Feverborn

PROLOGUE

Dublin, Ireland

The night was wild, electric, stormy. Unwritten.

As was he.

An unexpected episode in what had been a tightly scripted film.

Coat billowing like dark wings behind him, he walked across the rain-slicked roof of the water tower, dropped to a crouch on the edge, rested his forearms on his knees, and stared out over the city.

Lightning flashed gold and scarlet, briefly gilding dark rooftops and wet-silver streets below. Amber gas lamps glowed, pale lights flickered in windows, and Faery magic danced on the air. Fog steamed from cobblestones, mincing through alleys and shrouding buildings.

There was no place he’d rather be than this ancient, luminous city, where modern man rubbed shoulders with pagan gods. In the past year, Dublin had transformed from an everyday urban dwelling with a touch of magic to a chillingly magical city with a touch of normal. It had metamorphosed from a thriving metropolis bustling with people, to a silent iced shell, to its current incarnation: savagely alive as those who remained struggled to seize control. Dublin was a minefield, the balance of power shifting constantly as key players were eliminated without warning. Nothing was easy. Every move, each decision, a matter of life and death. It made for interesting times. Small human lives were so limited. And for that very reason, so fascinating. Shadowed by death, life became immediate. Intense.

He knew the past. He’d seen glimpses of many futures. Like its unpredictable inhabitants, Dublin had fallen off the grid of expected trajectories. Recent events in the area had not transpired in any future he’d seen. There was no telling what might happen next. The possibilities were infinite.

He liked it that way.

Fate was a misnomer; an illusion erected and clung to by people who needed to believe when things spun out of their control there was some grand purpose for their fucked-up existence, some mysterious redemptive design that made it worth the suffering.

Ah, the painful truth: Fate was a cosmic toilet. It was the nature of the universe to flush sluggish things that failed to exercise free will. Stasis was stagnancy. Change was velocity. Fate—a sniper that preferred a motionless target to a dancing one.

He wanted to graffiti the side of every building in the city: IT ISN’T FATE. IT’S YOUR OWN STUPID FUCKING FAULT. But he knew better. Admitting there was no such thing as Fate meant acknowledging personal responsibility. He wasn’t about to ante up on that hand.

Still…every now and then one came along like him, like this city that defied all expectation, owned every action, flipped Fate the bird at each opportunity. One that didn’t merely exist.

But lived. Fearless. No price too high for freedom. He understood that.

With a faint smile, he surveyed the city below.

From the tower he could see all the way to the choppy whitecapped sea, its black and silver surface shadowed by the hulking shapes of abandoned ships and barges, and sleeker vessels bobbing on the storm-tossed waves, white sails snapping in the chilly gale.

To his left rooftops stretched, another shadowy rain-pelted sea, sheltering what humans had survived the fall of the ancient walls that had kept the Fae hidden for millennia.

To the right, tucked down a quiet cobblestone street of pubs and upscale shops—easy to identify by the floodlights blazing on the rooftop and the vast section of forsaken city beyond it decimated by the bottomless appetites of the Shades—was that peculiar spatially challenged place known as Barrons Books & Baubles, which was so much more than it appeared to be.

Somewhere down there where gutters routed streams of water to a vast underground drainage system riddled by long forgotten catacombs, Fae walked the streets both openly and hidden, and neon signs cast fractured rainbows on the pavement, was the prior owner of that bookstore, if such a place was ever owned; his Machiavellian ruthless brother; and an invisible woman who, like the building to which she now laid claim, was far more than she appeared to be.

Farther to the left down winding rural roads, if one traveled a solid hour of stark desolation through a second hour of Faery-lush vegetation, was another of those ancient places that could never be owned and the brilliant, powerful woman determined to command it.

Barrons, Ryodan, Mac, Jada.

The possibilities were enormous, dazzling, and he had a fair idea how things would go…but these moments were unpredictable, unscripted.

He threw back his dark head and laughed.

As was he.

1

I grew up believing in rules, thanks to my parents, Jack and Rainey Lane. I didn’t always like them and I broke them when they didn’t work for me, but they were sturdy things I could rely on to shape the way I lived and keep me—if not totally on the straight and narrow, at least aware there was a straight and narrow I could return to if I got to feeling lost.

Rules serve a purpose. I once told Rowena they were fences for sheep, but fences do more than merely keep sheep in a pasture where shepherds can guide them. They provide protection in the vast and frightening unknown. The night isn’t half as scary when you’re in the center of a fluffy-butted herd, bumping rumps with other fluffy butts, not able to see too much, feeling secure and mostly normal.

Without fences of any kind, the dark night beyond is clearly visible. You stand alone in it. Without rules, you have to decide what you want and what you’re willing to do to get it. You must embrace the weapons with which you choose to arm yourself to survive.

What we achieve at our best moment doesn’t say much about who we are.

It all boils down to what we become at our worst moment.

What you find yourself capable of if…say…

You get stranded in the middle of the ocean with a lone piece of driftwood that will support one person’s weight and not a single ounce more—while floating beside a nice person that needs it as badly as you do.

That’s the moment that defines you.

Will you relinquish your only hope of survival to save the stranger? Will it matter if the stranger is old and has lived a full life or young and not yet had the chance?

Will you try to make the driftwood support both of you, ensuring both your deaths?

Or will you battle savagely for the coveted float with full cognizance the argument could be made—even if you merely take the driftwood away without hurting the stranger and swim off—that you’re committing murder?

Is it murder in your book?

Would you cold-bloodedly kill for it?

How do you feel as you swim away? Do you look back? Do tears sting your eyes? Or do you feel like a motherfucking winner?

Impending death has a funny way of popping the shiny, happy bubble of who we think we are. A lot of things do.

I live in a world with few fences. Lately, even those are damned rickety.

I resented that. There was no straight and narrow anymore. Only a circuitous route that required constant remapping to dodge IFPs, black holes, and monsters of every kind, along with the messy ethical potholes that mine the interstates of a postapocalyptic world.

I stared at the two-way glass of Ryodan’s office, currently set to privacy—floor transparent, walls and ceiling opaque—and got briefly distracted by the reflection of the glossy black desk behind me, reflected in the darkened glass, reflected in the desk, reflected in the glass, receding into ever-smaller tableaus, creating a disconcerting infinity-mirror effect.

Although I stood squarely between the desk and the wall, I was invisible to the world, to myself. The Sinsar Dubh was still disconcertingly silent, and for whatever reason, still cloaking me.

I cocked my head, studying the spot where I should be.

Nothing looked back. It was bizarrely fitting.

That was me: tabula rasa—the blank slate. I knew somewhere I had a pen but I seemed to have forgotten how to use it. Or maybe I’d just wised up enough to know what I held these days was no Easy-Erase marker of my youth, scrubbed off by the gentle swipe of a moistened cloth, but a big, fat-tipped Sharpie: black and bold and permanent.

Dani, stop running. I just want to talk to you…

Dani was gone. There was only Jada now. I couldn’t unwrite our fight. I couldn’t unwrite that Barrons and I moved those mirrors. I couldn’t unwrite the choice of mirrors Dani made that took her to the one place too dangerous to follow. I couldn’t change the terrible abusive childhood that fractured her, with which she dealt brilliantly and creatively in order to survive. Of them all, that was what I really wished I could erase.

I felt immobilized by the many ways I could screw things up, acutely aware of the butterfly effect, that the tiniest, most innocuous action could trigger unthinkable catastrophe, painfully evidenced by the result of my trying to confront Dani. Five and a half years of her life were gone, leaving a dispassionate killer where the exuberant, funny, emotional, and spectacularly uncontainable Mega had once stood.

Lately I’d taken some comfort in the thought that although Jericho Barrons and his men were way the hell out there on the fringes of humanity, they’d figured out a code to live by that benefited them while doing modest damage to our world. Like me, they had their inner beasts but had spawned a set of rules that kept their savage nature in check.

Mostly.

I’d settle for mostly.

I’d been telling myself I, too, could choose a code and stick to it, using them as my role models. I snorted, morbidly amused. The role models I had a year ago and the ones I had now were certainly polar opposites.

I glanced up at the monitor that revealed the half-darkened stone chamber where, on the edge of that darkness, Barrons and Ryodan sat watching a figure in the shadows.

I held my breath waiting for the figure to once again lumber forward into the pallid light streaking the gloom. I wanted a second thorough look to confirm if what I suspected at first glance was true.

When it shuddered and stumbled to its feet, arms swinging wildly as if fighting off unseen attackers, Barrons and Ryodan uncoiled and assumed fighting posture.

The figure exploded from the shadows and lunged for Ryodan’s throat with enormous taloned hands. It was rippling, changing, fighting to hold form and failing, morphing before my eyes. In the low light cheetah-gold irises turned crimson then blood-smeared gold then crimson again. Long black hair fell back from a smooth forehead that abruptly rippled and sprouted a prehensile crest. Black fangs gleamed in the low light, then were white teeth, then fangs again.

I’d seen this morphing enough times to know what it was.

The Nine could no longer be called that.

There were ten of them now.

Barrons blocked the Highlander before he reached Ryodan, and suddenly all three were blurs as they moved in a manner similar to Dani’s freeze-framing ability, only faster.

Make me like you, I’d said to Barrons recently. Though in all honesty I doubt I’d have gone through with it. At least not at the moment, in the state I was in, inhabited by a thing that terrified me.

Never ask me that, he’d growled. His terse reply had spoken volumes, confirming he could if he wanted to. And I’d known in that wordless way he and I understand each other that not only did he loathe the idea, it was one of their unbreakable rules. Once, he’d found me lying in a subterranean grotto on the verge of death, and I suspect he’d considered the idea. Perhaps a second time when his son had ripped out my throat. And been grateful he’d not had to make the choice.

Ryodan however did make that choice. And not for a woman, fueled by the single-minded passion that drove the Unseelie king to birth his dark court, but for reasons unfathomable to me. For a Highlander he barely knew. The owner of Chester’s was once again an enigma. Why would he do such a thing? Dageus had died or at the very least was dying, lanced by the Crimson Hag, battered and broken by a horrific fall into the gorge.

People die.

Ryodan never gives a bloody damn.

Barrons was furious. I didn’t need sound—although I sure would have liked it—to know down in that stone chamber something primal was rattling in Barrons’s chest. Nostrils flared, eyes narrowed, his teeth flashed on a snarl as he spat words I couldn’t hear and they attempted to subdue the Highlander without using killing force. Which I suspected was more a damage-control technique than a kindness, because if Dageus died he would come back at the same place they do when reborn. Then they’d have to go wherever that was to retrieve him, which would not only be a pain in the ass but make a tenth person who knew where the forbidden spot was—a thing not even I knew.

I frowned. Then again maybe I was making assumptions that didn’t hold water. Maybe they came back wherever individually they died, which would put Dageus somewhere in a German mountain range.

Whatever.

Like Barrons, I was pissed.

If Ryodan broke rules with impunity, how was I supposed to figure out where to draw my own lines? What were lines really worth if you just crossed them whenever you felt like it?

My role models sucked.

I circled the desk and perched on Ryodan’s chair, staring up at the LED screens lining the perimeter on the opposite wall, wishing I could read lips.

Dageus convulsed and collapsed to the floor. He shuddered and jerked as his beast tried to claw its way from inside his skin in a vicious battle for control of the vessel they shared. It wasn’t lost on me that Dani and I waged a similar war—she against Jada, I against a Book. I wondered if that was just what happened to people who served on the front line of the world’s battles, who as Dani would say lived large: they got taken by some kind of a demon eventually. I’d seen my share of Veterans back home in Georgia that had that look in their eyes, the one I saw in my own lately. Was it inevitable for people who walked too long in the dark night beyond fences? Maybe that was the price for not staying with the sheep. Maybe that was why the stupid sheep stayed.

Maybe they weren’t so stupid after all.

Then again, what happened to me occurred before I’d even been born. It wasn’t as if I’d had any say in the matter. Psychopaths were born every day, too. Perhaps inner demons were nothing more than the luck of the draw. I also drew Barrons, the best wild card a woman could hold in her hand. Inasmuch as that man could be held.

After what seemed an interminable spell of painful morphing, Dageus crawled back to the shadows, dragged himself up onto a stone ledge and lay there shaking violently.

I wondered what he was in for. Were the Nine like vampires, consumed by mindless bloodlust when first transformed into whatever the hell they were? I wondered if he was even capable of thought or if his body was undergoing such traumatic changes that he was a blank slate like me. I wondered how they planned to explain this to the other MacKeltar, to Dageus’s wife. Then I realized they obviously didn’t intend to since they sent the Highland clan home with what must have been someone else’s body to bury.

What a mess. I didn’t see any way this situation could turn out good. Well, except maybe for Chloe, if she was eventually reunited with her husband. I had no problem with Barrons’s inner beast. In fact, the more I saw of it, the more I liked it. More than the man at this moment, because he hadn’t come back to me first but at least now I understood why.

The door to the office whisked open and Lor stood framed in the entry. I glanced down to make sure the chair I was sitting in was actually visible and swallowed a sigh of relief. Apparently it was substantial enough that my sitting in it didn’t make it vanish. I eased out of it carefully, so slowly it made the muscles in my legs burn, as I tried to keep it from squeaking or shifting even slightly and betraying my presence. I inched around the side and backed against a wall.

Belatedly I realized the two previously hidden panels on Ryodan’s desk were now in plain view and the monitors that had been showing public parts of the club were showing things I wasn’t sure Lor knew. Private was too mild a word for Barrons and Ryodan. Stay-the-fuck-out-of-my-business was their shared surname. I had no idea if they’d told Lor I was currently invisible, but if they hadn’t I meant to keep it that way.

Lor glanced over his shoulder, up and down the hall, to ascertain whether he was unobserved, then stepped quickly into the office as the door whisked closed behind him.

I raised a brow, wondering what he was up to.

He walked straight for the desk but drew up short when he saw the hidden panel had slid out.

“What the fuck, boss?” he murmured.

He headed for the chair and drew up short again when he saw the panel behind the desk was also exposed. “Christ, you’re getting sloppy. What the fuck sent you outta here so fast you couldn’t close things up?”

His assumption worked for me.

Shaking his head, Lor dropped into Ryodan’s chair and slid the hidden panel out farther than I knew it went, revealing two small remotes. I eased near, peering over his shoulder, then drew back sharply when he dropped the chair back into recline and kicked his boots up on the desk with a wolfish grin. He fiddled with the remote, seemingly unaware that the monitors he was preparing to watch were already on.

I inched forward again.

He hit Rewind for a few seconds, punched Play, then looked straight up at the monitor I’d watched him and Jo having sex on no more than ten minutes ago.

Was he kidding me? He’d come up here to watch the sex he just had with Jo? Freaking men!

I refused to watch it twice. Once had been bad enough. I closed my eyes, waiting for him to notice what was playing on the monitors next to the one he was watching. It didn’t take long.

“What the bloody fuck?” he said in a near-whisper. I heard the sound of something breaking, bits of plastic hitting the floor.

Yep. He definitely didn’t know.

“Fuck,” he barked, staccato sharp.

After a moment, he growled, “Fuuuu-uuuck.”

Then, “Aw, fuck, fuck, FUCK.”

Lor seemed to have gotten stuck on the word he likes the most. No surprise there.

I opened my eyes. He was standing behind the desk, ramrod straight, legs spread, arms folded, muscles bulging, tense from head to toe. The remote was on the floor in pieces.

“Bloody fucking fuck, are you fucking crazy? Have you lost your motherfucking mind?”

I’d been wondering the same thing.

“We don’t do this shit. That’s rule the fuck number one in our motherfucking universe. Not even you can get away with it, boss!”

While I found it oddly reassuring to know there were repercussions, I found it equally disconcerting. The last thing our world needed on top of all its other problems was war breaking out among the Nine. Rather, now…the Ten.

“Sonofamotherfuckinggoddamnbitch! JaysustittyfuckingChrist!”

That was Lor. Man of few words.

He seized the second remote, punched a button, and the office was filled with harsh groans of pain. The Highlander was curled in a tight ball on the stone ledge. I glanced at Barrons and Ryodan, now sitting in stony silence, watching the Highlander. Apparently they were done arguing. Figured once we had volume they were no longer speaking to each other.

My gaze lingered on Barrons, savage, elegant, despotic, and enormously self-contained. I recognized that shirt, open at the throat, cuffs rolled back. I knew the pants, too, so dark gray they were nearly black, and his black and silver boots. Last time I’d seen him, he’d been gutted on a frigging cliff again—me, Barrons, and cliffs are a proven recipe for disaster—and his clothes were bloody and torn, which meant at some point he’d stopped at his lair behind the bookstore for a change of clothing. Tonight, after I’d left? Or days ago, while I’d tossed and turned on the chesterfield in a fitful sleep? Had he walked through the store? How long had he been back? His senses were acute. He knew I was invisible. If he’d bothered walking through the store while I slept, he’d have seen my indent on the sofa. Had he looked for me at all?

“You fucking turned him,” Lor growled. “What the fuck is so special about him? And you killed me just for getting a little uninterrupted time in the sack and fucking Jo!” He snorted. “Aw, man, this is gonna go tribunal. You should have let him die. You know what the fuck happens!”

What was tribunal? I knew what the word meant but couldn’t fathom who might serve as the Nine’s court of law. Did this mean they’d turned humans in the past? If so, what had the tribunal done with them? It wasn’t as if they could be killed. At least not until recently. Now there was K’Vruck, the ancient icy black Hunter whose killing blow had laid Barrons’s tortured son to rest. Would they locate him and try to get him to kill Dageus? Would they expect me to help coax the enormous deadly Hunter near? Had Dageus been saved from one death only to die a more permanent soul-eclipsing one?

Barrons spoke and I shivered. I love that man’s voice. Deep, with an untraceable accent, it’s sexy as hell. When he speaks, all the fine muscles in my body shift into a lower, tighter, more aggressive gear. I want him all the time. Even when I’m mad at him. Perversely, maybe even more so then.

“You violated our code. You created an untenable liability,” Barrons growled.

Ryodan gave him a look but said nothing.

“His loyalties will always be first and foremost to his clan. Not us.”

“Debatable.”

“Our secrets. Now his. He’ll talk.”

“Debatable.”

“He’s a Keltar. They’re nice. They champion the underdog. Fight for the common good. As if there is such a bloody thing.”

Ryodan smiled faintly. “Nice is no longer one of his shortcomings.”

“You know what the tribunal will do.”

“There will be no tribunal. We’ll keep him hidden.”

“You can’t hide him forever. He won’t agree to stay hidden forever. He has a wife, a child.”

“He’ll get past it.”

“He’s a Highlander. Clan is everything. He won’t ever get past it.”

“He’ll get past it.”

Barrons mocked, “Repetition of erroneous facts—”

“Fuck you.”

“And because he won’t get past it, you know what they’ll do to him. What we’ve done to others.”

How many others? I wondered. What had they done?

“Yet you have Mac,” Ryodan said.

“I didn’t turn Mac.”

“Only because you didn’t have to. Someone else extended her life. Giving you the easy way out. Maybe our code is wrong.”

“There are reasons for our code.”

“That’s a fucking joke, coming from you. You said yourself, ‘Things are different now. We evolve. So does our code.’ Either there are laws or there aren’t. And if there are laws, like everything in the universe, they exist to be tested.”

“That’s what you’re after? Establishing new case precedence? Never going to happen. Not on this point. You want to turn Dani. Assuming she’s ever Dani again.”

“Nobody’s turning my fucking honey,” Lor muttered darkly.

“You took the Highlander, as your test case,” Barrons said.

Ryodan said nothing.

“Kas doesn’t speak. X is half mad on a good day, bugfuck crazy on a bad one. You’re tired of it. You want your family back. You want a full house, like the old days.”

Ryodan growled, “You’re so fucking shortsighted, you can’t see past the end of your own dick.”

“Hardly short.”

“You don’t see what’s coming.”

Barrons inclined his head, waiting.

“Have you considered what will happen if we don’t find a way to stop the holes the Hoar Frost King made from growing.”

“Chester’s gets swallowed. Parts of the world disappear.”

“Or all.”

“We’ll stop it.”

“If we can’t.”

“We move on.”

“The kid,” Ryodan said with such contempt that I knew he was talking about Dancer, not Dani, “says they’re virtually identical to black holes. At worst, consuming all objects within to oblivion. At best, from which there is no escape. When we die,” he carefully enunciated each word, “we come back on this world. If this world doesn’t exist, or is inside a black hole…” He didn’t bother finishing. He didn’t need to.

Lor stared at the monitor. “Shit, boss.”

“I’m the one who’s always planning,” Ryodan said. “Doing whatever’s necessary to protect us, ensure our continued existence while you fucks live like tomorrow will always come.”

“Ah,” Barrons mocked, “the king wearies of the crown.”

“Never the crown. Only the subjects.”

“What does this have to do with the Highlander?” Barrons said impatiently.

Exactly what I was wondering.

“He’s a sixteenth-century druid that was possessed by the first thirteen druids trained by the Fae—the Draghar.”

“I heard he was cured of that little problem,” Barrons said.

“I heard otherwise from a certain walking lie detector who told Mac his uncle never managed to exorcise them completely.”

