Faefever

Prologue

I’d die for him.

No, wait a minute. that’s not where this is supposed to begin.

I know that. But left to my own devices, I’d prefer to skim over the events of the next few weeks, and whisk you through those days with glossed-over details that cast me in a more flattering light.

Nobody looks good in their darkest hour. But it’s those hours that make us what we are. We stand strong, or we cower. We emerge victorious, tempered by our trials, or fractured by a permanent, damning fault line.

I never used to think about things like darkest hours and trials and fault lines.

I used to fill my days with sunning and shopping, bartending at The Brickyard (always more of a party than a job, and that was how I liked my life), and devising ways to con Mom and Dad into helping me buy a new car. At twenty-two, I was still living at home, safe in my sheltered world, lulled by the sleepy, slow-paddling fans of the Deep South into believing myself the center of it.

Then my sister, Alina, was brutally murdered while studying abroad in Dublin, and my world changed overnight. It was bad enough that I had to identify her mutilated body, and watch my once happy family shatter, but my world didn’t stop falling apart there. It didn’t stop until I’d learned that pretty much everything I’d been raised to believe about myself wasn’t true.

I discovered that my folks weren’t my real parents; my sister and I were adopted; and despite my lazy, occasionally overblown drawl, we weren’t southern at all, but descended from an ancient Celtic bloodline of sidhe-seers, people who can see the Fae—a terrifying race of otherworldly beings that have lived secretly among us for thousands of years, cloaked in illusions and lies.

Those were the easy lessons.

The hard lessons were yet to come, waiting for me in the craic-filled streets of the Temple Bar District of Dublin, where I would watch people die, and learn to kill; where I would meet Jericho Barrons, V’lane, and the Lord Master; where I would step up to the plate as a major player in a deadly game with fate-of-the-world stakes.

For those of you just joining me, my name is MacKayla Lane, Mac for short. My real last name might be O’Connor, but I don’t know that for sure. I’m a sidhe-seer, one of the most powerful that’s ever lived. Not only can I see the Fae, I can hurt them and, armed with one of their most sacred Hallows—the Spear of Luin, or Destiny—I can even kill the immortal beings.

Don’t settle into your chair and relax. It’s not just my world that’s in trouble; it’s your world, too. It’s happening, right now, while you’re sitting there, munching a snack, getting ready to immerse yourself in a fictional escape. Guess what? It’s not fiction, and there’s no escape. The walls between the human world and Faery are coming down—and I hate to break it to you, but these fairies are so not Tinkerbells.

If the walls crash completely. well, you’d just better hope they don’t. If I were you, I’d turn on all my lights right now. Get out a few flashlights. Check your supply of batteries.

I came to Dublin for two things: to find out who killed my sister, and to get revenge. See how easily I can say that now? I want revenge. Revenge with a capital R. Revenge with crushed bones and a lot of blood. I want her murderer dead, preferably by my own hand. A few months here and I’ve shed years of polished southern civilities.

Shortly after I stepped off the plane from Ashford, Georgia, and planted my well-pedicured foot on Ireland’s shore, I probably would have died if I hadn’t stumbled into a bookstore owned by Jericho Barrons. Who or what he is, I have no idea. But he has knowledge that I need, and I have something he wants, and that makes us reluctant allies.

When I had no place to turn, Barrons took me in, taught me who and what I am, opened my eyes, and helped me survive. He didn’t do it nicely, but I no longer care how I survive, as long as I do.

Because it was safer than my cheap room at the inn, I moved in to his bookstore. It’s protected against most of my enemies with wards and assorted spells, and stands bastion at the edge of what I call a Dark Zone: a neighborhood that has been taken over by Shades, amorphous Unseelie that thrive in darkness and suck the life from humans.

We’ve battled monsters together. He’s saved my life twice. We’ve shared a taste of dangerous lust. He’s after the Sinsar Dubh—a million-year-old book of the blackest magic imaginable, scribed by the Unseelie King himself, that holds the key to power over both the worlds of Fae and Man. I want it because it was Alina’s dying request that I find it, and I suspect it holds the key to saving our world.

He says he wants it because he collects books. Right.

V’lane is another story. He’s a Seelie prince, and a death-by-sex Fae, which you’ll be learning more about soon enough. The Fae consist of two adversarial courts with their own Royal Houses and unique castes: the Light or Seelie Court, and the Dark or Unseelie Court. Don’t let the light and dark stuff fool you. Both are deadly. However, the Seelie considered the Unseelie so deadly that they imprisoned them roughly seven hundred thousand years ago. When one Fae fears another, be afraid.

Each court has their Hallows, or sacred objects of immense power. The Seelie Hallows are the spear (which I have), the sword, the stone, and the cauldron. The Unseelie Hallows are the amulet (which I had and the Lord Master took), the box, the Sifting Silvers, and the highly sought-after Book. They all have different purposes. Some I know; others I’m not so clear on.

Like Barrons, V’lane is after the Sinsar Dubh. He’s hunting it for the Seelie Queen Aoibheal, who needs it to reinforce the walls between the realms of Fae and Man, and keep them from coming down. Like Barrons, he has saved my life. (He’s also given me some of the most intense orgasms of it.)

The Lord Master is my sister’s murderer; the one who seduced, used, and destroyed her. Not quite Fae, not quite human, he’s been opening portals between realms, bringing Unseelie—the worst of the Fae—through to our world, turning them loose, and teaching them to infiltrate our society. He wants the walls down so he can free all the Unseelie from their icy prison. He’s also after the Sinsar Dubh, although I’m not certain why. I think he may be seeking it to destroy it, so no one can ever rebuild the walls again.

That’s where I come in.

These three powerful, dangerous men need me.

Not only can I see the Fae, I can sense Fae relics and Hallows. I can feel the Sinsar Dubh out there, a dark, pulsing heart of pure evil.

I can hunt it.

I can find it.

My dad would say that makes me this season’s MVP.

Everybody wants me. So I stay alive in a world where death darkens my doorstep daily.

I’ve seen things that would make your skin crawl. I’ve done things that make my skin crawl.

But that’s not important now. What’s important is starting at the right place—let’s see. where was that?

I peel the pages of my memory backward, one at a time, squinting so I don’t have to see them too clearly. I turn back, past that whiteout where all memories vanish for a time, past that hellish Halloween, and the things Barrons did. Past the woman I killed. Past a part of V’lane piercing the meat of my tongue. Past what I did to Jayne.

There.

I zoom down into a dark, damp, shiny street.

It’s me. Pretty in pink and gold.

I’m in Dublin. It’s nighttime. I’m walking the cobbled pavement of Temple Bar. I’m alive, vibrantly so. There’s nothing like a recent brush with death to make you feel larger than life.

There’s a sparkle in my eyes and a spring in my step. I’m wearing a killer pink dress with my favorite heels, and I’m accessorized to the hilt, in gold and rose amethyst. I’ve taken extra care with my hair and makeup. I’m on my way to meet Christian MacKeltar, a sexy, mysterious young Scotsman who knew my sister. I feel good for a change.

Well, at least for a short time I do.

Fast-forward a few moments.

Now I’m clutching my head and stumbling from the sidewalk, into the gutter. Falling to all fours. I’ve just gotten closer to the Sinsar Dubh than I’ve ever been before, and it’s having its usual effect on me. Pain. Debilitating.

I no longer look so pretty. In fact, I look positively wretched.

On my hands and knees in a puddle that smells of beer and urine, I’m iced to the bone. My hair is in a tangle, my amethyst hair clip bobs against my nose, and I’m crying. I push the hair from my face with a filthy hand and watch the tableau playing out in front of me with wide, horrified eyes.

I remember that moment. Who I was. What I wasn’t. I capture it in freeze-frame. There are so many things I would say to her.

Head up, Mac. Brace yourself. A storm is coming. Don’t you hear the thunderclap of sharp hooves on the wind? Can’t you feel the soul-numbing frost? Don’t you smell spice and blood on the breeze?

Run, I would tell her. Hide.

But I wouldn’t listen to me.

On my knees, watching that. thing. do what it’s doing, I’m in the stranglehold of a killing undertow.

Reluctantly, I merge with the memory, slip into her skin.

Chapter 1

The pain, God, the pain! It’s going to splinter my skull!

I clutch my head with wet, stinking hands, determined to hold it together until the inevitable occurs—I pass out.

Nothing compares to the agony the Sinsar Dubh causes me. Each time I get close to it, the same thing happens. I’m immobilized by pain that escalates until I lose consciousness.

Barrons says it’s because the Dark Book and I are point and counterpoint. That it’s so evil, and I’m so good, that it repels me violently. His theory is to “dilute” me somehow, make me a little evil so I can get close to it. I don’t see how making me evil so I can get close enough to pick up an evil book is a good thing. I think I’d probably do evil things with it.

“No,” I whimper, sloshing on my knees in the puddle. “Please. no!” Not here, not now! In the past, each time I’d gotten close to the Book, Barrons had been with me, and I’d had the comfort of knowing he wouldn’t let anything too awful happen to my unconscious body. He might tote me around like a divining rod, but I could live with that. Tonight, however, I was alone. The thought of being vulnerable to anyone and anything in Dublin’s streets for even a few moments terrified me. What if I passed out for an hour? What if I fell facedown into the vile puddle I was in, and drowned in mere inches of. ugh.

I had to get out of the puddle. I would not die so pathetically.

A wintry wind howled down the street, whipping between buildings, chilling me to the bone. Old newspapers cart-wheeled like dirty, sodden tumbleweeds over broken bottles and discarded wrappers and glasses. I flailed in the sewage, scraped at the pavement with my fingernails, left the tips of them broken in gaps between the cobbled stones.

Inch by inch, I clawed my way to drier ground.

It was there—straight ahead of me: the Dark Book. I could feel it, fifty yards from where I scrabbled for purchase. Maybe less. And it wasn’t just a book. Oh, no. It was nothing that simple. It pulsated darkly, charring the edges of my mind.

Why wasn’t I passing out?

Why wouldn’t this pain end?

I felt like I was dying. Saliva flooded my mouth, frothing into foam at my lips. I wanted desperately to throw up but I couldn’t. Even my stomach was locked down by pain.

Moaning, I tried to raise my head. I had to see it. I’d been close to it before, but I’d never seen it. I’d always passed out first. If I wasn’t going to lose consciousness, I had questions I wanted answered. I didn’t even know what it looked like. Who had it? What were they doing with it? Why did I keep having near brushes with it?

Shuddering, I pushed back onto my knees, shoved a hank of sour-smelling hair from my face, and looked.

The street that only moments ago had bustled with tourists, making their merry way from one open pub door to the next, was now scourged clean by the dark, arctic wind. Doors had been slammed, music silenced.

Leaving only me.

And them.

The vision before me was not at all what I’d expected.

A gunman had a huddle of people backed against the wall of a building, a family of tourists, cameras swinging around their necks. The barrel of a semiautomatic weapon gleamed in the moonlight. The father was yelling, the mother was screaming, trying to gather three small children into her arms.

“No!” I shouted. At least I think I did. I’m not sure I actually made a sound. My lungs were compressed with pain.

The gunman let loose a spray of bullets, silencing their cries. He killed the youngest last—a delicate blond girl of four or five, with wide, pleading eyes that would haunt me till the day I died. A girl I couldn’t save because I couldn’t fecking move. Paralyzed by pain-deadened limbs, I could only kneel there, screaming inside my head.

Why was this happening? Where was the Sinsar Dubh? Why couldn’t I see it?

The man turned, and I inhaled sharply.

A book was tucked beneath his arm.

A perfectly innocuous hardcover, about three hundred and fifty pages thick, no dust jacket, pale gray with red binding. The kind of well-read hardcover you might find in any used bookstore, in any city.

I gaped. Was I supposed to believe that was the million-year-old book of the blackest magic imaginable, scribed by the Unseelie King? Was this supposed to be funny? How anticlimactic. How absurd.

The gunman glanced at his weapon with a bemused expression. Then his head swiveled back toward the fallen bodies, the blood and bits of flesh and bone spattered across the brick wall.

The book dropped from beneath his arm. It seemed to fall in slow motion, changing, transforming, as it tumbled, end over end, to the damp, shiny brick. By the time it hit the cobbled pavement with a heavy whump, it was no longer a simple hardcover but a massive black tome, nearly a foot thick, engraved with runes, bound by bands of steel and intricate locks. Exactly the kind of book I’d expected: ancient and evil-looking.

I sucked in another breath.

Now the thick dark volume was changing again, becoming something new. It swirled and spun, drawing substance from wind and darkness.

In its place rose a. thing. of such. terrible essence and pitch. A darkly animate. again, I can only say thing. that existed beyond shape or name: a malformed creature sprung from some no-man’s-land of shattered sanity and broken gibberings.

And it lived.

I have no words to describe it, because nothing exists in our world to compare it to. I’m glad nothing exists in our world to compare it to, because if something did exist in our world to compare it to, I’m not sure our world would exist.

I can only call it the Beast, and leave it there.

My soul shivered, as if perceiving on some visceral level that my body was not nearly enough protection for it. Not from this.

The gunman looked at it, and it looked at the gunman, and he turned his weapon on himself. I jerked at the sound of more shots. The shooter crumpled to the pavement and his weapon clattered away.

Another icy wind gusted down the street, and there was movement in my periphery.

A woman appeared from around the corner as if answering a summons, gazed blankly at the scene for several moments, then walked as if drugged straight to the fallen book (crouching beast with impossible limbs and bloodied muzzle!) that abruptly sported neither ancient locks or bestial form but was once again masquerading as an innocent hardcover.

“Don’t touch it!” I cried, goose bumps needling my flesh at the thought.

She stooped, picked it up, tucked it beneath her arm, and turned away.

I’d like to say she walked off without a backward glance, but she didn’t. She glanced over her shoulder, straight at me, and her expression choked off what little breath inflated my lungs.

Pure evil stared out of her eyes, a cunning, bottomless malevolence that knew me, that understood things about me I didn’t, and never wanted to know. Evil that celebrated its existence every chance it got through chaos, demolition, and psychotic rage.

She smiled, an awful smile, baring hundreds of small, pointy teeth.

And I had one of those sudden epiphanies.

I remembered the last time I’d gotten close to the Sinsar Dubh and passed out, and reading the next day about the man who’d killed his entire family, then driven himself into an embankment, mere blocks from where I’d lost consciousness. Everyone interviewed had said the same thing—the man couldn’t have done it, it wasn’t him, he’d been behaving like someone possessed for the past few days. I recalled the rash of gruesome news articles lately that echoed the same sentiment, whatever the brutal crime—it wasn’t him/her; he/she would never do it. I stared at the woman who was no longer who or what she’d been when she’d turned the corner and entered this street. A woman possessed. And I understood.

It wasn’t those people committing the terrible crimes.

The Beast was inside her now, in control. And it would retain control of her until it was done using her, when it would dispose of her and move on to its next victim.

We’d been so wrong, Barrons and I!

We’d believed the Sinsar Dubh was in the possession of someone with a cogent plan who was transporting it from place to place with a purpose, someone who was either using it to accomplish certain goals or guarding it, trying to keep it from falling into the wrong hands.

But it wasn’t in the possession of anyone with a plan, cogent or otherwise, and it wasn’t being moved.

It was moving.

Passing from one set of hands to the next, transforming each of its victims into a weapon of violence and destruction. Barrons had told me that Fae relics had a tendency to take on a life and purpose of their own in time. The Dark Book was a million years old. That was a lot of time. It had certainly taken on some kind of life.

The woman disappeared around the corner, and I dropped to the pavement like a stone. Eyes closed, I gasped for shallow breaths. As she/it moved farther away, vanishing into the night where God only knew what she/it would do next, my pain began to ease.

It was the most dangerous Hallow ever created—and it was loose in our world.

Creepy thing was, until tonight, it hadn’t been aware of me.

It was now.

It had looked at me, seen me. I couldn’t explain it, but I felt it had somehow marked me, tagged me like a pigeon. I’d gazed into the abyss and the abyss had gazed back, just like Daddy always said it would: You want to know about life, Mac? It’s simple. Keep watching rainbows, baby. Keep looking at the sky. You find what you look for. If you go hunting good in the world, you’ll find it. If you go hunting evil. well, don’t.

What idiot, I brooded, as I dragged myself up onto the sidewalk, had decided to give me special powers? What fool thought I could do something about problems of such enormity? How could I not hunt evil when I was one of the few people who could see it?

Tourists were flooding back into the street. Pub doors opened. Darkness peeled back. Music began playing, and the world started up again. Laughter bounced off brick. I wondered what world they were living in. It sure wasn’t mine.

Oblivious to them all, I threw up until I dry-heaved. Then I dry-heaved until not even bile remained.

I pushed to my feet, dragged the back of my hand across my mouth, and stared at my reflection in a pub window. I was stained, I was soaked, and I smelled. My hair was a soppy mess of beer and. oh! I couldn’t bear to think about what else. You never know what you’ll find in a gutter in Dublin’s party district. I plucked the clip from my hair, scraped it back, and secured it at my nape where it couldn’t touch much of my face.

My dress was torn, I was missing two buttons down the front of it, I’d broken the heel off my right shoe, and my knees were scraped and bleeding.

“There’s a lass that gives a whole new meaning to falling-down drunk, eh?” A man sniggered as he passed by. His buddies laughed. There were a dozen of them, wearing red cummerbunds and bow ties over jeans and sweaters. A bachelor party, off to celebrate the joy of testosterone. They gave me wide berth.

They were so clueless.

Was it really only twenty minutes ago I’d been smiling at passersby? Walking through Temple Bar, feeling alive and attractive, and ready for whatever the world might decide to throw at me next? Twenty minutes ago, they’d have circled around me, flirted me up.

I took a few lopsided steps, trying to walk as if I weren’t missing three and a half inches of spike beneath my right heel. It wasn’t easy. I ached everywhere. Although the pain of the Book’s proximity continued to recede, I felt bruised from head to toe, from being held in the crushing vise of it. If tonight turned out anything like the last time I’d encountered it, my head would pound for hours and ache dully for days. My visit to Christian MacKeltar, the young Scot who’d known my sister, was going to have to wait. I looked around for my missing heel. It was nowhere to be seen. I’d loved those shoes, darn it! I’d saved for months to buy them.

I sighed inwardly and told myself to get over it. At the moment, I had bigger problems on my mind.

I hadn’t passed out.

I’d been within fifty yards of the Sinsar Dubh, and I’d stayed conscious the entire time.

Barrons was going to be so pleased. Delighted, even, although delight is a difficult expression to read on that dark, arresting face. Chiseled from savagery by a sculptor-savant, Barrons is a throwback to a lawless time, and looks as stoically primitive as he behaves.

It appeared recent events had “diluted” me, and I was now more like the Book.

Evil.

On my way back to the bookstore, it began to rain. I limped miserably through it. I hate the rain. For many reasons.

One, it’s wet, cold, and nasty, and I was already wet and cold enough. Two, the sun doesn’t shine when it’s raining and I’m an unapologetic sun-worshipper. Three, it makes Dublin at night even darker than usual, and that means the monsters get bolder. Four, it makes me need an umbrella and when people carry umbrellas they have a tendency to pull them down really low and hunch behind them, especially if the rain is being blown into their faces. I’m no different. And that means you can’t see what’s coming toward you, which in a busy street usually results in people careening off one another with muttered apologies, or bit-off curses, and in Dublin means I could run smack into a Fae (their glamour doesn’t physically repel me like it does normal people) and betray myself, all of which adds up to: When it rains here, I don’t dare carry an umbrella.

Which wouldn’t be so bad except it rains here all the freaking time.

Which means I get completely soaked and that leads me to the fifth thing I hate about rain: my makeup runs and my hair becomes a mop of cowlicks.

But every cloud really does have some kind of silver lining and, after a good, hard drenching, at least I no longer smelled quite so bad.

I turned down my street. It’s not really my street. My street is four thousand miles away in the rural Deep South. It’s a sunny, lushly overgrown street, framed by waxy-leaved magnolias, brilliant azaleas, and towering oaks. My street doesn’t rain all the time.

But I can’t go home now, for fear of leading monsters back to Ashford with me, and since I need someplace to call my own, this rainy, gloomy, dreary street will have to do.

As I approached the bookstore, I scanned the façade of the old-world, four-story building carefully. Exterior spotlights mounted on the front, rear, and sides bathed the tall brick building in light. The brightly painted shingle proclaiming BARRONS BOOKS AND BAUBLES that hung perpendicular to the building, suspended over the sidewalk on an elaborate brass pole, creaked as it swung in the increasingly chilly night breeze. The sign in the old-fashioned green-tinted windows glowed soft neon: CLOSED. Amber torches in brass sconces illuminated the deep limestone archway of the bookstore’s grand, alcoved entrance. Ornate, diamond-paned cherry doors nestled between limestone columns gleamed in the light.

All was well with my “home.” The lights were on, the building protected from my deadly neighbors. I stopped and stared for a moment down the street, into the abandoned neighborhood, making sure no Shades had made inroads into my territory.

The Dark Zone at the edge of Barrons Books and Baubles is the largest one I’ve seen so far (and the largest I hope to ever see!), encompassing more than twenty city blocks, crammed to overflowing with lethal dark shadows. Two things characterize a Dark Zone: darkness and death. Creatures of night, the Shades devour everything that lives, from people, to grass, to leaves, even down to the worms in the soil, leaving behind a wasteland.

Even now, they were moving restlessly, writhing like flies stuck on tape, desperate to exchange their lifeless shadows for the fertile, well-lit neighborhoods beyond.

For the moment I was safe. The Shades can’t tolerate light, and near the bookstore, I was bathed in it. However, if I were to wander twenty feet down the street, into the gloom where the streetlamps were all out, I’d be dead.

I’m obsessed with my neighbors. They’re vampires in the truest sense of the word. I’ve seen what they do to people. They consume them, leaving only piles of clothing, jewelry, and other inanimate objects, topped by a small, dry papery husk of whatever human matter they find unpalatable. Like leaving the tail of a shrimp, I guess; part of us is too crunchy for their taste. Not even I can kill them. They have no real substance, which makes weapons useless. The only thing that works against them is light, and it doesn’t kill them, it just holds them at bay. Penned in on all sides by the lights of surrounding neighborhoods, this Dark Zone had remained roughly the same size for several months. I know; I scout its perimeter regularly.

If you’re not a sidhe-seer, you can’t even see them. The people who die in a Dark Zone never know the face of their executioner. Not that the Shades have faces. Featureless is their middle name. If you are a sidhe-seer, they’re still difficult to separate from the night, even when you know what you’re looking for. Darker than the darkness, like inky black fog, they slither and slide, creeping over buildings, oozing down drainpipes, twining around broken streetlamps. Although I’ve never gotten close enough to test my hunch and hope I never do, I think they’re cold.

They come in all shapes and sizes, ranging from as small as a cat to as large as—

I blinked.

Surely that wasn’t the one that had cornered me in the back parlor the night Fiona, the woman who used to run the bookstore, had tried to kill me, by letting a horde of them inside while I slept! The last time I’d seen it, roughly five weeks ago, counting the month I’d lost in Faery, it had been about twenty feet long and nine feet high. It was now twice as large, a dense cloud of oily darkness stretching nearly the entire length of the deserted building adjacent to Barrons.

Did they grow from eating us? Could one get as big as a small town? Maybe hunker down on top of it and swallow it whole?

I stared. For a thing that had no face, it certainly seemed to be staring back at me. I’d flipped this thing off a time or two. Last time I’d seen it, it had shaped itself into an almost human form and shot the insult right back at me.

I wasn’t about to teach it any new tricks.

I gave myself a brisk shake, and immediately regretted it. My head hurt so badly my brain felt bruised, and I’d just jostled it from side to side against the inner walls of my skull.

Though the rain had finally stopped—or rather taken one of those all too brief Dublin hiatuses—I was wet and freezing, and had better things to do than stand out here brooding over one of my many enemies. Things like eating a half a bottle of aspirin, and standing under a scalding shower. Things like clearing my head so I could ponder the ramifications of what I’d seen tonight, and finding Barrons to tell him all about it. I had no doubt he would be as astonished as I was by the Book’s method of locomotion. What dark agenda was it pursuing? Were random chaos and violence purpose enough?

As I stepped into the alcove and began digging in my purse for my keys, I heard footsteps behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and scowled.

Inspector Jayne joined me in the arched entry, dashing rain from his coat with a gloved hand. I’d passed him earlier in the street, on my way to see Christian, before my encounter with the Sinsar Dubh. He’d given me a look that had promised harassment, but I’d figured I’d had a day or two before he got around to making good on that promise.

No such luck.

Tall and burly, with brown hair neatly combed to a side part, his craggy face was set in harsh lines. Brother-in-law to the late Inspector Patty O’Duffy—the inspector who’d originally handled my sister’s murder case, and who’d had his throat cut while clutching a scrap of paper with my name on it—Jayne had recently hauled me down to the Garda station and held me all day on suspicion of murder. He’d interrogated and starved me, accused me of having had an affair with O’Duffy, then turned me out into the dark heart of Dublin, minus my Shade-repelling flashlights, to walk home by myself. I wasn’t about to forgive his callous treatment.

I’m going to be tape to your ass, he’d told me.

He’d been proving true to his word, following me, staking me out, watching my every move.

Now, he looked me up and down and gave a snort of disgust. “I’m not even going to ask.”

“Are you here to arrest me?” I said coolly. I quit trying to pretend I had a heel and leaned lopsidedly against the door. My calves and feet hurt.

“Maybe.”

“That was a yes or no question, Jayne. Try again.” He didn’t say anything and we both knew what that meant. “Then go away. The store is closed. That makes it private property right now. You’re trespassing.”

“Either we talk tonight, or I come back in the morning when you have customers. You want a homicide detective hanging around, interrogating your clientele?”

“You don’t have any right to interrogate my clientele.”

“I’m the Garda, lady. That gives me all the rights I need. I can and will make your life miserable. Try me.”

“What do you want?” I growled.

“It’s cold and wet out here.” He cupped his hands, blew on them. “How about a cup of tea?”

“How about you go screw yourself?” I flashed him a saccharine smile.

“What, my overweight, middle-aged brother-in-law was good enough for you, but I’m not?”

“I did not have sex with your brother-in-law,” I snapped.

“Then what the fuck was he doing with you?” he snapped back.

“We’ve already been through this. I told you. If you want to interrogate me again, you’re going to have to arrest me, and this time I’m not saying a word without an attorney.” I glanced over his shoulder. The Shades were moving restlessly, vigorously, as if stirred up by our discord. Our arguing seemed to be. exciting them. I wondered if anger or passion made us taste even better to them. I forced the macabre thought from my mind.

“Your answers were no answers at all, and you know it.”

“You don’t want the real answers.” I didn’t want the real answers. Unfortunately, I was stuck with them.

“Maybe, I do. However. difficult to believe. they might seem.”

I gave him a sharp look. Though he wore his usual determined dog-with-a-bone expression, there was a subtle new component to it that I’d missed before. It was the same component I’d glimpsed in O’Duffy’s eyes the morning he’d come to see me, the morning he’d died, a wary, maybe-my-world-isn’t-quite-what-I-thought-it-was look. A sure sign that, like O’Duffy, Jayne was about to start poking into matters that were probably going to get him killed. Although O’Duffy’s method of death seemed to imply a human murderer, I had no doubt he’d been killed for what he’d been learning about the new kids in town—the Fae.

I sighed. I wanted out of my nasty, wet clothes. I wanted to wash my disgusting hair. “Let it go, will you? Just let it go. I didn’t have anything to do with O’Duffy’s murder, and I don’t have anything else to tell you.”

“Yes, you do. You know what’s going on in this city, Ms. Lane. I don’t know how or where you fit into things, but I know you do. That’s why Patty came to see you. He didn’t stop by that morning to tell you anything about your sister’s case. He came to ask you something. What was it? What had been burning such a hole in his brain all night that he couldn’t wait until Monday to talk to you, that he sent his family on to church and missed Mass? What did Patty ask you the morning he died?”

He was good. I’d give him that. But nothing more.

“Will I die, too, Ms. Lane, now that I’ve come to see you?” he said roughly. “Is that how it works? Should I have woken my children and kissed them good-bye before I left this morning? Told my wife how much I loved her?”

Stung, I said, “It’s not my fault he died!”

“Maybe you didn’t kill him, but maybe you didn’t save him, either. Did you answer his questions? Is that why he died? Or if you had, would he still be alive?”

I glared at him. “Go away.”

He reached inside his coat and withdrew a handful of folded maps from an inner pocket.

I glanced away sharply, hating everything about the moment. This was a déjà vu I never wanted to revisit.

Patty O’Duffy had brought me maps, too. That Sunday morning he’d come to see me at the bookstore, he’d illustrated in cartographic detail a graphic impossibility, a discovery I’d beat him to by nearly two weeks: Parts of Dublin were no longer being printed on the maps. They were disappearing, falling off the plats and out of human memory, as if they’d never existed. He’d discovered the Dark Zones. He’d been scouting them out, going into them, a mere dusk away from dying.

Jayne leaned closer until his nose was inches from mine. “Looked at any of these lately?”

I said nothing.

“I found a dozen of them on Patty’s desk. He’d circled certain areas. It took me a while to figure out why. The Garda have a warehouse on Lisle Street seven blocks from here. You can’t find it on a single map published in the last two years.”

“So? What’s your point? That in addition to murder, I’m part of some vast mapmaking conspiracy? What will you charge me with next, colluding to get tourists lost?”

“Funny, Ms. Lane. I took a long lunch yesterday and went to Lisle Street. I tried to take a cab, but the driver insisted there was no such address and refused to go there. I ended up having to walk. Care to hear what I saw?”

“No. But I’m pretty sure you’re going to tell me anyway,” I muttered, massaging my temples.

“The warehouse is still there, but the city around it seems to have been. forgotten. I mean, completely forgotten. The streets aren’t being cleaned. The trash isn’t being collected. The lamps are out. Sewage has backed up into the gutters. My cell phone couldn’t get a signal there. Right in the middle of the city, I couldn’t get a bloody signal!”

“Not getting what this has to do with me,” I said in my most bored voice.

He didn’t hear me, and I knew he was walking the desolate, debris-filled streets in his mind again. A Dark Zone doesn’t just look abandoned; it oozes death and decay, makes you feel slimy with it. It leaves an indelible mark on you. It will wake you up in the middle of the night, heart in your throat, terrified of the dark. I sleep with all the lights on. I carry flashlights, 24/7.

“I found cars abandoned in the middle of the streets with the doors wide open. Expensive cars. The kind that get stripped for parts before the owner can even return with petrol. Explain that,” he barked.

“Maybe Dublin’s crime rate is decreasing,” I offered, knowing it for the lie it was.

“It’s skyrocketing. Has been for months. Media’s been crucifying us over it.”

They certainly had. And after what I’d seen tonight, the local escalation in violent crime was a fact I was especially interested in. I had an idea germinating.

“There were piles of clothing outside the cars with wallets in the pockets. Some of them were stuffed with cash, just waiting to be stolen. For Christ’s sake, I found two Rolexes on the sidewalk!”

“Did you pick them up?” I asked with interest. I’d always wanted a Rolex.

