for answers. Death is the final chapter in a book you can’t unread. You keep waiting to feel like the person you were before that chapter ended. You never will.

I open my eyes. Barrons is staring at the screen in silence. There’s no sound in the bookstore. Not a drip of water from the distant bathroom sink in the hall, no white noise from an air vent, no soft hiss of gas from the fireplace. Grief is a private thing. I respect that and I respect the man.

I begin to ease out of the room slowly.

When I back into the ottoman I forgot was there, the legs scrape across the polished wood of the floor.

Barrons’s head whips up and around, pinpoints the precise spot in which I stand.

For a moment I consider trying to be his son’s ghost for him. Give him what he’d think was a sign, ease his pain with as kind and white a lie as they come.

I know better.

Barrons is all about purity. If he ever learned the truth — and Barrons has a way of always learning the truth — he’d despise me for it. I’d have given him a gift, only to snatch it away again, and counter to mainstream cliché, for some of us it’s kinder to never have a thing at all than to have it and lose it.

Some of us love too hard. Some of us don’t seem to be able to hold that vital piece of ourselves back.

His nostrils flare as he inhales, cocks his head, and listens. He presses the Off button on the monitor. “Ms. Lane.”

Though he can’t see me, I scowl at him. “You don’t know that for certain. You guessed. I’ve been hanging around you a lot today and you didn’t know it.”

“The Sinsar Dubh protected you at the last minute. You were going to let the sidhe-seers take you rather than risk killing them.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I believed it had sifted you elsewhere, and it was taking time for you to get back.”

“Nope. Just made me invisible and told me to run.”

Pleasantries exchanged, I search for something to say that is about anything but his son. I know Barrons. Like me, he’d prefer I’d never seen him grieving.

He’ll sit and stare at his computer screen however many times he must, just as I indulge the OCD facets of my grief and, with each month that goes by, find there are three or four, sometimes as many as five additional days between those upon which I am compelled to drag out my photo albums and brood. At some point there will be ten, twenty, then thirty. Time will scar my wound and I’ll emerge from my fugue tougher, if not healed.

I decide to bitch. That’ll take his mind off things.

“You know, I just don’t get it. Every time I solve a problem, the universe lobs another one at me. And it’s always bigger and messier than the last. Am I being persecuted?”

He smiles faintly. “If only it were that personal. Life fucks you anonymously. It doesn’t want to know your name, doesn’t give a shit about your station. The terrain never stops shifting. One minute you think you’ve got the world by the balls, the next minute you don’t know where the fuck the world’s balls are.”

“Sure I do,” I say irritably. “Right next to the world’s big fat hairy asshole, upon which I seem to be stuck in superglue lately, waiting for it to have its next case of explosive diarrhea.”

He laughs. A bona-fide laugh, and I smile, grateful to have lifted a bit of sorrow from that dark, forbidding countenance. Then he says, “Move.”

“Huh? Why? You can’t even see me.”

“Off the asshole.”

“Easy for you to say. How am I supposed to do that?”

“Study the terrain. If you can’t move yourself, find something that moves the world.”

“Tall order. Isn’t it easier to move myself?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes not.”

I think about it a moment. “If Cruce was free, I’d become a secondary concern. He’d be on the asshole.”

“Which would put pretty much the entire world on the asshole with him.”

“But I’d be out of the way.”

He shrugs. “Do it.”

“You don’t mean that.” I’m not so certain he doesn’t. Barrons would probably just go along for the ride, finding no end of things to enjoy along the way. Move the world. How can I move the world? “Make me like you,” I say. “Then I wouldn’t mind being visible again because I wouldn’t have to worry about them catching me.”

“Never ask me that.”

“Jada — Dani is like you.”

“Dani is a genetically mutated human. Not like us at all. There’s a price for what we are. We pay it every day.”

“What kind of price?”

He doesn’t reply.

I try a side approach. “Why does it take you so much longer than Ryodan to transform from beast back to man?”

“I enjoy the beast. He enjoys the man. The beast has little desire to resume human form, resists it.”

“Yet you live mostly as a man. Why?”

Again he doesn’t reply. I resume pondering my position on the asshole and how to get off it.

“Fuck me,” he says softly.

I stare at him through the dim light as instant lust eclipses anger, will, time, place. My knees weaken in anticipation of ceasing their function, ready to drop me back on the floor so I can wrap my legs around Barrons when he spreads his big hard body over me. Master to slave: when he says “Fuck me,” my body softens and I get wet. It’s visceral. Inescapable. I love the way he says “Fuck me,” as if his body will explode if I don’t touch him, slam down on him and take him inside me, meld our flesh together in that place we both find the only peace we ever know. Out of bed, we’re a storm. In bed, we find the eye. The detritus of our world, of our complex and difficult personalities, gets swept up into the various supercells eternally raging around us and vanishes.

I want to. Especially after what I just saw. But that he suffers doesn’t absolve him for an action he shouldn’t have taken. “Why?” I say pissily. “So you can erase my memory again?”

“And there it is. Go ahead, Ms. Lane. Air your grievances. Tell me what a big bad bastard I am that I tucked away a truth you couldn’t face and gave you time to come to terms with it. But reflect on this: it wasn’t the only time. You did the same when you were Pri-ya. Twice I got under your skin, and both times you couldn’t shut me out fast enough.”

“Bullshit. You don’t get to cast it in some sunny, kind light when there’s nothing sunny and kind about it.” I don’t acknowledge his second comment because he has a somewhat valid point and this is about my irritation, not his.

“I didn’t say it was sunny and kind. It was self-serving, as is all I do. One would think by now you know who I am.”

“You had no right.”

“Ah, the morally outraged cry of the weak: You’re not ‘allowed’ to do that. One is allowed to do anything one can get away with. Only when you understand that will you know your place in this world. And your power. Might is right.”

“Ah,” I mock, “the morally bankrupt howl of the predator.”

“Guilty as charged. I’m not the only one that howled that night.”

“You don’t know for certain that I wouldn’t have—”

“Bullshit,” he cuts me off impatiently. “You don’t get to pretend you would have done anything but despise me. It was already there in your eyes. You were young, so bloody young. Untouched by tragedy until your sister’s death. You came to Dublin, avenging angel, and what’s the first thing you did? Fucked the devil. Oops, shit, eh? You felt more alive with me that night than you’ve ever felt in your life. You were fucking born in that run-down rented room with me. I watched it happen, saw the woman you really are tear her constrictive, circumscribing skin right down the middle and strip it off. And I’m not talking about fucking. I’m talking about a way of existence. That night. You. Me. No fear. No holds barred. No rules. Watching you change was an epiphany. How did it feel to come alive in the city that killed your sister? Like the biggest fucking betrayal in the world?”

I snarl like an enraged animal. Yes, yes, and yes. It abso-fucking-lutely did. Alina was cold in a grave and I was on fire. I was glad I’d come to Dublin, glad I’d gotten lost and stumbled into his bookstore, because something in me that had slumbered all my life was waking up. How can you be glad you came to the city that killed your sister? How can you feel exhilarated to be alive when she’s dead? How could I let anything ever make me feel good again?

“You couldn’t deal with it, and you couldn’t despise yourself any more than you already did, so you turned it on me. You want to hate me for taking that memory and stashing it away for a while, go ahead.”

I snap, “I don’t want to hate you for it. I want to find a way to forgive you for it. And that’s what scares me. You took my memory, my choice to deal with or refuse to deal with what happened. You took a slice of my reality.”

“I’ll say this one more fucking time: I couldn’t have taken it if you hadn’t been so willing to throw it away. The brain is a complex thing. It inscribes, it etches, it’s bloody well sticky. The memory was always there, that’s how you found it. I merely kicked it beneath a rock. You put the entire force of your will behind my kicking it. You helped me hide it. I relieved you of what you considered a despicable stain in your mind. Best fucking night of my existence.” He laughs and shakes his head. “And you couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. I didn’t want to hide the memory from you. I wanted to cram it down your goddamn throat. I wanted to force you to face it, to want it, to want me, to be willing to fight for what was possible between us with the same single-minded devotion as you fucked. Well, Ms. Lane, you’ve got your precious memory back. Will you throw me away now?”

I’m horrified to realize that’s the choice. Keep him or don’t. Stay or go. How do you trust a man who took one of your memories from you? How do you convince yourself he won’t do it again? And if I did convince myself of it, wouldn’t I pretty much be that lamb in a city of wolves he’d accused me of being that night? Believing what I wanted to believe, over the far more likely truth: recidivism is human nature.

We are what we are. Actions speak.

He intuits my thoughts without even being able to see my face. “Yes. Actions speak. Analyze mine. Not long after I used Voice on you to tuck away your memory of that night, I began teaching you Voice, knowing you would be immune to me ever using it on you again. I leveled the playing field. In a court of justice, one might consider that atonement for a—” He breaks off and laughs softly. “—crime of passion. And that, my dear complicated fucking Ms. Lane, is the closest thing to an apology you will ever get from a man who apologizes to no one. Take it or leave it.”

He’s up, past me, and out the door before I can even reply.

31

Fact: you can never know another person completely.

Fact: you are born alone and die alone.

Fact: there is no such thing as safety. Only vigilance, determination to survive, and a willingness to be ruthless about it.

Fact: love is not perfect.

Fact: neither am I.

Those five facts are the bile with which I digest the events of my day.

I marvel, as I sprawl on the chesterfield in front of my favorite gas fireplace aft of the bookstore, at the way my thought processes have refined. There used to be so many pit stops and detours between my mental points of departure and their eventual destinations, but now it goes kind of like this: Do I love him? Yes. Is he perfect? No. Am I? No. Will I leave him? No. Okay, that’s resolved. Time for a nap.

I wake when the doorbell tinkles, roll over, rub my eyes, and shove my hair out of my face. I slept hard. It occurs to me that I didn’t rehang the bell after Ryodan ripped it off the frame. Barrons must have done it.

First thing I do when I open my eyes is look down at my hand. Yup. Still invisible. Awesome! I’m in no hurry to give this up. Besides, I feel deep couch marks all over my right side, from my arm up to my cheek. I’ve been tufted. I hate walking around with sheet creases and now I have little sphincter-like explosions all over the side of my face.

I become aware of a slow burn in the pit of my stomach and leap up to an instant crouch, biting back a growl.

I smell Unseelie Prince.

I duck low to remain concealed behind the silhouette of the couch and begin inching quietly back toward the private-residence half of the bookstore, then remember they can’t see me. Duh.

I straighten up and peer through the low light, wondering what the hell my rapists are doing in my home.

I blink. They’re standing in the entry with Fade, Dageus and Drustan MacKeltar, and R’jan, who is attended by the new Seelie advisor-vote Ryodan recently approved.

The doorbell chimes two more times in quick succession as Barrons and Jada step in, dusting rain from their shoulders.

What the hell?

“Why did you ask me to come?” Jada says to Barrons. “And what are they doing here?” She narrows her eyes at the princes who hiss and posture aggressively.

“I didn’t.”

“I received your message.”

“I didn’t send one.”

Jada moves to leave. Barrons places a hand on her arm and she turns slowly back and looks up.

He says, “I would prefer you stay.”

I narrow my eyes. What is Barrons up to?

She stares at him for a moment then says, “I will honor your request. Once. In the future you will honor one for me.”

“A simple request of attendance. Nothing more.”

She inclines her head.

Right, she’s nice to Barrons but not me.

I like Jada. She’s strong. Smart. Lethal. Too bad she used to be Dani. Too bad she has no heart. I want Dani back. But I wouldn’t mind keeping Jada, too, once she gets with the program that reads: Mac is good, don’t hunt her. Speaking of why she’s hunting me — where the heck has the Sinsar Dubh gone? Three princes are standing here and I’m not hearing a single suggestion that I go postal and kill everyone in sight. The Book has been so quiet it’s starting to make me nervous.

Then the Unseelie Princes are asking why Barrons sent a message threatening to remove them from the council if the princes didn’t meet him here, and R’jan starts snarling about the threat he received from the Highlander to withdraw their protection if he didn’t come, and I smell Ryodan’s hand in things before I even catch a glimpse of him approaching through the rain beyond the beveled glass diamond panes of the front door.

When the urbane owner of Chester’s stalks in, the accusations escalate, all now directed toward him and his sleight of hand.

“Had I summoned, you wouldn’t have come,” Ryodan says to Rath, then barks, “Upstairs, at the table. All of you.”

Yeah, right. He just tried to order nine of the most uncooperative beings I know to cooperate en masse. It’s not going to happen.

Everyone starts growling and arguing again. Ryodan vanishes. Then R’jan’s new advisor is gone.

Long moments spin out while R’jan looks around wildly.

After nearly thirty seconds Ryodan reappears and tosses the body of R’jan’s new advisor at his feet. Dead. I almost laugh aloud at the look of consternation on R’jan’s face.

The Seelie Prince snarls, “You will cease doing that! You killed our fucking advisor! That is twice now you’ve insulted us with—”

“Little point devising new tactics when the old ones just keep working. Pull your head out of your ass and see it coming. The next one to die is you, then Rath. Get the fuck upstairs.”

Jada moves for the door.

Barrons says, “You will remain. Honor your pledge.”

A muscle works in her jaw but she slowly turns back around. “You have five minutes of my time.”

“Five is all I need,” Ryodan says.

Jada gives him a cool smile. “That’s what I’ve heard.”

I smirk.

Ryodan opens his mouth to reply then astounds me by closing it. I was ready for one of his frankly sexual remarks. I was rather looking forward to it. She deserved it for that one. From the look on Jada’s face, she was anticipating one, too.

He says nothing. Interesting. Is it because she’s Dani? Or because she’s not Dani at all?

“Move your asses, all of you,” Fade orders.

When they ascend, growling and snarling the whole way, I hurry up the stairs behind them, to camouflage any telltale squeaks the planks might make as they shift beneath my weight if I wait until they all reach the top.

Barrons, Fade, Ryodan, and the two Highlanders cram into seats along one side of the square and it’s almost comical to see the five enormous men packed shoulder to shoulder, leaving the Unseelie Princes and R’jan to split the other two. I wonder where Sean is; if he was similarly summoned and chose not to appear or if Ryodan omitted him deliberately.

Jada stands, legs spread, arms folded. Tonight she has a knife strapped to each thigh, in addition to an assortment of bulges at her ankles, pockets, and waistband. I carry concealed myself, so have no trouble picking out extra magazines and grenades. There’s blood on her shirt. I wonder who or what she killed tonight, and how many. I miss fighting back-to-back with her.

“Why have you called us here?” R’jan demands. “And where is the O’Bannion?”

I take a position opposite Jada, with the table between us, unconsciously mimicking her posture, studying her curiously. Still dressed in black, still coolly beautiful, something nags about her appearance. My gaze drifts from her head to her feet then back. Her cuff glints silver. Where have I seen it before?

“O’Bannion is irrelevant to the matter we’re discussing tonight.”

