Between-ness is a defining characteristic of liminal. Limbo is another. Liminal is neither here nor there but exists between one moment and the next, poised in that pause where what’s passing hasn’t yet become what’s becoming. Liminal is a magical time, a dangerous time, fraught with possibility . . . and peril.

Halloween seemed to drag on forever. Ironic, considering I had slept until noon. I had four measly hours to kill until four o’clock, when I would leave the city to head for the abbey, yet it stretched interminably.

I called Dani as soon as I got up. She was excited that I was coming, and told me the ritual was scheduled to begin at six-fifteen.

“So, what is it? A lot of chanting and weirdness?” I asked.

She laughed and said, pretty much so. Invocations had to be recited and tithes paid before the Orb could be opened and its Fae essence released to fortify the walls. I asked what kind of tithes, and she got a little cagey. I wondered if Rowena planned to use my blood or something. I wouldn’t put it past her.

I called Christian and he said all was a go. His uncles had begun the Druid rites at dawn, although Barrons wouldn’t be joining them until later in the day.

I called Dad, and we talked for a long time about cars and my job and the usual light stuff that makes up our conversations lately. I hate that Barrons Voiced him into a worry-free stupor, and I’m grateful for it. If Dad had said one halfway deep or insightful thing to me today, I might have burst into tears and told him all my problems. This is the man who kissed every bump or bruise I ever had, even the imaginary ones when I was little, and just wanted a Princess Jasmine Band-Aid and to be cuddled and cooed at, sitting on his lap.

After a while, I asked for Mom. There was a long pause, and I was afraid she wouldn’t come to the phone—then she did, and I can’t describe the joy I felt at hearing her voice for the first time in months!

Though she chose her words with uncharacteristic tentativeness, she was coherent, clearheaded, and obviously not drugged. Dad said she still tired very easily so I kept the conversation short and sweet, telling her nothing but happy news: My job was fabulous, I had a great employer, I’d gotten a raise, I was hoping to start my own bookstore when I came home, I was making concrete plans to finish college and get a degree in business, and no, I couldn’t make Thanksgiving but yes, I would try as hard as I could to get home for Christmas.

Necessary lies. I understand them now. I could almost feel Alina, standing behind me, nodding her head, as I boosted our mother’s spirits. Every time the phone had rung for me in Ashford, Georgia, and my sister had made me laugh and feel loved and safe, she’d been standing in Dublin, wondering if she’d be alive tomorrow.

After I hung up, I dug into the doughnuts and punched up a random playlist on my iPod. “Knocking on Heaven’s Door” came up first, followed by “Don’t Fear the Reaper.” I turned it off.

I don’t know what I did until three. I think I passed a great deal of time sitting and staring into the fire. Liminal sucks. You can’t grasp it with your hands and shape it. You can’t make midnight come faster, or grow up sooner, or avoid the in-betweens. You can only hang in there, and get through them.

I showered, put on makeup, and sleeked my hair back into a short ponytail. I tugged on black jeans, a T-shirt, a sweater, boots, and a jacket. I grabbed my backpack and stuffed my MacHalo in. I was going to be out late. I holstered my spear in my shoulder harness, tucked in two of Barrons’ short, sheathed knives I’d pilfered from an upstairs display case into my waistband, and loaded myself with diced Rhino-boy, jars in my jacket pockets, plastic Baggies in my boots. I strapped my Velcro bands with the Click-It lights around my ankles and wrists. I even slipped a vial of holy water into the front pocket of my jeans. In this town, you never know what’s coming. As they say back home, I was loaded for bear. All kinds.

I went downstairs, glanced out the window, and did a double take, wondering if I’d lost track of time. It had been clear and light in the cold wintry way of early November, when I’d gone upstairs. Now, at three forty-five, it was nearly dark outside. A storm had blown in while I’d been blow-drying my hair. It wasn’t raining yet, but the wind was kicking up, and it looked like we might get a real ripper any time.

I picked up the car keys and glanced around the bookstore to make sure I wasn’t forgetting anything. As my gaze swept the four-story room, I shrugged off a sudden, broody fear that I might never see Barrons Books and Baubles again. Like I loved the city, I’d grown to love my store. The hardwood floors gleamed beneath the sconces and cut-amber lamps. The books were all shelved in their proper places. The magazine rack was freshly stocked. The fires were off. The sofas and chairs were invitingly positioned in cozy arrangements. The mural above me was lost in shadows. One day I was going to climb up there and see what it was. The store was tidy and quiet, stuffed with fictional worlds to be explored, business-ready and waiting for the next customer.

I headed for the back door.

It would be waiting for me when I got back tomorrow, when the walls were strong, and I had a whole year to figure things out. I would start keeping regular hours again, and get to work on my plans to set up a Web site and catalog the rare editions upstairs. No more slacking.

But right now, an Italian stallion was waiting for me, stomping and snorting. Out back, a Ferrari was calling my name. There were two hours of road between me and where I was going, and that was one liminal I was going to love every minute of.

SEVENTEEN

I made it twelve blocks.

My end of town, next to the Dark Zone, had been deserted as a war zone. Now, I knew why.

The streets an eighth of a mile east of BB&B were so packed with people and Unseelie that motor traffic didn’t have a hope of getting through. Most of the Fae were in full human glamour, trying to incite riot, and succeeding.

Garda pushed among them, demanding order with raised batons. There’re enough troubled youth in Dublin—in any city, for that matter—that even a small angry mob can combust and spread like wildfire. Especially on Halloween when all the freaks come out, hiding behind better masks.

While I watched, a few of the Garda—who were actually Unseelie in glamour—began viciously beating a group of youths with their batons, incensing the crowd. Other Unseelie began smashing out store windows, looting and encouraging others to take what they wanted. I called out to a few kids hurrying by to join the fracas. No one seemed to know what the rioting was about, nor did they care. I was afraid to get closer, for fear of damaging the car. Or me.