“But you know what the strangest thing was, Ms. Lane? There were no people. Not a single one. As if everyone had agreed at exactly the same moment to vacate twenty-some city blocks, right in the middle of whatever they were doing, without taking a single thing, not their cars, not even their clothes. Did they all walk out naked?”

“How would I know?”

“It’s happening right here, Ms. Lane. There’s an area missing on these maps right next to your bookstore. Don’t tell me you never look down that way when you leave.”

I shrugged. “I don’t leave much.”

“I follow you. You leave all the time.”

“I’m pretty self-engrossed, Inspector. I rarely look around.” I glanced behind him, for the dozenth time. The Shades were still behaving shadily, trapped in their darkness, licking thin, dark, nasty Shade lips.

“Bullshit. I interrogated you. You’re smart and sharp, and you’re lying.”

“Okay, you explain it. What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you think of anything that might explain what you found?”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “No.”

“Then what do you expect me to tell you? That evil creatures of the night have taken over Dublin? That they’re right down there“—I flung my arm out to the right—“and they’re eating people and leaving the parts they don’t like behind? That they’ve claimed certain territories as their own, and if you’re stupid enough to walk or drive into one after dark, you’ll die?” There, that was as close to warning him as I could get.

“Don’t be a fool, Ms. Lane.”

“Ditto, Inspector,” I said sharply. “You want my advice? Stay out of places you can’t find on maps. Now go away.” I turned my back on him.

“This isn’t over,” he said tightly.

It seemed, lately, everyone was saying that to me. No, it certainly wasn’t, but I had a sinking feeling I knew how it was going to end: With one more death on my conscience to occupy my already sleepless nights. “Leave me alone, or go get a warrant.” I slid the key into the door and unlocked it. As I opened it, I glanced over my shoulder.

Jayne was standing on the sidewalk, in almost exactly the same spot I’d occupied five minutes earlier, staring down into the abandoned neighborhood, brows drawn, forehead furrowed. He didn’t know it, but the Shades were staring back, in that faceless, eyeless way they have. What would I do if he began walking down there?

I knew the answer and I hated it: I’d whip out my flashlights and follow him in. I’d make a complete and utter spectacle of myself rescuing him from something he couldn’t and wouldn’t ever be able to see. Probably get locked up in the mental ward at the local hospital as thanks for my trouble.

My headache was turning brutal. If I didn’t get aspirin soon, it was going to spike right back up to vomiting pain.

He looked at me. Although Jayne had perfected what I call cop-face—a certain imperturbable scrutiny coupled with a patient certainty that the person they’re dealing with will eventually sprout several extra assholes and turn into a complete one—I’ve gotten better at reading people.

He was scared.

“Go home, Inspector,” I said softly. “Kiss your wife, and tuck your children in. Count your blessings. Don’t go hunting for curses.”

He looked at me a long moment, as if debating the criteria of cowardice, then turned and stormed off toward Temple Bar.

I heaved a huge sigh of relief and limped into the bookstore.

Even if it hadn’t been a much-needed sanctuary, I would have loved BB&B. I’ve found my calling, and it isn’t being a sidheseer. It’s running a bookstore, especially one that carries the best fashion magazines, pretty pens, stationery, and journals, and has such an upscale, elegant atmosphere. It embodies all the things I always wanted to be myself: smart, classy, polished, tasteful.

The first thing that strikes you when you step inside Barrons Books and Baubles, besides the abundance of gleaming rich mahogany and beveled glass windows, is a mildly disorienting sensation of spatial anomaly, as if you’ve slid open a matchbox and found a football field tucked neatly inside.

The main room is about seventy feet long and fifty feet wide. The front half vaults straight up to the roof, four grand stories. Ornate mahogany bookcases line each level, from floor to molding. Behind elegant banisters, platform walkways permit catwalk access on the second, third, and fourth levels. Ladders slide on oiled rollers from one section to the next.

The first floor has freestanding shelves arranged in wide aisles on the left, two seating cozies, fore and aft, with an elegant, enameled gas fireplace (in front of which I spend a great deal of time trying to thaw out from Dublin’s chilly weather) and a cashier station on the right, behind which is a fridge, a small TV, and my sound dock. Beyond the rear balconies on the upper levels are more books, including the very rare ones, and some of those baubles the sign mentions, secured in locked display cabinets.

Costly rugs drape the hardwood floors. The furniture is old-world, sumptuous, and expensive, like the authentic tufted Chesterfield sofa I like to curl up on and read. The lights are antique sconces and recessed bulbs of a particular amber hue that cast everything in a warm buttery glow.

When I cross the threshold from the cold, wet, crazy streets outside and step into the bookstore I feel like I can breathe. When I open for business and begin ringing up purchases on the old-fashioned cash register that tinkles a tiny silver bell each time the drawer pops open, my life feels simple and good, and I can forget all my problems for a while.

I glanced at my watch, and kicked off my ruined shoes. It was nearly midnight. Just a few hours ago, I’d been sitting in the rear conversation area with the enigmatic owner of the bookstore, demanding to know what he was.

As usual, he hadn’t answered me.

I really don’t know why I bother. Barrons knows virtually everything about me. I wouldn’t be surprised if somewhere he has a little file that encompasses my entire life to date, with neatly mounted, acerbically captioned photos—see Mac sunbathe, see Mac paint her nails, see Mac almost die.

But whenever I ask him a personal question, all I get is a cryptic “Take me or leave me,” coupled with a broody reminder that he keeps saving my life. As if that should be enough to shut me up and keep me in line.

Sad fact is, it usually does.

There’s an intolerable imbalance of power between us. He’s the one holding all the trump cards while I’m barely managing to hang on to the few lousy twos and threes life deals me.

We might hunt OOPs, or Objects of Power—sacred Fae relics, like the Hallows—together, fight and kill our enemies side by side, and, recently, even try to tear each other’s clothing in a case of lust as sudden and searing as the unexpected sirocco I’d somehow glimpsed in his mind while kissing him—but we sure didn’t share personal details of our lives or schedules with each other. I had no idea where he lived, where he went when he wasn’t around, or when he might come around next. It irked me. A lot. Especially now that I knew he could find me anytime he wanted, using the brand he’d tattooed on the back of my skull—his fecking middle initial Z. Yes, it had saved my life. No, that didn’t mean I had to like it.

I peeled off my dripping jacket and hung it up. Two flashlights crashed to the floor and went rolling. I needed to find a better way to carry them. They were cumbersome in my pockets and constantly falling out. I was afraid that pretty soon I’d be known as “that crazy flashlight-carrying chick” around the parts of Dublin I frequented.

I hurried to the bathroom at the back of the store, gingerly toweled my hair, and wiped gently at my smudged makeup. There was a bottle of aspirin upstairs shouting my name. A month ago, I would have immediately fixed my face. Now, I was just happy I had good skin and glad to be out of the rain.

I stepped from the bathroom and through the set of double doors that connected the bookstore to the private residence part of the building, calling for Barrons, wondering if he was still around. I pushed open the doors and checked in all the rooms on the first floor, but he wasn’t there. There was no point in searching the second and third floors. He kept all the doors locked. The only open rooms were on the fourth floor, where I slept, and he never went up there, except once, recently, to trash my bedroom when I’d disappeared for a month.

I considered calling him on my cell phone, but my head hurt so bad that I vetoed the idea. Tomorrow was soon enough to tell him what I’d learned about the Sinsar Dubh. Knowing him, if I called him tonight and told him, he’d try to make me go back out and hunt it, and there was no way I was going anywhere but straight into a hot shower and a warm bed.

I was headed up the back stairs, when something moved in my peripheral vision. I turned, trying to pinpoint the source. It couldn’t have been a Shade; all the lights were on. I backed down a step and scanned the rooms I could see. Nothing moved. I shrugged and started back up.

It happened again.

This time I got a weird feeling, not quite a tingle of my sidhe-seer senses, more like a prelude to it. I glanced in the direction that was bothering me: Barrons’ study. After poking my head in, I’d left the door ajar. Beyond it, I could see the ornate fifteenth-century desk, and part of the tall mirror that filled the wall behind it, between bookcases.

It happened again and I gaped. The silver reflection of the mirror had just shivered.

I backed down the stairs, never taking my eyes off it. From a safe vantage in the hallway outside the room, I watched it for a few minutes, but the event didn’t reoccur.

I pushed the door open all the way and stepped into the room. It smelled like Barrons. I inhaled deeply. A trace of dark, spicy aftershave lingered in the air, and for a moment I was in the caves beneath the Burren again, where I’d almost died last week, when the vampire Mallucé had abducted me and taken me deep into the labyrinthine tunnels, to torture me to death as vengeance for a gruesome injury I’d inflicted on him not long after I’d arrived in Dublin. I was lying on the ground, beneath Barrons’ wild, electric body, ripping his shirt open, and splaying my hands over the hard, muscled abdomen tattooed black and crimson in intricate, alien designs. Smelling him all around me. Feeling like he was inside me, or I was inside him. Wondering how much more inside him I’d get if I let him inside me.

Neither of us had mentioned that night. I doubted he ever would. I sure wasn’t going to bring it up. It disturbed me on levels I didn’t pretend to understand.

I focused on the room. I’d searched his study once before. Peered into every drawer, looked in the closet, even snooped behind the books on the shelves hunting for I don’t know what, any secret I could dig up on the man. I’d found nothing. He maintains an antiseptic existence. I doubt he permits so much as a hair to lie around that might be used for DNA analysis.

I walked over to the mirror and traced my fingertips across the glass. Elegantly framed, it filled the wall from floor to ceiling, and was hard and smooth, made of nothing that could shiver.

It shivered beneath my fingertips. This time my sidhe-seer senses trumpeted alarm. Yanking my hand away, I stumbled back against the desk with a muffled cry.

The surface was now shivering in earnest.

Did Barrons know about this? I thought wildly. Of course, he did. Barrons knew everything. It was in his bookstore. But what if he didn’t? What if Barrons wasn’t as omniscient as I believed? What if he was dupable, and someone—like, oh, say, the Lord Master—had planted some kind of spelled mirror in his path, knowing his penchant for certain antiquities. and Barrons had bought it, and the crimson robed leader of the Unseelie was spying on him through it, or something? How had I failed to sense it? Was it Fae or not?

Smoky runes appeared on the surface, and the perimeter of the glass darkened abruptly to cobalt, framing the mirror with a three-inch-wide border of pure black.

It was definitely Fae! The black edges were a dead giveaway. If they’d been visible earlier, I’d have known instantly what the mirror was, but the true nature of the glass had been camouflaged behind some kind of illusion that even my sidhe-seer senses hadn’t been able to penetrate. I’d been in this room half a dozen times, and never gotten the faintest tingle. Who could craft such flawless illusion?

This was no mere mirror. It was one of the glasses fashioned by the Unseelie King himself as a means of moving between the realms of Man and Fae. It was part of the Unseelie Hallow known as the Sifting Silvers, and it was in my bookstore! What was it doing here? What else might be concealed in the store from me, hiding in plain sight?

I’d seen part of this Hallow before. Nearly a dozen of the eerie silver apertures with black edges had adorned the walls of the Lord Master’s house at 1247 LaRuhe, in the Dark Zone. There’d been terrible things in them. Things I still had nightmares about. Things like. well, like that hideously deformed thing currently morphing into shape before my very eyes.

When I’d told Barrons about the mirrors I’d seen at the Lord Master’s house, he’d asked if they’d been “open.” If this was what he’d meant, they had been. When they were open, could the monsters inside them come out? If so, how did one “close” a Sifting Silver? Could it be as simple as breaking it? Could it be broken? Before I could glance around for something to try it with, the thing of stunted limbs and enormous teeth was gone.

I exhaled shakily. I now understood why BB&B had that strange sense of spatial distortion. I’d felt a similar thing in the Lord Master’s house, the day I’d gone into the Dark Zone and discovered my sister’s ex-boyfriend was Dublin’s Big-Bad, but I hadn’t put two and two together. These mirrors, these dimension connecting portals, somehow affected the space around them.

Now something else was coming, moving deep in the glass, whirling silver gusts back with its inexorable stride. I retreated to a safer distance.

Dark shapes drifted over the surface of the shivering mirror. Shadows that lacked definition yet tugged at primal fears. It was one of those times when running probably would have been a really good idea, but the problem was, I didn’t have anyplace to run to. This was my sanctuary, my safe haven. If I couldn’t stay here, I couldn’t be anywhere.

It was closer now, the thing that was coming.

I stared into the mirror, down the narrow, silvery lane fading into blackness at the edges, lined with skeletal trees, cloaked in wisps of jaundiced fog, littered with monstrous creatures forming and re-forming in the mist. It reeked of wasteland worse than a Dark Zone, and I somehow knew the air inside the mirror was a chilling, killing cold, physically and psychically. Only a hellish, inhuman half-life could endure in such a place.

As the dark shape glided down the nightmarish path, the shadow-demons reared back with soundless screams.

More smoky runes materialized on the shivering glass. I couldn’t tell if what was coming walked upright, or stalked on all fours. Perhaps it scuttled on dozens of claws. I strained my eyes trying to identify the shape of it, but the sickly fog concealed its attributes.

I knew only that it was huge, dark, dangerous. and almost here.

I exited the room on tiptoe, and pulled the door shut, leaving the smallest of slivers through which to peer, braced to yank it shut and run like hell.

The mirror belched an icy gust of air.

It was here!

Long black coat fluttering, Jericho Barrons stepped out of the glass.

He was covered with blood that had iced to crimson frost on his hands, face, and clothing. His skin was pale from extreme cold, and his midnight eyes blazed with an inhuman, feral light.

In his arms he carried the brutally savaged, bloody body of a young woman.

I didn’t need to feel her pulse to know that she was dead.

Chapter 2

I’d like to speak with Inspector Jayne, please,” I said into the phone, early the next morning. As I waited for him to pick up, I gulped down three aspirins with my coffee.

I’d hoped to be done with the insufferable inspector for a while, but after last night I’d realized I needed him. I’d devised a plan that was simple yet brilliant, and I lacked only one thing to implement it: my unsuspecting victim.

After a few moments and a series of clicks, I heard, “Jayne here. How can I help you?”

“Actually, I’m the one that can help you.”

“Ms. Lane,” he said flatly.

“The one and only. You want to know what’s going on in this city, Inspector? Join me for tea this afternoon. Four o’clock. At the bookstore.” I caught myself on the verge of adding, in a deep announcer’s voice, and come alone. I’m the product of a generation that watches too much TV.

“Four it is, but Ms. Lane, if you’re wasting my time. ”

I hung up, in no mood for threats. I’d accomplished what I needed. He’d be here.

I’m not much of a cook. Mom is such a great one, and well, let’s just call a spade a spade and get it over with, until a few months ago I was so spoiled and lazy that if the thought of fending for myself had occurred to me, I would have promptly thrust it away in favor of beautifying myself and coaxed Mom into making me one of my favorite snacks. I’m not sure who’s guiltier, me for doing it, or her for putting up with me.

Since I’ve been on my own, I’ve been eating a lot of popcorn, cereal, instant noodles, and snack bars. I have a hot plate in my bedroom, a microwave, and a small fridge. That’s the kind of kitchen I know how to get around in.

But today I’d donned my chef’s hat, limp and unused though it was. I might have purchased the tray of rich, buttery shortbreads at a pastry shop down the street, but I’d made the sandwiches myself, cutting loaves of fresh bakery bread into pretty little shapes with fancy edges, preparing the filling, and spreading my special recipe between the slices. My mouth watered just looking at the bite-size snacks.

I glanced at my watch, poured water over Earl Grey to steep the tea, and carried cups to the table near the rear conversation area, where a fire crackled brightly, chasing the chill from the gloomy October day. Though I was loath to lose business or break routine, I’d closed the shop early because I had to conduct this meeting at a time when I knew my employer was unlikely to show up.

I’d gotten a major wake-up call last night when I’d watched Jericho Barrons step out of the mirror.

I’d fled up the stairs faster than a Fae sifting space, locked my door, and barricaded it, heart pounding so hard I’d thought the top of my skull might blow off.

It was bad enough that he was keeping an Unseelie Hallow in the store, hidden from me, and using it, probably regularly, considering it was in his study, but. the woman. God, the woman!

Why had Barrons been carrying a blood-covered body in his blood-covered arms? Logic screamed: Duh, because he’d killed her.

But why? Who was the woman? Where had she come from? Why was he bringing her out of the Silver? What was inside that mirror? I’d examined it this morning, but it had been flat, impenetrable glass again, and whatever the way inside, only Barrons knew it.

And the look on his face! It had been the look of a man who’d done something that he’d found in, if not pleasure, some kind of comfort. In his face there’d been a certain. grim satisfaction.

Jericho Barrons was a man it wouldn’t be hard to romanticize (overlooking the toting around of savaged bodies, of course). Fiona, the woman who’d run the bookstore before I’d come along, had been so blindly in love with him that she’d tried to kill me to get me out of her way. Barrons was powerful, broodingly good-looking, insanely wealthy, frighteningly intelligent, and had exquisite taste, not to mention a hard body that emitted some kind of constant low-level charge. Bottom line: He was the stuff of heroes.

And psychotic killers.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in Dublin, it’s that there’s a very fine line between the two.

I wasn’t about to romanticize him. I knew he was ruthless. I’ve known that since the day I met him, and saw him staring at me across the length of the bookstore with cold, old eyes. Barrons does exactly and only whatever serves Barrons best. Period. Keeping me alive serves him best. Period. But one day it might not. Exclamation mark!

Why did he have an Unseelie Silver in his study? Where did he go in it? What did he do? Besides carry dead women around.

The shadow-demons in the mirror had behaved just like the Shades in the Dark Zone had when he’d walked through it: yielding to his passage, giving him wide berth. The Lord Master himself had taken one look at him recently, and walked away.

Who was Jericho Barrons? What was Jericho Barrons? Possibilities crowded my mind, each worse than the last.

I had no way of knowing what he was, but I knew what he wasn’t. He wasn’t someone I was going to be telling anything about what I’d learned about the Sinsar Dubh last night. He kept his secrets? Fine. I was keeping mine.

I had no desire to be the one responsible for putting Jericho Barrons and the Dark Book in the same place together. He walked in one Unseelie Hallow and was hunting another. Gee, might that make him Unseelie of some kind? Maybe one of those dainty, transparent ones that could slip inside human skins and take them over, that I called Grippers? Was it possible one had possession of him?

I’d considered the idea once before but swiftly discarded it. Now I had to admit that I’d had no basis for dismissing it, other than that. well. I’d been romanticizing him, telling myself Jericho Barrons was too tough to be possessed by anyone or anything. Who was I to say that was true? I’d watched a Gripper walk straight into a young woman in the Temple Bar District not so long ago. The moment it had entered her, I’d no longer been able to sense Unseelie within her. She’d passed for human to my sidhe-seer senses.

What if he was secretly working for the forces of darkness, conning me as cunningly as the Lord Master had seduced my sister into hunting the Book? It would explain virtually everything about him: his inhuman strength, his knowledge of the Fae, his familiarity with and ownership of one of the Dark Glasses, the Shades avoiding him, the Lord Master not confronting him—after all, they’d be on the same side.

I blew out a frustrated breath.

The only time I’d ever felt like I could take care of myself, since I’d come to Dublin, was the night Mallucé had nearly killed me, and I’d eaten Unseelie to survive. Revolting as it was, Fae flesh bestowed a degree of Fae power upon the person eating it; made them superstrong, healed mortal wounds, even supposedly granted power in the black arts.

I’d felt like I finally had an edge that night and hadn’t needed anyone else to protect me. I’d been able to kick ass like all the other big bad men around me. I’d been Mallucé’s equal. I’d been nearly as deadly as Barrons himself, perhaps as deadly, just not as well trained. I’d finally felt like a force to be reckoned with, someone capable of demanding answers, of throwing my weight around, without the constant fear of getting hurt or killed.

It had been exhilarating. It had been freeing. But I couldn’t eat Unseelie every day. It had too many downsides. Not only did it temporarily cancel out all my sidhe-seer powers, and make me vulnerable to my own spear (the Hallow killed anything Fae, even if you’d only eaten it; I’d learned that from watching Mallucé rot) but I’d realized over the past week that eating Unseelie was addictive, and a single meal was enough to birth that addiction. Mallucé hadn’t been weak. The lure of Fae power was strong. I’d been dreaming about it at night. Carving off chunks of live Rhino-boy. chewing. swallowing. feeling their incredible dark half-life entering my body. electrifying my blood. changing me. making me invincible again.

I snapped out of my reverie to find a dainty sandwich perched at my mouth. A bit of flour from the bakery bread was on my lip.

I thrust the sandwich back on the tray, carried the snacks to the table, and arranged the spread invitingly, near flowered paper plates and napkins I’d picked up on my way back from the pastry shop.

Genteel southern Mac was shamed by my lack of china and silver.

Spear-toting Mac cared only that there might be leftovers and food should never be wasted. People were starving in third-world countries.

I glanced at my watch. If Jayne was a punctual man, he’d be here in three minutes, and I would put my plan into action. It was risky but necessary.

Last night—between nightmares in which I was chasing the Book and each time I got close to it, it morphed into, not the Beast, but Barrons—I’d lay awake, sorting through and discarding ideas until I’d struck upon one that had impressed even me with its cleverness.

The key to finding the Sinsar Dubh was tracking the most heinous crimes. Where chaos and brutality reigned, It would be found. At first, I’d decided to try to get my hands on a police radio, but the logistics of stealing one, and monitoring it 24/7, had defeated me.

What I needed, I’d realized, I already had.

Inspector Jayne.

Mom always told me not to put all my eggs in one basket, and that was exactly what I’d been doing with Barrons. Who had I cultivated as my backup plan? No one. I needed to diversify.

If I could persuade one of the Garda to call whenever they received a report of the type of crime that fit my parameters, I’d get an instant lead, without being tied to a radio. I could rush to the crime scene, hoping the Book was still close enough that I could sense it, and use my sidhe-seer senses to track it. Most of the tips would probably prove fruitless, but eventually, I was bound to get lucky, at least once.

Jayne was going to be my informant. One might wonder how I planned to achieve such a monumental twist on the usual police/civilian relationship. That was the brilliant part of my simple plan.

Of course, I had no idea what to do if I managed to actually locate the Sinsar Dubh. I couldn’t even get close to it, and if I managed to somehow, I’d seen what happened to people who touched it. Still, I had to hunt it. It was one of those things programmed into my genes along with my innate fear of Hunters, knee-jerk reactions to Hallows, and constant urge to run around warning people about the Fae, even though I knew I’d never be believed.

Today, I needed to be believed. Jayne wanted to know what was going on.

Today, I would show him.

The voice of my conscience protested thinly. I quashed it. Conscience wasn’t going to keep me alive.

I eyed the tray. My mouth watered. Those were no simple egg, tuna, or chicken salad sandwiches, those scrumptious little confections I’d worked so hard to make, and was now dying to eat. Dreaming of eating. Hungering for in a way I’d never hungered for human food.

Those wriggling little delicacies were Unseelie salad sandwiches.

And Jayne was about to get one great, big, eye-opening look at his city.

_____

It went about as well as train wrecks do.

The inspector ate only two of my tiny sandwiches: the first because he hadn’t expected it to taste so awful; the second, I think, because he’d thought surely the first must have been a mistake.

By the time he’d swallowed the second one, he could see that the sandwiches were moving on his plate, and there’d been no chance of getting a third one into him. I wasn’t sure how long the effects of such a small amount of Unseelie would last, but I figured he had a day or two of it. I hadn’t told him about the superstrength, regenerative powers or skill in the black arts that resulted from eating Unseelie. Only I knew he was currently strong enough to crush me with a single blow.

My hands had trembled when I’d forced myself to flush the rest of the uneaten delicacies down the toilet before we’d left. I’d set two aside, in case of emergency. Halfway out the door I’d called my own bluff and gone back to flush those, too. I’d caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, white-faced with the strain of denying myself what I so badly wanted, the bliss of strength, safety from my countless enemies roaming the streets of Dublin, not to mention being able to hold my own with Barrons. I’d clung to the edge of the toilet, watching the chunks of meat swirl around in the porcelain-cradled whirlpool, until they’d disappeared.

We stood on the outskirts of the Temple Bar District, and I was exhausted.

I’d been with Jayne for seven long hours, and I didn’t like him any better now than before I’d fed him Unseelie, and forced him to see what was going on in his world.

He didn’t like me any better, either. In fact, I was pretty sure he was going to hate me for the rest of his life for what I’d made him confront tonight.

I’d drugged him, he’d insisted, shortly after I’d commenced our little monster-tour. Given him hallucinogens. He was going to have me arrested for trafficking in narcotics. He was going to have me kicked out of Ireland and sent home to prison.

We both knew he wouldn’t.

It had taken hours of steering him around Dublin, showing him what was in the bars, driving the cabs, and running the vendor stands, to get through to him, but I’d finally managed. I’d had to coach him the entire time on how to act, how to sneak looks and not to betray us, unless he wanted to end up as dead as O’Duffy.

Regardless of what I might think of his methods of handling me, Inspector Jayne was a fine cop, with sound instincts—whether he liked what they were telling him or not. Though he’d insisted none of it was real, he’d nonetheless employed the stealth of twenty-two years of investigative procedure. He’d regarded the mouthless, sad, wet-eyed monsters and the leather-winged gargoyles and the hulking masses of deformed limbs and oozing flesh with the perfect impassivity of a nonbeliever.

He’d slipped up only once, a few minutes ago.

I’d quickly nulled and stabbed three Rhino-boys in the dark alley we’d been using as a shortcut.

Jayne stood there, staring down at their gray-limbed bodies, absorbing the lumpy faces with jutting jaws and tusklike teeth, the beady eyes and elephant skin, the open wounds, revealing pinkish gray flesh marbled with pus-filled cysts. “You fed me this?” he said finally.

I shrugged. “It was the only way I knew to show you what you needed to see.”

“Pieces of these. things. were in those little sandwiches?” His voice rose; his ruddy face was pale.

“Uh-huh.”

He looked at me, his Adam’s apple convulsing, and for a moment I thought he was going to vomit but he got it under control. “Lady, you are one sick fuck.”

“Come on. There’s one more thing I want you to see,” I told him.

“I’ve seen enough.”

“No, you haven’t. Not yet.” I’d saved the worst for last.

I concluded our sightseeing tour at the edge of a new Dark Zone on the north side of the river Liffey that I’d been planning to scout, so I could ink its parameters on the map I’d nailed up on my bedroom wall. “Remember those places you couldn’t find on the maps?” I said. “The area next to the bookstore? The ones O’Duffy was checking into? This is what they are.” I waved a hand down the street.

Jayne took a step toward the darkness and I barked, “Don’t leave the light!”

He stopped beneath a streetlamp and leaned against it. I watched his face as he watched the Shades slithering hungrily at the edge of the darkness.

“And you expect me to believe these shadows eat people?” he finally said, tightly.

“If you don’t believe me, go home, get one of your kids, and send them in. See what happens.” I didn’t feel as cold as I sounded when I said it, but I had to get through to him, and to do that, I needed to hit him where he lived, bring the threat as close to home as I could.

“Don’t you ever mention my children to me again!” he shouted, turning on me. “Do you hear me? Never!”

“When this wears off,” I pointed out, “you’ll no longer know where the Dark Zones are. Your children might walk to school through one, and never come home again. Will you go looking for their piles? Will you even know where to look? Will you die trying?”

“Are you threatening me?” Big hands fisting, he bristled toward me.

I stood my ground. “No. I’m offering to help you. I’m offering you a deal. In a day, give or take a little, you won’t be able to see any of this anymore. You won’t have any idea where the danger to your family lies, and it’s all around you. I can keep you informed. I can tell you where the Dark Zones are, where the majority of the Unseelie are gathering, and how best to keep your wife and children safe. If it gets really bad, I can tell you when to get out of town, and where to go. All I want in exchange is a little information. It’s not like I’m asking you to help me commit crimes. I’m asking you to help me try to prevent them. We’re on the same side, Inspector. Until tonight, you just didn’t know what was on the other side. Now you do. Help me stop what’s happening in this city.”

“This is insane.”

“Insane or not, it’s real.” I’d had a hard time accepting that, too. The bridge connecting the sane world to this dark, Fae-infested Dublin had taken me many faltering steps to cross. “It killed O’Duffy. Will you let it kill you?”

He looked away and said nothing. At that moment, I knew I’d won. I knew he would call me the next time a crime was radioed in. He would hate every minute of it, he would tell himself he was crazy, but he would make the call, and that was all I needed.

I left Jayne at the Garda station on Pearse Street, assuring him the vision would wear off soon. As we parted, I saw the same hollow expression in his eyes I sometimes glimpsed in my own.

I felt sorry for him.

But I needed someone on the inside at the Garda, and now I had him.

Besides, if I hadn’t opened his eyes tonight and forced him to see what was going on, he’d have ended up dead in a matter of days. He’d been nosing around too much. He’d have spotted an abandoned car down some back alley and walked into a Dark Zone at night, or whoever’d slit O’Duffy’s throat to silence him would have slit Jayne’s next.

He’d been a walking dead man. Now, at least, he had a chance.

Chapter 3

I’d die for him.

There’s nothing else to say.

I’d give the last breath in my body and the last hope in my heart to keep him alive. When I thought I was crazy, he came to me and made sense of it all. He helped me understand what I was, showed me how to hunt and hide. He taught me that there are necessary lies. I’ve been learning a lot about those lately. Every time Mac calls I get more practice. I’d die for her, too.

He’s made me see myself differently. He lets me be the woman I always wanted to be. Not the perfect daughter and honor student who feels like she has to do all the right things to make Mom and Dad proud, or the perfect big sister who always tries to set a shining example for Mac, and keep the nosy neighbors from ever turning their sharp, gossipy tongues our way. I hate small town busybodies! I always wanted to be more like Mac. She doesn’t do anything she doesn’t feel like doing. When people call her lazy and selfish, she doesn’t care, she’s happy. I wonder if she knows how proud of her I am for that?

But things are different now.

Here, in Dublin with him, I can be anyone I want to be. I’m no longer trapped in a small town in the Deep South, forced to be the good girl. I’m free!

He calls me his Queen of the Night. He shows me the wonders in this incredible city. He encourages me to find my own way, and to choose what I think is right or wrong.

And the sex, God, the sex! I never knew what sex was until him! It’s not soft music and candlelight, a choice, a deliberate action.

It’s as involuntary as breathing, and as impossible not to do. It’s slammed up against a wall in a dark alley, or flat on my back on cold concrete because I can’t stand one more second without him. It’s on my hands and knees, dry-mouthed, heart-in-my-throat, waiting for the moment he touches me, and I’m alive again. It’s punishing and purifying, velvet and violent, and it makes everything else melt away, until nothing matters but getting him inside me and I wouldn’t just die for him—I’d kill for him, too.

Like I did tonight.

And when I see her tomorrow.

I hated him.

Oh, I’d hated my sister’s murderer before, but now I hated him even more.

Here, in my white-knuckled hand, was proof that the Lord Master had used his dark powers on Alina, turned her into someone she wasn’t, before killing her: A page torn from her journal, penned in the beautiful, gently sloping hand she’d begun perfecting before I’d even learned to read.

