By the time they reached Carlee’s third-floor office, the names and faces blurred.

“And here’s Lee, my keeper, assistant, and good right hand.”

“So happy to meet you. I’m a big fan of your blog.”

“Thank you.”

Lee was tiny, Asian, and looked—maybe—sixteen.

“Lee screens queries and submissions. She put yours in front of me with orders to read it asap.”

“Really big thank-you.”

“I love Bollocks. What would you like to drink? Name it, we’ve probably got it.”

“Oh. I—I’d love a Coke.”

“You got it. Fizzy water, Carlee?”

“You know me. Would you put these beauties in a vase for me?”

“On it. Gorgeous,” Lee added before she hurried out.

“Have a seat, Breen.” Carlee went to her desk, opened a drawer. She brought an envelope back, handed it to Breen before she sat, curled up her legs. “Your on-signing payment came in. Accounting cut that for you this morning. I’m really happy to give it to you in person.”

“It’s real,” Breen murmured.

“Bet your ass it’s real. Now, we’ll chitchat at lunch while you get to know Adrian. As I told you, I’ve known her for years. She’s smart, dedicated, and insightful. I think she’s a good fit for you. You’ll have the opportunity to see McNeal Day Publishing and meet the people working on your books tomorrow.”

Lee came back with glasses. “I’ll give you a heads-up when you need to leave for lunch, in case you lose track of time.”

“She knows I will,” Carlee said as Lee walked out. “Now, put your first signing payment—the first of many—in your purse. And let’s talk about the future.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

That night after an exhilarating day, Breen slid into bed.

And in the strange bed in the strange city, she had the first vision dream since the one she’d shared with Keegan.

Back, she traveled back to the green wood with the green river, with the wide, wild waterfall tumbling.

She heard its thunder, and the birdsong ringing above it. She saw a deer pause in the green shadows to watch her, and a chipmunk race, chittering, up some mossy bark.

It all spoke of peace, of safety, of a quiet, secret beauty.

But she knew, even as it tried to lull her, she stood on the wrong side.

On Odran’s side.

As she knew, as she watched, the deer grew fangs, and its placid eyes went oily black. Blood began to seep red through the moss while the chipmunk dived toward her, claws curled.

She swatted it away with a flick of power.

“I’m not afraid of illusions.”

“What do you need to fear?”

Odran walked toward her, black robes swirling through the fog that began to crawl over the ground. “I’m your grandfather. We’re blood.”

“You’re a monster.” She held up a hand, pushing out power to stop him. He swatted it away as she had the chipmunk. But he smiled, and kept the small distance between them.

“You killed my father. Your own son.”

“He left me no choice. I would have given him all the worlds, but he defied me. Attacked me. I made him for power, as he made you.”

“He made me for love.”

Now he laughed, an eerily charming sound. “Do you think so? How sweet! He left you because you weren’t what he hoped when he mated with the human.”

In control, she reminded herself. She would be and remain in control. “Lies.”

“Why would I tell you lies, my child?”

He laid a hand on his heart, then held it out to her.

“Why would you choose to believe those on the other side when they spin their lies? They show you smiles and arms of welcome, but they wish only to use you.”

“They’ve shown me the truth,” she countered. “They’ve given me back what’s mine.”

“Have they?” As if in sorrow, he shook his head. “They awaken you, tell you soft, pretty lies to draw you in. To use what you are to destroy me. And then they would destroy you. You, of my blood, they will burn you in the ritual fire should you fail, should you succeed. How can they risk such as you? How can they risk your power?”

“They would never hurt me. They’d never turn against me.”

“Haven’t they already turned? You gave your body to their taoiseach, but he turned away, walked away—as did your father—when you were not as he wished. They only desire to hold what they have, and when your use is done, they will end you.

“But I?”

He’d moved closer, just a step, but she could feel his dark energy, deadly, damning, drugging.

“I will help make you the goddess you are, and give you your choice of worlds to rule. I will drape you in power like black silk. All I ask is for you to join your power with mine. To give me a few sips.”

Closer still, close enough to touch her now if he reached out. She threw up her hands, pushed again. “No.”

