Pretty much. And then I’d had to spend the next three and a half hours in a downtown club, dancing and flirting with him, and trying to keep his hands off me, while Inspector Jayne watched from a corner table. Trying to use up so much of his time that he would be disinclined to go back and search the Dark Zone tonight. Eventually trying to beg off nicely, and failing.

Like his brother, Derek O’Bannion was used to getting his way, and if he didn’t, he pushed harder. In my blind determination to avert culpability in another death, I’d forgotten he was related to the man who’d brutally murdered twenty-seven people in a single night to get what he wanted.

By eleven-thirty, I’d had as much as I could take. With each drink he tossed back, he’d sprouted more hands and a worse attitude. I hadn’t been able to extricate myself gracefully so, in a fit of desperation, I’d excused myself for the bathroom, and tried to sneak out a side door. I’d figured I would call him tomorrow, pretend I’d gotten sick, and if he asked me out again, evade, procrastinate, and lie. I really hadn’t wanted another O’Bannion pissed off at me in this city. One had been bad enough.

He’d caught me outside the bathroom, shoved me into a wall, and kissed me so brutally that I hadn’t been able to breathe. Flattened between his body and a brick wall, I’d grown light-headed from lack of oxygen. My mouth still felt swollen, bruised. I’d seen the excitement in his eyes and known he was a man turned on by a woman’s helplessness. I’d remembered his brother’s restaurant, the carefully coiffed and tightly controlled women, how the waiters were forbidden to serve a woman a meal or a drink unless a man ordered for them. O’Bannions were not nice men.

When I’d finally wrested myself free, I’d made a scene, loudly accusing him of forcing his attentions on me when I’d already told him a dozen times I wasn’t interested. If he’d been anyone else, the bouncers would have tossed him out of the club, but in Dublin, nobody tosses an O’Bannion. They’d thrown me out instead. The tape-to-my-derriere inspector had watched it all through narrowed eyes, arms folded, without lifting a finger to help me.

I made another enemy in this city tonight, as if I didn’t already have enough.

Still, I’d accomplished my goal and it hadn’t been an easy one to tackle.

When I’d looked out the window and seen Derek O’Bannion heading straight for his deadly rendezvous with the Shades I’d wanted nothing more than to flip the sign, lock the door, curl up with a good book, and pretend nothing was out there, and nothing bad was about to happen. But it seems I’ve got this set of scales inside me that I never used to have, or at least I wasn’t aware of, and I can’t shake the feeling that if I don’t try to keep them balanced, I’ll lose something I won’t be able to get back.

So I’d forced myself out of the bookstore and into the rapidly deepening dusk. I’d rolled my eyes at the inspector, and ground my teeth against the oppressive sense of dread that cloaked me every time I saw that terrifying black specter, watching, waiting. I’d notched my chin higher and made myself walk straight past it like it didn’t even exist—and as far as I could tell, it didn’t, because Jayne had ignored it and O’Bannion sure hadn’t looked at it on the way back, but then again, I’d tugged my camisole down to reveal a shocking amount of cleavage to tempt him to turn around. I’d done for one O’Bannion what I’d failed to do for the other, and the scales inside me had leveled a little.

I hoped he’d continue his search tomorrow, in the daylight, and not stop in here on his way by. But if, despite my efforts, he went back into the abandoned neighborhood tonight, well, I’d done the best I could, and frankly I wasn’t sure how important it was another O’Bannion remained among the living. Dad says Hell has a special place for men who abuse women. There are Unseelie monsters and there are human ones.

“Was he a good kisser, Ms. Lane?” Barrons asked, watching me carefully.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand at the memory. “It was like being owned.”

“Some women like that.”

“Not me.”

“Perhaps it depends on the man doing the owning.”

“I doubt it. I couldn’t breathe with him kissing me.”

“One day you may kiss a man you can’t breathe without, and find breath is of little consequence.”

“Right, and one day my prince might come.”

“I doubt he’ll be a prince, Ms. Lane. Men rarely are.”

“I’ll get your envelope, Barrons. What then?” What crazy zig was my life going to zag down next?

“I took the liberty of placing garments in your room. Tomorrow evening we leave for Wales.”

Turned out Elle Masters wasn’t there the next day, nor, much to my relief, was the dreamy-eyed guy.

Instead, I met a fourth-year student who worked for Elle, and was holding the envelope for me. He was tall with dark hair, a great Scottish accent, a ton of curiosity about Barrons, who he’d heard about from his employer I guess, and pretty dreamy eyes himself, an unusual shade of amber, like tiger eyes, framed by thick, black lashes.

“Scotty” (we never got around to introducing ourselves, I was in too much of a hurry to get out of there and on with my day) told me Elle’s six-year-old daughter was sick and she was keeping her out of school, so he’d swung by to pick up the envelope on his way into work.

I took it and hurried out the door. Scotty followed me halfway down the hall, making small talk with a charming Scots burr, and I got the distinct impression that he was working up to asking me out. Two gorgeous guys in the same department, two normal guys! I would only be torturing myself if I spared a second thought for either of them. The Ancient Languages Department at Trinity was off limits for me in the future. Barrons could run his own errands, or hire a courier service to do it for him.

On my way back to the bookstore, I pretended not to see nearly a dozen Unseelie Rhino-boys, escorting their new protégés down the streets, shaping them up for human society. They pointed and spoke, their charges nodded, and it was obvious they were being indoctrinated into their new world—my world. I wanted to stab every one of them with my spear as I walked by, but I refrained. I’m not in this for the little battles. I’m here for the war.

All of them were casting Fae glamours to make themselves appear human to varying degrees of attractiveness, but either they were rudimentary efforts, or I’ve gotten better at penetrating the Fae façade because aside from a momentary blurriness, a brief vacillation of color and contour, I saw them in their true forms. None were as revolting as the hideous Gray Man who’d preyed on women, stealing their beauty through the open sores in his flesh and hands, although all made me feel queasy, but that’s just the effect of any Fae on my sidhe-seer senses; it’s my early-warning system. I picked up a group of ten of them on my “radar” a full two blocks before encountering their little monster-posse. I counted three new types of Unseelie I would make notes on later in my journal, perhaps on the plane to Wales tonight.

When I got back to the bookstore, I steamed open the envelope. The adhesive edge curled quickly and the glue seemed sparse, making me wonder if I’d not been the first to do it.

It held an invitation, an exclusive one, extended by a host who denoted himself or herself with only a symbol, no address. On the back was jotted a partial list, intended to tantalize. It included an object long held to be mythical, two religious icons the Vatican was rumored to be looking for, and a painting by one of the Masters believed lost in a fire centuries ago.

Barrons and I were going to an auction tonight, a very private one, the kind of black market sale Interpol and FBI agents nurture sweet, career-making dreams of one day busting.