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.”