I scowled, pressing my fingers to my forehead, rubbing it as if to agitate my memory and recall exactly where I’d been when Christian told me that—and if there had been any damned roaches around. That was the problem with roaches: they were small and could wedge themselves into virtually any crack to eavesdrop unseen.

“You know what Christian told Mac when you weren’t present?” Barrons said softly.

Ryodan said nothing.

“If I ever see roaches in my bookstore…” Barrons didn’t bother finishing the threat.

“Roaches?” Lor muttered. “What the fuck’s he talking about?”

“The Seelie queen is missing,” Ryodan said. “The Unseelie don’t give a shit if this world is destroyed. They aren’t bound to this planet like we are. Fae magic is destroying the world. It may be the only thing that saves it. The Highlander wasn’t supposed to die on that mountain. It wasn’t part of my plan. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want my fucking vagina to be inside a black hole.”

That was certainly a visual.

“Me neither,” Lor muttered. “I like my vaginas pink and smaller. Much smaller,” he added. “Like way the fuck tight.”

I rolled my eyes.

Ryodan said, “This could be the end of us.”

The end of the Nine? I’d always kept in the back of my mind that if things got really bad on this world, I’d just grab everyone I love, along with everyone else we could round up, and travel through the Silvers to another planet. Colonize, start fresh. Unfortunately, erroneously, I’d only been thinking if things on this world got “really bad,” assuming there would still be a dangerous planet the Nine would certainly be able to battle their way off of again. I’d never considered that there might be a time this planet didn’t even exist. I knew the black holes were a serious problem but I hadn’t fully absorbed what the small tears in the fabric of our universe really signified and what they might do long term. I’d overlooked the ramifications of the Nine being reborn on Earth.

And if Earth was no longer…

“We’ve got to fix those fucking holes,” Lor growled.

I nodded vehement agreement.

“Your plan?” Barrons said.

“We conceal his existence,” Ryodan said. “We push him through the change. Get the best minds on the problem and fix it. Once it’s resolved, the tribunal can do whatever the bloody hell they want. Like give me a fucking medal and the free rein I deserve.”

“Jada,” Barrons said.

“And the kid because he gets physics, which, while no longer accurate, may help us understand what we’re dealing with. Mac. She’s got the bloody Book. Between her and the Highlander, we may just have more Fae lore than the Fae.”

But I can’t read it, I wanted to protest. What the hell good was it?

I shivered again, this time with a much deeper chill. I knew something with sudden, absolute certainty.

They were going to want me to.

“Fuck.” Lor was back to his one-word assessment of life, the universe, and everything.

Fuck, I agreed silently.

2

Inverness, Scotland, high above Loch Ness.

Christian had once believed he’d never set foot there again except in half-mad dreams.

Tonight was madness of another kind.

Tonight, beneath a slate and crimson sky, he would bury the man who’d died to save him.

The entire Keltar clan was gathered in the sprawling cemetery behind the ruined tower, near the tomb of the Green Lady, to return the remains of Dageus MacKeltar to the earth in a sacred druid ritual so his soul would be released to live again. Reincarnation was the foundation of their faith.

The air was heavy and humid from a nearby storm. A few miles to the west, lightning cracked, briefly illuminating the rocky cliffs and grassy vales of his motherland. The Highlands were even more beautiful than he’d painstakingly re-created them in his mind, staked to the side of a cliff, dying over and over. While he’d hung there, the long killing season of ice had passed. Heather bloomed and leaves rustled on trees. Moss crushed softly beneath his boots as he shifted his weight to ease the pain in his groin. Parts of him were not yet healed. He’d been flayed too many times to regenerate properly; the bitch had scarcely let him grow new guts before taking them again.

“The body is prepared, my lord.”

Christopher and Drustan nodded while nearby, huddled in Gwen’s embrace, Chloe wept. Christian was amused to realize he, too, had nodded. Say “my lord” and every Keltar male in the room nodded, along with a few of the females. Theirs was a clan of all lairds, no serfs.

It seemed a century ago he’d walked these bens and valleys, exhilarated to be alive, riveted by his studies at university and his more private agenda in Dublin: keeping tabs on the unpredictable, dangerous owner of Barrons Books & Baubles while hunting an ancient Book of black magic. But that was before the Compact the Keltar had upheld since the dawn of time had been shattered, the walls between man and Fae had fallen, and he himself had become one of the Unseelie.

“Place the body on the pyre,” Drustan said.

Chloe’s weeping turned to quiet sobs at his words, then a wild guttural keening that flayed Christian’s gut as exquisitely as had the Crimson Hag’s lance. Dageus and Chloe had fought impossible odds to be together, only to end with Dageus’s pointless death on a cliff. Christian alone bore the blame. He didn’t know how Chloe could stand to look at him.

Come to think of it, she hadn’t. She’d not once focused on him since they brought him home. Her swollen, half-dead gaze had slid repeatedly past him. He wasn’t sure if that was because she hated him for causing her husband’s death or because he no longer looked remotely like the young human man she’d known, but the worst of the dark Fae. He knew he was disconcerting to look at. Although his mutation seemed to have become static, leaving him with long black hair, strangely muted tattoos, and, for fuck’s sake, wings—bloody damned wings, how the hell was a man supposed to live with those?—there was something about his eyes that even he could see. As if a chilling, starry infinity had settled there. No one held his gaze, no one looked at him for long, not even his own mother and father. His sister, Colleen, was the only one who’d spoken more than a few words to him since his return.

What remained of Dageus’s body was positioned on the wood slab.

They would chant and spread the necessary elements, then burn the corpse, freeing his soul to be reborn. When the ceremony was done, his ashes would drop into the grave below, mingle with the soil and find new life.

He moved forward to join the others, shifting his shoulders so the tips of his wings didn’t drag the ground. He was getting bloody tired of having to clean them. Although he threw a constant glamour to conceal them from the sight of others, unless making a show of power, he still had to look at them himself, and he preferred not to walk around with pine needles and bits of gorse stuck to his fucking feathers.

Feathers. Bloody hell, he hadn’t seen that one coming when he’d considered his future. Like a goddamn chicken.

The clan surrounded the pyre somberly. He hadn’t expected to attend tonight, much less be involved, but Drustan had insisted. You’re Keltar, lad, first and foremost. You belong here. He seemed to have forgotten Christian was a walking lie detector who knew the truth was that Drustan didn’t want to be anywhere near him. But then, he didn’t want to be near anyone, not even his wife, Gwen. He wanted to disappear into the mountains and grieve for his brother alone.

Once, Christian would have argued. Now he said little, only when necessary. It was easier that way.

As the chanting began and the sacred oil, water, metal, and wood were distributed east, west, north, and south, the wind whipped up violently, howling through rocky canyons and crevices. Thunder rolled and the sky rushed with ominous clouds. Grass rippled as if trod by an unseen army.

Look, listen, feel, the storm-lashed grass seemed to be whispering to him.

In the distance, the rain across the valley turned to a deluge and began moving rapidly toward them in an enormous gray sheet. Lightning exploded directly above the pyre and everyone jerked as it cracked and spread across the night sky in a web of crimson. The pungent odor of brimstone laced the air.

Something was off.

Something wasn’t right.

The powerful words of the high druid burial ceremony seemed to be inflaming the elements. They should have been softening the environment, preparing the earth to welcome a high druid’s body, not chafing it.

Could it be the Highlands rejected an Unseelie prince’s presence at a druid ceremony? Didn’t his Keltar blood still define him as one of Scotia’s own?

As Christian continued chanting, restraining his voice so he wouldn’t drown out the others, the sky grew more violent, the night darker. He studied his gathered clan. Man, woman, and child, they all had the right to be here. The elements had been chosen with precision and care. They were what had been used for generations untold. The pyre was properly constructed, the runes etched, the wood old, dried rowan and oak. The timing was correct.

There was only one other variable to consider.

He narrowed his eyes, studying Dageus’s remains. He was still pondering them a few minutes later when at last the chanting was done.

“You must set him free, Chloe-lass,” Drustan said, “before the storm prevents it.”

He always believed he was the rotten egg of the two of us, Christian had overheard Drustan saying to Chloe earlier that evening. When the truth of it is he gave his life to save others not once but twice. He was the best of men, lass. The best of all of us.

Chloe jerked forward, carrying a torch of mistletoe-draped rowan that flickered wildly in the wind.

“Wait,” Christian growled.

“What is it, lad?” Drustan said.

Chloe stopped, torch trembling in her hands, not bothering to glance at either of them. All life seemed to have been stripped out of her, leaving a shell of a body that had no desire to continue breathing. She looked as if she might join her husband in the flames. Christ, didn’t anyone else see that? Why were they letting her anywhere near fire? He could taste Death on the air, feel it beckoning Chloe with a lover’s kiss, wearing the mask of her dead husband.

He pushed between his aunt and the pyre to touch the wood upon which the bits of his uncle were spread. Wood that once had lived but now was dead, and in death spoke to him as nothing alive ever would again. This was his new native tongue, the utterances of the dead and dying. Closing his eyes, he went inward to that alien, unwanted landscape inside him. He knew what he was. He’d known it for a long time. He had a special bond to the events occurring tonight.

The Unseelie princes were four, and each had their specialty: War, Pestilence, Famine, Death. He was Death. And Fae. Which meant more attuned, more deeply connected to the elements than a druid could ever be. His moods affected the environment if he wasn’t careful to keep tight rein on them. But he wasn’t the cause of the night’s distress. Something else was.

There was only one other thing present whose provenance might be questioned.

None but a Keltar directly descended from the first could be given a high druid burial in hallowed ground. The cemetery was heavily protected, from the wood of sacred, carefully mutated trees that grew there to ancient artifacts, blood, and wards buried in the soil. The ground would expel an intruder. Perhaps Nature herself would resist the interment.

Was it possible what remained of the Draghar within Dageus marked him as something foreign?

Christian had heard the truth in his uncle’s lie at a young age. At first, Dageus told Chloe and the rest of the clan that the Seelie queen had removed the souls of the Draghar and erased their memories from his mind. Sometime later, to aid Adam Black, Dageus had come clean with the truth…at least part of it, admitting he still retained their memories and could use their spells, though he maintained he was no longer inhabited by the living consciousness of thirteen ancient sorcerers.

Christian had never been able to get a solid feel for just how much of those power-hungry druids still lived within him. His uncle was a proud, intensely private man. Sometimes he’d believed Dageus. Other times—watching him while he thought himself unobserved—he’d been certain Dageus had never stopped being haunted by them. The few times he’d tried to question him, Dageus walked away without a word, giving him no opportunity to read him. Typical of his clan. Those aware of Christian’s unique “gift” were closed-mouthed around him, even his own parents. It had made for a solitary childhood, a boyhood of secrets no one wanted to hear, a lad unable to reconcile the bizarreness of other’s actions with the truths staring him in the face.

He eyed Dageus’s remains, casting a net for possibilities, considering all, discarding nothing.

It was possible, he mused, that they had the wrong body. He couldn’t fathom why Ryodan might give them the savaged pieces of someone else’s corpse. Still, it was Ryodan, which meant anything was possible.

Hands resting lightly on the pile of rain-spattered timber, he turned inward, wondering if he might use his lie-detecting ability to discern the truth of the remains, or if his new talents might aid him.

An immense wind gusted within him, around him, ruffling his wings, dark and serene and enormous. Death. Ah yes, death, he’d tasted it countless times recently, come to know it intimately. It wasn’t horrific. Death was a lover’s kiss. It was merely the process of getting there that could be so extreme.

He harnessed the dark wind and blew a question into the bits of flesh and bone.

Dageus?

There was no reply.

He gathered his power—Unseelie, not druid—and shoved it into the mutilated body, let it soak into the remains and arrange itself there…

“Bloody hell,” he whispered. He had his answer.

Thirty-eight years of human life lay on the slab, terminated abruptly. Pain, sorrow, grief! But not by the lance of the Crimson Hag. Make it stop! A poison in the blood, an overdose of something human, chemical, sweet and cloying. He stretched his newfound senses and sucked in a harsh breath when he felt the dying, the moment of it, rushing like a glorious wave over (him!) the man. It had been sought, embraced. Relief, ah, blessed relief. Thank you, was the man’s final thought, yes, yes, make it all stop, let me sleep, but let me sleep! He actually heard the words in a soft Irish burr, as if frozen in time, rustling dryly from the remains.

He opened his eyes and looked at Drustan, who fixed his deep silver gaze on a spot slightly above and between his brows.

“It’s not Dageus,” Christian said, “but an Irishman with two children who were killed the night the walls fell. His wife perished from starvation not long after as they hid from Unseelie in the streets. He tried to go on without them until the day he no longer cared to. He met his death by choice.”

No one questioned how he knew it. No one questioned anything about him anymore.

Chloe staggered and melted bonelessly to the ground, her torch tumbling forgotten to the wet grass. “N-N-Not D-Dageus?” she whispered. “What do you mean? Is he alive, then?” Her voice rose. “Tell me, is he still alive?” she shrieked, eyes flashing.

Christian closed his eyes again, feeling, stretching, reaching. But life was no longer his specialty. “I don’t know.”

“But can you feel his death?” Colleen said sharply, and he opened his eyes, meeting her gaze. To his surprise, she didn’t look away.

Ah, so she knew. Or suspected. She’d stayed with the sidhe-seers, searching their old lore. She’d come across the old tales. How had she decided which one he was?

Again, he slipped deep, staring sightlessly. It was peaceful. Quiet. No judgment. No lies. Death was beautifully without deceit. He appreciated the purity of it.

In the distance, Colleen tried unsuccessfully to turn a gasp into a cough. He was fairly certain she wasn’t looking at his eyes now.

That eerie Fae wind gusted and blew open the confines of his skull, leveled barriers of space and time. He felt a soaring sensation, as if he’d taken flight through a door to some other way of breathing and being: quiet and black, rich and velvety and vast. Dageus, he murmured silently, Dageus, Dageus. People had a certain individual feel, an essence, an imprint. Their life made a ripple in a loch of the universe.

There was no Dageus ripple.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Chloe,” he said quietly. Sorry he couldn’t say yes. Sorry he’d dragged them into his problems. Sorry he’d gone bugfuck crazy for a time, for so damned many things. But sorry was worthless. It changed nothing. Merely coerced the victim to offer forgiveness for what you shouldn’t have done to begin with. “He’s dead.”

On the ground near the pyre, Chloe wrapped her arms around her knees and began to keen, rocking back and forth.

“You’re absolutely certain it’s no’ him, lad?” Drustan said.

“Unequivocally.” The owner of Chester’s had packed them off with another man’s remains, intending for them to bury it and never know that somewhere out there a Keltar body rotted and a high druid soul was lost, denied proper burial, never to be reborn.

Knowing Ryodan, he’d simply considered it a waste of his precious time to make the hard hike down into the gorge and search the darkness for remains when there were so many more easily available in any city he’d driven through on the way back to Dublin. Coming by Keltar plaid wouldn’t have been difficult. The entire clan had been living for a time at the fuck’s nightclub.

“You can’t bury that man here,” Christian said. “He must be returned to Ireland. He wants to go home.” He had no idea how he knew that the corpse didn’t want to stay here. It wanted to be in a place not far from Dublin, a short distance to the south where a small cottage overlooked a pond smattered with lily pads, tall reeds grew, and in the summer the rich baritone of frogs filled the night. He could see it clearly in his mind. He resented seeing it. He wanted nothing to do with the last wishes of the dead. He was not their keeper. Nor their bloody damned wish granter.

Drustan cursed. “If this isn’t him, then where the blethering hell is my brother’s body?”

“Where, indeed,” Christian said.

3

The cavernous chamber was well-sealed against human and Fae with magic not even he understood.

Fortuitously, he didn’t need to.

He was neither human nor Fae but one of the old ones from the dawn of time. Even now, his true name forgotten, the world still regarded him as powerful, indestructible.

Nothing will survive nuclear holocausts save the cockroaches.

They were right. He’d survived it before. The acute burst had been an irritant, little more. The lingering radiation had mutated him into more than he’d ever been.

He partitioned himself, separated and deposited a tiny segment of his being on the floor near the door. He despised being the insect beneath man’s feet. He coveted the life of the bastards that reviled and crushed him at every opportunity. He’d believed for a long time the one he served would eventually grant him what he sought. Make him what he’d observed with crippling envy, a tall, unkillable, unsegmented beast. The glory of it—to walk as man, indestructible as a cockroach!

He’d lived with the threat of the one weapon that could destroy him for too long. If he could not be one of them, at the very least he wanted that weapon back, buried, lost, forgotten.

But stealing from the one who’d stolen it from its ancient hiding place had proved impossible. He’d been trying for a small eternity. The beast that would be king made no mistakes.

Now there was one he believed just might be more powerful than the one he served.

As he slithered flat as paper and pushed his shiny brown body into a crack too small for humans to see, he knew something had changed before he even passed beneath the door and crossed the threshold.

He despised the way his mind instantly went into information-gathering mode, trained—he, once a god himself—trained to spy on fools and heathens.

They were the bugs. Not he.

This was his mission. No one else’s. Yet he’d been conditioned to collect bits of knowledge for so long, he now did so by instinct. Engulfed in sudden rage, he forgot about his body for a moment and inadvertently wedged his hindquarters beneath a too-narrow rough-hewn edge. Seething, he forced himself forward, sacrificing his legs at the femur, and half scuttled, half dragged himself into the room silently, unseen.

The one they called “Papa Roach” in their papers sat, rubbing his antennae together, thinking. Preparing for his new venture.

He’d been duplicitous in the past, playing both sides against the middle, but this was his greatest deceit—informing Ryodan the chamber beneath the abbey was impenetrable.

He wanted it—and its occupant—off Ryodan’s radar.

This potential ally, this opportunity was his alone.

He hissed softly, rustled forward on his front legs, dragging his cerci uncomfortably, until he stopped at the edge of the cage.

It was empty, two bars missing.

“Behind you,” a deep voice echoed from the shadows.

He startled and turned awkwardly, hissing, pivoting on his thorax. Few saw him. Fewer still ever saw him as more than a nuisance.

“You have been here before.” The dark prince was sprawled on the floor, leaning back against a wall, wings spread wide. “And I have seen you in Chester’s, in Ryodan’s company more than once. Don’t look so surprised, small one,” he said with a soft laugh. “There’s a decided dearth of events in here. A bit of stone dust crumbles. Occasionally a spider passes through. Of course I notice. You are not Fae. Yet you are sentient. Make that sound again if I am correct.”

The cockroach hissed.

“Do you serve Ryodan?”

He hissed again, this time with eons of hatred and anger, his entire small body trembling with the passion of it. Antennae vibrating, he spat a chirp of fury so hard he lost his balance and floundered wildly on his belly.

The winged prince laughed. “Yes, yes, I share the sentiment.”

The cockroach pushed up on his front legs and shook himself, then tapped the floor with one of his remaining appendages, rhythmically, in summons.

Roaches poured beneath the door, rushing to join him, piling on top of one another until at last they formed the stumpy-legged shape of a human.

The Unseelie prince watched in silence, waiting until he’d carefully positioned the many small bodies to form ears and a mouth.

“He dispatches you to check on me,” Cruce murmured.

“He believes I can no longer enter this chamber,” the glistening pile of cockroaches grated.

“Ah.” The prince pondered his words. “You seek an alliance.”

“I offer it. For a price.”

“I’m listening.”

“The one who controls me has a blade. I want it.”

“Free me and it is yours,” Cruce said swiftly.

“Not even I can open the doors that hold you.”

“There was a time I believed nothing could weaken the bars of my prison save the bastard king. Then one came, removed my cuff and disturbed the spell. All is temporary.” Cruce was silent a moment, then, “Continue taking information to Ryodan. But bring it to me as well. All of it. Omit nothing. I want to know every detail that transpires beyond those doors. When the chamber was sealed, I lost my ability to project. I can no longer see or affect matter above. I escaped my cage yet am blinder than I was in it. I must know what is happening in the world if I am to escape. You will be my eyes and ears. My mouthpiece when I wish. See me freed and in turn I will free you.”

“If I agree to help you, I do so of my own accord. You neither own nor order me. But respect me,” the heap of cockroaches ground out. “I am as ancient and venerable as you.”

“Doubtful.” Cruce inclined his head. “But agreed.”

“I want the blade the moment you are free. It will be your first action.”

Cruce cocked his head and studied him. “To use or destroy?”

“It is not possible to destroy it.”

The dark winged prince smiled. “Ah, my friend, anything is possible.”

4

I buzzed the foggy, rainy streets of Temple Bar like a drunken bumblebee, darting between passersby who couldn’t see me, trying not to bash them with my undetectable yet substantial umbrella. Navigating a crowded street while invisible takes a great deal of energy and focus. You can’t stare someone down and make them move out of your way; a trick I learned from watching Barrons and had nearly perfected prior to my vanishing act.

Between ducks and dodges, I was startled to realize how much the post-ice/apocalypse city resembled the Dublin I’d fallen in love with shortly after I arrived.

Same neon-lit rain-slicked streets, same fair to middling fifty-five degrees, people out for a beer with friends, listening to music in local pubs, flowers spilling from planters and strings of lights draping brightly painted facades. The big difference was the lesser Fae castes mixed into the crowds—many walking without glamour despite the recent killing rampage Jada had been on—being treated like demigods. The commingling of races had spilled over from Chester’s into the streets. Ryodan permitted only the higher castes and their henchmen into his club. The lowers stalked their dark desires in Temple Bar.