A page so unlike Alina that it couldn’t have been more obvious he’d brainwashed her, done that Voice thing to her he’d done to me the other night in the caves beneath the Burren, when he’d demanded I give him the amulet and come with him, and I’d been unable to resist or deny him. With the power of a few mere words, he’d turned me into a mindless automaton. If not for Barrons, I would have trundled off behind him, enslaved. But Barrons, too, was skilled in the Druid power of Voice, and had freed me from the Lord Master’s spell.

I knew my sister. She’d been happy in Ashford. She’d loved being the person she was: bright, successful, and fun, idolized by me and most everyone else in town, the one whose smiling face was always in the newspaper for some honor or another, the one who did everything right.

He calls me his Queen of the Night.

“Queen of the Night, my petunia.” My sister had never wanted to be queen of anything, but if she had, it certainly wouldn’t have been the night. It would have been something festive, like Ashford’s annual Peach & Pumpkin Parade. She would have worn a shiny orange ribbon and a silver tiara, and been on the front page of the Ashford Journal-Constitution the next day.

I always wanted to be more like Mac. She’d never once said she wished she was more like me! When people call her lazy and selfish, she doesn’t care. Had people really said that about me? Had I been deaf back then, or just too dumb to care?

And what she’d written about sex was definitely not my sister. Alina didn’t like it doggie-style. She’d considered it demeaning. On your hands and knees, babe. Yeah, right, she’d say, and laugh. Up yours.

“See, not Alina,” I told the page.

Who had my sister killed the night she’d written this entry? A monster? Or had the Lord Master brainwashed her into killing one of the good guys for him? Who had she been going to see the next day? Had she been planning to kill her, too? Were they humans she’d been killing, or Fae? If they were Fae, how had she been killing them? I had the spear. Dani, a courier for Post Haste, Inc., the false front for the organization of sidhe-seers run by the Grand Mistress, Rowena, had the sword. Those were the only two weapons I knew of that could kill a Fae. Had Alina discovered some other weapon I didn’t know about? Of all the pages in her journal, why had someone sent me this page?

Most important and troubling of all: Who had sent it to me? Who had my sister’s journal? V’lane, Barrons, and Rowena all denied ever having met her. Might the Lord Master himself have sent it, thinking perhaps, in his twisted arrogance, that it would make me find him as attractive as my sister had? As usual, I was adrift in a sea of questions and if answers were lifeboats, I was in imminent danger of drowning.

I picked up the envelope and studied it. Plain, off-white vellum, thick and tasteful enough to have been custom-ordered; still, it told me nothing.

The address, neatly typed in generic font, could have come from any inkjet or laser printer, anywhere in the world.

MacKayla Lane c/o Barrons Books and Baubles, it said.

There was no return address. The only clue it offered was a Dublin postmark, dated yesterday, and that was no clue at all.

I sipped my coffee, thinking. I’d gotten up early this morning, dressed, and hurried down from my bedroom on the top floor of the shop so I could stock the new dailies and monthlies, but I’d gotten distracted by the stack of mail piled on the counter. Three bills into it, I’d found the envelope containing the page from Alina’s journal. The pile of mail teetered; the monthlies were still boxed.

I closed my eyes and rubbed them. I’d been hunting for my sister’s journal, desperate to find it before someone else did, but it was too late. Someone else had gotten to it before me. Someone else was privy to her innermost thoughts, and had at their disposal all the knowledge she’d gained since she’d arrived on Ireland’s Fae-infested shores.

What other secrets did her diary contain, besides unflattering personal insight into me? Had she written about the location of any of the Hallows or relics we needed? Did someone else know about the Sinsar Dubh, and how it was moving around? Were I and my anonymous foe both hoping to track it the same way?

The phone began to ring, a local number. I ignored it. Everyone that mattered to me had my cell phone number. Seeing Alina’s handwriting, hearing her words spoken aloud in my mind, as I’d read them, had left me feeling raw. I was in no mood to talk books to a customer.

The phone finally stopped ringing, but after a three-second pause, began again.

The third time it started ringing, I picked it up, just to shut it up.

It was Christian MacKeltar, wondering what had happened to me the other night, and why I hadn’t returned any of his calls. I could hardly tell him it was because I’d been a little busy being driven to my knees by a sentient Book; watching my murderous employer tote a dead body around; serving addictive, cannibalistic tea to a homicide detective in order to turn him into my informant, then steering him around the city, forcing him to see monsters; and just now, reading up on how my sister had loved having sex with the very monster responsible for bringing the rest of the monsters through to our world.

No, I was quite certain all of that would only alienate a man I was hoping might prove a valuable source of information.

So I offered him a colorful bouquet of lies, and made a new date with him for tonight.

_____

By the time I left to go see Christian, Barrons still hadn’t put in an appearance, and I was glad. I wasn’t ready to face him yet.

As I locked up the bookstore, I scanned the Dark Zone. Three Shades toed the edge of the light. The rest slithered and slid in the shadows. Nothing had changed. Their prison of darkness still held.

I turned briskly to my left and headed for Trinity College, where Christian worked in the Ancient Languages Department. I’d met him several weeks ago, when Barrons had sent me to pick up an envelope from the woman who ran the department. She hadn’t been there, but Christian had.

Then we’d run into each other a second time, a week ago, in a pub, where he’d stunned me by telling me he’d known my sister, and even knew what she and I were. Our conversation had been rudely interrupted by Barrons, who’d called to warn me Hunters were in the city, and told me to return to the bookstore. I’d been planning to call Christian the next day and find out what else he knew, but on my way home, I’d been cornered by Hunters and abducted by Mallucé and, needless to say, I’d had my hands a little full battling for my life. Then, the other night, the debilitating appearance of the Sinsar Dubh had prevented us from meeting again. I was anxious to find out what he knew.

I pushed my curls back from my forehead and fluffed them with my fingers. I’d dressed up again tonight, wound a brilliant silk scarf through my hair and tied it, letting the brightly colored ends trail over my shoulder, and drape softly in my cleavage. I was nothing if not determined; at least twice a week I would wear bright, pretty clothes. I was afraid if I didn’t, I’d forget who I was. I’d turn into what I felt like: a grungy, weapon-bearing, pissy, resentful, vengeance-hungry bitch. The girl with long blond hair, perfect makeup, and nails might be gone, but I was still pretty. My shoulder-length Arabian-night hair curled flatteringly around my face, complementing my green eyes and clear skin. Coupling red lipstick with my darker ’do made me look older, sexier than I used to.

I’d chosen clothes tonight that hugged my curves and showed them to their best advantage. I was wearing a cream skirt, with a snug yellow sweater in honor of Alina (beneath a short, stylish, cream raincoat that concealed eight flashlights, two knives, and a spear), high heels, and pearls. Dad said the day they’d picked us up from the adoption agency, Alina had been dressed like a sunbeam, and I’d been a rainbow.

Alina.

Her absence in my life was so painful that it was a presence. Grief still kicked me awake in the morning, kept me company all day, and crawled into bed with me at night.

Dublin was a constant reminder of her. She was here in every street, in the face of every young coed who had no idea what was walking right alongside her, masquerading as human. She was laughing in the pubs, and dying later in the dark.

She was all the people I couldn’t save.

I skirted the busy craic-filled streets of Temple Bar and headed straight for the college. Last night I’d walked through the heavily trafficked tourist zone that boasted over six hundred pubs, but tonight I was in no mood to be reminded that there were only two known weapons that could kill Fae and hundreds, if not thousands, of Unseelie in the city. My encounter with the Sinsar Dubh had sobered me. The sheer evilness of the thing had served as a grim reminder that, although I might have recently triumphed in an against-all-odds type of situation and walked out of it stronger, there was worse in store for me yet.

When I arrived at the office that housed the staff of the Ancient Languages Department, Christian met me at the door, looking young, hip, and hot in faded jeans, rugged boots, and a sweater, his long, dark hair pulled back at his nape in a leather thong. He gave me a charged, appreciative look, making me glad I’d taken care with my appearance. A woman likes to know her efforts are paying off.

He took my arm and suggested we go somewhere else. “They’re discussing the budget,” he advised in a deep, husky brogue, adjusting his stuffed backpack over a well-muscled shoulder.

“Don’t you need to stay?”

“Nah. Only full-timers have to suffer the meetings. I’m part-time.” He flashed a killer smile that made me stand up straight. Christian was the kind of good-looking that hit you over the head, made you keep stealing second and third glances at him: the five-o’clock shadow on the strong jaw, the broad shoulders, the flawless dark skin, and the striking tiger-eyes. There was an easy grace to his long-limbed body that hinted at maturity beyond his years. “Besides, it’s not a place I’m comfortable talking, and we’ve a great deal to talk about, lass.”

I hoped that meant someone was finally going to tell me something useful about my sister. He led me to a windowless study room off a vending area in the nearly deserted basement of the building. We settled into folding metal chairs, beneath the hum of fluorescent lights, where I imagined Alina might have sat and studied a time or two. I wasted no time asking Christian how he’d met her. I wondered if he’d been one of the boys she’d dated when she’d first come over, before she’d been brainwashed by the Lord Master. I sure would have. In another life. A normal one.

“She came to the ALD, looking for someone to translate a page of text.”

“What kind of text?” I thought instantly of the Sinsar Dubh.

“Nothing I could translate. My uncles couldn’t, either.”

I assumed his uncles were linguists and said so.

He smiled faintly, as if amused by the question. “They’re historians, after a fashion, knowledgeable about antiquities and such. I’ve never stumbled across a text they couldn’t translate.”

“Did you ever find out what it was?”

“My turn, Mac. I’ve a few questions of my own. What happened to you the other night? Why’d you cry off?”

“I told you. My dad called, and we got to talking about Mom and how she’s getting worse and I lost track of time. Then, by the time I got off the phone, something I ate for dinner wasn’t agreeing with me and I felt so sick I just went to bed.”

“Nice try,” he said dryly. “Now tell me the truth.”

“I just did.”

“No, you didn’t. You’re lying. I hear it in your voice.”

“You can’t hear whether I’m lying in my voice,” I scoffed. “Body language might tell you a thing or two, but—”

“Yes, I can.” He cut me off with a faintly bitter flash of that killer smile. “Literally. You lie, I hear it. And I wish I didn’t. You have no idea how often people lie. All the bloody time, about everything, even stupid things that make no sense to bother lying about. Truth between us, Mac, or nothing at all. Your choice. But don’t bother trying to fool me. You can’t.”

I began to ease off my coat, remembered my arsenal, and thought better of it, settled back in my chair, and crossed my legs, one high heel swinging. I searched his face. My God, he was serious. “You really know when people are lying?”

He nodded.

“Prove it.”

“Got a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Is there a man you’re interested in?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

I stiffened. “I am not.”

“Yes, you are. He may not be a boyfriend but there’s someone you’re interested in enough that you’re thinking about having sex with him.”

I glared. “I am not. And you can’t possibly know that.”

He shrugged. “Sorry, Mac, I hear the truth even when the person isn’t admitting it to themselves.” One dark brow lifted. “I don’t suppose it might be me?”

I blushed. He’d just made me think it. Us. Naked. Wow. I was a perfectly healthy woman, and he was a gorgeous man. “No,” I said, embarrassed.

He laughed, gold eyes glittering. “Lie. A whopper. Gotta love that. Have I told you I’m a big believer in fulfilling a woman’s fantasies?”

I rolled my eyes. “I wasn’t thinking it before you said it. You put the thought in my head and then, there it was, and I was thinking it.” And that worried me, because I could think of only two other people—and I was using that term loosely about both—that I might have been thinking of having sex with before he’d made me think about having sex with him, and both were terrible choices. “This doesn’t prove anything.”

“Guess you’ll have to take me on faith then, until you get to know me. I take you on faith. I don’t ask you to prove that you see the Fae.”

”People think about having sex all the time,” I said irritably. “Are you aware of every time you’re thinking about it, and who with?”

“Bless the saints, no. I wouldn’t get anything done. Most of the time it’s just background music, you know, sex-sex-sex-find-in-it-before-more-perfectly-good-sperm-die, playing in my head, to an easy, sensuous beat, then somebody like you walks in and it ratchets up to that Nine Inch Nails song my uncle plays all the time for his wife.” He grimaced. “We leave the castle and go somewhere else when he does that.”

“Your uncle listens to Trent Reznor?” I blinked. “You live in a castle?” I didn’t know which thought was weirder.

“Big. Drafty. Not as impressive as it sounds. And not all my uncles are as cool as Dageus. Men want to be him. Women adore him. It’s irritating, actually. I never introduce my girlfriends to him.”

If he was anything like Christian, I could see why.

“Point is, Mac, don’t lie to me. I will know. And I won’t put up with it.”

I pondered his claim. I knew what it was like to be capable of doing something others would consider impossible. I decided to take him at face value, and see what came of it. Time would tell. “So, is it a gift of birth, like me being a sidhe-seer?”

“You don’t think being a sidhe-seer is a gift. Nor is my. little problem, and yes, much to my parents’ inconvenience, I was born this way. There are necessary lies. Or, at least, kind ones. I never got to hear any of them. I don’t get to hear them now.”

Alina had said the same thing: Necessary lies. “Well, look on the bright side of it, you don’t get to hear any lies, but nobody around you gets to tell any, either. Do you think it’s easy to be around someone that you have to tell the truth to all the—oh!” I drew up short. “You don’t have many friends, do you?” Not if he spoke his mind freely, and he looked like the kind of guy that did.

He shot me a cool look. “Why’d you cry off last night?”

“I had a close call with a Dark Hallow, and they make me too sick to function if I get too close.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stared at me with fascination. “Now that was a celestial choir of truth, lass! You saw a Dark Hallow? Which one?”

“How do you know about the Dark Hallows? Who are you and what’s your involvement in this?” I didn’t need any more mystifying men in my life.

“How much truth will you give me?”

I hesitated only briefly. Of all the men I’d met in Dublin, he seemed the most like me; essentially normal, but afflicted with an unwanted, life-altering talent. “As much as I can, if you do the same.”

He nodded, satisfied, then settled back in his chair. “I come from a clan that, in ancient times, served the Fae.”

The Keltar, Christian told me, had once been High Druids to the Tuatha Dé Danaan, many thousands of years ago, during that brief time in which the Fae had attempted to play nice and coexist with man. Something had happened that shattered the fragile peace—he skimmed over this part—but whatever it was had caused Fae and Man to go their separate ways, and not amicably.

A Compact was negotiated to permit both races to exist on the same planet but keep the realms separate, and the Keltar were given the duty of performing certain rituals to maintain the walls between them. Over the millennia, they performed them faithfully with few exceptions, and if they failed in some small way, they always managed to make up for it in the nick of time.

But in recent years, the rituals stopped going as expected. On those preappointed nights of the year when the Keltar were to perform their magic, some other dark magic had risen up and prevented the pledge from being reinforced, and the tithe from being fully paid. Although this other magic hadn’t been able to collapse the walls between our worlds, it had seriously weakened them. Christian’s uncles believed the walls would not hold through another incomplete ritual. The queen of the Seelie, Aoibheal, who in the past had always appeared in times of crisis, had yet to be seen, although they’d invoked her by every spell they had at their disposal.

I was riveted by the story. The thought that, for thousands of years, a clan in the Highlands of Scotland had been protecting Mankind from the Fae fascinated me. Especially if they were all like Christian: gorgeous, sexy, self-possessed. It was comforting to know there were other bloodlines out there in the world with special, unusual powers. I wasn’t alone in my awareness of what was happening to our world. I’d found someone besides Barrons who had more information than me, and he was willing to share it!

“My uncles believe something has happened to the queen,” he said, “and as her power diminishes, another’s grows. The walls continue to weaken, and if we don’t figure out something by the time the next ritual must be performed, they’ll come down.”

“What’ll happen then?” I asked in a hushed voice. “Will the Compact be broken?”

“My uncles believe the Compact already is broken, that the walls are holding only because of the increasing tithes they keep paying. Fae magic is strange stuff.” He paused then said tightly, “At the last rites, we had to use blood, Keltar blood, in a pagan ritual. It’s unheard of. We’ve never used blood before. Uncle Cian knew how to do it. It was dirty magic. I could feel it. What we did was wrong but it was the only thing we could do.”

I understood that feeling. What I’d done to Jayne would never sit entirely well with me, but I’d been unable to think of an alternative. It hadn’t been dirty magic, just dirty tea. Manipulative. Ruthless. But I’ve begun to understand that you can only afford to play nice when there’s not much at stake. “And if the walls come down completely?” I reiterated my earlier question. I wanted to know just how bad things might get.

“When the Fae walked among us before, only the Seelie did. The Unseelie have been imprisoned for so long that mere whispers of myths remain. If the walls come down completely, all the Unseelie will be freed, not just the lower castes that are currently managing to get through somehow. The most powerful of the Unseelie Royal Houses will escape.” He paused and when he spoke again, his voice was low, urgent. “Myth equates the heads of those four houses, the dark princes, with the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”

I knew who they were: Death, Pestilence, War, and Famine. The Unseelie I’d seen so far were bad enough. I had no desire to ever encounter a royal dark Fae.

“It’ll get bad, Mac. They’ll turn our world into a living nightmare. My uncles believe the Seelie may not be able to reimprison the Unseelie if they escape.”

Was this why everyone was after the Sinsar Dubh? Did it contain the spells necessary to imprison the Unseelie, maybe even keep the walls from coming down in the first place? It would certainly explain why V’lane and the Queen wanted it, why Alina had wanted me to find it before the Lord Master did. No doubt if he got his hands on it, he’d hurry up and destroy it to make sure no one could ever imprison his army again. I wondered where Barrons fit in. Would he really sell it to the highest bidder?

I couldn’t dwell on the possibility of Unseelie overrunning our world. Keeping my thoughts tightly focused on my goals was the key to keeping my fears in check. “Tell me more about Alina.” At my swift change of subject, he looked relieved, and I realized I wasn’t the only one who felt like I was charged with an impossible task. It was no wonder Christian seemed mature beyond his years. He was. He had his own fate-of-the-world issues to deal with.

“I’m sorry, Mac, but I don’t have much more to say. I tried to make friends with her. Although my uncles couldn’t translate the text, they knew where it had come from, and we needed to know how she’d gotten it. It was a photocopy of a page from an ancient book—”

“—called the Sinsar Dubh.” The Beast, I thought, and my soul shivered.

“I wondered if you knew about it. What do you know? Do you know where it is?”

I didn’t know exactly where it was at the moment, and brandished that thought like a shield when I answered, “No,” in case he really was a walking, breathing lie detector. Because he was searching my gaze far too intently for my comfort, I added quickly, “What happened when you tried to make friends with my sister?”

“She rebuffed my efforts. She was deeply involved with someone and I got the impression he was very possessive. Didn’t like her talking to anyone.”

“Did you ever meet him?”

“No. I caught a glimpse of him once. Fleeting. Don’t remember much, which makes me believe he was Fae. They mess with your head if they don’t want you to see them.”

“Did you tell my sister the stuff you just told me?”

“I didn’t get the chance.”

“If you never became friends, how did you find out she was a sidhe-seer? How did you find out about me?”

“I followed her a few times,” he said. “She was always watching things that weren’t there, studying empty spaces. I was raised on stories of sidhe-seers. My family is. into old myths and lore. I put two and two together.”

“And me?”

He shrugged. “You were poking around Trinity asking about her. Besides, family’s a matter of public record, if you know where to look.”

With all my enemies, those were records I’d like destroyed. I was grateful my parents were four thousand miles away.

“Which Dark Hallow did you have a close call with last night?” he asked casually.

“The amulet.”

“Lie.”

I tested him. “The scepter.”

“Lie again. And there is no such thing.”

“You’re right. It was the box,” I said heavily.

“I’m waiting for the truth, Mac.”

I shrugged. “The Sinsar Dubh?” I offered, like I didn’t really mean it.

He exploded out of his chair. “What the—are you kidding me? No, no need to answer that, I know you’re not. You said you didn’t know where it was!”

“I don’t know. I saw it in passing.”

“Here? In Dublin?”

I nodded. “It’s gone. I have no idea where it was. taken.”

“Who—” Christian began.

“Hi, guys. What’s up?”

Christian’s gaze slid past me, to the door. He stiffened. “Hey, man, I didn’t hear you come in.”

I hadn’t, either.

“How long’ve you been standing there?”

“I just opened the door. I thought I heard you in here.”

I turned in my chair. The second time he’d spoken, I’d recognized the voice. The dreamy-eyed guy I’d seen in the museum and then run into later on the street the day I’d been interrogated by Inspector Jayne was filling the doorway with his dark, dreamy good looks. He’d told me he worked at the ALD, but I’d put him out of my mind. Like Christian, in another life, I’d have dated him in a heartbeat. Why, then, had it been Barrons I’d ended up kissing?

“Hey, beautiful girl. Fancy seeing you here. Small world, isn’t it?”

“Hey.” I blushed a little. I do that when a good-looking guy calls me beautiful. Especially now that every time I look in a mirror, I hardly recognize myself. Ironically, when your world comes completely unglued, it’s the paste of the everyday, meaningless little things that suddenly seem like real gems.

“You two know each other?” Christian looked baffled.

“We’ve run into each other a time or two,” I replied.

“They’re looking for you back at the office, Chris,” said the dreamy-eyed guy. “Elle wants to talk to you.”

“Can’t it wait?” said Christian impatiently.

He shrugged. “She didn’t seem to think so. Something about misappropriated funds or something. I told her I’m sure it’s just a bookkeeping error, but she’s on one.”

Christian rolled his eyes. “That woman is impossible. Will you tell her I’ll be there in five?”

“Sure, man.” His gaze cut to me. “Is this the boyfriend you meant?”

I shook my head.

“But you have one?”

“Dozens, remember?”

He laughed. “See you around, beautiful girl. Five minutes, Chris. You know how Elle gets about you.” Dragging a finger across his throat, he grinned and left.

Christian hurried to the door and shut it. “Okay, we’ve got to talk fast because I need this job for the time being and lately Elle seems to be looking for any reason to fire me. There’s something you need to see.” He opened his backpack and pulled out a leather notebook, tied with knotted cord. “My uncles sent me to Dublin for a reason, Mac. Well, several, but only one immediately concerns you. I’ve been watching your employer.”

“Barrons? Why?” What had he learned? Something that might help me sort through my own worries about who and what he was?

“My uncles are collectors. Everything they’ve been trying to collect for the past few years your employer has been going after, too. Some of it he’s gotten, some of it my uncles have gotten, and still other items have gone to a third party.” He withdrew a file from his notebook and handed me a magazine folded open to a page. “Is that Jericho Barrons?”

A brief glance was enough. “Yes.” He was nearly lost in the shadows, standing behind a group of men, but the flash had caught his face at just the right angle to bathe it starkly in light. Though the photo was grainy, there was no mistaking him. Barrons is unusual. He says his ancestry is Basque and Pict.

Criminals and barbarians, I’d mocked when he’d told me. He certainly looks the part.

“How old would you say he is?”

“In this picture?”

“No, now.”

“He’s thirty. I saw it on his driver’s license.” His birthday was coming up; on Halloween he’d be thirty-one.

“Look at the date on the magazine.”

I flipped to the cover. The photo had been taken seventeen years ago, which meant he’d been thirteen at the time of the photograph, if the date on his driver’s license was to be believed. Obviously, it wasn’t. No thirteen-year old boy in the world looked that mature.

Christian handed me another magazine, this one featuring a gathering of wealthy socialites at a gala at a British museum. Again, Barrons was unmistakable in it, even half turned as he was from the camera. Same hair and faultlessly tailored clothing, same expression on the haughty old-world face: a mixture of boredom and predatory amusement.

I flipped to the cover. This photo had been taken forty-one years ago. I flipped back to the photo and studied it carefully, looking for anomalies. There were none. It was either Barrons, or he had a grandfather who’d been his identical twin, and if this was Barrons in the photo, he was currently seventy-one years old.

Next, Christian passed me a photocopy of a newspaper article with a faded black-and-white photo of a group of uniformed men. Barrons was the only one not wearing a uniform. As was the case in the last two photos, he was angled slightly away, as if trying to slip off before the shot could be snapped. And, as was the case in the last two photos, he didn’t look a day older or younger than he did today.

“Do you know who that is?” Christian pointed to the big, rawboned, thirtyish man in the center of the photograph.

I shook my head.

“Michael Collins. He was a famous Irish revolutionary leader.”

“So?”

“He was killed in 1922. This picture was taken two months before he died.”

I did some rapid math. That would mean Barrons wasn’t seventy-one, he was an extremely well preserved one hundred and fifteen. “Maybe he had a relative,” I offered, “with a strong genetic resemblance.”

“You don’t believe that,” he said flatly. “Why do people do that? Say things out loud they don’t even remotely believe?”

He was right. I didn’t believe it. The pictures were too identical. I’d spent enough time with Jericho Barrons that I knew the way his limbs moved, the way he stood, the expressions he wore. It was him, in all those pictures. Inside, a part of me went very still.

Barrons was old. Impossibly old. Being kept alive by Gripper possession? Was that possible? “Are there more of these?” I wondered how far back Christian’s uncles had traced him. I wanted to take these photographs with me, slap them against Barrons’ chest and demand answers, even though I knew I’d never get any.

He glanced at his watch. “Yes, but I have to go.”

“Let me hold on to these a few days.”

“No way. My uncles would kill me if Barrons got his hands on them.”

I relinquished them reluctantly. I could begin research of my own, now that I knew what to look for. I wasn’t sure I needed to. What difference if Barrons were a hundred, a thousand, or several thousand? The point was: He was inhuman. The question was: How bad was whatever he really was?

“I’m leaving for Inverness tomorrow and won’t be back for a week. There are. things at home I need to take care of. Come and see me next Thursday. I believe you and I can help each other.” He paused then said, “I believe we may need to help each other, Mac. I think our purposes may be tied together.”

I nodded as we walked out, although I had my doubts. I’d been turning into a real bottom-liner lately and, regardless of how much Christian might know, or his involvement in maintaining the walls between realms, or how much I might enjoy his company, the bottom line was he was a man who couldn’t see the Fae, and that meant, in a fight, he’d be a liability, one more person I’d have to worry about keeping alive, and lately, I was having a hard enough time keeping myself alive.

I shouldered past tourists, wound my way between Rhino-boys and assorted Unseelie, and was a few blocks from the bookstore, passing one of the countless pubs that characterize Temple Bar, when I glanced in the window, and there she was.

Alina.

Sitting with a group of friends in a low-backed corner snug, tipping back a bottle of beer. Lowering it and laughing at something the guy next to her had just said.

I closed my eyes. I knew what this was, and he needed to get some new tricks. I opened them and glanced down at myself. At least I wasn’t naked. “V’lane,” I said. Did I ever have a bone to pick with him!

“MacKayla.”

Ignoring the reflection of the tall, erotic golden creature behind my shoulder, I focused that ancient, alien, sidhe-seer place inside my brain on the illusion: Show me what is true, I demanded. The vision of Alina ruptured with the suddenness of a bubble bursting, revealing a group of boisterous rugby players toasting their latest victory.

I turned and was slammed upside the head with death-by-sex Fae.

My knees got soft, my nipples got hard, and I wanted sex on the sidewalk, sex bent over that nearby car, sex up against the wall of the pub, and who cared if my naked petunia got smashed up against the window for all to see in the process?

V’lane is a prince from one of the four Seelie Royal Houses, and it’s difficult to look at him directly when he’s in high glamour. He’s gold and bronze, velvet and steel, and his eyes blaze with the stellar grandeur of a wintry night sky. He is so unearthly beautiful that it makes a part of my soul weep. When I look at him, I hunger for things I don’t understand. I ache to be touched by him. I’m terrified of his touch. I think sex with him might undo my essential cellular cohesion, and shatter me into fragments of a woman that could never be pieced back together again.

If V’lane were a signpost, it would read Abandon All Personal Will, Ye Who Tread Here, and while I never thought much about will back home in Ashford, here I’ve begun to think it’s all I really have to call my own.

I tried regarding him with slightly peripheral vision. It didn’t help. My clothing was painfully constricting, and I battled the overwhelming urge to remove it.

Fae princes drip such raw eroticism that it provokes a woman’s senses beyond anything she was meant to experience, turning her into an aroused animal, willing to do anything for sex. While that might sound like it promises the kinkiest escapades and most incredible orgasms of your life, Fae don’t grasp basic human concepts like death. Time has no meaning to them, they don’t need to eat or sleep, and their sexual appetite for human women is enormous, all of which leads to one inevitable outcome: A woman caught in a Fae prince’s spell usually gets fucked to death. If she survives it, she’s Pri-ya: an addict, a void of insatiable sexual need that exists for one purpose, to serve her Master—and that’s determined by whoever is currently giving her sex.

The first few times I encountered V’lane I’d begun stripping where I stood. I was getting better at resisting, because I was catching my hand every time it moved to the hem of my sweater, before I began pulling it off over my head. Still, I wasn’t sure how long I could keep it up.

“Mute it,” I demanded.

A slow smile curved his lips. “I am muted. Whatever you feel is not coming from me.”

“You’re lying.” I briefly visited Christian’s charge that I was thinking of having sex with someone. V’lane was not a someone. He was a something.

“I am not. You have made it clear you will not abide my. sexing you up. Perhaps you are. how do you humans say it. in heat?”

“We say that about animals, not people.”

“Animals, people, what difference?”

“Seelie, Unseelie, what difference?”

Silvery flakes crystallized in the air between us, icing the night with royal displeasure. “The difference is too vast for your puny mind to comprehend.”

“Ditto.”

“You are not naked, on your hands and knees, offering me your pretty little ass, MacKayla, which is what you do when I use the Sidhba-jai on you. Would you like a reminder?”

“Try it and I’ll kill you.”

“With what?”

I yanked my hand from the button at the back of my skirt and went for the spear holstered beneath my arm, but it was gone. He’d taken it the last time we’d met, too. I wanted to know how he was doing it. I had to find a way to stop him.

He paced a circle around me. By the time he’d completed it, his gaze was as chill as the night air. “What have you been up to, sidhe-seer? You smell different.”

“I’ve been using a new moisturizer.” Could he smell my recent cannibalization of his race? Though I no longer suffered the dramatic effects of it, did a residue stain my skin, as it had tarnished another, less tangible part of me? I’d eaten Unseelie, not Seelie; would that make a difference to him? I doubted it. The bottom line was I’d eaten Fae to steal the power of the Fae. And I’d just fed it to another human. And I would never admit either of those facts to any Fae. “Like it?” I said brightly.

“You are powerless to defy me, yet stand before me dripping defiance. Why?”

“Maybe I’m not as powerless as you think.” What would a bite of Seelie royalty do to me? I’d find out if I had to. Surely I could Null him long enough to sink my teeth in somewhere. The thought was a little too tempting. All that power. mine in one tiny bite. Or ten. I wasn’t certain exactly how much I had to eat to get superstrength, when I wasn’t mortally wounded to begin with.

He considered me a moment, then laughed, and the sound made me feel suddenly ebullient, drunk with euphoria.

