CRITICS RAVE FOR MELANIE JACKSON!

THE WILDSIDE SERIES

“Innovative and erotic!”

—New York Times bestselling author Christine Feehan

“An alternative universe that can match Laurell K. Hamilton’s.”

—Everything Romantic

“An excellent combination of fantasy and romance!”

—Romantic Times

“Sizzling romance and ghoulish thrills at a breathtaking clip!”

—Publishers Weekly

DIVINE FIRE

“Jackson pens a sumptuous modern gothic. . . . Fans of solid love stories . . . will enjoy Jackson’s tale, which readers will devour in one sitting, then wait hungrily for the next installment.”

—Booklist

“Once again, Jackson uses her truly awe-inspiring imagination to tell a story that’s fascinating from beginning to end.”

—Romantic Times

STILL LIFE

“The latest walk on the ‘Wildside’ is a wonderful romantic fantasy that adds new elements that brilliantly fit and enhance the existing Jackson mythos. . . . Action-packed.”

—The Midwest Book Review

THE COURIER

“The author’s imagination and untouchable world-building continue to shine. . . . [An] outstanding and involved novel.”

—Romantic Times

MORE PRAISE FOR MELANIE JACKSON!

OUTSIDERS

“Melanie Jackson is a talent to watch. She deftly combines romance with fantasy and paranormal elements to create a spellbinding adventure.”

—WritersWrite.com

TRAVELER

“Jackson often pushes the boundaries of paranormal romance, and this, the first of her Wildside series, is no exception.”

—Booklist

THE SELKIE

“Part fantasy, part dream and wholly bewitching, The Selkie . . . [blends] whimsy and folklore into a sensual tale of love and magic.”

—Romantic Times

DOMINION

“An unusual romance for those with a yen for something different.”

—Romantic Times

NIGHT VISITOR

“I recommend this as a very strong romance, with time travel, history and magic.”

—All About Romance

AMARANTHA

“Intriguing . . . Ms. Jackson’s descriptions of the Cornish countryside were downright seductive.”

—The Romance Reader

MANON

“Melanie Jackson paints a well-defined picture of 18thcentury England. . . . Manon is an intriguing and pleasant tale.”

—Romantic Times

THE MASTER & THE PROMISE

“I don’t know why he’s doing this, or how he can even be,” Zee said. “I don’t understand it at all. Hobgoblins are like a myth to us, something to terrify naughty children. The legend says that they were created by the first great goblin king of France—they were then lutins’ servants and the king’s bodyguards before they trained trolls. But the king had to kill them all because they were too violent and they tried to overthrow him. I thought they were all dead. That’s what they taught us—that King Gofimbel and the Dark Faerie Queen executed them all.”

She swallowed, then continued. “But this one isn’t dead. And he hates goblins. Humans, too. The rage in him was so terrible that I fainted in the parking lot. The children had to drag me away from the mall—away from his aura. It was like I had breathed in his poison, his hate—and he saw me. Nick, he looked inside and knew who and what I am. He knew about the children, too, and wanted them.”

Nick reached for Zee’s hands, folded them in his own and brought them up to his mouth, where he breathed over their chilled flesh. He rubbed her skin lightly, part of him marveling at its texture.

“Don’t worry.” He looked into her eyes. They were different—beautiful, but not human—he could see that now. And it didn’t matter. “We’ll find your Jack Frost and we’ll stop this monster. Then I will take you and the children far away to someplace safe where no one bad will ever find you.”

Other books by Melanie Jackson:

DIVINE FIRE
STILL LIFE
THE COURIER
OUTSIDERS
TRAVELER
THE SELKIE
DOMINION
BELLE
AMARANTHA
NIGHT VISITOR
MANON
IONA

MELANIE
JACKSON

THE MASTER

In loving memory of my cousin, Linda Southwick.

DORCHESTER PUBLISHING

Published by

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10016

Copyright © 2005 by Melanie Jackson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Trade ISBN: 978-1-4285-1698-4
E-book ISBN: 978-1-4285-1697-7

First Dorchester Publishing, Co., Inc. edition: September 2005

The “DP” logo is the property of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

Printed in the United States of America.

Visit us online at www.dorchesterpub.com.

