From the rooftop, I stare.

My fists clench. I keep my nails real short; still, they gouge blood from my palms.

Two Fae are dragging Mac down the front steps of a church. She’s naked. They drop her like a piece of trash in the middle of the street. A third Fae exits the church and joins them, and they stand, imperial guards around her, heads swiveling, surveying the street.

The raw sex they’re throwing off blasts me, but it’s not like V’lane, who I’m gonna give my virginity to one day.

I’m as obsessed with sex as anybody, but those … things … down there … those incredibly—fecking A, they hurt to look at; something’s wet on my cheeks; are my eyes boiling in their sockets? — beautiful things scare even me, and I don’t scare easy. They don’t move right. Storms of color rush under their skin. Black torques slither at their necks. There’s nothing in their eyes. Nothing. Eyes of pure oblivion. Power. Sex. Death. They reek of it. They’re Unseelie. My blood knows. I want to fall on my knees at their feet and worship, and Dani Mega O’Malley don’t worship nothing but herself.

I wipe my face. My fingers come away red. My eyes are leaking blood. Freaky. Kinda cool. Vamps got nothing on Fae.

I close my eyes, and when I open them again I don’t look directly at the things guarding Mac. Instead, I take a wide-angle image of the scene. Every Fae, fire hydrant, car, pothole, streetlamp, piece of trash. I map objects and empty spaces on my mental grid, lock it down tight, calculate margin of error based on likely movement, slap it over my snapshot.

I squint. A shadow moves in the street, almost too fast to see. The Fae don’t seem to know it’s there. I watch. They don’t respond to it. No heads swivel to follow it. I can’t focus on it. Can’t make out its shape. It moves like I move … mostly. What the feck? Not a Shade. Not a Fae. A blur of shadow. Now it’s hanging over Mac. Now it’s gone. Bright side—if the Unseelie aren’t noticing it, they shouldn’t notice me when I whiz in to snatch her. Dimmer side—what if whatever it is can see me? What if we collide? What is it? I don’t like unknowns. Unknowns can kill.

I catch the glint of Mac’s spear in a red-robed man’s hand. He’s carrying it at arm’s length from his body. Only Seelie or humans can touch the Seelie Hallows. He’s one or the other. The Lord Master?

They have Mac. They have the spear. Don’t know if I can grab both so won’t try. Would chance it if it wasn’t Mac. They hurt her bad. She’s bloody everywhere. She’s my hero. I hate them! Fae took my mother and now they’ve taken Mac. I refresh my snapshot of the scene right before I let myself go nuts inside, let that ancient sidhe-seer place in my head swallow me whole.

Instantly, I’m cool and perfect and detached from everything. I’m the Shit. It’s the most massive high in the world!

I zip from one freeze-frame to the next. No in-betweens.

I’m on the roof of the building.

I’m in the street.

I’m between the guards. Lust—wantneedsexdie—incinerates me, but I’m moving too fast and they can’t touch what they can’t see and they can’t see me and all I have to do is not cave; hate, hate, hate, make armor from it. Got enough hate to Kevlar all Ireland’s Garda.

I grab Mac.

Freeze-frame.

Heart in my throat! Shadow-thing blocks my path! What is it?

I’m past it.

Hear Fae shouting behind me.

Then I’m screaming at Kat and the crew to get their asses in there, grab that spear, and kill those bastards.

Mac in my arms, I freeze frames as fast I can, heading for the abbey.

Dani: November 4

Let me be certain I’m understanding you correctly,” Rowena says tightly.

Her back is to me; her small frame bristles with anger. Times, Ro seems ancient. Others, she’s wicked spry. It’s weird. Her spine’s ramrod-straight, her hands fisted at her sides. Her long white hair is braided, wrapped regal as a crown around her head. She wears the formal white Grand Mistress robes emblazoned with the symbol of our order—the misshapen emerald shamrock—that she’s been wearing ever since all hell started to break loose. I’m surprised she’s waited this long to rip me a new one, but she’s been busy with other things.

She took away my sword. It’s on her desk. The blade shimmers alabaster, like light stolen straight from heaven—my light—reflecting the glow of dozens of lamps arranged in the office to illuminate every corner, nook, and cranny.

When the Orb exploded on All Hallows’ Eve, freeing the Shades, we were so caught off guard that the slithery fecks managed to take out fifty-four of us before we got enough lamps and flashlights on to protect ourselves. As far as we know, they’re un-killable. My sword can’t touch them. Light’s a temporary stay of execution, just drives ‘em deeper into whatever dark crevices they can find. Our abbey’s been compromised, but we won’t give an inch. No way Shades are taking our home and turning it into a Dark Zone. One by one we’ll hunt ‘em down and force ‘em out.

Yesterday, there was one inside Sorcha’s boot. Clare saw it happen. Said Sorcha just kind of vanished down into her shoe, clothes collapsed around it. When we dumped the boot upside down on the front steps in the sunshine, a papery husk, jewelry, and two fillings spilled out, followed by a Shade that shattered into a zillion pieces. None of us is putting on our shoes now without shaking the crap out of ‘em and shining flashlights deep. I been wearing sandals a lot, even though it’s cold. What a way to go: death-by-shoe-Shade. I grin. I have a black sense of humor. You try living my life, see what color yours turns.

I stare at my sword. My fingers curl on emptiness. It kills me to be parted from it.

In a whirl of white robes, Rowena spins and skewers me with a look sharp as an ice pick. I shift uncomfortably. I might make fun of Rowena, call her “Ro,” and blather about how cool I am, but—make no mistake—this old woman is someone you wanna tread carefully around.

“You were within killing distance of the Lord Master and three Unseelie Princes and you did not even draw your sword?”

“I couldn’t,” I say defensively. “I had to get Mac. Couldn’t risk that she might be killed in the fight.”

“Which part of dead or alive did I fail to impress upon you?”

Well, obviously the “dead” part, but I don’t say that. “She can track the Book. Why’s everybody keep forgetting that?”

“No longer! You knew that the moment you laid eyes on her. Traitor, and now Pri-ya, she is of no use to us. Incapable of thought or speech, she can’t even feed herself! She’ll be dead in days, if she lasts that long. Och, and there you went, discarding the only chance we’ve ever had at slaying our enemy plus three Unseelie Princes, all for saving the life of a single worthless girl! Who do you think you are to be making such decisions for the lot of us?”

Mac might be Pri-ya, but she’s not a traitor. I won’t believe that. I say nothing.

“Get out of my sight,” she shouts. “Get out! Get out! Or I’ll throw you out!” Her voice rises and she flings an arm at the door. “Thinking you know what’s best—then go! Have a try at it, you ungrateful child! As if I haven’t done everything for you a mother would and more! Leave! See how long you survive out there without me!”

I stoically refuse to glance at my sword. No telegraphing for me. Ro catches everything. But if she’s serious, I can beat her to the sword, and will.

I look at her and ooze neediness and remorse. Cram my eyes full of it. Make my lower lip quiver. We stare at each other.

By the time all the muscles in my face are screaming from holding such a stupid, wussy look, her gaze softens. She draws a deep breath, releases it. Closes her eyes, sighs. “Dani, och, Dani,” she clucks, opening her eyes. “When will you learn? When you’re dead? I have only our best interests at heart. Do you not trust me?”