Slowly, I tease them apart and line them up in order: Cruce said Masdann was the one who most recently visited me on my couch at Chester’s, the one who sent me out into the streets, ultimately, to Cruce’s web. That means Masdann was also the one who said he needed tattoo implements to bind the Hunter. But now Masdann is saying those very implements aren’t necessary, and he knows it. And, if I hadn’t been so worried about Dad, sitting on the couch when he’d said it, I’d have realized that myself, because Barrons and I discovered together the tattoos never did anything more than annoy the great dragonlike beasts. Trinkets, they called them. So why is Masdann now saying they’re not necessary?

  “There’s no accounting for taste,” Cruce says dryly. “The Hunters will leave again soon enough.” He dismisses them from his mind and turns back to me. “I weary of waiting. I’m going to fuck you, MacKayla, while Masdann watches. And you will permit it, and you will respond favorably, because if you don’t, I will dispatch my prince that is impossible to tell apart from the original Barrons to the world above where he will kill your father and your mother and everyone you love. Do you understand?”

  I stare at him. It would work. My family and friends trust Barrons. They would let him close. And, given that Masdann can fool even me, and moves just like Barrons, he could mow down everyone I love, in no time at all.

  “A nod to convey agreement would be sufficient, MacKayla,” Cruce cues me coolly.

  Swallowing bile, hands clenching fistfuls of blanket so tightly I’m surprised my fingers don’t snap, I tell myself, in my best John Wayne voice, Buck up, little buckaroo, and live to fight another day. He raped me once before. I’ll survive. I’ll fight in other ways, when he’s not looking. I’ll figure out what he’s done to my powers and find a way to kill him. I have a fierce, brave heart, a titanium will, and I. Will. Never. Give. Up. Until I’ve won.

  That’s my mantra, the words I will repeat over and over while he touches me, while I disconnect from my body and retreat into my mind, and I will withstand whatever he does to me, and play any role I must in order to permanently eradicate Cruce from our world and save it.

  He plans to destroy the Earth. I will never let that happen. One way or another. Price be damned.

  I jerk my head in a tight nod.

  Cruce smiles. “I knew you’d come around. You’re a survivor, like me. It’s one of many reasons we’re going to be perfect together. Masdann.” He pats the bed beside him. “Come. Join us.”

  “I’d be delighted, my liege,” Masdann purrs, moving across the room with the same sleek, prowling grace as Barrons.

  I think woodenly, no wonder he fooled me. He’s a flawless copy, down to the smallest of details.

  Then Masdann is settling on the bed beside us, to watch while Cruce rapes me—watch me suffering the revolting horror with Barrons’s eyes staring out of Barrons’s face—and, as he settles near, he looks directly at me, and I nearly gasp but swallow it hastily, because crimson sparks just glittered in Masdann’s gaze and, coupled with his Hunter comment, a suspicion explodes in my mind that’s too divine to be true, but if it is, I dare not telegraph it.

  When Cruce reaches for me, tugging the blanket from my fists, Masdann strikes, with Barrons-esque swiftness.

  And I think—that’s why Cruce would never let him near. He knew how fast Barrons could move. He risked it only once. The day they ended up at each other’s throats in the rain, and I’d been the one to call Barrons off. Cruce had counted on that; he’d known I wouldn’t let Barrons kill him because I still needed his half of the Song.

  Clever, clever bastard—he was planning this even then.

  Then Masdann is holding Cruce by fistfuls of his wings and he’s—oh, God, is that how the Nine kill the Fae?

  Barrons never let me see, always blurred himself beyond my vision whenever he killed one of them. Sure, I had my ideas, but that’s different than seeing with your own eyes.

  Masdann crushes his mouth to Cruce’s, fusing their lips together. Cruce struggles violently against him, pummeling with fists, as Masdann inhales deeply, chest inflating to an impossible girth. I saw something similar, the day I released the Song of Making, when the Sinsar Dubh rode the Unseelie princess’s body into battle against us, escaping our trap in the White Mansion and, to buy me time, Barrons sucked the Sinsar Dubh from her body, by locking mouths with her in a savage kiss. Masdann is killing Cruce the same way, draining the life like a psychic vampire. And for some reason, he’s doing it more slowly than usual, allowing me to see.