The Seelie Prince scowls, no doubt wondering if there have been meetings held without him present, without his knowledge. “And the human that runs the abbey?”

“I run the abbey,” Jada says.

“There is one thing upon which we can agree,” Ryodan says, “and that is we would all prefer the Crimson Hag dead.”

“That is why you brought us here? To discuss the Hag?” Rath says. “She is occupied. We do not care about her.”

“You will aid in destroying our mutual enemies or you are the enemy,” Ryodan says.

Jada says, “No one knows the Hag’s location.”

“The Unseelie Princess has located her,” Ryodan says.

“You know this how?” Jada says.

“You know where Christian is?” Dageus explodes. “Why the bloody hell are we sitting here?”

Ryodan says to Jada, “The Unseelie Princess is now in my employ. Never think to control my city. You have the sidhe-seers. That is all you have.”

“The princess is not pure blood,” Kiall says coldly. “You will never admit her to our table.”

I wonder what he means by that. Even I sensed the difference. But what?

“You will share a table with anyone I choose, mongrel or otherwise,” Ryodan says.

“I said, where the bloody hell is Christian?” Dageus says again.

“I would see Christian freed. You may present your proposition.” Jada’s voice is void of inflection. If she’s irritated that Ryodan usurped her plan, she betrays none of it. The fire I saw in his office is now ice.

“His location is difficult to reach,” Ryodan says. “The three princes will sift three of us in. Using one of them as bait and Mac to divert—”

WTF? I bristle.

“You think we will be your fucking bait?” Kiall snarls.

“—we will put the Hag down for good and free the Keltar,” Ryodan says.

“In addition to me, who are the other two sifting in?” Jada says.

“Aye, exactly who the bloody hell do you think is going?” Dageus growls.

“We will cooperate with this plan why?” Kiall says.

“With your new brother back and the Hag dead …” Ryodan lets it hang. He doesn’t need to say more. They would be enormously powerful.

“He is not their brother,” Drustan says softly. “And never will be.”

Kiall says, “In every sense that matters, Highlander.”

“Why should the Seelie give a fuck?” R’jan growls.

“A prince with no royal allies, you are the Hag’s most logical next target. If that is not enough to persuade you, Mac is in the room with us and will kill any of you that don’t cooperate with my plan. You won’t see it coming because she’s invisible. Say hello, Mac.”

Jada’s head whips from side to side, scanning the room.

I can’t freaking believe Barrons told Ryodan I’m invisible! And I can’t freaking believe Ryodan thinks he’s going to use me as his private weapon! My jaw clenches. That man makes me almost as crazy as Barrons does. No wonder. They’re related.

“You do wish to rescue Christian, don’t you, Ms. Lane?” It’s a soft warning from Barrons.

He doesn’t know I’m here. He’s assuming. And as the man once told me himself: assume makes an ass out of u and me. I clench my jaw harder. Let them talk to air. Let others think them mad.

Jada continues searching the room intently. I can practically see her ears perked up like a hunting dog. If I’m stupid enough to say something, she’ll be on me in an instant.

To Jada, Ryodan says, “If you think to attack Mac for a reason I’m certain you don’t want to discuss right now, it’ll be war between us. If you’re half as intelligent as I think you are, you know such a war would be futile, pointless, and catastrophic.” To the princes, he says, “We will work together to destroy our mutual enemies. Only then will we kill each other, making it easier for the one who remains to control the world.”

Rath and Kiall look at each other and nod. “That is the first wise thing you’ve said, human.”

Ryodan cuts Kiall a hard look. “Call me human again and you die.”

Kiall is silent a moment then inclines his head. “Mongrel will do. For now.”

Ryodan smiles faintly but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Mongrel is preferable to human.”

“Another wise comment. But we will not be ‘bait’ for the Hag.”

“Nor will I,” R’jan growls.

“Whoever agrees to be bait will get another vote at the table.”

“Who the fuck put you in charge of the table anyway?” Kiall demands.

“In addition to the advisor you killed?” R’jan says quickly.

“None of you are touching me long enough to sift,” Rath says. “I am not one of your fucking ferries.”

“Yes.”

“That would give him three and us two,” Kiall growls.

“A tie, when you rescue your brother,” Ryodan points out.

“A Keltar druid will bloody well not be joining the Unseelie Princes,” Dageus says.

Ryodan says nothing. Merely waits.

“You have no investment in Christian,” Jada says. “I have an investment in the Keltar. They wish him freed.”

“I don’t believe Mac is here,” Jada says.

“Ms. Lane, speak,” Barrons orders.

Ruff, I don’t say, feeling like a dog ordered to bark. Not speaking. I’m not getting used like this. They didn’t even consult with me. Like my vote doesn’t even matter.

“You will also have a vote at our table, Mac,” Ryodan says. “Or do you plan to continue abandoning your city in her time of need?”

“Oh, fuck you,” I snap. “I didn’t plan to abandon it at all. I’ve had a few problems of my own to contend with.”

Every head in the room whips to my general direction.

I duck, tumble, and roll instantly. When I look back, Jada is standing precisely where I was an instant ago.

Ryodan is behind her with an arm around her throat. Barrons is standing in front of her. I don’t envy her, sandwiched between those two men.

Or wait, maybe I do.

Jada puts a hand on Ryodan’s wrist, executes a maneuver too sleek and fast for me to follow and is abruptly standing next to him, unrestrained. “You know what Mac is. She cannot be trusted.”

Barrons moves to her left, sandwiching her between them again.

“I do know what Mac is. Your best friend. Dani,” Ryodan says, and it hurts my heart because if I’d really been her best friend, I wouldn’t have run her off into who knows what that turned her into Jada permanently. I understand now what Ryodan wasn’t telling me that night in the Hummer. Dani didn’t kill Alina. Jada did — coerced by Rowena with her vile black arts. And Jada is savagery born of unconscionable savagery done to her. I close my eyes, mourning Dani, the girl who staunchly, bravely, took the blame for killing my sister. If Ryodan is right, Dani doesn’t know for certain that she did. Merely suspects it. If Ryodan is wrong, then somehow Dani was forced to see what Jada was forced to do. I don’t know which thought pains me more.

Kiall narrows his eyes. “Dani. This human woman who stands before us now was once the young female with the sword?” Reverting for a moment to full, mad Unseelie Prince, he swivels his head and fixes Jada with an empty stare, iridescent eyes flashing as he realizes what that means. “Both the sword and the spear are in this room with us. That is unacceptable.” He begins to chime, harshly, gutturally.

“Now you understand why I’m in charge,” Ryodan says.

Jada says coolly, “Because we have the weapons and you think you have us?”

“We are far more lethal weapons,” Ryodan corrects, “and we have you.”

“No one has me or ever will. I assure you, if Mac or I cooperate with you on any matter, it’s because we want something. No other reason.” Still sandwiched between Barrons and Ryodan, she cuts a look in my general direction. “What do you want, Mac?”

Oh, wow, that’s a long list. My sister back. Dani the way she was. The Sinsar Dubh out of me. To be able to trust Barrons again. The black holes in our world gone. And that’s just for starters.

I keep it simple. Someone needs to be the voice of reason in this room.

“I want Christian rescued,” I say. “I agree to put aside all grievances in pursuit of that end. Do you?” I pause a moment, then say carefully, “Jada.” I resume studying her, nagged by something I just can’t quite — oh, holy shit. Her clothing hugs her curves, leaving no room for her to carry anything larger than a gun, knife, or grenade concealed. Jada doesn’t have the sword. At least not on her. I mentally review each time I’ve seen her: nope, she’s never been carrying it. The Dani I know would never stand in the same room with any Fae princes without it.

After a long moment she inclines her head. “I will agree to that. For now. Ryodan, you may tell us your plan.”

I glance back at her cuff. No sword, but a shiny new cuff. What would make Dani feel invincible in the presence of Fae royalty? Not at all worried that they might control her with their sexual thrall, a thing they once did; the only time I ever saw Dani cry. If she lost her sword in Faery, what would she want instead — besides my spear, and if she’d interred me at the abbey, she could have taken it.

The truth hits me with the intensity of a two-by-four to my skull.

“Your cuff,” I blurt, stunned. I was offered it on several occasions. Never looked at it long because I wanted it so damn much I could taste it. “It was Cruce’s.” My gaze flies to her face. “And it was on his arm when he got iced!” The cuff protects the wearer from Seelie and Unseelie and, according to Cruce, other assorted nasties. If his claims about it are true, with it, Jada could literally walk through a wall of Shades and pass untouched. I stare at the cuff longingly.

“Cruce?” Rath growls.

“He was destroyed long ago,” Kiall hisses.

“Remember the fourth when we fucked her in the street,” Rath murmurs to Kiall. “We detected a presence but couldn’t see it.”

“You said ‘iced.’ By the Gh’luk-ra d’J’hai? Cruce is alive?” Kiall demands.

“Duh, iced means dead,” I say coldly, in a belated attempt to exercise damage control. Their idle comment about fucking me in the street was like a shot of adrenaline to my heart. I inhale slowly, exhale even more slowly, waiting for the Book to goad me. There’s only silence.

Kiall sneers. “I do not believe even the one you called the Hoar Frost King could destroy our brother. Where is he? You will tell us now.” The Unseelie Princes lunge to their feet, staring directly at the spot I used to be standing in.

I’m a dozen feet away, half concealed behind a bookcase, hand pressed to my lips, wishing I could scrape most of my words back into my mouth tonight.

“Her brain vanished when her body did,” Ryodan says to Barrons.

“Apparently,” Barrons says.

“That’s not true,” I say hotly. “The realization startled me. I blurted. Excuse the hell out of me for being stunned to realize the one who was so busy incriminating me for trafficking with the Sinsar Dubh was also trafficking with the Sinsar Dubh. And why isn’t anyone looking accusingly at Jada?” I want to know how the heck she got that cuff off the frozen prince. That worries me. A lot.

“The Sinsar Dubh,” Kiall says softly, eyes gleaming. “It is here as well? In Dublin? Where?” He and Rath begin to chime hollowly. I can imagine their alien conversation and it’s all my fault: Our brother is alive and the Sinsar Dubh is near, we can bring them together and rule the world!

They don’t know their brother is the Sinsar Dubh and would destroy them before teaming up with them.

“And she just keeps making it worse,” Ryodan marvels.

“She is the Sinsar Dubh,” Jada says coolly. “She has it inside her.”

“And Dani just joined her,” Barrons observes, fascinated.

“As one of our Pri-ya,” Kiall murmurs to Rath, like I’m not standing right here, listening, “we could control both her and the power of the Unseelie King.”

“Pri-ya doesn’t work on me anymore. And nobody controls the Sinsar Dubh,” I say irritably, then snap at Dani, “I can’t believe you just ratted me out like that!” I duck and roll again, soundlessly relocating as Rath and Kiall begin to prowl the room looking for me.

“You did it first,” Jada says. “The cuff is an invaluable weapon. Dangerous to leave where it was.”

“You lost your sword. Admit it.”

“I know precisely where it is.”

Maybe she does. But wherever it is, for some reason she can’t get to it.

“We shall see,” Rath threatens me. “Perhaps it merely takes longer now.”

I open my mouth to ask how Dani got the cuff and if the removal of it in any way compromised the integrity of Cruce’s prison, then clack my teeth together before I say anything else spectacularly stupid. At the moment, the Unseelie Princes think I am the Book. Last thing I want them to know is that their long lost brother is, too.

As the princes continue stalking, I warn them, “I have the spear. Touch me, you’re dead.” They don’t know it’s a bluff. I draw my spear in this room, and who knows what will happen? I duck, roll, stay low.

“Where is Cruce?” R’jan demands.

No one says a word. There were only three “Seelie” present the night we interred the Sinsar Dubh: V’lane, who was actually Cruce; Velvet, who is dead; and Dree-lia, who’s apparently told no one among her court what happened. Wise woman.

“You invite us to this table yet treat us as slaves. You lie, deceive, and manipulate,” Rath snarls.

“Oh, gee, we act like far more civilized versions of you,” I mock.

“You have information you do not share,” Kiall fires back. “We are no longer allies. Fuck you.” He and his brother vanish.

“Uh, did they just sift out?” I say, looking around warily, ready to duck and roll again in a heartbeat.

“We are no longer so predictable,” R’jan purrs.

“Predictable enough,” Ryodan says.

R’jan sifts out an instant before Ryodan gets to him.

“My head is not up my ass. The advisor was disposable. We knew you kept secrets. We kept our own.” The Seelie’s words linger on the air, disembodied. “Your wards no longer work on us.”

“Your wards don’t work?” I say incredulously.

“So they think,” Barrons murmurs.

“Och, that was bloody grand,” Drustan growls. “We’ve no sifters.”

“Aye,” Dageus agrees. “So now what’s the fucking plan?”

Ryodan smiles faintly. “That was the plan.”

I gasp when the Unseelie Princess from whom I’m supposedly protecting the Nine sifts into the room, materializing directly behind Barrons and Ryodan.

She takes each by an arm.

Then all three of them are gone.

32

The problem with having all chiefs and no Indians in your teepee is that unless you’re the chief dictating the current warpath, or in tight with that chief, you have no bloody idea what’s going on.

I’m not in tight with Ryodan, and apparently not with Barrons either.

I have news for them: if they think I’m going to be one of the squaws in their chauvinistic tent, they’re wrong.

Dageus and Drustan left the bookstore, less angry than I expected them to be, with Dageus making a comment about heading back to wherever it is they’re staying to spend time with his wife, and I got the impression they were either in on the plan or had reason to believe Ryodan and Barrons were actively furthering their aim of rescuing Christian. The Keltar remind me of Ryodan, men accustomed to patiently mounting complicated campaigns in pursuit of long-term goals. I suspect they see a few chess moves ahead better than I do. At the moment. I’m learning.

I have no clue if Jada/Dani was in the know or as miffed as me. Her cold, beautiful face had betrayed nothing. I’d slipped behind a bookcase and held perfectly still until I heard the doorbell tinkle as she left, then remained motionless an additional interminable ten minutes to be certain she wasn’t faking an exit while crouching silently near, a tiger ready to pounce the moment I moved so she could try to take my spear and lock me up beneath the abbey.

Eventually I’d eased out and taken a thorough look around. She was gone, ostensibly no more anxious to spend time with me than I was with her.

Now, sitting in front of the fireplace, munching a bag of slightly stale chips, I wonder why, in whatever chess game they’re playing, Barrons and Ryodan would want to make the princes think their wards didn’t work on them any longer.

I smile faintly. I am getting better at this. Soon I’ll be devising the plans, instead of merely decoding them while they’re being implemented without me.

Because the princes would relax.

Encouraging them to further lower their defenses, Ryodan made them believe they were essential to his plan, and power goes to an Unseelie Prince’s head faster than night comes slamming down in Faery.

When one feels threatened, one clears the house before going to bed, but when one feels safe — a foolish thing to ever believe — one doesn’t compulsively check all windows and doors, or is perhaps busy celebrating what one perceives as a victory over one’s enemy.