“Stop it,” I hissed. “Quit amping up my feelings!”

“I am what I am. Even when I ‘mute myself,’ as you say, my presence overwhelms mere humans—”

“Bull,” I cut him off. “When you were kneeling on the beach in Faery, and touched me, you felt like a man and only a man.” That wasn’t entirely true, but it had been better than this. He could tone himself way down if he chose. “I know you can do it. If you want my help finding the Sin—er, the Book, turn it off, and turn it all off. Now. And keep it off in the future.” I’d picked up a superstition from Dani, the young sidheseer I’d met recently who’d warned me about casting certain words on the wind I didn’t want traced back to me, so now, whenever I spoke of the Sinsar Dubh aloud, out in the streets, especially at night, I tried to remember to call it simply “the Book.”

V’lane shimmered, flashed brilliant white, then faded and resolidified. I tried not to gawk. Gone were the iridescent robes, the eyes that burned with a thousand stars, the body that radiated the fire of Eros. A man stood before me in faded jeans, a biker jacket, and boots; the sexiest man I’d ever seen. A golden, horny angel stripped of wings. This V’lane I could deal with. This Fae prince I could keep my clothes on around.

“Walk with me.” He offered his hand.

Sidhe-seer walk with Fae? My every instinct screamed no. “I’ll Null you if I touch you.”

He considered me a moment, as if debating whether to speak. Then he shrugged, but not well. The human gesture only made him look more alien. “Only if you wish, MacKayla. The desire to Null or the instinct to defend yourself must be present. If you do not desire it, you may touch me.” He paused. “I know of no other Fae who would permit such intimacy and risk. You speak to me of trust. I am giving it to you. Once you touch me, you could alter your intent and I would be at your mercy.”

I liked that: him at my mercy. I took his hand. It was a man’s hand, warm, strong, nothing more. He laced his fingers with mine. I hadn’t held hands with anyone in a long time. It felt good.

“You spent time in my world,” he said, “now I will spend time in yours. Show me what it is you care for so deeply that you would die for it. Teach me of human ways, MacKayla. Show me why I should care, too.”

Teach this ancient creature who, in his most recent incarnation, was over one hundred and forty-two thousand years old? Show him why he should care about us? Right. And I was born yesterday. “You never stop, do you?”

“Never stop what?” he said innocently.

“Trying to seduce. You just switch tactics. I’m not stupid, V’lane. I couldn’t teach you to care about us in a million years. But you know what really pisses me off? I shouldn’t have to justify our existence to you, or any Fae. We were here first. We have the right to this planet. You don’t.”

“If might makes right, we have all the right to this world we need. We could have exterminated your kind long ago.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“It is complicated.”

“I’m listening.”

“It is a long story.”

“Got all night.”

“Fae decisions are not for humans to know and understand.”

“There you go, getting all superior again. You can’t fake nice for more than a few seconds.”

“I am not faking, MacKayla. I am trying to know you, to earn your trust.”

“You could have earned some of my trust by being around when I needed you. Why didn’t you save me?” I demanded. I’d been scarred by my hellish time beneath the Burren in ways I didn’t fully understand and, although my body had healed, and I felt stronger than ever, I wasn’t certain I was necessarily the better for it. “I almost died. I begged you to come.”

He stopped abruptly and spun me to face him. Though his body was as warm and solid as mine, his eyes blazed inhuman fire. “You begged me? Did you cry my name? Pray to me?”

I rolled my eyes. “Figures that’s what you’d hear.” I stabbed him in the chest with a finger. It sent erotic recoils up my arm. Even “turned off” he was turning me on. “The important part in there is that I almost died.”

“You are alive. What is the problem?”

“I suffered horribly, that’s the problem!”

He caught my hand before I could poke him again, turned it up, and grazed his lips across the underside of my wrist, then bit it, sharply. I snatched it away, skin stinging. “Such a naked, defenseless wrist,” he said. “How many times have I offered you the Cuff of Cruce? Not only would it prevent lesser Unseelie from harming you, with it, you could have summoned me and I would have saved you. I told you this at our first encounter. I have offered you my protection repeatedly. You have refused me at every turn.”

“A cuff can be removed.” I sounded bitter because I was. I’d learned that lesson the hard way.

“Not this—” He closed his mouth but it was too late. He’d slipped. All-powerful Prince V’lane of the Supercilious Fae had slipped.

“Really?” I said dryly. “So once it’s on me, I’m stuck with it forever. That’s the tiny little inconvenient catch you’ve never happened to mention to me before?”

“It is for your own safety. As you said, a cuff could be removed. How would that serve you? Better that it cannot be taken off.”

Barrons and V’lane had both been up to the same trick all along: trying to put their permanent mark on me. Barrons had succeeded. I’d be darned if V’lane would. Besides, I was pretty sure Mallucé would have cheerfully sawed off my arm to remove the cuff, which made me really glad I hadn’t been wearing it. “You want me to trust you, V’lane? Give me another way to summon you. A way that costs me nothing.”

He sneered. “And make a Fae prince answerable to a sidheseer?”

“Allow me to put it into perspective for you. I saw the Book again the other night, and had no way to contact you.”

“You saw it? When? Where?”

“How do I summon you?”

“You dare much, sidhe-seer.”

“You ask much, Fae.”

“Not as much as I could.”

Had I lost a few seconds there, or had he been leaning closer all the time? His mouth was inches from mine. I could feel his breath on my skin. He smelled of exotic, drugging spices.

“Back off, V’lane,” I warned.

“I am preparing to give you the way to summon me, human. Stand still for it.”

“A kiss? Oh, please! I’m not that—”

“My name on your tongue. I cannot teach you to say it. Humans do not possess the ability to form such sounds. But I can give it to you. With my mouth, I can place it on your tongue. Then you have but to release my name to the wind, and I will appear.”

He was so close that the heat of his body was sunshine on my skin. Was nothing simple? I didn’t want a cuff. I didn’t want a kiss. I wanted nice normal methods of communication. “How about a cell phone?”

“No towers in Faery.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Did you just make a joke?”

“You walk among the worst of my kind, yet tremble at the prospect of a simple kiss.”

“I’m not trembling. See any trembling here?” I thrust my trembling hands in my coat pockets, and gave him a dead-level, cocky stare. I doubted anything from V’lane was simple. Especially not a kiss. “How about a mystical cell phone, that doesn’t use towers?” I pressed. “Surely, with all that power you’re so smug about, you can create—”

“Shut up, MacKayla.” He grabbed a handful of curls at the back of my head and yanked me toward him. I couldn’t get my hands out of my pockets fast enough, so I slammed into his chest. I considered Nulling him, but if he really was going to give me a way to contact him, I wanted it. It was part of my egg-diversifying plan. I wanted all the backup, potential weapons, and odds in my favor that I could get. If I got into a jam again, like I’d been in beneath the Burrens, V’lane could save me in a matter of seconds. It had taken Barrons hours to track me and get to me, following the beacon of my tattoo.

Speaking of which.

V’lane’s knuckles grazed the base of my skull where Barrons had branded me; his eyes narrowed, and he inhaled sharply. For a moment, he seemed to shimmer, as if he was struggling to hold form and not revert to another. “You think to allow his mark upon your body but refuse mine?” he hissed. He closed his mouth over mine.

The Unseelie Hunters are especially terrifying to sidheseers because they know where we live inside our heads. They instinctively know exactly where to find the small, frightened child in us all.

The Seelie princes know where we live, too, but it’s the grown woman they’re after. They hunt us in our own bodies, tracking us without mercy into the darkest corners of our libido. They seduce the Madonna; they celebrate the whore. They serve our sexual needs tirelessly, gorging on our passion, amplifying it, and slamming it back at us a thousandfold. They are masters of all our desires. They know the limits of our fantasies; they take us to the edge and leave us there, hanging by shredded fingernails above a bottomless gorge, begging for more.

His tongue touched mine. Something hot and electric jolted through my mouth, and pierced my tongue. It swelled inside me, filling my mouth. I choked on it, and orgasmed instantly, as hot and electrifying as whatever he’d just done to my tongue. Pleasure ripped through me with such exquisite precision that my bones steamed and turned to water. I would have collapsed, but he took my weight, and I was in a dreamy, surreal place for a few moments, where his laughter was black velvet and his need was as vast as the night, then I was clear and me again.

There was something potent and dangerous in my mouth, on my tongue. How was I supposed to talk around it?

He drew back. “Give it a moment. It will settle in.”

It settled with all the subtlety of multiple orgasms on the cusp of a steel thorn; pleasure inseparable from pain. Aftershocks quaked through me. I glared at him, more shaken by his touch than I cared to acknowledge.

He shrugged. “I dampened myself greatly. It could have been much more. what is your word? Traumatic. Humans were not meant to carry a Fae’s name on their tongue. How does it feel, MacKayla? You have a piece of me in your mouth. Would you like another?” He smiled, and I knew he didn’t mean a word, or whatever it was that lay there coiled, slumbering but barely, in a porcelain cage.

When I was fourteen, I chipped a tooth in cheerleader practice. My dentist was on vacation, and it was nearly two weeks before I could get it fixed. During the interminable wait, my tongue incessantly worried the jagged edge of the enamel. That was how I felt now: I had an aberration in my mouth, and I wanted to scrape it out because it was wrong, it didn’t belong there, and as long as it was on my tongue, I wouldn’t be able to scrape the Fae prince from my mind.

“It makes me want to spit,” I said coolly.

His face tightened, and the temperature plunged so sharply my breath frosted the night air. “I have honored you. I have never before given such a gift. Do not belittle it.”

“How do I use it?”

“Need me, open your mouth, and I will be there.” I didn’t see him move but suddenly his lips were against my ear. “Tell no one I gave it to you. Mention it, and I will take it away.” He vanished before he finished speaking. His words danced on the air like the Cheshire cat’s smile.

“Hey, I thought you wanted to know about the Sinsar Dubh!” I was so startled by his abrupt departure that I spoke without thinking. I regretted it immediately. My words hung as heavy as Georgia humidity in the night. “Sinsar Dubh” seemed to echo sibilantly, soughing on the night wind, racing the darkness to darker ears, and I suddenly felt as if I’d stamped a red X on myself.

I had no idea where V’lane had gone, or why he’d disappeared so suddenly, but I decided I’d be wise to do the same myself.

Before I could move, a hand closed on my shoulder. “I do, Ms. Lane,” Barrons said grimly. “But first I’d like to know what the fuck you were doing kissing him.”

Chapter 4

I turned, scowling. Barrons has a habit of popping up, without warning, when I least expect it, at the most inconvenient times. I absorbed him in slow degrees, the only way to look at him. As a whole, he’s jarringly present in the space he occupies, as if ten times the man occupies a normal man-sized space. I wonder why. Because there’s an Unseelie stuffed inside him? I wonder how old he really is.

I should be afraid of him. And sometimes in the middle of the night when I’m alone and I think about him—especially when I picture him carrying the dead woman’s body, and the look on his bloody face—I am.

But when he’s standing in front of me, I’m not.

I wonder if it’s possible for a person to do some kind of “numbing” spell, create a glamour so complete that it deceives all the senses, even sidhe-seer ones.

“There’s something on your lapel.” I dabbed at it. He’s also meticulous, never a man to sport lint or stains on his clothes, but tonight his dark suit had a shiny spot on the left side. I was dabbing at a. man, for lack of a better word. who’d had birthdays untold, and walked in Unseelie Hallows, carrying around corpses. It felt as absurd as brushing a wolf’s teeth, or trying to mousse his fur. “And I wasn’t kissing him.”

And I’d like to know what the feck you were doing with that woman in that mirror, I thought. But I didn’t say it. There’s a legal term my dad likes to use: res ipsa loquitur—the thing speaks for itself. I knew what I knew, and now I was watching him. And my back. Very carefully.

He knocked my hand away. “Then why was his tongue in your mouth? Was he conducting a clinical test of your gag reflex?” He smiled, but not nicely. “How is your gag reflex, Ms.

Lane? Are you a hair trigger?”

Barrons likes to use sexual innuendo to try to shut me up. I think he expects the well-raised southern belle in me will think eew and back off. Sometimes, I do think eew, but I don’t back off. “I’m a spitter, if that’s what you’re asking.” I flashed him a too-sweet smile.

“Didn’t look that way to me. I think you’re a swallower. His tongue was halfway to China and you were still taking it.”

“Jealous?”

“Implies emotional investment. The only investment I have in you is my time, and I’m expecting a big payoff. Tell me about the Sinsar Dubh.”

I glanced at my hand. It had come away from his lapel wet. I angled it in the light. Red looks black at night. I sniffed it. It smelled like old pennies. Gee, blood. No surprise there. “Have you been in a fight? No, let me guess; you saved a wounded dog, again?” I said dryly. That was the excuse he’d used last time.

“I had a nosebleed.”

“Nosebleed, my petunia.”

“Petunia?”

“Ass, Barrons. As in you are one.”

“The Book, Ms. Lane.”

I looked into his eyes. Was there a Gripper in there? Something very old looked back. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Why did you call after him?”

“I haven’t seen him since the last time we saw the Book. I keep V’lane informed. You’re not the only shark in the sea.”

He raked me with a contemptuous glance. “It’s a Fae prince’s fundamental nature to enslave a woman with sex, Ms. Lane. It’s a woman’s fundamental nature to be enslaved. Try to rise above it.”

“Oh, it is not a woman’s fundamental nature to be enslaved!” Everywoman reared up in me, battle-ready.

He turned and walked away. “You wear my brand, Ms. Lane,” floated over his shoulder, “and if I’m not mistaken, you now wear his. Who owns you? I don’t think it’s you.”

“It is, too,” I yelled at his retreating back, but he was already halfway down the street, vanishing into the darkness. “I don’t wear his brand!” Did I? Exactly what had V’lane embedded in my tongue? I fisted my hands, staring after him.

Behind me, militant footfalls approached. I reached instinctively for my spear. It was back where it was supposed to be, holstered beneath my arm again. I needed to figure out how V’lane was taking it. Had he returned it when he’d kissed me? Wouldn’t I have felt it? Could I persuade Barrons to ward, so it couldn’t be taken from me? He seemed to have a vested interest in my having it.

A troop of ugly gray-skinned Rhino-boys marched by, and I busied myself digging in my purse, partly to keep from watching them, counting their numbers, and trying to decide if they were new in town or if I’d seen them before, and partly to keep my face concealed in shadow. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the Lord Master was circulating a WANTED poster of me, with a detailed sketch. It was probably time to change my hair again, start wearing ball caps or wigs.

I resumed my trek to the bookstore. It hadn’t eluded my orgasm-drenched brain that V’lane had disappeared the moment Barrons had appeared. Maybe he wasn’t a Gripper but an even worse Unseelie that I’d not yet encountered. In a world that kept growing darker every day, Barrons sure did seem to have a knack for keeping all the monsters at bay.

Because he was the biggest, baddest monster of all?

Monday morning I woke up slow and hard.

Most mornings, I spring out of bed. Despite the fact that my life hasn’t turned out how I wanted it to, it’s the only one I have, and I try to milk it for all it’s worth. But some days, despite my best intentions to plunge into the day and grab what happiness I can—even if it’s only a perfect latte topped with cinnamon-sprinkled foam, or twenty minutes dancing around the bookstore with my iPod jamming—I wake up feeling bruised, coated with bad dream residue that clings to me all day.

I was slick with it this morning.

I’d had the dream about the beautiful dying woman again.

And now that I’d had it, I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten it for so long. For years, as a child, I’d dreamt it over and over, so often that I’d begun confusing the details with reality, and started expecting to see her somewhere when I was awake.

I had no idea what was wrong with the sad woman, just that it was something awful, and I would have given my right arm, my eyeteeth, maybe even twenty years off my life to save her. There wasn’t a law I wouldn’t have broken, a moral code I wouldn’t have violated. Now that I knew Alina and I were adopted, I wondered if it wasn’t a dream, but a memory, borne in my infancy and suppressed, creeping out at night when I couldn’t control it.

Was this beautiful, sad woman our biological mother?

Had she given us up because she’d known she was dying, and her sorrow was the pain she felt at being forced to give us to new parents?

But if she’d had to give us up because she was dying, why had she sent us so far away? If I was truly an O’Connor, as Rowena, Grand Mistress of the sidhe-seers claimed, it seemed likely Alina and I had been born in Ireland. Why would our mother have sent us out of the country? Why not let us be raised by people who could have taught us about our heritage, indoctrinated us like the other sidhe-seers? Why force our adoptive parents to swear to raise us in a small town, and never to let us go to Ireland? What had she been trying to keep us away from? Or what had she been trying to keep away from us?

Were there other memories my child’s mind had blocked? If so, I needed to find them, knock them loose, and remember.

I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. I spun the handle to full hot, and let the scalding spray steam the air. I was shivering, icy. Even as a child, the dream had always left me that way. It was bitterly cold wherever the dying woman was, and now I was cold, too.

Sometimes my dreams feel so real it’s hard to believe they’re just the subconscious’s stroll across a whimsical map that has no true north. Sometimes it seems like Dreaming must be a land that really exists somewhere, at a concrete latitude and longitude, with its own rules and laws, treacherous terrains, and dangerous inhabitants.

They say if you die in a dream, your heart stops in real life. I don’t know if that’s true. I’ve never known anyone who died in a dream to ask. Maybe because they’re all dead.

The hot spray cleansed my skin but left my psyche coated. I couldn’t soap away the feeling that it was going to be a truly sucky day.

I had no idea just how sucky.

_____

I learned in one of my college psych courses about comfort zones.

People like to find them and stay in them. A comfort zone can be a mental state: belief in God is a lot of people’s comfort zone. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking faith; I just don’t think you should have it because it makes you feel safe. I think you should have it because you do. Because somewhere deep inside you, you know beyond equivocating that something greater, wiser, and infinitely more loving than we’re capable of understanding has a vested interest in the Universe, in the way things turn out. Because you can feel that, as much as the forces of darkness might try to gain the upper hand, there is an Upper Hand.

That’s my comfort zone.

But comfort zones can be physical places, too: like your dad’s favorite recliner that your mom keeps threatening to send to Goodwill, with those sagging springs, the torn upholstery, and some kind of no-worry guarantee because the moment he settles into it every night, he relaxes; or your mom’s breakfast nook, where the sun shines in at the perfect angle every morning as she sips her coffee, and she kind of glows sitting there; or the rose garden your elderly neighbor prunes to perfection, despite the sweltering summer heat, smiling the day away.

Mine is the bookstore.

I’m safe inside. As long as the lights are on, no Shades can get in. Barrons warded the building against my enemies: the Lord Master; Derek O’Bannion, who wants me dead for stealing the spear and killing his brother; the terrifyingly Satanic Unseelie Hunters that track and kill sidhe-seers on general principle; all of the Fae, even V’lane—and if by some bizarre fluke something did get in, I’ve got an arsenal plastered to my body and I’ve hidden weapons, flashlights, even holy water and garlic in strategic locations throughout the store.

Nothing can hurt me here. Well, there’s the owner himself, but if he’s going to harm me, it won’t be until he’s done with me, and since I’m far from finding the Book, he’s far from done with me. There’s a measure of comfort in that.

You want to know somebody? I mean, really know somebody? Take away their comfort zone and see what happens.

I knew I shouldn’t have been up on the third floor, cataloging books, with an untended cash register and an unlocked front door two floors below me, but it had been a slow day and my guards were down. It was daytime and I was in the bookstore. Nothing could hurt me here.

When the bell over the front door tinkled, I called, “Be right down,” and inserted the book I’d been about to catalog on its side on the shelf to mark my place. Then I turned and hurried for the stairs.

Something that felt like a baseball bat slammed me in the shins as I passed the last row of bookshelves.

I went flying, headfirst, across the hardwood floor. A banshee landed on my back, tried to grapple my wrists behind me.

“I’ve got her!” the banshee yelled.

My petunia, she did. I’m not as nice a person as I used to be. I twisted, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and yanked on it hard enough to give myself a sympathy headache.

“Ow!”

Women fight differently from men. You couldn’t get me to hurt a woman’s breasts for anything. I know how tender my own are when I’m PMSing. Besides, we feed babies with them. Using a handful of her hair as leverage, I wrenched her around, slammed her on her back on the floor, and grabbed her by the throat. I nearly choked her by default when a second banshee landed on my back, but this time, I sensed her approach and pistoned back my elbow, nailing her squarely in the abdomen. She doubled over and rolled away. A third one vaulted herself at me, and I punched her in the face. Her nose cracked beneath my fist and spurted blood.

Three more women appeared and the fight got really vicious, and I lost all my illusions about women fighting differently, or being the kinder, gentler sex. I didn’t care where I hit, as long as my punches connected, and I was hearing thuds and grunts. The louder the better. Six against one wasn’t playing fair.

I felt myself changing like I’d changed that day in the warehouse in the Dark Zone, when Barrons and I had first battled side by side, against the Lord Master’s minions and Mallucé. I felt myself turning into a force to be reckoned with, a danger in her own right, even without the dark aid of Unseelie flesh. It still didn’t stop me from wishing I had a bite of it handy.

I felt myself becoming sidhe-seer, growing stronger, tougher, moving faster than a human could, striking with the accuracy of a trained sharpshooter, the skill of a professional assassin.

Only problem was—their green Post Haste, Inc. uniforms were a dead giveaway—they were sidhe-seers, too.

Fight scenes bore me in movies and since I’m telling this story, I’m fast-forwarding through the details. I was outnumbered, but for some reason, they seemed a little afraid of me. I decided Rowena must have sent them, and perhaps she’d told them I was rogue, unpredictable.

Make no mistake, I took a beating. Six sidhe-seers is an army and they kicked my petunia six different ways to Sunday, but they couldn’t keep me down.

How abruptly a situation can flip from bad to irrevocable, leaving you standing there thinking, Wait a minute, who’s got the remote? Where’s my rewind? Can I just go back a lousy three seconds, and do things differently?

I didn’t mean to kill her.

It was just that, once it penetrated that they were sidheseers, I kept trying to talk to them, but none of them would listen to me. They were determined to beat me unconscious, and I was equally determined not to be beaten unconscious. I wasn’t about to let them drag me to the abbey against my will. I would go on my own terms, how and when I felt safe—and after this underhanded ambush of Rowena’s, that might be never.

Then they started demanding my spear, poking and prodding me, trying to find out if I was wearing it, and something in me snapped as I realized that Rowena had sent my own people after me—not to bring me in, but to take my weapon away from me, as if she had the right! I was the one who stole it. I was the one who’d paid for it in blood. She thought to leave me defenseless? Over my dead body. No one was taking my hard-won power away from me.

I reached beneath my jacket to pull it out and wave it threateningly, to make them back off and listen to reason, and as I yanked it from my shoulder holster, the brunette in the ball cap lunged for me, and she and the spear. collided. Violently.

“Oh,” she said, and her lips froze on the round shape of the word. She blinked, and coughed. Blood blossomed on her tongue, and stained her teeth.

We looked down at my hand, at the blood on her pinstriped blouse and the spear lodged in her chest. I don’t know who was more mystified. I wanted to let go of it and back as far away as I could from the terrible thing it had done to her—those cold inches of killing steel—but not even under such circumstances could I force myself to let go of the spear. It was mine. My lifeline. My only defense in those dangerous, dark streets.

Her lids fluttered and she looked suddenly. sleepy, which I guess isn’t so odd; death is the great sleep. She shuddered, and sort of wrenched herself backward, twisting. Blood gushed from the unplugged wound, and I stood there holding the stopper. Green goo from stabbing Unseelie was one thing. This was human blood, on her shirt, her pants, on me, everywhere. I felt hot and cold at the same time. Too many panicked thoughts collided in my mind, blanking it out. I reached for her but her eyes closed and she stumbled backward.

“I’ll call an ambulance,” I cried.

Two of the sidhe-seers caught her as she fell, and lowered her gently to the floor, snapping orders at each other.

I fished out my cell. “What’s the emergency number here?” I should know it. I didn’t know it. She was still, too still. Her face was white, her eyes closed.

“It’s too late for that,” one of them snarled up at me.

Screw medical help. “I can get something else to save her,” I cried. I should have kept those stupid sandwiches! What had I been thinking? Fact was, I should probably start carrying live Unseelie chunks with me, everywhere. “Just keep her still.” I would rush outside, grab the nearest dark Fae, drag it back here, and feed it to her. She would be fine. I would fix this. She wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be. Unseelie would heal her. As I lunged for the stairs, one of them grabbed me and jerked me back.

“She’s dead, you fecking idiot,” she hissed. “It’s too late. You’ll pay for this.” She shoved me violently and I slammed into a bookcase.

I stared at the green-garbed women huddled around the body, and my future flashed before my eyes. They would call the police. I would be arrested. Jayne would lock me up and throw away the key. He’d never buy self-defense, especially not with a stolen, ancient spear. There would be a trial. My parents would have to fly over. This would destroy what was left of them: one daughter rotting in a grave, the other in a jail cell.

They gathered her up, and began carrying her toward the stairs, taking her down to the main floor.

They were disturbing the crime scene. If I were to have any hope at all of proving my innocence, I would need it intact. “I don’t think you should do that. Aren’t you going to call the police?” Maybe I could make it out of the country before they did. Maybe Barrons could fix this. Or V’lane. I had friends in high places. Friends who wanted me alive and free to do their bidding.

One of them shot me a murderous look over her shoulder.

“Have you taken a good look at the Garda lately? Besides, humans don’t police us,” she sneered. “We police our own. Always have. Always will.” There was an unmistakable threat in her words.

I poked my head over the balustrade and watched as they reappeared downstairs. One of them glanced up at me. “Don’t try to leave; we’ll just hunt you,” she hissed.

“Oh, take a ticket and get in line,” I muttered as they banged out the door.

“I need to borrow a car,” I told Barrons when he walked in the front door that night, shortly after nine.

He was wearing an exquisitely tailored suit, an impeccable white shirt, and a blood-red tie. His dark hair was slicked back from his handsome face. Diamond cuff links glinted at his wrists. His body hummed with energy, saturating the air around him. His eyes were startlingly brilliant, restless, darting everywhere.

I’ve felt that body on top of mine, been the focus of that consuming gaze. I try not to think about it. I have a box inside me now that never used to exist. I never needed it before. It’s down in my deepest, darkest corner, and it’s airtight, soundproofed, and padlocked. It’s where I keep thoughts I don’t know what to do with, that could get me into trouble. Eating Unseelie hammers on the inside of that lid incessantly. I try to keep kissing Barrons in that box, too, but it gets out sometimes.

I would not put the death of the sidhe-seer in the box. It was something I had to deal with in order to move forward with my goals.

“Why don’t you ask your fairy little boyfriend to take you wherever you want to go?”

That was a thought, but there were other thoughts attached to that thought that I hadn’t thought through yet. Besides, back home whenever I got really upset about something, like breaking a nail the same day I’d spent good money on a manicure, or finding out that Betsy had gone to Atlanta with her mom and bought the same pink prom dress as me, totally ruining my senior experience, I used to get in my car, crank up the music really loud, and drive for hours until I’d calmed down.

I needed to drive now, to lose myself in the night, and I wanted to feel the thunder of hundreds of stampeding horses beneath me while I was doing it. My body was bruised in a dozen places; my emotions were black and blue all over. I’d killed a young woman today. Commission or omission, she was dead. I cursed the vagaries that had led me to choose that precise moment to unsheathe my weapon, and her, that exact moment to lunge. “I don’t feel like asking my fairy little boyfriend.”

Barrons’ lips twitched. I’d almost made him smile. Barrons smiles about as often as the sun comes out in Dublin, and it has the same effect on me; makes me feel warm and stupid.

“I don’t suppose you’d call him that the next time you see him, and let me watch his reaction?”

“Don’t think that would work, Barrons,” I said sweetly. “Nobody ever sticks around when you show up. Darndest thing. Almost as if everyone’s afraid of you.”

My saccharine humor exorcised the ghost of his smile. “Did you have a specific car in mind, Ms. Lane?”

I wanted blue-collar muscle tonight. “The Viper.”

“Why should I let you take it?”

“Because you owe me.”

“Why do I owe you?”

“Because I put up with you.”

He smiled then, really smiled. I snorted and looked away. “The keys are in it, Ms. Lane. The keys to the garage are in the top drawer of my desk, right-hand side.”

I glanced at him sharply. Was this a concession? Telling me where he kept his keys? The offer of a deeper, more trusting association?

“Of course you know that already,” he continued dryly. “You saw them there the last time you snooped through my study. I was surprised you didn’t try using them then, rather than breaking my window. You might have saved me some aggravation.”

Barrons deserves to be aggravated. He’s the most aggravating. whatever he is. I’ve ever met. The night I’d broken a window to get into his garage, it hadn’t occurred to me to try those keys because I’d been so certain he was keeping some huge dark secret locked up in there, that he’d surely never let the keys just lie around. (He is keeping some huge dark secret in there, I just haven’t figured out how to get to it yet.) He’d caught my nocturnal B&E on the video cameras hidden in the garage, and left the incriminating evidence outside my bedroom door. “Let me guess, you have video cameras hidden in the store, too?”

“No, Ms. Lane, but I can smell you. I know when you’ve been in one of my rooms, and I know your nature. You snoop.”

I didn’t try to deny it. Of course I snooped. How else was I supposed to find anything out? “You can’t smell where I’ve been,” I scoffed.

“I smell blood tonight, Ms. Lane, and it’s not yours. Why is your face bruised? What happened today? Who bled in my bookstore?”

“Where’s the abbey?” I countered, fingering the lump on my cheek. I’d iced it, but not soon enough. It was hard and painful to the touch. I’d taken most of the blows to my body. My ribs were a mess, it hurt to breathe deep, and my right thigh was one massive contusion. My shins had huge goose-eggs on them. I’d been afraid several of my fingers were broken, but aside from being a little swollen, they seemed okay now.

“Why? Is that where you plan to go tonight? Do you think that’s wise? What if they attack you?”

“Been there, done that. How did you find me last night? Were you looking for me?” The question had been vexing me. Why had he shown up when I was with V’lane? It seemed too coincidental to have been coincidence.

“I was on my way to Chester’s.” He shrugged. “Coincidence. The bruise?”

Chester’s. Where Inspector O’Duffy had spoken to a man named Ryodan who, according to Barrons, talked too much about things he shouldn’t be talking about—Barrons himself. I made a mental note to find Chester’s, track down the mysterious Ryodan, and see what I could learn. “I got in a fight with some other sidhe-seers. Evade if you want, Barrons, but don’t treat me like an idiot.”

“I knew you were nearby last night. I detoured to make certain you were safe. How did the fight go? Are you. unharmed?”

“Mostly. Don’t worry, I’m intact in all the ways you need me to be. Never fear, your OOP detector is here.” My hand went to the base of my skull. “Is it the brand? Can you find me so easily by it?”

“I sense you when you’re near.”

“That sucks,” I said bitterly.

“I can remove it if you wish,” he said. “It would be. painful.” His brilliant gaze met mine and we stared at each other a long moment. In those obsidian depths I saw the darkness of Mallucé’s grotto, tasted my own death again.