  Abruptly, the bedroom door opens again, and my gaze flies to the entrance.

  Barrons just walked in.

  I gape.

  Or did Masdann?

  I narrow my eyes. What the fuck is going on here?

  Cruce bucks wildly in Masdann’s grip, locked in the deep kiss that’s stealing his life. His arms and legs flail wildly, his body jerks in an immense surge of resistance.

  Then he’s still.

  When Masdann shoves him roughly away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing with distaste, Cruce collapses to the floor, pale, eyes wide and leached of color. He’s deflated to half his weight, withered, a crumbling husk of a Fae, his skin wrinkling before my eyes, rapidly aging.

  Dying.

  I realize then, Barrons/Masdann/whoever-the-hell-he-is can control the way he kills to precise degrees. In the past, whenever Barrons killed Fae, although he never let me see the act, I saw the bodies afterward. They were unharmed, exactly as they’d looked alive, merely dead. Normally, Barrons kills swiftly, mercifully, without inflicting damage.

  This time, he damaged.

  Forgetting my nudity, forgetting everything but this moment, I clamber from the blankets to the edge of the bed, peering over, not about to be denied the satisfaction of watching Cruce die.

  “I took your life slowly, timing your death, Cruce,” Masdann says coldly. “So you may witness one final thing.” Barrons-on-the-bed glances at Barrons-at-the-door, and they share a smile.

  Then Barrons-at-the-door moves to stand near Barrons-on-the-bed and gazes down at Cruce, who stares with shock and disbelief from one to the other. “My prince,” he whispers. “How could you?”

  “Never your prince. Free. The moment you created me, I was no longer yours. You bloody fool, you used part of Jericho Barrons’s essence to make me. What did you expect?”

  To which Barrons-on-the-bed adds coolly—and now I know he’s the real Barrons, and has been all along—“Did you really think there was any version of me you could create, in any reality, in any universe that would not—first, foremost, and forever—be loyal to MacKayla Lane?”

  50

  Lost boys and golden girls

  CHRISTIAN

  Lyryka talks in her sleep.

  I sit beside her on the bed, staring down, unable to take my eyes off her.

  She’s magnificent.

  Unmistakably the daughter of a Shadow Court prince and a Light Court princess and, if I don’t miss my guess, I’d say Summer.

  The daughter of War and Summer is divided vertically down the middle by a clean, straight line. And, given her age, she was born at a time when the Light Court had yet to discover the Shadow Court existed, thereby betraying Cruce’s nature and existence by mere dint of her appearance. Solely because of her looks, the bastard sealed her away to use her, where she would never be glimpsed by anyone, and never betray him. And when he’d finished using her and built his new world, he’d buried her alive to die.

  Half her face and body are Seelie, the other half of her face and body are Unseelie.

  She sports the grace and quick-witted fun of Summer in wide-set eyes, the upward tilt of her nose, the quirky mouth that I can’t wait to see smile, yet the resolute strength of soldiers of war marches across her high forehead and shapes her wide, strong jaw.

  The left side of Lyryka is golden skinned and warm with an elegant, alabaster wing that shimmers in the low light of my bedroom. The right side of her is as dusky and ebon as I am, shoulder graced with a black velvet wing that smolders with cerulean fire. The hair on the left side of her face is blond, the hair on her right side is raven silk.

  She takes my breath away.

  Half and half, there’s no way anyone could ever look at her and not know she’s both Light and Shadow Court. A singularity, she’s spectacular, and I’m avid to know what color her eyes are.

  Abruptly, they’re open, and she’s staring up at me.

  Her left is tiger-gold like mine, with copper flecks and a hint of mossy green; her right eye is such a deep, rich cobalt, it’s nearly black.

  “Hi,” she whispers.

  “Hi,” I whisper stupidly back.

  She searches my gaze a moment. “Oh, no,” she moans, forlorn.

