It was very early the next morning when Mac turned the handle on the door to The Fiddler’s Head, but Keith was already manning the bar. When he saw Mac, he raised a grizzled brow. “Never thought I’d see the day when I had to kick ye outa this place.”

Mac didn’t comment. A few minutes later, a mug of tea appeared on the bar. As he sipped, the bartender hovered. “You planning on seeing Sloane today?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

Keith lifted a placating hand. “The constable was in looking for her a bit ago, said she hadn’t been answering her phone the past few days.”

“Jack? Why the fuck was he looking for Sloane?”

Keith swiped at his bar, giving Mac an incredulous look. “Didna ye hear? The girls had some trouble the other week, some rough character giving them a scare. Lucky young Gery was there, from what I hear.” Keith shook his head. “Bad business. Folks saying it was probably just some crazy fan of Sloane’s,” he said in a gruff whisper. “But Jack wanted her to look at these pictures the mainland sent over.”

“Ye doona say.” Mac gritted his teeth, fighting back a sudden rush of fury at himself for being so antisocial with everyone this past week. Even supervising the work at Sloane’s house had consisted mostly of grunts and orders, not small talk. But why the hell had Sloane not mentioned any such encounter last night, not once in all the hours they’d been together? She’d shared so much with him, but not this.

His jaw clenched. Obviously, the progress he thought they’d made was less than he might have hoped.

Mac forced himself to relax. After all, there could be no concern that this incident was supernatural in nature. He hadn’t felt a glimmer of anything dark on the island since Sloane had returned, despite being on high alert. It had been quiet, as it usually was. The word had gone out in the Otherworld eons ago that visitors were not welcome on Manx. Oh, they got the occasional vampire or two coming round. As soon as he felt their presence, Mac would pay them a not-so-friendly visit and remind them of the consequences of any unauthorized hunting. Most moved on quickly enough after that. Once in a while, a satyr or one of the lower gods decided to brave his displeasure. Lugh himself had demanded an audience not so long ago, right before Sloane had returned. That had been after the incident with his bloody sister, the one where he’d set her straight about the consequences of using Sloane in any way.

There’d been nothing in the weeks since.

Since he expected it to be that way, Mac hadn’t thought much of it. Bav had been the biggest threat to Sloane’s safety, with her plans unraveled, the vampire Abhartach dead, all should be well.

But now he wondered. Crazy fan or not, he intended to find out every detail of what had happened to Sloane last week. Which meant finding her.

Now.

“She’s not here, Mac.” It had taken a full ten minutes of knocking at the flat door before Jenny had appeared. It was only when he’d bellowed out a warning that if the damn door didn’t open, he was knocking it down, that he’d heard any movement inside.

He was almost sorry for that now. Jenny was pale as milk, her freckles standing out starkly as she kept one hand curled around the doorframe. Islanders were born with the instinct to serve him, to see them as their sovereign. It had faded over the centuries, and he didn’t feel the need to press the point often, but it was still there, bred deep into blood and bone. He hadn’t intended to terrify Jenny, but right now, he couldn’t help it. The urge to get to Sloane was too strong.

“Where the hell would she be this early?”

“She goes running most days, comes pretty close to your place actually.” The trail was one he was familiar with. Depending on when she’d started, he should be able to intercept her easily enough.

He turned to go, ignoring Jenny’s shaky, relieved sigh, when he snapped back around. “So this deal with the constable and all, ye were there?”

Jenny blinked, looking uneasy. “Aye, I was. But I didn’t see much. Not like Gery and Sloane. I’ve never seen Gery like that, scared right down to the ground, he was.” Mac frowned at that. Gery wasn’t the most dependable lad yet, but Mac fully expected him to steady over time. He also wasn’t at all the sort to spook easy. “What did ye see?”

The girl rubbed her bare arms, shivering in the unseasonably warm morning air. “I looked out the window and I saw the guy who was harassing Sloane. It was just for a second while he was walking off. Tall, he was, with blond hair. More white than blond actually.” She shivered again. “There was something not right about him.”

Maddeningly, she didn’t elaborate, only chewed on her lower lip, looking pensive.

“How’s tha’, Jenny?” Mac kept his voice to a reasonable volume only through great effort.

She hesitated. “You’ll think I’m mad.”

Mac huffed out a breath. “Haven’t I known ye since ye were a wee babe? I already know ye’re fecking mad, Guinevere Creer.” His more relaxed tone, forced as it was, seemed to work. Some of the unnatural tension faded from Jenny’s shoulders, her lips wobbled into a rueful smile. “So out with it all then,” he pressed. “What was so odd about the bloke?”

“His eyes,” she said slowly, her own not meeting Mac’s. “For a second, I coulda sworn—”

She hesitated again and Mac couldn’t hold back his impatience any longer. “Goddamn it, girl, coulda sworn what?”

Her startled gaze jumped to his. “That they glowed.”