Through the annals of history, women have paid a price for protection. One day, I won’t have to. “I’ll deal with it. Where’s the abbey, Barrons?”

He wrote “Arlington Abbey” and an address on a scrap of paper for me, got me a map off the bookshelf, and marked it with an X. It was several hours from Dublin.

“Would you like me to accompany you?”

I shook my head.

He studied me a long moment. “Then good night, Ms. Lane.”

“What about OOP detecting?” We hadn’t done any in days.

“I’m busy with other things now. But soon.”

“What are you busy with?” It was innocuous as questions go. Sometimes he answers those.

“Among other things, I’m tracking down the bidders on the spear,” he said, reminding me that he’d gotten several names from Mallucé’s laptop in the grotto; contenders in an auction for the immortal weapon. I imagined he was trying to find out what they had in their possession that we wanted, and we’d be robbing them as soon as he had the lay of the land, and a plan in place. OOP detecting loomed on the horizon. I was startled to realize I was rather looking forward to it.

Barrons inclined his dark head and left. I stared at the door after he’d gone. There were times that I wished I could go back to my earliest days with him, when I’d thought he was just an overbearing man, as in human. But he wasn’t, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past few months, in some of the most painful ways, it’s that there’s no going back, ever. What’s done is done, the dead stay dead (well, mostly; Mallucé had a few problems with that), and all the regrets in the world can’t change a thing. If only they could, Alina would be alive and I wouldn’t even be here.

I picked up the phone and dialed the number I’d looked up earlier. I wasn’t at all surprised that someone answered at such a late hour, at Post Haste, Inc., the Dublin courier service that housed Rowena’s bicycling sidhe-seers who kept tabs on what was happening in and around the city under guise of delivering letters and packages.

Their motherhouse, the abbey, was far from the city, and I was informed stiffly that the abbey was where Rowena was now.

“Fine. Tell the old woman I’ll be there in two hours,” I said, and hung up.

Chapter 5

The Viper isn’t the most expensive or fastest car on the market, but it delivers on everything it promises. It’s got great lines, a wicked attitude, and hits sixty in under four seconds. If I ever get home again, I won’t know what to do with my Toyota. I’ll need to pull a Fred Flintstone, and poke my feet through the bottom.

The last Viper that Barrons let me drive, and the one I thought I was getting this time, was gone. In its place was one of the new ones, hot off the assembly line, sleek, low, and muscley: the SRT-10 with 90 additional snorting horses for a total of 600 feisty stallions, and 560 ft-lb of torque.

It was black on black with heavily tinted windows, and looked like some kind of crouching metal beast, waiting—no, begging—to be taken and tested to its limits. I was momentarily awed to be holding its reins in my hands.

I stood for a moment, absorbing Barrons’ incredible car collection, listening hard, alert for any sounds or vibrations in the floor. There was nothing. Whatever creature dwelled beneath the garage either slumbered or lay sated. I envisioned a hulking darkness surrounded by a mound of cleanly picked bones, and shook my head to dispel the image.

I slid into the black leather interior of the two-seater, cranked it, listened to the engine, smiled, shifted into first, and pulled out of the garage. A complaint about the Viper (by people who would be better off sticking to 4-cylinder automatics and living vicariously through reality TV shows) is that the passenger compartment gets too hot because of the exhaust, and that it’s excessively noisy when you open it up on the road.

I revved the engine. The throaty growl was magnified by the close quarters of the alley, and I laughed out loud. That’s what the Viper’s all about, muscle and machismo, and when you’ve got it in spades, you strut it.

Down to my right, the huge Shade puffed up, nearly eclipsing the building behind it. I muttered something that would make my mother cringe, but kept my hands on the steering wheel and gearshift. There would be no more flipping of the bird at monsters of unknown parameters. I’d heard of road rage cases resulting in murder over less, and I saw no point in antagonizing an already antagonistic Shade that was far more aware of me than I would have liked.

Driving a hot car is a lot like sex to me, or a lot like I keep thinking sex should be: a total body experience, overwhelming to all the senses, taking you places you’ve never been, packing a punch that leaves you breathless and touches your soul. The Viper was way more satisfying than my last boyfriend.

I cranked up the music and barreled into the night. I didn’t think about what had happened today. I’d had all afternoon to think about it and had made my decisions. The time for thinking was over. It was time for action.

Twenty minutes from the abbey, in the middle of what we call B.F.E. back home, surrounded by too many sheep and too few fences for my comfort in such an expensive car, I pulled over to the side of the dark, narrow, two-lane road, looked around to make sure there was grass and foliage growing, reassuring myself it was a Shade-free zone, left the headlamps blazing anyway, and stepped out.

The thing on my tongue had been bothering me since V’lane had put it there. I didn’t know how long I was going to be able to stand it. But at the moment, I was glad I had it.

Need me, open your mouth, and I will be there, he’d said. I’d never have believed I’d be using it less than twenty-four hours later, but there was something I had to do tonight, and I needed backup. Serious backup. I needed something that would rock Rowena’s world, and Barrons just didn’t fit the bill the way a Seelie prince did.

I tried to decide what might constitute needing him, in a way that would release whatever was piercing my tongue. Merely thinking about him? Couldn’t be that. I’d been half thinking about him all day. He’d been simmering on the back burner of my mind’s stove ever since he’d put his pot there, as he’d known he would. Maybe, in time, I’d grow inured to the intruder. I doubted it.

“V’lane, I need you,” I told the night, and darned if the thing in my mouth didn’t move.

I gagged. The thing uncoiled and slammed against the back of my teeth. I spit it out convulsively. Something soft and dark exploded from my mouth, hit the air, and was gone.

“Sidhe-seer.”

I spun. V’lane was behind me. I opened my mouth and shut it again, pining for the good old days of cell phones. Perhaps, as experts warned, radiation really would fry my brain after decades of repeated use, but I was feeling fried already from using Fae methods of communication a single time.

I didn’t bother reaching for my spear. Its cold weight in my shoulder holster was gone. He’d somehow lifted it from me the moment he’d appeared. If I’d known how quickly he would show up, I’d have held on to it, to see if that stopped him. I made a mental note to try it next time.

“Fae,” I returned the salutation, if it could be called that, dryly. How had I ended up in a world with such strange methods of address? Of all the men I’d met in Dublin, only Christian called me Mac. “Give me my spear back.” I knew he wouldn’t but it didn’t stop me from asking.

“I do not come to you armed with lethal human weapons.” V’lane was in full Fae mode: glittering a dozen shades of alien, his iridescent eyes dispassionate with a thousand-yard stare, dripping heart-stoppingly incredible sex. Literally.

“You are a lethal human weapon.”

His gaze said There is that, and so it should be. “Why have you called me?” He looked impatient, as if I’d interrupted him in the middle of something important.

“How badly do you want the Book for your queen?”

“If you have found it and think to hold out on me. ”

I shook my head. “Not holding out. But everyone wants my help finding it, and I’m not sure who’s the strongest, or who will help me the most. There are things I want, too.”

“You question my power?” His eyes blazed the silver of sharp knives, and I had a sudden, strange vision—the tatters of a genetic memory? — of a Fae flaying a human’s skin from his body with a glance. If they catch you, bow your head before them, we’d taught our children, and never look into their eyes. Not because we’d been afraid they might be mesmerized—a Fae didn’t need to make eye contact to do that—but because if our children were going to die horribly, we didn’t want them to see their fate glinting in those sharp, inhuman eyes.

“Why did you leave when Barrons showed up?” I asked.

“I despise him.”

“Why?”

“It is not your concern. Are you such a fool that you think to summon me to interrogate me?”

I shivered in my light sweater and jacket. The temperature had just dropped sharply. Fae royalty are so powerful that their pleasure or displeasure affects the weather, if they allow it. I’d recently learned that the Unseelie Hunters, with their great leathery wings, forked tongues, and fiery eyes, command this power, too. “I called you because I need your help. I’m just wondering if you can do what I need you to do.”

“I will keep you alive. And I will not let you. what is it you disliked so greatly when you couldn’t summon me before? Ah, you said you suffered horribly. I will not permit that.”

“That’s not enough. I need you to keep everyone alive tonight, and not let anyone suffer horribly. And I need to know you won’t return here one day and hurt them in the future.” Sidhe-seers had been hiding from the Fae for thousands of years, and I was about to take one of the most powerful straight into their hidden lair. Would I be branded traitor? Cast out? Oh, duh, I already was. Those who should have been my allies in this battle were now gunning for me, thanks to Rowena. I wouldn’t have to do this if she hadn’t pushed me so far.

His alien eyes narrowed and he glanced around. Then he laughed.

I caught myself pulling my sweater up, smiling vapidly. My breasts ached and my nipples throbbed. “Turn it off,” I growled. “We have a deal, remember? You said you would turn it off around me all the time.”

He shimmered and was once again the man I’d seen the night before, in jeans, boots, and biker jacket. “I forgot.” There was neither truth nor contrition in his words. “You are going to the abbey.”

“Crimeny,” I exploded, “does everyone know everything but me?” I consoled myself with the thought that at least now I didn’t have to feel bad about betraying their location to V’lane. He already knew it.

“It would seem so. You are young. Your minuscule time is a yawn in my life.” He paused then added, “And Barrons’.”

“What do you know about Barrons?” I demanded.

“That you would be far wiser to depend on me, MacKayla.” He moved toward me and I stepped back. Even in his muted, humanlike form, he was pure sex. He glided past me, stopped at the Viper, and traced his hand over the sleek metallic curve of the hood. V’lane standing next to a black-on-black Viper was a thing to see.

“I want you to go to the abbey with me,” I told him. “As backup. I want you to be my protection. You will not harm any of the sidhe-seers there.”

“You think to give me orders?” The temperature plunged again, and snow dusted my shoulders.

I reconsidered. It wouldn’t kill me to phrase it nicely. Mom always said you draw more flies with honey than vinegar.

“Will you promise me that you won’t hurt any of the sidheseers?” Grimacing mentally, I added, “Please?”

He smiled, and a nearby tree pushed out velvety-looking, fragrant white blossoms that drenched the night air with pungent spices. They overgrew rapidly, plummeted to the ground in a lush fall of alabaster petals, and swiftly decomposed. Life to death in a matter of seconds. Was that how he saw me? “I will grant you this. I like it when you say ‘please.’ You will say it again.”

“No. Once was enough.”

“What will you do for me in exchange?”

“I’m doing it. Helping you find the Book.”

“Not enough. You wish to command a Fae Prince as a lapdog? It costs, MacKayla. You will let me fuck you.”

I jerked, and for a moment I was so angry I couldn’t speak. It didn’t help that his words had caused a slick, erotic thrill to flutter in my belly. Had he amped himself up again? Shot some kind of Fae sex-dart at me when he’d said it? “No. Not even if Hell freezes over will I offer you sex with me in exchange for anything. Got it? Some things are non-negotiable and that’s one of them.”

“It is merely coitus, a physical act, the same as eating or voiding waste. Why attach such importance to it?”

“Maybe for a Fae it’s merely a physical act, and maybe for some people, too, but not me.”

“Because sex has been so stupendous in your brief life? Because you have had lovers that have made your body burn, and set your soul on fire?” he mocked.

I notched my chin higher. “Maybe I haven’t felt that, exactly, yet, but I will one day.”

“I will give it to you now. Ecstasy that you would die for, but I will not permit it. I will stop before that happens.”

His words chilled me: he was just another vampire, promising to stop before he drained the last drops of blood that kept my heart beating. “Forget it, V’lane. I’m sorry I summoned you. I’ll take care of things myself. I don’t need you or anybody.” I opened the car door.

He slammed it so quickly that I nearly lost a finger. I was startled by his sudden violence. He crushed me back against the Viper, and touched my face. His eyes were razor sharp, hostile; his fingers feather-light. “Who bruised you?”

“I had a fight with some sidhe-seers. Quit crowding me.”

He traced a finger over my cheekbone, and the ache vanished. He dropped his hand to my rib cage and pain no longer spiked through me with each breath. When he slid his palm across my thigh, I felt the hemorrhaged blood drain from the contusion. He pressed his legs to mine and my shins were no longer bruised. My flesh burned in the wake of his touch.

He dropped his head forward, lips close to mine. “Offer me something in exchange for what you ask of me, MacKayla. I am a prince and we have our pride.” Though his touch was soft, I felt the rigidity in his body, and knew I’d pushed him as far as he would go.

In the Deep South, we understand pride. We lost everything once, but by God, we held on to our pride. We heaped fuel onto the fire of it, stoked it as high as a crematorium. And we immolate ourselves on it sometimes. “I know how the Book is moving around. I haven’t told anyone.” The length of Vlane’s body against mine was unhinging doors in my mind, showing me rooms I was better off not knowing existed.

His lips brushed my cheek and I shivered. “Barrons doesn’t know?”

I shook my head, turned it away. His lips moved to my ear. “No. But I’ll tell you.”

“And you won’t tell Barrons? It will be our secret?”

“No. I mean yes. In that order.” I hate it when people pile questions on top of each other. His mouth was fire on my skin.

“Say it.”

“I won’t tell Barrons and it will be our secret.” No loss there; I hadn’t planned to tell him, anyway.

V’lane smiled. “We have a deal. Tell me.”

“After you help me.”

“Now, MacKayla, or you go in alone. If I am to accompany a Null inside sidhe-seer walls, I require payment in advance.” There was no room for negotiation in his voice.

I hated parting with any of my aces in the hole, but if I had to give V’lane a piece of information that I’d rather not give him, in order to keep Rowena from going after my back every time it was turned, so be it. I couldn’t guard against all the dangers in the city. The Fae were bad enough, but at least I could see them coming. Rowena’s minions were perfectly normal-looking humans who could get too close before I even knew they were a danger. While my instincts to lash out at a Fae were strong, my instincts to strike at a human weren’t, and I didn’t want them to get better. Humans weren’t my enemy. I needed to send Rowena and her sidhe-seers a great, big “Back Off” message, and V’lane was the perfect courier.

Still, I didn’t have to tell him everything. I pushed him away and slid out from between him and the Viper. He watched my retreat with a mocking smile. I felt better with a dozen paces between us, and began to recount select portions of what I’d seen, lying in the sour-smelling puddle. I told him that it was moving from person to person, making them commit crimes.

But I didn’t tell him the three faces the Book had presented, or the severity of the crimes, or that it was killing the carrier before it moved on. I let him believe it was passing itself off from one live human to the next. That way if he decided to try to track it, too, I’d have an edge. I needed all the edges I could get. I knew V’lane didn’t really consider humans viable life forms, and I had no more reason to trust him than I did Barrons. V’lane might be Seelie, and Barrons might keep saving my life, but I had far too many unanswered questions about them both. My sister had trusted her boyfriend right up to the end. Had she made excuses for the Lord Master, the way I’d been making them for Barrons? So what if he never answers any of my questions? He’s told me more about what I am than anyone else. So what if he kills ruthlessly? He only does it to keep me safe. I could string together half a dozen at a moment’s notice. V’lane, too: So he’s a death-by-sex Fae; he’s never really harmed me. So what if he gets off on making me strip in public places? He saved me from the Shades.

I’m a bartender. I like recipes. They’re concretes. Was the drink recipe for seduction one shot charm and two shots self-deception, shaken, not stirred?

“You remained conscious the entire time?”

I nodded.

“Still you cannot approach it?”

I shook my head.

“How do you plan to find it again?”

“I have no idea,” I lied. “Dublin has over a million people in it, and the crime rate has been skyrocketing. Assuming it stays around the city, which I’m not even sure we can assume” (this was a lie; I don’t know why I was so sure of it, but I believed the Book had no intention of leaving Dublin’s chaotic streets at the moment, nor at any time in the near future) “we’re looking for a needle in a haystack.”

He studied me a moment, then said, “Very well. You have upheld your end of the bargain. I will keep mine.”

We got in the car and headed for the abbey.

Arlington Abbey was constructed on consecrated ground in the seventh century, when a church originally built by Saint Patrick in A.D. 441 had burned down. The church, interestingly, had been built to replace a crumbling stone circle some claimed had, long ago, been sacred to an ancient pagan sisterhood. The stone circle had allegedly been predated by a shian, or fairy mound, that had concealed within it an entrance to the Otherworld.

The abbey was plundered in 913, rebuilt in 1022, burned in 1123, rebuilt in 1218, burned in 1393, and rebuilt in 1414. It was expanded and fortified each time.

It was added onto in the sixteenth century, and again extensively in the seventeenth, sponsored by an anonymous, wealthy donor who completed the rectangle of stone buildings, enclosing the inner courtyard, and added housing—much to the astonishment of the locals—for up to a thousand residents.

This same unknown donor bought the land around the abbey, and turned the enclave into the self-sustaining operation it is today. The abbey boasts its own dairy, orchards, cattle, sheep, and extensive gardens, the highlight of which is an elaborate glass-domed hothouse rumored to house some of the world’s rarest flowers and most unusual herbs.

And that was all I’d been able to find out about the place in the twenty minutes I had to surf the Internet before leaving for the destination Barrons had given me.

Today, Arlington Abbey was owned by a subcorporation of a much larger corporation that was part of the vast holdings of an even larger corporation. Nobody knew anything about its modern-day operations. Oddly, no one seemed to find that odd. I found it spectacularly odd that a country that took such loving care of its abbeys, castles, standing stones, and countless other monuments asked no questions about the most extraordinarily well preserved abbey within its boundaries. But they didn’t, and there it sat, in the middle of nearly a thousand acres, silent and mysterious and private, and nobody bothered it.

I wondered what tremendous importance this site had for sidhe-seers that they’d doggedly protected it, even under guise of Christianity, and rebuilt it each time it had been destroyed, fortifying it ever stronger until now it loomed, a forbidding fortress over a still, dark lake.

In the passenger seat, V’lane flinched and seemed to flicker.

I glanced at him.

“We will leave the car here,” he said.

“Why?”

“Those at the abbey are. bothersome. with their attempts to defy my race.”

Translation: The abbey was warded. “Can you get past their wards?”

“They cannot prevent my entry. We sift place. They cannot ward against that.”

Okay, that was disturbing, but I’d come back to it. First things first. “Barrons said you can sift time, too.” Actually, he’d said the Fae used to be able to, but couldn’t anymore. “That you can go back into the past.” Where Alina was still alive. Where I could save my sister, and this terrible future could be prevented, and we could resume our blissfully ignorant lives, unaware of what we were, happy with our family back in Ashford, Georgia, and we’d never leave. We’d get married, have babies, and die in the Deep South at a ripe old age. “Is that true? Can you go back in time?”

“At one time certain ones among us could. Even then, we were limited, but for the queen. We no longer possess that ability. We are as trapped in the present as humans.”

“Why? What happened?”

He flinched again. “Stop the car, MacKayla. I do not enjoy this. Their wards are many.”

I pulled over, and killed the engine. When we got out, I looked at him across the roof of the car. “So, wards are uncomfortable to you, but that’s all? They don’t actually keep you out?” Could he enter the bookstore anytime he wanted? Were Barrons’ wards keeping me safe from any of the Fae?

“That is correct.”

“But I thought you couldn’t get into the bookstore. Were you just pretending the night the Shades got in?”

“We have been discussing sidhe-seer wards. The magic your people know and the magic Barrons knows are not the same.” His gaze glinted like sharp steel at the mention of my employer. “Come. Give me your hand so I may sift you in. And mind your intent. If you Null me inside those walls, you will regret it. Again, MacKayla, see the trust I grant you? I permit you to take me inside your sidhe-seer world, where I am feared and hated, and I go at your mercy. There is no other among my kind who would consider it.”

“No Nulling. I promise.” Barrons had yet another edge over the rest of us. Why didn’t that surprise me? Was that how he’d managed to conceal the Unseelie mirror from me? With deeper, darker magic than sidhe-seers knew? I couldn’t get too bent out of shape over it, however, because it meant I really was safe in the bookstore. How complex I was becoming: grateful for power wherever it could be found, provided it worked for me. “Are we clear on what I’m going to do, and what you’re not going to do?”

“As clear as your transparent desires, sidhe-seer.”

Rolling my eyes, I skirted the car and took his hand.

At home in Ashford, I have a great group of friends.

I don’t have a single one in Dublin.

The one place I thought I might make friends was at the abbey, among my own kind. Now, thanks to Rowena, that opportunity was closed to me. She’d been messing up my life since the first night I’d arrived in Ireland, when I’d nearly betrayed myself in a pub to the first Fae I’d ever seen and, instead of taking me in and teaching me what I was, she’d told me to go die somewhere else.

Then she’d stood passively by while V’lane had nearly raped me in a museum.

Then she’d sent her sidhe-seers to spy on me (like I wasn’t one, too!) and finally, she’d added insult to injury—sending them to attack me and take my weapon, forcing me to harm one of my own. Not once had Rowena welcomed me. Not once had she shown me anything but disdain and distrust—for no good reason!

These women were never going to forgive me for killing one of them. I knew that, and I wasn’t here to ask them to. It’s not the hand you’re dealt that matters. It’s how you play the cards.

I was here to set the record straight.

Rowena had made a statement this afternoon. By sending her sidhe-seers after me in force, with orders to subdue me and steal my weapon, she’d said: You are not one of us and the only way you can become one of us is complete subjugation to my will. Give me your weapon, obey me in all things, and I’ll consider letting you into the fold.

I was here to make my own statement back: Screw you, old woman. To drive my point home I’d brought as my protector a Fae Prince capable of destroying them all (not that I would ever let him). If she was a wise woman, she wouldn’t mess with me again, and she’d call off her attack dogs. I already had enough people and monsters messing with me.

Darn it all, I’d wanted friends and I’d wanted them among my own kind!

I’d wanted girls like Dani, only older, to confide in, to talk to, to share secrets of our heritage with. I’d wanted to belong here. I’d wanted to learn about the O’Connors, the bloodline I was supposedly descended from, and the last living member of.

“Take me in,” I told V’lane, bracing myself to be “sifted.”

I asked V’lane why the Fae call it sifting, and he said it was the only human word that encapsulated the basics of what they do. The Fae sift the limitless dimensions, like grains of sand through their fingers, letting a little spill here, a little spill there, sorting them until they have hold of the ones they want. When they have chosen, things change.

I asked if that meant he chose the “grain” of place where he wanted to be, and moved there by the power of thought. He didn’t get the idea of moving there. According to him, neither we, nor the dimensions moved. We simply. changed. And there it was again, the two prevalent Fae concepts: stasis or change.

Sifting felt like dying. I simply stopped existing completely, then was there again. It was painless, but deeply disturbing. One moment I was outside, standing next to the Viper, in near darkness; the next, my night-enlarged pupils gorged on a blaze of lights, momentarily blinding me, and when I could see again, I was inside the brilliantly lit walls of Arlington Abbey.

Women were screaming. Many and loudly. It was deafening.

For a moment, I was afraid they were under attack. Then I understood: I was the attack. I was hearing the sound of hundreds of sidhe-seers sensing an immensely powerful Fae inside their warded walls. I’d forgotten about that tiny detail; of course they would sense V’lane, and they’d raise the hue and cry.

“Shall I shut them up?” V’lane said.

“No. Leave them alone. They’ll stop in a minute.” I hoped.

They did.

At my direction, he’d sifted us into the rear of the abbey, where I’d hoped to find the dormitories. My guess, based on the sketches I’d seen online, had been accurate. One by one, doors opened, heads popped out, mouths closed, gaped, and closed again.

A familiar head of curly red hair emerged from a nearby room. “Oh, you are so fecking dead!” Dani exclaimed. “You were in serious trouble before, but now she’s going to kill you.”

“Watch your language, Dani,” chastised the woman who appeared in the doorway behind her.

Dani rolled her eyes.

“I’d like to see her try,” I said.

The outer corners of the gamine redhead’s mouth twitched.

“How dare you come here? How dare you bring that thing in here?” demanded a pajama-clad sidhe-seer, stabbing a finger at V’lane. Another head popped into view behind her, nose heavily bandaged. I knew that woman. My fist had met her face earlier today. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying, and narrowed on me with hostility.

When he stiffened, I placed a hand on his arm, careful to harbor no Nulling intent, in a show of solidarity I hoped would defuse his aggression.

The corridor was now filled with sidhe-seers in various stages of undress. Not because of V’lane, but because it was after midnight and I’d woken them. Apparently, he was proving true to his word. Not a single sidhe-seer was undressing. I didn’t feel the ghost of a sexual tingle. Nonetheless, they were all staring fixedly at him.

“I didn’t dare come here without Prince V’lane.” The use of his title pleased him; I felt muscle slide smoother beneath his skin. “Rowena sent six of you after me today.”

“I saw the ones that returned,” the pajama-clad woman snapped. She glanced over her shoulder at her bandaged roommate, then back at me, her gaze frigid. “Those that lived were badly beaten. There’s not a scratch on you. Not a single bruise.” She paused, then spat, “Pri-ya.”

“I am not Pri-ya!”

“You travel with a Fae Prince. You touch him freely, of your own accord. What else could you be?”

“Try a sidhe-seer who’s working with a Fae Prince in order to help Queen Aoibheal find the Sinsar Dubh so she can fix the mess we’re all in,” I said coolly. “V’lane approached me on the Seelie queen’s behalf, because I can sense the Book when it’s near. I’ve been—”

She gasped. “You can sense the Sinsar Dubh? Is it near? Have you seen it?”

Sidhe-seers up and down the corridor turned to each other, exclaiming.

“Can’t any of you sense it?” I glanced around. The faces turned toward me reflected astonishment. It mirrored my own. I’d thought surely there would be others like me. One or two, at least.

Dani shook her head. “The ability to sense Fae objects is extremely rare, Mac.”

Her roommate said stiffly, “The last sidhe-seer with that ability died a long time ago. We’ve not been successful at breeding those bloodlines.”

Breeding those bloodlines? The soft Irish lilt didn’t soften the words a bit. They were cold. Made me think of white coats and labs and petri dishes. It was no wonder I was so highly sought after. No wonder Barrons was so determined to keep me alive, and I had a Fae prince playing lapdog, and the Lord Master hadn’t yet launched a full-scale attack against me. They all needed me alive. I was Tigger. I was the only one.

“You killed Moira!” the woman in the door across the hall accused.

V’lane regarded me with acute interest. “You killed one of your own?”

“No, I didn’t kill Moira.” I addressed the sidhe-seers, who were all regarding me with open hostility, with the exception of Dani. “Rowena killed Moira when she sent her after me to beat me up and take my spear.” The woman had a name: Moira. Did she have a sister, too, who was now mourning her like I grieved for Alina? “I’m just as horrified by what happened today as you are.”

“Sure you are,” someone scoffed.

“She doesn’t even say she’s sorry,” another spat. “Just comes in here with her fancy Fae guard and blames our leader. I’m surprised she didn’t bring a Hunter along, too.”

I’d give them an apology if they wanted one. “I’m sorry I unsheathed my spear and was holding it. I’m even sorrier she decided to lunge for me right then. If she hadn’t, she’d be alive.”

“If you hadn’t refused to give us the spear, she would, too,” someone called.

“The spear isn’t yours,” another woman cried. “Why should you have it? There are only two weapons that kill Fae. More than seven hundred of us share the sword. You have the other. Do what’s right. Give it to those who were born and bred to have it!”

Others concurred.

Born and bred, my petunia. As if I were something less! “I’m the only one who can sense the Book, and I have to be out there every night, hunting for it. Do you have any idea what Dublin’s like right now? I wouldn’t survive a night without it. Besides, I’m the one who risked my life to steal it.”

My accuser sniffed and turned away, folding her arms. “Stealing. Working with a Fae Prince. Killing one of our sisters. You are not one of us.”

“I say she is, and she just got off to a bad start.” Dani said. “She didn’t have anyone to help her figure things out. How would you guys have done in the same situation? She’s just trying to survive, like we all are.”

I smiled. I’d once asked her the same thing and she’d acted all snotty and perfect, but apparently she’d gotten my point. I admired her courage, defending me like that. Barely thirteen or fourteen, and she had the balls of a bull. It was also the longest run of sentences I could recall hearing her string together, unplugged by a single cussword.

“Go back to bed, kid,” someone called.

“I am not a fecking kid,” Dani bristled. “I’ve killed more of them than any of you.”

“What’s your kill count now, Dani?” Last time we talked, she’d had forty-seven Unseelie kills to her credit. With her sidhe-gift of heightened speed, armed with the Seelie Hallow, the Sword of Light, she had to be a formidable fighter. I’d like the chance to find out one day, to battle at her side. The two of us could seriously watch each other’s backs.

“Ninety-two,” she said proudly. “And I just got this big, nasty fecker with dozens of mouths and a huge, disgusting dick—”

“All right, Dani, that’s it,” her roommate said sharply, forcibly turning her from the door. “Back to bed,”

“You got the Many-Mouthed Thing?” I exclaimed. “Way to go, Dani!”

“Thanks,” she said proudly. “He was tough to kill. You wouldn’t believe—”

“Bed. Now.” Her roommate shoved Dani into the room and pulled the door shut behind her, remaining in the hall.

“You know she’s just standing on the other side of the door, listening,” I said. “What’s the point?”

“Stay out of our business, and get that thing out of here.”

“Well said,” came the voice of steel I’d been waiting for.

Sidhe-seers fell back, allowing a silver-haired woman through. I’d wondered how long it would take her to get here. I’d wagered two or three minutes. It had taken her five. I’d wanted a few minutes alone with the sidhe-seers, unimpeded by Rowena, to clear my name. I’d said what I had to say to her followers. Now I had a few things to say to their leader.

I glanced up at V’lane. He returned the look, face impassive, but his eyes were blades, hundreds of sharp shiny edges that could spill blood in the blink of a lethal eye.

With a rustle of her long white robes, the old woman stopped in front of me. Her age was impossible to pinpoint; she might be sixty, she might be eighty. Her long silvery hair was intricately plaited in a crown above a finely wrinkled face. Glasses rested on a small pointed nose, magnifying the fierce intensity and intelligence in her piercing blue eyes.

“Rowena,” I said. She was wearing what I guessed must be Grand Mistress garb: a white hooded robe, with emerald trim, and a misshapen shamrock—the symbol of our Order’s pledge to See, Serve, and Protect—emblazoned on the breast.

“How dare you?” Her voice was low, controlled, and furious.

“Oh, you should talk,” I said, in the same tight voice.

“I invited you to assume your place among us and waited for you to accept my offer. You didn’t. I could only conclude you had turned your back on us.”

“I told you I would come and I was planning to, but a few things came up.” Things like being hunted down, abducted, locked up, and tortured to death. “It was only a few days.”

“It was a week and a half! Days matter now, even hours.”

Had it really been a week and a half? Time flew when you were dying. “Did you give them orders to kill me if it was the only way they could get my spear?”

“Och, it was not I who spilled sidhe-seer blood today!”

“Oh, yes, it was. You sent them after me. You sent six of your women to attack me. I would never have killed any of them, and they know it. They saw it happen. Moira collided with my spear. It was a terrible accident. But it was just that—an accident.”

She slipped her glasses from her nose, and let them rest on her chest, suspended by a chain of delicate seed pearls behind her neck. Without taking her gaze from my face, Rowena addressed her enclave. “She’s calling murder an accident, she is. Betraying us to our enemies and guiding them past our wards. This woman is our enemy, too.”