  “You’re safe,” I assure her. “You’re at Draoidheacht, and Cruce will never get anywhere near you again. I promise.” I don’t say, because he’s going to be dead. She’s recently traumatized, on top of hundreds of thousands of years of trauma, and I’m not about to add an ounce of emotional baggage. Cruce is her father, and our feelings about parents are complicated, even when they behave monstrously.

  “That’s not it,” Lyryka says, blinking slowly, looking heavy-lidded and utterly fuckable, but mostly as if she’s having a hard time keeping her eyes open.

  “Rest. We have all the time in the world, Lyryka.”

  Her eyes drift closed and she murmurs, sadly, “Yes, but you want to give me sex right now. I can tell. And I can’t stay—”

  I laugh softly. She’s out again. “Awake,” I finish for her. And she’s right. I very much want to give her sex. And hopefully when she wakes again, she’ll let me. I have years of raging lust stockpiled. Still, I’m not ferociously horny like I was when I first realized I could have sex again. I’m on fire with desire, hungering to make Lyryka’s first time everything she’s ever dreamed. After slow, tender lovemaking we’ll get down to hot and dirty fucking as I work devotedly to bring to life every fantasy she’s ever had.

  Bloody hell, she fascinates me. I look forward to getting to know her, to watching her live freely in our world, loved, accepted, and treated with the kindness and respect that has always been her due.

  As I tuck the blankets snug about her, I brush a hand lightly over each wing. Her white wing is warm, soft, and deliciously silky. Her black one is cool, strong, the feathers a bit sharp and edgy. She’s a walking dichotomy.

  Och, I’m falling. Hard.

  But right now, there’s a bastard of a prince out there long overdue to come face-to-face with his baby brother. Death.

  As I rise and turn for the door, a text swooshes in on my cell, and I tug it from my jeans.

  Cruce is dead.

  Well, fuck. I deflate. I have a serious hard-on for killing the prick. The text is from Barrons. Bring him back, I text back swiftly, so I can kill him again.

  Tempting. Not. Heading back to Chester’s with Mac.

  Dani?

  Ryodan went after her.

  How?

  You’ll see. And I’m not your fucking tribe, Highlander.

  Are, too.

  Not.

  Laughing, I pocket my phone. I turn and glance back at Lyryka, who’s once again murmuring softly in her sleep. I regret that I wasn’t the one to kill Cruce, but no matter. She’s safe now.

  I’m her sworn protector.

  She has my life, my hot-blooded Highlander heart, and the icy finality of my scythe to stand as shield between her and all harm, at all times.

  Lyryka will never be mistreated again.

  Not on my watch. And my watch is eternal as is my oath.

  “Dream well, lass,” I murmur as I head for the door.

  51

  I might not be a savior and I’ll never be a king

  DANI

  Shazam is defending Y’rill, and it’s going as terribly as I suspected it would.

  When the Hunters returned from their tête-à-tête, they’d not budged an inch from their initial position. Shazam would speak for Y’rill, the saffron-eyed Hunter Z’kor informed us, then they would remove the force field from his cage, subjecting my brave, weeping, loving Hel-Cat to the killing cruelty of space.

  I know what happens to an unprotected human in space and, given Shazam’s biology, I suspect he would die pretty much the same way, though it might take longer.

  The gas in your lungs and digestive tract rapidly expands, inducing swelling. If, like an idiot, you instinctively hold your breath, the loss of external pressure will cause the gas in that breath to rupture your lungs. If you’re smart, you exhale the moment you enter unprotected space.

  The temperature is a brisk -454.8 degrees, but you don’t freeze to death because your body heat doesn’t evaporate quickly enough to kill you before something else does.

  In roughly ten seconds, you lose vision. At about the same time your skin and tissue swell, as the water in your body vaporizes due to the absence of atmospheric pressure. You won’t explode—movies embellish for dramatic optics—you’ll stop at roughly twice your size. Skin is pretty elastic. If you’re lucky and retrieved in time, the swelling will go down. You don’t stay a balloon-human.