I recognized few faces in the pub windows and on the sidewalks, mostly Unseelie I’d glimpsed at some point. I hadn’t made friends in this city; I’d enticed allies and incited enemies. Dublin was once again a hot spot for tourists, immigrating from all over¸ drawn by word there was food, magic, and a wealth of Fae royalty to be found here. Possessing power to grant wishes to a starving populace and slake a burgeoning addiction to Unseelie flesh, Fae were the latest smart phone, and everyone wanted one.

It was disconcerting to walk invisible through my favorite district. I felt like a ghost of who I’d once been: vibrant, angry, determined—naïve, God, so naïve!—storming into Dublin to hunt Alina’s murderer, only to learn I was a powerful sidhe-seer and null, exiled shortly after birth and possessed by enormous evil. I’d been weak, grown strong, grown weak again. Like the city I loved, I kept changing and it wasn’t always pretty.

There was a time I’d have given anything to be invisible. Like the night I sat in a pub with Christian MacKeltar, on the verge of discovering how he’d known my sister, back in those innocent days he was still a sexy young druid with a killer smile. Barrons had interrupted us, phoning to tell me the skies were filled with Hunters and I needed to get my ass back to the bookstore fast. As I’d left Christian with a promise to meet again soon, I felt like (and was!) a giant walking neon sign of an X. I’d gotten cornered in a dead-end alley by a giant Hunter and the superhumanly strong, decaying citron-eyed vampire Mallucé.

If I’d been invisible then, I would never have been abducted, tortured, beaten so near death I had to eat Unseelie to claw my way back.

Halloween. That was another night being invisible would have been a blessing. After watching the ancient Wild Hunt stain Dublin’s sky from horizon to horizon with nightmarish Unseelie, I might have descended the belfry, stolen from the church and avoided the rape of four Unseelie princes and the subsequent Pri-ya-induced madness that possessed me. Would never have been forced to drink a Fae elixir that had altered my mortal life span in ways yet unknown.

On both those horrifying, transformative nights it was Jericho Barrons who saved me, first by a brand he’d tattooed on the back of my skull that allowed him to locate me hidden in a subterranean grotto deep beneath the desolate Burren, then by dragging me back to reality with constant reminders of my life before All Hallow’s Eve and providing the incessant sex to which the princes had left me mindlessly addicted.

If either of those events hadn’t transpired, I wouldn’t be who and what I was now.

If I liked who and what I was now, it would make both those hellish times worth it.

Too bad I didn’t.

A faint, dry chittering above me penetrated my brooding. I glanced up and shivered. I’d never seen my ghoulish stalkers fly en masse and it wasn’t a pretty sight. It was straight out of a horror flick, black-cloaked cadaverous wraiths streaking beneath rain clouds, cobwebs trailing from their gaunt forms, the silvery metallic bits of their deeply hooded faces glinting as they peered down into the streets. There were hundreds of them, fanning out over Dublin, flying slowly, obviously hunting for something.

Or someone.

I had no doubt who they were looking for.

I ducked into the shallow alcoved doorway of a closed pub, barely breathing, praying they couldn’t suddenly somehow sense me. I didn’t move until the last of them had vanished into the stormy sky.

Inhaling deeply, I stepped out of the niche and pushed into a dense throng of people gathered at a street vendor’s stand, holding my umbrella as high as I could. I took two elbows in the ribs, got both my feet stepped on and an umbrella poked into my tush. I broke free of the crowd with a growl that turned quickly to a choked inhale.

Alina.

I sprouted roots and stood, staring. She was ten feet away, wearing jeans, a clingy yellow shirt, a Burberry raincoat, and high-heeled boots. Her hair was longer, her body leaner. Alone, she spun in a circle, as if looking for someone or something. I held my breath and didn’t move then realized how stupid that was. Whatever this illusion was, it couldn’t see me anyway. And if it could see me, presto—proof it wasn’t real. Not that I needed any.

I knew better than to think it was actually my sister. I’d identified her body. I’d made her funeral arrangements when my parents had been immobilized by grief. I’d slid the coffin lid shut myself before her closed-casket funeral. It was indisputably my sister I’d left six feet under in Ashford, Georgia.

“Not funny,” I muttered to the Sinsar Dubh. Assuming Cruce, with his proclivity to weave this particular illusion for me, was still secured beneath the abbey, it could only be the Book torturing me now.

A pedestrian crashed into my motionless back and I stumbled from the sidewalk out into the street. I flailed for balance and barely refrained from plunging headfirst into the gutter. Standing still in a crowd while invisible was idiotic. I composed myself, or tried to, given the image of my sister was now only half a dozen feet from me. There was no reply from my inner demon but that didn’t surprise me. The Book hadn’t uttered a word since the night it played genie, granting my muttered wish.

I glanced over my shoulder to watch for impending human missiles. “Make it go away,” I demanded.

There was only silence within.

The thing that looked like Alina stopped turning and stood, cocking a tan umbrella with bold black stripes at a better angle to survey the street. Confusion and worry puckered her brows, creating a deep furrow between them. She bit her lower lip and frowned, the way my sister did when she was thinking hard. Then she winced and brushed her stomach with her hand as if something hurt or she was feeling nauseous.

I caught myself wondering who she was looking for, why she was worried, then realized I was getting sucked in and focused instead on the details of the illusion, seeking mistakes, while jogging from side to side and stealing quick glances around me.

There was the small mole to the left of her upper lip that she’d never considered having removed. (I zigged to the left to make way for a pair of Rhino-boys marching down the sidewalk.) The long sooty lashes that, unlike mine, hadn’t needed mascara, the dent of a scar on the bridge of her nose from crashing into a trash can when we’d leapt off swings as little girls, which crinkled when she laughed and drove her crazy. (I zagged to the right to avoid a stumbling drunk who was singing off-key, loudly and badly, that someone had wreh-ehcked him.) The Book had her down pat, re-created no doubt from memories it sifted through and studied while I slept or was otherwise occupied. I’d often pictured her this way, out for a night on the town. In fact, pretty much every time I walked through the Temple Bar district thoughts of her took foggy shape in the back of my mind. But I always pictured her with friends, not alone. Happy, not worried. And she’d never worn a sparkling diamond ring on her left ring finger, glinting as she adjusted her umbrella. She’d never been engaged. Never would be.

As usual the Book couldn’t get all the details right. Squaring my shoulders, I stepped forward, drew to a stop with a mere foot of space between us and risked standing still, wagering people would give the image at least that much personal space—assuming they could see it and it wasn’t simply my own private haunt, or hey, who knew? Maybe the vision had its own secret force field. I was instantly enveloped in her favorite perfume and a hint of the lavender-scented Snuggle she used in the dryer to make her jeans soft.

We stood like that for several long moments, face-to-face, the illusion of my sister looking through me as it searched the streets for who knew what, me staring at every inch of its face, okay, reveling in staring at every inch of its face because even though it was an illusion, it was a perfect replica and—God, how I missed her!

Still.

Thirteen months and the deep wound of grief remained open, salted, and burning inside me. Some people—who haven’t lost someone they love unconditionally and more than themselves—think a year is plenty of time to get over the trauma of their death and you should have fully moved on.

Fuck you, it’s not.

A year barely makes a dent. It didn’t help that I’d passed large chunks of that year during a few hours in Faery or a sex-crazed stupor, lacking the mental faculties to deal with my grief. It takes time to condition your brain to shut down rather than remember them. You can hold on to them in memories that slice like cherished razors. You can fall in love again; most people do—but you can never replace a sister. You can never rectify the many regrets. Apologize for your failings, for not figuring out something was wrong before it was too late.

I wanted to take her in my arms, hug this illusion. I wanted to hear her laugh, say my name, tell me she was okay wherever it was the dead go. That she knew joy. She wasn’t trapped in some purgatory. Or worse.

One look at this facsimile of Alina reawakened every bit of pain and rage and hunger for revenge in my heart. Unfortunately, my thirst for revenge could be directed at no one but an old woman I’d already killed, and was sadly tangled around a girl I loved.

Was that why the Book was doing it? Because it had weakened me with invisibility and feelings of irrelevance and now it sought to twist the knife, showing me what I might have back if I would only cooperate? Too bad I’d be evil and not at all myself once I had her back.

“Screw you,” I growled at the Book.

I lunged forward to push through the illusion and slammed into a body so hard I rebounded off it, crashed into a planter that caught me squarely behind my knees and sent me flailing backward over it. I rolled and twisted in midair and managed to splash to my hands and knees in a puddle, umbrella sailing from my grasp.

I jerked a glance over my shoulder. I’d forgotten how good the Book’s illusions were. It really felt like I’d collided with a body. A warm, breathing, huggable body. Once, I’d played volleyball and drank Coronas on a beach with an illusion of my sister who’d seemed just as real. I wasn’t falling for that again.

It was standing up from the sidewalk, brushing its jeans off, eyes narrowed, rubbing its temple as if struck by a sudden headache, looking startled and confused, searching the space around it as if trying to decipher what weird thing had just happened. An invisible Fae had collided with it, perhaps?

Right. Now I was reading illusionary thoughts into the illusionary mind of my illusionary sister.

Only one thing to do: get out of here before I got sucked in further while yet another of my weaknesses was exploited by the Book’s sadistic sleight of hand.

Clenching my teeth, I dragged myself from the puddle and pushed to my feet. My umbrella had vanished beneath the feet of passersby. With a snarl, I yanked my gaze away from the thing that I knew full well was not my sister and marched without a backward glance out of Temple Bar, into the fog and rain.

—

At the end of the block, Barrons Books & Baubles loomed from the Fae-kissed fog four—no, five—stories tonight, a brilliantly lit bastion of gleaming cherry, limestone, antique glass, and Old World elegance. Floodlights sliced beacons into the darkness from the entire perimeter of the roof, and gas lamps glowed at twenty-foot intervals down both sides of the cobbled street, although beyond it the enormous Dark Zone remained shadowy, abandoned, and unlit.

In the limestone and cherry alcove, an ornate lamp swayed in the wind to the tempo of the shingle that swung from a polished brass pole proclaiming the name I’d restored in lieu of changing it to my own. Barrons Books & Baubles was what it was in my heart and all I would ever call it.

The moment I turned the corner and saw the bookstore, towering, strong and timeless as the man, I nearly burst into tears. Happy to see it. Afraid one day I might turn the corner and not see it. Hating that I loved something so much because things you loved could be taken away.

I would never forget staring down from the belfry on Halloween to find all the floodlights had been shot out. Then the power grid went down, the city blinked out like a dying man closing his eyes, and I’d watched my cherished home become part of the Dark Zone, felt as if part of my soul was being amputated. Each time the bookstore had been demolished by Barrons—first when I vanished with V’lane for a month, then after I killed Barrons and he thought I was fucking Darroc—I’d not been able to rest until I restored order. I couldn’t bear seeing my home wrecked.

God, I was moody tonight. Invisible, lonely, being hunted by my ghouls (at least there were none perched on BB&B!), I couldn’t go kill anything, the Sinsar Dubh wasn’t needling me, and purposeless downtime has always been my Achilles’ heel.

Ice that unpalatable cake with a vision of my dead sister and I wanted nothing more than to smash it into a ceiling and storm off. Unfortunately I’d be right there wherever I stormed off to. With the same vile cake dripping on my head. The thing I wanted to escape was myself.

Seeing the Alina-illusion had rattled me to my core. I had a secret I’d told no one, that I kept so deeply buried I refused to even acknowledge it unless it slammed me in the face unexpectedly like tonight. The vision had cut far too close to it, uncovered it in all its unholy horror, dicked with my head in a way that could completely unravel me. Be seen as proof of my problem. Or not. Or maybe. The jury was still out. Which was precisely the crux of the problem: my jury—the part of me that judged and decided rulings—had been on long hiatus. Far longer than I’d been invisible. Since the night we’d taken the Sinsar Dubh to the abbey to inter it. I hadn’t been myself since that night. Wasn’t sure I ever would be again.

I caught myself sighing, terminated it halfway through and forced myself to smile instead. Attitude was everything. There was always a bright side or two somewhere: I could light the gas fires, dry off, prop a book on a pillow, sprawl out on the chesterfield with my favorite throw and lose myself in a story, knowing Barrons was back, would return at some point, and my mind would soon be fully occupied figuring out how to keep them from trying to make me open the Sinsar Dubh while coming up with some other way to get rid of the black holes.

A breath of contentment feathered the knot of anxiety in my stomach, easing it a bit. Home. Books. Barrons soon. It was enough to work with. All I could do was take one moment at a time. Do my best in that moment. Pretend I was fully invested when I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to invest in anything again.

I was just unlocking the store, about to step inside, when I glimpsed a sodden Dublin Daily plastered up against the door. Propping the door open with a boot, I ducked to fetch the rag.

That was when the first bullet hit me.

5

To be fair, I didn’t actually know a bullet had hit me.

All I knew was my arm stung like hell and I thought I’d heard a gunshot.

It’s funny how your mind doesn’t quite put those two things together as fast as you’d think it would. There’s a kind of numbing of disbelief that accompanies unexpected assault, resulting in a moment of immobility. I vacillated in it long enough to get shot a second time, but at least I was rising from my crouch, slipping sideways through the door, so it grazed my shoulder blade rather than puncturing one of my lungs or my heart.

A third bullet slammed into the front of my thigh before I got the door closed. I heard the rat-a-tat-tat of automatic fire hitting the inside of the alcove before a spray of ammo blasted the glass in the door and both sidelights. Above my head the lovely leaded glass transom exploded. The antique panes in the tall windows shattered, spraying me with slivers and shards.

I threw myself into a somersault, tucking my head, extending my wounded arm to guide me through with each rotation, and rolled across the hardwood floor, wincing with pain.

Who was shooting at me?

No. Wait. How was anyone shooting at me? I was invisible!

Wasn’t I?

No time to check.

Men were yelling, footsteps pounding, more bullets.

I scrambled behind a bookcase, frantically trying to decide what to do next.

Run out the back?

Trash that idea. More footsteps and voices coming from that direction, too.

I was trapped. Apparently they’d been lurking in shadows, surrounding the store when I’d sauntered up to it, without noticing. I wasn’t keeping watch for humans. I was so accustomed to being invisible, I wasn’t watching for much of anything.

I nudged a sliding ladder to the left with my foot, bounded up it, kicked it away and vaulted four feet through the air to land on top of a tall, wide bookcase.

I flattened myself on my stomach and snatched a glance at my hand.

Still invisible.

Then how were they shooting at me? And why? Who knew I was invisible? Who could possibly have any reason to shoot at me? What had they done—hidden outside and waited for the door to open by an unseen hand then started firing blindly?

Grimacing with pain, I reared back like a cobra on its belly and stared down.

The Guardians.

Were shooting at me.

Spilling into my bookstore by the dozens.

It didn’t make any sense.

Two officers burst into the room from the rear. An auburn-haired man near the front door barked, “She’s in here somewhere! Find her.” He began shouting orders; dispatching men to sweep the main room, others upstairs, and more to my private quarters in the rear.

They didn’t just search, they wrecked my home. Needlessly. Swiping magazines from the racks, toppling my cash register from the counter, smashing my iPod and sound dock to the floor.

I was growing angrier with each passing moment. And worried.

I was a sitting duck.

I tallied my tactical advantages primarily by their dearth: no spear, no gun, the only weapon on my body was a single switchblade. I wasn’t carrying because I was invisible and had the cuff of Cruce on my wrist. I didn’t fear humans. Jada’s sidhe-seers had been leaving me alone. I only worried about Fae, and with the cuff I was supposedly untouchable.

I couldn’t achieve my normal agility at the moment because, damn it, bullets hurt! I might be hard to kill, healing even as I lay there, but it was still painful as hell. The store wasn’t warded against humans, only monsters. How else would I sell books?

I searched the cluster of angry men for Inspector Jayne. There were about thirty Guardians in the store, all wearing the recently adopted uniform of durable khaki jeans and black tee-shirts, draped in guns and ammo, many toting military backpacks.

Where was Jayne? Had he sent them here, and if so, why? Had he finally decided to come after my spear in force? Was he prepared to kill me for it? I’d heard he’d taken Dani’s sword when she was down, so I guessed I couldn’t put it past him.

Too bad I didn’t have the spear. Jada did. And how did he know I was—Oh God, had Jada told him? Would she betray me like that? Send someone else to eliminate me because she wasn’t feeling up to it, or didn’t want the blood of both Lane sisters on her hands? Maybe she just didn’t feel like wasting her or her sidhe-seer’s time on such a pesky detail.

“Find the bitch,” the auburn-haired man growled. “She killed our Mickey. Left him in a fucking pile of scraps. Find her now!”

I frowned. How did they know I’d killed one of their own? Had someone been watching me the day I’d slain the Gray Woman and inadvertently taken the life of a human in the process? Then why wait so long to come after me?

“Brody,” another man called, and the red-haired man’s head whipped in his direction. “There’s blood here. We hit her. I knew we did.”

I froze, staring down at the floor where the man was pointing. I’d left a trail of blood along with a long smear of water as I rolled across the hardwood floor. The trail ended where I’d leapt to my feet about ten feet from the bookcase upon which I was perched. I eased my hand to my thigh to see if I was still bleeding. It came away dry, thanks to whatever elixir Cruce had given me that made me regenerate. Shit. I had a bullet in my thigh. How was I going to get it out? Had I bled down the side of the bookcase before the wound closed? I inched my hand across the top of the bookcase. It was wet. I eased my fingers over the side.

Dry.

I felt my hair, wet from the rain but not dripping. Same with my clothes.

I bit back a sigh of relief and assessed the room. There were Guardians between me and both front and rear exits. Even if I managed to somehow silently descend the bookcase—which seem highly improbable, given that I’d shoved the ladder away—I’d still have to dodge a cluster of rampaging men. The odds of crashing into one of them or being struck by a flying piece of furniture were high.

“She couldn’t have gone far. She’s still in the room. There’d be a trail of blood if she’d left,” Brody said.

Apparently they didn’t know about my Fae-bequeathed healing ability. That was an advantage. A little Unseelie flesh might make me capable of kicking their asses, or at least outrunning them.

Too bad they ate it, too, and all my stock was spilling out of the overturned fridge one of them had ripped out of the wall. Again, not carrying. Not afraid of Fae.

That was the dangerous thing about thinking you understood your parameters. The “impossible” was nothing more than all those nasty things at the outer limit of your imagination, and unfortunately the universe has a much more creative imagination than I do.

At least my invisibility was still working, casting that same mysterious cloak over me that had prevented even Barrons and Ryodan with their atavistic senses from being able to sniff me out. The moment I thought that, I wondered if the Sinsar Dubh would seize this golden opportunity to uncloak me, try to force me to open it or die.

I extended my hand in front of me, watching it anxiously. Still invisible. What was my inner demon doing? This protracted silence between us was frazzling my nerves. At least when it was talking, I felt like I was keeping some kind of tabs on it. Probably not true but that’s how it felt.

I narrowed my eyes. Right. And now the Guardians were just being mean, kicking and slashing things.

Not the chesterfield!

The bastard, Brody turned his automatic on my cozy sitting area. Tufts of leather and down flew, books imploded, and my favorite teacup shattered.

I gritted my teeth to keep from screaming. Demanding they stop, leave. With absolutely nothing to back it up.

One of the men abruptly shouldered off his backpack, ripped it open and began tossing cans to the men. A second and third man ripped open their packs and soon all were holding multiple identical cans.

Of what? What were they up to? Were they going to gas me? I didn’t see any gas masks being yanked from packs. Would gas work on me?

“Fall in!” Brody roared, and the Garda moved into sleek formation, shoulder-to-shoulder, in a line that spanned the room from side to side. Then he barked, “Don’t leave a thing untouched. I want that bitch visible!”

I watched in horror as they began storming my beloved bookstore.

Methodically spraying everything in sight with garish red spray paint.

—

Twenty minutes later there wasn’t a square inch of the first-floor, patron-accessible part of BB&B that wasn’t dripping red.

My counter was a slippery crimson mess.

Every chair and sofa drenched. Barrons’s rugs—his exquisite treasured rugs—had been soaked with red paint that could never be removed without destroying the fragile weave.

My bookcases, books, and magazines were all graffitied. My lovely lamps were broken and bleeding. My pillows and throws were a soggy mess. They’d even spray-painted my enamel fireplaces, the mantels, and gas logs.

My inner Sinsar Dubh had remained silent throughout the assault. It hadn’t taunted me once with the temptation to stop them. I wouldn’t have used it anyway. I hadn’t used it to save myself. I certainly wouldn’t use it to save my store, no matter how much I loved it.

The massive bookcase on which I sprawled was fourteen feet tall. Once they’d begun spraying, I retreated to the center of the large flat top, squeezing in on myself as small as I could be, praying their spray wouldn’t reach that high. I peered down at my side.

Shit! There was a fine mist of red paint all down my right leg! Had my head gotten glossed, too? Did I dare poke it up to sneak a look below?

I lay motionless. Maybe they would just leave now. Stranger things had happened.