IMPORTANT DATES IN FEY HISTORY

37 BC—Mabigon becomes Queen of the Unseelie Court after killing her mother.

39 BC—King Finvarra assumes throne of the Seelie Court after his father is assassinated.

10 BC—Abrial is born.

14 AD—Abrial becomes executioner for the Unseelie Court.

212 AD—The Fey retreat underground begins.

1367 AD—Gomfibel, Dragon Slayer, becomes the first goblin king of all European hives.

1692 AD—Qasim is created.

1710 AD—Qasim finds Wren.

1713 AD—Wren is murdered by Gofimbel.

1778-1792 AD—At the death of Gofimbel, the Goblin Wars resume.

1793 AD—The human Expulsion of goblins from Europe begins.

1805 AD—Qasim, the hobgoblin leader and master, is imprisoned by Mabigon. Nyssa is born.

1806 AD—The other hobgoblins are imprisoned or executed and replaced by trolls.

1973 AD—Humans Under Ground is formed.

1991 AD—The Great Drought kills off all pure-blooded fey, including Queen Mabigon and King Finvarra.

2001 AD—Jack and Io cripple Detroit hive and reopen fey stronghold of Cadalach.

2002 AD—Thomas and Cyra destroy the Sin City hive, along with all of Las Vegas.

2003 AD—Roman and Lyris kill the goblin and master-vampire, King Quede of New Orleans.

2004 AD—Lilith and Fornix are destroyed by Abrial and Nyssa, but Qasim escapes.

2005 AD—Nicholas Anthony and Zee Finvarra join the fey resistance.

2006 AD—Kris Kringle is found.

WHO’S WHO IN THE WILDSIDE

From Traveler:

Io Cyphre—half-siren

Jack Frost—death fey, and leader of the faerie folk of Cadalach

Mathias—Jack and Io’s two-year-old son

Zayn—a healer, former member of Humans Under Ground

Chloe—sister to the leader of the Detroit chapter of H.U.G., mother of a half-troll child

Clarissa—Chloe’s half-troll daughter

Horroban—late goblin king of Detroit Hille Bingels—current leader of the Detroit hive

From Outsiders:

Cyra Delphin—half selkie, half kloka (a powerful elf conjurer)

Thomas Marrowbone—part jinn, part wizard, part peri, part dragon, all computer hacker

Meriel—Thomas and Cyra’s infant daughter

Lilith—former hive master of Sin City

From The Courier:

Roman Hautecoeur—pooka and survivor of attack by vampire-goblin King Quede

Lyris Damsel—half-sylph

Innis—Lyris and Roman’s infant son

King Quede—late hive master of New Orleans, and master vampire

Father Lobineau—current hive master of New Orleans

From Still Life:

Abrial—nightdemon, executioner for the Unseelie Court

Nyssa Laszlo—dreamwalker, ghost-talker; daughter of hobgoblin leader, Qasim

Qasim—Nyssa’s hobgoblin father; imprisoned leader of the hobgoblins

Bysshe—Nyssa’s mother

Farrar—Pied Piper of Hamelin, Abrial’s uncle

Ahriman and Az—Abrial’s father and aunt

King Carbon—L.A. hive master

Humana Vox—Carbon’s second in command

The Master:

Wren—Qasim’s murdered child-bride

Nicholas Anthony—ER doctor, half-pixie

Zee Finvarra—Nick’s lover; a goblin/human/fey mix

Hansel and Gretel—Zee’s half-brother and sister

Nicholas’s ghost—the Ghost of Christmas Future

Sienna—daughter born to Nyssa and Abrial

Other People and Places:

Gofimbel—ancient king of goblins

Mabigon—late queen of the Unseelie Court

Cadalach—home of the fey

Goblins—known as lutins; six-armed, greedy and odoriferous

Trolls—goblin thugs, stupid, slow, and vicious

Hobgoblins—super-goblins, meaner, faster, bigger, and smellier

THE MASTER

Contents

I: How Monsters Are Made

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

II: A Haunted Man

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

III: The Last Stand

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Epilogue

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I

HOW MONSTERS ARE MADE

Chapter One

Nice, France, 1713

Wren loved Nice. It wasn’t home, but it was not a bad place to hibernate while she waited for her real life to begin. She had at first been frightened to be sent so far away from her family and her lover. But she had grown to like it here, especially in the spring and summer. And because she was living among humans, no one thought it odd that she had only one set of arms. She was accepted.