And that’s precisely when the enemy strikes.

Barrons and Ryodan went after the princes.

Ryodan usurped the contract Jada sought: offered to kill the princes in exchange for Christian’s location, and after what I heard him asking Papa Roach in his office, I suspect he upped the ante, offering R’jan to the princess as well, thus allying himself with the only royal remaining in Dublin. At least for a time. Why bother dealing with three Fae princes when you can deal with a single Fae princess?

They went after my rapists without me.

I murmur, “Son of a bitch.” Now I’m pissed at Barrons about two things.

An hour later when the doorbell tinkles, I don’t bother turning around. On the chesterfield, with my back to the door, I know it’s Barrons. I feel him.

“If you came back to tell me you killed the princes, I’m never speaking to you again.”

I half expect him to say, Good. I wondered when you’d finally shut up.

The only reply is a deep, atavistic rattling noise, and I tense. It’s primitively terrifying on a cellular level. It’s not Barrons behind me.

It’s the beast version of the man.

I hear the scrape of taloned claws on the floor as he prowls into the bookstore, the prehistoric panting around what sounds like a death rattle caught in its chest. The beast version of Barrons is death: a primeval executioner at the top of his game. Although I’ve seen him transform partially on multiple occasions, I’ve only seen him wearing its full skin twice. Both times I was acutely aware that I was in the presence of a thing not at all human, governed by vastly different imperatives, a beast that had no mercy for anything but others of its kind.

It’s behind me, beside me, then the creature passes the couch and hulks into my line of vision.

I sit motionless, staring up at it. Nine feet tall or more, its skin is ebony, it’s nude and enormously male. Massively muscled, with thick veins and tendons, it has crimson eyes with inhuman, slitted, vertical pupils. Three rows of long, deadly horns at bony intervals frame each side of its head and there are bits of bloody things stuck on them.

Its prominent, crested forehead is a throwback to ancient times. It has long, lethal black fangs, and when it snarls — as it’s doing now — like a lion, it becomes all teeth and deep, rumbling roar.

It’s horrifying, it’s bestial, yet in this form I still find Barrons savagely beautiful. I’m envious of how well he’s engineered to survive, to conquer, to outlast apocalypse.

I remain completely still. I’m invisible.

It whips its head to the left and looks directly at me, peering down through matted hanks of black hair.

Well, shit, I realize, I’m making butt-cheek-shaped indents on the soft leather.

It’s holding the severed heads of Kiall and Rath, still dripping a bluish-black blood.

“Some crimes,” I quote Ryodan stiffly, “are so personal, blood-vengeance belongs only to the one who suffered them.”

The beast snarls at me and gouges the floor with a taloned foot, ripping long gashes into the priceless rug. Crimson eyes flash. So much for the damage my heels do. I’ll remind him of this the next time he comments on my shoes.

“I wanted to be the one that killed them,” I say, in case I hadn’t made myself perfectly clear.

It roars so loudly, the windows rattle in their panes, then stalks forward, shaking the severed heads at me in wordless rebuke, crimson eyes flashing.

I stare into the princes’ faces. Eyes rolled back in their heads, their mouths open on screams. Faces don’t freeze like that unless pushed to breaking, where death itself becomes the kindness.

Around enormous fangs, the beast snarls, “You had ample time. You didn’t. Your time ran the fuck out.” Its horns begin to melt and run down the sides of its face. Its head becomes grossly misshapen, expands and contracts, pulses and shrinks before expanding again — as if too much mass is being compacted into too small a form and the beast is resisting. Massive shoulders collapse inward, straighten then collapse again. The princes’ heads thud wetly to the floor. The beast gouges deep splinters of wood up through what used to be a priceless rug, as it bows upon itself, shuddering.

Talons splay across the rug and become fingers. Haunches lift, slam down, and become legs. But they aren’t right. The limbs contort, the bones don’t bend where they should, rubbery in some places, knobbed in others.

Still it bays, but the sound is changing. Its misshapen head whips from side to side. I catch a glimpse through matted hair of wild eyes glittering with moonlight, of black fangs and spittle as it snarls. Then the tangled locks abruptly melt, the sleek black skin begins to lighten. It hits the floor, convulsing.

I can’t help but compare it to the sudden swiftness with which Ryodan transforms. Although both can become the beast quickly, Barrons’s reversion to human is lengthy.

I enjoy the beast, Barrons had said. Ryodan enjoys the man.

Although both are animal, they prefer to stalk different terrains. Ryodan dons the concrete and glass of the urban jungle like a second skin. Barrons glides into the dark, primitive, forested jungle with the lusty hunger of a long-confined, feral lion escaped from a zoo.

Suddenly it shoots up on all fours, head down. Bones crunch and crack, settling into a new shape. Shoulders form, strong, smooth, bunched with muscle. Hands brace wide. One leg stretched back, the other bent as it tenses in a low lunge.

A naked man crouches on the floor.

Barrons lifts his head and stares straight at me, a few feet above my indent on the sofa. “It was my crime, too. I may not have been there to see it, but I’ve seen it in my head every fucking day since.”

“I was the one that got raped.”

“I was the one that failed to save you.”

“And because you blamed yourself—”

“I wasn’t the only one blaming me.”

“I didn’t blame you for not saving me,” I growl. It’s nobody’s responsibility to save me but mine.”

“You blamed me for letting them live.”

“I did—” not is what I intended to say. But I’m startled to realize that he’s right.

Deep down I was harboring a grudge. I’d despised that Barrons hadn’t killed them the instant he learned what they’d done to me.

“I wanted to,” he says tightly. “They were fucking linchpins.”

V’lane had needled me that Barrons permitted my rapists to live, to go on after the hellish things they’d done to me. I’d hungered for him to go bloodlust crazy for vengeance, to do precisely what he’d done tonight, rip their heads off and bring them to me in a silent I may not have saved you but I fucking avenged you. All this time some part of me was measuring him by his failure to retaliate on my behalf, holding a piece of myself back. How could he not want them dead?

He’s right about the other part, too. I could have hunted the princes months ago. I didn’t want to. They changed me. Before the rape, I was good, genuinely never had a mean thought. If I hurt someone, it was by accident and I felt bad about it. But when they were done with me, there was something new inside me: something ruthless and feral and beyond law that hungered to be the one perpetrating the savagery, because when you are the savage, no one messes with you. I’d wanted to be bad. It’s safer to be bad.

When someone hurts you — and I’m not talking about forgivable offenses, some things are irrevocable and demand recompense — you have two choices: slice them out of your life or slice them into delicious, bloody pieces. While the latter would be infinitely more satisfying in an immediate, animalistic way, it changes you. And, although you think the memory of the battle won will be a pleasure — if it is a pleasure, you’ve lost the war.

They raped me. I survived. I moved on. I wanted someone else to be the animal I didn’t want to become.

I could have cold-bloodedly stalked into their goth mansion months ago. I would have enjoyed mutilating and torturing them, killing them slowly. Savored every minute of it. Painted my face with their blood, reveling in my dominance.

But it wouldn’t have been a sheepdog that walked out that gothic, towering front door.

It would have been a wolf.

“Wolves don’t kill with hate,” Barrons says. “They kill because it’s what they do.”

“What are you saying?”

“Only humans kill with hate. When you kill, you must kill like an animal.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What happens when a sheepdog gets bit by a wolf?”

“Duh. It becomes a wolf.”

“No. It becomes a sheepdog that fights with the savagery and lawlessness of a wolf.”

“Debatable.” I feel like a wolf inside and I don’t know what to do with it. I think my soul was turned. It worries me.

Two of the princes who raped me are dead, their heads lying at my feet. The third one, Dani killed months ago. The fourth one — about whom Barrons knows nothing — is imprisoned behind bars of ice.

I have a bad feeling if he ever gets out, I might grow those fangs I don’t want.

“The princess is waiting for their heads,” Barrons says. “She will not give us Christian’s precise location until she receives them.”

I sigh and say something I never thought I’d hear myself say to a completely, beautifully, naked Barrons. “Get dressed. I’m ready.”

As he leaves the room, I glance at the severed heads, the tortured expressions, and I feel a festering, messy wound inside me finally begin to grow a thin covering of healing skin.

It’s over. With the deaths of those who so deeply cut me, I can finally put the horror to rest.

I add softly, “And thank you.”

Walking invisible behind Barrons through Chester’s many subclubs is annoying as hell. When I rode his wake before, between being aggravated with him and intoxicated by my new super-sleuthing state, I hadn’t spared a glance beyond his wide shoulders.

Tonight I’m looking. Tonight I see the dozens and dozens of heads rotating to follow him as he passes, the blatantly sexual looks the women give him (and more than a few men!), and I growl with irritation.

“Problem, Ms. Lane?”

“Nope,” I mutter, then voice something I can’t quite wrap my brain around. “Why are you and Ryodan willing to help rescue Christian?”

“Beats looking for a bloody spell all the time,” he says dryly.

“Aha, I knew I forgot to tell you something! I saw the Dreamy-Eyed Guy in Chester’s and again on the street. We don’t need to keep looking. The king is hanging around Dublin again.”

“You continue to cling to the absurd hope he’ll free you from your burden, no harm, no foul. Doesn’t look like much of a burden at the moment, Ms. Lane. Rather seems you’re enjoying it.”

Criminy, that woman is flashing him her boobs! Slanting him a come-hither look, gyrating seductively to the music, pulling up her shirt (no, there’s not a damn thing but skin and perky nipples underneath), gaze moving hungrily from his face to his crotch as she prowls closer.

I veer to the right and jostle her before she gets to him, knocking her off balance. She has no idea what hits her. She stumbles into a chair then crashes into a table, drinks go flying, and she lands in a tangled heap on the floor. A bottle of beer mysteriously tips itself over and pours all over her head.

Now she looks like a drowned rat. “It does have perks,” I agree.

“Little testy tonight?”

“That woman’s boobs do not belong in your face.”

“It’s not as if I can see yours at the moment.”

“Well, you’re damn well going to feel them. Soon.”

“One hopes,” he murmurs.

“So, why is Ryodan willing to get involved in all this again?” I circle back to my earlier question. “I thought he couldn’t stand Christian.”

“Jada will go after the Highlander herself if she discovers where he is. Ryodan won’t let that happen.”

“He cares about her. A great deal.”

Barrons says nothing, but I didn’t expect him to.

When we step into Ryodan’s office, Barrons removes the princes’ heads from a duffel bag and tosses them onto the desk next to R’jan’s.

I never knew I could be happy to see three gruesome, severed heads. More princes will no doubt be made, transformed from whatever raw material the Fae realm likes to pick up and use. But at the moment the only two princes that remain are Christian and Cruce.

“Risky as fuck,” Ryodan says, staring down at the heads.

“What?” I ask.

“Killing them now,” Barrons replies. “Their continued use as linchpins was debatable. Their absence problematic.”

“Well, at least now we can get the women out of their mansion, help the ones they turned Pri-ya,” I say.

Ryodan says, “More princes will be made.”

“Yeah, but they’ll have to do something like eat Unseelie flesh. And participate in a botched ritual.”

“Any here that haven’t eaten Unseelie flesh, raise your hand,” Barrons says dryly. He glances down through the glass floor. “Ask the same question down there.”

“Humans are eternally performing botched rituals,” Ryodan says. “Every fucking time they use a Ouija board. Among other things.”

“Really, a Ouija board?” I knew it! The macabre board game played with unseen participants always made me uneasy. Someone tells you, Here, I’m giving you a door to death, and you play with it? Not me. No clue what’s on the other side but I’d bet it sure as hell isn’t going to be my dead sister. No matter how much I’d like to think so.

By such criteria, half this city could start turning Fae. “Barrons could become Rath. I could become Kiall,” Ryodan says.

I protest instantly, “You two are immune—”

“Not to the princess’s magic. Not to K’Vruck,” Barrons points out. “When the Fae royal court is reduced, someone or something will always be altered to complete it. Who’s to say we’re immune to being transformed?”

I refuse to entertain the possibility. “Speaking of the princess,” I ask Ryodan, changing the subject, “how are you controlling her?”

“How are you controlling the Sinsar Dubh,” Ryodan mocks.

“Day by day,” I say coolly. “And I’m doing just fine.”

Ryodan smiles faintly. “Welcome to war games, Mac, where the terrain never stops changing and he who adapts fastest wins.”

None of us adapt fast enough in the next moment. But then we have absolutely no warning.

The Unseelie Princess sifts in, snatches the princes’ heads, and sifts out before my brain manages to process what my eyes just saw.

“Son of a bitch,” Barrons snarls.

“Don’t make me hunt you, Princess,” Ryodan warns softly. “You’ll become my sole target, my obsession, my compulsion, my undying homicidal fantasy, the object of my every fucking thought and inclination, and the more time I have to contemplate what I’m going to do to you when I find you—”

Christ, he’s freaking even me out. I’d never want to be that to him.

A disembodied voice snaps, “As you do not intend to kill the final prince, the Compact between us is complete. We will spare no further aid to rescue one of our enemies.” A scrap of paper materializes and floats to the desk.

“You will sift us there,” Ryodan barks.

She doesn’t reply. The princess is gone.

Barrons picks up the paper. I peer around him and see that it’s a piece of a map. In the middle of a vast mountain range is a tiny red dot. I scowl. “Austria? Christian’s in freaking Austria?”

“Dreitorspitze,” Ryodan murmurs. “Of course. Near enough to Dublin to return for prey, yet difficult to reach.”

If I were in a video game, I ponder irritably, there are two powers I’d be stalking: the cuff of Cruce and the highly useful ability to sift. Austria is hours away by plane, a full day or more by car. With so many fragments of Faery floating around out there since the walls fell, no one takes a plane up anymore. Not even Barrons and his men. It’s too risky. Driving is enough of a challenge, especially if it’s rainy or foggy, but at least you can see the dangerous reality warps coming in a car and have a chance to avoid them. “So, what now? We try to find more sifters?”

“Bloody hell,” Ryodan says to Barrons, “she watched too much Bewitched as a kid.”

Barrons shoots a dry look over his shoulder at the location of my voice. “We do it the old-fashioned, tedious, human way, Ms. Lane. Drive.”

33

Thirty-five interminable, testosterone-soaked, cranky hours later, the six of us — me, Barrons, Ryodan, Jada, and the Keltar twins — arrive in a small town at the foothills of the Dreitorspitze mountain range, just before dawn. We stop briefly to siphon more petrol on a narrow street blocked by abandoned vehicles, filling the tank and two cans in the back of the Hummer so we’ll be prepared for a fast getaway.

The past day and a half is a surreal, grim blur in my mind, and if I’m lucky it’ll stay that way. It’s one thing to know with your brain that half the world’s population is gone, and entirely another thing to see it.