“I have known where your kind hide for millennia,” V’lane purred. “Your wards are laughable. They could not prevent a nightmare of me from getting in. You stink of old age and death, human. Shall I weave you dreams of it, haunt you with them?”

Rowena stared past him. “I do not hear it speaking.” To me, she said, “Give me the spear and I will permit the two of you to live. You will remain here with us. It will leave and never return.”

Snow dusted my cheeks. Soft gasps filled the corridor. Some of the sidhe-seers held out their hands, palms upward, to catch the whirling, icy flakes. I guessed none of them had seen a Fae prince before.

V’lane’s voice was even colder than the unnatural snow caused by his displeasure. “Do you think to kill me with the sword you have hidden in your robes, old woman?”

I groaned inwardly. Great. Now he had both weapons. Should I Null him and try to take them back?

Rowena reached for the blade. I could have told her not to bother. V’lane raised the sword she sought in a flash of silver, and rested the razor-sharp tip in the wrinkled hollow of her throat.

The Grand Mistress of the sidhe-seers went very, very still.

“I know your kind, old woman. And you know mine. I could make you kneel before me. Would you like that? Would you like your lovely little sidhe-seers to watch you writhe naked in ecstasy before me? Shall I make them all writhe?”

“Stop it, V’lane,” I said sharply.

“She did not save you from me,” he said, reminding me of the time he’d nearly raped me in the museum. “She stood by and watched you suffer. I merely mean to—how do you say it? — return the favor. I will punish her for you. Perhaps then you will forgive me a little.”

“I don’t want her punished, and it wouldn’t be a favor. Stop it.”

“She interferes and offends you. I will eliminate her.”

“You will not. We have a deal, remember?”

Sword poised at her throat, hilt balanced on his palm, he glanced at me. “Indeed, I remember. You are helping me aid your race. For the first time in seven thousand years, Fae and Man are working together for a common cause. It is a rare thing, and necessary if we both wish to survive with our worlds intact.” He looked back at Rowena. “Our combined efforts will accomplish what all your sidhe-seers put together cannot. Do not make me angry, old woman, or I will abandon you to the Hell that is coming if MacKayla fails to find the Sinsar Dubh. Cease trying to steal her weapon from her, and start protecting her. She is the best hope for your race. Kneel.”

I didn’t care for that “best hope for your race” stuff. I test poorly. I’ve never functioned well under pressure.

He forced Rowena, white-lipped and shuddering, to her knees. I could see the battle raging within her small, sturdy frame. Her robe trembled, her lips peeled back from her teeth.

“Stop it,” I said again.

“In a moment. You will never again come before me bearing weapons, old woman, or I will forgo the promises I have made, and destroy you. Help her in her quest to help me, and I will let you live.”

I sighed. I didn’t need to take a look around to realize that I had made no friends here tonight. In fact, I was pretty sure I’d made things worse. “Just give her back the sword, V’lane, and get us out of here.”

“Your wish, my command.” He took my hand and sifted us out.

The instant we rematerialized a few dozen yards from the Viper, I slammed him with the palms of both hands, willing him to freeze with every ounce of that foreign place inside my skull.

Unlike the first time I’d tried Nulling him the night we’d met, he stayed frozen longer than a few heartbeats. I was so surprised that I didn’t move myself, until he began to move, and I hit him again, putting everything I had into my desire to neutralize Fae. If intention was what counted, I was strong in that department. I’d been intending to grow up one day, for years. I had intentions down pat.

I timed it. He stayed frozen for seven seconds. I searched him quickly for my spear, patting him down, sending little “Stay frozen, you bastard” messages with my palms along the way.

No spear.

I stepped back and allowed him to unfreeze.

We stared at each other across the ten feet I’d put between us and I saw many things in his eyes. I saw my death. I saw my reprieve. I saw a thousand punishments in between, and knew the moment he decided to take no action against me.

“It’s really hard for you to view me as a valid life form, isn’t it?” I said. “What would make you take me more seriously? How many years would I have to live to count as whatever it is you credit as being worthwhile?”

“Longevity is not the defining factor. I do not credit most of my own race as worthwhile; a view born not of arrogance but of eons spent among those who are the worst of fools. Why did you Null me, sidhe-seer?”

“Because you majorly screwed up my plan in there.”

“Then perhaps the next time you should confide in me the subtler nuances of your plan. I believed you wanted to establish the upper hand, and I endeavored to aid you in achieving that end.”

“You made them think I was allied with you. You made them fear me.”

“You are allied with me. And they should fear you.”

My eyes narrowed. “Why should they fear me?”

He smiled faintly. “You have barely begun to understand what you are.” Abruptly, he vanished.

Then his hand was in the curls at the back of my head, and his tongue was pushing in my mouth, and that hot, dark, frightening thing was piercing my tongue and embedding itself there, and I exploded in a violent orgasm.

He was ten feet away again, and I was sucking air like a fish out of water and floundering as badly. Shock waves of such intense eroticism rocked me that I was momentarily immobilized. If I’d tried to move, I would have collapsed.

“It only works once, MacKayla. I must replace my name on your tongue each time you use it. I assumed you did want it back?”

Furious, I nodded. Figured he’d not told me about that little catch.

He disappeared. This time he did not reappear.

I felt for my spear. It was back.

I stood still, waiting for the last of the aftershocks to pass. I wondered if I’d actually succeeded in Nulling V’lane tonight, or if he’d been faking it. I was growing increasingly paranoid, wondering if everyone was playing games with me. Surely anything that could move that fast could evade my sophomoric efforts at sidhe-seer magic. Or had I genuinely taken him by surprise? What might he gain by pretending? An ace in the hole? That maybe someday I’d really need to Null him, and that would be the day I’d find out it didn’t work, and never had?

I turned around and began walking toward the Viper. I hadn’t glanced in its direction since we’d materialized. I did now, and gasped.

The Wolf Countach was parked on the far side of it, deep in the shadows, and Jericho Barrons was leaning back against it, arms crossed over his chest, dressed from head to toe in black, every bit as dark and still as the night.

I blinked. He was still there. Hard to peel apart from the darkness, but there.

“What in the. how. where did you come from?” I sputtered.

“The bookstore.”

Duh. Sometimes his answers make me want to strangle him. “Did V’lane know you were standing there?”

“I think the two of you were a little too busy to see me.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you didn’t need backup. If you’d told me you were taking your fairy little boyfriend, I wouldn’t have wasted my time. I resent it when you waste my time, Ms. Lane.”

He got in his car and drove away.

I followed him most of the way back to Dublin. Near the outskirts, he kicked his horses into a gallop I couldn’t match, and I lost him.

Chapter 6

It was a quarter till four when I drove the Viper down the back alley behind the bookstore. The predawn hours between two and four are the hardest on me. For the past few weeks, I’ve been waking up every night at 2:17 A.M. on the dot, as if it’s my official preprogrammed time slot to have an anxiety attack, and the world will fall apart, even worse than it already is, if I don’t pace my bedroom and worry it safe.

The bookstore is unbearably quiet then, and it’s not hard to imagine that I’m the only person alive in the world. Most of the time I can handle the mess I call my life, but in the butt-crack of the night even I get a little depressed. I usually end up sorting through my wardrobe, meager as it is, or paging through fashion magazines, trying not to think. Putting outfits together soothes me. Accessorizing is balm to my soul. If I can’t save the world, I sure can make it pretty.

But last night, haute couture from four different countries couldn’t distract me, and I’d ended up snuggled under a blanket on the window seat with a dry volume about the history of the Irish race, including several lengthy, pedantic essays about the five invasions and the mythic Tuatha Dé Danaan, cracked open on my lap, staring out the back window of my bedroom at the sea of rooftops, watching the Shades slink and slither out of the corner of my eye.

Then my vision had played a trick on me, and blacked out the horizon as far as I could see, extinguishing every light, blanketing Dublin in absolute darkness.

I’d blinked, trying to dispel the illusion, and finally was able to see lights again, but the illusory blackout had seemed so real that I was afraid it was a premonition of things to come.

I pulled the Viper into the garage and parked in its allotted space, too tired to even halfheartedly appreciate the GT parked next to it. When the floor trembled beneath my heel, I stomped my foot and told it to shut up.

I opened the door to step out into the alley, flinched, slammed the door shut again, and stood there on the cusp of hyperventilating.

The garage where Barrons houses his fabulous car collection is located directly behind the bookstore, across an alley approximately twenty-five feet wide. Multiple floodlights on the exteriors illuminate a path between the two, affording safe passage from the Shades on even the darkest night. Unfortunately, we haven’t yet devised a means of perpetual light. Bulbs burn out, batteries die.

Several of the lights on the façade of the garage had outlived their usefulness during the night: not enough that I’d noticed in the glare of the Viper’s headlights and the soft spill coming from the bookstore’s rear windows, but enough to have created a sliver of opportunity for a truly enterprising Shade, and unfortunately, I had one of those shadowing my doorstep.

I was tired, and I’d been sloppy. I should have looked up and checked the spotlights on the buildings the moment they’d come into view. Thanks to the burnt-out bulbs, a thin line of darkness now ran down the center of the alley, where the light cast by the adjacent buildings failed to meet, and the massive Shade that was as obsessed with me as I was with it had managed to pour itself into the crack, creating an inky black wall that soared three stories high and extended the entire length of the bookstore, barring me from crossing the alley.

I’d opened the door to find it towering over me, a greedy, dark tsunami, waiting to come crashing down and drown me in its lethal embrace. Although I was 99.9 % sure it couldn’t do that—that it was trapped in its menacing wall-shape by the light on both sides of it—there was that petrifying.1 % doubt in my mind. Each time I’d thought I’d known its limits, I’d been wrong. Most Shades recoiled from the mere possibility of the palest, most diffuse light. Just waving one of my flashlights in the direction of the Dark Zone usually caused them to scatter.

But not this one. If light was pain, this enormous, aggressive Shade was getting tougher, its pain threshold increasing. Like me, it was evolving. I only wished I was as dangerous.

I reached inside my jacket, fisted a flashlight in each hand, and yanked the door open again.

One of my flashlights wouldn’t turn on. Dead batteries. When it rains, it pours. I tossed it and grabbed a second from my waistband. Two more came out with it, crashed to the ground, clattered down the steps and spun out into the alley, unlit, wasted.

I had two left. This was ridiculous. I needed a better way to keep myself safe than toting unwieldy flashlights with me everywhere I went.

I turned on another, and ordered myself to step out onto the pavement.

My feet didn’t obey.

I aimed one of my flashlights directly at it. The inky wall recoiled and a hole exploded in it the exact diameter of the beam. I could see it was barely an inch thick.

I heaved a sigh of relief. It still couldn’t tolerate direct light.

I studied it. I wasn’t completely barred from getting to the bookstore. I could walk down to the left, parallel to the towering, dark cloud until I reached the end of the building, where the lights of the greengrocer next door prevented it from spreading further, then go around to the front door and let myself in.

Problem was I wasn’t sure I had the nerve, and I wasn’t entirely sure it would be smart. What if, when I was nearly to the end of the Shade-wall, the light on the grocer’s building burned out? Normally, I’d relegate the odds of that happening to the realm of the absurd, but if there was one thing I’d learned over the past few months, it was that absurd really meant “more likely to happen to MacKayla Lane.” I wasn’t about to risk it. I had my flashlights, but I couldn’t shine them on every part of my body at once, and I certainly couldn’t shine them on all of it.

I could call V’lane. He’d helped me get rid of Shades once before. Of course with V’lane there was always a price, and I would have to let him embed his name in my tongue again.

I considered my cell phone. It had three numbers programmed in: Barrons, IYCGM and IYD.

IYCGM, which was Barrons’ not-so-subtle shorthand for If You Can’t Get Me, would be answered by the mysterious Ryodan who—although Barrons contended he talked too much—hadn’t confided anything useful to me in our recent, brief phone conversation. I had no desire to lure anyone else close to the overly aggressive Shade. I wanted a few days reprieve between deaths on my conscience.

IYD was If You’re Dying, and I wasn’t.

I was sick of depending on others to save me. I wanted to take care of myself. It was only a few hours until dawn. The Shade could stay out there all night for all I cared.

I stepped back into the garage, closed and locked the door, flipped on the brightest tier of interior lights, considered the collection a moment, then crawled into the Maybach to sleep.

It occurred to me, as I drifted off, that my feelings about the car had certainly changed. I no longer cared that it had formerly belonged to the Irish mobster Rocky O’Bannion, from whom I’d stolen my spear and whom I was indirectly responsible for killing, along with fifteen of his henchmen, in the very alley where the monster Shade now lurked. I was just grateful it was comfortable to sleep in.

We expect Evil to announce itself.

Evil is supposed to adhere to certain conventions. It’s supposed to cause a chill of foreboding in the intended recipient of its visit; it should be instantly recognizable; and it’s supposed to be hideous. Evil should glide out of the night in a black hearse, fog streaming from its dark flanks, or dismount from a skeletal Harley, leather-clad, wearing a necklace of freshly scalped skulls and crossbones.

“Barrons Books and Baubles,” I answered the phone brightly. “You want it, we’ve got it, and if we don’t, we’ll find it.” I take my job very seriously. After snatching six hours of sleep in the garage, I’d made my way across the alley to the bookstore, showered, and opened shop, business as usual.

“I’m certain of that. You finding it, that is, or I wouldn’t have phoned.”

I froze, hand on the receiver. Was this a joke? He was phoning me? Of all the possible confrontations with Evil I’d imagined, this was not one of them. “Who is this?” I demanded, unable to believe it.

“You know who I am. Say it.”

Though I’d heard the voice only twice before—the afternoon in the Dark Zone when I’d almost died, and more recently in Mallucé’s lair—I would never forget it. Contrary to what Evil was supposed to be, it was a seductive, beautiful voice, mirroring the physical beauty of its owner.

It was the voice of my sister’s lover—and murderer.

I knew his name, and I’d die before I’d call him Lord Master. “You bastard.”

I slammed down the phone with one hand and was already using my other to punch up Barrons on my cell. He answered instantly, sounding alarmed. I got right to the point. “Can the Druid spell of Voice be used over the telephone?”

“No. The spell’s potency doesn’t carry through—”

“Thanks, gotta go.” As I’d expected, the store phone was already ringing again. I thumbed my cell off, and left Barrons sputtering. I was safe from being coerced over the phone lines, and that was what I’d needed to know, fast, before the Lord Master had been able to use it on me.

Just in case it was a paying customer, I said, “Barrons Books—”

“You should have asked me,” came that seductive, rich voice. “I would have told you that Voice is diluted by technology. Both parties must be in physical proximity to each other. At the moment, I’m too far away.”

I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that was what I’d been afraid of. “I dropped the phone.”

“Pretend what you will, MacKayla.”

“Don’t address me by name,” I gritted.

“What should I call you?”

“Don’t.”

“You have no curiosity about me?”

My hand was shaking. I was talking to my sister’s murderer, the monster that was bringing all the Unseelie through his mystic dolmens and turning our world into the nightmare it was. “Sure. What’s the quickest, easiest way to kill you?”

He laughed. “You have more fire than Alina. But she was clever. I underestimated her. She concealed your existence from me. She never spoke of you. I had no idea there were two with talents like hers.”

We’d been equals in our ignorance. She’d concealed his existence from me, too. “How did you find out about me?”

“I’d heard rumors of another sidhe-seer, new to the city, with unusual abilities. I would have tracked you eventually. But the day you came to the warehouse, I smelled you. There was no mistaking your bloodline. You can sense the Sinsar Dubh, the same way Alina could.”

“No, I can’t,” I lied.

“It’s calling you. You feel it out there, getting stronger. You, however, won’t get stronger. You’ll weaken, MacKayla. You can’t handle the Book. Don’t even think of trying. You can’t begin to imagine what you’d be dealing with.”

I had a pretty fair idea. “Is that why you called me? To warn me off? I’m quaking in my boots.” This conversation was wigging me out. I was on the phone with the monster that had killed my sister—the infamous Lord Master—and he wasn’t cackling maniacally or threatening villainously. He hadn’t come after me with an army of dark Fae, backed by his black-and-crimson-clad personal guard. He’d phoned me and was speaking in beautiful, cultured tones, softly, and without hostility. Was this the true face of Evil? It didn’t conquer, it seduced? He lets me be the woman I always wanted to be, Alina had written in her journal. Would he ask me out to dinner next? If he did, would I accept, to get a chance at killing him?

“What do you want most in the world, MacKayla?”

“You dead.” My cell phone rang. It was Barrons. I thumbed IGNORE.

“That’s not what you want most. You want that because of what you want most: Your sister back.”

I didn’t like where this was going.

“I called to offer you a deal.”

Deals with the devil, Barrons had recently reminded me, never went well. Still, I couldn’t stop myself from asking, “What?”

“Get me the Book, and I’ll get you your sister back.”

My heart skipped a beat. I held the phone away from my ear and stared at the receiver, as if seeking some kind of inspiration, or answer, or maybe just the courage to hang up the phone.

Your sister back. The words hung in the air.

Whatever I was looking for, I didn’t find it. I returned the phone to my ear. “The Book could bring Alina back from the dead?” I was chock-full of superstitions inspired by childhood fables; resurrecting the dead was always accompanied by gruesome caveats, and even more gruesome results. Surely something so evil couldn’t restore something so good.

“Yes.”

I wasn’t going to ask. I wasn’t. “Would she be the same as she was before? Not some scary zombie?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Why would you do that, when you’re the one who killed her in the first place?”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“Maybe you didn’t do it yourself, but you sent them after her!”

“I wasn’t done with her.” There was the barest hesitation. “And I had no plans to kill her when I was.”

“Bull. She found you out. She followed you into the Dark Zone one day, didn’t she? She refused to help you anymore. And you killed her for it.” I was certain of it. I’d thought about it every night before I went to sleep, for months. It was the only conclusion that made sense of the voice mail message she’d left me, a few hours before she’d died. He’s coming, she’d said, I don’t think he’ll let me out of the country.

“You’ve felt the power of my coercion. I might have lost her willing cooperation, but I never needed it to begin with.” Imperious arrogance dripped from his voice, as he reminded me how easily he’d controlled me. No, he wouldn’t have needed her cooperation. With that terrible, will-stealing Voice, he could have made her do anything he wanted, anything at all.

My cell phone rang again.

“Answer it. Barrons hates waiting. Think about my offer.”

“How do you know Barrons?” I demanded.

The line was dead.

“Are you all right?” Barrons growled, when I answered my cell.

“Fine.”

“Was it him?”

“The great LM?” I said dryly. “Yes.”

“What did he offer you?”

“My sister back.”

Barrons didn’t say anything for a long moment. “And?”

I was quiet for an even longer moment. “I told him I’d think about it.”

Silence fell between us and lengthened. Strangely, neither of us hung up. I wondered where he was, what he was doing. I strained my ears but couldn’t hear any background noise. Either his cell phone had great noise reduction capabilities, or he was somewhere very quiet. An image flashed through my mind: Barrons, big and dark, naked against white silk sheets, arms folded behind his head, phone propped at his ear, crimson and black tattoos ranging across his chest, down his abs. Leg tangled with some woman’s.

Nah. He’d never let a woman stay the night. No matter how good the sex was.

“Barrons,” I said at last.

“Ms. Lane.”

“I need you to teach me to resist Voice.” I’d asked him this before, but he’d only given me one of his noncommittal replies.

There was another of those long silences, then, “In order to attempt that—and I assure you it will be no more than an attempt, one at which I highly doubt you’ll succeed—I’ll have to use it on you. Are you prepared for that?”

I shivered. “We’ll lay some basic ground rules.”

“You like those, don’t you? Too bad. You’re in my world now, and there are no basic ground rules. You learn how I teach you, or not at all.”

“You’re a jackass.”

He laughed, and I shivered again.

“Can we start tonight?” I’d been safe today, with the Lord Master on the phone. But if, instead of calling, he’d strolled up behind me on the street and commanded me to be silent, I wouldn’t have even been able to open my mouth long enough to release V’lane’s name.

I frowned.

Why hadn’t he walked up behind me? Why hadn’t he sent his army after me? Now that I thought about it, the only two times he’d ever tried to capture me were when I’d practically delivered myself to him, and he’d believed I was alone, almost as if I’d been an opportunity too convenient to pass up. Was the Lord Master in no hurry to get close to me? Did he fear my spear after seeing what it had done to Mallucé? I’d feared it intensely when I’d eaten Unseelie. I hadn’t wanted it anywhere near me. But with Voice he could easily strip it away. He’d wanted Alina’s willing participation, and now he seemed to want mine. Why? Because it was easier if I was willing, or was it more complicated than that? Did Voice work only to a certain extent, and there was something he needed from me that he wouldn’t be able to coerce? Or maybe—a chill of foreboding accompanied this thought—I was only a small part of his much larger plans, and he’d already made other arrangements for me, and it just wasn’t the right time yet. Maybe he was even now constructing a cage around me that I couldn’t see. Would I wake up one morning, and walk straight into it? I’d been duped by Mallucé. I’d believed him a figment of my imagination until the last.

I shoved my fearful thoughts away before they could multiply. I certainly wanted to get close to him. I was going to kill him. And his nasty trick of Voice was a barrier I was going to have to be able to get past.

“Well,” I prompted, “when can we start?” I didn’t trust Barrons, but he’d had plenty of opportunities to use Voice on me in the past, and hadn’t. I didn’t believe he’d use it to harm me now. At least not much. The potential gain was worth the risk.

“I’ll be there at ten.” He hung up.

It was nine-fifteen by the time I finished my invention, forty-five minutes before Barrons was due to arrive.

I turned it on, sat back, scrutinized it a few moments, then nodded.

It looked good.

Well, it didn’t really. It looked. strange, like something out of a sci-fi movie. But it worked, and that was all that mattered to me. I was sick of not being safe in the dark. I was sick of watching my flashlights go spinning away from me. This couldn’t spin away. And if I was right about its capabilities, I’d be able to walk straight through a Shade-wall with it on.

There was one final test I needed to perform.

It was a great invention and I was proud of it. The idea had come to me this afternoon, during a slow spell. I’d been stressing over the enormous Shade outside the bookstore, when suddenly a light had gone off in my head, or rather, several dozen.

I’d flipped the sign and locked up at seven on the dot, raced down the street to the sporting goods store on the corner, and bought everything I needed, from the biking helmet, to batteries, to brackets and caving lights, to tubes of superglue, to Velcro bands as an added precaution.

Then I’d come back to the bookstore, dialed my iPod to the latest playlist I was crazy about, cranked it up to a smidge below deafening, and gone to work.

I shook my invention. I dropped it. I kicked it, and still all parts remained intact. Superglue: after duct tape, a girl’s best friend.

I was satisfied. With three quarters of an hour until my Voice lessons, I had time to test the device, and still make it upstairs to freshen up a bit, not that I cared how I looked around Barrons. It’s just that in the Deep South, women learn at a young age that when the world is falling apart around you, it’s time to take down the drapes and make a new dress.

Every truly inspired invention needed a catchy name, and I had just the right one for mine. Who needed the Cuff of Cruce to walk among the Shades?

I slipped the biking helmet on my head and strapped it securely beneath my chin. It fit snugly so it couldn’t fall off in the heat of battle. I could do a flip (if I could do a flip) and the thing would stay stuck to my head. I’d superglued dozens of Click-It lights all over the surface of the helmet. Brackets stuck out several inches from both sides and the rear, with spelunker lights attached, pointing downward.

I swept my arms out and took a deep bow: Presenting the MacHalo!

With all the lights turned on, the helmet created a perfect halo of light around my entire body, down to my feet. I loved it. If it hadn’t been so bulky, I might have tried sleeping in it. As an added precaution, I strapped on the Velcro wrist and ankle bands I’d cut little pouches in, and sewn Click-It lights into. All I had to do was hit my wrists and ankles together and the lights clicked on.

I was ready.

But first, I wanted a test run inside the store before I went outside.

I clicked myself on from head to toe, hurried to the panel, and began flipping off the interior lights in the front part of the bookstore. Not the exterior ones, just the interior. Even though I knew the building was still surrounded in light outside, it was hard to make myself do it. My fear of the darkness had grown beyond a rational thing. That happens when you know a shadow can eat you alive if you touch it.

My hand hesitated over the last row of switches for a long, difficult moment.

But I had my MacHalo, and I knew it would work. If I gave fear a toehold, it would screw me. I’d learned that lesson from Barrons, and had it driven home by Mallucé: Hope strengthens. Fear kills.

I flipped off the last row, plunging the bookstore into complete darkness.

I blazed as bright as a small sun in the room!

I laughed. I should have thought of it before. There wasn’t an inch of me, not a centimeter, that wasn’t lit up. My halo radiated outward a good ten feet in all directions. And I was right; if I had the courage, I could walk right through a Shade-wall. None of the vampiric life-suckers could get close to me in this getup!

My iPod began playing “Bad Moon Rising” by Creedence Clearwater Revival, and I did a little dance, giddy with success. I had one more weapon in my arsenal to make me safer, and I’d thought of it myself.

I whirled around the bookstore, miming the epic fighter I was now going to be, armed with my clever MacHalo, no longer afraid of dark alleys in the night. I leapt chairs and darted around bookcases. I pounced sofas, I hurdled ottomans. I stabbed imaginary enemies, immune to Shade-danger by the brilliance of my own invention. There’s not much room in my life for good, plain, stupid fun, and there hasn’t been much to celebrate lately. I take advantage of both when I can.

“ ‘Hope you got your things together,’ ” I sang, stabbing a pillow with my spear. Feathers exploded into the air. “ ‘Hope you are quite prepared to die!’ ” I spun in a dazzling whirl of lights, landed a killer back-kick on a phantom Shade, and simultaneously punched the magazine rack. “ ‘Looks like we’re in for nasty weather! ‘“ I took a swan dive at a short, imaginary Shade, lunged up at a taller one—

— and froze.

Barrons stood inside the front door, dripping cool old-world elegance.

I hadn’t heard him come in over the music. He was leaning, shoulder against the wall, arms folded, watching me.

“ ‘One eye is taken for an eye. ’ ” I trailed off, deflating. I didn’t need a mirror to know how stupid I looked. I regarded him sourly for a moment, then moved for the sound dock to turn it off. When I heard a choked sound behind me I spun, and shot him a hostile glare. He wore his usual expression of arrogance and boredom. I resumed my path for the sound dock, and heard it again. This time when I turned back, the corners of his mouth were twitching. I stared at him until they stopped.

I’d reached the sound dock, and just turned it off, when he exploded.

I whirled. “I didn’t look that funny,” I snapped.

His shoulders shook.

“Oh, come on! Stop it!”

He cleared his throat and stopped laughing. Then his gaze took a quick dart upward, fixed on my blazing MacHalo, and he lost it again. I don’t know, maybe it was the brackets sticking out from the sides. Or maybe I should have gotten a black bike helmet, not a hot pink one.

I unfastened it and yanked it off my head. I stomped over to the door, flipped the interior lights back on, slammed him in the chest with my brilliant invention, and stomped upstairs.

“You’d better have stopped laughing by the time I come back down,” I shouted over my shoulder.

I wasn’t sure he even heard me, he was laughing so hard.

“Can Voice make you do something that you find deeply morally objectionable? Can it override everything you believe in?” I asked Barrons, fifteen minutes later when I came back down. I’d made him wait, partly because I was still stinging from his laughter, and partly because it pissed me off in general that he was early. I like it when a man’s on time. Not early. Not late. Punctual. It’s one of those lost dating courtesies, not that Barrons and I are dating, but I think dating courtesies are common courtesies that should be practiced in most all civilized encounters. I pine for the days of good, old-fashioned manners.

I made no mention of his laughter, the MacHalo, or my absurd dance. Barrons and I are pros at ignoring anything and everything that passes between us that might smack of emotion of any kind, even so simple a feeling as embarrassment. Sometimes I can’t believe I was ever beneath that big, hard body, kissing him, getting glimpses into his life. The desert. The lonely boy. The lone man. Don’t think it hadn’t occurred to me that having sex with Barrons might just answer some of my questions about who and what he was. It had. And I’d promptly stuffed that idea into my padlocked box. For a gazillion reasons that need no explaining.

“It depends on the skill of the person employing Voice, and the strength of his victim’s convictions.”

Typical Barrons answer. “Elucidate,” I said dryly. I’ve been learning new words. I’ve been reading a lot lately.

As I moved deeper into the room, his gaze dropped to my feet, and worked its way back to my face. I was wearing faded jeans, boots, and a snug pink Juicy T-shirt I got on sale at TJ Maxx last summer that said I’m a Juicy girl.

“I bet you are,” he murmured. “Take off your shirt,” he said, but this time his voice resonated with a legion of voices. It rippled outward, past me, filling the room, stuffing every corner, cramming it full of voices that were all telling me to obey, pressuring every cell in my body to comply. I wanted my shirt off. Not the same way I wanted it off around V’lane, rooted in sexual compulsion, but merely because I. well, I didn’t know why. But I wanted it off right now, this very instant.

I began to lift the hem of my tee, when I thought, Hang on a minute, I’m not going to show Barrons my bra, and pulled my shirt back down.

I smiled, faintly at first then bigger, pleased with myself. I stuffed my hands in the back pockets of my jeans and gave him a cocky stare. “I think I’m going to be pretty good at this.”

“TAKE OFF YOUR SHIRT.”

The command hit me like a brick wall and destroyed my mind. I sucked in a violent, screeching breath and ripped my shirt from neckline to hem.

“Stop, Ms. Lane.”

Voice again, but not the brick wall: rather a command that lifted the brick wall from me, freeing me. I sank to the floor, clutching the halves of my torn T-shirt together, and dropped my head in my lap, resting my forehead against my knees. I breathed deeply for several seconds, then raised my head and looked at him. He could have coerced me like that anytime. Turned me into a mindless slave. Like the Lord Master, he could have forced me to do his bidding whenever he’d wanted. But he hadn’t. The next time I discovered something horrifying about him, would I say, yeah, but he never coerced me with Voice? Would that be the excuse I made for him then?

“What are you?” It burst out before I could stop myself. I knew it was wasted breath. “Why don’t you just tell me and get it over with?” I said irritably.

“One day you’ll stop asking me. I think I’ll like knowing you then.”

“Can we leave my clothes out of the next lesson?” I groused. “I only packed for a few weeks.”

“You wanted morally objectionable.”

“Right.” I wasn’t sure his demonstration had served its purpose. I wasn’t sure taking my shirt off in front of him was.

“I was illustrating degrees, Ms. Lane. I believe the Lord Master has achieved the latter level of proficiency.”

“Great. Well, in the future spare my tees. I only have three. I’ve been washing them out by hand and the other two are dirty.” BB&B didn’t have a washer or dryer, and so far I’d been refusing to tote my stuff to the Laundromat a few blocks down, although soon I was going to have to, because jeans didn’t wash well by hand.

“Order what you need, Ms. Lane. Charge it to the store account.”

“Really? I can order a washer and dryer?”

“You may as well hold on to the keys to the Viper, too. I’m certain there are things you need a car for.”

I eyed him suspiciously. Had I lost another few months in Faery, and this was Christmas?