Every day Wren walked with the other kept women along the beautiful crescent that lined the shore called La Belle Promenade, and with those of the nobility who were brave enough to stroll along with them. She loved watching the courtiers and the would-be courtiers as they conducted their flirtations and arranged their affaires.

There were other entertainments, too, in which she could still indulge. Wren loved pigeon-shooting, races, gambling and concerts. Of course, as a woman of mixed blood—they thought her part Egyptian— and as a courtesan, she was not welcome in the homes of the well-born white human ladies, but that did not bother her. She liked being thought one of the human demimonde. There was so much to do out of doors, and she wanted to embrace every activity before her pregnancy advanced to the point where she could not conceal it. When that happened, she would have to go to Qasim’s home in Chatellerault and live quietly until giving birth. After that, she would have to care for their baby. It would be very special, she was sure.

But that was for later. Today was now. And society, all but one stratum, welcomed her. She had learned that wealth could open many doors. Her lover had encouraged her to be extravagant in her wardrobe, and she wore her gowns as badges of honor and a proclamation of her lover’s status. At first she had worried, but Qasim seemed to have an endless supply of money, and he doted on her: supplying her with servants, seeing that she had every frippery her heart desired. She had clothes for balls, clothes for riding, clothes for hunting, clothes for singing and drawing and strolling. In all ways but one, she was part of the beau monde that surrounded her.

Some days she was lonely, of course, but she understood why Qasim could not often come. He was bodyguard to the great lutin, King Gofimbel, and could not be spared from his duties. He had told her that he would, when the moment was right, approach the king and seek permission to marry her. But that might not be for a while. The king had forbidden Qasim to marry—even a lutin—because he did not want to lose any of his guard’s attention when there was so much unrest in the hives of Europe. And, of course, marriage to a human was absolutely out of the question. There was talk of war between the races, and King Gofimbel would risk no open antagonism with the human church.

There was something else, too—something about the Dark Queen and the politics of the Unseelie Court—but Qasim had told Wren not to worry about anything, to just go to Nice and forget that she had ever lived in Grasse. To forget that she was half-lutin. And to help her be less lonely, he had given her a cat—a sleek black feline he called Bastet. This was an amazing gift because Wren had never know any lutin who had a cat.

Wren and Bastet had gone, and obediently made human friends. The courtesans of Nice were very educated women, and kind to others of their class. They had offered her books and helped her engage tutors and coaches to teach her to read and sing and paint and dance. And she, in turn, sometimes acted as a go-between for interested but shy parties when well-born visitors did not feel they could approach her friends directly. Often she was entrusted with missives by these men, and though she knew it was a breach of privacy if the letters were not sealed, she read them aloud to Bastet, who also seemed to enjoy them.

There were two that she recalled vividly. One was from young de Sévigné. The letter had been sweet, almost shy, which was odd in a man who was such a bold sportsman and gambler.

Sweetest Clotilde of the Roses–

So infinite are your allurements, your famed beauty so great that it hath drawn me to Nice. It is my deepest hope that you shall grant me an audience that I might contemplate your loveliness firsthand . . .

The other letter had been a letter of farewell. It was sterner, more passionate. A man suddenly plagued with impotence had written to his seemingly indifferent mistress with an impetuous hand, scattering ink carelessly over the parchment and in places tearing it with his quill.

Fair Louise—

I plead with thee! If thine eyes are attracted to some other in my absence, shut them against him. Do not let those beautiful windows to thy soul conduct another to your heart. Fortify thine ears against sweet speeches lest they enchant thee. Do not linger long with other men, for though they desire you, they do not love you as I do. Their fierce affections shall lead only to profane lusts. They are shipwrecks of virtue and unworthy of you. For now, farewell. But know I shall come again when I am well.

Yours, Scarron

Would Qasim ever write her a letter like that? One filled with so much emotion? Perhaps. If their child lived. When she was his wife.

A tiny fluttering touched Wren’s belly, soft as butterfly wings. It told Wren that their child was still alive, that she was not pregnant with the dead as her mother feared when her condition was discovered. Her mother hadn’t said anything then, but Wren had seen the terror in her eyes. Wren wished that she could write to her mother, but Qasim had forbidden it. Her mother wouldn’t have been able to read Wren’s letters anyway; she wasn’t an educated woman. Neither were Wren’s siblings or father. Perhaps Wren could teach them someday. She would like that.

She sighed happily and looked at the sky. Life was good. A brilliant future lay ahead of her. She was only fourteen, after all. There was so much she could do once she and Qasim married.