As we drove through England, France, and Germany, I’d stared out at the destroyed cities and riot-torn towns, the miles and miles of Shade-stripped landscape, derelict buses and cabs, bent and twisted streetlamps, the diminished presence of wildlife. Those humans that survived have gone to ground, holed up in barricaded homes or gathered in tightly guarded apartment buildings and hotels. Gangs are rampant, their graffiti wars painted on abandoned buildings, community centers, and underpasses. The few people we encountered in the streets when we stopped to siphon gas, or in the stores we paused to loot, were heavily armed and kept a wary distance. It appears Dublin is rebounding far more quickly than most cities. In three countries, I’ve seen no sign of people working together to rebuild, like Mom’s Green-Up group.

When I was eleven, the town a few miles east of Ashford got hit hard by a tornado, twenty-three dead and hundreds of homes destroyed. Our parents took Alina and me to help with the cleanup, food and clothing donations, and rebuilding. Though some of their friends couldn’t believe they let their kids see such horrifying devastation, we’d been glad they did, happy to help, and there’d been plenty for us to do. I still remember seeing Southwest Maple Avenue for the first time after the storm, with the quaint antique shops, pizza parlor, elaborate playground, and my favorite old-fashioned ice-cream store, destroyed, reduced to a shambles of crushed, flattened buildings, twisted slides, and fallen wires, with debris everywhere. It had made me feel dizzy and disoriented.

I’ve felt that same disorientation on this drive, multiplied exponentially.

The world is no longer the same. My world, like my Dani, is a thing of the past. I understand now why Ryodan prizes adaptability. I can’t imagine how many times their world changed dramatically overnight, with civilizations rising, falling, new ones being born. Over countless millennia, the armies they allied themselves with were defeated or did the defeating, and a new world order was born, again and again.

They’ve seen endless cyclical changes. That’s one hell of a wave to keep riding and coming out on top.

Or even coming out with your sanity. I feel grief for what we had, I mourn the Paris in the springtime I never got to experience, the bustling London I didn’t get to explore and now never will. I rue the world that’s gone.

I could get lost in pining for the way things used to be.

Or I could adapt and learn to ride the changes like they do, with eagerness to see what the new day has in store and unquenchable lust for life, however it unfolds. I understand now why Ryodan stays so invested in his day-to-day world and keeps them all together. Everything else falls away except for the family you’re born into, choose, or make; the circle of love you’ll die to protect and keep near you. The only thing that keeps us rooted in the past is our refusal to embrace the present. I can almost see the old Dani flashing me a gamine grin and saying, Dude, you gotta hug it with both arms and legs and hold on tight! The present is all we’ve got. That’s why they call it a present!

Icy, fierce Jada is all that’s left of my Dani.

I’ve thought about that a lot on this ride. Trying to make peace with it, figure out how to move forward with her. Stop beating myself up for chasing her into the Hall of All Days, and wondering if I can reach what’s left of Dani inside, if anything is. I study her when I get the chance, searching for some trace of the teenager in her face, her posture, and finding none. I remember the last fight we had, when I pulled her hair and she bit me. I smile faintly, wondering if we’ll ever have such a silly fight again, hoping we might just because it would mean she was reachable. Yes, Alina was murdered. By a young girl who was forced to kill her. A girl who’d already fragmented to adapt, who was further fragmented intentionally by the one who should have saved her, protected her.

I should have seen what was going on with her but didn’t, blinded by my own pain. I unintentionally drove her further into the fragmentation. I imagine Dani might have known Alina, even liked her, and been forced to end her life. I really know nothing of the details. I wonder if she found my sister the same way she’d tracked me down near Trinity, driven by curiosity and loneliness. I wonder if the two of them talked. I’d like to see the rest of Alina’s journals one day. Jada must know where they are because Dani once surreptitiously sent me pages from them — the ones that told me how much my sister loved me. I’m glad Jada has the cuff of Cruce, although I’d prefer it myself. I don’t want her on the streets without a sword or a shield. I’d worry too much.

Jada thinks she’s the victory for Dani, but Ryodan’s right. Feeling nothing is being dead inside, especially for someone like Dani who used to feel everything so intensely. The only victory here would be Dani back in charge, strengthened by Jada’s traits. I wonder if Jada’s existence is part of what made Dani impulsive and reckless, as if the facets of her personality were neatly dissected down the middle: the adult survivor traits apportioned to one side, the unabashed child to the other. The more controlled Jada was, the wilder Dani could be.

All the anger I harbored is gone, leaving only a locked, barricaded door between us, with no keys in sight. I intend to hammer the hell out of that door. I’m not losing her when she’s right in front of me. But it’ll take a committed, well-thought-out campaign to breach the icy commando’s defenses and find the young woman within. I know part of the reason Ryodan insisted on bringing her along was to force Jada to be around Barrons and me, people Dani spent time with and cared about. If anything might stir emotion inside her, it’s me, good and bad.

Ryodan finishes filling the gas tank, opens the door, and gets back in.

“Ow! If you sit on me one more time.” I growl at him, “I’m going to kill you.”

“Good luck with that. Don’t fucking move every time I get out. You’re on my side of the seat again.”

“Watch out for my indent,” I say crossly.

“Hummer, Mac. Nothing causes indents. Except grenades.”

“I have several of those,” Jada says. “Persist with your pointless bickering, I’ll share one. Pin out.”

I ignore her. “I’m cramped. I needed to stretch.”

“So, get out when I do.”

“I’m afraid you’ll leave me behind since you can’t see me.”

“I’d leave you behind if I could see you.”

“Christ, would the two of you just shut up?” Dageus growls. “You’ve been at it for hours. I think I have a headache.”

“We’ve been sharing two freaking feet of space for a day and a freaking half,” I say sourly. “What do you expect?” I’m beginning to wonder just how long the Book plans to keep me invisible. I’m still enjoying the hell out of it but have no desire to remain unseen forever.

“How can you think you have a headache?” Drustan says irritably. “Either you do or you don’t.”

“I can’t bloody well think in the backseat, so how would I bloody well know? I drive. I don’t ride.”

Barrons laughs, and I remember him saying something similar once: Who’s driving this motorcycle and who’s in the sidecar? I don’t even own a bike with a pussy sidecar. He turns sharply and we begin our off-road ascent, slowly clambering over the rocky terrain.

“You used to ride horses,” Drustan says.

“I was bloody well controlling the bloody reins.”

“Focus on the mission,” Jada says flatly. “Discomfort is irrelevant. Bloody means bleeding or having bled. Accuracy is expediency. You’ve not heard me complaining.”

“We’ve not heard you talk at all,” Drustan says. “You speak less than that one.” He gestures at Barrons, who just so happens to be driving and has been doing all of the driving since we left Dublin, barely talking to anyone, not even me except for an occasional silent message he shoots me with his eyes. Since he can’t currently see me, my ocular replies are lost on him. “Unless to correct our bloody grammar,” Drustan adds.

“Communication is difficult enough when all parties to the discussion strive for clarity,” she replies coolly. “Employ precision.”

“Precision” and “expediency” rank right up there with “grace” as Jada’s middle freaking names. I puked on the ferry. She sure didn’t. I caught the lovely, not-one-hair-out-of-place Jada scornfully regarding my projectile over the side. We were all testy and tired and the passage was stormy and I don’t have sea legs.

Now we’re in Austria and it’s cold, and although I dressed warmly, anticipating a mountainous climb, I wish I’d put on more layers. I’ve been in a Hummer H1, modified for comfort — as if such a thing is possible in a Hummer — for a day and a half straight, sharing the front seat, half astride its enormous console with Barrons and Ryodan on either side. They put Dageus and Drustan in the backseat, and Jada behind them, to keep her and me as far apart as possible, although, loath though I am to admit it, she’s the most even-tempered of us all, relaxed, focused, and apparently undisturbed by any facet of her current physical conditions.

Sprawled like a long-legged, curvy commando in the far back on top of rappelling gear, gloves, grappling hooks, and other assorted supplies, and aside from eating protein bars and jerky constantly, Jada looks smoothly in her element.

The interior of the Hummer smells of beef jerky. And testosterone. It’s been the most trying road trip I’ve ever been on.

Before plotting our course, we’d studied Ryodan’s map of the many places that were iced, so we could avoid treacherous black holes. Between dodging untethered IFPs — other countries lack the Nine to tidy up for them — detouring around blocked roads and freeways, having to find petrol for the ferry, and siphoning abandoned vehicles for more gas, this drive has made sifting a thousand times more desirable than it already was.

Along the way, amid the eternal grousing that happens when you pack six alphas of varying temperaments — who can work together for a common goal but would probably kill one another — into a sardine can, we’ve been discussing possibilities and plans.

The princess scrawled a picture at the bottom of the scrap of map. After much debate we all managed to agree Christian is somehow attached to the side of a mountain in the Dreitorspitze range, but we have no idea how high or low. We just have to find the right mountain, scale the face of it, and get him down. Oh, and kill the Hag so she doesn’t rain down death on all of us as we try to escape.

Simple, right?

We agree that our primary goal is to rescue Christian, secondary to kill the Hag. However, any way we look at it, both need to happen. The Hag can fly alarmingly fast for short bursts of distance, although Ryodan claims she can’t sustain it for long according to his sources. Considering how creepy-crawly and numerous his sources are, I believe he knows what he’s talking about. If we have to climb up for Christian, it won’t be quite as dangerous. But if we have to go down for him from above, once we free him we’ll all be on top of a mountain, with no cover, and one very pissed off Hag circling. Unless she’s somewhere else, hunting something else, if we could get so lucky. Fact is, we won’t know anything until we see the scene.

“We need sifters,” I say for the dozenth time.

“Wake the fuck up, Mac,” Ryodan says, “there aren’t any. Few of the Fae can sift, and we’ve killed most of the ones that can.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you killed the princes.”

“The princess refused to disclose their location until we did.”

“Dree-lia can sift,” I point out.

“Have you any idea where to find her, lass?” Dageus says. “None of the Seelie are responding to our summons.”

“We could go into Faery and hunt for them,” I say. I scowl when the lumbering Hummer nearly tosses me into Ryodan’s lap, and brace myself better on the console.

“Aye, and potentially lose years of our time trying to locate her,” Drustan growls. “Leaving Christian on the cliff, dying over and over. Bad plan.”

“We don’t need sifters,” Jada says. “I can do this.”

“We can do this,” Dageus says. “ ’Tis the only option. We won’t be returning to Christopher without his son. He’ll be bloody well furious enough that we left without him.”

We’d told no one what we’d learned of Christian’s whereabouts and stole off like thieves in the night to prevent the other Keltar from joining us. The larger our party, the greater the risk. After twenty minutes of heated debate, with Ryodan insisting Jada be included, we’d narrowed our rescue attempt to six participants, picked her and the Keltar up, and left Dublin immediately. I’d argued against the Keltar. Both Barrons and Ryodan had insisted we take backup.

“We’re close enough for now,” Barrons says, as we slow to a stop beneath a rocky outcropping that should keep us hidden from above. When he turns the engine off, Ryodan takes a pair of binoculars from the dash and gets out, quietly closing the door.

I finally have the whole seat to myself!

I sink into it gratefully and stretch my legs as we settle back to wait for the details of his reconnaissance mission to finalize our plan.

Three hours later Ryodan’s back with a second SUV, and bad news. Christian is indeed chained to the side of a mountain, about a half mile from here, a thousand feet above a rocky crevasse. Although Ryodan located a spot accessible by vehicle where we can conceal it near the Highlander’s location, as we feared, there’s no way to get to him from below.

Ryodan estimates he’s roughly two hundred feet from the top of the sheer stone face. There are cables driven into the backside of the mountain, a modified path for hikers. Ascent is possible. Descent will make us targets, except for me, of course.

Unfortunately, when I touch people, they don’t turn invisible like my clothing and food, so I can’t get everyone back down that way. Nor do I have any desire to have these particular five people clutching pieces of me for hours.

“Why did you acquire another vehicle?” Drustan asks.

“Backup plan. If something goes wrong and we need to split up.”

“Wise decision,” Dageus says.

According to Ryodan, the Hag has built herself a nest on a splinter of rock opposite Christian, about a quarter of a mile away from where he’s chained. While Ryodan watched, she swooped in, flayed him from breastbone to groin, then returned to her nest to resume her gruesome knitting.

“Exercise in futility. One would think she’d cease doing it,” Jada says.

“All is not governed by logic,” Ryodan says. “Though you like to pretend it is.”

“Fools and the dead are not governed by logic. Survivors are.”

“There are biologic imperatives, like it or not,” he says. “Eating. Fucking. For humans, which you are, sleeping. For her, knitting.”

“I eat. And sleep. Fucking is only relevant if one intends to reproduce. I don’t.”

“Christian,” I remind. “Stay on point.”

“The point is I don’t need any of you,” Jada says. “Give me the spear. I’ll return in two hours.”

We all ignore her.

Ryodan says, “The bitch actually lances him then sits on him like an insect on a cocoon, taking her time collecting his guts.”

“Bad for him, good for us,” I say. “The problem with the Hag has always been getting past those damn legs she uses as weapons. That’s how we get close enough to kill her.”

“What are you suggesting, lass?” Drustan says.

Jada says swiftly, “I’ll kill the Hag first, then rescue Christian.”

Ryodan says, “The Hag is nested like an eagle on a splinter of stone, impossible to scale.”

“I could,” I say. “I’m invisible.”

“Physically impossible,” he clarifies, “it’s hundreds of feet, straight up. Nobody’s climbing that needle. That’s why she chose it. We’re going to have to kill her somewhere else.”

“I’m the logical choice to kill the Hag,” Jada says. “I have the cuff of Cruce. She can’t harm me.”

“I will make the descent down the face of the cliff, invisible, and give Christian the spear,” I say coolly.

“The Hag hunts by echolocation; she targets her prey by sound,” Jada says. “Visibility is irrelevant.”

“Fallacy,” Ryodan says. “Although she has no eyes, she employs both visual and auditory guides. When she targeted Christian on the abbey’s grounds, he wasn’t making noise.”

“You don’t know for a certainty she can see,” Jada disagrees.

“You don’t know for a certainty she can’t,” he says.

I say, “Once I give him the spear, the next time the Hag attacks, Christian can stab her while she’s resting on him. Then we free him. I’ll wear the cuff to be certain I won’t be harmed if she attacks while I’m climbing down to give him the spear.”

“You’ll wear the cuff the day you can take it from me,” Jada says coolly.

“You’ll use the spear the day you can take it from me,” I return just as coolly.

“It’s a solid plan,” Drustan says to Jada. “More so than yours.”

“Agreed,” Ryodan says.

Jada says, “You fail to consider anatomical limitations. Ryodan said Christian is chained, both hands, arms spread wide. With which free hand do you expect him to stab the Hag?”

I open my mouth then shut it. Well, damn. “How are the chains fastened?” I ask Ryodan.

“From what I could see, driven in with metal rivets.”

I shrug. “I pry one free.”

“You aren’t strong enough,” Jada says.

