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Kelley eyed the furniture skeptically. The pieces looked more like an art installation than furniture—also made of silver, with a delicate and lacy design like newly unfurled leaves and shoots, upholstered with damask and accented with richly embroidered cushions that looked far too precious to put any weight on.

“Be at peace here. Sit down,” Gwynn said.

Kelley let herself be lowered onto the chaise. It was surprisingly comfortable.

“Welcome to the Faerie realm, lady.” The King of Spring’s voice was low, musical, and soothing. “We had hoped that, upon your arrival, you would grace us with a visit.”

Kelley wondered briefly how, exactly, Gwynn had known of her “arrival”—he made it sound as though she’d just stepped off a private jet, rather than tumbling violently through a rift and almost drowning in a waterfall—but she didn’t ask. Kelley figured that Gwynn must have some sort of system like her mother’s scrying mirrors in place—all the Faerie monarchs probably did—and she didn’t feel like letting him know how uneasy that thought made her.

Gwynn lowered himself elegantly down onto the chaise across the low table from hers and gestured for the Wolf to do the same. Fennrys shrugged and threw himself carelessly onto the other remaining couch, hoisting a booted foot up onto the seat with what seemed like active disdain of the delicately embroidered cushions.

The Faerie girl returned, her long skirts whispering across the floor, bearing a tray of gently steaming cups and a long-necked bottle of clear green liquid.

“Nice place you have here,” Kelley said stiffly, as the sylph poured a splash of the green liquor into each of the cups, causing the steam to billow and fill the air with a spicy, intoxicating aroma.

“It is much diminished from what it once was, but I thank you.” Gwynn elegantly waved off her compliment.

“I don’t understand. What do you mean, diminished?”

“Has no one ever bothered to explain any of the history of your people to you, Princess?” Gwynn asked, handing her one of the cups.

Kelley felt her cheeks coloring. Loath as she was to admit it, her ignorance of Faerie was pretty comprehensive. Aside from the stories—folktales, really—that her aunt had inundated her with as a child, most of which languished in the dustier corners of her memories, she knew very little about the culture of her “people.”

Gwynn smiled wanly at her silence. “But, of course, mine is not a tale that you would likely be told. This realm—all of it—once fell under my dominion entirely. These, my halls, were once filled with life and laughter.”

Kelley took a sip from the cup. It tasted like . . . the only way she could describe it was that it tasted like spring. She listened to Gwynn, intrigued and actually a little grateful. Here was one of the Fair Folk who was treating her like an equal. He didn’t, Kelley decided, talk down to her and he was actually telling her stuff that he thought she should know. It was refreshing.

“Time was”—Gwynn rolled his own cup around between the palms of his hands, staring at the liquid within as if the story he told appeared to him in its depths—“that I, Gwynn ap Nudd, was the one and only king of Faerie. That was a long time ago. Before the Greenman had even discovered that the Fae could cross over into the mortal realm. Before he built the Gates. Before your father, Auberon, became powerful and the Faerie realm was split into the four Courts. Back then it was simply the realm.”

“What happened?”

Gwynn did not answer her immediately, seemingly lost in his memories of that time, so Fennrys spoke up.

“War,” said the Wolf in a voice that Kelley could only interpret as wistful. As though he wished he’d been there, a part of it. “The younger powers rose up and threw the older one down. There were many factions and a long war, and when the dust finally cleared, Auberon and Titania were the ones left standing the tallest. They became the new rulers of the Faerie realms.”

The king put his cup down on the table hard enough to make the liquid splash over the rim. “My changeling speaks truth. Bitter though it may be.”

Kelley sipped at her drink. She almost felt embarrassed for a moment—as though she should apologize for the actions of her parents.

Gwynn shook his head and smiled gently at her, as though sensing her unease.

