The Unseelie Prince stands beside me, stunningly naked. Of the four—who have been so aptly compared to the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse—I wonder which two remain. Pestilence, Famine, War? I hope I stand next to Death.

I want to walk with Death, bring it crashing down on this immortal, arrogant race.

The dark powerful body, capable of such soul-rending pleasure, is exquisite. I examine every inch with macabre fascination. Even hating the princes as I do, it … excites. It thrills. Which makes me hate it even more. It turned me inside out. I remember the kaleidoscopic tattoos rushing beneath its skin. I remember the black torque slithering around its neck. Its face has a savage beauty that obsesses even as it terrifies. Its lips are drawn back, baring sharp white teeth. And its eyes … oh, God, those eyes!

I force my gaze to V’lane. Then I widen my view to absorb them both, being careful to avoid the Unseelie Prince’s eyes.

Thesis and antithesis. Matter and antimatter.

They stand like statues, neither moving nor seeming to breathe. They study each other, assess, measure.

Prince of Consuming Night. Prince of Glorious Dawn.

The air between them is so charged that I could power all of Dublin if only I could figure out how to plug into it.

Black ice rushes forward from the Unseelie Prince’s feet, encompassing the cobblestones.

It is met halfway by a bed of brilliantly colored blossoms.

The ground shudders beneath my feet. There is a thunderous crack, and suddenly the cobbled pavement splits jaggedly between them, revealing a narrow, dark fissure.

“What are you doing, Darroc?” I demand.

“Tell him,” Darroc orders, and the prince opens his mouth to speak.

I clamp my hands to my ears to shut out the hellish sound.

V’lane uses language to communicate with me. All the Seelie have been using my language in my presence. I realize it has been a great concession.

The Unseelie Princes grant no concessions. Their language is a dark melody that the human ear was not made to hear. Once, I was forced to listen helplessly as they crooned to me, and it drove me mad.

By the time the Unseelie Prince stops speaking, V’lane is regarding me with an expression of faint astonishment.

Warily, I remove my hands from my ears but keep them close in case the UP decides to start “talking” again.

“He claims you killed Barrons, sidhe-seer. Why?”

It hasn’t escaped me that V’lane won’t use my name. I suspect that, if he did, those of his race would think him weak.

“Who cares? He’s dead. Gone. Out of both of our ways. It’s not like you didn’t want him dead, too.” I wonder if they really burned his body. I will never ask.

“And it was the spear that killed him?”

I nod. I have no idea, but it’s simplest to agree. The less time I spend thinking about Barrons, the better.

He looks from me to the prince at my side. “And after you killed Barrons, you decided your enemy was your friend?”

“A girl needs friends.” I’m bored. Tired of this posturing. I need to sleep. I need to be alone. “Look, V’lane, the Seelie are immortal, and the Unseelie are immortal. What are you going to do? Waste everyone’s time beating each other up all night? As far as I know, there’s only one weapon here tonight that kills Fae, and I’ve got it.”

“You do not.”

“You do,” Darroc corrects.

Just like that, my spear is heavy in my holster. I jerk a hard look his way. “About damned time.” I guess he finally feels the threat level has risen sufficiently. Or maybe he’s bored, too.

I slip my hand inside my jacket and close my fingers around the hilt. I love my spear. I’m going to keep it in the new world I create, even though it will be a world without Fae.

“You do not,” V’lane says.

“I thought you couldn’t see or hear him.”

“I smell the stench of him.”

My spear is gone.

My spear is there.

Gone again.

I look from V’lane to Darroc. V’lane is staring in Darroc’s general direction. Darroc is staring hard at the Unseelie Princes. They’re having a silent battle over me and my weapon, and it infuriates me that I have no control. One instant, V’lane takes my spear; the next, Darroc gives it back. It flickers in my fingers, solid then gone, solid then gone.

I shake my head. This could go on all night. They can play their silly games. I have more important things to do—like get enough sleep that I’m sharp enough to be on the hunt. I’m dangerously exhausted. I no longer feel numb. I’m brittle, and brittle can crack.