His face twisted all charm away. “Then I will drain you and leave you empty and mad. You’ll be weak, lost, alone, as you’ve always been. Give or I take. Those are the choices.”

She fisted her hands, drew her power in, and yanked herself out of the dream. As she did, she felt his fingers score over her cheek.

Breathless, she scrambled up, running a hand over her face as she wound a ball of light with the other.

No blood, she thought, but rushed into the bathroom to look in the mirror.

No mark, no blood, no scratches.

But she could feel the cold still, and the echo of pain with it.

“An illusion.”

She went back to grab the bottle of water beside the bed, and drank half of it.

“But I controlled it. I held the reins.”

Still, she wished she’d brought the scrying mirror, wished she could talk to her grandmother. Because, control or not, Odran’s words hung heavy in her mind.

For the first time since kindergarten, Breen didn’t spend September in a classroom. Twice, she woke, all but sleepwalked her way toward the shower to get ready for that classroom.

Her face in the mirror over the sink, her hair—bold red, not the dull brown of her classroom days—snapped her into reality.

And twice, she did a little dance in the bathroom.

The freedom hit, always, like that first sip of coffee in the morning, like a taste of fine wine, like the aftermath of really good sex.

Yes, she carried weighty responsibility, had hard decisions to make, but she didn’t have to report to a job that didn’t suit her, or one she didn’t suit.

She believed an entire generation of middle schoolers would be better for it.

Freedom gave her time to write, time to spend with people she loved, time to think, and time to plan.

She waited, hoping to squeeze what she wanted to say to Marco between his arrival home from his day job and his date with a fitness instructor he’d been seeing for a couple of weeks.

But when he came home, he dropped down, then toed off his battered Nikes. “Let’s order pizza.”

“I thought you were going out with Mr. Hotness. Dinner, an art opening.”

Marco held out a fist, thumb up, then turned it upside down.

“Oh. Why?”

“I’m not enough fun.”

“Bollocks to that!” Insulted, Breen slapped her own fists to her hips. “You’re awesome fun. You’re almost too much fun.”

“I work two jobs, horn in—his words—time for my own music, and I’m only up for going out, for partying, once, maybe twice a week. Anyway.” He shrugged. “The art opening was my thing. He mostly wants to go clubbing, and I can get clubbed-out after working five, maybe six nights a week at Sally’s.”

“Well, he’s shallow and stupid.”

“Yeah.” Marco grinned at that. “I knew that going in. I mostly just went for his body. I mean, holy shit, did you see his body?”

“I couldn’t help it. It was right there. You don’t want mine, but I’ll take you to dinner and the art opening.”

He looked at her, then patted his knee. Obliging him, she walked over to sit on his lap and have a snuggle.

“You’re the best thing,” he murmured. “My number-one thing. Let’s stay home, eat pizza, and stream something we can binge-watch.”

“No zombies or vampires.”

“Chicken.”

“Guilty. Want a beer?”

“You know, we could get married and just have sex with other people.”

“Okay. In twenty years, if we’re not married or committed to someone, it’s a deal.”

He snagged her pinky with his. “Done. Now go get me a beer, woman.”

She got them both a beer, then sat beside him on the saggy sofa. “There’s stuff I want to talk to you about anyway, since we have time.”

“Yeah? Am I going to like it?”

“I’m hoping. So I told you all about Breen’s New York Adventure.”

“Next time, I’m going with you, and we’re going to hit Broadway for a show.”

“You’re on. A lot of the things they talked to me about, and I didn’t talk to you about yet, go outside the writing. I love the writing, Marco.”

“Girl, it shows.”

“And I really want to keep my focus on that, limit my distractions, especially since I’m just getting started. But I am just getting started, and it’s going to be on me to do the bulk of promotion and all that. The social media, especially. Beyond the blog—which I also love writing—I need a good, up-to-date, easy-to-navigate web page. I need a social-media presence, like—God—Twitter. And you know I’d rather be eaten by a shark than go on Twitter. They talked about Instagram, maybe Facebook.”

He tipped his beer at her. “What’ve I been telling you?”

“Yeah, yeah, all the things you’ve been telling me. I don’t want to do them, Marco, but not doing them limits my chances of reaching readers and building a career.”