“Focus on the mission,” Jada says flatly. “Discomfort is irrelevant. Bloody means bleeding or having bled. Accuracy is expediency. You’ve not heard me complaining.”

“We’ve not heard you talk at all,” Drustan says. “You speak less than that one.” He gestures at Barrons, who just so happens to be driving and has been doing all of the driving since we left Dublin, barely talking to anyone, not even me except for an occasional silent message he shoots me with his eyes. Since he can’t currently see me, my ocular replies are lost on him. “Unless to correct our bloody grammar,” Drustan adds.

“Communication is difficult enough when all parties to the discussion strive for clarity,” she replies coolly. “Employ precision.”

“Precision” and “expediency” rank right up there with “grace” as Jada’s middle freaking names. I puked on the ferry. She sure didn’t. I caught the lovely, not-one-hair-out-of-place Jada scornfully regarding my projectile over the side. We were all testy and tired and the passage was stormy and I don’t have sea legs.

Now we’re in Austria and it’s cold, and although I dressed warmly, anticipating a mountainous climb, I wish I’d put on more layers. I’ve been in a Hummer H1, modified for comfort—as if such a thing is possible in a Hummer—for a day and a half straight, sharing the front seat, half astride its enormous console with Barrons and Ryodan on either side. They put Dageus and Drustan in the backseat, and Jada behind them, to keep her and me as far apart as possible, although, loath though I am to admit it, she’s the most even-tempered of us all, relaxed, focused, and apparently undisturbed by any facet of her current physical conditions.

Sprawled like a long-legged, curvy commando in the far back on top of rappelling gear, gloves, grappling hooks, and other assorted supplies, and aside from eating protein bars and jerky constantly, Jada looks smoothly in her element.

The interior of the Hummer smells of beef jerky. And testosterone. It’s been the most trying road trip I’ve ever been on.

Before plotting our course, we’d studied Ryodan’s map of the many places that were iced, so we could avoid treacherous black holes. Between dodging untethered IFPs—other countries lack the Nine to tidy up for them—detouring around blocked roads and freeways, having to find petrol for the ferry, and siphoning abandoned vehicles for more gas, this drive has made sifting a thousand times more desirable than it already was.

Along the way, amid the eternal grousing that happens when you pack six alphas of varying temperaments—who can work together for a common goal but would probably kill one another—into a sardine can, we’ve been discussing possibilities and plans.

The princess scrawled a picture at the bottom of the scrap of map. After much debate we all managed to agree Christian is somehow attached to the side of a mountain in the Dreitorspitze range, but we have no idea how high or low. We just have to find the right mountain, scale the face of it, and get him down. Oh, and kill the Hag so she doesn’t rain down death on all of us as we try to escape.

Simple, right?

We agree that our primary goal is to rescue Christian, secondary to kill the Hag. However, any way we look at it, both need to happen. The Hag can fly alarmingly fast for short bursts of distance, although Ryodan claims she can’t sustain it for long according to his sources. Considering how creepy-crawly and numerous his sources are, I believe he knows what he’s talking about. If we have to climb up for Christian, it won’t be quite as dangerous. But if we have to go down for him from above, once we free him we’ll all be on top of a mountain, with no cover, and one very pissed off Hag circling. Unless she’s somewhere else, hunting something else, if we could get so lucky. Fact is, we won’t know anything until we see the scene.

“We need sifters,” I say for the dozenth time.

“Wake the fuck up, Mac,” Ryodan says, “there aren’t any. Few of the Fae can sift, and we’ve killed most of the ones that can.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you killed the princes.”

“The princess refused to disclose their location until we did.”

“Dree-lia can sift,” I point out.

“Have you any idea where to find her, lass?” Dageus says. “None of the Seelie are responding to our summons.”

“We could go into Faery and hunt for them,” I say. I scowl when the lumbering Hummer nearly tosses me into Ryodan’s lap, and brace myself better on the console.

“Aye, and potentially lose years of our time trying to locate her,” Drustan growls. “Leaving Christian on the cliff, dying over and over. Bad plan.”

“We don’t need sifters,” Jada says. “I can do this.”

“We can do this,” Dageus says. “ ’Tis the only option. We won’t be returning to Christopher without his son. He’ll be bloody well furious enough that we left without him.”

We’d told no one what we’d learned of Christian’s whereabouts and stole off like thieves in the night to prevent the other Keltar from joining us. The larger our party, the greater the risk. After twenty minutes of heated debate, with Ryodan insisting Jada be included, we’d narrowed our rescue attempt to six participants, picked her and the Keltar up, and left Dublin immediately. I’d argued against the Keltar. Both Barrons and Ryodan had insisted we take backup.

“We’re close enough for now,” Barrons says, as we slow to a stop beneath a rocky outcropping that should keep us hidden from above. When he turns the engine off, Ryodan takes a pair of binoculars from the dash and gets out, quietly closing the door.