"Nothing."

"Would—"

"Nothing," she interrupted in a firm voice. She stood back up. She needed to get away from Keenan. Now. She told Aislinn, "Come find me when you figure out what you're trying to say."

But Keenan came closer, beside Aislinn, putting himself between her and Leslie.

Get away from him. He's danger. Enemy. Not us. Leslie stared out at the throng of bodies. The band was awful but she wanted to move, burn some energy, ride out whatever rush she had going from the ink.

"We need to talk, Leslie." Aislinn sounded so serious, so worried.

Leslie forced herself to look at Aislinn. "Sure. I'll be on the dance floor when you're ready."

Leslie stepped away from the table, feeling the increasing pressure to get away from Keenan, to run. Her hands trembled from trying to stay still.

"Leslie, stop," Keenan said as he grabbed the bottom of her shirt.

Aislinn took hold of his wrist but couldn't push him away. "What are you doing?"

Keenan put his other hand on Leslie's hip and turned her. He lifted her shirt, baring Leslie's whole back to Aislinn and anyone who was near. "Look."

Aislinn gasped. "What have you done, Les?"

"Got a tattoo. You knew that." Leslie pulled out of Keenan's grasp. "Lots of people have them. Maybe you should be asking your idiot boyfriend here what he's doing. I don't appreciate being treated like—"

"She doesn't know, Aislinn." Keenan sounded weirdly gentle, soothing as if warm breezes were riding on his voice.

But Leslie felt her anger rising with each word that fell from his lips. This anger was not fleeting or fading.

Danger. He's dangerous to us. She paused. Us?

Keenan looked inhuman as he stepped closer to her. Some trick of the club lights made him glow like a golden effigy come to life. His voice burned her skin when he demanded, "Who did it?"

She crossed her arms, half-hugging herself, refusing to give in to the urge to run. Fear vied with anger, but she tilted her head to glare at him. "Why? You want one?"

"Tell me." Keenan gave her a look so predatory, she felt her stomach twist in fear. It was a terrifying look—but no one else saw it. Aislinn and Seth were watching her, not Keenan.

She'd had enough. Her anger and fear fled again; she smiled with a cruelty she didn't remember owning. "Back off, Keenan. I'm not yours to command. Not now. Not ever. Don't cross me, kingling."

Kingling?

They weren't her words. They didn't make sense. But she felt better for saying them. She walked away and wiggled through the crowd until she reached the front of the stage. She felt like she was looking for someone, the one who would make it all better. Where are you? The thought repeated like a chant in her mind, so much so that she must have said it aloud.

He answered, "I'm right here."

And she knew who it was without looking. "Irial."

"How are you tonight, my love?"

"Furious. You?" She turned to face him, letting her gaze rake over him the way he'd looked at her at the Rath. He looked good, like sin in a suit. From the tips of his soft leather boots to the silk of his shirt, he was gorgeous, but a pretty package wasn't reason enough to forgive his near assault, to forgive anything. She summoned up her anger, her embarrassment, her fear. Then she looked him straight in the eye and said, "Not impressed or interested."

"Liar." He smiled then, and traced his finger down her wrist. He inhaled deeply, like he was trying to catch and hold an illusive scent, and she was suddenly calm. She wasn't afraid, wasn't anxious, none of the things she should feel. Instead she felt something uncoiling inside of her, a shadowy shape stretching and writhing under her skin.

Her eyes started to close; her heart fluttered. No. She stepped backward and told him, "You should go away."

"And leave you to fend for yourself?" He shook his head. "Now, why would I do that? I'll look after you when the kingling comes prowling this way in a moment. The boy's a nuisance."

"I have a date," she said, although she wasn't entirely sure how well that would go right now. Focus on that. Niall lived with Keenan, was his guardian, and right now the idea of crossing paths with Keenan made her want to strike someone. She froze then, as something pieced together. "Kingling?"

"The boy. But let's not talk about him." He took her hands. "Dance with me, Leslie. I'll be nice. Proper, even. Let's enjoy our moment before business interferes."

I should just go. But walking away from Irial didn't appeal to her. Everyone had warned her that he was trouble, but he didn't frighten her, not right now. It was Keenan who terrified her. Having Irial beside her felt right, natural. She didn't move—or answer him.

In the most enticing voice she'd ever heard, Irial said, "Come now, Leslie, would Niall really mind if we had one dance? More important, do you really mind?"

"I should." She didn't, though. Briefly she gave in to the urge to close her eyes against the spiraling ecstasy that had begun to make her body hum.

"Call it an apology? I frightened you at the Rath, didn't I?" His voice seemed so inviting, easing her further into calm. "One song and then we'll sit and talk. I'll stay politely back if you but tell me to."

She swayed toward him like a cobra weaving to a snake charmer's songs. His arms slid around her.

The music was still fast, something suited to thrashing about manically, but Irial seemed oblivious to it. "See, love? Where's the harm, hmm?"

They danced, but she wasn't feeling trapped. She felt dizzy but confident, stepping away when the song ended.

Irial didn't touch her. He walked beside her. In the darkest corner of the room, he snagged two bottles of water from a waitress.

"So, how are you feeling after Bunny-boy's work?" He stood between her and the rest of the club.

She cracked the seal on the bottle of water and leaned against the wall, reveling in the feel of the bass thumping inside her skin. "What?"

Slowly, he reached out toward her. He slid his right hand up the back of her shirt along her spine to rest atop her still-tender skin. "The ink. Our tattoo."

"Our tattoo?"

He leaned in closer and whispered, "I know you heard me, saw me watching when Rabbit drew on that delicate skin."

He pressed his fingers over the tattoo until she winced. Her heart raced as if she'd been running for hours, as if the things in her nightmares had stepped into the room. He's lying. Crazy…He's… not. His words tasted true, felt right as they seeped into her mind.

"I felt each touch of the needle, drawing us closer and closer together. My eyes, Leslie, on your skin. My essence, love, buried inside you." Irial leaned back, giving her a scant bit of space, making it possible for her to look into his eyes. "You're my Mercy, my Shadow Girl, my banquet. Only mine."

She slid partway down the wall and would have hit the floor if he hadn't pulled her closer.

"That terror you feel right now" — he spoke softly, lips hovering over hers. "I can make it stop, just like that."

As he said that, he inhaled, and she felt perfectly calm, as if they'd been discussing nothing special.

Her mind couldn't process it—refused to attempt to make sense of what he'd said. Clarity filled her: all the weirdness of the past few days had brought her here. He's what's changed. He's why I'm … wrong.

"It's not possible," she said to him, to herself.

"You picked me. Rabbit told you it would change you."

"So Rabbit drew your eyes, my bad luck." She slid to the side, moving a little bit away from him. "That doesn't tie us together. It's just ink."

With sinuous grace, he turned to lean on the spot she'd just vacated, putting them side by side. He didn't look at her but watched the dancers instead as he said, "You don't believe that. You know better. Somewhere inside, you feel different. I know that, as clearly as I know that you're watching for Niall, hoping he'll actually strike me this time."