"What are they?" she asked.

"Faeries."

Leslie looked at them: no one was what they'd seemed a few minutes ago. Nothing made sense. I am angry now. I am afraid. Yet she couldn't feel those things. She felt curiosity, surprise, and a vague sense of euphoria that she knew— objectively—should be more terrifying than the rest.

"Ash rules one of the faery courts, the Summer Court. She shares the throne with Keenan," Seth said without any inflection, but Leslie felt—tasted—his worries, his fears, his anger, his jealousy. It was all there under the surface.

She looked back at Niall—not from the corner of her eye, but full on. He still looked like he was glowing. She gestured at him. "What? Why can I see you like this now?"

"You already know. I don't need to wear a glamour." Niall stepped forward, walking toward her.

"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."

Chapter 27

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."