“Second floor, Brody?” one of the Garda asked eagerly. Pricks. They were getting off on the destruction, just like so many people had on Halloween, before they’d become prey. Rioting begets violence begets rioting. I sometimes think the entire human race is comprised of barely restrained animals, avid for any excuse to tear off their masks of civility. And here I am, always trying desperately to keep mine on.

If they went upstairs, one of them would certainly glance over the balustrade and spy the vaguely outlined red-misted form of my body stretched on top of the bookcase.

But wait—this was an opportunity to escape!

I tensed, preparing to take a bone-jarring leap from the bookcase and make a mad dash for the door the moment they topped the stairs. I’d strip as I went so they couldn’t follow my spray-paint-misted clothes and hope the rain would take care of whatever was anywhere else.

Brody jerked his head toward the front. “Three of you block that door. Three more at the back. Nothing gets in or out.”

Fuck.

“Then start climbing the ladders. I want every inch of this place covered. She’s got to be here. Check everywhere, she may be hanging off a railing, hiding beneath something. There’s no way she got out.”

Double fuck.

As the Guardians moved toward both exits, a voice bellowed from the alcove, “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

I knew that voice. I dared a peek over the edge.

Inspector Jayne exploded into the room, shaking off rain. A big, burly Liam Neeson look-alike, the ex-Garda dripped no-nonsense authority and command. I’d never been so glad to see him in my life. If he hadn’t authorized this maybe he’d stop it.

He took a long look around and snarled, “Fall in!”

No one moved.

“I said fall the fuck in! Or are you answering to Brody now?”

“The bitch killed our Mickey,” Brody growled.

“You aren’t in charge of our force. I am,” Jayne said flatly.

“Maybe some of us don’t like the shots you’ve been calling.”

“Maybe some of you are just bored and looking for a little action. Felt like letting off steam. Tired of Fae you can’t kill so you turn on a human. A human woman. Who taught us to eat Unseelie? Who showed us what was going on in our city? She’s been out there killing Fae.”

“She slaughtered Mick!”

“You don’t know that.”

“Everyone’s saying it.”

“And since everyone’s saying it, it must be true,” Jayne mocked. “Without concrete proof we don’t move against anyone. And never without my explicit orders.”

“They say she’s possessed by the Book—”

Who says? I wondered.

“The Book was destroyed,” Jayne snapped.

“They say there’s another one!”

“They say,” Jayne echoed. “Are you so easily persuaded? If there was a second copy of the Sinsar Dubh and she was possessed by it and actually here, do you really think you wouldn’t be dead right now? It kills. Brutally. Without hesitation. You’ve seen what it does. We all have. It wouldn’t cower and hide while you destroyed its home.”

Faulty logic but I wasn’t about to argue. Too busy cowering and hiding.

“You wanted an excuse to raise hell and you dragged good men into it with you. Brody O’Roark, I said fall the fuck in!” Jayne roared.

This time, ten men moved toward the good inspector, forming up.

Brody stood unmoving, legs wide, hands fisted. “She has the spear. We should have the spear and you bloody well know it.”

“We don’t kill humans to steal their weapons.”

“You took the sword from the kid.”

“At an opportune moment, without hurting her.”

I wasn’t sure Dani saw it that way.

“We don’t cry sentence on any human until we’ve examined the evidence,” Jayne continued. “And we sure as fuck don’t slaughter people—any people—on the unproven word of an unvetted source.”

Two more men moved toward their barrel-chested commander.

I like Jayne. He’s a good man. Flawed like the rest of us but his heart is in the right place.

I’d give my bullet-pierced right arm to know who their unvetted source was.

“They were right about her being invisible,” Brody growled.

“That doesn’t mean they’re right about everything. And until we’ve investigated, we take no action,” Jayne said. “Besides, do you know whose store this is? Who she belongs to? Are you bloody daft? You want to bring his vengeance crashing down on us? Who the fuck do you think you are to make that decision and jeopardize every man on our force?”

“It’s war, Jayne. He’s not on our side. He’s on no one’s side but his own.”

“In war, a wise man makes alliances.”

“Ballocks. You blow up bridges so the enemy can’t come across.”

“You didn’t blow up a bridge. You invaded his home. Wrecked it. Hunted his woman. Now he’ll hunt us for it.”

Eight more men joined the inspector’s ranks.

“Clean this place up,” Jayne ordered.

Everyone just stared at him, including me.

“It’s oil-based, Inspector,” one of the younger Guardians protested. “There’s no cleaning it up unless we slosh the place with—”

“Petrol,” Brody said with a savage smile. “We’ll burn it down. Then he’ll never know.”

I jerked.

“The fuck you will,” Jayne exploded. “You’ll haul your bloody arses out of here now and hope to hell she’s not here to tell him who the fools were that did this. Move it, men! Fall in!”

I didn’t breathe properly until the last man had marched out the front door, with hostile, battle-ready, pyrodickhead Brody at the rear, glaring back at the room over his shoulder as he left.

I lay there another ten minutes, shaking off the trauma. I’d read in one of my books that most of the time animals didn’t get the human equivalent of PTSD. They shook violently after a horrifying incident, their body’s way of processing and eliminating the tension and terror. I embraced the involuntary trembling until at last my body was still.

If not for Jayne, they’d have found me. They’d wanted to burn my cherished bookstore. Gut it. Leave it a smoking ruin.

Screw patrons. There hadn’t been more than a paltry handful for a long time anyway. I wanted this place warded against humans. I wanted steel shutters on the windows so no one could throw a flaming projectile through. I wanted the entrances changed to bank vault doors. BB&B was more than my store, it was my home.

I dragged myself off the bookcase, dropped over the edge and hit the floor hard, wincing with pain. I smeared wet red paint everywhere as I slipped and slid across the floor to the bathroom.

—

A half hour later I was sitting naked on a towel in the bathroom, a bottle of rubbing alcohol in one hand, switchblade in the other.

I might have healed, but two bullets were still inside me in highly inconvenient places. One would think, I mused sourly, that regeneration might include a tidy little ejection-of-foreign-objects-in-the-process caveat. Really, if you’re going to get some kind of magic fix-it, it should be comprehensive.

The bullet lodged in my arm was either on or partly in a tendon and excruciatingly painful each time I flexed my arm. The one in my leg was in the middle of my quadriceps and burned with each step. Muscles weren’t meant to host foreign metallic objects. Especially not hollow points that expanded on impact. Besides, if they weren’t iron, they were lead, and lead was toxic. I could end up walking around with a mild case of heavy metal poisoning for the rest of my Fae-extended life. This rapid healing/immortality thing with which I was afflicted with came with a whole new set of challenges. I guess if someone stabbed me and I couldn’t pull the knife out for some reason—like I was tied up or something—I’d just grow back together around it.

Cripes. Really sick things could be done to me. The more invulnerable I got, the more vulnerable I felt.

Ergo the switchblade and alcohol. I was naked because my clothes were covered with wet paint that was getting on everything I touched, and I refused to go upstairs for clean ones until I had these bullets out. They hadn’t gotten that far with their spray paint and I wasn’t about to mess up any more of my home.

The problem was, I couldn’t see my leg. I splayed my hand over my thigh trying to feel the precise location of the bullet. It was no use. The muscle was too dense. But from the pain deep in my quad, I had a fair idea where to make the incision.

I’d have to be quick.

Slice, dig, wrestle it out, retract blade.

I cocked my head, thinking. I could always smear paint on myself before I cut, but then I still wouldn’t be able to see inside my leg, and I really didn’t want to use one of the spray paint cans they’d dropped to highlight the inside of the wound. Not only would it probably sting like hell, I wasn’t sure I’d have enough time to cut, paint, slice, dig, paint some more before my stupid body started healing. My right arm wasn’t working well at the moment. Besides, I might end up getting tattooed by the paint as I healed around it. Never in the mood for a sloppy, random tattoo.

What if I passed out when I sliced myself? Or while digging? I’d probably heal before I regained consciousness.

Surely I was tougher than that.

Clenching my teeth, I sliced.

Moaning with pain, I dug.

I passed out.

The last thing I did before losing consciousness was hastily retract the blade with my thumb.

I woke up to a healed leg.

Bugger.

I could always get Barrons to dig it out. I could spray paint while he cut. Or use flour or something my body would absorb. Well, until I passed out. No telling when he’d be back. Or how many necessary tendons, muscles, or veins he might slice. Besides, I was sick of not taking care of things myself. This was my problem. I was going to fix it. I was tired of being saved by others or, as in this latest case, by divine Jayne intervention. It chafed.

I needed a higher pain threshold. Not that mine was low to begin with.

I had no intention of eating Unseelie again.

I’d eaten it three times to date—after Mallucé had tortured and beaten me to the edge of death, in the middle of the riots on Halloween, and eight days ago when I’d descended the cliff to save Christian. Each time I’d eaten it, I’d been painfully aware that I had no clue what the long-term ramifications were. Christian told me it was the combination of dark magic gone awry plus eating Unseelie flesh that turned him into one of the dark princes. I figured I already was a bang-up candidate to turn Unseelie princess.

Then again, Christian had only eaten it one time and I’d eaten it three so far. The damage was probably already done.

At least that’s the excuse I gave myself, rationalizing that the temptation of recent withdrawal had nothing to do with my current need-based decision to partake. After the rape, I’d despised the idea of having anything Unseelie in my mouth ever again. Then I had to eat it on the cliff and remembered how it felt and, oops, well, no longer suffering that revulsion.

It was a painful hike to the spilled contents of the fridge and back. I made it wearing only my boots so I wouldn’t get paint all over my bare feet, pausing to nudge them off before I reentered the clean part of the bookstore.

Once back in the bathroom, I dropped back down on the towel and leaned against the wall. I wiped off the lid of the baby food jar and unscrewed it. Without allowing myself time to reconsider, I tossed the contents into my mouth.

It was as disgusting as ever.

The taste of the gray, gristly, pustule-laced flesh was straight out of a nightmare. It was rotten eggs and castor oil, maggoty flesh and tar.

It wriggled in my mouth, tried to escape from behind my clenched teeth. I froze like that for a moment, with jumping beans of slimy Unseelie on my tongue, refusing to open my mouth yet unable to quell my gag reflex.

I pounded the floor with a fist to distract my recalcitrant throat muscles and swallowed. After a few moments icy heat flushed my body and a burst of power hit my heart like a shot of adrenaline.

Abruptly all my muscles slid smooth and sure and sexy beneath my skin, my spine straightened to perfection, my shoulders drew back, my breasts went out, my hips canted in, my stomach smoothed. It was like having all the tiny niggling imperfections of humanity ironed out of my body. If this was how Fae felt all the time, I envied it. I may have been given an elixir that changed me, but, unlike Fae, I still suffer everyday aches and pains, still need to sleep and eat and drink.

The squirming flesh wriggled all the way down to my stomach, where it fluttered like a flock of maddened moths determined to flap their way to freedom.

My heart thundered, my brain felt as if a vacuum had sucked it clean of all confusion and fear, my body was a live wire.

It was exhilarating.

It was sexy as hell.

I stretched euphorically, drunk on Fae power. Wondering how I’d been living without it since that night on the cliff. Really, I was probably already as altered as I was going to get from the stuff, wasn’t I?

Then I realized I had an entirely new problem.

I could no longer feel the bullets. And now I had only a vague idea where to dig.

I have no clue why what happened next did.

Since a wish was what had started it all, maybe I was wishing it so hard the Book finally decided to humor me.

Or maybe the Sinsar Dubh didn’t like the idea of me cutting myself up.

Or maybe it knew something I didn’t, and I really could die and was about to kill myself by slicing a necessary vein.

Whatever the reason, I was abruptly visible.

I gazed down at my body, so happy to see myself that I didn’t move for a few seconds. Then I stretched a leg and admired it. Flexed my toes. Examined my fingernails. They were a mess. Short, ragged, and unpolished. Criminy. I needed to trim. And my skin was dry. How could my skin be dry when it rained all the time here?

Okay, so maybe I was postponing my barbaric surgery a bit by reveling in the lovely vision of my badly groomed body. I’d missed me.

God, it was good to be back!

I studied my thigh clinically, with a complete absence of fear, pain, or really any kind of concern at all, made a deep surgical slice and started digging around. Blood pooled, evaporated, pooled.

Wow, it was rather interesting in there. I’d never looked at myself on the inside before. What a miracle the body was. What a shame the composition was organic and stamped with such a finite expiration.

But not me, I marveled as I dug. For the first time since learning I’d been tampered with via an unidentified Fae elixir, I felt a small flush of pleasure at the prospect of a longer life. Hated the things that might be done to me in my enhanced condition, loved the idea of more sunrises, more nights with Barrons, more time to try to figure life out.

“Focus, Mac,” I muttered. The bullets were only my most immediate problem. I had a whole list of others, the least of which was discovering who’d ratted out all my secrets.

My skin was already trying to close around the blade. With Unseelie flesh in me, I was healing even faster than I had before. I realized I had to keep slicing while I had the knife in there, moving the blade back and forth. It was curiously like operating on someone else’s body. I barely felt it.

It took me two tries to get the bullet out of my thigh. Three to get the one in my arm out.

Of course, that’s how he found me.

Sprawled on the floor with a couple of chunks of misshapen metal nestled in the valley between my leg and hip, a switchblade in one hand, alcohol which I hadn’t had time to use in another, a feral look of triumph on my face. I might have even been laughing a little.

Butt-ass naked.

6

I felt drugged. I was drugged, high on my victory over the bullets, blood pounding with immortal strength, stamina, and lust.

My mind registered Barrons, my body said: Let’s get down and dirty. I’m in the perfect condition for it. Last time I’d eaten Unseelie flesh, he’d been killed a few minutes later. I’d suffered both the high and withdrawal alone. Had endured most of the high getting home from Germany, trying not to think or feel too much.

How long had it been since we’d devolved into an animalistic, no holds barred fuck-fest? What in the world had been wrong with me?

I knew the answer to that question. It was the thing I was keeping to myself, cocooned inside, a voracious worm in the rotten apple that was MacKayla Lane O’Connor.

Now, with the impunity and belligerence of an Unseelie-flesh high riding me, Barrons standing there looking half savage, half man, and no immediate threats to my existence, I had a single imperative. I was clarified—the Mac I used to be, back in more ways than one. Maybe this was what I needed to do to get through the days until I’d sorted out my many messes. Become an addict.

I’d never had sex with Barrons while I was amped up on Unseelie but I’d enormously wanted to. The small taste I’d gotten in Mallucé’s grotto had infiltrated my dreams, tantalized me, goaded me to indulge again. Pri-ya was horrific. It made you mindlessly insatiable, little better than a puppet.

But an Unseelie-flesh high was fully aware unquenchable lust—with an unbreakable body. If we fucked too hard, so what? My skin would heal even as we were doing it, letting me have more and more. We could do that thing I loved to do so much, that drove Barrons absolutely bugfuck crazy, with no repercussions.

I shivered with lust, suddenly understanding the See-you-in-Faery girls more than I wanted to.

Our eyes locked and I jerked.

Fucking river of blood in my House.

I actually saw the capital H in his eyes and knew Barrons’s House was whatever he’d claimed as his own, and nobody, but nobody, shit in it. There would be hell to pay, and I wasn’t certain I wouldn’t steer him in Brody’s direction before the night was through. I’ve learned a thing or two during my time in Dublin: when you let the bad guy walk, he comes back. Until you don’t let him walk.

Paint, I corrected. But his primal senses had told him that before he’d even walked in the front door. The man could smell if I was having my period. Or even just close to starting it.

Barrons snarled, black fangs flashing, and I realized walking through the bookstore in its current condition must have awakened a memory from another time when he’d stalked a battlefield of blood, wondering what he would find. Most likely discovering everyone he knew—with the exception of his immortal companions—dead. I wondered how long he’d had to live before he quit letting himself have one ounce of interest in a human. How it must have felt to lose everyone around him like I’d lost Alina. Oh, yes, easier not to care. To ultimately let oneself revile.

Barrons’s beast is always close to the surface. I sometimes wonder if one day he won’t simply change, lope away, and never walk as a man again. Go be pure in the form that makes the most sense to him, on some other world, in a skin that’s much harder to kill and, for him, much easier to live in.

His dark eyes flashed. Fuck. Didn’t know what I’d find. There are still some things that can kill you. Hate that.

Ah, so he’d considered the possibility Dani had come after me with my own spear. Fuck. Didn’t know if you’d come back. To me, I was quick to chew off. Hate that.

He smiled but it vanished quickly. His lips tightened, his mouth reshaped in a way I knew well. He was thinking about what he’d like to be doing to me with it. And it wasn’t talking. Barrons doesn’t waste time on the mundane. Another man might have said, “Gee, how are you visible again?” Or, “What the hell happened to my bookstore?” Or, “Who did this and are you okay?”

Not him. He scanned me, made sure I was in one piece, and got down to what really mattered.

Me. Naked.

He stripped.

Muscles rippled in his shoulders as he yanked off his shirt. When he kicked off his boots, jerked his belt from his pants and let them fall, I swallowed hard. Barrons is a commando man. I love his dick. I love what he does to me with it. I adore his balls. They’re smooth and silky and there’s this seam down the center that I love to lick before I close my mouth over his dick, and just when I know he’s lost in the sleek warmth of my tongue moving slow and easy, swirling, sucking him in with thinking it’s going to be sweet, I lock my mouth down hard, cup his balls in my hand and jerk harder than I should, and it undoes him every damn time. I’m obsessed with his body and the way it responds to my touch. He’s my mountain of man I get to play on, experiment with, and see how high I can make him fly.

Not a single tattoo marred his recently reborn skin. He was dark, muscled, sleek perfection. I was halfway to orgasm just from watching him strip. Well, that, my hand between my legs, and his intense gaze fixed on the movement. Pri-ya, I’d done this a lot, and while I’d sprawled on the bed, he’d sat in a chair next to it, watching me with heavy-lidded lust and fascination and often a flicker of something that looked a lot like jealousy. Then he’d knock my hand away, stretch himself over me, and drive home hard. You need me for this his eyes would say. If for nothing else, at least this.

He was right. There was masturbation.

There was sex with Barrons.

And there was abso-frigging-lutely no comparison between the two.

I pushed up from the floor, bullets dropping forgotten from the cradle of my hip. My spine fluid, my body strong, I pulsed with desire that rode the razor edge of violence. I don’t understand why that happens to me with him. It never happened before with any other guy. With Barrons, I get turned on and I get hostile. I want to have violent sex, I want to smash and break things. I want to push him, I want to force myself into his head. I want to see how much he can take. I want to see how much I can get.

Got something you want to say, Rainbow Girl?

I knew what he wanted. What he always wants from me: to know that I’m aware and I’m choosing and I’m one hundred percent committed, to him, to life, to myself, to the moment, which doesn’t sound like so much but it’s a damn tall order. And he wants his name in that sentence somewhere.

I tossed my head and shot him a savage look. Fuck me, Jericho Barrons. You’re my world, I didn’t add. At least I hope I didn’t. I let my lids flutter at the end, half closed, shielding my heart.

Then he was on me and I was crushed back against the wall, my bare feet dangling above the floor and he was sliding me up it, big hands splayed on my hips. His physical strength is surreal, an indisputable bonus when it comes to sex.

When he buried his face in my thighs, I wrapped my legs around his head, arched my back to push against his mouth, and fisted my hands in his thick, dark hair. When a fang grazed my clitoris, I pulled his hair—hard—and he laughed because, like me, when we’re having sex, drugged or not, there’s no such thing as pain. We did everything possible when I was Pri-ya. I became conditioned to him in that state. It’s all sensation. And it’s all good.

I let my head fall back against the wall, lost myself in the bliss of his hot mouth on me, his tongue moving inside me.

I arched my neck and roared when I came. Damn the man, he touches me and I explode and just keep moving in a red-hot haze of lust from one orgasm to the next until at last he stops touching me. He knows exactly how to work my body. It’s incredible. It’s frightening.

In desire, in lust, Barrons and I are perfect together. In everyday life, we’re porcupines who must navigate the circumference of each other’s existence carefully because one poke and either of us might bare our teeth and scuttle off. Not because the needles hurt but because we’re both…volatile. Temperamental. Proud. Obtuse as hell. It makes for difficult days and incredible nights. I can’t change. He won’t. It is what it is.

Here, now, in lust, we unite, bond in a way that makes the days work fine. I realize as I explode again and hear him make that low, raw sound in the back of his throat that makes me crazy, vibrates into my pelvic core, spreads in a rumbling purr through my body, enhancing my orgasm to exquisite proportions, that this is essential to us, to our ability to stay together.

I don’t dare not fuck this man frequently because this is the glue that holds us, the tie that binds, the only tether, collar, leash either of us can permit, the place where everything else falls away and we become something more than we are alone. I get now why he fucks with the single-minded devotion of a dying man hunting God. Sex with him is the closest thing to holy I’ve ever known. Barrons is my church. Every caress, each kiss, a hallelujah.

Burn me in Hell if you have a problem with that.

He’ll be there with me.

We won’t care.

As the orgasm ebbed, flashed red-hot then ebbed again, he leaned back and slid me down the front of his body, eyes glittering crimson, face half transformed into beast. He was two full feet taller than he had been before, shoulders massively wider, skin darkened to burnished mahogany. I could feel talons on my skin. Low humps of horns were sprouting on his skull.