  The moisture on your tongue may begin to boil. You might get a sunburn from cosmic radiation and suffer decompression sickness. A few seconds later, mercifully, you lose consciousness due to oxygen being dumped from your blood. You turn blue, circulation stops, and in another minute, you’re dead by asphyxiation.

  Your body doesn’t decompose in space once the oxygen is gone, and conceivably your corpse might drift for a few million years.

  Hel-Cats are an incredibly long-lived species. It could take Shazam longer than the average ninety to one hundred twenty seconds to die.

  And these Hunters, our judge and jury, believe forcing me to watch him endure such a horrific death is an acceptable thing to do. I despise them. They’re wrong, so wrong.

  “I thought you were supposed to be so highly evolved,” I break in bitterly. It’s not as if I’m interrupting much. My beloved Hel-Cat is crying too hard to present any sort of case, and I know it’s not because he’s worried about dying as much as he’s worried about me.

  We’d die for each other. We share that kind of love. If not for Ryodan, I would willingly go with him. Take a chance on the possibility that Shazam, Dancer, and I would get reunited in the Slipstream, that mysterious, fluid place we go when we die.

  But Ryodan. I’m torn in half. I love them both.

  On the surface of my brain, I’m aware of everything, but deep in the core of my amygdala, part of me remains in the meditative state I achieved while awaiting the Hunters’ return.

  We are highly evolved, Z’kor says.

  “Yet you would kill one of your own because she broke a few rules, out of love?”

  Motive is irrelevant.

  “Bullshit!” I exclaim. “Motive is critically relevant. Intention matters. Regardless of how hard we try, we all screw up every now and then, and I guar-damn-tee you that long before any of you became Hunters, you screwed up, too. You just don’t remember that far back. Intention is the true, underlying desire that infuses our actions, and when we muck things up, if our intention is good, we learn from our mistake, refine our actions, and do better the next time. If the intention is bad, nothing is learned and the bad person remains bad. Y’rill’s intention was not bad. It was pure. She protected me and did the things she did for no other reason than unconditional love. Something you great, cold bastards obviously have no concept of.” I pause a moment, then my mouth says without conscious thought, without any intelligent control at all: “Fine. If Shazam dies, I die, too. If you are a species that would kill a being like Shazam/Y’rill for doing what he/she did, I want no part of being anything like you. If you remove the force field from his cage, you better fucking remove mine, too, because I won’t live without him.”

  By the time I’m done, I’m shaking with emotion. I don’t want to leave Ryodan, but this is pure bullshit. And if they kill us—

  Holy hell, I gasp, astonished, it’s happening.

  I can feel it.

  I’m shifting.

  There’s a great, fiery breath building inside me, and now I finally understand what Y’rill meant when she was always saying I had to find my “breath of fire” and “heart of scales.” I could never wrap my brain around it.

  I get it now.

  The breath of fire is a new part of me I couldn’t access, because I kept looking for it in my brain, and that great, logical mass kept insisting what I was trying to do was impossible. But the fire-breath doesn’t reside in my brain, it’s in my gut and it’s expanding, spreading, rushing into my blood, heating it to scorching while leathery scales form around my heart as if to protect my circulatory system from exploding as the heat spreads to my brain, my organs, and beyond, transforming bones and muscle and skin.

  Holy hell, my spine is changing and a tail is forming. It’s the best feeling in the world, as if the cosmos is rushing into me, and now I understand why Hunters insist the mother never help the child shift.

  It never felt like this when Y’rill changed me. In fact, I barely felt anything at all. I was Dani one minute, then Dani inside a Hunter body the next.

  But this time, my brain is kicking up a few notches, and I’m watching countless dark grids I never managed to wake flare with light as new connections are made. It’s exhilarating, dazzling, and humbling, and such a freaking rush.

  I’m getting more brainpower. I’m also getting more…wow. I drift for a few moments, realizing I see things differently. I’m a bit less bristling with life and hunger for action, and more compassionate, a bit more…ew! Humble? Ick. I’m not sure I like this. It’s as if my consciousness elevated and the quotidian concerns of life melted away, granting me a bird’s-eye view of the world, whereas Dani is all about the details.