I bristle. “First of all, I am, but second, I have a few bottles of Unseelie flesh on hand for just such emergencies.” Loath though I am to eat it again, I never leave home without it. All weapons, necessary.

“Walking on the wild side, Ms. Lane?” Barrons murmurs.

“And you think the Hag won’t notice someone freeing one of his hands,” Jada mocks. “Or that he’s suddenly hanging from only one.”

“We go at nightfall. He may be strong enough to hold himself by clutching rock, or I drive a spike in for him. It’s doable. How quickly is Christian healing?” I ask Ryodan. If he’s in bad shape, hanging on could be difficult. “When do you think the Hag will next attack him?”

“Hard to say. I didn’t linger.”

“I’m the one he sacrificed himself for,” Jada says. “I’m the one who will rescue him.”

“Illogical and emotional,” I say acerbically. “Debt owed does not determine best woman for the job. Besides, I’m immune to the thrall of a Fae prince.”

“As am I,” she says. She raises her arm and flashes that darned cuff at me that I really wish I had.

“You know I’m right,” I say. “The plan with the greatest odds of success is the one I just detailed. And I don’t need your bloody cuff. I can do it without it.”

I glance at Barrons, who’s looking in my general direction. His eyes say, You’re comfortable with this?

“Yes,” I say. I love that about him: he’s alpha to the bone but when the stakes get high, he doesn’t go all ape-shit crazy trying to keep me out of the game. When I choose my place to stand, he supports me standing there.

“It’s no’ about who saves Christian and kills the Hag. It’s about saving him. Period,” Drustan says quietly.

I say, “And like it or not, Jada, my invisibility is the edge we need. If I go down, there’s only a cable hanging over the cliff at night. If you go down, there’s a cable and a whole five feet ten inches of human body visible.”

Everyone but Jada murmurs agreement.

“And if the Sinsar Dubh decides to seize a perilous moment to wrest control of you?” Jada says.

“Aye, how is it you have the Book?” Drustan says. “Is it similar to Dageus and the Draghar?”

“It is,” I tell him. “And it can only take control of me if I kill. That’s why I’m handing Christian the spear.”

“Even if it’s an Unseelie you kill?” Dageus says.

“You’ve killed and lost control before,” Jada says. “I saw her. The Gray Woman. And the Garda you killed. I saw your shrine.”

“Which is why I’m handing Christian the spear,” I repeat irritably.

“I won’t be spotted scaling the cliff,” she says. “I’m wearing black and will darken my face.”

“Dude”—I use the word deliberately—“I am wearing an invisibility cloak.”

“Ryodan and I will make the climb with Ms. Lane at dusk,” Barrons says. “Jada, you will remain here with the Keltar.”

“The bloody hell we will,” Dageus explodes.

“Bullshit,” Drustan agrees.

“No,” Jada says flatly.

“You only increase the odds of us being heard or seen as we make the climb.”

“He’s blood. Like it or not, we attend,” Drustan says softly.

“Not even you can foresee the myriad possibilities,” Jada says to Barrons. “I didn’t come this far to remain behind. The Hag might kill you both, leaving Mac dangling on the cliff. Any number of things could go wrong. There are reasons the military takes backup when they go on a dangerous mission. There are reasons you brought us. Don’t second-guess the decision you made now.”

I can’t say in front of the Keltar, yes, but Barrons and Ryodan will come back. Dageus and Drustan won’t.

“We could all be killed, lass,” Dageus says to Jada. “Any time. Any place. Think you that means a man should never go to war? War is a natural way of life.”

“I said the three of you will remain in the car,” Barrons says, and his voice resonates in the confines of the vehicle like a thousand layered voices.

Dageus laughs. “Aye, right, try that one on two druids trained in Voice since birth.”

Drustan snorts.

Even Jada appears unaffected. Damn, the woman is impervious as Ryodan.

“Looks like we’re all going,” I say dryly.

We spend another miserable eight hours packed in the car waiting for nightfall. I consider trying to slip off for a private moment with Barrons but instead we end up playing musical seats. Twenty minutes after we agreed on our plan, Jada tried to freeze-frame out with gear. She’s been firmly sandwiched between Barrons and Ryodan in the backseat ever since, with Dageus and Drustan in the front and me sprawled out on top of the gear, brooding out the rear window. At least I got a little sleep.

Night descends.

And a full moon rises. No clouds. Not one fluffy little bit of mist in sight. The moon is rimmed with crimson, casting the entire mountainous landscape an eerie blood-black hue.

“Son of a bitch,” Dageus curses.

“We could wait a week, or for a cloudy night,” I say.

“Nay,” Dageus says. “ ’Tis now or never. We do this tonight.”

Drustan eyes him curiously. “Ken you something of these events from your travels in time?”

Dageus mutters darkly, “Only that things get worse the longer it takes us to save him. Much, much worse.”

Dageus starts the Hummer and follows Ryodan’s directions, lumbering slowly toward our destination so as not to rev the engine and make more noise, then parks beneath another rocky outcropping.

“You will cooperate with our plan,” Ryodan tells Jada. “And you will not deviate.”

“I accept that,” she says with slow precision, “for one reason only. As all of you have agreed upon it, should I deviate, it would jeopardize the mission and all participants. I am not the rash child you once knew. You have my compliance. For this event.” She pauses a moment then adds softly and with the first trace of humanity I’ve seen in her cool countenance, “Never has anyone willingly taken such agony upon themselves to spare me a difficult choice. Christian was my hero when I needed one. I’ll see him freed and the Hag killed.”

I glance at Ryodan. A muscle is working in his jaw. Oh, yeah, he didn’t like that hero comment.

Then we’re all getting out and loading up cables and hooks and spikes and lacing our hiking boots tightly.

34

If I allow myself a moment of completely serious sincerity, though I often bitch about my current companions, I wouldn’t trade them for the world.

None of them.

Over time I’ve developed a grudging admiration and respect for Ryodan. Recent events have further honed it into something close to affection. He’s become the older, irritating brother that drives me crazy, but I’d defend him the instant someone else tried to criticize. I’ll never let him know that. I’m glad he keeps the men together. Someone needs to. I’ve also finally acknowledged to myself that I think he’s one hell of a sexy man. I thought so even before I met him, merely from his voice on the phone, the mysterious IYCGM. I’d resisted liking him with the same fervent intensity I’d devoted to disliking Barrons. I’d known from the first I could like them both more than I wanted to.

Dageus and Drustan are very similar to Barrons and Ryodan; strong men, tough, sexy, and fascinating in a human way that if I’d not met Barrons first, and they’d not been married, I’d have fallen hard for one of them. Of the two, Drustan is the stable, solid, reliable one. He exudes a palpable sense of calm competence, even in the midst of confusion. Dageus is the wild card, with a dark edge to him that’s an enormous turn-on. And their rich, husky Scots brogue is to die for.

Barrons, well, it goes without saying but I’ll say it: he’s the best of the best. The strong, silent, dangerously attractive type that harbors a private, vast, brilliant inner landscape of knowledge, wisdom, and experience, and watches, always watches, learns, adapts, evolves. A woman takes one look at the dark, carnal complexity that is Barrons and thinks: Damn, if that man chose me, took me into his inner circle, I’d never stray, never betray him. Beastly and brutal? Sure. Merciful when the situation demands it? Absolutely. Demanding? None more so. Exciting? Holy shit, yes. Respectful of my needs to make my own decisions? Most of the time.

The memory theft incident is a notable exception — and believe me, I’m not done bitching about it. It’s a good thing he leveled that playing field. I need to know he can’t do it to me again, although I suspect he wouldn’t even if he could. He did have a few valid points. I shut him out every time he got close to me. Rejected him at every turn. I marvel at how well he restrained himself over the subsequent months after that night together. If I’d known what incredible sex we’d had and he kept rejecting me, I’d have gotten more than a little pissy. I’d have half hated that I’d taken his memory away, but it would have been too late to undo it … so … maybe I would have taught him to resist that trick so it could never happen again. I get the impression he’s sometimes stymied, trying to figure out how to cope with me. From what I know of him, he was alone for a long time before me, Fiona the exception, and she was little more than an acquaintance with benefits.

Jada. I like the wench. Brilliant, strong, focused, gifted. I can’t think of many other people I’d want fighting at my back — if only I could believe she wouldn’t stab me in it at the first opportunity. Hate her for taking Dani, but if the kid had to come back as someone else, well, she couldn’t have come back more kick-ass.

I sneak a look at her then remember I don’t have to sneak anything. She really is beautiful. I smile faintly. Good for Dani. I always told her she would be. And there’s no doubt Ryodan thinks so, too. God, he’s got his hands full with that situation. He was practically raising the kid, now she’s a grown, fire-and-ice woman. Trouble behind, trouble ahead.

I’m looking forward to watching it play out.

The climb up the side of the mountain goes smoothly. Though patches of brilliant snow shimmer in the moonlight, we stick to the dark, rocky areas that thawed in the heat of the day’s sun, the better to blend.

Everyone blackened their faces before climbing, not that any of them have fair skin but Jada. We’re all in good physical condition, which renders the cable pulls that were pounded in for tourists unnecessary. At least the Hag picked a popular mountain to stake Christian on the opposite side of. We’d have been in a world of shit if she’d chosen Everest. Fortunately, Everest is too far from Dublin for her purposes. From her attempts to abduct the other Unseelie Princes — who she presumably doesn’t know are dead — she’d planned to eventually stake all of them to the side of Christian’s cliff.

I shudder. Gruesome.

As we begin the final stretch, I ponder the Book’s unnatural silence. I keep waiting for it to begin talking again, throw a few vile images at me, turn me visible at a critical moment, anything. I don’t understand why it’s gone so silent. It’s almost as if it’s actually gone.

It makes me nervous.

In time, I might begin to forget it’s there and wonder if that’s the Sinsar Dubh’s plan. To lull me into lowering my guards, like Barrons and Ryodan did with the princes.

As we navigate a narrow crevice between boulders, Ryodan says in a rough whisper, “When you get close to Christian, talk to him before you touch him. He’s a hair-trigger. You can’t afford to have him jerk and drop the spear. I don’t want any of us to have to climb this bloody cliff twice. Prepare him. He must be able to hold onto it and hold himself on the cliff until she comes again.”

In a low voice, I say, “What if it takes days?”

“Though it would mean he’s died fewer times, let’s hope it doesn’t,” Dageus whispers grimly.

Barrons says softly, “You must judge his condition when you get there. If he’s too weak, come back up.”

“I disagree. If you time it wrong,” Jada whispers, “we could be here for weeks. He’s strong. He’ll hold.”

“Aye. He is Keltar,” Drustan says quietly. “He will hold.”

“Kairos,” Dageus says, “this eve reeks of it. The time is now.”

We continue the ascent in silence. We all know our tasks and have agreed upon a number of contingency plans. I’m already wearing my rappelling harness. Barrons and Ryodan will hook me up and lower me over the side when we reach the top. When I see Christian, I’ll make the call. Jada, Dageus, and Drustan are our lookouts. They’ll have binoculars trained on the Hag’s nest the entire time.

As we ascend the snowy peak, the others drop to low crouches near the ground.

Barrons leads the rest of them, sticking to the barren patches. The moon silvers the mountain with a faint merlot tinge. Invisible, I stride to the cliff’s edge, battling a stiff breeze. I inhale deeply of the crisp cold mountain air. Far to the north I see the needlelike spire where the Hag roosts. Ryodan’s right. Nobody could climb it. Not with her sitting on top of it as she is now, back to us, knitting feverishly away, bloody, snaky hair spilling down her back and bloody, snaky guts from her gown dripping over the side. Even with her gone, it would be a dangerous feat. Although as a potential plan B, we might wait for her to leave and try it, if plan A fails. If I could get into her nest and lie in wait, invisible … wait, I don’t dare stab her. But then again, if everyone else rescued Christian and abandoned me here until I got control of myself again …

Hopefully it won’t come to that.

“Are you ready?” Barrons says in a rough whisper.

I nod, then append it with a “Yes.” I keep forgetting they can’t see me, since I can see them.

“Where are you? Touch me.”

I slip my hand into his, and for a moment he just stands there, looking down at where I am, then he closes his eyes and laces strong fingers with mine. I hear exactly what he’s not saying in them: You better bring your ass back to me, woman.

I reply with mine, Always.

He laughs softly then somehow finds my face and kisses me, light and fast, and I taste him on my lips, need him again, hard and fast and soon.

Then he and Ryodan are groping around on me, hooking pulleys to my rings, preparing me for my first-ever rappelling trip down the side of a twelve-hundred-foot cliff.

Going over the side is the hardest part. The wind is cutting up here, pelleting in stiff gusts. I close my gloved hands on the cable as I ease over the edge, feeling about for footing. I eye the thin cable dubiously. It’s all that’s keeping me connected to life. I’m not sure even I could survive a twelve-hundred-foot fall. I know I wouldn’t like the recovery from it. “Are you going to hook it around something?” I whisper.

“Ryodan already secured it to a rock. You’re safe. We’ve got you,” Barrons replies. “If something goes wrong, you have only to pull yourself up.”

“Your primary objective is getting Christian out of here,” Dageus whispers. “Doona fash yourselves with the rest of us.” Then he adds something in another language.

Drustan says, “Gaelic. A blessing in the old way.”

“Thanks,” I murmur.

“If you prefer, I will go,” Jada says.

I hear something different in her voice and look up, past Barrons, and catch my breath. It’s the first trace of Dani I’ve seen. Jada looks worried. About me.

I smile, but she can’t see it, and say, “I know you would. And appreciate it. But I’ve got it. Just keep an eye on the Hag for me.”

“You have to kick off, Mac,” Ryodan says softly. “Go down a dozen feet, push out gently, drop twenty feet or so, regain the face and repeat.”

“Don’t push out hard,” Jada whispers. “Get your climbing legs. Descend slowly at first.” She doesn’t add and do not puke but I hear the unspoken recrimination in her voice.

I glance down and am instantly sorry I did. I almost puke. I’m hanging above a sheer drop. I can do this, I tell myself. I can do this.

“Did you eat Unseelie, lass?” Drustan whispers.

“Got it on me. Hits fast as a shot of adrenaline.”

“Go,” Barrons says. “We don’t know what shape he’s in or when she’ll next stir.”

I keep my eyes locked on his dark face as I force my feet to do the counterintuitive on a cliff and kick myself off it.

My first drop takes me a short ten feet. The instant I feel myself free-falling, I grab the cable and squeeze. My gloves grip hard and yank me to an abrupt halt. I take a deep breath, exhale, and try again. This time I drop about fifteen. My heart is racing and lodged high in my throat.

Each time I kick off, I feel a little more secure, trust that my cable is solid and I’m not going to fall. After my fifth try, I force myself to glance down and see where Christian is, and estimate he’s still about eighty or so feet below me. I decide to start talking to him when I’m a dozen feet away. I glance up and see three heads looking down but the moon is behind them so I can’t make out their features.

