"She's Irial's now. Ours." Tish gestured toward the shadows, and at least six of the thorn-covered men stepped in front of Leslie, blocking Niall. As they did so, the dread-locked quints from the Rath appeared beside Niall. They were growling, as was he. He bared his teeth.

More people appeared as she watched. No, not people, creatures of some sort, stepping out of empty air. Some were armed with strange weapons—short curved knives that looked like they were made of rock and bone, long blades of bronze and silver. Others grinned cruelly as they lined up to face one another, except for a small group that encircled her and another that encircled Seth.

Tish—who looked no different, despite claiming affiliation with whatever weird creatures these were—stepped forward slowly, like a predator stalking prey. "I speak with Irial's blessing tonight, to look after Leslie, to keep her safe for him. You don't want to try us, Niall."

Niall's tense posture—his rage humming in his bones like an elixir Leslie could drown in—said what his words did not: he very much wanted to move toward violence.

And Leslie, for all the oddity of the moment, wanted him to. She wanted the lot of them to tear into one another. She wanted their violence, their excitement, their rivalry and hatred. It was a craving deep inside her, a hunger that was not her own. She swayed on her feet as their emotions tangled into her.

Then the circle around her parted. Tish bowed her head briefly and took Leslie's hand. She raised her voice enough to be heard over the growls and mutterings of the crowd. "Would you start a war over the girl, Niall?"

"I would love to," he answered.

"Are you allowed to?" Tish asked.

There was silence then. Finally Niall replied, "My court has forbidden me from doing so."

"Then go home," Tish said. She motioned toward the shadows. "Dad, can you carry her?"

Leslie turned and saw Gabriel. The tattoos on his arms shifted in the low light, as if they were poised to run. That's not possible either. But it's real. And they want me … for what? Why? She couldn't panic. She felt like it was there, though, a panic just out of reach, a thought of an emotion. What did they do to me?

"Hey, girl." Gabriel smiled gently as he approached her. "Let's get you out of here, okay?"

And she felt herself being lifted, held aloft as Gabriel ran through the streets faster than she'd ever moved in her life. There were no sounds, no sights, only darkness and Irial's voice from somewhere far away: "Rest now, darling. I'll see you later."

Niall was only halfway into the front room of the loft when he said, "Leslie's gone. I don't ask much, haven't in all these years—"

Keenan raised a hand that glowed with pulsing sunlight. "Does Irial hold sway over you, Niall?"

"What?" Niall stood motionless as he reined in his own emotions.

The Summer King scowled but didn't answer. The plants in the loft bent under the force of the desert wind that was picking up speed as Keenan's emotions fluctuated; the birds had retreated to their safe nooks in the columns. At least the Summer Girls are out. Keenan sent the remaining guards away with a few terse words. Then he began pacing. Eddies of steamed air swirled through the room, twisting and spiraling as if ghostly figures were hidden in them, only to be slashed apart by the hot winds already shrieking around them—all of which were then washed away by bursts of rain. Made manifest by the king's warring emotions, the climates clashed in the small space and left disaster behind.

Then Keenan paused to say, "Do you think often of Irial? Feel sympathy for his court?"

"What are you talking about?" Niall asked.

Keenan gripped the sofa cushions, clearly trying to find a way to restrain his emotions. The storm whipped through the room, shredding the leaves of the trees, sending glasswork sculptures crashing to the ground.

"I've made the choices I needed to, Niall. I won't be bound again. I won't go back to that. I won't be weakened by Irial…" Sunlight shone from Keenan's eyes, from his lips. The sofa cushions caught fire.

"You aren't making any sense, Keenan. If you have a point, make it." Niall's own temper wasn't as volatile, even after all these centuries with Keenan, but it was far crueler than Keenan could ever be. "Irial took Leslie. We don't have time for—"

"Irial's still fond of you." Keenan had a pensive look as he asked a question he'd not ever asked directly before: "How do you feel about him?"

Niall froze, staring at his friend, his cause, his reason for everything over so many centuries. That Keenan would ask such a question stung. "Don't do this. Don't ask me questions about before."

Keenan didn't answer, didn't apologize for salting old wounds. He went to stare out the window as the sandstorm in the room stilled. The Summer King was calm again.

Niall, however, fought to control his own emotions. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have, not now when he was worried about Leslie and furious with Irial. Once, Niall had placed his trust in another king, and that had been a mistake. Back then, Irial had revealed that he'd known all along that the mortals Niall had lain with were sickened and addicted. He'd told Niall that those mortals died—but not until after the dark faeries had brought the mortals to their bruig for entertainment. He'd explained that Niall's addictive nature was simply part of being a Gancanagh. Niall had run then, but Gabriel had come for him. He brought Niall back into the Dark Court's bruig, the faery mound where Irial was waiting.

"You could rule my court someday, Gancanagh," Irial had murmured as he brought forth the mortals who'd been addicted—and were mad with wanting.

"Linger with us," he whispered. "This is where you belong. With me. Nothing has changed."

Around them, the addicted mortals grappled at the willing fey like they were starving for touch, too sick with withdrawal to think of the consequences of contact with thorn-covered bodies and incompatible shapes. And Niall had been disgusted that he'd all but handed mortals over to the Dark Court, and when Irial offered him a trade— "You entertain the court or they can, Gancanagh. Fear and pain is the coin for their ransom. It matters little to me who pays it" — Niall had thought to do the right thing, giving his vow freely in exchange for the release of the addicts. In the end, it hadn't mattered: the addicts still withered away, pleading for the drug that was in Niall's skin.

Keenan was speaking again. "What you are has never been used as an asset to our court." He had a faraway look, both pensive and calculating. "If I'm to keep our court safe, I need to use all our assets."

Keenan uncorked a bottle that had been sitting on a warming tray, poured the honeyed drink into two glasses, and held one out.

Niall couldn't respond, couldn't speak. He just stared at his king.

"Even with Irial swaying her, Leslie will want you, and he still wants you. We can use this to learn the other secrets Irial's court hides from us." Keenan offered Niall the glass again. "Come now. He'll not strike out at you. Mayhap he'll share the girl, and—"

"You knew. That Leslie was marked by him, that—"

"No. I knew there were mortals being marked and taken in by Dark Court faeries. I hoped we'd have learned more by now, sorting out why or how they were bonding with mortals. Now we just need to reassess. This isn't over. She wants you. I saw her watching you before this all began. I can't think Irial's claiming her will erase that. This could be better than I'd hoped. If she survives, she'll be in a position to learn much. She'll tell you. She'll do what you want just to be near you." Keenan offered the glass a third time. "Drink with me, Niall. Don't let this put us asunder."