The Grand Mistress’s voice soared in volume. “I want to know the numbers of Fae in the city, so we can begin planning how and when to attack.” She raised her small hand into the air and made a fist. “Today is the dawn of a new order! No longer will I allow my love for you to blind me as it has in the past. I will lead my daughters proudly into battle, and we will do what we were born to do. We will remind the Fae that we drove them from our world and forced them to hide for six thousand years. We will remind them why they feared us, and we will drive them from it again! Sidhe-seers, to war!”

The crowd exploded into cheers.

Beside me, Dani said, “What the feck? How’d she do that, Mac?”

I looked at Rowena and she looked at me and we had an entire conversation in a glance.

Child, did you really believe you could take them from me? her fierce blue glare mocked.

Touché. Watch your back, old woman.

She’d won, for now.

But it wasn’t a complete loss. Although Rowena was taking the credit for it, at least the sidhe-seers were getting to do everything I’d wanted them to do, short of exploring IFPs, and that could wait. I might have lost the war, but I’d won a few of the battles. My first attempted coup had failed. My next one wouldn’t.

“Politics, Dani,” I muttered. “We’ve got a lot to learn.” Nothing had been easy for me in Dublin. I no longer expected it to be, nor would I waste time complaining when it could be put to better use moving forward.

“Uh-huh,” she agreed glumly. “But I still ain’t giving her back my sword.”

Rowena turned her cobra smile our way. “Kat, it’s long past time I bestowed this honor upon you,” she said. “You will lead us to victory carrying the Sword of Light. Dani, give it to Katrina. The sword is now hers.”

Five seconds later, I was on my hands and knees in the middle of a rocky field, vomiting the remains of the protein bar I’d eaten an hour ago. I’d never been on such a bumpy, horrible ride in my life. “What was that?” I groaned, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Hyperspeed?”

“I said,” Dani snapped, “I ain’t giving her back my sword!”

I looked up at her standing over me—skinny elbows poking out, fists at her waist, fiery red hair flaming in the sunlight—and nearly laughed. The kid was a total wild card. But our disappearing act was going to have consequences. Left to my own devices, I would have stood my ground longer. I would have offered cooperation, protection, and tried to sell them on it, same way I’d tried with Jayne. If that had failed, I’d have had Dani whiz us out of there. But I would have tried first, and the trying would have spoken volumes to some of the girls. It was too late now. I had no doubt Rowena was exploiting the situation for all it was worth. Making us out to be complete traitors. Turning our backs on the entire order.

I rubbed my eyes. I was too tired to think. I needed rest. Then I would figure out how to salvage the things I needed salvaged. It wasn’t that I minded being an outcast. I’d been feeling that way ever since I’d arrived in Dublin and had gotten downright comfortable with it. Alone, I had a lot less to worry about. But to accomplish my goals, I needed at least some of the sidhe-seers on my side.

“Did ya see her face?”

“How could I? All I saw was a big blue blur of bus as we whizzed past it, then nothing.”

“Was she ever wicked pissed! She really didn’t think I’d do it,” Dani said wonderingly, and I could tell she herself hadn’t been entirely sure she’d do it. Until she did, there was a chance Rowena might forgive her. Blame it all on me and take her back into the fold. There wasn’t anymore. Dani was persona non grata. There was no going back from this one.

“It was goin’ good, wasn’t it, Mac? I mean, I wasn’t just imagining it? The girls were listening to us and liking us?”

I nodded.

“Man, it went bad really fast.”

I nodded again.

We looked at each other for a long moment.

“Dude,” she said finally, “I think we’re outcasts.”

“Dude,” I agreed, with a sigh.

At ten-thirty that night, I was back in Dublin and headed for 939 Rêvemal Street.

I was pretty sure I’d found Chester’s.

There were three listings in the phone book under that name: a barbershop, a men’s clothing store, and a nightclub.

I’d opted for the nightclub because the advertisement had suited the voice of the man I’d spoken to on the phone. Upscale, classy, with a touch of the risqué, as if anything one might want was available for purchase there, if one had the right currency, walked the walk, and talked the talk.