I lightly touched down, my boots settled on pavement.

There was The Brickyard, on its large lot, tucked between two antebellums. The lights were on inside and out. Nothing had changed. I hurried up the walk, peered into a window.

Oh, how wrong I was! Everything had changed. Ashford’s police force, firemen, the mayor, and about a hundred townspeople were inside, and I didn’t need to crack a window to know they were discussing strategy. The walls were down and the whole world knew it now. If there’d been national newspapers up and running, the headlines would be about nothing else. The Fae were visible, and here were the grass-roots efforts of my town to protect itself. I wanted to march in and help. Educate. Take up arms and protect.

“Your place and purpose are not here, MacKayla.”

I forced myself to turn away, melt, like a thief, into the night.

It was warm for January in Ashford, but that wasn’t so unusual. I’ve spent Christmases in ice storms. I’ve spent them in shorts and a T-shirt. Tonight was a jeans and tee night.

As I walked, I inhaled deeply. There was nothing blooming this time of year, but I swear the Deep South always smells of magnolias, wild azaleas, sweet tea, and somebody frying chicken somewhere. In a month, pansies would bloom all over the town—Ashford was nuts about pansies—followed by jonquils and tulips.

I was home. I smiled.

It was safe!

No Shades, no Unseelie, lights on everywhere.

I spun in a delighted circle in the middle of the street.

How I’d missed my world! How lost I’d felt so far away!

It all looked exactly the same. It felt as if I’d never left. As if three blocks down and two blocks over, I’d find Mom, Dad, and Alina playing Scrabble, waiting for me to get home from night class or work to join them (and get my petunia trounced, because Alina and Dad knew words that any reasonable person would have agreed shouldn’t be words at all, like “ort” and “quod”—really, who knew words like that?), and we’d laugh and I’d worry about what outfit to wear tomorrow and go to sleep with nothing more troubling on my mind than whether my petition to OPI to unretire my favorite shade had been heard. (It had, and they’d sent me a pretty pink-and-gold certificate conferring upon me the title of honorary OPI affiliate, which I’d hung with great pride next to my vanity, where I did my hair and makeup. Oh, the trials and tribulations of a sheltered youth.)

There was the Brooks’ house, proud white Southern columns at the top of a grand circular drive. There was the Jennings’ place, with its romantic turrets and loads of white lattice accents. I walked the streets, drinking in the sights. I’d always thought Ashford had such rich history, but it was really very young, only a few centuries, compared to Dublin’s millennia.

Then I was outside my house, standing in the street, sick with anticipation.

I hadn’t seen Mom since August 2, the day I’d left for Dublin. My last glimpse of Dad had been on August 28, when I’d dropped him at the Dublin airport and sent him back home. He’d flown over to find me, determined to take me back to Ashford with him. But Barrons had Voiced him, coerced him into not worrying about me, planted who-knew-what kind of commands inside my dad’s head to get him to leave and not come back. I both hated and appreciated that Barrons had done it. Jack Lane is one seriously strong-willed man. He’d never have left without me, and I’d never have been able to keep him safe.

I moved silently up the walk. A dozen feet from the front door, a mirror appeared, suspended in the air in front of me. I shivered, as if someone had walked over my grave. Mirrors are no longer simple things to me. Since the night I stared into the Silver that Barrons keeps in his study at BB&B and watched the twisted, dark creatures moving around inside it, looking at my own reflection has been unsettling, as if all mirrors are suspect and something dark and horrifying might materialize at any moment behind my shoulder.

“In case you were considering being seen,” V’lane cautioned, stepping into view behind my shoulder.

I looked at myself.

The moment I’d seen our house, I regressed in my mind to the curvy, pretty girl who’d raced down our front walk for the cab so many months ago, long blond hair swinging, short white skirt showcasing perfect golden legs (when was the last time I’d shaved?), manicure and pedicure meticulously enameled, purse and shoes matching, jewelry in theme.

I stared at myself now.

I was a wild woman, dressed from head to toe in black leather. There was slimy green goop in my tangle of midnight curls. I was stained with vile-smelling Unseelie body fluids. My nails were ripped to the quick, and I was toting a black leather backpack full of lights and ammunition, wearing a battered bike helmet, and carrying a semiautomatic weapon. He’d made his point.