When I’m twenty feet or so from Christian’s head, I feel a tight snap of the cable, a prearranged warning if anything in our current situation changes. Shit, I think, glancing around wildly, half expecting the Hag to erupt from directly behind me and somehow pierce me with her lance even though I’m invisible.

My blood chills. I am still invisible, right? The Book would have no reason to expose me now. I glance up at my gloved hand then down at my body. Yup, still invisible. Then what? I brace myself on the rock and turn to look at the Hag’s nest.

My heart sinks. She’s stirring, standing, bloody dress dripping over the side of the spire, black holes where her eyes should be trained in our direction.

She’s tense, preparing for flight.

Son of a bitch.

She’s coming.

35

I glance up but don’t see anyone at the cliff’s edge. Only a thin black cable snaking over the side.

Good. That means they warned me and sought cover, as was our contingency plan.

I glance down. If the Hag comes for Christian now, I’m perched on the side of the cliff a mere twenty feet above where she plans to hunker down and flay the Highlander. I’ll have to hang here, wait for her to finish, then climb back up and wait until Christian heals a little to try again.

Unless she’s going somewhere else. Could I be so lucky?

I glance back over my shoulder, peering through the moonlit night. She’s still standing in her nest, macabre gown of guts dripping over the edge, swaying from side to side in an eerily reptilian manner, nose in the air, head tilted as if listening intently.

Surely she didn’t hear the sound of my boots hitting the side of the cliff over all this wind and from a quarter of a mile away.

Did she? I have no idea the acuteness of her echolocation skills.

I hang there, debating options. I don’t need to kick out anymore. I can inch down another ten feet, whisper to Christian, give him the spear, kick out to draw her near him. Then pull myself up out of the way really fast.

Or … I could hang here while she kills him again, wait and inch back up.

Only to inch back down later.

I so don’t want to do this again. The way I see it, the odds of failing are directly proportionate to the number of attempts, increasing each time.

What would Jada do?

That’s a no-brainer.

I steal another glance at the Hag.

She’s still standing in her nest. Not hearing any vibrations. As long as she doesn’t, we should be fine.

I begin to inch slowly downward.

When I’m ten feet from Christian’s head, I say softly, “Christian, it’s me, Mac. Don’t talk loud. Keep it low.”

I have to repeat it several times before I hear a guttural groan.

My head instantly whips to the Hag but she’s still standing, unmoving.

“We’re here to save you. I’m bringing you the spear. I’m going to pry one of your hands free,” I say in a low voice. No way I can try to drive a spike in now. She’d hear it for sure. It’s going to be risky enough prying one of the rivets out. “You’ll have to hold on until she comes for you again. Hide the spear.” As soon as I say that, I think, Where exactly do I expect him to hide it? The man is naked.

I’m beginning to realize we overlooked a few critical details in our plan.

I hang there, boots carefully braced on a tiny, narrow ledge on the sheer cliff face, being buffeted by a stiff, cutting wind, suspended by nothing but my frightfully thin cable (yes, I read the weight rating; it doesn’t make me feel any better), and force myself to take one hand off it to rummage around in the pocket of my jacket for a bottle of Unseelie flesh, neatly sliced and diced months ago. I keep them hidden all over the bookstore. I’ll take every advantage I can get right now. I half expect the Sinsar Dubh to either prevent me from using it or try to amp it up in some nasty way. Biting back revulsion, I gingerly work the lid free and ease the wriggling contents into my mouth.

My body stiffens as it hits me like a thunderbolt.

Energy, sexuality, vitality, and strength burn in my veins. No wonder so many people are so addicted to it. I feel strong. I feel alive. I feel invincible. I remember eating it once before and taunting Barrons to hit me, punch me, fight with me.

I ease down a few more inches. So far no malevolent commentary from the Book and no apparent negative side effects. If you exclude a ferocious desire to eat it again once it wears off.

“Christian, can you hear me?” I whisper.

“I … hear you,” he says weakly. “Mac … I smell … Unseelie flesh. You … eating it? Ken you what … vile stuff … does … to you.”

Despite the agony in his voice, I swear I hear a faint note of teasing.

“Are you strong enough to hold yourself up for a little while if I free one of your hands?”

“Aye,” he whispers. “Give me … the bloody spear … kill the … bloody bitch. Can’t see … you. Naught but … black and moonlight. Am I … blind?”

“I’m invisible.”

“Och, and … why wouldn’t you … be.” He sort of laughs but it turns into a blood-chilling moan of pain.

“How long do you think you can hold yourself if I get your hand on an outcropping of rock?”

He’s silent and I get the sense he’s resisting the urge to snarl Forever, trying to gauge what he believes he can actually do. Finally he says faintly, “A few minutes … no more. I’m gutted … nigh dead. Keep … blacking out.”

“Shit,” I mutter. From this angle I can’t see past his head.

I feel another sharp pull on the cable, twice, three times, and my blood runs cold with dread. Three times means she’s taken flight.

It’s now or never. I have to hurry. And I’m going to be sitting mere feet away when it happens.

“I’m going for your left hand, Christian.”

“She’s … on her way.”

“I hear her.” She has no wings, who knows how the hell she flies? But she makes a sharp whining sound as she displaces air. She’ll be on us in ten seconds if she comes straight for him. I kick out — why not, she’s already coming? — and drop to rest below his left hand. I pull the spear out, wedge the tip beneath the pylon and get ready to pry it free. “Grab my arm with your fingers. You must hold on when I pry it out.”

“I’ll … pull you … down.”

“You won’t. I ate Unseelie.”

“You … never … learn.” His fingers close around my wrist.

I establish the most secure toeholds available, which is virtually nothing, as sheer as the rock is where she hung him, and pry with one swift, hard jerk.

The rivet shoots out, goes flying off into the air behind me, and begins the long plunge to the canyon below. Christian’s grip on me tightens, and my feet slip off the nearly nonexistent ledges.

I plummet like a stone, in full free fall.

I grab the cable with both hands and squeeze as tight as I can, jerk it too hard, bounce upward and crash into the rocky bluff.

Wiping blood from my face, I glance up. Christian is a good thirty feet above me, hanging by a single arm at a telltale slant.

I look down. The Hag is gone, apparently chasing the sound of the rivet hitting stone.

It’s a darn good thing I ate Unseelie flesh. Without it I’m not sure I would have been able to stop myself from plunging down to join the rivet. Dark energy pounds in my head, my heart, giving me many times my normal strength and energy.

I hang there a second, looking up, studying the cliff, picking out my toeholds, plotting my climb back up before beginning the steep ascent.

When I’m even with Christian, I see his body for the first time and gasp. He’s sliced from breastbone to groin, skin flapping, parts of flesh hanging out, regrowing.

How the hell has he even been talking?

“She sees me … hanging by one arm, she’ll lance … me from a … distance.”

“I’m going to ease your hand onto a piece of rock. Hold like your life depends on it.”

He groans. “Mere minutes, lass … no more … pain immense.”

I hear the familiar, dreaded whine of the Hag’s flight and scramble to get his fingers fastened onto a rocky ledge. “You got it?”

“Aye. Need … spear.”

If she sees it, she’ll never come near him. “I’m crouching on the wall, just above your hand. When she gets here, I’ll wrap your fingers around it. It won’t become visible until I let go of it.”

“You’ll … be.… lanced.”

“I won’t,” I say flatly. “Shut up and focus.” I use the cable to raise myself a few feet, praying he can hold on.

After a moment, he growls, “Where … is … she?”

Suddenly I hear shouting above us, and Jada screaming at someone to take cover.

“Fuck this,” I snarl. I take my spear and slam the hard steel against the face of the cliff, to distract her, lure her to us.

It works.

She suddenly shoots out above us and hangs in the air, gut gown snaking over the edge, peering down.

“Right here, bitch,” Christian snarls.

She draws back like a cobra about to strike.

And does.

With one of her insectile lancelike legs, she severs my cable.

Time suspends and everything seems to unfold in slow motion. I’m staring up, watching the cable snake in coils over the edge for what feels like a full minute, excruciatingly aware I’m a thousand feet above a deadly rocky canyon floor, crunching thoughts furiously: How fast will I fall? Will I die? Will I bounce off an outcropping and break every bone before I even hit bottom? How bad is this going to hurt? Have I been good? Was my life worth anything? What did I accomplish in twenty-three years? I haven’t had nearly enough sex with Barrons.

I know a mere instant passes, but I understand what people mean when they say their life flashes before their eyes. In vivid detail I see the finest moments I’ve experienced, the ones I regret, my bravest times and my most cowardly, followed by the many experiences I’d hoped to have and now perhaps never will.

All of it crashes into my brain as I take that horrific first moment of free fall, and in spite of myself, my mouth stretches wide on a scream as I try desperately to brace myself for whatever’s to come: a brutally painful recovery or a happy reunion with Alina in heaven, because if I go to Hell, I’m breaking out. I will not be separated from my sister forever. I haven’t been that bad. Besides, I just ate Unseelie, which means I can kick some serious demon ass busting loose.

I slam into what feels like a seesaw between my legs and suddenly I’m choking and sputtering, trying to breathe.

“Good … fucking thing you … screamed,” he rasps. “I’ve … got you … but can’t hold … long.” I realize he let go of the rock, kicked his leg in the general direction of where he heard me (my pelvic bone is going to be sporting one heck of a bruise) and grabbed blindly for any part of me, ending up with the front of my jacket. He’s hanging by one hand. Strangling me with my coat with the other.

He murmurs, “And that’s … what … Dageus meant.”

“What?” I ask as I flail wildly, finally get my legs wrapped around him and clamber up his body, trying hard not to clutch at any torn flesh in the process. It’s a messy, slippery business.

“About my opportunity. Bloody hell, she’s … coming!”

I can’t let go of him or I’ll fall. If I don’t let go of him, I’ll get lanced when she stabs him. I sincerely doubt she’s going to get close enough to us, with all the intruders she’s spotted on her mountain, for either of us to stab her.

I’m not leaving without what I came for. We’ll finish the Hag later.

I hiss, “Can you sift?”

“Iron. Manacles. Can’t. Too … wounded … anyway.”

Terrific. I can pry the rivets out but my spear is useless for cutting the manacles off his arms. I’d wondered how she was preventing an Unseelie Prince from sifting. With iron, the same way Inspector Jayne does with the Unseelie he captures and keeps until someone slays them. Speaking of which, his cages must be crammed to overflowing.

I’m not dying on this cliff.

I wrap one arm tightly around Christian’s neck, force myself up and to the left, dig my spear beneath the rivet holding his right hand. It won’t budge. There’s too much weight hanging on it. I dig the tip of the spear in deeper, start rocking it back and forth beneath the rivet, using my Unseelie-flesh-enhanced strength.

He looks up, growls, “What … the … fuck … Mac! No!”

The rivet suddenly shoots from the cliff like a missile being launched, and for the second time I go into a full free fall.

I hold on to him tightly and scream, “Fly, Christian! Fucking fly!”

36

Once again, nothing goes as I expect it to.

I can’t call what Christian does flying, and he confounds me by going up not down. I expected him to, at worst, be able to unfurl his wings and use them as a sort of hang glider, to soar us to the floor of the gorge without killing us. Instead he scrabbles higher with short, fierce bursts of his wings, digging and clawing at the side of the cliff, using them like appendages, a hawk that can’t fly, scrambling desperately upward.

Closer to the freaking Hag.

“Why the hell don’t you go down?” I shout.

I hear roaring on top of the cliff, a scream and the rapid burst of gunfire.

The Hag shrieks and explodes up into the night sky. A whip cracks, followed by another banshee-like wail.

“Shut … the fuck … up,” Christian grits.

I’ve got both arms clamped around his neck, hanging on for dear life, getting repeatedly bashed against the side of the cliff with each scraping lunge of his wings. My shirt is being ripped to shreds and the back of my head and spine are taking a brutal beating.

“Keep her away from them until they reach the top,” I hear Ryodan bark.

“I’m trying to,” Jada fires back. “She moves erratically. It’s hard to compute.”

“Stop fucking trying to compute and feel,” he snarls. “She’s not a machine. She’s a goddamn pissed-off, bloodthirsty woman.”

I hear more cracks from the whip. The sound is bounced back and intensified by the surrounding mountains. I decide they must be using it to mess with the Hag’s echolocation.

“Behind the bitch, not to the side,” Ryodan orders.

“You’re almost there, lad,” Dageus shouts down at us. “Grab the bloody cable.” He’s hanging over the cliff’s edge swinging a length of thin black cord at us.

But Christian’s desperately trying to sustain our altitude and in no position to reach for it. I grope wildly for the cable, praying I have enough strength to pull us up because each time I get slammed into the cliff my vision goes a little dark and I can feel Christian growing weaker. Not even my Unseelie flesh rush is enough to stand this constant battering.

Looks like we may end up trying to hang glide after all.

“She’s coming back,” Barrons shouts. “Get the fuck away from the cliff’s edge, Highlander.”

I hear the whip cracking furiously again, and Barrons roars, a horrible, guttural sound, and I cringe to the bottom of my soul because I know without needing to see it that Barrons just got lanced. Doesn’t matter that I know he’ll be back. It’s one less person to protect the Keltar and Jada, and I despise the sound of that man dying. I have no doubt he stepped in the way to protect someone.

“Fuck.” Dageus snarls down at us. “Bloody grab the bloody cable.”

Then Drustan is beside Dageus and I hear Jada and Ryodan taunting the Hag, more gunfire and the sound of the whip cracking as they try to buy us time to get to solid ground.

I kick upward and Christian grunts with agony when my boot catches him in the stomach, but I close my fingers around the cord.

Moving quickly, Drustan and Dageus begin to pull us up.

We’re nearly there when Jada and Ryodan start shouting again, then suddenly something explodes out of the front of Dageus’s chest and he goes rigid, yanks upright and makes a soft grunt of shock and pain.

It takes my brain a second to process what just happened.

The Hag just lanced Dageus from behind.

Christian howls with such animalistic, inhuman fury that it chills my blood. It occurs to me how ironic it is that four of us on this mountain possess immense power but can’t use it. Barrons and Ryodan won’t turn into the beast in front of strangers. My inner Book has gone dead silent. Christian is too weak to use his Unseelie magic.

His wings begin that awful scrabbling again but it only slams me hard into the side of the mountain. I squeeze with all my might, struggling to merely maintain my grip on the cable with one hand and Christian with the other, but Dageus is no longer holding our weight and we begin to slip slowly, inexorably, downward.

“Pull them the fuck up,” Dageus growls at Drustan, blood gushing from his mouth. Then he’s airborne, impaled on the Hag’s leg. She shoots out over the canyon as Drustan, joined by Ryodan and Jada, yank us to the top.

Christian collapses, rolls, and stares into the night sky over the gorge. Painted crimson and silver by eerie moonlight, the Hag hangs above the gorge, Dageus clutched in her gruesome, bloody embrace.