I was shaking with aftershock, and still, fresh lust blazed through me, sanctifying my blood, opening a floodgate I’d not even realized I’d closed. I was breathless for a moment, stunned by the sudden unsought awareness that I’d once again been repressing all emotion for months. Every single bit of it. Just like I did after I believed I’d killed him on a cliff with Ryodan. Skimming the surface, a flat stone skipping across a bottomless loch, grateful to be a dispassionate observer, the invisible narrator of everyone else’s life. I’d hungered to be unseen. I’d wanted to disappear long before it happened. I have a critical fault line of a defect and it’s not the Book inside me. And it’s not something I can fix. At least not any way I’ve been able to figure out. The relentless, unsolvable clusterfuck in my own head made me choose to deaden myself rather than contend with the uncontendable.

Yet one carnal touch from Barrons and I was alive again. Awake and so very damned alive. And my problem that couldn’t be fixed would be as ever present and unmanageable as always when we were done. May as well savor the now.

He dropped his dark, misshapen head forward and long matted hair brushed my back. “I taste Unseelie in you,” he murmured thickly into the hollow of my neck around teeth much too large for a human mouth. I felt his tongue trace my jugular. Felt my heartbeat in my neck, pulsing against his fangs. His next words were guttural, violent, barely human, “Just how hard do you want to play?” He shook me a little then, like a dog with a rabbit in its teeth.

“How hard can you take it?” I purred into his chest.

He raised his head and looked down at me and laughed like I’ve never heard him laugh as a man. Oh, yes, Barrons prefers the beast. There’s something so sure and uncomplicated in that form. As if there, a prehensile creature, he’s free in a way I can’t begin to understand. I want to explore what he feels wearing that primal ebon skin, how life tastes to him on those killing fangs, cozy up to the basest he has to offer, meet it in kind.

I slammed my palms into his chest, knocking him backward. He crashed into the wall of the bathroom so hard his head went down, and when it whipped back, his smile was feral, exultant. “You want to fight or fuck, Mac?”

I bounced from foot to foot, wired with fury and sexual energy. I may never understand why I always feel them together around him but I sure as hell can enjoy it. “Both.”

“Think you can take me?”

“Going to damn well try.”

“Think you’ll survive it?”

I stabbed a finger in his chest and smiled up at him. “I think I’m gonna own it. Jericho.”

He growled low in his chest. “Bring it the fuck on, Mac.”

I brought it.

7

I stretched, supremely satisfied, rolled over on my side, and looked at Barrons. He was in human form again, flat on his back, chest not moving, and I knew if I lay my ear against his skin, I’d hear no heartbeat thudding behind his breastbone.

Barrons doesn’t sleep. He drifts and was in what I’d learned to recognize as a deep meditative state. It wouldn’t be long before he disappeared into the night to do whatever he does that makes his body electric and his heart pound again.

I raked a hand through my hair, trying to push the wild mess out of my face, and succeeded only in getting my fingers tangled in knots matted with spray paint. I gave up and shoved it to one side. We were both smeared with oil-based lacquer and if I wasn’t…enhanced, and he wasn’t…whatever he was, I’d worry about all those nasty chemicals on our skin. We’d slipped and slid all over the store, thrown each other around in the wreckage, painted our skin crimson, not all of it paint, some of it blood.

We were currently wedged between half a shot-up broken chesterfield and a shattered bookcase, I had hard-cornered books digging into my ass, was using a crushed lamp shade as a pillow, and one of the many baubles in the store was gouging the small of my back.

I felt incredible. Released. Open. I made a mental note to jump on him the next time I found myself feeling uncertain or shutting down. Barrons is antitoxin for the venom poisoning me.

I tipped my head back and looked around the room.

If the bookstore hadn’t been completely decimated before, it certainly was now. Something bizarre had happened to us while we were fighting and fucking, taking out everything we felt on each other’s bodies because words don’t work for either of us anymore. As if possessed by a unified prime directive, we’d abruptly stopped having sex and devoted our focus to finishing what the men had started. We smashed, slashed, and crushed.

Those few things the Guardians had left unbroken we’d destroyed ourselves. My iPod had actually still been working in the sound dock. It wasn’t now, ground to smithereens beneath a heel. The rugs shredded by Barrons’s talons. Bookcases that had been standing were now on the floor, contents dumped across the garishly stained floors.

I understood on an intuitive level. Someone else had desecrated our home. By participating in its destruction, we’d said goodbye to its current incarnation. We’d given the bookstore a proper burial. We’d grieved in fury. We’d torn down the Phoenix to ash so it could rise again.

We would start over. Barrons and I would always start over. Longevity requires it.

As I lay there, considering how I would redecorate—and yes, I still love decorating, as a brilliant, half-mad king likes to say more often than I like to hear it: can’t eviscerate essential self—my eye was caught by the piece of paper I’d been stooping to collect outside the bookstore when I’d been shot. It had traipsed in stuck to someone’s boot, evidenced by a large red heel print and was stuck by yet more paint to the broken arm of the chesterfield.

I reached over Barrons to snag it. Smoothed it out and turned it over.

Between splatters of paint, my name screamed from the page.

I began to read. Stopped. Cursed. Read and cursed some more.

Sleazy. I scowled, offended. There was nothing sleazy about me. Well, recent activity aside and that wasn’t sleazy. That was freedom.

I smiled grimly. “Jada” hadn’t needed to raise a finger against me. All she’d had to do was rat out my Sinsar Dubh–compromised state, my invisibility, and location to WeCare to place me squarely in the crosshairs of every vigilante, Fae, and nut job in Dublin. Thanks to Dani’s past papers, in which she’d kept the city informed of every detail of the threats she deemed important, including the Sinsar Dubh, the world was fully aware of the astronomical power it contained. Some would hunt me to kill me, others with the futile hope of controlling the iconic, deadly Book. Rather than telling WeCare I was the Book, she’d made them think I had a copy, which made hunting me all the more desirable for those who wanted to possess its power.

I wasn’t psychotic and she knew it. I was holding my own pretty damned well. I’d only killed a single person. By accident. And I regretted the hell out of it. Would give a great deal to be able to undo it.

I was fuming again, all that lovely hostility I’d managed to vent on Barrons’s body flooding right back into my veins like someone had turned on the mother lode of spigots inside me.

This was bullshit. I’d been betrayed to the entire city and I was visible. There would be no more sneaking through the streets to get where I wanted to go. No more evading the searching ghouls in tonight’s sky. It struck me as incalculably odd they’d been hunting for me on the precise night I’d become visible again. Could they sense me so easily?

Not that I wanted to be invisible again, I appended mentally, hastily. If the Sinsar Dubh was listening, and I was sure it was, I was not making wishes. No wishes. Not a single one. “You hear that?” I muttered. “This is me, Mac. Not wishing.”

There was no answer but apparently we were on the outs, the Book and I. Or it was merely intensely occupied doing something nefarious, underhanded, and evil that was requiring all its attention, the results of which would soon bite me in the ass with vicious little teeth. I may as well enjoy the silence and lack of teeth in my ass. Occupy my time with something much nicer in it.

I glanced hungrily at Barrons. Sex on an Unseelie-flesh high was every bit as phenomenal as I’d thought it would be. Eating Fae makes a normal human existence seem a shadow of what life really should be. It enhances all your senses, taste, touch, sound, smell. Sex had been even more mind-blowing than usual with Barrons, each nerve exquisitely sensitive. My orgasms had gone on and on, one barely sputtering out before the next had set me on fire. Oh, yeah, eating Unseelie twice in eight days was probably a really bad idea.

I resolved to think about that in a few days when my high wore off.

Barrons’s eyes opened slowly, heavy-lidded. Lust in those ancient eyes always sparks mine, goads my inner savage. I trailed my fingers up his body, from his stomach to his jaw, savoring each ripple, each hollow. I get off on touching this barbarian, seeing him gentled before he retreats into his hard, controlled, distant shell.

He cupped my chin and brushed his thumb across my lower lip. “Jayne shot at you,” he said, executioner-soft, and I knew he could smell the inspector in the ruined store and that Jayne would be a dead man before dawn.

“Jayne stopped the men who were shooting at me,” I corrected. “A Guardian named Brody instigated it. Red hair. Probably around thirty-five, a little over six foot.” I gave him ample description to find him, should he choose to. He would choose to. “The others were following his lead. He’s the only one I consider a liability among them. He wanted to burn my store,” I said. “The rest will obey Jayne once Brody is gone.”

He smiled faintly at how calmly I spoke of a human’s pending demise. “Good to see you back.” In more ways than one, his eyes added.

I handed him the Dublin Daily. “ ‘Jada’ outed me.”

He scanned it then rose and stalked naked to the shattered counter upon which my lovely antique register used to sit, silver bell tinkling as I rang up orders. Whatever he was looking for wasn’t where he’d left it. He rummaged beneath wreckage then returned with another piece of stained, crumpled paper.

I smoothed it out.

I frowned. “Wait, what? This doesn’t make any sense. She’s not, right?” Surely in the past few days she hadn’t released Cruce and fallen under his control.

“Not that I’m aware. Ryodan’s been keeping close tabs on her.”

“Who would print this and why?”

He cocked his head, studying me intently.

“You thought she posted the first one and I printed this in retaliation.”

He shrugged. “If someone throws you to the sharks, drag them in with you. Makes two of you against the sharks. With few exceptions, humans will unite to defeat a common predator before resuming their personal vendettas, creating multiple opportunities for escape.”

I loved his logic, clean, simple, and effective. “I probably would have just protested my innocence. Printed a Daily of my own denying it all.” Rather than turn on Dani, even if she had turned on me. I would never admit to anyone that I’d killed a Guardian. I hated myself for it, hated the idea someone may have watched me do it. I wanted a name. It’s creepy to think someone knows something terrible about you and you have no idea who they are.

“Reason never works. There’s an inherent bias in the system. The attacker has the offense, which makes the defense appear defensive, therefore guilty. If neither you nor Dani printed these, someone wants both of you targeted, on the run or dead. And with two simple pieces of paper, achieved their aim. These are posted all over the city. I saw a small mob forming outside Dublin Castle, demanding the Guardians take action.”

Which is why he’d thought it was Jayne who came after me. The castle had been commandeered after the walls fell to house Guardian garrisons and what passed as the city’s only hospital. “But why would anyone believe this? WeCare didn’t offer a shred of proof. Besides,” I groused, “their writing is positively juvenile.”

“Fear, boredom, and a sense of helplessness have bred many a witch hunt. He who controls the presses…”

“Controls the populace,” I finished. “Don’t they realize we have far bigger problems? Like the fabric of our planet being destroyed?”

“They’re blaming the black holes on you and Dani. The mob was ranting that the magic you’re using is so destructive it’s tearing the world apart.”

“And you don’t worry they might be on the way here right now?” I said tartly. To further damage my home. My hands fisted.

“I might have sidled into that mob and let it drop that I saw two young women dancing naked around a glowing book in a cemetery on the edge of town.”

I snorted. “And it worked?”

“The promise of naked women and violence has always been irresistible bait for frightened men. Still, it’s only a matter of time before they come.”

He pushed up like a graceful dark panther, muscles rippling. He didn’t look as forbidding when his body wasn’t covered with black and crimson tattoos. I rarely saw him with his skin unblemished. Beautiful naked man. My skin smelled of him. I didn’t want to shower it off but the paint had to go.

He offered his hand, pulled me to my feet. At the last moment his head fell forward and he inhaled. I smiled. We smell good to each other when we fuck. People should always smell good to each other when they fuck or they’re fucking the wrong person.

“I have work to do,” he said, and I caught the hint of regret that we couldn’t just forget the world, stay devolved. Life was so much simpler when we ignored everything but each other.

“We have work to do,” I corrected. I wasn’t sitting on the sidelines anymore.

“I. Get cleaned up. We leave within the hour.”

Before I could even open my mouth to argue, he was gone, vanishing in that fluid way of his, either too fast for me to see or blending into objects like a chameleon as he moved from one to the next.

A disembodied voice said, “I’ll ward the store against humans. You’ll be safe here until I return. Ms. Lane.”

I bristled. I’d been “Mac” to him for the past hour, deep inside his skin, taken him deep inside mine.

With two tiny words he’d erected that formal wall between us again.

“Ms. Lane, my ass,” I muttered. But he was gone.

—

Precisely one hour later we left by the back door, stepping into the alley between BB&B and Barrons’s garage. I loathed leaving the store with all the windows shot out but Barrons assured me no harm would come to it.

While showering I’d realized something I’d overlooked when reading the Dublin Daily earlier: Today was August third—exactly one year to the day I’d first set foot on Irish soil. So much had happened. So much had changed. It was still hard to process the existence-altering vagaries of my life. Now that I was visible again I wanted to talk to Mom about some of my problems, get swallowed in one of my daddy’s big bear hugs, but our family reunion would have to wait.

I shivered in the chilly damp air. My hair was still wet, blond streaked with crimson. The lemon oil I’d used to break down the spray paint had softened and separated the matted areas but hadn’t eradicated the scarlet stain. Just another bad hair day in Dublin.

My wet hair wasn’t the only reason I was shivering. An icy Hunter crouched in the back alley, restrained by symbols Barrons had etched on its wings and the back of its head. It was the same Hunter I’d ridden the day we tried to track the Sinsar Dubh and were deceived by the Book, scattered like frightened mice. The day the ancient Hunter, K’Vruck, had sailed alongside me, admonishing me for not flying on him and warming me with his “old friend” greeting.

I have an enormous sappy-sweet spot for the largest, most ancient Hunter whose name is synonymous with death and kiss so final it eradicates the very essence of the soul. No poodle girl here. Not even a pit bull. My chosen beast is the happy odd finality that is K’Vruck. I wondered where he was and if he might join us again in the sky tonight.

I shuddered at the thought. If so, I’d drive him away. I didn’t want him near Barrons. Ever.

He wasn’t my only problem in the skies. Now that I was visible, I wondered how long I had before I was smothered in noxious ghouls. It seemed like all I ever did was swap one complication for another.

This evening’s conveyance was a fifth the size of its gargantuan brother. I wondered why we weren’t taking one of Barrons’s cars; they’d certainly outrun anything else on the road. The Hunter’s leathery skin was the absence of all color, inkier than midnight in a dark grotto, swallowing what light hit it as if it had ducked into a cosmic bathroom and powdered itself with black-hole dust. Wings at rest by whatever charm Barrons used that could control such creatures, its body steamed like dry ice in the drizzly night.

I shivered again. Riding one of these great beasts was like stretching yourself across a glacier. And if you’re damp anywhere and touch it with bare skin, you stick like a tongue to a metal post on an icy morning. I’d gotten conned into accepting such a dare on a rare wintry morning in Georgia, waiting for the school bus with friends. “I need to grab more—”

Barrons silenced me by tossing me a bundle of clothing: gloves, a scarf, and a thick, lined bomber jacket. The man is always prepared.

The Hunter chuffed irritably in my mind, Remove his marks. They chafe.

I was startled to hear its voice in my head. Eating Unseelie flesh deadens all my sidhe-seer senses until the high wears off. I’d assumed I’d be unable to mentally communicate with it.

Not you that possesses power to hear. I possess power to be heard, it rumbled. Wipe off.

I’ll consider it, I lied, tucking my gloves into my sleeves and wrapping my scarf securely around my neck.

Its amusement tickled the inside of my head, and I suddenly knew two things: it knew I was lying and the Hunter was not restrained in any way. It was pretending.

Were you ever?

Unrestrainable. All is choice. Stop your kind from shooting at us in the skies. We are benign. The marks chafe. Remove them.

It shifted its enormous hind flanks ponderously, impatience evident.

If they do nothing, why do they chafe? I asked.

Do you like those red streaks in your hair?

A snort of laughter escaped me, and Barrons gave me a look.

Vain much?

Interfere with my vision. Do not trinket us. We will trinket you and you will not like it.

I had no desire to know how a Hunter might trinket a human.

“One must mount in order to ride, Ms. Lane,” Barrons said dryly.

“I think I just demonstrated my understanding of that sequence of events back in the bookstore,” I said just as dryly. “It’s talking to me. Don’t you hear it?”

Not even I communicate with that one, the Hunter murmured in my mind. There are doors. He has none.

What do you mean?

I said.

Huh?

I do not clarify, expound, or elaborate. Open your puny mind. If you cannot see, you do not deserve to.

I rolled my eyes thinking it was no wonder the Unseelie king had a special fondness for these creatures. They communicated in a similar fashion.

Barrons sliced his head once to the left, dark eyes glittering, brilliant. He’d fed while out and his big body was thrumming with electric energy. I was looking forward to leaning back into him, astride the Hunter’s back.

Since I couldn’t use my sidhe-seer senses to determine if the Hunter was speaking truth, I listened to my gut instead, stepped forward and smudged my gloved hand against its icy hide, wiping the shimmering symbol from its skin.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Barrons snarled.

“It chooses to be here. It won’t harm us.”

“You know that because it told you? And you believed it?”

I knew more than that. I knew if I wiped off its symbols, it would cooperate far more fully than if I didn’t. Perhaps even tantalize me with an ancient secret of the universe or two, and I’m insatiably curious about what might be out there in the great beyond. Ever since I wandered the White Mansion, that infinite abode of endless wonders, I’ve suspected I have a bit of Gypsy in my blood. If—no, when—our problems are finally over, I plan to go exploring with Jericho Barrons. Everywhere.

This Hunter was proud, aloof, and accustomed to being utterly without authority. It didn’t comprehend the meaning of the word, had to break things down in its mind like the Unseelie king had to split himself into many skins to walk among humans. I wasn’t sure it was even alive in the sense we think of things being alive, unless blazing icy meteors or stars are alive. The symbols didn’t constrain it. They were pesky flies on its hide and offended it to its core.

“Trust me.”

He stared at me, not moving at all except for a tiny muscle in his jaw, which is a full-blown hissy fit for that man.

After a long moment of silence he ground out, “Your call, Ms. Lane.”

I circled the Hunter and wiped the other one off its wing. Barrons boosted me when it crouched and I clambered up its icy back, crawled forward onto its enormous head and smudged away the final mark.

As Barrons leapt up behind me and we settled behind its wings, it purred, Ahhhhh, now we fly.

The Hunter lunged forward, and when it reached the wide intersection of streets at the edge of the Dark Zone, flapped its leathery sails, churning black ice into a small storm around us. We rose up and up.

I hated leaving the bookstore behind for who knew how long to God knew what fate. I glanced down to watch it grow tiny beneath us and assure myself attackers weren’t at this very moment raiding my home, and realized why Barrons wasn’t worried.

Black and turbulent, whirling with debris, a tornado encompassed eight full blocks, with BB&B nestled snugly in its eye. We soared straight up from the epicenter. A small mob was stalking a good distance from the perimeter but there was no way in without getting caught up by the cyclone that stretched into the sky.

I glanced back at him over my shoulder. Icy beast beneath me, hot man behind me. “And you did that how?” I said disbelievingly.

“Called in a Fae favor. Climate is one of their specialties.”

It was a huge “favor.” “Who among the Fae likes you enough to do that favor?” I knew the answer to that. No one.

“The one I didn’t kill when I demanded it. After I killed the other two.”

I smiled faintly. One word: badass.

I want to be Jericho Barrons when I grow up.

8

When we landed in a field not far from the abbey to meet Ryodan, who was standing near the Hummer in which I’d spent far too much time recently, I resolved to say nothing of what I’d seen on the monitors at the club, curious to discover if Barrons or Ryodan would volunteer information.

I wanted to know if I was “Mac,” a trusted member of our tenuous confederacy, or “Ms. Lane,” still on the outskirts of the inner circle. Plus, knowledge was power, and I liked harboring secrets no one knew I knew. Such as Kat training beneath Chester’s with Kasteo, Papa Roach serving as Ryodan’s spy network, Jada and Ryodan kissing, and Lor carrying some kind of caveman torch for Jo, perfectly willing to piss off his boss to pursue it. Lor, who was indebted to me for a favor no one knew about either. A wise woman indiscriminately picked up all the tools others left lying around. You never knew what kind of wrench or knife you might need, or when.

Barrons and I hadn’t spoken since the Hunter had taken flight. Barrons—because he doesn’t—and me because I’d been lost in the pleasure of the moment, gliding through a velvety night sky luminous with stars, leaning back against the raw, electric carnality behind me while pondering the intriguingly unfathomable emotions/thoughts/images in the head of the ancient beast between my legs. Thanks to my high, I’d been more attuned to the kiss of the breeze, the beauty all around me, and less attuned to physical discomfort, like the ice beneath my ass.

On the back of a Hunter with Jericho Barrons, I’m free. I’m uncomplicated. Life is good.

It ended much too soon.

Ryodan was walking across the pasture toward us, and despite that I actually like him, my hackles went up. He wanted me to open the Sinsar Dubh, he ruthlessly pursued whatever he wanted, and it was never going to happen. That made us adversaries. The Unseelie flesh in my blood might have been amplifying my bristling a bit. It was nice to know if push came to shove, I was currently capable of pushing back.

He didn’t say a word. Like Barrons, not a, “Gee Mac, you’re visible again,” or, “How did you do it?” Or even, “Where are your carrion stalkers?” a thing I was wondering myself, telling myself maybe they’d found some other person to persecute.

