“Mind if I join you?”

I glanced up. It was the guy with the Scottish accent from the Ancient Languages Department at Trinity; “Scotty,” the one I’d gotten the envelope about the illegal auction from. Small world. And everyone keeps telling me how large a city Dublin is.

I shrugged. “Sure, why not.”

“Gee, thanks,” he said dryly.

I suspected he was unaccustomed to such a blasé response from women. He was about the same age as the dreamy-eyed guy he worked with, but the resemblance ended there. His coworker was velvety-skinned, a sexy boy-on-the-cusp-of-man, but Scotty was broader, his body more filled out, and there was maturity in the way he walked and moved, a quiet self-assurance, as if, even at his age, he’d already been tested.

Six foot two or three, his hair was long and dark and pulled back at his nape. Gold tiger eyes swept me appreciatively. Estrogen responded to testosterone—this boy was a man—and I sat up a little straighter.

“To fine Scotch and lovely lasses.” He clinked a glass of whisky to my mug of beer and we drank. I chased it with a third shot: swallow, shudder, breathe. That cold place in my stomach, where I felt alone and lost, was finally starting to warm up.

He extended his hand. “I’m Christian.”

I took it. His hand swallowed mine. “Mac.”

He laughed. “You don’t look like a Mac to me.”

“Okay, I give up. Why does everyone keep saying that? What do I look like?”

“In most places Mac is a man’s name and you, lass, look nothing like a man. Where I come from you just introduced yourself to me as ‘from the clan of’ and I’m still waiting for the rest of your name.”

“You’re from Scotland.”

He nodded. “From the clan of the Keltar.”

Christian MacKeltar. “Beautiful name.”

“Thanks. I’ve been watching you since you came in. You look…pensive. And if I’m not mistaken, that was your third shot. When a lovely lass drinks shots alone I worry. Is everything okay?”

“Just a rough day. Thanks for asking.” How sweet he was. A much-needed reminder that there were nice people in the world; I just didn’t get to hang out with them often.

“You write?” He gestured to my journal. I’d closed it the moment he’d sat down.

“I keep a diary.”

“Really?” A brow rose, his golden gaze shone with interest.

I almost laughed. I had no doubt he thought I wrote about cute boys and pretty clothes and the latest reality TV show hunk I had a crush on; all those things that used to occupy my mind. I was tempted to shove it across the table at him, tell him to read a page or two, then see if he still wanted to sit with me, and after three shots, I wasjust buzzed enough to do it.

I was tired of lies and tired of being alone and tired of feeling disconnected. I was tired of being with people I couldn’t trust and wanting to trust people I couldn’t be with, like this guy for example, or his coworker, the dreamy-eyed guy. I was hungry for normalcy and angry enough to want to destroy any chance I had at getting it.

“Check it out.” I shoved my notebook across the table.

He looked startled, conflicted. I could tell he wanted to know my innermost thoughts—what man would turn down a chance to read what a woman really thought, uncensored?—yet knew he should preserve my dignity if I was too drunk to do it myself, and shove it back at me. Which would win: man or gentleman?

The man opened my journal to the first page, a page of descriptions of the latest Unseelie I’d been seeing, followed by a page of speculation about how they killed and how I might best kill them.

I let him finish both pages before reclaiming my notebook.

“So,” I said brightly, “now that you know I’m nuts—” I broke off and stared at him. “You do know I’m nuts, right?” There was something very wrong with the way he was looking at me.

“MacKayla,” he said softly, “come somewhere with me, somewhere…safer than this. We need to talk.”

I sucked in a breath. “I didn’t tell you my name was MacKayla.” I stared at him, a little too toasted to deal with the panic I was feeling over this unexpected paradigm shift. I’d been trying to destroy my chances at normalcy only to find out I’d never had any chance at normalcy in this situation because the normal boy wasn’t normal.

“I know who you are. And what you are,” he said quietly. “I’ve met your kind before.”

“Where?” I was bewildered. “Here, in Dublin?”

He nodded. “And elsewhere.”

Surely not. Was it possible? He’d known my name. What else did he know about me? “Did you know my sister?” I was suddenly breathless.

“Aye,” he said heavily, “I knew Alina.”

My mouth dropped. “You knew my sister?” I practically screeched. How did he know us? Who was this man?

“Aye. Will you come with me, somewhere private we can talk?”

When my cell phone rang, even buried as it was in my purse, it was so loud it nearly scared me out of my skin, and pub patrons three booths down turned to glare. I didn’t blame them; it was an obnoxious ring, a blaring band of celestial trumpets, set on full volume. Obviously Barrons hadn’t wanted me to miss a call.

I fumbled for it, flipped it open, and pressed send. Barrons sounded pissed. “Where the fuck are you?” he demanded.