ONE

Even though feeling like a drama queen sucked donkey’s balls, it was still true—leaving Dragos and New York behind was one of the hardest things Pia had ever done.

What sucked worse than that? Leaving was her idea. She had even argued for it, loud, long and vociferously.

And what sucked the absolute worst of all? She couldn’t even pretend she was leaving all her troubles behind, because she wasn’t. All her troubles came along with her in a nicely matched portable set, because of course she had to travel with a bunch of psychos.

She had just gotten used to one set of psychos, the Wyr sentinels. Not all of them liked her, but most of them had, more or less, accepted her. She even fancied that a few of them loved her, and she loved them, even though she thought they were all certifiably crazy, and to be fair, she was pretty sure they thought she was crazy too.

And now here she had to break in a whole new set. This crew was fresh and energetic, while she was just goddamn tired and feeling bitchy enough to start tearing off heads for no reason.

That’d win her some brownie points.

Three of the group traveled with her in one black Cadillac Escalade. Three more traveled in another Escalade behind them, also black. In fact, both SUVs quite illegally had the same license plate numbers and were identical in virtually every way, in case the group had to split up and one SUV had to act as a decoy for the other—which would end up being whichever one Pia was traveling in at the time.

In the Escalade following them were Miguel, Hugh and Andrea. Miguel was nut-brown and dark-haired, with a tight body coiled with lean muscles and dark, sharp eyes that never stopped roaming. Hugh was rawboned and rather plain. He had big hands, a slight Scottish burr, and a sleepy demeanor that Pia didn’t believe for a moment, because if he was really that sleepy and slow moving, he wouldn’t be traveling with her.

Andrea looked just like Pia from a distance, which had been intentional. She had the same leggy five-foot-ten body type and the same thick blonde hair that fell past her shoulders and could be pulled back in a ponytail. Andrea’s hair had been carefully lightened so that it matched Pia’s blonde shades.

They couldn’t pass for each other close up. Andrea looked to be possibly five years older than Pia’s twenty-five, although with Wyr, guessing someone’s age could sometimes be difficult, and Andrea could be as much as thirty years older. Pia’s face was more triangular. Andrea’s eyes were green, not midnight blue. Still, Pia got an eerie feeling whenever she caught sight of Andrea moving around in the distance. It was like looking at a doppelganger of herself.

The three traveling in Pia’s Cadillac were James, Johnny and Eva. James was the tallest of the crew and actually handsome, with dark hair that fell into blue eyes and a strong nose and jaw that looked great in profile. With his fine features and light brown hair, Johnny appeared so boyish that he looked downright innocent—which was another impression that Pia knew had to be false.

Then there was Eva, who was the alpha and captain of this particular pack of lethal whack-jobs. Eva had the whole Venus Williams Amazonian splendor thing nailed, with her honed, six-foot-tall body, rich ebony skin that rippled over strong muscles and a black, bitter gaze that had dissected Pia so thoroughly the first time they met, Pia was not exactly sure she’d found all the pieces and got herself put back together quite right afterward.

Most of her six attendants were canines of some sort, wolves, mongrels or mastiffs, although they had one winged Wyr who would provide aerial support if it ever became needed. Hugh was one of the demesne’s rare, prized gargoyles.

They all came from the Wyr’s version of Special Forces, the unit that was the most gifted and volatile in the army. They were the first into any conflict and acted as advance scouts, the rangers sent in to places too dangerous for the regular troops. They were the ones that patrolled the shadowed corners and slipped past enemy lines to take down their opponents from behind. The only Wyr more dangerous were Dragos’s sentinels and, of course, Dragos himself.

They were not good at conforming. They never wore a uniform, they didn’t salute and they didn’t bother to hide their opinions about things. And it was clear they didn’t think much either of Pia or the babysitting job they had been shackled with, which meant they were all in for a shitty trip if things didn’t change.

Pia slouched in the back behind the driver’s seat, arms crossed as she watched the dirty white, winter scenery scroll past. She could sense Dragos flying overhead, although they didn’t talk telepathically. Everything had already been said, shouted and argued out a while ago. After following the two-car cavalcade for about forty minutes, she could feel him wheeling and beginning the return flight back to the city.

