Somehow I doubted it.

They were like Barrons. I wasn’t even sure they could be killed. If so, it was probably only by a single weapon, hidden inside an invisible box, on an invisible planet, with an atmosphere that would burn up any living thing instantly, like a gazillion light-years away.

But I knew a few things that could be killed.

And my sword hand has a permanent itch.

Slaying Unseelie gives me a rush that’s almost as intense as freeze-framing. The only thing missing is TP at my back, but I know if I ever have TP at my back again, she’ll be trying to shove a spear through my heart.

Supercharged on adrenaline and anger, I slice and dice my way through the subclub that bugs me the most: the one where the waitresses dress like school kids, in short, pleated plaid skirts and white socks, and crisp white blouses with starched collar points.

Kids. They’re the worst victims of the fall. There are so many of them hiding in the streets, with no clue how to survive.

At Chester’s, grown women are dressing like kids to trade favors for pieces of Unseelie flesh, the latest drug on the market. It has epic healing powers, and temporarily gives humans extra strength and stamina. I hear it makes sex really intense, too. The things people are willing to do for a quick high—eat pieces of our enemies’ flesh! Makes me want to knock heads together.

So I do.

I get a few good elbow jabs in on the waitresses, too. Half of them are those stupid See-You-in-Faery chicks who chirp the stupid phrase at each other every time they part, like going to Faery is something to aspire to instead of something to avoid like ten variations of the black plague.

They should be out in the streets, helping us fight and rebuild our world. Instead they’re in here, consorting with the enemy, selling themselves for a shot at immortality. I don’t buy that bunk. I think the Unseelie made that part up—that if you eat enough Unseelie flesh, eventually you become immortal, too, and you can hang with them in Faery all social-like.

I slay every last one of the Fae in the kiddie subclub, ignoring the waitresses screaming at me to stop. Some people just don’t know what’s good for them.

There’s black blood on my hands, goop in my hair, and my eyes are so swollen from my earlier collisions that I can barely see, but I don’t need to see much. I’ve got a homing device where Fae are concerned. I sense Unseelie. I slay.

I feel a big bad one behind me, worse than any of the ones I’ve killed so far, oozing all kinds of power. Sword back, poised for the killing blow, I whirl and bring my blade slashing down—

And miss!

The Unseelie ducks, rolls, and springs lightly to his feet half a dozen tables away. He flips his long black hair over a muscled, tattooed shoulder and hisses at me.

I lunge after him without even thinking and am about to slam into him when I realize what he is.

I change direction mid-lunge and scramble back, feet pedaling air. Feck, feck, feck, one of the Unseelie princes found me!

This is a battle I’m not up to today! I wasn’t expecting this because I never heard of any of the princes strolling into Chester’s!

I crash into a table, fall over backward, roll onto all fours and launch myself away. I’m about to find out if I can freeze-frame faster than it can sift. I rip open a power bar, shove half of it in my mouth and start shifting gears when the Unseelie prince says, “Lass, what the bloody hell are you doing? Have you taken a look around?”

I’m seeing through slits from all the swelling in my face, and my vision is a little dim, but I scan the place quick-like. All activity in the club has stopped. Fae and humans are lined up at balconies, staring at me from every level.

I tune in to what they’re saying.

“Crazy. The kid’s nuts.”

“Somebody needs to put that bitch down.”

“I’m not going near her. Did you see her move? Do you see what she’s holding?”

“The Sword of Light,” a Fae says icily. “Our sword.”

“Take it from her!”

“How dare she?”

“Kill her now.”

“I bet I can sift faster than she can slay,” one growls.

I toss my hair from my eyes, on all fours, every muscle tense, waiting. We’ll sure as feck find out.

“Who permitted that … that revolting … human … thing in here? Where is our host? This is neutral ground!”

“He swore an oath to us. He has failed us!”

I can’t help but smirk. Assuming Ryodan survives the collapse, he’s going to be seriously pissed. I just accomplished exactly what he’d tried to “hire” me to prevent. Ruined his rep. The whole club now knows Ryodan can’t guarantee safety at Chester’s. It’ll be all over Dublin within an hour. I might as well print up a special edition of The Dani Daily, broadcasting it. Good. If fewer folks come to Chester’s, fewer folks will die.