Devlin watched for Seth as he walked through the crush of mortals in the Crow’s Nest. It was less complicated to await Seth here; the alternative was going to the Dark Court, and dealing with the Dark King could be fraught with difficulties. Niall, the Gancanagh who’d once lived in Faerie and now ruled the Dark Court, had changed. His years with Irial, his centuries advising the Summer King, and his recent ascension to the Dark Court’s throne all combined to create a faery monarch who should not be trusted.

Not that Seth should be trusted either.

Seth was loved by the Summer Queen, had been gifted with Sight by the Winter Queen, and had been declared “brother” to the Dark King. Rather than nullify the threat of a mortal walking among all the courts—as Sorcha should’ve done—the High Queen had remade Seth as a faery and invited him into her court. Devlin couldn’t help but wonder at the logic in some of the decisions she was making of late.

Mortals pushed against Devlin, and he had to remind himself that physically relocating them was considered aggressive in the mortal realm—and that aggression was not a quality he was supposed to embrace. He threaded his way through the crowd.

With the noise and blaring music, the shadows and flashing lights, the Crow’s Nest called to the discordant side of his ancestry.

“I am looking for Seth,” he told the barmaid.

“Not here yet.” She glanced at his wrist, seeking the age band that would indicate whether or not he was allowed to order alcoholic drinks.

Devlin shifted his appearance so that she saw a glowing strip of plastic, white under the black lights hanging over the bar.

“Wine. White.” He dropped a bill on the bar.

“Change?”

He shook his head. Exchanging funds for alcohol was odd; in Faerie such transactions were unnecessary. What one required was simply provided.

The barmaid grabbed a bottle of chardonnay, filled a cocktail glass, and set it on the bar. It was the wrong glass and cheap wine, but he didn’t expect much else from the Crow’s Nest. Her hand was still cradling the short glass when Devlin wrapped his hand around the other side, interlacing his fingers with hers, holding her attention. “I’m Devlin.”

She paused. “I remember you.”

“Good. You’ll tell him I’m here,” Devlin said.

She nodded and turned to the next customer.

Neither the doorman nor the barmaid had seen Seth, but between the two, Devlin was assured that Seth would know Devlin was looking for him the moment he arrived.

Drink in hand, Devlin retreated to the periphery. Something in the club was making Devlin want the release of a fight.

He looked over the crowd, but it wasn’t Niall or Seth that he saw on the floor: Bananach stood in the shadows across the room. Her presence explained the extra urge to violence. Just as being near Sorcha made him feel calmer, being near Bananach made him feel disorderly urges.

If Sorcha knew that her mad twin was in the club favored by Seth, the illogical anxiety the High Queen had experienced of late would worsen. If Bananach injured Seth, Sorcha would be… He couldn’t fathom what she would be. However, he was certain that he needed to convince Bananach to leave before Seth arrived. It would be preferable if Seth returned to Faerie—at least until the likelihood of true war in the mortal world was past. If Seth were injured, Sorcha might very well involve herself in battle with Bananach, and that could not end well for anyone.

Devlin didn’t observe social niceties as he went toward Bananach. Instead, he pulled his glamour around him like a shadow to hide his presence and shoved mortals from his path.

Necessary logical aggression.

“Brother!” Bananach smiled at him and casually knocked a mortal to the ground.

A small fight broke out as two guys both blamed the other. One threw a punch. The one on the floor came up swinging.

“How are you, Sister?”

“I am well.” She flicked her wrist out and cut a thin line on a mortal who wasn’t in the squabble yet. It wasn’t much of an injury, but her talon-tipped fingers were bloodied. Neither her presence nor the quarrel were random, but he wasn’t yet sure what her agenda was just then, only that she had one. War might start in madness, but to flourish it must be calculating—and Bananach was the embodiment of war.

Her intermittent madness was increasingly absent as she became more powerful. The visible presence of her strength was in her shadowed wings—which were shadows no more. They’d been made manifest. Bananach drew strength from the growing intercourt conflicts and mistrusts, and her strength enabled her to increase the conflicts. It was a deadly cycle—one he didn’t know how to end. Bananach had manipulated the courts, inner-court factions, and her sister until they were on the precipice of war. He’d seen her do so over the centuries, but this time he was afraid that they wouldn’t escape without more deaths than he could comfortably sanction. The last time she’d been so effective was when the now-dead Winter Queen, Beira, had killed the last Summer King, Miach. Miach had been Beira’s opposition, her lover, and father to her child. The consequences of his death had set the courts off balance for nine centuries.

Devlin pulled out a chair for his sister. Once she sat, he dragged another chair over and sat beside her. “Had you wanted to quarrel?”

“Not with you, dear.” She patted his hand absently as she watched the mortals fighting. “If the Dark Court could feed from mortals’ emotions and faeries’ emotions… that would change things, wouldn’t it? Imagine if I could make it so.”

“They can’t. You can’t,” Devlin pointed out. The Dark Court thrived in times of discord, but they were denied access to the throngs of emotional mortals all around them.

“Perhaps.” She traced a jagged line down her forearm with one talon-tipped finger. “Or perhaps I just need the right sacrifice.” She stretched her arm out, turning it so the blood dripped into his glass. “Blood makes Faerie stronger. She forgets, pretends she’s not like us.”

Devlin wrapped his hand around the glass of wine and blood now swirling together. “Sorcha is not like you, and you”—Devlin lifted his glass in a toast—“are not like her.”

War stabbed a passing mortal. “We are all—faeries, mortals, and other creatures—alike.” She stood and stabbed the mortal a second time. “We fight. We bleed.” She looked across the room at someone and smiled. “And some of us will die.”

The mortal pressed a hand to his side, but the blood wasn’t slowed.

“Stop by for dinner soon, precious one.” Bananach leaned over and cupped Devlin’s cheek with her bloody hand. She straightened. “Hello, my pretty lamb.”

Seth came up to them, glaring at Bananach. “Get out now.”

Devlin stepped in front of Seth, blocking his access to Bananach. He pointed to the mortal on the floor. “That one is injured.”

Seth raised a fist. “Because of her.”

“You can help him or argue with War,” Devlin said. “You cannot do both.”

Seth scowled. “And you won’t do either.”

“That is not my function.” For an unexpected moment, Devlin wondered if the sometimes-mortal-sometimesfey boy would fight Bananach or save the injured mortal. He hoped that he’d not have to try to wrest Seth from Bananach’s grasp tonight.

Is he logical enough to sacrifice one mortal to strike Bananach or compassionate enough to save the mortal and plan to confront Bananach later?

After a lingering disdainful look at Devlin, Seth lifted the injured mortal. “At least help me get him to the door.”

Bananach stood to the side and watched, a bemused smile on her lips. She, undoubtedly, had weighed the possibilities too. The knowledge of Seth’s actions would be factored into her next maneuver. The strategy behind maximizing conflict required skill and patience.