He bared his teeth in one of those predatory smiles. “Don’t think it’s because I like you. A happy employee is a productive employee, and the less time you waste going out to the Laundromat or. doing whatever errands it is. someone like you does. is more time I can use you for my own purposes.”

That made sense. Still, while it was Christmas, I had a few more items on my wish list. “I want a backup generator, and a security system. And I think I should have a gun, too.”

“Stand up.”

I had no will. My legs obeyed.

“Go change.”

I returned wearing a peach tee with a coffee stain over the right breast.

“Stand on one leg and hop.”

“You suck,” I hissed, as I hopped.

“The key to resisting Voice,” Barrons instructed, “is finding that place inside you no one else can touch.”

“You mean the sidhe-seer place?” I said, hopping like a one-legged chicken.

“No, a different place. All people have it. Not just sidheseers. We’re born alone and we die alone. That place.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I know. That’s why you’re hopping.”

I hopped for hours. I wearied, but he didn’t. I think Barrons could have used Voice all night, and never worn down.

He might have kept me hopping until dawn, but at quarter till one in the morning my cell phone rang. I thought instantly of my parents, and it must have shown on my face, because he released me from my thrall.

I’d been hopping for so long that I actually took two hops toward my purse where I’d left it on the counter near the cash register, before I caught myself.

It was about to roll into my voice mail—a thing I’ve hated ever since I missed Alina’s call—so I thumbed it on inside my purse, tugged it out, and clamped it to my ear.

“Fourth and Langley,” Inspector Jayne barked.

I stiffened. I’d been expecting Dad, figuring he’d just forgotten to factor in the time difference. We alternated calling each other every other day, even if only for a few minutes, and I’d forgotten last night.

“It’s bad. Seven dead, and the shooter’s holed up in a pub, threatening to kill more hostages, and himself. Sound like the kind of crime you wanted me to tell you about?”

“Yes.” Himself, Jayne had said. The shooter was a man, which meant I’d missed whatever crime the woman who’d picked it up the night I’d been watching had committed, and the Book had already moved on. I wondered how many times it had changed hands since. I would search back issues of newspapers for clues. I needed all the information I could get, to try to understand the Dark Book, in hopes of anticipating its future moves.

The line went dead. He’d done what he’d promised and no more. I stared down at my cell phone, trying to figure out how to get rid of Barrons.

“Why was Jayne calling you at this hour?” he said softly. “Have you been inducted as an honorary member of the Garda since they last arrested you?”

I glanced over my shoulder with disbelief. He was standing at the opposite end of the room, and the volume on my phone was set to low. Maybe he’d picked up on the tones of the inspector’s voice from that distance, but there was no way he’d heard any of the details. “Funny,” I said.

“What aren’t you telling me, Ms. Lane?”

“He said he thinks he might have a lead on my sister’s case.” It was a weak lie, but the first that came to mind. “I have to go.” I reached behind the counter, grabbed my backpack, tossed in my MacHalo, strapped on my shoulder holster, transferred my spear from my boot to beneath my arm, then slid into a jacket and headed for the back door. I would get the Viper and drive to Fourth and Langley as fast as I could. If the shooter was still at the scene, the Sinsar Dubh would be, too. If the shooter was already dead by the time I got there, I’d drive up and down the streets and alleys in the immediate vicinity, ranging outward in a tight pattern, waiting for a tingle.

“The fuck he did. He said Fourth and Langley. Seven dead. Why do you care?”

What kind of monster had ears like that? Couldn’t I have gotten a half-deaf one? Scowling, I continued toward the door.

“You will stop right there, and tell me where you’re going.”

My feet stopped, independent of my will. The bastard had used Voice. “Don’t do this to me,” I gritted, sweat breaking out on my forehead. I was fighting him with all I had, and weakening quickly. I wanted to tell him where I was going nearly as badly as I wanted to kill the Lord Master.

“Don’t make me,” he said in a normal voice. “I thought we were working together, Ms. Lane. I thought we were allied in a common cause. Did that phone call from the inspector have something to do with the Sinsar Dubh? You aren’t keeping something from me, are you?”

“No.”

“Final warning. If you don’t answer me, I’ll rip it from your throat. And while I’m at it, I’ll ask anything else I feel like asking, too.”

“That’s not fair! I can’t use Voice on you,” I cried. “You’re only teaching me to resist it.”

“You’ll never be able to use it on me. Not if I teach you. Teacher and student develop immunity to each other. There’s quite an incentive for you, eh, Ms. Lane? Now talk. Or I’ll take the information I want, and if you fight me, it’ll hurt.”

He was a shark who’d scented blood and he wasn’t going to stop circling until he’d devoured me. I had no doubt he would do as he was threatening, and if he got started forcing answers from me, I was afraid of what he might ask. He’d heard the address. With or without me, he was going there. It would be better if I went, too. I’d think of a plan along the way. “Get in the car. I’ll tell you while we’re driving.”

“My bike’s out front. If traffic’s bad, it’s faster. If you’ve been holding out on me, you’re in deep trouble, Ms. Lane.”

Of that, I had no doubt. But I wasn’t sure who was going to be more pissed at me before the night was through: Barrons because I hadn’t told him sooner, or V’lane because I’d broken my promise to him and told Barrons at all. The alien thing piercing my tongue felt intrusive and dangerous in my mouth.

Dublin was a dark, bizarre circus that I was walking through on a high wire, and if there was a safety net somewhere below me, I sure couldn’t see it.

Chapter 7

Like jacked-up pickup trucks in the Deep South, Harleys are an ode to testosterone: the bigger and louder the better. Down south, trucks and bikes roar Look at me! Hot damn, I’m big and noisy and wild and, yeehaw, wouldn’t you like a piece of me?

Barrons’ Harley didn’t roar. It didn’t even purr. A chrome and ebony predator, it glided soundlessly into the night, whispering, I’m big and silent and deadly, and you’d better hope I don’t get a piece of you.

I could feel fury in the set of his shoulders beneath my hands as we careened through narrow alleys, around corners, laying the bike so low I had to tuck up my feet and keep my legs crushed to the sides for fear of scraping off a few layers of skin, but as with everything else Barrons undertook, he was a master of precision. The bike did things for him I wasn’t sure a bike could do. Several times I almost wrapped my arms and legs around him and clambered onto his back, for fear of falling off.

His body bristled with anger. The fact that I knew something about the Book that I hadn’t told him was as deep a transgression as transgressions could go, as far as he was concerned. I’d learned the last time we’d had a brush with the Sinsar Dubh that it was his end-all/be-all, for whatever reason. Despite the unnerving dark energy rolling off him, eventually I hugged him with all my might just to stay on the bike. It was like embracing a low-level electrical current. Sometimes I wonder if Barrons has any real awareness of risk of injury. He doesn’t live like he does.

“It’s not like you don’t keep secrets from me!” I finally shouted against his ear.

“I don’t keep ones from you that involve the fucking Book,” he snarled over his shoulder. “That’s our deal, isn’t it? If nothing else, we’re honest with each other about the Book.”

“I don’t trust you!”

“And you think I trust you? You haven’t been out of fucking diapers long enough to be trusted, Ms. Lane! I’m not even sure you should be allowed to handle sharp objects!”

I punched him in the side. “That’s not true. Who ate Unseelie? Who survived no matter the cost? Who keeps getting out there facing all kinds of twisted monsters, and still manages to find something to smile about while she does it? That takes real strength. That’s more than you can do. You’re grumpy and broody and secretive all the time. You’re no joy to live with, I can tell you that!”

“I smile sometimes. I even laughed about your. hat.”

“MacHalo,” I corrected tightly. “It’s a brilliant invention, and it means I don’t need you or V’lane to keep me safe from Shades, and that, Jericho Barrons, is worth its weight in gold: not needing either of you for something!”

“Who came to teach you Voice tonight? Do you think you could find another teacher? Those who can use that power don’t share it. Whether you like it or not, you do need me, and you’ve needed me since the day you set foot in this country. Remember that, and stop pissing me off.”

“You need me too,” I growled.

“That’s why I’m teaching you. That’s why I gave you a safe place to live. That’s why I keep saving your life, and try to give you the things you want.”

“Oh, the th-things I w-want,” I stammered because I was so mad I tried to spit all the words out at once. “How about answers? Try giving me those!”

He laughed, and the sound bounced back off the brick walls of the narrow alley down which we sped, making it sound like men were laughing all around me, and it was creepy. “The day I give you answers will be the day you no longer need them.”

“The day I no longer need them,” I told him icily, “will be the day I’m dead.”

By the time we arrived at the crime scene, the shooter had blown his head off, what hostages had survived were being treated, and the grim duty of counting and collecting bodies had begun.

The street was closed around the pub from one end of the block to the next, crammed with police cars and ambulances, and crawling with Garda. We parked and dismounted a block from the scene.

“I’m assuming the Book was here. Do you feel it?”

I shook my head. “It’s already gone. That way,” I pointed west. An icy channel sluiced east through the night. I would lead him in the opposite direction, and eventually claim that I’d lost its “signal.” I felt sick to my stomach, and not because of all the bodies and blood. The Sinsar Dubh is the ultimate in nausea. I reached in my pocket and thumbed out a Tums. I had the beginnings of a brutal migraine, and hoped it wouldn’t spike.

“Later you’re going to tell me everything you know. Somehow you’ve figured out how it’s moving around the city, and it’s linked to the crimes, isn’t it?”

He was good. When I nodded gingerly, trying not to split my skull, he said, “And somehow you managed to coerce Jayne into feeding you information. How you accomplished that, frankly, confounds me.”

“Gee, maybe I’m not as inept as you think I am.” I popped another Tums in my mouth and made a mental note to start carrying aspirin, too.

After a pause, he said tightly, “Maybe you’re not,” which was very nearly an apology from Barrons.

“I fed him Unseelie.”

“Are you fucking nuts?” Barrons exploded.

“It worked.”

His eyes narrowed. “One might think you’re developing situational ethics.”

“You think I don’t know what those are. My father’s an attorney. I know what those are.”

A faint smile curved his lips. “Get back on the bike and tell me where to go.”

“I’ll tell you where to go,” I muttered sourly, and he laughed. As we sped down the street, away from the Dark Book, my headache began to ease. I was abruptly so aroused that I caught myself on the dangerous verge of rubbing my aching nipples against Barrons’ back. I jerked away instantly and glanced over my shoulder. My heart sank. I reached for my spear. It was gone.

Barrons must have felt the tension in my body, because he glanced over his shoulder at me, and saw what I’d seen: the Fae Prince, sifting down the street behind us, one moment there, then gone, the next, a few dozen feet closer.

“It’s bad enough that you didn’t tell me about the Book, Ms. Lane, but tell me you didn’t tell him.”

“I had to. I needed him to do something for me, and it was all I had to offer up that I was willing to part with. But I didn’t tell him everything.” In fact, I’d deliberately led him astray, so how had he found me tonight? Dumb luck? He couldn’t possibly be checking out every crime in the city!

Anger reclaimed Barrons’ body, worse than before. He stopped so abruptly that I slammed into his back, fell off the bike, and went sprawling. By the time I stood up and dusted myself off, Barrons was off the bike; V’lane, too, had stopped, and was standing in the street about twenty-five feet away.

“Come here, Ms. Lane. Now.”

I didn’t move. I was pissed that he’d dumped me like that. It had made my head hurt even worse. Besides, a furious Barrons isn’t something you want to stand next to any more than you’d want to cozy up to a pissed-off cobra.

“Unless you want him to sift in and take you, get close to me. Now. Or do you want to go with him?”

I glanced at V’lane and moved to Barrons’ side. V’lane was so glacial with displeasure that a small blizzard was icing his end of the street, and I wasn’t dressed for the weather. Okay, so maybe V’lane scares me a little more than Barrons does. V’lane uses his sexuality against me and I’m susceptible to it. Barrons doesn’t. Even now, my hand was slipping to my fly, grazing the zipper, and I nearly whimpered. I sought that cool alien place in my pounding head. I’m strong, I told myself, a sidheseer. I will not give in.

Barrons draped an arm over my shoulder and I moved into the shelter of it. The thing on my tongue burned. My brand itched. At that moment, I despised them both.

“Stay away from her,” Barrons growled.

“She comes to me of her own will. She calls me, chooses me.” V’lane was in high glamour, gold and bronze and iridescent ice. He raked me with an imperious gaze. “I will attend to you later. You broke our bargain. There is a price for that.” He smiled, but Fae don’t really smile. They paste a humanlike expression on and it chills to the bone because it looks so unnatural on their unnaturally perfect faces. “Do not fear, MacKayla, I will—how do you say? — kiss it and make it better when I am through.”

I removed my hand from my fly. “I didn’t break our bargain intentionally, V’lane. Barrons overheard something he shouldn’t have overheard.”

“Omission or commission, what difference?”

“There is one. Even the courts of law permit the distinction.”

“Human law. Fae law acknowledges no such thing. There are outcomes. The means by which they are achieved have no bearing. You said you did not know how to track the Book.”

“I don’t. I just followed a hunch tonight. Got lucky. You?”

“Impudence and lies, MacKayla. I suffer neither.”

“You won’t harm a hair on her head, or I’ll kill you,” said Barrons.

Really? With what? I wanted to ask. V’lane was a Fae. My spear was gone and Rowena had the sword.

The Book’s icy pull was diminishing rapidly. It was moving swiftly. Its next victim was in a car, and a fast one. I had a smug, utterly beside-the-point car-lover thought: not faster than mine. I had a Viper. Its keys were in my pocket.

The smug thought faded. It offended every ounce of my being to let the Book get away, to allow it to go cruising off to destroy more lives. But no matter how insistently my sidheseer senses were screaming at me to track it, I didn’t dare. Not with Barrons and V’lane here. I needed to know more about the Book. I needed to know how to get my hands on it, and do the right thing with it. Who was I kidding? I needed to know what the right thing was. Assuming I eventually got it, who could I trust with it? V’lane? Barrons? God forbid, Rowena? Would the Seelie Queen herself shimmer in and save the day? Somehow, I doubted it. Nothing in my life is easy anymore.

“You have no right to it,” V’lane was telling Barrons.

“Might makes right. Hasn’t that always been your motto?” Barrons said.

“You could never understand my motto.”

“Better than you think, fairy.”

“There is nothing you could do with it even if you managed to get it. You do not speak the language in which it was scribed, and could never hope to decode it.”

“Maybe I have the stones.”

“Not all of them,” V’lane said coldly, and I knew from the disdain in his voice that he had at least one, if not both of the other translation stones we’d been hunting. All four of the mystical translucent blue-black stones were necessary to “reveal the true nature” of the Sinsar Dubh. Barrons had one already when I met him. I’d recently stolen the second one from Mallucé, the event that had precipitated the hostilities between us.

Barrons smiled. Clever man. Until that moment, he’d suspected but not been certain. “Maybe I learned enough from your princess that I don’t need all four,” Barrons sneered, and there was a world of insinuation in his words. Even I, who had no idea what he was insinuating, heard the insult in them, and knew it cut deep. There was history between V’lane and Barrons. They didn’t despise each other just because of me. There was more than that going on here.

Ice dripped from V’lane’s iridescent robes, flowed down the cobbled street and expanded, covering the pavement from gutter to gutter with a thin black sheet that cracked like gunshots as it encased the warmer stone.

Good, let them fight. Let the Book disappear and carry my problems with it. To add fuel to the fire, I said, “Why do you two hate each other so much?”

“Have you fucked her yet?” V’lane ignored me completely.

“I’m not trying to.”

“Translation: Your efforts have failed.”

“No, they haven’t,” I said. “He hasn’t tried. FYI, boys, and I use that term loosely, there’s more to me than sex.”

“Which is why you’re still alive, Ms. Lane. Keep cultivating those parts.”

Since I had them both together, for a novel change, I had a hunch I wanted to test. “What is Barrons?” I asked V’lane. “Human, or something else?”

The Fae Prince looked at Barrons, and said nothing.

Barrons shot me a sharp look.

“So, Barrons,” I said sweetly, “tell me about V’lane. Is he a good guy or a bad guy?”

Barrons looked away and said nothing.

I shook my head, disgusted. It was as I’d suspected. Men. Were they the same among all species, whether human or not? “Both of you have something on the other, and neither of you will rat it out, in order to keep your own secrets safe. Unbelievable. You hate each other, and still stick together. Well, guess what? Screw you. I’m done with you both.”

“Big words from a little human,” V’lane said. “You need us.”

“He’s right. Deal with it, Ms. Lane.”

Great. Now they were uniting forces against me. I preferred V’lane disappearing when Barrons appeared. Did this mean V’lane wasn’t afraid of Barrons, after all? I eyed the space between them. If Barrons were to step forward, would V’lane step back? I could hardly suggest it. After a moment’s consideration, I moved out from beneath Barron’s arm, and stepped behind him. I felt him relax a little. I think he thought I was seeking the shelter of his body, using the movement to show that I’d chosen a side. I imagined he looked pretty self-satisfied right now.

I shoved him forward as hard as I could. V’lane glided instantly back.

Barrons jerked a furious look over his shoulder at me.

I smiled. I don’t think many women push Barrons around.

“What games are you playing, sidhe-seer?” V’lane hissed.

The Fae Prince feared Barrons. I tried to process that thought but I’m not sure I succeeded.

“Can you still feel the Book?” Barrons asked, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

“Yes, where has it gone?” demanded V’lane. “Which way?”

“You wasted too much time arguing,” I lied. I still had a faint tingle. It had stopped somewhere. “It passed beyond my radar a few minutes ago.” I wasn’t sure either of them believed me, but what could they do?

Actually, it occurred to me, they both could do something really nasty to me if they felt like it: Barrons could use Voice, force me to tell him the truth, and make me hunt it, and if I understood a death-by-sex Fae’s thrall, V’lane could amp up the sex thing and steer me around like a horny little divining rod.

So, why weren’t they? Because they really were decent guys with decent motives, albeit very screwed-up personalities? Or because they didn’t want each other around when they used me to track it, and neither could think of a way to get rid of the other at the moment?

Were we all letting it get away, to keep each other from getting it? Wow. I used to have a hard time with high school geometry. Life was way more complicated than math.

“Move,” Barrons said. “Get on the bike.”

I didn’t like his tone.

“Where will you go, Ms. Lane, if not with me or him? Back home to Ashford? Will you strike out on your own? Get a flat? Will your father have to come pack up after you, like you cleaned up after your sister?”

I turned and began walking. He followed me, close enough that I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. “He’ll sift you,” he said in a low growl, “if you give him the chance.”

“I don’t think he’ll risk getting within twenty feet of you,” I said coolly. “And you didn’t have to remind me that my sister’s dead. That was a cheap shot.”

I got on the Harley.

Go with V’lane and be punished for violating our bargain?

I’d take my chances with Barrons. For now.

Chapter 8

Some of your mail missed the slot,” Dani said as she pushed open the front door of Barrons Books and Baubles, and wheeled her bike inside.

I glanced up from the book I was reading (Irish invasions again, some of the most boring research I’d ever done, except for some of the bits about the Fir Bolg and Fomorians) and, after looking behind her to make sure she was alone, smiled. Her curly auburn hair was windblown, her cheeks were flushed with cold, and she’d topped her green pin-striped Post Haste, Inc. courier uniform with a jauntily perched company cap, and her eternal I’m-bored-and-way-too-cool-for-words expression.

I like Dani. She’s different from the other sidhe-seers. I’ve liked her since the day I met her. There’s something kindred in us, besides the fact that we’re both on vengeance quests: her for her mother, and me for my sister.

“Rowena would kill you for coming here, you know.” I frowned, as a suspicion occurred to me. “Or did she send you?”

“Nah. I snuck away. I don’t think anyone followed me. You’re top dog on her shit list, Mac. If she’d sent me, she’d’ve sent me with the sword.”

I caught my breath. I never wanted to battle Dani. Not because I was afraid I might not win—although with her superhuman speed, I supposed it was possible—but because I never wanted to see that exuberant, flippant spark extinguished by my hand, or any other. “Really?”

She flashed a gamine grin. “Nah. I don’t think she wants you dead. She just wants you to grow the feck up and obey her every word. She’s waiting for the same thing from me. She doesn’t get that we are grown the feck up. We’re just not good little tin soldiers like the rest of her fluff-brained army. If you have a mind of your own, Rowena calls you a child. If you don’t have a mind of your own, I call you a sheep. Baaa,” she said, making a face. “The abbey’s so full of ’em it stinks of sheep shit on a summer day.”

I swallowed a laugh. It would only encourage her. “Stop cussing,” I said. Before she could get pissy, I added, “Because pretty girls don’t have ugly mouths, okay? I cuss sometimes, too. But I do it sparingly.”

“Who cares if I’m pretty?” she sneered, but I saw right through her. The first time I’d seen her she’d had makeup on and been in street clothes and I’d thought she was older than she was. In her uniform and without all that black eyeliner, I could see she was thirteen, fourteen at the most, and frozen briefly at that awkward stage all of us suffer for a time. I’d had a gangly period, too, where I’d been convinced the Lane genes had betrayed me, and unlike Alina, I was going to grow up ugly and have to spend the rest of my life eclipsed by my older sister while people said sadly, and never quite quietly enough, “Poor MacKayla, Alina got the brains and the beauty.”

Dani was trapped in adolescent limbo. Her torso hadn’t yet caught up with her legs and arms, and although her hormones were wreaking havoc on her skin they had yet to shape her hips and bust. Caught between child and woman was a rough place to be, and she had to fight monsters on top of it. “You’re going to be gorgeous one day, Dani,” I told her, “so clean up your language, if you want to hang out with me.”

She rolled her eyes, leaned her bike against the counter, tossed a rolled-up wad of mail on the counter, and sauntered cockily off toward the magazine rack, but not before I caught the startled, thoughtful look in her eyes. She would remember what I’d said. She would cling to it during her worst moments and it would get her through, the same way my Aunt Eileen’s promise that I would one day be pretty had gotten me through.

“Found it on the sidewalk,” she tossed over her shoulder. “Fecking postmen can’t even hit the slot.” She punctuated it with a glance that was a dare to correct her, and I might have, but she plucked a Hot Rod magazine from the stand.

Nice choice. I’d gone for the same thing at her age.

“Do you know you’re sitting on the edge of a whole neighborhood of nasty Unseelie?”

“You mean the Shades?” I said, absently flipping through the mail. “Yeah. I call it a Dark Zone. I’ve found three of them in the city.”

“You come up with the coolest names. Doesn’t it creep you out that they’re so close?”

“Creeps me out that they exist at all. Have you seen what they leave behind?”

She shuddered. “Yeah. Rowena sent me out with a team looking for some of us who didn’t make it home one night.”

I shook my head. She was too young to be seeing so much death. She should be reading magazines and thinking about cute guys. As I thumbed through the fliers and coupons, I spotted an envelope stuck in the middle. I’d seen that kind of envelope before: thick, plain, off-white vellum.

No return address.

It had a Dublin postmark, stamped two days ago.

MacKayla Lane c/o Barrons Books and Baubles, it said.

I ripped it open with trembling hands.

I talked to Mac tonight.

I closed my eyes, mentally braced myself, then opened them again.

It was soooo good to hear her voice! I could picture her lying on her bed, sprawled across the rainbow quilt Mom made for her years ago that’s frayed at the edges from a hundred washings, but she refuses to give it up. I could close my eyes and smell the caramel-apple pie with pecan crumb crust Mom was baking. I could hear Daddy in the background, watching baseball with old man Marley from next door, yelling at the Braves as if the batter’s ability to hit the ball depended on how loud they could shout. Home feels like it’s a million miles away, not four thousand—a mere plane ride, eight hours and I could see her.

Who am I kidding? Home’s a million lifetimes away. I want to tell her so badly. I want to say, Mac, come over here. You’re a sidhe-seer. We’re adopted. There’s a war coming and I’m trying to stop it, but if I can’t I’m going to have to bring you over here anyway, to help us fight. I want to say, I miss you more than anything in the world, and I love you so much! But if I do, she’ll know something’s wrong. It’s been so hard to hide it from her, because she knows me so well. I want to reach through the phone lines and hug my baby sister. Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll never get to do it again. That I’ll die here and there’ll be a lifetime of things left unsaid and undone. But I can’t let myself think that way because—

I fisted my hand, crushing the page into a wad. “Watch the counter, Dani,” I barked, and raced for the bathroom.

I slammed the door, locked it, sat on the toilet, and hung my head between my knees. After a moment, I blew my nose and dried my eyes. Her handwriting, her words, her love for me, had slid an unexpected knife straight through my heart. Who was sending me these stupid, painful pages, and why?

I uncrumpled the page, smoothed it on my legs, and continued where I’d left off.

— if I do, I’ll lose hope, and hope’s all I’ve got. I learned something important tonight. I thought I was hunting the Book, and that would be the end of it. But now I know we’ve got to re-create what once was. We’ve got to find the five foretold by the Haven’s prophecy. The Sinsar Dubh alone isn’t enough. We need the stones and the book and the five.

That was the end of the page. There was nothing on the other side.

I stared at it until it blurred out of focus. When did grief end? Did it ever? Or did you just get numb from hurting yourself on it so many times?

Would I grow emotional scar tissue? I hoped so. At the same time I hoped not. How could I betray my love for my sister by not suffering every time I thought about her? If I stopped hurting, would that mean I’d stopped loving her a little?

How had Alina known about the Haven? I’d only recently learned of its existence and what it was: the High Council of sidhe-seers. Rowena claimed she’d never met my sister, yet Alina had written in her journal about the governing body of the very organization Rowena ran, and she’d somehow learned of a prophecy foretold by them.

What were the five? What was the Haven’s prophecy?

I clutched my head and massaged my scalp. Evil books and mysterious players and plots within plots, and now prophecies, too? Before I’d needed five things: four stones and a Book. Now I needed ten? That wasn’t merely absurd, it was unfair.

I stuffed the page in the front pocket of my jeans, stood up, freshened my face, took a deep breath, and went out to relieve Dani of her clerk duties. If my eyes were too bright when I stepped behind the counter, either she didn’t notice, or she understood a thing or two about grief, and left me alone.

“Some of the girls want to meet with you, Mac. That’s why I came today. They asked me to ask you because they figured you wouldn’t even let them in the door, and they’re freaked out that you know a prince.” Her feline eyes narrowed. “What’s he like?” Her young voice was hushed with a dangerous blend of fascination and awakening hormones.

V’lane was the sidhe-seer equivalent of Lucifer; and even if his motives in Mankind’s current predicament mirrored ours, he was to be feared, shunned, and, a deep part of me insisted, destroyed. Seelie and Unseelie alike, the Fae were our enemies. They always had been, and always would be. Why, oh why, do we find the most dangerous, forbidden men the most irresistible?

“Fae princes kill sidhe-seers, Dani.”

“He hasn’t killed you.” She shot me an admiring look. “It looked like you had him eating out of your hand.”

“No woman could have that Fae eating out of her hand,” I said sharply, “so don’t be daydreaming about it.”

She ducked her head guiltily, and I sighed, remembering what it was like to be thirteen. V’lane would have been the object of every one of my teenage fantasies. No rock star, no actor, could have competed with the golden, immortal, inhumanly erotic prince. In my daydreams, I would have wowed him with my cleverness, seduced him with my budding femininity, succeeded in winning his heart where no other woman could because, of course, in my fantasy, I would have endowed him with the heart he didn’t have.

“He’s so beautiful,” she said wistfully. “He’s like an angel.”

“Yep,” I agreed flatly. “The one that fell.” My words did nothing to change the expression on her face. I could only hope she never saw him again. I could see no reason that she would. At some point, in the near future, she and I were going to have a long talk about life. She was overdue. I almost laughed. I’d been overdue too. Then I’d come to Dublin. “Tell me more about this meeting they want, Dani.” What were they after?

“After you left that night, everybody got into a huge fight. Rowena sent everybody back to bed, but once she left, it started up again. Some of the girls wanted to hunt you down and get even. But Kat—she was with Moira that day—said that you didn’t mean to do it, and it would be wrong, and a lot of girls listen to her. Some of ’em aren’t happy with Rowena. They think she keeps too tight a rein on us. They think we should be out in the streets, doing what we can to stop what’s going on, instead of just biking past it every day, watching. She almost never lets us go out to kill.”

“With only one weapon, I can see why.” I hated agreeing with the old woman, but I concurred on that score.

“She keeps the sword herself. She doesn’t like to be without it. I think she’s afraid.”

I could understand that, too. Last night, after I’d gotten on the bike and we’d sped off, I’d checked for my spear. Despite his obvious displeasure with me, V’lane had kept his word and returned it at parting.

I showered with it strapped to my thigh.

I slept with it in my hand.

“We could fight, Mac. Maybe we can’t kill them without the sword, but we sure could kick some fecking ass, and maybe they’d think twice about settin’ up shop in our city. I could save dozens of people every day, if she’d just let me. I see ’em walking down the street, holding hands with a human”—she shuddered—“and I know that person’s gonna die. I could save them!”

“But the Unseelie you stopped would only move on to another victim, if you didn’t kill it, Dani. You’d be saving one person to sentence another.” I’d thought this through myself. I felt the same things. We were hopelessly outnumbered with only two weapons.

Her mouth twisted. “That’s what Rowena says, too.”

Ugh. I was not like Rowena. “In this case, she’s right. Diverting them isn’t enough. We need more weapons. More ways to kill them, and I can’t give up my spear, so if they’re using you to bait some kind of trap. ” I warned. “I didn’t kill Moira. It was an accident. But I won’t let anyone take my spear away.”

“They’re not trying to trap you, Mac. I swear. They just want to talk to you. They think there’s stuff happening that you don’t know about, and they think you might know some stuff we don’t. They want to trade info.”

“What do they think I don’t know?” I demanded. Was there some threat I was unaware of? A new, even worse enemy out there, gunning for me?

“If I tell you anything else, they’ll get mad at me, and half the abbey’s usually mad at me. I’m not pissing off the other half. They said they’d meet on neutral ground, and that you could choose where. Will you do it?”

I made a show of considering it but my mind was already made up. I wanted to know what they knew, and desperately wanted access to their archives. Rowena had given me a glimpse into one of their many books about the Fae the day Dani had taken me to meet her at PHI. She’d shown me the first few sentences of an entry about V’lane, and I’d been itching to get my hands on it ever since, and finish the rest of it. If information about the Sinsar Dubh existed, it was a good bet the sidhe-seers had it, somewhere. Not to mention my hope that somewhere in the abbey were answers to my questions about my mother, and heritage. “Yes. But I’ll need a show of faith.”

“What do you want?”

“Rowena has a book in her desk—”

Dani stiffened instantly. “No fecking way! She’d know! I’m not taking it!”

“Not asking you to. You have a digital camera?”

“Nope. Sorry. Can’t do.” She folded her arms.

“I’ll loan you mine. Photograph the pages about V’lane and bring them to me.” My plan would serve the dual purposes of getting me more information, and proving that she was willing to defy Rowena for me. It would also make her read about the object of her misguided fantasies, and hopefully cure her of them.

She stared at me. “If she catches me, I’m dead.”

