"Are you two together?"

"No." Leslie blushed. "I'm not… I mean—"

"Is there someone else? A friend of hers you see?" His voice was as delicious as the best of Etienne's desserts, rich and decadent, meant to be savored.

Unbidden she thought of Niall, her fantasy date. She shook her head. "No. There's no one."

"Perhaps I should return on a less-crowded night, then?" He traced a finger up the underside of her wrist, touching her for the third time.

"Maybe." She felt the odd urge to run—not that he was any less tempting, but he was looking at her so intently that she was certain he wasn't anywhere near safe.

He pulled out a handful of bills. "For dinner."

Then he stood and stepped close enough to her that her instinct to flee flared to life; she felt suddenly sick in the stomach. He tucked the money into her hand. "I'll see you another night."

She stepped backward, away from him. "But your food isn't up yet." He followed, invading her space, moving so close that it would seem normal only if they were about to dance or kiss.

"I don't share well."

“But—“

"No worries, love. I'll be back when your friend isn't around to snarl at me."

"But your dinner …" She looked from him to the bills in her hand. Oh my gods. Leslie was startled out of her confusion by the realization of how much she was holding: they were all large bills. She immediately tried to hand some of them back. "Wait. You made a mistake."

"No mistake at all."

“But—“

He leaned in so he whispered in her ear, "You're worth emptying my coffers for."

For a moment she thought she felt something soft wrap around her. Wings.

Then he pulled back. "Go tend to your friend. I'll see you again when she's not watching."

And he walked away, leaving her motionless in the middle of the room, clutching more money than she'd ever seen in her life.

Chapter 7

When Niall reached Verlaine's, Irial had gone. Two of the guards who'd been outside the restaurant were bleeding badly from teeth marks in their arms. Some embarrassing part of him wished he'd been sent for sooner, but he quashed that thought before it became one he had to consider. When Irial acted against the Summer Court faeries, Niall was always summoned. The Dark King often refused to strike Niall. Gabriel, on the other hand, had no compunction against wounding Niall and often seemed to be more violent toward Niall when Irial was near.

"The Gabriel" — one of the rowan shuddered—"he just walked up and ripped into us."

"Why?" Niall looked around, seeking some clue, some indication of a reason that Gabriel would do so. Niall might've chosen to avoid the Dark King's left hand as often as possible, but he hadn't forgotten the things he'd learned in the Dark Court: Gabriel didn't ever act without reason. It mightn't be a reason that the Summer Court understood, but there was always a reason. Niall knew that. It was part of why he was an asset to the Summer Court: he understood the less gentle tendencies of the other courts.

"Mortal girl talked to the Gabriel and Dark King," a rowan-woman said as she wrapped her bloody biceps. She clenched the end of a strip of spider silk between her teeth as she bound her arm. Niall would offer to help her, but he knew she'd trained with the glaistigs. It made her a great fighter, but it also meant anything that looked like mercy would be summarily rejected.

Niall looked away. He could see Leslie through the window: she smiled at the Summer Queen and refilled a glass of water. It wasn't an unusual task, or an exciting one, but as he watched her, his throat suddenly felt dry. He wanted to go to her, wanted to … do things he should not dream of doing with mortals. Without meaning to, he'd crossed the street, stepped close to that window, and rested his hand on it. The cold glass was a thin barrier; he could crack it with just a bit of pressure, feel the edges slice into his skin, go to her, and sink his body into hers. I could let her see me. I could—

"Niall?" The rowan-woman stood beside him, staring through the window. "Do we need to go in?"

"No." Niall pulled his gaze away from Leslie, forced his thoughts back to something less alluring. He'd been watching her for months; there was no reason for his sudden surge of irrational thoughts. Perhaps his guard was down from thinking of Irial. Niall shook his head in self-disgust.

"Go home. Aislinn has plenty of guards with her, and I'll watch the queen's mortal," he said.

Without any further comment, the rowan and her companions left, and Niall crossed back to the alcove where he'd waited out so many of Leslie's shifts at Verlaine's. He leaned against the brick wall, feeling the familiar edges press into his back, and watched the faces of the mortals and faeries in the street. He forced himself to think about what he was, what he'd done before he knew who Irial was, before he knew how twisted Irial was. All things that mean I should not touch Leslie. Ever.

When Niall had first walked among them, he'd found mortals enthralling. They were filled with passion and desperation, carving out what joy they could in their all-too-finite lives, and most were willing to lift their skirts for a few kind words from his lips. He shouldn't miss their dizzying willingness and mortal touch. He knew better. Sometimes, though, if he looked too closely at what he knew himself to be, he did miss it.