She shifted restlessly in her seat. Her head pounded. On the sound system, 2Pac rapped “Ballad of a Dead Soulja.” Beside her, Johnny slouched in fatigues and a T-shirt, his light brown hair pulled into an untidy ponytail. He was totally absorbed in playing a handheld game.

Eva drove while James rode shotgun, literally, with the butt of a late-model SCAR (which, Pia had been told, stood for Special Operations Forces—SOF—combat assault rifle) resting on the floor between his boots. Eva’s kinky black hair was cropped short, emphasizing the graceful shape of her skull. As Pia looked at the rearview mirror, her gaze collided with the reflection of Eva’s contemptuous glance. Pia’s already strained temper gave up trying to control her behavior. It slunk away and took her better half with it.

She said, “I want to listen to Kenny G now. Or maybe Michael Bolton.”

Johnny’s head came up. James twisted to look at her.

“You’ve got to be f**king kidding me,” Eva said. She turned to James. “Tell me she’s f**king kidding me.”

Pia felt childish, petty and vindictive. The drama queen had turned into a two-year-old, and the toddler was having a tantrum. She said to James, “Change it.”

“Woman wants it changed,” James said, expressionlessly. He punched buttons. Easy listening music filled the Cadillac.

“That’s just f**king great,” Eva muttered. “We’re going to be stuck in a goddamn elevator for the rest of the goddamn day.”

Pia hated elevator music too. She smiled and settled back into her seat. Now everybody else was almost as miserable as she was.

Time dragged along with the miles that scrolled behind them, and the urban scenery remained the same, dull brick factories, black railroad lines ribboning through dirty snow, rows of houses and the occasional shopping center. Nobody spoke, at least not out loud. The two Cadillacs wove smoothly through the sporadic Sunday morning traffic on the interstate, not always staying together to avoid drawing too much attention, but always keeping within sight of each other.

As Pia watched the passing landscape, she couldn’t help but think of the last time she had made this trip, seven months ago. The two trips were almost perfect opposites of each other.

Last May she had been on the run, frightened, exhausted and alone, while everything around her had been bursting into bloom. This time she was mated, pregnant—her hand curled protectively over her stomach’s slight bump—and surrounded by the most effective, if surly, soldiers in the Wyr demesne, and it was flipping cold outside, as winter held New York by the scruff of the neck with sharp, white teeth.

January in Charleston would feel positively balmy in contrast, with daytime highs up to sixty degrees and nighttime lows around thirty-eight to forty degrees. Mostly what Pia was looking forward to, though, was the lack of snow on the South Carolina coast. In late December, New York had been hit with one of the worst blizzards on record, and it would take months for all the mountains of snow to melt.

Ninety minutes into the trip, she stirred. “I have to stop.”

Eva glanced at her again in the mirror. “Does her?” said Eva in a baby-talk kind of voice. “Where would herself like to stop?”

James stirred and said, “Evie.”

“What?” Eva snapped. “We barely got on the road, and princess already wants to take a break. And while I’m on the subject, why are we driving and not flying? We could be there in a couple of hours, instead of the trip taking the whole goddamn day.”

“It’s none of your f**king business why we’re driving instead of flying,” Pia said icily. “And princess here doesn’t give a shit where we stop, just as long as we do in the next ten minutes. Got it?”

“Sure, doll-face,” Eva said. “Any little thing herself wants, herself gets.”

As Eva signaled and cut right from the fast lane to the exit lane, Pia watched the other woman in the mirror and thought, Imma have to kick your ass before the day’s out, aren’t I?

Yeah, it was shaping up to be a great trip so far.

And they were on a mission of diplomacy.

The other Cadillac cut across traffic to join their SUV, and the two vehicles took the next exit ramp. Their choices for stopping included two gas stations, a McDonald’s, a Denny’s and a Quik Mart. Eva pulled into the McDonald’s lot and parked. Pia stepped out and headed for the restaurant. The other six surrounded her so casually it seemed to happen by accident. The psychos had smooth moves, she would give them that much.

Feeling an increasingly urgent need, she found her way to the restroom, accompanied by Eva and Andrea. So far the seven-month pregnancy didn’t show much—a fact that pretty much freaked her out if she thought too much about it—and she could keep it completely hidden if she dressed strategically. But the peanut, bless him, was beginning to exert some influence on her bladder. That was going to get much worse before it got better.

