The rising temperatures and stiff winds of March shifted and slowly melted the high hills of snow, and lethally long icicles dripped and shrunk as they jabbed down from eaves. Sentries patrolled, the occasional support troop rode by on horseback or on electric scooters. Some carted wagons of supplies that rumbled and bounced, but in this sector, won back and held by LFL forces, along the avenue once thick with traffic and tourists, the voices of three women rang clear as church bells.

She could smell the smoke from distant fires, hear the echoing rat-a-tat of gunfire from the north, the sudden blast of light from a bolt streaking across the sky.

And thought of the scent of roasted chestnuts, the blare of horns, the colorful displays in shop windows.

The sea of people, moving, moving, moving along the sidewalks, so many busy places to go.

“I bought my winter coat there.” Fred pointed to a hulled-out building across Fifth. “They always had good sales,” she remembered. “And there was this guy who sold fake cashmere scarves on the sidewalk right down there. I got one to go with the coat. Ten bucks.”

“I shopped there, too,” Arlys remembered. “I’d usually head downstairs and get a latte from the Starbucks after. And I treated myself to an outrageously expensive pair of over-the-knee suede boots at Saks that last Christmas.”

She turned, studied what had been a Fifth Avenue landmark. War had sheared off the top floors, shattered the windows. Oddly, a couple of naked mannequins sprawled like the dead behind the broken glass.

“I hope some resistance fighter looted my apartment and got them, and everything else.”

“Where did you shop, Lana?”

Lana smiled at Fred. “I was a downtown girl. The Barney’s on Seventh practically applauded when I went in. God, I loved to shop—to buy. Shoes, big, big weakness.”

She looked down at the sturdy, laced leather of the elf-made boots that had served her, and well, for three years.

“Oh well.”

“Do you miss it?” Fred asked. “I sort of miss shopping—the looking and touching and discovery. You don’t think about it really but, seeing all this, it brings it back so I kind of miss it.”

She hooked her arms through theirs. “We’d have had fun with it, the three of us. Shopping, trying on clothes, stopping for lunch.”

They watched a scavenging team haul out bags and crates from what had been—if Arlys’s memory served—a Banana Republic.

“But scavenging’s fun, too,” Fred decided.

“I’m amazed there’s anything left to scavenge.”

Because there was, because it seemed there was always something else to find, Lana’s mood lifted. “Well, it is New York.” She gave them each a hip bump. “Let’s go shopping.”

* * *

With her father, Fallon refined her battle plan, then called in her available commanders. After more than an hour’s debate, she sent them back to prepare their troops.

Will stopped, laid a hand on her shoulder as he studied her floating map. “Basically the same tactics as Arlington.”

“It worked.”

“Damn straight. Well, I’m going to find my wife before I head back.”

“She’s with mine,” Simon told them. “Give me a minute and I’ll go with you.” He turned first, pressed a kiss to Fallon’s forehead.

“What’s that for?”

“We’ll say luck.”

Reaching out, she gripped his hand. “Are the numbers right?”

“As they’ll ever be. We’ll get the word out. Buy you a drink later? It’s tradition. A drink before the war.” He glanced at Duncan. “You, too.”

“Sure.” Duncan waited until Simon walked out. “He’s warming up to me.”

“He’s always been warm toward you.”

“Warmer before I got naked with his daughter. But he’s warming up again. After the drink, let’s have another tradition and get naked before the war.”

“I’m for that. It’s all in, Duncan.”

“And it’ll be all in and done. It’s the right move, the right time. We’re ready.” He gave her a quick yank, took her mouth, took them both away for just a moment. “More of that later.”

Alone, she walked back to the map. She expected she’d have another heated argument with Colin, but she would keep him solidly on support on this one. She had additional fighters with the resistance—undisciplined for the most part, but fierce.

“Hey.”

She glanced over. “Mick.”

“Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. We had a little distraction.”

Since mud and blood streaked his face, his clothes, she doubted it had been little or merely a distraction. “Are you hurt?”

“Nah.” He swiped the back of his hand over his face. “Some DU thought they could push us out of Chelsea—your mom’s old neighborhood, right? We thought different. Got an assist from a small band of resistance, and tamped it down. But I couldn’t get here for the briefing.”