“Fucking bitch!” Christian pushes to his feet, but Drustan tackles him and prevents him from leaping off the edge to attempt to fly, something we both know he can’t do right now.

“You will not make my brother’s sacrifice for naught, lad!”

The Hag shoots across the chasm, smashes Dageus into the far cliff once, twice, three times before violently shaking her leg to dislodge the unmoving Highlander.

Dageus plunges silently down, a dark speck, vanishing into the shadows as we all watch in horrified silence.

The Hag whirls midair and rockets back across the chasm, straight for us, head down, unfinished gut-gown streaming out behind her.

Then Jada is shoving Drustan away from Christian. “Get down and stay down,” she hisses at him. She drags Christian to his feet and steps in front of him and commands, “Mac. Spear. Now.”

There’s no time to argue. Barrons is down and Dageus just gave his life to save us. I want vengeance. Nothing else matters. I move to her side, place my hand against hers and make sure she feels the cold metal of the blade between us. “I’ll let go at the last minute so she doesn’t see it. Don’t you dare fucking miss or I’ll kill you myself.”

She doesn’t dignify my threat with a response.

Christian tries to push Jada out of the way, snarling that no one else is dying for him on this cliff. Jada shoves back, pushing him behind us.

The Hag dives headfirst, slicing through the night, mouth twisted with rage, black holes where her eyes should be narrowed in fury.

Jada freeze-frames us and suddenly we’re standing twenty feet away. My spear is no longer in my hand. While I was discombobulated from being freeze-framed, which she knows makes me feel sick, she took it from my grasp.

“What are you doing?” I explode.

“Not letting you die, Mac.” She shoves me so hard and unexpectedly that I go sprawling face-first to the ground.

Christian howls and I don’t need to look to know he just got lanced. When I peel myself from the rocks, wipe snow from my face, and look back over my shoulder, I see the Hag has impaled him and is preparing to fold her knitting-needle legs together around him and soar off into the sky.

Ryodan and Jada exchange a glance and she tosses him her whip.

He cracks it in the air behind the Hag, impeding her flight, and goads, “Come and get me, bitch. I don’t die either.” He moves closer, snapping the whip so fast I can’t even see it, keeping her penned into a small space of air. Unlike Jada, he seems to have no problem anticipating her airborne lunges.

The Hag levels her free leg at his head. He dances around, ducking and dodging like a boxer on meth, cracking the whip repeatedly. “But you know that. You killed me once before.” He’s become a blur, and I wonder if he’s actually going to be able to get close enough to kill her however it is the Nine do.

Then Jada materializes between the Hag and Ryodan with the abruptness of a Fae sifting in and I realize that was never his plan.

With that one shared glance, he and Jada made another one.

Ryodan was the distraction.

Jada closes her hands around the leg upon which Christian is impaled and with the grace of a circus acrobat swings herself up, spear tucked into the waistband of her camo pants.

The Hag rears back, violently shaking her leg, trying to dislodge her, but Jada doesn’t let go. When she reaches the writhing, bloody mess of a gown, she uses the guts as ropes to vault herself up, grabs the Hag by the hair, yanks back her head and slits her throat from ear to ear.

Blood sprays everywhere and the Hag’s head lolls back. Jada shoves the spear deep into the bone and gristle of her corset, expression fierce, savage.

The three of them crash to the ground in a heap.

The Crimson Hag is dead.

37

Ours is a somber group that descends the cliff, battered, weary, and bleak.

I now understand the meaning of the phrase “hollow victory.”

In the past, each time we did battle with the enemy, although there were losses, none cut so deeply, so close to the heart.

I realize belatedly that for some time now I’ve counted the Keltar as one of us: indomitable soldiers, battling tirelessly against evil, fighting the good fight, always surviving to wage war another day. I counted on it.

One of the good guys died tonight.

A man with family.

A legend of a Highlander.

There’s no hope Dageus survived the brutal gutting, the crushing blows against the cliff, and the subsequent twelve-hundred-foot fall.

Like the Hag, Dageus MacKeltar is dead.

Drustan doesn’t speak a word, supports Christian on one side, with Jada on the other, and they half carry, half drag the now unconscious prince down the mountainside.

When we reach the bottom and load him carefully into the Hummer, Drustan murmurs, “Och, Christ, how am I to tell Chloe? They fought so hard to remain together. Now she’s lost him for good.” He whispers something over Christian in Gaelic then turns to leave.

Ryodan steps into his path, blocking it. “Where do you think you’re going, Keltar.”

“Unlike you, I’ll no’ be leaving without retrieving what remains of my brother’s body for burial.”

He’s referring to Ryodan hastening us from the mountaintop without pausing to collect Barrons, which I know he did so Drustan and Jada wouldn’t see him vanish but no doubt appeared callous to the others.

Drustan’s gaze is bleak, haunted. “Too many times he took the burden upon himself to save us. I’ll see him buried properly, in the old ways, on Keltar ground, in Scotia. If the Draghar still inhabit his body, certain rituals must be performed. If not, aye, well, bloody hell if not, they’re free again.”

“I’ve no intention of returning to Dublin without Barrons,” Ryodan says. “I will collect your brother’s body as well. Christian needs you. Your clan needs you now.”

I search his face and am surprised to see something patient and understanding in those cool silver eyes.

“I know the sorrow of losing a brother,” Ryodan presses. “I’ll bring him back. Go.”

I wonder about Ryodan and Barrons. Did they once have other brothers? Did they lose them before they became what they are, or afterward? How? I want to know about these two, understand them, hear their tales.

I doubt anyone ever does.

Drustan glances between Christian and the shadowy entrance to the gorge, visibly torn, unwilling to do anything that might risk that for which his brother gave his life, equally unwilling to leave his brother’s body behind.

“Come, Drustan,” I say gently. “The living need you now. If Ryodan says he’ll bring his body back, he will.”

Ryodan says to me, “It may take time to find … all of him. Take Christian to Chester’s. Sequester him where we protected the Seelie Queen. He’ll be safe there while he heals.”

As Ryodan turns to go, Jada says, “I’ll come with you.”

“You will return with the others and protect them.”

“I’m not she who once—”

He cuts her off fast and hard. “I know who the fuck you are,” he clips the words out coldly. “You’re the only one that doesn’t. Dani could have anticipated the Hag’s movements. You could not. Jada.”

Ryodan vanishes into the night without another word.

I wince. That was harsh. Whether or not it was true.

The three of us join Christian in the Hummer and begin the long silent ride home.

38

After seeing Christian and Drustan safely inside Chester’s, I’m surprised when Jada doesn’t immediately stalk off. With my spear, which I’m stunned to realize I’d forgotten about. But the three-day ride was depressing, Christian largely unconscious, Drustan deeply grieving, and neither Jada nor I in any mood to talk. I suspect my invisibility makes me feel safer, plus I’m still pumped by the final stages of Unseelie-flesh-high. Regardless, once she’d tucked the spear away somewhere, I’d not thought about it again.

Now I’m doubly surprised she didn’t rush off. Why linger and give me time to demand she return it? Jada does nothing without purpose.

We stand in taut silence outside Chester’s, eyeing the long line of people waiting to get in with distaste, and I’m reminded of the old Dani, how we would have sauntered off into the night to slay Unseelie and reduce the number of predators in our city, dozen by dozen, hoping to one day save these mindless lemmings from the apparently irresistible lure of flinging themselves off the proverbial cliff inside the club.

Neither of us has showered in nearly a week. I suspect if I could see myself, I’d look a fright. A week out, Jada still looks spit-and-polish perfect. I sigh, wondering if I’m going to have to fight to get my spear back. Truth is, I’m not entirely sure I can take it from her. Nor do I want to have to.

I opt for the direct approach. “Give me my spear, Jada.”

She glances in my general direction. “You can’t use it.”

“It’s mine. That’s enough of a reason.”

“Inefficient. Someone should be able to use it. I’m the obvious choice.”

I’d like to deny the validity of her words but I can’t. Given the risks, I’m unwilling to wield it. I can’t walk these streets and slay, and the sheer number of newly arrived Fae inside Chester’s tonight was staggering.

Without the sword — I wonder again where it is, that she can’t get to it — Jada can’t kill them. Seems a hell of a waste of lethal womanpower in this city.

Still, if the Sinsar Dubh decides to suddenly make me visible, I’m going to want it, need it.

“What happened after I chased you into the hall?”

“Like the one you called Dani, the past is irrelevant. I’m here now. That’s all that signifies.”

“What are your plans for the abbey?”

“None of your concern.”

“Once, we worked together.”

“Once, I was someone else.”

“What about the Book I carry?” I want to know if I have to watch my back every second of the day. I want to know how Jada thinks, if there are weaknesses in her mental defenses where I’m concerned.

“I’ll contend with Cruce. Barrons and Ryodan are enough to contend with you.”

“You’re granting me free passage.” I choose my words carefully, using the same words I spoke the night I made a pact with the Gray Woman to save her life, the night I discovered what she’d done with Alina, probing to see if I can elicit an emotional response.

“For now,” she says tonelessly.

Still, she stands in the street looking at me as if she’s waiting for something. I can’t fathom what.

“Have you seen Dancer since you’ve been back?” I take another shot at provoking emotion.

“I don’t know Dancer.”

“Yes you do. Dani was crazy about him.”

“You could have ended your second sentence after the initial three words.”

Okay, now she’s starting to piss me off, insulting the tenacious, brilliant teen that battled tirelessly for our city. “What do you want, Jada?” I say flatly. “Why are you still standing here?”

She wrinkles her nose as if her next words leave a foul taste on her tongue. “Do you believe Dani could have anticipated the Hag’s movements better than I could?”

I catch my breath. There it is. Why she remained. She despises asking me, yet can’t resist. Apparently Ryodan’s criticism has been burning like sullen fire in her gut ever since he leveled it at her. Who better to ask to confirm or deny it than me? I knew Dani better than most. That she even asks it shocks me. Jada has opened herself to an opinion. My opinion.

I don’t like this question. I don’t want Dani harboring more guilt or self-recrimination. I’ve not forgotten, and will never be able to forget, her cry that she deserved to die. I wonder what happened to her when she was young, what Ryodan knows about her, what “kryptonite” she carries in her head that he believes could destroy her. I wonder if he’s wrong, and Dani actually knows it and was relieved to turn the reins over to a remote, unfeeling part of herself. I wonder what happened to her in the Silvers, what she endured that made her transform fully into this icy other.

I study Jada in silence, realizing her question might be a small crack in the dominant personality’s facade. Then again, it might merely be a desire to reconfigure herself into the most efficient weapon possible. I don’t know much about dissociative disorder, but between trying to figure out how to stop the black holes that threaten our world, hunt the Unseelie King to get rid of this Book, and find Barrons because I need him like a bandage to my wounds, I intend to learn.

I wonder how Jada subdued Dani so completely. Similar to the way I subdue the Book? Does Dani whisper daily, struggling to break free, or is she imprisoned somewhere deep inside, in a small dark cell, her exuberant, passionate voice echoing in a tight vacuum, not heard even by Jada? Worse, has she given up?

“Are you still there?” Jada says.

“I don’t blame you for killing my sister, Dani,” I say softly. “I forgive you.” My heart feels abruptly, enormously lighter. Saying those words released an awful compressed knot behind my breastbone. I clear a throat suddenly thick with unshed grief, for the loss of Dani, for Dageus, for the way things turned out. I wish I’d been able to say these things before I chased her through the portal. “I love you,” I tell Jada, hoping somehow my Dani hears me. “I always will.”

“Irrelevant and maudlin. I asked you a question. Answer it.”

“Yes. She could have anticipated the Hag’s movements better,” I say flatly. “Dani has a fire you lack. Her gut instincts are flawless, she is brilliant.”

Jada’s eyes narrow and her nostrils flare. “I’m flawless. I’m brilliant.”

“Give me my spear.”

She cocks her head as if holding an internal debate, then slips the cuff of Cruce from her arm and holds it in the general direction of my voice. “Logic dictates a different course.”

Oh no, it doesn’t. Logic dictates she keeps both. Not give away something she isn’t required to relinquish. Interesting.

“Take the cuff,” Jada insists. “It makes sense.”

“How does letting you keep my spear make sense?”

Emerald eyes bore into the space where I stand, as if she’s trying to hammer me into her desired shape with the sheer intensity and implacability of her gaze. “I kill. It’s what I do. It’s who I am. It’s who I’ve always been. I will never change. Stay out of my way. Or your free passage will be rescinded.”

The cuff tinkles to the cobbled pavement at my feet.

Jada is gone.

39

“What are you waiting for?” the Seelie Queen demands, trying but failing to conceal her fear behind an imperious facade. “Seal our pact and attend Dublin.”

She dreads kissing him.

Once, she couldn’t kiss him enough.

The Unseelie King completes the complex process of reducing himself, compressing fragments into various, new human forms those who live in Dublin have not seen him wearing.

He never attends a world twice in the same human bodies once they’ve been identified. Humans recall him, bring petitions, crucify him with incessant, foolish demands. Give us laws, chisel them in stone, tell us how to live!

Absurd, floundering humanity, spreading from planet to planet like a plague, colonizing the stars, he finds it astounding how long they have managed to persist.

Once, he told them the truth.

Chiseled a single commandment upon a slab of stone: That is how to live: in the choosing. There are no rules but those you make for yourself.

The man to whom he’d entrusted the tablet promptly shattered it, chiseled ten precise commands upon two stone slabs and carried them down a mountain with the pomp and circumstance of a prophet.

Religious wars ravaged that world ever since.

It is possible that day, those tablets, are why he feels an unwelcome twinge of responsibility for that planet. He should never have chiseled.

He shakes off his brood and looks down at the concubine. He made himself taller and wider than she, and is now appropriate for her size, sporting the same visage he wore the day they met, nearly a million years ago.

She recalls no detail of their time together. He remembers enough for both of them. He wears the same attire.

He pushes open her cloak, closes his hands on her waist, and transports them through space and time to another location where he swiftly erects barricades and walls and seals off the prison in which he will leave her while he pretends to try to save a world beyond saving.

He inhales deeply of memory-residue on the air, the scent of sex on skin, of wings glossed with sweat, of sheets damp with passion. He has not been here in a long time.

Once their boudoir of light and shadows, of fire and ice, was the only place he wanted to be.

Till the day he found her dead inside their sacred place and madness claimed him.

Against a frosted crystalline wall, the white half of the chamber features a round bed on a diamond-crusted dais, draped in silks and snowy ermine throws. Fragrant ivory petals are scattered across the furs, perfuming the air. The floor is covered with plush white carpets before an enormous alabaster hearth filled with white and gold logs from which dazzlingly bright flames pop and crackle. Thousands of tiny diamond-bright lights float lazily on the air, twinkling. Her half is bright, joyous, a sunny day at high altitudes, the ceiling of her chamber a brilliant blue sky.

He turns his head and looks beyond the enormous gilt-framed mirror, the first Silver he ever created.

