"What are you doing here?" she said. Her voice was even, but she shivered. This emotion, excitement, didn't flee. Unlike the others, this one stayed and grew.

"Seeing you." He held out a hand. "Assuring that you are well."

Ren stood beside Irial, trying to get his attention. "Umm, you need … anything? Anything at all?"

"Careful," Irial murmured, unmindful of everyone but her. His hands were on her hips then.

How did he get up the stairs so quickly?

"Don't. Please?" She wished she didn't feel so comforted that he was here, wished she were sure what she was asking when she repeated, "Please?"

"I'm not here to hurt you, a ghrá." He stepped backward, not looking as he walked down the stairs, not removing his hands from her hips, either.

"You didn't lie, did you?"

"We don't."

Leslie stared at Irial. "Who are you? What are you?"

He held her gaze, and for an unreal moment she thought she saw shadows clinging to his skin like dark wings. Her body tingled all over, and she was sure that innumerable tiny mouths touched her skin all at once—soothing her, erasing everything but pleasure. She shivered against the sudden onset of cravings that made no sense. Her mouth was dry, her palms damp, her heart thundering in her head.

Without breaking her gaze, he said, "I'll take care of you, keep you from hurting or pain. You have my vow on this, Leslie. You'll never want anything again. Say the word, and it's yours. No more fear or pain. Just shadows of them, and I'll take them away. You won't have to feel them but for a moment. Look." He dropped his gaze to the air between them. A shadowy vine extended from his body to hers, coiling into her skin. She reached out as if she'd touch it; her hands brushed against the black feathers that curled from it like leaves. When she did, they both flinched.

"It's real. Whatever you did to me," she said.

"You wanted to be safe. You wanted to be without fear or pain. You have it." Irial didn't wait for her to move; he pulled her closer so she was leaning against him. He smelled like peat smoke, musty rooms full of sex and longing, sweet-strange and dizzying. She rubbed her cheek against his shirt, breathing in the scent of him.

"I'll never leave you," Irial whispered. Then he turned to the assembled crowd. "If anyone ever touches her again—"

The dealer started, "When I … I didn't know she was your—"

Irial made a gesture. Two very scarred guys appeared out of the empty air. They stepped forward and took hold of the dealer.

He was one of them. Leslie's knees buckled. He … Her stomach burned as she tried to let that thought finish itself. The terror of the other people in the room, of the dealer who was crying out as he was led away—she felt that too, all of it at once. The lust of the mortals—mortals? — in the room, the want, the desperate need. She felt a tangle of emotions assailing her. Flashes of need, of terror, of aching—they flooded her body until she swayed.

"Their feelings … I need …" She clenched Irial's hand.

"Shhh." He kissed her, and the feelings evaporated. "They just come through you. Those feeling aren't yours. Just a blink, and they're gone from you."

He had an arm around her, leading her to the sofa.

She stared at the door where the guys—where did they come from? — had led the dealer away.

Irial was kneeling in front of her. "It'll all be fine. No one will hurt you again. Ever. You will get used to the rest."

Mutely she nodded, watching him the way she'd never watched anyone in her life, transfixed. Irial could make everything good, right, happy. He was an answer to a question she'd forgotten to ask. Her body hummed in a pleasant blur. The feelings that had rolled through her were awful, ugly; she knew that objectively. After Irial took them, all she felt was bliss. Something heavy and floral was in her mouth, on her lips. Lust. His. Mine. Her veins sang with it, like fire coursing through her body, seeking her heart, flooding her nerves.

Then Niall's words echoed in her head, "Surviving is what matters. You can do this." Do what? Survive what? There was nothing bad here. Irial was making her safe. He was taking care of her.

"Come now. They'll pack your things." Irial motioned at three almost-androgynous guys who were headed up the stairs. "We need to get out of here. Away from so many mortals. Talk."

"Talk?" She almost laughed. Talking was pretty far from what was on her mind as he knelt there in front of her. Her eyes felt too wide. Every pore in her body was awake and zinging.

"Or whatever else would make you happy," he added with a wicked grin. "You've done me a great honor, Leslie. The world is yours."

"I don't need the world. I need—" She leaned forward until she was able to rest her face against his chest, hating the cloth that was in her way, suddenly furious at the damnable material. She snarled—then froze, realizing that her hand was already tearing at his shirt, that she'd made a sound that was so far from normal, so far from human that she should be terrified.

He pulled her to her feet, keeping her clutched tightly to his side. "It's fine. Just the initial changes. Shhh."

And as he breathed deeply, it was fine. He was still talking, though, asking, "What shall I do with them?"

Ren and the others were watching with looks of abject terror. But they didn't matter now; none of this mattered anymore. Only Irial. Only this pleasure, this confidence. That was all that mattered.

"Who cares?" she said.

Then he lifted her into his arms and carried her over the threshold into a world that was suddenly far more tempting than she'd realized it could be.

Niall had walked out on his king; he'd failed Leslie; and he'd exposed his doubts and longings to Irial. He hadn't had such a complete feeling of loss in centuries. He'd spent part of the night and the whole of the day walking aimlessly but had come no closer to any answers or even the right questions.

He'd seen the faeries watching him: Keenan's and Irial's and those who were solitary. Like I am again. None of them, even those who'd tried to speak with him, had made him pause. Several times he'd had to move them bodily from his path, but he hadn't spoken a word or registered the words that they spoke.

But then Bananach was swaying toward him, moving like a shadow in the just-fallen night. The long feathers that spilled down her back fluttered and shifted in the breeze. She wore a glamour that made those feathers look like hair, playing mortal for him as she approached.

He stopped walking.

The smile she offered him was at odds with the malice in her eyes. She passed him, paused, looked back, and beckoned. She did not watch to see if he'd follow her as she walked into a narrow alley partway down the block. She did not glance back as she slipped under the metal fence or as she trailed her fingers over the razor wire that draped the top of that fence. It was only once Niall was standing behind her, like prey foolishly pursuing a predator, that she turned to face him.

Niall wondered if he was following her to his death: it was a fate he had considered and rejected after Irial allowed the Dark Court to torture him. It wasn't the right choice then. Bananach would gladly have taken Niall's life at the time had Irial not sent her away to indulge in her mayhem. It's never the right choice.

But he didn't retreat.

She leaned on the metal fence, her arm stretched over her head, her fingers curled around the loops in the fence. The barbed steel of the razor wire was just above her fingers, close enough that it looked like she was reaching for the poisonous metal. It was unhealthily attractive to him, her desire to touch pain.