Nor did I say, “Gee, who’s watching Dageus? Did you leave him to suffer his horrendous transformation alone?”

Ryodan thrust a paper into Barrons’s hand.

Cripes, not another paper! What was I being accused of now? I glanced over his arm and read as he shined his cellphone on the words:

I bit back a laugh, certain it wouldn’t go over well, but really, I was tired of being singled out for persecution and at least now I wasn’t the only one. I looked up at Ryodan, arched a brow. “Children? Really?” I said sweetly.

“You fucking believe everything you read.”

It wasn’t a question but things from him rarely are. “The paper was partly right about me.”

“Ditto. Partly.”

“Who the bloody fuck,” Barrons growled, “is printing these bloody things?”

“Well, now at least we’re all outed,” I said, “and I’m not feeling so personally persecuted anymore.”

“Jada,” Ryodan said.

I defended instantly, “I thought so, too, at first but I don’t think so anymore.”

“There are no contractions in this one, the grammar’s superior, and Jada’s the only one exonerated,” Ryodan said.

Barrons inclined his head in agreement. “And there’s no mention of Dani. Jada considers her dead.”

Viewed that way, even I was tempted to concur. I couldn’t see whoever was behind WeCare retracting the accusation against her, and she certainly had the hyperspeed to get a paper printed and distributed quickly.

“Dani’s not dead.” A dark head popped out from behind Ryodan’s large frame. I hadn’t seen him approaching in the twilight.

Apparently, Ryodan wasn’t wasting any time getting his “crew” to work on the problem of the rapidly atrophying muscles of the Nine’s vagina.

“And I don’t believe she printed it. The Mega is massively more colorful and entertaining.”

Oh, honey, I thought, are you ever in for a surprise. Jada was icy white and colorless as they came. I narrowed my eyes, studying the young man standing next to Ryodan, and wondered if he wasn’t the only one that was going to be shocked when the two met for the first time since Dani had returned.

Even in the pale light of the moon, I could see Dancer was different. He seemed taller, and he’d been tall to begin with at a good six-foot-four. My gaze swept down to his feet. Gone were the usual tennis shoes, replaced by boots similar to those Ryodan and Barrons wore, adding an inch or so of height. Gone was the zip-up sweatshirt, traded for a rugged black military field jacket. His jeans were faded, his shirt a concert tee, but the overall impression he gave was several years older than the last time I’d seen him. The biggest difference was something about his face. I cocked my head, trying to figure it out. Thick, wavy dark hair fell forward, brushing his jaw in a sexy college poet kind of way.

He felt me staring at him and flashed me a grin. “Contacts. Dude, whole world for the taking. Don’t know why I didn’t do it before. Would’ve rather had Lasik but haven’t found myself a surgeon I trust yet.”

That was it! He had gorgeous aqua eyes fringed by thick dark lashes. Before, I’d only seen them through lenses. He looked more athletic without them, more rough-and-tumble masculine.

I smiled faintly. He’d heard Dani was back, older, so he’d stepped up his game, made his intentions clear. Said, “I’m a man and you have choices, Dani.” Good for him. Their relationship was the most normal of any she’d had, and Dani had experienced precious little normalcy. I preferred him to the other liabilities she’d once told me she might give her virginity to; Barrons, and V’lane before we’d learned he was Cruce.

She’d been so determined that the loss of her virginity be epic, and while Dancer might not be epic, I wasn’t so sure her first time needed to be as much as it needed to be good, caring, honest, and real.

I winced as I realized I was thinking of Dani not Jada, and as if she was still fourteen, innocent in that one remaining way. It was highly doubtful Jada’s virginity was an issue. Especially not after the kiss I saw her give Ryodan. Jada was a woman who knew her sexual power. Five and a half years was a long time. Five birthdays. Had anyone celebrated them with her? Or like Barrons, had she come to despise cakes? I wanted to ask Jada if the loss of her virginity had been as stellar as she’d hoped.

Jada would never tell me.

Dancer was watching me, intuited some of my emotion. “She’s still Dani,” he said.

No she’s not, I didn’t say. Because I wanted so much for his words to be true.

“Even if, as he says,” Dancer jerked a thumb at Ryodan, “she has an alter ego, so what? Some people have too much going on inside to be limited to one mode of being. What was Batman but Bruce Wayne’s alter, and the Bat was faster, stronger, smarter, and way cooler. In fact, the case can be successfully argued that Batman wasn’t the alter. Wayne was. Batman had evolved, toughened, become superior in every way and occasionally donned the mask of the man to navigate society. Look at Wonder Woman, aka Princess Diana or Diana Prince, different in each situation. Superman became Clark Kent—”

“We get the fucking point,” Ryodan cut him off.

“I thought Kent became Superman,” I said.

Dancer shot me a derisive look. “Don’t you watch TV? You need to read up on your superheroes. He was born Kal-El on Krypton.”

“Life isn’t a bloody comic strip, kid,” Ryodan said coolly.

“Yes it is,” he said, “and we get to write our own script, so be epic or vacate the page. You’re all taking this way too seriously. Leave it to the Mega to create an alter ego to deal with tough times. Be impressed. Don’t rip it. I’ve got no problem with anyone she wants to be.”

“Say that once you’ve seen her,” Ryodan said.

“I will,” Dancer said. “She wants to be Jada, I’m fine with it. She wants to be Dani, I’m fine with it. Quit looking at it like Jada killed Dani. Figure out how to appreciate both sides of her personality. Christ, you people have to put everything in neat little boxes, don’t you? And if they don’t fit, you get your panties in a twist until you pound things back into the shape you want them. News flash: life doesn’t work that way.”

I blinked, disarmed by his words. Appreciate them both? I might be able to consider that if I’d caught even the tiniest glimpse of Dani since she’d returned.

“Something happened to all your ‘dudes,’ kid,” Ryodan said. “And your clothes. You think Jada might like you more grown-up. News flash: Jada doesn’t like anyone.”

“Anyone she’s seen so far,” Dancer replied. “Rule number one about the Mega: you take her as she is or you don’t get her at all. Try to cage her with boundaries and she’ll go into full battle mode. You of all people should know that.”

“What do you mean ‘him of all people’?” I said.

“He’s supposed to be so bloody smart. He’s blind as a bat where Dani’s concerned. You all are. Your rejection of Jada stems from how guilty you feel about what happened to her and that’s all about your hang-ups, not hers. Stop looking at it like it’s a bad thing and see what she has to offer. Most of all, give her time. We have no clue what she went through. Dani was gone five years plus change and she’s only been back a few weeks. Might take her a few minutes to acclimate. Rush much, folks?” Without another word, he turned and walked back toward the Hummer.

I snorted. “From the mouths of babes.”

Barrons laughed softly.

“I should’ve killed that kid in the alley when I had the chance,” Ryodan said.

—

Arlington Abbey. The place has never been an easy visit for me. The first time I was there, I’d just killed the sidhe-seer, Moira, and had a Fae prince at my side for protection and a show of power. Between V’lane and I, we’d pissed off pretty much everyone inside those walls.

I’d endured my second sojourn there in a hellish haze, Pri-ya, locked in a cell in the dungeon.

The third time I’d called on the Grand Mistress, I arrived armed to the teeth and inspired Dani to steal the sword and spear from Rowena, once again alienating my sister sidhe-seers.

Honestly, my only decent memory of the place was the night we’d interred the Sinsar Dubh, and even that had gone wrong. We’d merely swapped a bodiless Book for an Unseelie prince capable of nearly flawless illusion, adept at calculated, long-term sleight of hand. I didn’t think for a minute Cruce was as “inert” as the Book had once been. Nor did I believe the Unseelie king had taken adequate measures to keep him imprisoned. Now that I was wearing his cuff, I doubted it even more. Jada had taken the cuff off Cruce’s arm. Had she damaged the bars to do it? Was that why the doors were now closed? Had she managed to get the grid to work? Was he still in his prison or merely sealed in the cavernous room? What risks had she taken in her quest to accumulate weapons? Had she weakened the cage enough that Cruce’s escape was only a matter of time?

My fingers curled at the thought, closing on nothing. I hated not having my spear, especially now that I was visible again. I consoled myself with the thought that I’d hated Dani not having her sword nearly as much. After all, she was sitting right on top of his cage. If he escaped, she’d do what she did best—kill. That’d make two Unseelie princes for her tally. The Mega would crow about the spectacular feat from the rooftops. Jada would probably never mention it. But then Jada had no doubt eclipsed Dani’s kill count years ago.

As we drove through the open gates, parked near the fountain, and got out of the Hummer, I stood a moment, blinking. The grounds so closely resembled the gardens outside the White Mansion, with the moonlight silvering lush fantastical flowers, illuminating inky megaliths, shimmering dark roses and vines that didn’t exist beyond Fae realms, that I had to focus on the gray stone walls of the abbey to convince myself I hadn’t somehow slipped inside the Silvers.

On my last visit here Josie had haughtily informed me that Jada was able to stop Cruce’s changes. Good thing, or the abbey might have been as lost as Sleeping Beauty’s castle, swallowed by a Fae forest of vines and thorns. I took hasty note of the megaliths—still uncapped. They’d not yet been turned into a dolmen, a Fae gate to another realm. I really wanted those stones destroyed or at least toppled.

Dancer let out a low whistle as he exited the Hummer. “Didn’t look like this last time I was here,” he said.

None of us bothered replying. I moved to a bush covered with enormous velvety flowers that smelled of night-blooming jasmine, plucked a blossom the size of a grapefruit and played its petals through my fingers. It felt every bit as real as the illusion of my sister. I buried my nose in it. The scent was rich, intoxicating, amplified by the Unseelie in my blood. Did Cruce’s reach extend all the way to Dublin? Was it he who’d fabricated the illusion of Alina, not the Book? Just what the hell was my Book doing?

Ryodan said, “Mac, confirm Cruce is still contained.”

“She can’t. She ate Unseelie again,” Barrons told him.

“Why?” Dancer looked baffled.

“It gives you superpowers,” Ryodan said. “Makes you harder to kill. Stronger. Faster. Guess Dani never shared that fact with you. Wonder why.”

“Obviously she didn’t think I needed it.”

“Or doesn’t care if you survive.”

“Time will tell, old dude.”

“When you’re ash. And I’m still here.”

“Alone. Because Dani and I will have died, battling a supervillain together, and moved on to the next adventure. Together.”

Ryodan said flatly, “Never going to happen,” and stalked off toward the abbey.

I shot Barrons an uneasy look. He didn’t look any more pleased than I felt. Ryodan’s comment had sounded like an insinuation he meant to keep Dani alive at any cost. And he’d already proved he was willing to do what it took.

“And that’s the thing that’s never going to happen,” I muttered at Ryodan’s retreating back. Dani had already become a bit of a beast as far I was concerned. No way she was turning into a bigger one.

I narrowed my eyes, looking past Ryodan, absorbing the abbey as a whole, beyond the overgrown topiaries, the dazzling, trellised gardens, to the structure of the building itself.

It was here that the battle with the Hoar Frost King had been fought and the icy Unseelie vanquished. Unfortunately, not before it had deposited a cancer in our world. I’d missed that fight. Been in the Silvers with Barrons hunting a summoning spell for the Unseelie king. But I’d heard all about Dani and Ryodan saving the day down by the far end of…Oh!

I blinked but it was still there. Near the ancient chapel that abutted Rowena’s old quarters, where the IFP they’d used to destroy the HFK had been tethered, the night was darker than black.

The absolute absence of light mapped a perfect circle nearly the size of a small car. I pointed it out to the others. “Did either of you know about this?”

Barrons shook his head.

Dancer sighed. “I was hoping we’d killed the Hoar Frost King before it managed to make one of its cosmic deposits, but it fed while we were untethering the IFP. It looks like the flatted fifth we were feeding it was a bloody rich source.”

As if we’d needed any reminders why we were here or how dire our situation, hovering near the south chapel, a mere fifteen yards from the wall of the abbey, was the largest black hole I’d seen yet.

“And if it expands enough to reach the wall?” I demanded. I knew the answer. I wanted someone to tell me I was wrong.

“If it behaves like the one we saw beneath Chester’s,” Barrons said, “the entire abbey and everything in it will disappear.”

“Best case scenario,” Dancer disagreed. “I’ve been studying these things, tossing in small objects. Each one I’ve seen was suspended aboveground. I believe they all are, since the HFK took the frequency it wanted from the air and left its deposit in the same place. Which makes sense because once the sound waves contacted another object, they would no longer have emitted undiluted frequency. Each item I tossed in was instantly absorbed and the anomaly grew slightly. Worth noting, its growth was not proportionate to the mass of the item absorbed.”

“For fuck’s sake, what’s your point?” Barrons growled.

“I’m making it. When the hole beneath Chester’s absorbed Mac’s ghouls—which glided aboveground, by the way—it sucked them upward and in. Nothing I’ve tossed to any of the black holes was in direct contact with another object.”

Maybe I didn’t know the answer. Maybe the answer was worse than I’d thought.

“Worst case scenario,” Dancer continued, “it’ll devour the abbey and everything it’s touching, sensing it all as a single large object.”

“But the abbey is touching the earth!” I exclaimed.

Dancer said, “Precisely.”

“How quickly could it absorb it, if it did?” Barrons demanded.

“No way of knowing. It could be the holes will always suck things upward and in, provided the object is small enough that it doesn’t counter the pull of the thing’s gravity. It could be very large objects like the earth are beyond their ability to tackle and it would merely take a chunk of the abbey. If it emits inadequate gravitational force, one might assume matter would separate under oppositional tension as competing gravities reach critical inertia. Problem is, I can’t confirm they function identical to what we understand as black holes, and frankly that understanding is limited and speculative. Performing an experiment elsewhere might topple an unstoppable cascade of dominoes.”

“Sum it up,” I said tersely.

“Bottom line: I suggest we don’t let the black hole touch the abbey even if it means tearing the place down to get it out of the way.”

9

Jada stared into the night, watching through the window as visitors passed from sight beyond the columns of the grand entrance of the abbey.

She’d known they would come. Those who wanted her to be someone she was no longer, someone who would never have survived those insane, bloody years in the Silvers.

They thought she’d stolen their Dani away. She hadn’t. They thought she was split. She wasn’t.

She was what Dani had become.

Which wasn’t the Dani they’d known.

But how could they expect a teenager who’d leapt into a Silver to come out the same five and a half years later, as if nothing had happened to her while she was gone?

It wasn’t possible.

Fourteen-year-old Dani was as irretrievable as anyone’s youth.

Their desires were illogical. But desires usually were. She had a few of her own that defied reason.

She knew the name she’d taken for herself upset them. But no one had called her Dani for longer than she could remember, and she’d wanted a fresh start to put the past behind her.

She was home.

Life began now.

As she’d learned to live it.

When she realized she’d been gone a virtually insignificant amount of time, Earth-time—a fact nearly beyond her comprehension at first—she’d known those at the abbey would never follow an abruptly older Dani as readily as they would an unknown warrior. Much depended upon the presentation of facts—more so than the facts themselves. Since they’d “met” her as Jada, many of the sidhe-seers still had a hard time believing she’d ever once been the rebellious, calamitous teen.

Even if she’d continued calling herself Dani, those people she’d been closest to would have found her disturbing. They would have rejected she’d come back at nearly twenty, under any name—because what they couldn’t accept was that she’d lived five and a half years of life without them and was different now.

But not entirely.

Everything she’d done since her return demonstrated who she was, what she believed in, the things she lived for. She’d begun recruiting sidhe-seers, rescued the abbey, started training the women to be the warriors they should always have been, as the prior Grand Mistress had unforgivably failed to do. She’d hunted her past enemies, protected her past allies. She’d obsessed over repaying a debt to Christian.

Still, sheep, as she’d once called the willfully blind, perceived things in black and white. Saw only that a fourteen-year-old explosively emotional child who tried to outrun her issues by darting into the Silvers had come back a mature, self-possessed woman and was, in their opinion, the wrong version of her.

They’d rejected her completely.

With the exception of Ryodan, hadn’t even recognized her. And he’d rejected her, too. Decided the “other” part of her that was so useful when necessary had taken her over entirely, as if she were that bloody incompetent. Couldn’t even see her looking right at him with Dani’s grown-up eyes.

Adaptability, he’d said, was survivability, and she’d been listening. Now he condemned her for her method of adaptation without even knowing her challenges or choices.

She found that immensely offensive.

Perhaps a more tactful woman wouldn’t have provoked Ryodan with comments that Dani was dead or scorned the teen she’d once been, but just as he had all those years ago, he’d irritated her, offending her even more because she’d believed herself beyond such a response—never a reaction, because reacting could be so deadly.

When she first returned, she had been beyond such responses, hardened by savagery and frozen by a glacier of grief in her heart, but day-to-day life in Dublin wasn’t the same as battling her way home with a single, consuming purpose. It was more complex, and certain people seemed to possess the ability to bring out the worst in her. She’d forgotten she had those parts. Attachments were chains she’d taken pains to avoid, yet here she was, stuck in the middle of link after link.

Recent weeks had been muddied with emotional humans, both inside the abbey and out, fragments of flawed relationships, subtle traps lurking everywhere she turned, time spent in a Hummer with two of those she’d intended to kill before she reconsidered the timing and perhaps even the intention, a past she’d put away, all of it stirring things in her she’d never wanted to feel again.

She’d survived by not feeling.

Thoughts were linear. Feelings were grenades, pin out.

Thoughts kept you alive. Feelings drove a person to leap into a Silver that took them straight to Hell.

Five and a half years, most of it alone.

Before that, fourteen years, eternally misunderstood.

Back in Dublin, in charge of over five hundred sidhe-seers, and growing every day.

Still alone. Still misunderstood.

She turned from the window and glanced in the mirror. Gone was the wild, curly hair that had driven her crazy that first, treacherous year in the Silvers until she hacked it off with a knife. Although it was long again, she’d learned to control it with product and heat. Her sword was the only adornment she wore, breaking the stark black of her attire. She met the emerald-eyed gaze of her reflection levelly before turning away from it and settling in a chair behind the desk, waiting.

She knew what they’d come for, and would work with them because her city was in danger, the world’s fate at stake and she couldn’t save it by herself. She knew what she was: one of the strongest, therefore a protector of those not as strong. She would function as part of a team, despite the peril to her inner balance, because the world depended on it.

They’d brought Dancer with them, whom she’d hoped to continue avoiding. She would accept his presence because his mind expanded into unexpected places and in the past he’d grasped things she’d missed. There was no question his inventiveness was a valuable commodity. She understood the danger the black holes presented, and hadn’t fought so ruthlessly to get home only to have it stolen from her again.

They’d been young together. Exploding with excitement for the next adventure, wild and free.

He still was.

But she was no longer the swaggering, cocky, impassioned teen she’d been, and he, too, would despise her for stealing his friend.

They were predictable.

Mac had allowed her to keep the spear, as she’d known she would if she concealed that she had the sword long enough, unable to bear the thought of Dani defenseless. One more thing she’d learned from Ryodan: assess the lay of the land, evaluate the physical and emotional clime, and present the face that serves the immediate purpose.

Pretending not to have the sword, unable to openly slaughter Unseelie, her need to kill had built a fever pitch inside her, and the moment she’d had the spear, she ripped through the streets, venting all those dangerously pent things in an explosion of guts and blood.

Mac felt guilty for chasing her into the hall. That was useful. But Mac had only been chasing her because Dani had run. There were more successful ways to run than with one’s feet. If there was blame, Jada had owned it long ago.

Not accepting her for who she was now? That was entirely on Mac’s head.

She’d given the spear to her sidhe-seers to use as they saw fit, as the prior Grand Mistress should have done. Checks and balances. The sidhe-seers would remove more Unseelie from the streets and save more people than Mac would, neutered by fear of her dark cohabitant.

Besides, Mac would be fine, even without the spear. She had the cuff and she had Barrons at her side.

When something like Barrons walked at a woman’s side, he walked there forever, and not even death would come between them. He would never permit it.

There was no place Mac could go that Barrons wouldn’t follow.

Not even the Hall of All Days.

—

“What the fuck is this.”

Jada went motionless. It was human nature to tense when startled or afraid. Illogical and self-defeating, as once you stiffened, evasion was more difficult. It had taken her a long time to overcome the instinct, perfect a go-still-and-be-water response. In battle, the combatant who was most fluid won.

Damn the Nine and their inexplicable abilities. She’d not been able to find a single origin myth about them on this world or any other, and she’d searched. She who could destroy a thing controlled it.

Ryodan was in her study, standing right next to her, thrusting a sheet of paper at her, and she’d not even felt his air displacement.

He was good. Moving normally, she could sense him. When he moved in his enhanced, whatever-the-hell-it-was state, she might as well be blind.

She turned toward him, tipped her head back and was momentarily in the past, staring up from whatever hopeless situation she’d landed herself in, an impertinent Batman quip on the tip of her tongue, hoping to see him, praying to see him, towering over her, finally there to get her out of her worst jam yet. They’d fight side by side, blast their way home.

“A Dublin Daily,” she said without inflection.

“Written by.”

“Me, of course. Diversify the pool of the hunted and all. More targets. Less risk. My exoneration.”

“You admit it.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you pissed me off and you know what happens to those who piss me off.”

“As I said before, I’m all you have left of her—the one you prefer. So fuck you,” she delivered in a cool monotone.