His chamber is the size of a human sports arena, draped in black velvet and furs, filled with darkly spiced ebony petals. Between sheer slabs of dark ice, a bed stretches. On one wall, a blue-black fire sends exotic flames licking up to the ceiling where they terminate in dark stars amid fantastic nebulae shimmering with blue vapors.

For a moment he sees her there, on his bed, falling back on the dark, glossy furs, laughing, dusky ice frosting her hair, a handful of velvety petals fluttering down to land on her bare breasts.

Sorrow fills him.

He had so many ambitions.

She had but one.

To love.

“What is this place? Why have you brought me here?” she demands.

He doesn’t tell her it is here he spent the finest hours of his existence.

He will leave her soon, trapped in the memory-residue of the place, a spider in a web sticky with his love.

Here, she will watch them. Laugh and dream and fuck and create. Here, she will taste their passion, know their joy.

If, after seeing it, she still insists upon her freedom, he may consider granting it. May consider her lost to him forever.

But most likely not.

He does not tell her any of that.

She inhales sharply. “You would let me go?”

“Finest hours,” he says. “You must have heard that part, too.”

“I heard also that you believe this world you claim you can save is doomed.”

He does not answer, merely stands, enjoying the warmth of her body near his, the sweetness of her breath on his face.

She disparages, “You would deceive me for a single kiss.”

“I would raze worlds for a single kiss.”

“Try saving one, for far more than that.”

“The fabric of their Universe is damaged. Without the song, it is not possible.”

She says, “You are the Unseelie King. You will find a way.”

“That sounds suspiciously like faith in me,” he mocks.

“You see faith where only a challenge has been issued. Will you fail?”

He lowers his head again, until their lips are nearly touching. “Kiss me as if you remember me. Inspire this wild god as once you did. Incite poetry and fire with your passion and perhaps I’ll find a way.”

She looks up at him and shivers, then places her small, lovely hands on his face and it’s his turn to shudder. She’s touching him. Of her own volition. Music dances on his skin, translating from her palms into his very being. A stolen touch can never compete with a voluntary touch of hunger, passion, desire. The aria of choice is joyous, the cacophony of force brutal, ugly, and cold.

She kisses him reluctantly, barely brushing her warm lips to his icy ones.

This time, unlike so many others, he doesn’t take charge, or seek to deepen the kiss. Merely stands after the agony of half a million years of grieving this woman, basking in his first moment free of pain. Breathes it, inhales it, allows the particles of his being the chance to become for a single glorious moment something other than drawn in tightly upon himself in a frozen, eternal shudder of denial and crushing loss. Regret is poison that kills the soul.

She cries out against his lips, draws back and looks up at him. “Such grief! It is too much. I cannot endure it!”

“If you believe nothing else I tell you, my queen, believe my pain. Consider the cause.”

Then he is gone.

40

Five days later, a full eight days since Barrons was killed on the top of the mountain, he’s still not back and I’m edgy as hell and only a minor part of it is due to being in the full throes of Unseelie-flesh withdrawal. The fact that I know he always comes back doesn’t mean I can’t still think of a gazillion reasons to worry.

I don’t know where the Nine are “reborn.” I don’t how far away it is. I don’t even know if it’s on this planet. What if he gets stuck in an IFP? What if he tries to hurry, risks taking a plane and encounters a black hole? Would it kill him again and he’d be reborn, or like K’Vruck, does this strange new Fae-fabricated development on our world possess the ability to really, truly kill him?

In the past, it’s taken him as few as four days to return. However, it took him nearly a month to make it back to Dublin after Ryodan and I killed him on that cliff in Faery. It’s the second time he’s died on a cliff. I make a mental note to avoid cliffs with Barrons in the future.

I won’t survive another three weeks. I’m driving myself crazy.

I’m still invisible and beginning to feel like the real emotional and mental me is getting sketchy around the edges, with no one to see me, and no reflection in the mirror. I’ve begun to worry I might fade entirely away.

I don’t have the heart to visit my parents and try to explain why I’m invisible.

The Book still hasn’t stirred once, not since the day it made me vanish, which continues to freak me out. I’ve begun to wonder if something happened to it. Surely it doesn’t plan to leave me invisible forever. While I love the power and safety from my enemies it confers, I’m getting a little tired of looking in the mirror and seeing nothing. I like seeing me. I like Barrons seeing me, watching his dark eyes get heavy-lidded and hot with desire.

I can’t put on makeup. I tried to blow my hair dry a few days ago and succeeded only in scorching my eyebrows and drying out my eyes. It’s been weeks since I did my nails. I can’t even see them to take the polish off. Yesterday I was struck by a sudden fear I was going to get fat and wouldn’t even know it. I had to dash out and find a scale in a nearby house and weigh myself. Unfortunately, every time I stepped on it, I turned the scale invisible, too. You don’t realize how reassuring it is to see yourself every day until you can’t anymore. Last night, while pacing the bookstore, I found a book called The Invisible Man and decided to read it to see how he handled things, but I couldn’t bear the suspense of his struggles so I skipped to the end.

Then I tossed the freaking book across the room.

Oh, yeah, don’t want to stay this way forever.

I’ve taken to haunting Chester’s at least once, sometimes twice, a day looking for Ryodan, eavesdropping for word of Barrons, but I haven’t caught a glimpse of the owner of Chester’s since two nights ago when he brought the Highlander’s body back. What little of it he was able to recover. Last time I was there, it appeared Fade was running the club.

The Keltar returned to Scotland the moment they had Dageus’s remains, taking Christian with them, and I’d finally seen the elusive Colleen — that was a woman I was looking forward to meeting again, under better circumstances — to hold a High Druid burial with all the living Keltar in attendance. I’d stood watching as they left, hearing mournful bagpipes in my head, tempted to attend, unwilling to leave my city and miss Barrons’s return.

Five days and four long silent nights in the bookstore. I don’t sleep in our lair beneath the garage when he’s not here. It makes me feel small and alone. I’ve been tossing restlessly on the chesterfield, waiting for the bell to tinkle.

I fidget with the cuff I slipped on my wrist shortly after Jada dropped it. At least now neither Seelie nor Unseelie can harm me. If Cruce is to be believed.

On the topic of Cruce, I wonder what’s happening at the abbey, if Jada really has been able to stop the transformation of our mother house, and if she was the one that closed the doors to the cavern where he’s imprisoned. I wonder what things she learned, lost in the Silvers for five and a half years. I’d head out there to see for myself but am currently obsessed with remaining close to the bookstore. In a few more days I might get resigned to the waiting and go take a look around.

The moment Jada had my spear she went on a killing spree. The next day the Dublin Daily reported hundreds of Fae dead.

And the next.

And the next.

I suspect she was making up for her failure to protect the Highlander.

Jada wasn’t lying. She certainly does kill.

Eavesdropping at Chester’s yesterday, I heard Fae have begun projecting glamour again, concealing their otherworldliness, in an effort to blend with humans, elude Jada’s lethal spear.

Which makes sidhe-seers even more critical now.

I blow out a frustrated breath. I haven’t been by Chester’s since last night. Time for my rounds. “Come on, Barrons,” I mutter. “Get your ass back here.” I leave a note on the table by the couch in case he returns and bang out the door into the night.

I slip into Chester’s when a group of drunken revelers stumble out. I pause a moment at the balustrade, looking down over the many subclubs, but see no sign of Ryodan. I don’t bother looking for Barrons. I know he’d return to the bookstore, to me, before he went anywhere else.

There’s Jo, looking dainty and pretty, hair spiky and tousled around her face, waitressing in the short tartan skirt, baby doll pumps, and crisp white blouse uniform of the kiddie subclub. I’m glad to see she didn’t let Ryodan drive her away.

Sean O’Bannion sits with four big, tough-looking men, heads close together, talking quietly at the Sinatra bar. I wonder if Kat’s back from wherever she went, if she’s okay, if they’re still together.

Over by the stairs are Lor and another of the Nine I’ve not seen before, tall, dark, cut as hell, and hot in a Jason Statham way, with a full dark shadow beard and intense eyes. I smile faintly when Lor’s gaze repeatedly sweeps the many clubs, to linger on Jo. His mouth changes when he watches her. I know that look. He’s thinking about fucking.

Barrons. God. I need that man to come back.

Fade is patrolling, watching everything, ready for the slightest disturbance.

I slip down the stairs and head across the club, walk slowly and carefully between Lor and the Jason Statham bouncer so as not to create the slightest breeze, and hurry up the chrome staircase to the private floors.

I’m not leaving tonight without snooping a bit. If I set off an alarm, so be it. I’m restless, bored, and invisible. A dangerous thing for any woman to be.

I ponder what I most want to see: the mysterious sex club the Nine are rumored to have? Nope. It would just get my already twisted, neglected panties in a worse twist. Try to find their private residences? Hmmm. That might be interesting. Steal Ryodan’s dark blade so I could control Papa Roach?

Wow. I’m stilled by the marvelous thought.

If he’s in there, I’ll just pretend I was looking for him to ask if he’d seen Barrons yet.

Ditto, if one of the others is in there.

I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before! All weapons, good.

I head straight for his office, peer up and down the hallway to make sure no one’s looking, press my hand to the panel and slip inside.

It’s empty.

Just me and Ryodan’s high-tech, two-way glass headquarters lined with gadgets, and high at the perimeter those countless hi-def cameras upon which he watches the sordid and varied details of his club. The arrogance of the man, thinking his bouncers at the bottom of the stairs guarantee sufficient security.

I head straight for his desk. The knife is no longer there. Like the office, it too is empty. I stand, looking around, trying to spot it, then fiddle with the bottom of his desk to open the hidden panel where he’d stored Jada’s contract, deciding he probably put it away for safekeeping.

When the panel slides out, I’m disappointed to find it empty. I move around to the other side of his desk and drop down into his chair, trying to think like him, decide where I would put it if I were Ryodan.

I consider the hidden panel. If I were him, I’d have a panel on this side of the desk, too. I reach beneath the drawer, groping for anomalies in the smooth wood.

There are none. I press gingerly, walking my fingers gently around on the bottom of the desk, down the legs, around the many carvings.

Got it!

A tiny notch in the center of an ornate scroll.

When the second panel slides out, I’m once again disappointed. No knife. Just rows and rows of square black buttons like those on a computer keyboard. None of them are labeled. Just smooth black buttons. I have no clue what they’re for.

I poise a finger above one of them, debating. Knowing Ryodan, I could inadvertently blow the whole club if I push the wrong one.

I sigh. Surely not. Surely he’d make it red if it was the destruct button, right?

Holding my breath, I poke the first one on the left.

Nothing happens.

I glance around the office quickly to see if some other hidden panel suddenly slid silently out. As far as I see, nothing has changed. I punch the one next to it.

Again nothing.

I punch four more in quick succession.

Not a damn thing. What the hell are these buttons for?

I blow out an exasperated breath, lean back in his chair, prop my feet on the desk, fold my arms behind my head and close my eyes, imagining I’m him, trying to fathom what he might want so close at hand.

I pretend I’m Ryodan, sitting in his office, where he watches the world on his monitors, where he receives reconnaissance, where he controls and nudges the fine details of his kingdom.

Still stymied, I open my eyes and stare around the room.

The monitors. Holy cow. There must be places in his club he likes to keep tabs on that he prefers no one else see.

I kick my boots off the desk and sit up straight. This time when I begin punching buttons, I keep a close eye on the screens on the wall directly in front of me.

Aha! Just as I thought, these control his private cameras! The ones that monitor places visitors don’t get to see.

The first one on the left makes the image of the main stairs speckle out on the seventh screen from the right and reveals their kitchens.

Oops, guess he knows I was regularly raiding them while I stayed here.

A white-haired man with burning eyes stands at the counter, eating … oh, no. I didn’t want to see that. I punch it off hastily.

The second button wipes out a shot of the kiddie subclub (apparently he liked to keep an eye on Jo) to reveal a dark, shadowy room, ornately paneled with a lovely transom ceiling. It’s empty.

I keep my eyes trained on the cameras at the ceiling in front of his desk. The third button causes the live feed of the Sinatra subclub to vanish, replacing it with an overhead shot of a state-of-the-art gym, paneled with mirrors.

Kasteo is stretched out on a weight bench, pumping iron, massive muscles rippling as he does deep, wide flies. He’s bare-chested and as heavily scarred as the others.

To his left, nearly lost in shadow, a woman lies, similarly supine, mimicking his movements with smaller dumbbells.

I gasp, and push slowly to my feet. I don’t believe my eyes. I hurry around the desk and stand directly beneath the monitor a few feet above my head. “Kat?” I exclaim softly. “Kat is working out with Kasteo? What the hell?” Is she here of her own choice? Did Kasteo abduct her? Did Ryodan lock her away with him? He’d pretended not to have any idea where the missing headmistress had gone!

I watch for a few moments then hurry back around the desk. I want to know everything. This is unbelievable.

I punch the next button. A shot of the balustrade at the entry vanishes and I see a long shadowy corridor. Lor is stalking down it, and I wonder where he’s going in such a hurry. I lose him and punch the next button. As I’d hoped, I’m able to follow him down the hallway. I punch three more buttons tracking him through what I realize must be the servers’ wing. When I punch the fifth, I gasp again as Lor reaches out, grabs Jo from behind and spins her around. I see their mouths moving, she’s angry, he’s pissed, too, but I can’t hear a word. I study the panel irritably, feeling cheated by my reality TV, trying to locate a volume button but no such luck. When I glance back up, Lor has Jo turned around, facing the wall, shoved against it. He’s holding both her hands in one of his, trapped against the cool glass surface.

I can see her profile. She’s not angry anymore. She’s turned on as hell.

With his other hand he undoes his belt, shoves her short skirt up, and before I can give them the privacy the moment demands, he’s up against her, pushing inside her.

Her back arches, head drops back, and the look on her face is—

“Just as I suspected, everybody is having sex but me,” I mutter irritably.

I punch the screen off and hurry to the next one.

And stare blankly at the screen for a long, pained moment.

“No,” I finally manage to say. “He would not come back here first. He would come to me.”

But he wouldn’t. And he didn’t.

Barrons is back.

Standing in a room I can’t place, a deep gash of a stone chamber. I think, Please tell me it’s not the sex club I’ve heard so many rumors about. Please tell me I’m enough.

Ryodan moves into view.

Where are they? What are they doing? Why didn’t Barrons come to me, tell me he was back?

I watch the screen, never taking my eyes from it. Minutes creep by and nothing changes. They don’t even appear to be talking. Just watching something.

I shake myself from my trance and punch the next button.

The Rhino-boy club disappears, revealing another dimly lit stone room.

A shadow moves in the darkness.

What the hell is down there?

What are they watching?

The thing separates from the shadows, stumbles toward the light, cringes and stumbles back again.

I suddenly can’t find enough oxygen in Ryodan’s office to breathe.

My hand flies to my mouth as I stare, staggered.

Dageus MacKeltar is not dead.