“I am sorry, Princess. It was a long time ago, but the memory is still sharp. I remained a king of Faerie, as you see, but in a role much reduced: left only with the shadow kingdom you see here—the Vernal Lands. Auberon and Titania split the lion’s share of the realm between their two Courts, Unseelie and Seelie, and became rulers of Winter and Summer, respectively.” Gwynn laughed then—a hollowed-out sound. “And all that while, as the others fought, your mother, Mabh, slipped in and built herself a kingdom in the Autumnal regions, gathering what power she could lay her fingertips on—which was, in hindsight, probably far too much.”

“Sounds like Mom, all right,” Kelley agreed. She found herself relaxing in Gwynn’s presence. He certainly had her parents pegged, and it was nice to hear her own opinions validated by no less than a Faerie monarch.

“Indeed. I’ve always rather suspected
she
was behind the whole mess in the first place. Your mother does so love chaos and strife. At any rate, when all was finally said and done, accords were drawn up, treaties made, and the Four Thrones were created. The magicks of the land were divided, bound up into the Thrones and bonded in the blood of the Faerie kings and queens.” Gwynn shrugged elegantly and smiled. “The Greenman created the Four Gates to the mortal realm in honor of the Four Courts, and with the excitement and novelty of having access to a whole new world and a whole new race of mortal playthings to keep them occupied, the Fair Folk were once again content. Peace reigned.”

“I was one of those playthings,” Fennrys said sardonically.

“Yes.” The smile vanished from Gwynn’s face, and he glared balefully at the Janus. “And even that was taken from me by the Winter King.”

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air.

“Um . . .” Kelley fidgeted for a moment. Now might be the time to get down to the business of why she was there, she thought. “Your highness . . . I appreciate the hospitality. I’d like to ask a fav—”

“Allow
me,
” Fennrys interrupted her brusquely, shooting her a stern, warning look.

Kelley closed her mouth with a snap. She’d almost forgotten how careful she had to be around the Fair Folk, even those who seemed genuinely helpful. It was never a good idea to be in a position to owe them anything.

Fennrys cleared his throat and said, “My lord, the lady Kelley seems weary, and I’ve been charged with her well-being. Perhaps she could take her rest here while you and I discuss the reason of our visit.”

“But I’m not—” Kelley began. But the Wolf gave her another sharp glance.
Okaaay, maybe I am tired.

“Jenii, please show the princess to a guest chamber,” Gwynn said graciously, and Kelley allowed herself to be led away. Fenn knew what he was doing. He’d promised to help her get home. The least she could do was get out of his way and let him.

Jenii led her through a maze of airy rooms on the way to her chamber. In one sparkling glass-domed hall, huge silver planters stood arranged on pedestals of varying heights, most of them filled with dark, freshly turned earth. Some bore fragile spring flowers, some were barren of any visible growth at all, and a few of the planters looked as though they were rimmed with old, dirty ice crystals. The air was heavy with the fresh scent of flowers but also the bittersweet tang of decay. In some of the silver planters, Kelley saw brown, rotting vegetation—like the kind that was always uncovered at home when winter finally retreated, leaving behind dead thatch and furry patches of pink and gray snow mold.

One dish was set slightly apart from the rest, and as she passed by, Kelley saw it was full of tall stalks of vervain in full bloom, bursting with tiny purple flowers. They were the only flowers she could see that were summer-blooming rather than spring-blooming. A promise—or perhaps a reminder—of the season to come, Kelley supposed. The heady, sweet odor of them was familiar somehow. It turned her stomach, but Jenii cast an inquiring glance on her, and she tried not to let that show on her face.

Kelley smiled brightly at her guide, hoping that Fennrys would hurry the heck up. Gwynn seemed nice enough, but his choice of staff gave Kelley the creeps.

F
or the first time that day, Sonny was glad he wasn’t wearing a good shirt. Redcap blood both stank
and
left behind a nasty stain. He wanted nothing more, in the aftermath of a hard-won fight, than to strip off his torn and much-abused breeches and shirt and dive back into the river to get clean. Of course, that would have been exceedingly reckless on his part. Dangerous creatures, lured by the scent of redcap blood, had begun to lurk beneath the waves, and a pair of long, greenish-white arms, hands tipped in fishhook-sharp talons, emerged to drag one of the wounded trolls from the shallows into the deep middle of the river.