He smiled faintly. She had to bite her tongue to keep her features from rearranging into a frown. He wasn’t supposed to smile. Why was he smiling? His smiles had always made her uneasy.

“You betrayed those who are mine,” he said softly.

She stood slowly, drawing up to her full height of five feet ten inches, faced him and folded her arms. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You always do. Get to the point. Black holes.”

“Nice sword, Dani. Mac know you have it.”

“Jada. She’s about to. I hide nothing. I do nothing I need to hide unless I’m concealing or misrepresenting facts to get something I want. Oh, wait, am I you or me?”

He leaned closer until they stood nearly touching but not. “Battle ready, are you, Dani,” he murmured. “Feels good, doesn’t it. To fight with someone who can take it. Someone who can’t be broken. Remember that when you choose your allies in this city. I can’t be broken.”

“Nor can I.”

“You learned how to bend in the right places. The supple don’t break.”

“Holy astonishing accolades,” she mocked, “a compliment.”

“Put some fire behind your actions and I might like you again.”

“Again.” She hadn’t meant to softly echo the word, but around him, more than anyone else, her mouth tended to function independent of her self-imposed rules. She suspected it was because she’d talked to him incessantly, those early years in the Silvers. Answered herself back as him. Measured her decisions by whether the great Ryodan would have deemed them useful, wise.

Silver eyes met hers and locked. “I didn’t like Dani.”

“At least you’re consistent,” she said coolly.

His silver eyes were ice. “I loved her.”

She failed to control it. Every muscle in her body locked. She refused to do what her body was screaming to do, break the lock with motion, turn away, distract her hands with something, evade his much too sharp gaze, which even now was searching her, trying to translate her body language. He’d always seen too much. She willed herself to relax, went fluid. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“Refusal to permit emotion is a noose with a very short rope.”

“Emotion is a noose with a very short rope.”

“I agree to disagree. For the moment. Dancer is here. I expect you to—”

“My cooperation has nothing to do with what you expect. Nothing I do has anything to do with what you expect.” For years she’d lived precisely that way. “Merely that I will do whatever it takes to save my world.”

“Our world.” He turned toward the door at the sound of footsteps approaching.

“Is the only thing we’ll ever share.”

“Careful, Dani. Crow is something you used to like to do. Not eat.”

The footsteps sounded wrong to her. People were running, shouting.

Jada darted sideways into the slipstream and blew past him.

If her elbow was slightly out and nailed him in the ribs, it was a matter of haste, nothing more.

10

On a tiny world of teleporting trees, Jada encountered a furry creature that could best be described as a cross between a feral lynx and a chubby koala bear, with a feline face, a shaggy silver-smoke pelt, and a fat white belly. Its paws were enormous, with thick, sharp black claws. Its ears were tall and perky and great silver tufts curled out of them.

It was surprisingly agile despite its pudginess, capable of shimmying up trees on the rare occasions they remained stationary long enough, and loping great distances at astonishing speed.

It had morosely informed her it was the last remaining survivor of its race.

Incessantly talkative, cranky, prone to fatalistic commentary on virtually every topic, it had mocked her many bruises from colliding with the impossible to predict, randomly relocating trees, chastised her for no doubt starting a certain apocalypse with her chaotic crashes, and taught her to better navigate “the slipstream.”

She wasn’t, the little beast told her, sounding enormously cross and depressed for whatever reason he was always spectacularly cross and depressed, picking herself up mentally and shifting sideways, she’d merely managed to hitch a ride through one of the higher dimensions—and how was quite perfectly beyond him, considering how primitive and clumsy she was.

She’d asked his name, not surprised they could communicate in the strange fashion they did because by then she’d already seen too many strange things to be surprised by much of anything.

He’d announced with nearly hysterical despair that he had no name but was not averse to being given one.

With tears streaming from enormous violet eyes, he’d told her that his life was without meaning and he preferred to remain in the eighth dimension—which she couldn’t possibly understand, seeing how she couldn’t even manage the fifth one adequately—where no one could see him because there was no one to see him, and when someone is unseen and alone, nothing matters, not even matter.

He’d only returned to the third dimension when he’d sensed her there, he’d told her, around great hiccupping sobs, because he thought she might be troubled to finger-comb his matted fur (considering the dirty orange mass of tangles on her own head wasn’t a complete mess), perhaps trim his nails (though not quite as short and dirty as hers), which were too sharp to chew and getting painfully ingrown.

She’d christened him Shazam!, hoping he would grow out of his brood into the moniker and become an epic companion. She’d later changed it to Shazam, as he favored the wizard more than the superhero.

This was during her first year Silverside, as she called it, before she’d hacked off her hair, when she still believed she might be rescued and was yet willing to risk connecting with the seemingly more reasonable occupants of the worlds she briefly inhabited.

Trapped on the planet Olean, roughly a sixth the size of Earth’s moon, for months, she’d traveled the small continents, seeking the way off world with the gloomy, prone-to-vanishing-without-warning, small-cranky-needy-feline-bear thing by her side, absorbing all he had—or was willing—to teach her between his nearly comatose bouts of depression that alternated with alarming binges of eating everything he could get his paws on.

She’d been instructed by her mopey, volatile companion to stop locking her grid down mentally, and instead expand her senses and feel for the disturbances looming in her path.

She’d ended up with far more bruises than she’d ever gotten doing it her way.

But one day, blindfolded, aching in every limb, depressed and aggravated by his eternal defeatist commentary on everything from the ominous portent of the angle of the sun in the sky to the certain impending destruction of his world as clearly foretold by the bent of the teleporting tree limbs, she finally began to see what he was saying.

Thanks to Shazam, Jada now freeze-framed effortlessly, sensing all obstacles, impacting nothing, riding the slipstream as smoothly as an unobstructed water-park slide.

Here, now in the abbey, moving in the fifth dimension, she sensed enormous energy ahead. It wasn’t Ryodan, she’d left him in her dust in the study.

It was Fae/not Fae. Prince/not prince.

Thirty feet to go and nearing, twenty-five, twenty—

She slammed into a solid wall and bounced off it, exploding out of the slipstream, cartwheeling her arms for balance.

“Ah, Dani,” Ryodan said, smiling faintly. “Didn’t see you there.”

She went still. Her ass, he hadn’t. She didn’t press her fingers to her cheekbone, which she was certain would soon bruise. She was the eye of the storm, not the storm. Never the storm.

“I realized years ago your vision wasn’t as astute as I’d once believed,” she said without inflection. He’d been in the slipstream with her and she hadn’t even known. She would learn to sense him. She would eradicate that vulnerability.

His smile vanished.

Good. She hadn’t reacted. She’d responded. She was Jada. Not the one he remembered. In the periphery of her vision, wings unfurled and she turned to assess the visitor. The last she’d seen Christian, he was unconscious, being transported by his clan back to Scotland, along with his uncle’s remains.

Flakes of iridescent ice crystalized in the air and began to fall, dusting the Cruce-gilded floors of the abbey. The temperature dropped sharply and a six-light segment of the hall’s torchères went out. The prince in the Highlander was displeased, affecting the environment.

“Jada, he sifted in!” Brigitte exclaimed. Then mouthed silently around his back, Our wards didn’t work, what the fuck?

“At ease,” she told her first in command, which meant “hold your weapons for now.” Christian wasn’t who or what he’d been before his time on the cliffs. Though he’d been largely unconscious for the duration of the ride back from Germany, she’d seen enough to know something had changed him, tempered his wildness and madness.

There was a sudden commotion as more sidhe-seers joined them in the hall. She allowed herself a moment to bask in seeing the corridor of the grand old abbey lined with self-possessed, well-trained, heavily armed women, as it always should have been. Each face was a life, with a family, a vivid story, and she’d already made a significant dent in committing them all to memory.

Christian glided down the hallway toward her, part muscled Highlander, part sleek, dark Faerie, majestic black-velvet wings trailing the gold floor, and despite having been trained to stand their ground, a few of her sidhe-seers peeled back.

She didn’t fault them. He was formidable. She made a point of never underestimating either enemy or ally. His treatment of her now would define which one he was. His transformation seemed to have halted midway, leaving his skin golden, not white-blue, his lips pink, not blue-black, but he had the long midnight hair, muted tattoos, and majestic wings of a hauntingly beautiful, deadly Unseelie prince.

But his eyes! She fixedly avoided staring into them, blurring her focus slightly, absorbing his face as a whole with no clear features. His gaze leaned more toward Fae than human and she knew she would weep blood were she to meet it directly.

In faded jeans and a cabled Irish sweater split down the back to accommodate his great midnight wings that arced high and swept wide, he personified wolf in sheep’s clothing. At his throat, a torque writhed, glinting, not an adornment but rather part of his flesh and quite possibly bone.

He’d saved her once from what she’d thought would have been a hellish decision. She’d known nothing of hellish decisions back then.

“Dani, lass,” he said quietly.

“Jada,” she corrected.

He studied her, from hair to boots and back again but with none of the sexual heat she’d once seen in that sometimes-black, sometimes-whiskey gaze. With her slightly unfocused gaze, she noticed his eyes widen, narrow with anger and that all-too-familiar rejection, then go void of all emotion.

Oh, yes, trapped in unending pain, he’d learned control. Learned to pull his feelings back and box them so they couldn’t turn into fuel that would burn a person alive.

One did. Or didn’t survive.

“Fair enough,” he said. “I bring no quarrel to you or yours. You’ve my thanks and a favor owed for seeing me off that cliff. I would speak with that one.” He jerked his head toward Ryodan.

She inclined her head, granting permission, wondering what had brought him here tonight, if they might work together toward common goals.

Christian stalked past her to the bastard that could still knock her out of freeze-frame. “What the bloody fuck did you do with my uncle?”

Before he’d been captured by the Hag, so many years ago for her, Christian would have stormed these halls and tried to kill Ryodan for the slightest offense, real or imagined. He was now demonstrating forethought and patience.

She didn’t tell him to save his breath. Ryodan would never answer. No one interrogated that man, certainly not a walking lie detector.

“Precisely what I said I would do,” Ryodan said mildly. “I brought him back.”

Christian went still, mining the comment for its true ore. After several moments he growled, “Truth. Yet it was not his body you gave us. Explain yourself.”

Ryodan never explained himself.

“There were countless bodies in that chasm. I thought I recognized the plaid,” Ryodan said.

She narrowed her eyes. He was behaving uncharacteristically, this man who did nothing without a complex agenda. What was his game?

“It was our tartan,” Christian allowed after a pause. “Yet not our kin. Where the bloody hell is his corpse?”

“I have no other knowledge of his corpse. I suggest your clan search the chasm thoroughly. Perhaps I missed something.”

Jada studied Ryodan intently. “ ‘Perhaps I missed something’?” If he had, which she found quite frankly impossible, he would never admit it.

“Did that already. Sifted straight there. None of the bodies belonged to my uncle.”

“Perhaps there’s a fragment of Faery splintering the chasm. There were many caves and a fast-running river. Perhaps you didn’t search well enough.”

Nor was he a man who liberally employed the word “perhaps.” He was being questioned—questioned, mind you, which was only one of several oddities here—by one of the Keltar who, on a good day, got under his skin and on a bad one he wanted to kill, yet hadn’t used so much as a single “fuck” or made one aggressive comment. Even his body language was bland, relaxed.

“Did you do something with my uncle’s remains?” Christian demanded.

“I did nothing with Dageus’s remains.”

Jada mentally pinned the elements of their conversation—and absence of elements such as hostility Ryodan should have been exuding—on a structure of sorts in her mind: words here, body language there, subtext sprinkled throughout. Remains, he’d said. Corpse, he’d said. And all his answers were ringing true to the lie detector.

There was a subtle yet significant difference between truth and validity. Ryodan’s responses were tallying up on her structure as valid.

But not true.

There was something here…she just didn’t know what.

She moved to join them, folding her arms, legs wide like them. “Do you know where Dageus is right now?”

Ryodan turned and locked eyes with her. “No.”

“Did you do something with Dageus the night we killed the Crimson Hag?” she pressed.

“Of course. I fought beside him.”

“Did you do something with Dageus after we left?” she rephrased.

“I tried to bring him back.”

She glanced at Christian, who nodded.

Jada understood the art of lying, she’d perfected it herself. Wrap your lie in precisely enough truth that your body presents full evidence of conviction and sincerity, employing sentences vague enough that they can’t be picked apart. The key: the more one simplified the question, the greater the odds of isolating the answer.

“Is Dageus alive?” she said to Ryodan.

“Not as far as I know,” he replied.

“Is he dead?”

“I would assume so.” He folded his arms, mirroring her. “Are you done yet.”

“Not nearly.”

“Do you believe he did something with my uncle, lass?” Christian asked. “Something he’s not telling us?”

Lass. The others despised who she’d become. The Unseelie prince still called her lass.

“I’ve been crystal clear,” Ryodan said. “I did my best to bring Dageus back. The body I returned to your clan was not his. Everyone makes mistakes.”

“Not you,” she said. “Never you.”

He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. Then again, it never had. She’d modeled her own infrequent smiles in similar fashion. “Even me.”

“Truth,” Christian said.

“I believe,” she said to Christian without taking her eyes from Ryodan, “that a full-frontal assault never works with this man. You’ve had all the answers you’ll get from him.”

“Truth,” Ryodan mocked.

At the end of the corridor there was a sudden commotion, sharp cries and a scuffle. “She’s here, Jada! The one with Sinsar Dubh inside her!” Mia cried.

“Let her pass,” Jada commanded. “She’s no threat to us at present and there are greater ones that need addressing.”

Although her women grumbled and parted only reluctantly, they obeyed the order.

Without another word she slid up into the slipstream and returned to her study, knowing they would follow.

Where one staged one’s battles was often nearly as important as how.

11

I stepped into what had once been Rowena’s study and inhaled lightly but deeply, girding myself to interact with Jada.

Differently this time.

I’d been pondering Dancer’s words as I hurried through the abbey, trying to refine my emotions and stop seeing Jada as the enemy. Open myself to getting to know the icy stranger. Kicking myself for needing someone else to point out that it was my guilt insisting Dani be exactly the same, because if she was, I wouldn’t feel so terrible about chasing her that night.

Dancer was right. My rejection of “Jada” was proportionate to how much I blamed myself, and as he’d so bluntly stated, that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me.

The problem was, we’d had no warning, no time to adjust. One day Dani had been here, and a few weeks later she was gone, replaced by someone five years older, completely different, and quite possibly an alternate personality.

All I’d known was I wanted Dani back and I resented the one who’d taken her—the new Dani. It had been a gut punch, and I’d reacted instinctively, out of pain and grief.

Here, now, buoyed by the clarity of mind, strength, and energy of an Unseelie-flesh high, I could strip my feelings from the situation and perceive it more clearly.

I had no right to reject “Jada.” Whether we liked her personality or not, this was Dani.

She’d made it back by hook or crook, battling God knows what for five and a half long years to return to the only home she’d known, and upon finally making it—not one of us welcomed her back or was happy to see her. Her hard-won homecoming had been an epic failure.

If Dani was in there, a repressed personality, our actions were unforgivable. If this was who Dani actually was now? Doubly unforgivable. We’d all changed. Even my mother. But she’d had the rock that was Jack Lane at her side to share her burdens and leaven the pain. What had Dani had? Anything?

I sighed, looking at her, seated behind the desk. Really looking at her for perhaps the first time since she’d returned.

Dani “the Mega” O’Malley.

All grown up.

Every bit as beautiful as I’d known she would be. Creamy Irish skin, faint dusting of freckles, long red hair swept up in a high ponytail caught in a leather thong, her gamine features both sharpened and softened, resulting in a finely chiseled, stunning face.

This time, however, as I examined her, I looked for the Dani in Jada without regretting the aspects I couldn’t see, focusing instead on the aspects of Dani that still shined through.

Strong. Criminy, she’d always been so strong, and now was even more so.

Smart. Check—fierce intelligence blazed in those slanted emerald eyes above high blades of cheekbones.

Aware. Yes, her gaze was even now skimming the room, taking our measure, missing nothing. It rested briefly on my badly “highlighted” hair. Dani would have burst out laughing. We’d have joked about whether I might add a Mohawk to the mess.

Jada merely noted it and moved on with her assessment.

As did I.

Loyal, she sat in this abbey, training the sidhe-seers as the prior headmistress had never been willing to do.

A warrior, like our Dani, she patrolled the streets, tirelessly killing the enemy.

Like Dani, fighting for what she believed in.

I offered her a smile. It wasn’t hard. This was Dani. She was here. She’d survived. We could have lost her completely. We hadn’t. I would find a way to love this version of her, too. And maybe, one day, I’d get to see more of the girl I’d once known. Dancer’s reminder that she hadn’t been back long was something to consider. A soldier on the front needed time to decompress from the nightmare. A soldier who’d seen hard battle came back mined with triggers. I knew what those felt like from the rape I endured, the complete and total powerlessness I’d felt. I also knew that every time I’d sensed one of my triggers even potentially being approached, I’d done everything in my power to shut down inside. “Jada.” I infused her chosen name with as much warmth as I could.

“Mac,” Jada replied coolly. Like Ryodan and Barrons, she didn’t comment on my visibility. These were difficult people to surprise. Then she looked past me and her face went stiller than still, as if she’d frozen into a stone statue of a woman.

“Jada,” Dancer said happily behind me. “Welcome home!”

I felt like the biggest shit in the world. The one thing none of us had said, Dancer put right out there right away. Saying the normal thing, the nice thing, the thing she’d probably wanted to hear the most. Making the rest of us look like monsters.

Animation returned to Jada’s face—well, as much animation as it ever had—and she said, “Thank you. It’s good to be back.”

A nice normal reply. More than any of us had gotten from her.

“I can imagine,” Dancer said. “Actually, no I can’t. No clue what you went through, but you kicked its ass, didn’t you, Jada? You made it—just like you always do. Good thing, too. We’re in a world of shit.”

“The black holes,” she agreed.

“I’ve got a ton of stuff to go over with you, when you have a minute. Primarily speculation at this point, but between the two of us, we’ll sort it out. I also finished the Papa Roach spray whenever you have a minute to swing by.”

“No one’s swinging by anywhere.” Shooting Jada a pointed look, Ryodan said, “Someone published a rash of dailies that have everyone looking for us.”

“I told you, I don’t believe Jada published the one about me,” I defended again.

“And Jada certainly didn’t publish the one about herself,” said Barrons.

“She admitted she published the one about us,” Ryodan said flatly.

Barrons whipped his head toward Jada, eyes narrowed.

“Well, why wouldn’t she?” Dancer said. “More targets dilute the hunt.”

“Precisely,” Jada said. “I think Ryodan published the first two that betrayed me and Mac.”

“It sounds like something he would do,” Christian agreed. “Hunted women are easier to control.”

“Whoever is behind WeCare is the one who published those dailies,” Ryodan growled. “That’s who you need to be looking for.”

“And who the bloody hell is behind WeCare?” Christian said.

“Don’t look at me,” Ryodan said.

“Well, it’s not me,” I said. “Remember, I got targeted.”

“Enough!” Jada said, pushing herself up to her full height, which never failed to startle me. She was taller than me now. “We’re not devolving into our customary bickering. I didn’t fight so hard to get back here only to lose my world. If you are incapable of focus,” she gestured at the door, “leave. Now.”

I didn’t hear a word she said. The moment she’d stood, a glint of silver against the stark black of her outfit had caught my eye. While she’d been seated, I couldn’t see it. My tongue was useless for a few seconds, thickened by shock. I was able to focus on one thing only. “What are you doing with the sword?” I demanded.

“The same thing I always did with it. Killing Unseelie.”

“You said you lost it!”

“I said no such thing. You said I lost it. I said I knew precisely where it was.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You played me.”

“You assumed. I didn’t correct you. It’s not my job to correct you. The spear was useless in your hands. It’s useful where it is now.”

“You took Mac’s spear?” Barrons said. “When you already had the sword, leaving her defenseless?”

“You’re talking to Dani, Barrons,” Ryodan murmured. “Remember that.”

“Really?” I snapped at Ryodan. “Because I thought she was sounding a lot like you.”

“I’m Jada,” she said to Ryodan. “And don’t try to protect me. I stopped needing you a long time ago.”

“Stopped,” Ryodan echoed.

“Not that I ever did,” she corrected.

“I don’t care who she is,” Barrons growled. “I gave Mac the spear. It’s hers and no one else’s.”

I shot him a curious look. You didn’t like me carrying it. You said so yourself.

He shot back, Far more than someone else carrying a weapon that can harm you. While I believe Jada won’t use the sword against you, I have no such faith in the sidhe-seers. Untenable risk.

“I gave her the cuff of Cruce,” Jada said. “She can also make herself invisible when she so chooses. Clearly, however, she can’t color her hair. Still, she is hardly defenseless.”

My hand went to my hair. “It’s paint,” I said stiffly, “because someone printed a daily that set the Guardians on me, shooting at me. They invaded BB&B and sprayed everything with red paint, and no, I can’t make myself invisible when I want to. That was the Sinsar Dubh, not me.”

Jada said acerbically, “So it is controlling you.”

I snapped, “That’s not what I—”

My hair shot straight up as a small tornado blew past me. I was talking to thin air.

Jada was gone. So was Barrons.