He wandered in, his forehead creasing as he looked at the map. “Is that my battalion?”

“Yeah.”

“When do we strike?”

“Daybreak. Let me run it through.”

While she did, he pulled a pouch of sunflower seeds from his pocket—offered her some, munched.

“You’ve got Poe leading Colin’s troops.”

“Colin’s not cleared for combat.”

“He’s gonna be pissed. You know he’s working on getting a tat on the arm—after we hoist the banner here. That’s not going to screw up the magicks, is it?”

“It’s the same as his own skin now. It is his skin now, so no.”

“Cool enough. Shit, almost forgot. I brought one of the resistance guys back with me. He wanted to check, see if he can find his daughter. He got her out awhile back with directions to New Hope.”

“Did he give you a name?”

“Funny name. I’m not sure—”

“Marichu.”

“Yeah, that’s it. I told him somebody around here probably had records, or could find out.”

“I know her. She’s here.” Gesturing for him to follow, she started out. “What’s his name?”

“Jon—nice and easy to remember. I never figured she’d be here. He said she’s sixteen.”

“She says seventeen now, but either way young. And persuasive.” She found an elf runner, gave him instructions. “Let’s find Jon.”

They took the stairway. They had the elevators working on magickal power, but Fallon found them too confining and slow.

“We keep records in an office on the main floor. Support staff are trying to keep it updated. Rotating troops in and out, wounded, casualties. How’s your father? And Minh?”

“Dad’s good. Minh took a hit—nothing serious,” Mick said quickly. “Just some shrapnel in the leg. He’ll be up and running for tomorrow.”

“Good to hear.” She flicked him a glance. “We’re okay, right? You and me?”

“Yeah.” After only the briefest hesitation, he gave her an elbow poke. “It’s hard to think of anything but the next fight when you’re in the thick of it like this for weeks. Makes you realize … stuff. I’ll be glad to get back to The Beach. Man, New York’s just too closed in and covered with concrete or whatever. How the hell did anyone live here?”

“Millions did.”

“Count me out. But that doesn’t mean the assholes can have it. We’re going all the way down?”

“That’s right.”

He grinned. “Race ya.”

For a precious few minutes, she was back in the woods, in their faerie glade, in the youth, racing Mick to a finish line. When he edged her out, she shook her head and laughed. “You had a head start.”

“Blew you away.” He pulled open the door.

In one section of the gilded lobby, medicals treated wounded. In another, support staff issued new supplies when needed. On a higher floor, a commissary had been converted to a mess hall to cook for the medicals, the wounded, to prepare the MREs.

She started to direct Mick toward the back when he called out. “Hey, Jon! That’s him.”

Fallon saw the man—black beard with a sprinkle of gray, tired eyes, worn and muddied boots—move toward them. He had a limp, a slight one, and a rifle slung over his shoulder.

“They’re checking.” His voice, gruff, grave, held the fatigue she saw in his eyes. “Said it would take awhile and I could get some of the meal packs for my people.”

“We’re fighting the same fight,” Mick said cheerfully. “This is Fallon.”

“Fallon Swift.” Jon scrubbed his hands on the thighs of his pants before offering it. “It’s great to meet you. We never lost hope, but there were days, and nights, when it was hard to hold on to it. My girl—”

“Marichu,” she said. “She reached us.”

He closed his eyes, then pressed his fingers to them. “Thank God. Thank God. I had to get her out, make her go. I didn’t see any other way to— She’s okay?”

“She’s … fast,” Fallon decided as Marichu streaked through the main doors. “See for yourself.”

“Dad.” Colorful hair flying, she all but leaped over the marble floor.

On a choked sound, Jon grabbed her up. All the strain in his face just melted away.

“Let’s give them some room,” Fallon murmured.

Mick stepped back, but watched the reunion, draped an arm over Fallon’s shoulders. “That’s what it’s about. That’s the reason.”

“Yes.” Love, she thought, bright as the sun. And friendship. She circled Mick’s waist with her arm. True as the heart.

That night she felt both lying in Duncan’s arms, and when they rose, vowed to take that—the reason—into battle.