May stroked Spike, staring off into the distance before she asked, “Are you sure?”

My hands clenched the wheel as a sharp, sudden anger hit me. How dare she question what I’d told her? She knew what Oleander did to me better than anyone else ever could. She knew. Typical Fetch, just looking for an excuse to send me off to die—

“Whoa.” The car swerved as I shook off the unexpected veil of rage. May wasn’t doing anything wrong. More importantly, May was the last person who would send me off to die. If I went, she went with me.

“Toby?” May looked at me with open concern. “What just happened?”

“I must be more on edge than I thought.” I forced the last of the anger down. “Yes, I’m sure. There weren’t any oleanders in the floral arrangements at the Ball, and I don’t know anybody else in this Kingdom who smells like sulfuric acid. Either I was having the world’s worsttimed drug flashback, or it was her.” We zipped through the tollgate on the heels of a little red sedan, barely making it before the gate came down.

“Wow.” May resumed her thoughtful stare. Finally, she said, “You have to take me home.”

“What?” Taking your eyes off the road when you’re driving under a don’t-look-here is never a good idea, but I couldn’t keep from glancing in her direction.

May shook her head. “If it’s Oleander, she’s going to be watching for you. You’re under a don’t-look-here that doesn’t feel like your work, and I was made to look like you. Let me do my job. Let me go back to the apartment and play decoy.” She chuckled darkly. “What’s she gonna do? Kill me?”

“If you’re sure—”

“I’m sure.”

We drove on in silence, both lost in our own thoughts. Raysel was right when she said she could have me executed; Oberon’s law forbids the killing of purebloods for any reason other than royal command. My life was forfeit under the law the moment I killed Blind Michael, if anyone cared enough to claim it. I’ve done a lot for this Kingdom, but people have died on my watch. The purebloods don’t like death. It makes them uncomfortable. My former mentor turned out to be a psychopath, and changelings go crazy all the time. How many people would believe Raysel if she said I’d finally snapped?

Too many. That was the problem.

I pulled up in front of the apartment, keeping the engine running. “Take Spike with you? I don’t want it vanishing into the park.”

“I don’t think it’s in the mood—poor thing’s still asleep.” May snapped her fingers, the smell of cotton candy rising as a version of my normal human disguise locked into place around her. She cradled Spike to her chest as she opened the door. “Be careful out there. I’ve got a bad feeling about all this.”

“Funky Fetch powers?”

“I’ve met you.”

“Jerk.”

I managed to keep smiling until the door was closed and May was walking up the sidewalk toward our apartment. Letting the expression die, I leaned over to rummage through the glove compartment and pull out the Tylenol. I popped the bottle open with my thumb and dry-swallowed three pills. They wouldn’t kill my headache, but they’d keep me functional a little longer, and I was ready to take whatever I could get.

Midnight had come and gone in the chaos surrounding Luna’s collapse. I returned the bottle to the glove compartment as I pulled away from the curb, too aware of the time. The last thing I needed was to cap my evening by getting caught out at dawn.

Searching the Tea Gardens was a long shot, but it was the best idea I had. If anyone knew how to poison an Undine, it was Oleander—and she’d have needed to get inside the Tea Gardens to do it. Her willingness to mix fae and mortal methods was part of what made her so effective, and if she’d done anything with mortal components, something would’ve been left behind. I just had to find it.

The entrances to Golden Gate Park are never locked, even though the park supposedly closes at sunset. The police make periodic sweeps, unaware of how pointless it is. They may catch the human homeless, but they’ll never catch the fae who make up most of the park’s nighttime population. I parked across from the Tea Gardens, leaving the cup in the passenger-side footwell as I twisted around to dig my emergency sneakers out of the back. I might not be able to change the fact that I was about to go wandering around Golden Gate Park after midnight in a hacked-off ball gown, but I could at least do it in sensible shoes.

Donning sneakers and my leather jacket made me feel considerably more capable of handling what was ahead. I hesitated, finally tucking my hair over my ears before getting out of the car. They were the only thing that really gave me away as anything but human, and I wasn’t kidding when I told May I needed to conserve my strength; magic-burn is nothing to sneeze at.

Neither is murder.

The ghostly outline of the car was visible until my fingers broke contact with the door. Then it vanished, leaving the parking space apparently empty. The spell would keep anyone from parking on top of me. It would also keep me from getting busted by the cops for being in Golden Gate Park after “closing.”

“Hope I can remember where I parked,” I said, and started walking.

A narrow strip of grass separated the Tea Gardens from the parking lot. I knelt to study it, but saw nothing more telling than some half-chewed bubblegum. Countless tourists visit the park every day. If Oleander had been there, her tracks were long gone.

Sometimes I regret my choice of careers. I like my work. I enjoy finding out where people have hidden their secrets, and I like knowing nothing’s ever as secure as people think, even if it means knowing that none of my secrets are safe, either. Still, there are times when something a little stronger than my own knowledge of human behavior would be nice. A full forensics lab, for example.

“Devin was right,” I muttered. “I should’ve joined the police.”

I turned as I stood, and found myself nose-to-nose with a male pixie. He was about four inches tall, glowing with a warm amber light that almost distracted from the fact that his short toga-style garment was made from a Snickers wrapper.

“Uh, hi,” I said. “Can I help you with something?”

It’s hard for pixies to hold still for more than ten seconds—their wings aren’t built for it, and a light breeze has a longer attention span—but he was just hovering there, expression giving every indication that he was waiting for something. I squinted. He was holding something behind his back.