Sonny whistled for Lucky, who’d been stuck up on top of the cliff when the trolls had attacked. The kelpie peered gingerly over the edge, and Sonny waved for him to head back down the trail.

“I’ll meet you at the fork,” he called, knowing that the Faerie horse would understand. He noticed as he walked that the cloud of fire sprites that had accompanied Kelley when she’d left the cottage with Fennrys were now bobbing gently around him.

Fickle little beasts.

He shooed them all homeward, with a warning that there was a possibility the leprechaun might still be in the cottage. The tiny sparks squeaked and rustled with outrage at the thought that a libation that had been poured for
them
had been consumed—floor dirt and all—by someone else. Off they zoomed in a grumpy little sparkling swarm, and Sonny couldn’t help but smile; they all now shone with the same deep auburn blush as Kelley’s fiery hair.
Apparently she made quite an impression,
he thought as he trudged wearily homeward in their wake.

Home . . .

What was that, really? The only home Sonny had ever known growing up had been the Court of the Unseelie Fae. Auberon’s Court. He felt a strange emptiness. By the time he reached the place where the path split and the kelpie awaited him, Sonny had made a decision.

He ran his hand over Lucky’s freshly burnished coat, conscious of his own still-sorry condition. For weeks nothing had really seemed to matter but the mission, the Hunt. But all that had changed when he’d seen
her
again. Just the sight of Kelley had reminded Sonny of what was truly important to him. And, impossible as it might have proved to convince Kelley herself of it, he’d realized that one of those important things was her father. Maybe not to her—maybe
never
to her—but, strange as it seemed, to
him
.

Suddenly Sonny didn’t give a damn what Bob had said.

If Auberon was dying, then Sonny was going home.

He passed several gwyllion as he rode: solitary Fae who sat at the sides of roads, watching passersby with too-large, glassy eyes. Solitary Fae were far more common among the Unseelie Fae than in, say, Titania’s Court, where everything was just one big party all the time and the Faerie there trooped about in large, raucously festive gatherings. Stone-still except for the tapping of their long fingers, the gwyllion just stared unmoving as Sonny passed. He gave them a wide berth and knew that, if he had approached them, they would have done the same. But then again, they all did. All the Faerie.

The Fair Folk were not his folk.

The thought came, unbidden: Kelley was not his folk.

But neither was she one of them. Not exactly. Perhaps she never would be, now that she was, for all intents and purposes, bound into the guise of a mortal girl. At least, that was his incomplete understanding of the events that had taken place before she had come through the rift in the middle of his river. With Fennrys. He clung to the notion that sending her away again—with Fennrys—had been the right thing to do.

When he reached the palace, the house guard of the Unseelie Court all backed off a respectful pace as he passed—each one nodding, acknowledging his presence and his station as he stalked through the halls of the cold, glittering castle.

“Oh, I knew it.” Bob’s familiar, mocking tone waylaid him as he turned the corner at the top of a great stair into a hallway that led directly to the king’s chamber. The boucca shimmered into view. “I knew you’d come. I should have told you he wanted nothing more than for you to join him quick as you could. You would have shunned the place like it was plagued with fleas. Humans. Contrary unto death.” He shook his pale green head. “Good goddess. You look worse than when I left you. Who would have thought
that
possible?”

“Please don’t get in my way, Bob” was all Sonny said.

“I haven’t suddenly turned imbecile, my young Janus.” Bob didn’t appear to move a muscle, but suddenly he was no longer standing in Sonny’s path. “I know that look. Stubborn as your mum, you are. And we all know how well my willpower stood up against
her
.”

Not at all, Sonny knew. In fact, it was Emma Flannery’s strength of character—and her desperation at the Faerie theft of infant Sonny—that had driven Bob to help her cross over into the Otherworld, where she had stolen another child back. Kelley. Hiding her in the mortal realm with the aid of a leprechaun’s charm.

Bob shook his head as if to dispel the memory of those reckless actions. “Right then. Do as you must.” He swept a low, only half-mocking, courtly bow in Sonny’s direction and fell into step beside him as the Janus stalked past.