I glanced at Ryodan. Then he was gone, too.

I heard a high whining sound as if they were all snarling or shouting much faster than my brain could process as they faded down the hall.

Then silence.

We were alone in Jada’s study.

I looked at Christian, who was looking at Dancer. Dancer was staring at the door, looking worried. The three of us stood in silence until Christian said, “I’ve a corpse to find while that bastard’s otherwise occupied,” and vanished.

Dancer shook his head and slowly turned his gaze to me. “How do you expect us to save the world if we can’t even stay in the same room together for five minutes?”

“We just need to work a few things out first,” I said irritably. “We’ll get there.”

“The black holes don’t give a rat’s arse about our ‘things.’ And she’s right about the spear. Word on the street is no one was killing Unseelie. Why weren’t you out there?”

“That’s none of your business.”

He smiled faintly but his eyes were sad. “You know one of the best things about Dani?”

The list was long.

“She feared nothing. Do you know what fear fears?”

I inclined my head, waiting.

“Laughter,” he said.

“Your point?” I said stiffly, in no mood for more of his cutting insights. We’d accomplished nothing tonight but pissing each other off. Again.

“Laughter is power. One of the greatest weapons we have. It can slay dragons and it can heal. Jada doesn’t have it anymore. As long as she doesn’t, she’s more vulnerable than any of you seem to realize. Stop worrying about your idiotic ‘things’ and start worrying about her. Make her laugh, Mac. And remember how to do it yourself, while you’re at it. Nice hair, by the way.”

Then he, too, left.

—

Since we were on the first floor, I exited by the window for two reasons. One: I had no idea how long Barrons, Ryodan, and Jada might go at it, but I knew one thing for certain—I would have the spear back before the night was through.

Because I’d eaten Unseelie multiple times, if someone stabbed me with it, I might suffer the same horrific death I’d dealt to Mallucé. I hadn’t worried about that quite so much when I was invisible.

Then again, thanks to a mysterious elixir given to me by Cruce, I might survive the wound and shamble around indefinitely, rotting in various places, clumps of my badly stained hair falling out.

Yes, Barrons would definitely reclaim the spear.

I’d never have let her keep it in the first place if I had suspected for one moment Jada might turn my spear over to sidhe-seers, who not only didn’t know me but knew I harbored their ancient enemy, although they weren’t clear on the how.

I’d been willing to give it to her, no one else. That weapon was a serious liability, and like Barrons, I didn’t know or trust the new sidhe-seers, and the original ones had been conditioned with fear and manipulation for too long. It was going to take more than a few weeks for Jada to retrain them.

My second reason for slipping out via the tall casement window was because I wanted a better look at the black hole, and it would have taken me ten minutes to get there if I’d gone all the way around the inside of the abbey to the front entrance then followed the exterior wall to the rear of the abbey again.

I approached the anomaly warily, recalling what Dancer had said about gravitational pull. About fifteen feet in diameter, it hovered some three or four feet above the earth. Directly beneath it was a thick carpet of abnormally lush, tall grass, exploding with large red poppies, bobbing heavily in the breeze, shimmering with leftover droplets of rain. Many of the blossoms were as large as my hand. I inhaled deeply, the air deliciously spicy behind the sprawling stone fortress, and with my temporarily heightened senses, it was intoxicating. The night was hot and sultry as a summer noon in Georgia, the foliage lapping up the heat and humidity as if it were Unseelie-flesh-laced plant food.

I scanned the immediate area. There were no trees near the floating sphere, no jagged trunks or holes in the ground to indicate trees had once grown nearby and been sucked up and in.

Then how had the anomaly gotten so big? I couldn’t believe it had been here all this time, so large, and no one had mentioned it. More logical that it began small and grew quickly.

But what was feeding it?

I dropped onto a nearby bench some twenty feet from the ominous vortex, drew up my knees, rested my head on my arms and studied it.

When I’d been this close to the one beneath Chester’s, I was assaulted by a melody so wrong, so vile, I’d felt as if my internal cohesion was being threatened, feared I might be torn apart at the core, atoms scattered to the corners of the galaxies.

Yet tonight, gorged on Unseelie flesh, I heard nothing. My human senses might be heightened but my sidhe-seer senses were useless. If I came back in a few days when the high wore off, would it sing the same soul-rending song to me I’d heard before?

I narrowed my eyes. The poppies were trembling beneath the weight of glistening, nectar-coated insects I hadn’t noticed at first in the pale light of the moon, their soft buzzing engulfed by the nocturnal symphony of crickets and frogs and half a dozen Fae-colored fountains splashing water.

There were hundreds—no, thousands—of sticky bees swarming the poppies, Earth-born creatures gorging on Faery nectar. Flying erratically, with airborne starts and stops and stumbles, buzzing left and right with dizzying speed.

I pushed myself up and moved cautiously nearer.

Ten feet from the black hole, I became aware of a subtle change in the air. It felt…thicker…almost sticky, as if I was pressing forward into a mild, unseen paste.

If it was affecting me, with my considerable mass, how was it affecting the bees?

I took three more steps and gasped softly. Bee after bee was vanishing into the black hole above. Drunk on poppy juice, disoriented by abnormally dense air, they were being pulled directly into the spherical abyss.

How long had this been going on? Since the night they’d destroyed the HFK? How many tens of thousands of bees?

I sensed motion above and tipped back my head. Not just bees—bats. Was it messing with their echolocation? They were flying straight into it as if lured by a siren song. Was it confusing the birds, too?

“What are you doing?” A voice cut through the night behind me, and I spun around.

Two of Jada’s commando sidhe-seers stood in the moonlight, watching me with cold calculation. I’d been so lost in thought that if I heard them approach, I’d tuned it out.

“Trying to figure out why you’re letting this thing grow unchecked,” I said coolly. I didn’t like being between sidhe-seers that knew I had the Sinsar Dubh inside me and a black hole that could swallow me alive in an instant.

I eased to the left. They did, too.

I stepped farther to the left and they moved with me, keeping me pinned, black hole at my back, a mere seven or eight feet away. I could feel the light inexorable pull of it and shivered.

“Funny. We’re trying to figure out why Jada is letting you go, unchecked,” the tall blonde said icily.

“We have history,” I said. “She knows I won’t use the Book.”

“No one can resist such temptation forever,” the brunette said.

Yeah, well, that was pretty much exactly what I was worried about, but there was no way I would admit it, and certainly not to them, so I evaded. “It’s sucking in bees, bats, small animals. You’ve got to stop it from growing. Burn the ground beneath it. Get rid of the bloody flowers. I don’t know, put up a wall or something to keep the bats out.”

“We don’t answer to you,” the brunette said.

“If you answer to Jada, you know I’m off-limits. So back off.” They were moving closer, threateningly. Both were toned, athletic, draped in guns and ammo. I fervently hoped neither of them had my spear.

“If you’re truly no threat, you’ll accompany us back to the abbey,” the blonde said.

“I told you she was up to no good when she left by the window, Cara,” the brunette growled. “She’s probably been out here, feeding it.”

So that was how they found me. They’d been watching Jada’s office and I hadn’t come out. “And why would I do that?” I said acerbically.

“Because sidhe-seers are the bred enemy of the Sinsar Dubh and you want to destroy us,” the brunette said tightly. “What better way to begin than by taking the fortress that houses so much knowledge about our ancient foe?”

“If you truly have good intentions,” Cara said, “you’ll let us secure you, while Jada reconsiders what to do with you. Come willingly, or not. But you’re coming.” While she was still speaking, Cara lunged for me.

If I hadn’t eaten Unseelie flesh, her full frontal charge would have caught me off guard—as it was meant to—but I reacted with inhuman speed, ducking, rolling, gone. To them, it must have seemed I’d freeze-framed like Jada and simply disappeared.

I instantly realized my mistake.

“No, Cara, no!” the brunette cried.

I whipped my head around, shoving hair from my face. Cara was on a collision course with the black hole, arms pinwheeling wildly, trying to get her balance back, a look of terror on her face. She hadn’t known I’d eaten Unseelie, couldn’t have anticipated I’d move as fast as Jada, or that there would abruptly be no object in her way to diminish the velocity of her attack.

The brunette dove for her, and all I could think was, Oh, shit, if she touches Cara while Cara’s touching the black hole, they’re both dead. I tackled the brunette, taking her to the ground hard, then vaulted over her sprawled body, grabbed Cara’s ankle and tripped her.

If not for Unseelie flesh in my veins, I’d never have been able to pull it off. But heightened senses, strength, and speed endowed me with flawless, instant precision. Criminy, I thought, I could get used to moving so fast. No wonder Dani had always hated what she’d called Slow-Mo-Joe walking.

As Cara tumbled to the ground, clearing the edge of the black hole by mere inches, I let out a sharp whoosh of relieved breath. One sidhe-seer was all I was ever going to have on my conscience. And, although this wouldn’t have been my fault, I’d still have added the guilt to the rest of my sins.

“Ow! Shit! Ow!” Cara was lying directly beneath the black hole, slapping at her face, and I saw a cloud of angry bees swarming her, many of them getting even more disoriented, sucked straight up into the sphere.

“Hold still,” I snapped. “And keep your fucking head down.” There were three feet between her head and instant death.

I crawled forward on my knees and elbows, staying low. The air grew denser, exerting a stronger tug on my body as I approached, and I wondered how much larger it would have to get before people started getting trapped in its event horizon. Twice the size? Three times? And how quickly might that happen? Stretching out long, I snagged Cara’s ankle and began scooting us both backward, dragging her from the bee-covered poppies.

We lay on the ground a few seconds, breathing heavily.

Finally, Cara stopped slapping at herself, propped up on an elbow and looked at me in silence. Her face was covered with angry red welts that were swelling fast but she paid them no heed.

I met her gaze levelly. I knew what she was thinking. Had I done nothing, both of them would have vanished into the black hole. No one would have ever known. Our quantum enemy left no evidence. They would have simply disappeared. People did all the time around Dublin.

Jaw set, Cara moved farther from the black hole and stood. As the brunette joined her, they exchanged a look, then Cara gave me a slow, tight nod.

She said nothing but I didn’t expect her to. The women Jada had gathered closest to her were some kind of ex-military, and wouldn’t easily change their minds about someone they’d decided was an enemy. But they weren’t fools either, and my actions had created a question in their minds.

It was enough to work with. One day, I wanted to be welcomed at the abbey. Not distrusted, as I’d been from day one.

As they turned and stalked off without a word, I dusted myself off and got up. I couldn’t tell if the sphere had grown appreciably from the sudden influx of bees.

But at least it hadn’t acquired the mass of two sidhe-seers.

There was a sudden blast of air, then Jada was standing between the sphere and me.

This was followed by two more rushes of wind behind me. I sensed Barrons’s electrifying presence and Ryodan’s more controlled one.

Jada’s face was disapproving but she extended my spear, handle toward me, blade toward her. “I accept Barrons’s reasoning,” she said stiffly. “Many of my sidhe-seers feel strongly you should be killed. They obey me, still…some are young, unpredictable.”

Gee, duh, really? I didn’t say it. I tensed. With Unseelie flesh in my veins, I was acutely aware of what my spear might do to me. I have a serious love/hate relationship with my weapon. The tip was no longer encased in foil and I wasn’t carrying a sheath. I hadn’t expected to get it back tonight. “You were young once, too. And unpredictable. Gloriously, I might add.”

“And made mistakes, hence my concern about those in my charge. Take the spear.”

“Can I just tell you I actually miss your ‘dudes’ and kind of hate your ‘hences.’ You did a lot of things right, Jada.” I made a point of using her name, underscoring my acceptance of her as she was now.

“Your opinion of the things I did is irrelevant, as is your opinion of my speech. My point is merely that he has a point. And until we’ve resolved this immediate problem,” she jerked her head at the black hole behind her, “we may need you alive.”

She thrust the spear out. Had it been tip toward me, I’d have tested my Unseelie-flesh-fueled speed. I’d considered it back in the abbey when they all freeze-framed out, but opted to leave that particular battle among the three of them, as the last thing I wanted to do was fight any more than I had to with Jada.

Toward that end, I also wasn’t ready to take my spear quite yet. She might not be stubborn Dani but she was laser-focus-on-the-point-at-hand Jada, and I suspected as long as she continued holding it, she would remain where she was until she saw her goal accomplished.

“Otherwise you wouldn’t care if I remained alive,” I said, stating her unstated implication.

“Otherwise it wouldn’t signify.”

I deflected the pain of the jab, remaining focused on her, realizing I might have a unique insight into Jada. How had I forgotten I’d once gone away and come back different myself? When I believed I’d killed Barrons, grief and rage had turned me into a cold, hyperfocused bitch. Jada might never tell me what she’d gone through in the Silvers but it was a sure thing it hadn’t been a walk in the park. How would someone have reached me during those days and nights of unyielding obsession when I’d found it perfectly reasonable to sleep with my sister’s lover and plot the destruction of the world? Could anyone have? “I know you’re not Da—not the person we remember. I’d like to get to know you now.”

“Take the spear. I am what you see. There is no getting to know me.”

“I’d like to hear about your time in the Silvers.” Perhaps the right actions could have thawed me back then. Maybe love, if someone had been able to rattle me enough to feel it. I did recall enough of those dark days to know the last people in the world I’d wanted to see were my parents. Jack Lane would have disturbed me deeply. Staying savage and psychotic would have been extremely difficult around the man who’d taught me to be everything but. What might penetrate Jada’s icy facade? “I want to know what your life was like.”

“My life is now.”

“Jada, I’m sorry I chased you that night. I wish I could do it over again. Keep you from going through.”

“Once again implying that I am a mistake. That I came back wrong.” She looked at Barrons and Ryodan, who were standing behind me in silence. “How does one get her to focus?”

I snatched the spear from Jada’s hand. “Bees.” I changed the subject that was clearly as dead as a three-day corpse. “And bats. I wasn’t out here taking a cheery stroll through your gardens. I was investigating. Figure out how to keep the damn things from getting sucked into that hole or we’ll be tearing down the abbey.”

“No one is tearing down my abbey. This evening,” Jada said. “Galway. Three miles east of town there is one of these anomalies much higher in the air. Bring Dancer. I’ll meet you there.”

“This evening, Chester’s,” Ryodan said flatly. “That’s where we’ll be. Unless you think you can save the world alone.”

Jada was motionless a moment then, “The map I saw—”

“The map Dani saw,” he corrected.

“—I assume you’ve continued tracking the anomalies.”

“Every bloody one. And there are more than there were. You’re missing information. I have it.”

“Tonight, then. Chester’s.” She turned and freeze-framed out.

—

Dawn was pressing at the edges of the drapes by the time Jada sought her private quarters to sleep for a few hours. It had been three days since she’d last rested, and she wanted to be sharp for the meeting tonight.

Working with a team was so much more complicated than working alone. But none of the things she’d learned Silverside had the least effect on the growing tears in the fabric of their reality. Closing the doors on Cruce had been difficult but doable. Not a single ward or spell she’d mastered affected the black holes. She’d tested them exhaustively on the smaller, isolated ones.

Long ago she’d have pursued her investigation alone, but she’d lost too much and was unwilling to lose more. The girl she’d once been was impulsive, to her own detriment. Jada had conditioned herself to pause before acting. She was uncomfortably aware that very pause might be why she’d failed to predict the Crimson Hag’s moves on the cliff. Intellect and gut were two vastly different things, with disparate strengths and weaknesses.

Imperfect as a child. Imperfect as a woman. But at least she could choose her imperfections.

The Dragon Lady’s library in the east wing was her domain, locked, warded, and spelled so nothing could get in or out unless she permitted it. Inside the ornate yet comfortable book-filled chambers was everything she needed to survive. And a few things she’d gathered for no discernible reason.

Seeing Dancer had been uncomfortable. The others she’d managed with nominal discomfort, reminding herself of one past incident or another, mortaring the wall between them.

Not Dancer. They’d had a single argument long ago about boundaries and friendship, about letting each other breathe, but it had steamed off like fog on a sunny morning.

He’d accepted her on first sight, had said, “Jada,” letting her know right off the bat they were fine, the same as his hand had always held easy, letting her stay or go. He’d said, “Welcome home,” and meant it, smiled, and it was genuine, with none of the rejection she saw in other people’s faces.

Mac, too, seemed different, but Jada had no desire to ponder it.

She moved into the second room of the chamber, draping various bits of shirts and towels and throws over lamps and sconces as she went, dimming the lights. Thanks to Cruce, all lights burned at all hours, and she hadn’t yet fathomed how to degrade that particular magic. She no longer feared Shades in the abbey. Her sidhe-seers had exterminated the last of them.

When she reached the bed, she rummaged beneath it and removed a small wooden box containing various items she’d collected upon her return to the city. She withdrew a folded piece of paper smudged with chocolate, sat on the bed, undid her hair, and ran her fingers through it.

Time. Both enemy and ally.

They thought she’d lost five and a half years of her life. She hadn’t. She’d lived them. They were the ones who’d lost five and a half years of her life. And held it against her.

Absurd.

She turned to gaze at handwritten words she knew by heart.

She touched the chocolate stain. It was a lifetime ago that Dancer had given her this poem, the same night he’d given her a bracelet she’d lost in the Silvers. Securely tied, it had been sacrifice that or her hand. At one point or another she’d sacrificed most everything.

“What a mess,” Shazam muttered crossly. He was sprawled in the middle of the bed, on a mound of pillows, peering over her arm. He yawned, baring enormous teeth and a curled-up black-tipped pink tongue. “Not a bit of it works. It should be ‘lay’ not ‘lie.’ What does manage to flow has been bastardized for the sake of the rhyme. Awkward.”

“Those who can’t, critique.”

“As if clocks can be killed, and even if they could I hardly think enlightenment would suddenly descend on such a primitive race, granting the ability to grasp complex temporal truths. Why do you insist on remaining with these three-dimensional people? There’s no question one of you will manage to destroy this world. Sooner rather than later. We should move on now. Did you bring me something to eat?” he said plaintively. “Something with blood and a heartbeat?” His whiskers trembled in anticipation.

“There are power bars—”

He sniffed. “A misnomer if I ever heard one. Not only don’t they confer any appreciable power, I’m quite certain they sap mine. They taste bad and make me depressed.” His violet eyes grew dewy.

“Everything makes you depressed. If you ever got out of bed—”

“What point is there in getting out of bed when you make me stay in these stuffy, dirty chambers?”

“I don’t make you do anything. I merely asked—”

“Your ‘asks,’ boulders around my neck,” he said woefully. “I’m as unseen as I was on Olean.”

“That makes two of us.” Refolding the poem along the creases, she tucked it back into the box, stretched out on the bed, sword at her side, and closed her eyes. She didn’t undress. She never undressed. Sleeping was dangerous enough. She’d had enough of waking up to battle nude. Although it had certain advantages—blood was much easier to wash off and it often disconcerted the hell out of a human male enemy—she preferred not to.

Shazam got up immediately, turned around three times, lay back down then bounded right back up, bristling so hard the mattress vibrated. “You smell bad. Like a predator. I’m not going to be able to sleep with you smelling up my air. Who touched you? Why did they?”

“I’m not taking a shower,” she said without opening her eyes. “I’m too tired. Besides, we’ve both smelled worse.”

“Fine. I’m not cuddling, then.”

“I didn’t ask you to cuddle. I never ask you to cuddle. I don’t even use that word.”

“You don’t have to. Your expects, bars on my cage.”

“I merely suggested in exchange for grooming, since you have all that fur and blaze like a small sun, you might keep me warm. Some of those worlds were cold.” And still, she often felt she had ice in her bones.

“It’s not cold here. And you haven’t groomed me all day. It was a long day. I was alone the whole time. Because you make me stay in here.”

“You would attract too much attention out there.”

“I would stay in a higher dimension.”

“Until you thought you might get some attention.”

“I like attention.”

“I don’t.”

“Did you ever like attention?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You’re ashamed of me. Because I’m fat. That’s why you don’t want them to see me.”

She slit her eyes open just barely, lids heavy. “I’m not ashamed of you. And you’re not fat.”

“Look at my belly,” he said tearfully, clutching it with both paws and jiggling.

She smiled. “I like your belly. I think it’s a perfectly wonderful belly, all soft and round.” Yesterday, he’d been convinced his ears were too big. The day before that it had been something wrong with his tail.

“Maybe you’re ashamed of yourself. You should be. The fur behind my ears is getting matted.”

“You’re beautiful, Shazam. I’ll groom you tomorrow,” Jada said sleepily.

“It’s already tomorrow.”

She sighed and stretched out her hand. Shazam head-butted it ecstatically.

Jada worked her fingers into the long fur behind his ears and began gently detangling. It was beyond her how he got so matted all the time when he slept most of the day and rarely left the bed.

He turned his face up, eyes slanting half closed with bliss and rumbled in his broad chest. “I see you, Yi-yi.”

Yi-yi was what he’d named her that day long ago on Olean when she’d named him. He’d been saying the same words to her every time she awakened or fell asleep for four years, and wouldn’t rest until she said it back.

“I see you, too, Shazam.”

Sometime later they curled together and slept as they had on so many worlds, Shazam’s head nestled on a pillow of her hair in the hollow between her neck and shoulder, one paw wrapped around her arm, one leg sticking straight up in the air, twitching as he dreamed.