“Don’t let her catch you, then,” I said. Then I softened, “Do you think you can do it, Dani? If it’s really too dangerous. ” She was only thirteen, and I was pitting her against a woman with years of wisdom and experience, ruthless intentions, and a spine of steel.

Her lambent eyes gleamed. “I’m superfast, remember? You want it, I’ll get it.” She glanced around the bookstore. “But if things get really bad, I’m coming to live with you.”

“Oh no, you’re not.” I said, trying not to smile. She was such a teenager.

“Why not? It looks cool to me. No rules, either.”

“I’d drown you in rules. All kinds of rules. No TV, no loud music, no boys, no magazines, no snacks or soda, no sugar, no—”

“I get it, I get it,” she said sourly. Then she brightened. “So, I can tell ’em you’ll meet?”

I nodded.

Dani watched the counter for me, while I ran upstairs and got my Kodak. I changed the settings so it would take the highest resolution photos possible, and told her to make sure she got the entire pages, so I could download them onto my computer, zoom in on the images, and read. I told her to call me as soon as she had them; we’d set a place and time to meet.

“Be safe, Dani,” I said, as she wheeled her bike out the door. There was a storm brewing in the streets of Dublin, and I didn’t mean those dense black clouds currently crawling across the rooftops. I could feel it. Like a bad moon really was rising, and even worse trouble was on the way. Ever since I’d danced to that song the other night, I hadn’t been able to shake it from my head. It was such boppy, happy-sounding music to be accompanied by such grim predictions.

She glanced back over her shoulder at me. “We’re kinda like sisters, aren’t we, Mac?”

A knife twisted in my gut. There was such a hopeful look on her face. “Yeah, I guess we are.” I didn’t want another sister. Ever. I didn’t want to worry about anyone but me.

Still, I did the closest thing to praying I knew how to do, and whispered a silent invocation to the universe to watch over her, as I closed the door.

The dark clouds creeping over the city exploded, thunderheads crashing, raindrops biting with October’s chill teeth, flash-flooding the pavement, gushing down the gutters, overflowing the grates, and sweeping all my customers away.

I cataloged books until my vision blurred. I made myself a cup of tea, turned on the gas logs, cozied up to the fire, and paged through a book on Irish fairy tales, hunting for truth in the myth, while picking at a lunch that was the UK equivalent of Ramen noodles. I haven’t had much of an appetite since I ate Unseelie. Not for food, anyway.

Last night Barrons and I hadn’t said a word to each other all the way back to the bookstore. He’d dropped me at the front and watched me walk in. Then, he’d given me a smile that was all teeth and nastiness, and driven straight into the Dark Zone, managing to say “Fuck you, Ms. Lane,” without even bothering to open his mouth. He knows how much his refusal to tell me why the Shades don’t eat him irks me.

I want to be so fearless. I want to be so bad and tough that all the monsters leave me alone.

I tugged Alina’s journal entry from my pocket and read it again, more slowly this time.

Her worst fear had come true, and here I was, left alone with a lifetime of things unsaid and undone. I’d never gotten that hug. I knew I needed to push past the emotional punch and focus on the Haven’s prophecy, the five, and the new questions her journal entry raised, but I was detoured by memories. There’d been so many nights that I’d sprawled on my bed, talking to Alina on the phone. Mom was always making good stuff, filling the house with the mouth-watering aroma of yeast, caramel cream sauces, and spices. Dad was always yelling at the Braves with old man Marley during baseball season. I would have prattled aimlessly about boys and school and my idiotic complaints about whatever I used to complain about, believing the whole time she and I were immortal.

What a shock when life ends at twenty-four. Nobody’s ready for it. I missed my rainbow quilt. I missed my mom. God, I missed—

I stood, crammed the page back in my pocket, and pruned my dark thoughts in the seedling stage before they could sprout. Depression gets you nowhere but tangled in an overgrown garden that can choke the life out of you.

I moved to the window and stared out at the rain. Gray street. Gray day. Gray rain, splashing grayly on gray pavement. What was that Jars of Clay song on my iPod? “My world is a flood. Slowly I become one with the mud.”

As I stared, unblinking into the grayness, a brilliant shaft of sunlight splintered the rain, directly in front of me.

I looked up, seeking its source. The beam pierced the dark clouds, a radiant lance shot down from heaven, forming a perfect golden circle on the dreary, drenched sidewalk, inside which there was no rain, no storm, just sunshine and warmth. I thumbed a Tums from my pocket. My tea and noodles were abruptly an unpleasant stew in my stomach.

Speaking of the sidhe-seer’s equivalent of Lucifer.

“Funny,” I said. But I wasn’t laughing. Fae-induced nausea coupled with an impossible illusion spelled one thing: V-l-a-n-e. The only thing missing was a frenzy of Fae lust, and I braced myself for it. His name piercing my tongue suddenly tasted sweet as honey, felt smooth and supple and sexy in my mouth. “Go away,” I told the illusory shaft of sun, focusing my sidheseer center on it. It didn’t evaporate.

Then V’lane was standing in it, but he wasn’t Fae, and he wasn’t the biker man. He was a version of himself I’d never seen before: he looked human, and he was definitely muted. Still, he was inhumanly beautiful. He was wearing white swim trunks that contrasted perfectly with his gold skin, and flaunted his flawless body. His hair slid like silk over his bare shoulders. His eyes were amber, warm with invitation.

He’d come to punish me. I knew that. And still I wanted to step outside, splash through the rain and join him in his sunny oasis. Hold his hand. Run away for a while, maybe to Faery, where I could play volleyball and drink beers with a perfectly convincing illusion of Alina. I stuffed that thought back in my padlocked box and checked the chains. They weren’t holding so good today.

I will attend to you later, he’d said last night. You broke our bargain. There is a price for that.

“Leave me alone, V’lane,” I called through the window. It echoed off the glass back at me, and I wasn’t sure he heard. Maybe he could read lips. Suddenly the windowpane separating us was gone. Drops of wind-driven rain needled my face, my hands.

“You are forgiven, MacKayla. Upon reflection, I realized it was not your fault. You were not responsible for Barrons’ interference. I do not expect you to be able to control him. To demonstrate my understanding, I have come, not to punish you, but to give you a gift.”

His “gifts” all had strings attached, and I told him so, with a tongue that tasted of nectar.

“Not this one. This is for you and only for you. I will gain nothing from it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I could have harmed you long before now if I wished.”

“So? Maybe you’re just putting it off. Sucking me in for the grand finale.” I brushed rain from my face, and pushed my hair back. It was simultaneously curling and drooping, becoming an unmanageable mess. “You can put the window back anytime.”

“I took your hand and accompanied you into the halls of my enemies, trusting you not to Null me. Return the honor, sidhe-seer.” The temperature was dropping. “I gave you my name, the means to summon me at will.” The rain turned to sleet.

“Not inspiring trust with your little display of temper.” A strong gust of wind dumped a sudden bucket of rain on me.

“Oh! You did that on purpose!” I dragged a sleeve across my face, mopping at it. It didn’t help. My sweater was soaked.

He didn’t deny it. Just cocked his head, studied me. “I will tell you about the one you call Lord Master.”

“I don’t call him Lord Master and never will,” I bristled. I battled the urge to leap out the window, grab him, and demand to know whatever he knew.

“Would you like to know who he is?”

“You said you’d never heard of him when I told you about him.” I studied my nails, knowing if he knew how badly I wanted the information, he’d make it harder to get. Probably try to trade it for sex.

“I have learned much since then.”

“So, who is he?” I said, in a bored voice.

“Accept my gift.”

“Tell me what your ‘gift’ is first.”

“You have no plans for the afternoon.” He glanced at the flooded street beyond his warm, sunny oasis. “You will have no customers. Will you sit in your chair and pine for lost things?”

“You’re pissing me off, V’lane.”

“Have you ever seen the Caribbean Sea? There are hues in those waves that nearly vie with Faery.”

I sighed. No. I’d dreamed of it, though. Sun slanting off water was one of my favorite things in the world, whether it was swimming-pool-blue or shades-of-tropic. During the winter in Ashford, I used to go to the local travel agent’s office in town and thumb through the pamphlets, dreaming of all the exotic, sunny places the husband I hadn’t met yet was going to take me. Part of the reason I was so depressed in Dublin was from simple lack of sun. My time in the subterranean caves beneath the Burren had sapped me. I not only love sun, I need it. I think if I’d grown up in the colder, drearier North, I’d have been a completely different person. Sure, the sun comes out here, but not nearly as often as it does in Georgia, and not the same way. Dublin doesn’t get those months of long, blissfully blazingly hot summer days, crowned by a sky so blue it hurts to look at, and a sultry heat that warms you to the core. My bones are cold here. So is my heart.

A few hours in the tropics, plus information about the Lord Master?

The rain slanting in through the windowless hole pricked my skin with the icy spines of a dozen porcupines. Would he really forgo retaliation against me for breaking our bargain? I was in no position to shut the Seelie prince out of my life. Whether I trusted him or not, I needed to be on decent terms with him, and if he really was offering me a Get Out of Jail Free card, I’d be crazy not to take it. I couldn’t cower in the bookstore from him every time he showed up. I was going to have to confront him on unwarded ground eventually.

“Put the window back.” I wasn’t going to be blamed by Barrons for another missing window, or risk that big nasty Shade out back getting in.

“Do you accept my gift?”

I nodded.

When the pane was back, I went to the counter, swapped my soaking cardigan for a dry jacket over my damp shirt, and bent to extract the spear from my boot and holster it beneath my arm. It was gone.

Apparently the bookstore being warded only kept him out. It didn’t keep him from performing his tricks in or on the store itself. I made a mental note to discuss this problem with the intractable owner and keeper of the wards. Surely with all his secrets and inexplicable abilities Barrons could do better than that.

I flipped the sign to CLOSED, locked up, splashed through the puddles, stepped into the sun and, when V’lane offered his hand, nullified my intent to Null, and laced my fingers with his.

I was in Cancún, Mexico, sitting in a disappearing-edge swimming pool, on a bar stool that was actually under the water, watching palm trees sway in a sultry breeze against the unmistakable aqua splendor of the Caribbean Sea; drinking coconut, lime, and tequila from a scooped-out pineapple, with the salt spray of breaking surf and sun kissing my skin.

Translation: I’d died and gone to heaven.

Dublin, the rain, my problems, my depression: All of it had vanished in the blink of a Fae Prince’s sift.

My bikini today, courtesy of V’lane, was leopard print, three embarrassingly tiny triangles. A gold belly chain, inset with amber, draped my hips. I didn’t care how nearly naked I was. The day was blindingly bright and beautiful. The sun was warm and healing on my shoulders. The double shots of Cuervo Gold in my drink weren’t hurting, either. I was glowing golden inside and out.

“So? Who is he? You said you’d tell me about the Lord Master,” I prompted.

His hands were on me then, rubbing suntan oil into my skin that smelled of the coconut and almond, and for a short time I forgot that I even had a tongue that could ask questions.

Even when he’s fully muted, there’s magic in a death-by-sex Fae’s hands. They make you feel like you’re being touched by the only man who could ever know you, understand you, give you what you need. Illusion, deception, and lie, perhaps, but it still feels real. The mind may know the difference. But the body doesn’t. The body is a traitor.

I leaned into V’lane’s touch, moving under his strong, sure strokes, purring inwardly while he petted me. His iridescent eyes burned a shimmering shade of amber, like the gems on my belly chain, grew sleepy, heated, promising me sex that would blow my mind away.

“I have a suite, MacKayla,” he said softly. “Come.” He took my hand.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” I murmured, and pulled away. I shook my head, trying to clear it.

“I despise girls. I like women. They are infinitely more. interesting. Girls break. Women can surprise you.”

Girls break. I had no doubt he’d broken more than a few in his time. I’d not forgotten the book in Rowena’s study that credited this very Fae with being the founder of the Wild Hunt. The thought jarred me back to reality. “Who is he?” I asked again, scooting to the farthest edge of my bar stool. “Stop touching me. Honor your promise.”

He sighed. “What is it you humans say? All work and no play—”

“—might just keep me alive,” I finished dryly.

“I will keep you alive.”

“Barrons says the same thing. I’d prefer to be able to do it myself.”

“You are a mere human, a woman at that.”

I felt my jaw jut. “Like you said. Women can surprise you. Answer my question. Who is he?” I motioned the bartender for a fresh pineapple—hold the tequila—and waited.

“One of us.”

“Huh?” I blinked. “The Lord Master is Fae?”

V’lane nodded.

Although I’d gotten a Fae read off the Lord Master the two times we’d met, I’d also gotten a human read, similar to what I sensed in Mallucé and Derek O’Bannion. I’d thought the Fae part was because the Lord Master ate Fae, not because he was Fae. “But I don’t sense full Fae from him. What’s the deal?”

“He is no longer. He who calls himself the Lord Master was formerly a Seelie known as Darroc, a trusted member of the queen’s High Council.”

I blinked. He was Seelie? Then what was he doing leading the Unseelie? “What happened?”

“He betrayed our queen. She discovered he was working secretly with the Royal Hunters to overthrow her, and return to the old ways, and old days in which no Fae bowed to an insult of a Compact, or had any use for humans other than passing diversion.” Alien, ancient eyes studied me a moment. “Darroc’s special diversion was playing with human women for a long, cruel time, before destroying them.”

An image of Alina’s body as it had looked lying on the morgue table rose up in my mind. “Have I told you how much I hate him?” I hissed. For a moment I couldn’t say any more, couldn’t even think past him hurting my sister and leaving her to die. I breathed deep and slow, then said, “So, what, you threw him out of Faery and dumped him on us?”

“When the queen uncovered his treason, she stripped him of his power and immortality, and banished him to your realm, condemning him to suffer the brevity and humiliation of a mortal life, and die—the cruelest sentence for a Fae, crueler even than ceasing to exist by immortal weapon, or. simply vanishing the way some of us do. To die was insult to injury. Mortal indignity is the greatest indignity of all.”

He was so arrogant. “Was he a prince?” A death-by-sex Fae like V’lane? Was that how he’d seduced my sister?

“No. But he was old among our kind. Powerful.”

“How can you know that, if you’ve drunk from the cauldron?” I pointed out an obvious bit of illogic. A side effect of extreme longevity, V’lane had told me, was eventual madness. They dealt with it by drinking from the Seelie Hallow, the cauldron. The sacred drink wiped their memories clean, and let them start over with a brand-new Fae life, and no memory of who they’d once been.

“The cauldron is not without flaws, MacKayla. Memory is. how did one of your artists say it? — persistent. It was fashioned to ease the onus of eternity, not leave us blank. When we drink from it, we emerge speaking the first language we knew. Darroc’s is mine: the ancient one, from the dawn of our race. In such a way, we know things about each other, despite the divestiture of memories. Some attempt to plant information about themselves for their next incarnation to find. The Fae Court is an unpleasant place to be, stripped of ability to discern friend from foe. We prolong drinking as long as possible. Tatters from earlier times sometimes remain. Some must drink twice, three times, to be cleansed.”

“How can I find Darroc?” I asked. Now that I knew his name, I would never call him anything but that, or a mocking “LM” again.

“You cannot. He is hiding where even we have been unable to track him. He slips in and out of Unseelie through portals unknown to us. We are hunting him, the other Seelie princes and I.”

“How can a mere human elude you and move in and out of Fae realms?” I goaded. I was angry. They’d made this mess. They’d dumped Darroc into our realm because they’d been having problems, and it was my world that was suffering, my sister who’d been killed because of it. The least they could do was clean up after themselves, and fast.

“My queen did not strip his knowledge from him, an oversight she now regrets. She believed he would die quickly. It is why we did not suspect him of being the one behind the trouble in your realm. Once human, Darroc had no immunity against the many illnesses that plague your kind, and those who live as gods tend to underestimate the brutality of the herd when they walk among it.”

“He’s not the only one who underestimated something,” I said frostily. Herd, my petunia. With so much inhuman power at their fingertips, they certainly were humanly fallible, and we humans were the ones paying for it.

V’lane ignored the jibe. “We believed if he did not contract a mortal illness, he would anger a human with his arrogance, and become one of your violent crime statistics. Contrary to our expectations, since Darroc has been mortal, he has acquired immense power. He knew where to look, and how to get it, and he has always had allies among the Royal Hunters. He promises them freedom from the Unseelie prison where they are stabled; a promise no other Fae would make. Hunters cannot be trusted.”

“And other Fae can?” I said dryly.

“Hunters go beyond all bounds.” Here V’lane momentarily flickered, as if struggling not to revert to another form. “They have taught Darroc to eat the flesh of Fae to steal Fae power!” He paused, and for a fleeting moment, the temperature plunged so sharply that I couldn’t draw a breath and the ocean, as far as I could see it, iced. Abruptly, all was normal again. “He will die very slowly when we find him. The queen may make him suffer immortally for it. We do not savage our own.”

I looked away hurriedly and stared out at the sea, owning the same sin, feeling it flashing in incriminating neon letters on my forehead: FAE EATER. Darroc had taught Mallucé, Mallucé had taught me, and I’d taught Jayne. I had no desire to suffer immortally, or otherwise. “What can I do to help?”

“Leave it to us to find Darroc,” V’lane said. “You must do as the queen has charged you and find the Book. The walls between our realms are dangerously thin. If Darroc succeeds in bringing them down, the Unseelie will escape their prison. Without the Sinsar Dubh, we are as powerless to reimprison our dark brethren as you. Once loose, they will consume your world and destroy your race.”

He paused before adding grimly, “And, quite possibly, mine.”

Chapter 9

At quarter to ten, I was waiting for Barrons to arrive, and my Voice lessons to begin. We’d set a standing engagement, and although I knew he was probably still angry with me, I expected him to show.

I didn’t mind hopping. He could make me squawk like a chicken, for all I cared. If he made me feel stupid enough, I’d figure out how to resist him.

Christian had been right. If the walls came down, all the Unseelie would be freed. And I’d been right, too: the Seelie couldn’t reimprison them without the Sinsar Dubh. Despite the grimness of our situation, I was once again focused, determined Mac. I’d stolen some sun—real human sun, not Faery stuff like last time with V’lane—and stashed it away, solar energy for my cells. A junkie, I’d gotten my fix.

Thumbing my nose at the chilly weather outside, which I had no intention of venturing into, I was wearing my favorite short white skirt, pretty sandals, and a lime-gold sleeveless top that tinted the green of my eyes a lighter, more intense shade. My skin was burnished gold from my hours in the sun. I looked and felt great. After showering, and doing my makeup and hair, I’d talked to Dad for a while. In Ashford, it was suppertime, and it had been 88 degrees today. In Dublin it was 38, but knowing Cancún was a mere “sift” away made it a lot easier to handle.

In my refreshed state of mind, I’d decided to divulge some information to Barrons. Try fishing with a baited hook instead of demanding answers, do things his way. I was going to show him the page from my sister’s journal that I’d received today. V’lane had slipped. Surely every now and then Barrons did, too. Maybe his face would betray something. Maybe he knew what the five were. Maybe he’d have some idea who had Alina’s journal. I didn’t believe he did. I couldn’t see any reason he would choose those specific entries to send to me. Then again, I couldn’t see any reason anyone would choose them, but someone had.

If I shared something with him, maybe he’d return the favor. Perhaps he felt the answers were innocuous enough that they didn’t matter. Sunny Mac felt it was worth a try.

The bell above the door tinkled.

Barrons stepped in. He swept a gaze from my head to my feet, slowly. His face tightened, then he worked his way back up, just as slowly. I guess he didn’t like my clothes. He rarely does. Left to my own devices, I dress too happy to suit his tastes. Ms. Rainbow and Mr. Night. That’s what we look like walking around together.

To defuse any tension left over from last night, I offered him a smile, and a friendly, “Hey,” letting him know I was willing to start this night off fresh, and hoped he was, too.

I sensed his violence a split second before he attacked me, and then it was too late. He slammed the door behind him. Dead bolts ratcheted into place.

“Tell me every detail of the last time you saw the Sinsar Dubh.”

Voice compacted my body in a head-to-toe vise, and squeezed brutally. Shit, shit, shit.

I doubled over, the breath slammed out of me. A legion of voices rebounded in the room, careening off the walls, intensifying as they zoomed left and right, up and down, then through me, burrowing into my skin, rearranging things in my head, making my mind his. Dominating. Seducing. Selling me the lie that his will was mine, and I lived to obey it.

Sweat beaded on my brow and upper lip, and slicked my palms. The harder I tried to fight the compulsion, the less possible it was to inflate my lungs, to move any part of my body at all. A paper doll, I hung, folded, limp, spineless. And like a paper doll, he could tear me in half, if he wanted to.

“Stop fighting me, Ms. Lane, and it’ll go easier. Unless you enjoy the pain.”

In my mind I spewed a geyser of curses, but not a word came out. I had no breath to fuel it. He’d topped the level he’d used on me last night—the level of proficiency he’d said the Lord Master had achieved—and he’d done it with a voice of silk. Like the difference between other men’s motorcycles and his, Barrons walks softly—but he carries the biggest stick I’ve ever seen.

“Nice tan, Ms. Lane. How’s V’lane? Did you have a good time today? I take you to graveyards, but he takes you to the beach—is that what our problem is? Our little dates aren’t good enough for you? Does he romance you? Feed you all those pretty lies you’re so hungry for? I’ve been neglecting you lately. I’ll be remedying that. Sit. Over there.” He pointed to a chair near the fire.

I jerked upright and tiptoed tightly toward the indicated seat, not because I felt dainty, but because that’s what happens when you try to lock down your leg muscles to prevent your feet from rising and falling, but your body moves anyway. One resistant step after the next, I minced toward the chair. I reached it and collapsed into it like a rag doll. My throat muscles convulsed and I tried to force out words. “D-don’t. d-do—”

“You will not speak unless it is in direct answer to one of my questions.”

My lips sealed. I couldn’t believe he was doing this to me.

How ironic that V’lane had asked me to trust him today, I had, and he hadn’t betrayed me. I’d been ready to open up a little to Barrons tonight, tell him a few things, and he’d betrayed me. V’lane had muted his sexuality to preserve my will. Barrons had just stripped it away with a single command, no different from the Lord Master.

“Tell me what you saw the night you encountered the Sinsar Dubh,” he repeated.

Straining in my skin, nearly suffocating myself with my attempts to resist, I spilled every detail, every last thought, every perception. From the humiliation of lying in that vile puddle in my pretty clothes, to the various forms the Book had taken, to the look it had given me, to my decision about how to track it. Then, to make things worse, I volunteered my entire “intervention” with Inspector Jayne.

“Don’t move,” he said, and I sat ramrod-straight in my chair, unable to even scratch my nose while he pondered his thoughts. There was violence in the room with us, a killing violence. I didn’t get it. What had I done to piss him off so much? He hadn’t been half this angry last night, and he’d had every opportunity to grill me forcibly then. He hadn’t. He’d just driven off.

“Where did you go today?”

Sweat dripping down my face, I told him that, too. I wanted to speak of my own free will, to call him every name in the book, to tell him we were through, he and I, and that I was the one who deserved answers, not him. But he’d sealed my lips with a command, and I could only answer what he asked.

“Did V’lane tell you anything?”

“Yes,” I said flatly, biting it off there. I’d obeyed the compulsion to the letter. I didn’t have to offer more.

“What did he tell you?”

“That the Lord Master was once a Fae, named Darroc.”

He snorted. “Old news. Did he tell you anything about me?”

Old news? He’d been sitting on information about the Lord Master that he hadn’t shared with me? And he got pissed at me for not telling him everything I knew? If he didn’t kill me when he was done with me, he was dead. He was a walking encyclopedia with a cover I couldn’t crack. Useless.

Dangerous. “No.”

“Did you fuck him?”

“No,” I gritted.

“Have you ever fucked him?”

“No,” I ground out. I’d never had two men more obsessed with what was happening in my sex life, or rather, not happening.

Some of the violence in the air abated.

My eyes narrowed. Was this it? The source of his rage? Was Barrons jealous? Not because he cared, but because he thought of me as a possession, his personal and private sidhe-seer, and there would be no other men’s erections interfering with her OOP detections?

He gave me a cold look. “I needed to know if you were Pri-ya. That’s why I asked.”

“Do I look Pri-ya?” I snapped. I had no idea what a Fae addict looked like, but I somehow doubted I was the Poster Girl for it. I figured them for something more like the Goth girls I’d seen hanging out at Mallucé’s vampire lair: pierced, tattooed, and heavily made-up, dressed in vintage clothing, mostly black.

He started, measured me a moment, then laughed. “Good for you, Ms. Lane! You’re learning.”

I started, myself, realized what I’d just done. I’d said something that hadn’t been an answer to a direct question! I tried to do it again, mentally forming the words, but I couldn’t force them out. I didn’t know how I’d done it in the first place.

“Who were you going to see the night you saw the Sinsar Dubh?”

Oh, no. This wasn’t fair. He didn’t get to know everything. “A guy that knew Alina,” I said between clenched teeth.

“Tell me his name.”

No, no, no. “Christian MacKeltar.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He exploded from his chair and glared down at me.

Since he’d used Voice, I was obligated to say, “No,” although I knew the question had been rhetorical. The killing violence was back, over a simple name. Why? What significance did Christian’s name have to him? Did he know him? Closing my eyes, I sought the sidhe-seer place in my head. It was no help. I still couldn’t speak. How could I feel so much power in that hot, alien part of my mind, yet find nothing there of use to me in this situation?

“How did you meet Christian MacKeltar?”

“He works at the ALD at Trinity. I met him when you sent me to pick up the invitation to the auction from his boss, but she wasn’t there.”

His nostrils flared. “He must be a recent hire. They’ve been spying on me.”

He hadn’t used Voice, nor had he asked a question, so I said nothing.

“Have the MacKeltars been spying on me?”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I said, “Yes.”

“Have you been spying on me, Ms. Lane?”

“As much as I can.”

“What have you learned about me?”

I went poking around in my head again but whatever place I was supposed to discover remained a mystery to me. Aware that I was digging my own grave, one spadeful of information at a time, I told him. That I knew he wasn’t human. That I knew he was impossibly old. That I’d watched him step out of the Unseelie Sifting Silver he kept in his study, carrying the savagely brutalized corpse of a woman. That, like the Shades, the demons in there had fled his path.

He laughed. As if it was some kind of joke that I knew all his dark secrets. He didn’t try to explain or justify one bit of it. “And I didn’t think you could keep your own counsel. You knew these things and never said a word. You’re becoming interesting. Are you working with the MacKeltars against me?”

“No.”

“Are you working with V’lane against me?”

“No.”

“Are you working with the sidhe-seers against me?”

“No.”

“Are you working with anyone against me?”

“No.”

“Where do your loyalties lie, Ms. Lane?”

“With myself,” I shouted. “With my sister! With my family, and screw all of you!”

The violence in the room abated.

After a moment, Barrons resumed his seat in the chair across from me, absorbed my painfully stiff posture, and smiled without humor. “Very well, Mac. Relax.”

Mac? He’d called me Mac? I fought for breath. “Am I about to die?” I wheezed. “Are you going to kill me?”

He looked startled. I’d done it again. Spoken of my own will. He’d released my body, but not his hold on my mind and mouth. I could still feel it, compelling me, hurting me.

Then he snorted. “I tell you to relax and you think I’m going to kill you? You’re crippled by a woman’s illogic.” He added as a seeming afterthought, “You may speak freely now.”

The stranglehold on my throat was gone, and for a few moments I simply enjoyed the sensation of breath moving in and out of my lungs, of knowing my tongue was once again my own. I could feel V’lane’s name, piercing the meat of it, and realized that from the moment Barrons had used Voice to bind my will, it had somehow faded, receded beyond my reach. “I am not. The only two times you ever called me Mac is when I was near death. Since there’s no other threat around right now, you must be about to kill me. It’s perfectly logical.”

“I didn’t call you Mac.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I called you Ms. Lane.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

I clenched my jaw. Sometimes, despite Barrons’ eternal old-world sophistication, and my glamour-girl cool, he and I very nearly devolve into childish fights. Frankly, I didn’t give a rat’s petunia what he’d called me, and wasn’t about to sit here and argue about it. I was free, and furious. I exploded from my chair, launched myself at him, and slammed both palms against his chest. I put every ounce of determination to Null into my hands that I could summon. My sidhe-seer core blazed like a small fiery sun in my head. Was he or wasn’t he Unseelie?

I hit him so hard that his chair toppled backward and we went skidding across the floor toward the fireplace, stopping inches from the grate. If he froze at all, it was for so brief a moment that I couldn’t decide if I’d nulled him, or merely startled him into a brief second of immobility.

Figured. More non-answers where Barrons was concerned.

I reared back, straddling him, and punched him in the jaw as hard as I could. He started to speak and I punched him again. I wished I’d eaten Unseelie. I was going to go eat ten of them tonight then come back here and finish him off, the hell with answers.

“How dare you saunter in here and force me to give you answers when you’ve never given me a single one?” I hissed. I punched him in the stomach, hard. He didn’t even wince. I punched him again. Nothing.

“You stand there all tan and glowing and wonder why I use Voice on you?” he bellowed. “Where the hell do you get off? You’ve been with V’lane again. How many slaps in the face do you think I’m going to take, Ms. Lane?” He grabbed my fist and held it when I tried to punch him again. I swung at him with the other. He caught that, too. “I warned you not to play us against each other.”

“I’m not playing you! I’m trying to survive. And I don’t slap you when I go off with V’lane!” I tried to yank my fists from his hands. “It doesn’t have anything to do with you. I’m trying to get answers, and since you won’t give me any, you can’t blame me for going somewhere else.”

“So, the man who doesn’t get laid at home has the right to go off and cheat?”

“Huh?”

“Which word didn’t you understand?” he sneered.

“You’re the one who’s crippled by illogic. This isn’t home, it never will be, and nobody’s getting laid!” I practically shouted.

“You think I don’t know that?” He shifted his body beneath me, making me painfully aware of something. Two somethings, in fact, one of which was how far up my short skirt was. The other wasn’t my problem. I wriggled, to shimmy my hem down, but his expression perished the thought. When Barrons looks at me like that, it rattles me. Lust, in those ancient, obsidian eyes, offers no trace of humanity. Doesn’t even bother trying.

Savage Mac wants to invite it to come out and play. I think she’s nuts. Nuts, I tell you.

“Let go of my hands.”

“Make me,” he taunted. “Voice me, Ms. Lane. Come on, little girl, show me some power.”

Little girl, my ass. “You know I can’t. And that makes what you did to me tonight even more unforgivable. You might as well have raped me. In fact, that’s exactly what you did!”

He rolled hard and fast, and I was on my back beneath him, with my hands pinned above my head, the weight of his body crushing me to the floor, his face inches from mine. He was breathing harder than the exertion merited.

“Make no mistake, Ms. Lane, I didn’t rape you. You can lie there on your pretty little P.C. ass and claim with your idealistic little P.C. arguments that any violation of your will is rape and that I’m a big, bad bastard, and I’ll tell you that you’re full of shit, and you’ve obviously never been raped. Rape is much, much worse. Rape isn’t something you walk away from. You crawl.”

He was off me and on his feet, stalking out the door before I’d even managed to catch enough breath to reply.