Black Annis, chief herald of the Unseelie Court and a formidable power in her own right, sat on a low stool to one side of the arching doorway that opened into Auberon’s chamber. The Faerie’s hair fell straight in a long dark curtain on either side of her face, reaching the floor and covering her gray robes like a cloak. She looked straight at Sonny with her blue-white, pupil-less eyes, and he actually thought he saw something like relief or gratitude flicker for a moment in her unnerving stare. And even though the sharp, strikingly beautiful planes of her face did not change, Sonny felt her unspoken welcome.

Auberon must be worse off than I feared,
he thought.

Black Annis was not known for her sentimental side.

“He does not want to see you,” she said, rising to her feet, her voice a wintry hiss.

Sonny locked eyes with her blank, glacial stare. “And so?”

“And so.” She bowed, lips twisting upward, and stepped aside. “You may go in.”

The tall doors swung open on the dark room. Heavy drapes were pulled across the windows, blocking out the cold white light of the Winter Court sky. The floor of the chamber was piled deep in furs, and Sonny’s boots made no sound as he crossed to the alcove beside the bed, where he could make out the dim figure of his lord, sitting in a deep chair, with only a single candle to give him light.

Sonny knelt at Auberon’s feet, his eyes on the ground. “My lord,” he said quietly, the conflicting emotions roiling around inside of him muting the greeting.

“Strange.” Auberon’s voice seemed to come from a long way away. “I was almost certain that I had expressed—in most unequivocal terms—that you were to continue in the fulfillment of your quest to rid the realm of the Wild Hunt.”

Sonny remained silent, his gaze locked on the hems of the Unseelie king’s robe.

“Am I to conclude then from your presence here,” the king continued, “that you have accomplished this thing? Is it time now for you to accompany me to the Court of Summer so that, together, Titania and I may bind the Autumn Queen?”

“There are three hunters left, and they aren’t going anywhere,” Sonny answered. “They hide more than they hunt these days, and it’s not as if they can make more of themselves. Mabh can wait.”

“Can she, now? The Queen of Air and Darkness has always been the wild card that threatens the balance of the realm, Sonny. Do not be so quick to dismiss her.”

In the wake of that admonishment, the king sank farther back into his chair, and the silence stretched out in the room. Sonny stared at the floor as if his gaze could bore holes in it.

“My daughter,” the king said, finally. “Puck tells me that she has been bound into her mortal guise by a leprechaun’s spell.”

Sonny nodded. “That is as I understand it. If I could be with her—protect her—then perhaps—”

“You will do nothing of the kind!” For the first time in that audience, Sonny heard some semblance of the Unseelie king that he was accustomed to in Auberon’s voice.

“But why? She is your daughter!” Sonny raised his eyes, finally, and was inwardly shocked at what he saw. His vision had adjusted to the dimness of the room, and he could plainly see the ravaging effects of illness etched on Auberon’s regal face. The Faerie king’s visage seemed to have lost its timeless quality. He looked . . . old.

Sonny swallowed the sudden knot of emotion that had lodged in his throat.

“Finish your task, Sonny,” the king murmured, his eyes clouding, as though he saw things that Sonny could not see. Things in the future, or maybe in the past. “My daughter does not need you. She can take care of herself.”

“Without her power? How can you be so sure? What if she is attacked again? What if—”

“
Please,
lad . . .”Auberon shook his head heavily, focusing his eyes on Sonny’s face with what seemed great effort. “Do what I have asked of you.”

Sonny nodded, subsiding, and struggled to keep his concern for the king from showing in his face. He did not wish to shame the proud man.

Auberon’s gaze drifted back toward the window. “I didn’t really expect that she would come,” he said, and Sonny knew that he was still speaking of Kelley. “I suppose I shouldn’t fault her for that. She has cause to be angry with me. Hate me. Beyond even the reasons she thinks are the right ones.” Auberon laughed a little. “And, quite frankly, I am more than a little surprised to see you here, Sonny. For many of the same reasons.”