The women’s restroom was more or less clean, and empty. She pushed past the other two women, slammed the stall door shut and enjoyed a few minutes of what was likely to be the only alone time she would get that day.

Resentment and antagonism were two of the troubles that had followed her. Pia hadn’t really gained acceptance from the Wyr over the past seven months.

Oh, she had from some of the sentinels. All the gryphons had embraced her, and Graydon had become one of her best friends. They also knew what kind of Wyr she was, and why she and Dragos kept it secret.

The gryphons were the only ones who knew. Not even the other two sentinels did, although that didn’t seem to cause gargoyle sentinel Grym any problems, but then it was hard to tell what he was thinking since he didn’t talk much. And she had achieved a kind of uneasy truce with the harpy sentinel Aryal—at least enough to spar with the harpy on the training mat several times a week, although they didn’t share confidences or socialize.

As far as all the other Wyr went, in the early days of her mating with Dragos, expectation had turned to puzzlement, and then suspicion as the whispering began.

She didn’t reveal to anyone what kind of Wyr she was because she was stuck-up.

No, she was a fugitive from some other demesne, because Dragos wasn’t the only one she had stolen from.

Or, she didn’t bother to reveal what kind of Wyr she was, because she was one of the antisocial ones, and she didn’t care if she made friends or fit into any of the packs, herds or prides.

She was stuck in a box, her options limited. She couldn’t just pretend she was a horse or a deer and dismiss the subject. Nobody would believe her if she tried, because her scent was too strange.

For the Wyr, it was hard to warm up to someone who kept something so fundamental to their nature hidden from everybody else. Knowing that and understanding the reasons why it was there weren’t much help. The low-level resentment and subtle ostracization still felt sucky.

Over half a year later, Pia still felt like an uneasy guest in what was supposed to be her own home. The only real friends she felt like she had were Graydon, who knew everything; the new Dark Fae Queen, Niniane, with whom she steadily corresponded; and a few people from her old job working as a bartender at Elfie’s.

Quentin, the bar owner, didn’t need to know all of her secrets, and she didn’t need to know all of his. And of course there was Preston, the half-troll barfly, who liked to describe himself as an eight-foot hunka burnin’ love, and who really was a sweetie through and through. Preston didn’t care if anyone had any stinking secrets. If you were willing to share a dozen orders of baked potato skins, lathered with cheese, bacon, sour cream and chives, and drink beer while watching the NBA playoffs, you were all right by him.

But Graydon was increasingly busy, and letters from Niniane, while fascinating and wonderful to receive, weren’t enough to satisfy her social needs. Quentin was absent more and more from Elfie’s these days, and anyway Pia couldn’t hide out at the bar twenty-four/seven. She could only visit a couple of times a week.

As far as she was concerned, there were only two things that made living in Cuelebre Tower worth it. One of them was the peanut—and she really had to stop calling him that, because the little fetus was already so smart, she could tell he thought his name actually was Peanut.

The other was Dragos, who was primitive, powerful, domineering, calculating, manipulative, infernally clever and tactless, and who she adored with all of her heart. Dragos, who created as many problems as he solved, and who loved her too, fiercely, so much so he had mated with her. Their lives had become inextricably entwined, and they had to work together for things now.

Which meant they needed to figure out how to be partners in more places than just the bedroom. (Because Pia was pretty damn sure they had nailed that part the first time they had made love.) And which also meant coming to an agreement about what they worked toward, even if reaching that agreement took months and sometimes felt like pulling giant, dragon-sized teeth.

The Wyr demesne and Dragos himself were facing too many challenges at once to deal with any one of them effectively. Dragos had broken several treaties with the Elves in his pursuit of Pia last May, and those treaties had not been repaired. Border strife continued with the Elven demesne, along with an ongoing trade embargo that had put several New York businesses under and was seriously hurting several more. Dragos’s multinational corporation, Cuelebre Enterprises, had bailed out several floundering companies and provided low-interest, long-term business loans to help out others, but they were all stopgap measures that didn’t really resolve the core issue.