“Why would he do that?” I say.

“How could I presume to divine his motives?”

I need to know how deep her corruption goes. “Are you thinking perhaps we should free Cruce?”

A hand floats to her chest as if in alarm. “Do you think we should?” A crafty gleam enters her eye. “Do you know how?”

She has always been weaker than me. He is merely a blacker stain in her already corrupt blood.

“I think we need to figure out how to get the grid the Unseelie King created back up and functioning. I think the chamber should be filled with concrete, the grid reactivated, the doors closed, and the entire city beneath our abbey filled with lead.”

I nearly stagger from the crippling fury of her emotional reply, although her lips shape sweetly the lie, “You are right, Katarina. As always, as everyone knows, you are right.”

I offer my hand and she takes it as she did when we were children, lacing our fingers together. When we jumped rope, she would always pull it short. She had strong conflicting emotions about me when she was young that made her hard to read. I chipped four teeth before I stopped thinking the next time she would be different.

We walk from the chamber hand in hand, as if strengthening one another with love instead of keeping the enemy close.

TWENTY-ONE

“I’m a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride. I’m wanted …”

I ain’t afraid of nothing. Never have been.

But there are some things that would be plain stupid to do. Got nothing to do with fear. It’s all about logic and practicality. You look at the world, assess your odds of survival in light of current circumstances, and choose the course that offers the best chance for whatever it is you want.

Like, say, continuing to breathe.

I stand outside Chester’s, staring up at a streetlamp in the scant light of dawn. The sky is one big bank of thunderclouds. It’s going to be a dismal, wet day. Happy fecking May in Dublin. Cold, too. I’m starting to wonder if summer’s ever going to get here.

Hanging on the side of the streetlamp is a poster. At first when I walked out of the club, I thought We-the-feck-Care had posted another paper in the few hours I spent cleaning up then sitting in Ryodan’s office doing a great big fat nothing but glaring at the top of his head while he worked, trying not to think about what stupid purpose his stupid desk served so recently—like, did he disinfect it or what? Whole time I was there he wouldn’t even look at me. Not even when he finally told me I could leave. I know I look bizarre in the clothes Lor gave me after my shower, but c’mon, get over it already. He didn’t have to not look at me the whole time and make me feel even more stupid than I already do.

Back to the poster … despite what I’m wearing and despite not having my sword, I was going to freeze-frame around the city and tear them all down.

Except WTFC didn’t post this paper.

Something worse did.

The flyer tacked on the lamppost is poster quality. Staring out from it, my face looks back at me in living color, full frontal and profile.

And I think: when did they take pictures of me? I study it, trying to remember the last time I wore that shirt. I think it was four or five days ago. There’s no mistaking who it is. Anybody would recognize me in a heartbeat. They were either really close to me and I somehow didn’t know it, which is inconceivable, or someone else took the pictures for them, or they had one heck of a good lens. I look pretty good. Well, except for the black eye and cut-up lip, but I hardly see those kinds of things on my face anymore. I’m used to the terrain, who notices trees in the forest? I squint. “Bugger. You kidding me?” There were guts in my hair whenever it was. I sigh. One day I’m going to have clean hair and no bruises. Right. And one day Ryodan will apologize for being such a total dickhead all the time.

The message is direct and to the point.

WANTED

Alive

If you are human immortality

is the reward

If you are fae you will rule

beside us

she no longer has the sword

she is defenseless

There’s info on where to bring me when I’m found.

To the Unseelie princes. The fecking feckers have taken out a hit on me. I always wanted everybody to know my face, but not this way!

“Defenseless, my ass.” Oh, yeah, they’re pissed at me. And they aren’t too busy fighting each other to hunt me. Or to be keeping constant tabs on me.

I look down the street.

A poster flaps on every single lamppost left standing, as far as I can see. I imagine they wallpapered the city with them.

“Aw, feck it.”

Then I brighten. Dude, I’m worth immortality and co-rule! They put a wicked high price on my head! ’Cause I’m, like, wicked dangerous!

I want to go hang with Dancer, enlist his help getting my sword back. It took me nearly an hour to shake Lor. Ryodan’s got him trailing me, making like my protective shadow. If I had my sword, Lor and me wouldn’t have to put up with each other. I finally managed to get him distracted with what he likes best: blonde with boobs.

I tear down the poster and ball it up. If these hadn’t been up, I would have already sped off into the morning, sword or no sword, taking my chances. This was a rude and unwanted wake-up call.

She no longer has the sword.

Gah, feckers! They just had to broadcast that, didn’t they? I guess Jayne is already using it, and word got back to the princes.

She is defenseless.

Did they have to underline that word, make it bigger than all the rest and red, too? I mean, what part of defenseless needs emphasizing? The word is bad enough! The whole bloody city is going to be gunning for me soon. Every big bad out there I ever beat up on, everyone I threatened or just irritated is about to learn I can no longer kill them. They already know I can’t outrun the sifters. But having the sword always tipped the balance in my favor. Kept them all from trying.