“I had to come,” Sonny said, quietly. “When Puck told me you were sick—”

“Bob. Yes, well. The Goodfellow tends toward exaggeration.” Auberon waved a languid hand and shifted in his chair. “And at any rate, I thought you had forsworn these halls. I ‘betrayed your trust,’ didn’t I?”

“Didn’t you?” When the king didn’t answer, Sonny threw his hands in the air in frustration. “Why didn’t you call upon me when you fell ill?” he asked, trying another tack.

“You were busy.”

“My lord—”

“And you are angry.”

“Do I not have cause?” Sonny snapped. Every time he thought about Auberon’s perfidy during Samhain, the wounds to his heart felt just as fresh as when he’d first found out. Now, finally, he would say it. “Tell me, my king. Do I not have a grievance?”

“Do you?”

“You called the Wild Hunt—”

“Did I?”

“No games, Auberon!” Sonny’s voice cracked in anguish, echoing off the cold marble. “I am fed to the teeth with Faerie games.
Please
.”

A deafening silence descended upon the room. Finally Auberon spoke. “Herein lies the heart of my problem, Sonny. My tragic flaw, if you will.”

“My lord?”

“I am not in the business of justifying my actions. Not even to one such as you. That being said, I will also tell you that
I do not play games
.” Auberon sighed and mustered a chuckle. “It is only that sometimes my expectations are . . . unrealistic. I unwisely assume of others that they employ the same kind of clear-eyed detachment and analysis that I myself bring to bear on a given situation.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t.” The king continued to stare into the middle distance, his dark eyes unfocused, his voice still soft. “I do not blame you. You are, when all is said and done, only human. But it would, perhaps, behoove you to trust your human senses—and
only
your senses—in this case. Cold, hard facts can often be a comfort, Sonny. Conjecture and assumption, while seductive, will ultimately leave you wanting.” The king shifted restlessly. “You ran afoul of Mabh once because you
assumed
she meant one thing when she meant another. You rode astride the Roan Horse when you
thought
the danger of the Wild Hunt had passed. What other assumptions did you make?”

Sonny thought back to that horrible night. He remembered the horn blasts calling to him—claiming him . . . Auberon stooping to retrieve Mabh’s horn from where it lay in the grass . . . What had he really seen that night? He had not seen Auberon
blow
the horn. . . .

“Are you trying to tell me that you were
not
the one responsible for waking the Wild Hunt?” Sonny gaped at the king in astonishment. “But if not you, Auberon, then who?”

“I cannot say.”

“Why not?”

“Because I truly do not know,” the king snapped. “And it is far too dangerous a thing to speculate upon.”

“Out loud, you mean.”

“Even so.”

“But you have your suspicions.”

“Even so.” The king rose and gathered his heavy fur robes around him with some semblance of his usual majesty. He cast a wan eye over Sonny’s shabby appearance but declined to comment. Instead he just lifted his chin and stared down upon the Janus as if from a great height. “Finish your task.”

“But, my lord, if there is some way I can be of more use here—”

“Then I would have you here.”

“Yes, lord.”

“Now go. I grow weary.” The dismissal was not up for debate.

There was nothing else for him to do. Sonny rose, nodded a curt bow, turned on his heel, and left the chamber, Black Annis following soundlessly behind him like a chill wind at his back.

“What ails him, Annis?” he asked as the herald pulled the chamber doors shut.

“Something ails my lord?” The ghost of a smile did not touch her eyes. “Whatever gives you that idea?”

Sonny glared at her, his skull pounding with a headache brought about by the tension of the last day, aggravated now with worry about the man who, despite their current differences, had still raised him from a baby. Sonny’s pulse thrummed behind his eyes.

“I do not know,” Annis continued, before Sonny ran out of patience completely. “When he returned to Court after the Nine Night, there was something . . . different about him. A newness. A light. A strength . . .”

Kelley’s light,
thought Sonny.
Kelley’s strength. After Auberon had taken her magick for his own so that she would never become a threat to him.