Qasim.

When would he come again? Wren sighed again, less happily.

If she were truthful, she would have to admit that he had frightened her a little when they first met. He was so fierce-looking, so much bigger and stronger than any goblin or human she had ever seen. And she had thought that maybe her family was in trouble when he was sent to their farmstead outside Grasse, arriving in the middle of the night during a terrible storm. She had been only twelve then, young but not naïve. The family had been ostracized for years. Not everyone was pleased that her father had married a human girl. Not every goblin had been understanding about them having children—especially when it turned out that the whelps favored their mother and had only two arms. And as for the humans who lived nearby . . .

Wren shivered and pulled her lace wrap tighter. She didn’t like to think about that. There were terrifying rumors about goblins being burnt at the stake by the Church.

But her family had not been in trouble, and the stories of Qasim being a ruthless killer had proved untrue. He had instead been kind to her and arranged for her parents to have money for her education and clothes. He had visited twice in the two years that followed, paying court to Wren in the traditional way. Soon after her first molt, they had become lovers. And the instant he had heard of the conception, he had arranged for her to go away to Nice, where no one would hate her because the impossible had happened, because she was pregnant with a hobgoblin’s child.

Wren felt herself smile again and tilted her face up to the sun. The lutins might hate her and she was far from her family, but she could be out in the morning air, walking in daylight for short periods without fear of burning. It was a legacy from her human mother. Her child would have this gift, too, and it was a good thing.

A part of her wanted to tell the world of this miracle inside her. It was widely believed that hobgoblins could not breed. There were physical bars, and also it was forbidden by law. But in spite of the risk of the king’s potential displeasure, breeding had been attempted many times with lutin women and never succeeded. Qasim himself had been with lutin women before. Only a few had conceived, and those malformed infants had always aborted early in the pregnancy. That wouldn’t happen with Wren; Qasim was certain she could have a healthy child because she was herself a half-breed. It was her human blood that would allow them to procreate and produce healthy offspring.

She had wanted to ask him why he thought this— if he had ever had a child with a human woman— but she did not. Some things were not to be spoken of. Hobgoblins and pureblood humans were a forbidden union. Even to speak of such was forbidden. And it would bring certain death upon both parties if they so much as attempted it.

It was rumored that the king feared a half-human, half-hobgoblin child because it would have all the powers of the hobgoblins and many more besides. There were wild stories about how such a child would be able to see into the past as well as the future, that it could call ghosts and even raise the dead.

That was nonsense, of course. No one really believed those stories any more than they believed that hobgoblins had been made by stolen Seelie magic.

Still, Wren had read in the human Bible about a king called Herod who seemed to her a bit like Gofimbel. She read the Bible sometimes because a few of the stories comforted her. Her favorites were the ones about the virgin, Mary. She thought she knew how the Virgin had felt, her terror and responsibility at carrying a piece of the human Heaven inside her womb. She had been forced to leave her family, too, just when she was ready to give birth. Wren had empathy for her. Probably she and Mary would have been friends.

But as much as she liked the stories of Mary, parts of the Bible disturbed Wren. The worst were the passages in a book called Matthew. She had only read them once but they stuck in her mind:

Behold! Wise men from the East came to Jerusalem saying, “Where is he who was born King of the Jews? For we have seen his star in the East and have come to worship him.”. . . Then Herod was exceedingly angry; and he sent forth and put to death all male children who were in Bethlehem.

Wren shivered again. Not that King Gofimbel would do anything like that—he was a stern king, but surely he wouldn’t kill innocent children. Still, she and Qasim were certainly fortunate that her father was lutin and therefore Wren was lutin, too.

Feeling suddenly tired, Wren seated herself on the rock wall and opened her journal. She had found herself feeling more emotional of late— more lonely, more frightened, more passionate— and her mood changed erratically. Since she could not share the truth of her situation even with her friends, she had taken to keeping a journal. Her writing was still imperfect, as was her French. But she was careful to follow Qasim’s instructions and never use Lutin.

May 12:

I am a little sad today, even though the sun is shining and I have a new frock. Why am I this way? It is as if I am sometimes a stranger to myself, someone who is waiting for her true life to begin. I wait for my lover and I wait for my baby. . . . I am always waiting. Sometimes I hate it.

A soft rumble interrupted her, and Wren felt Bastet curl about her ankles. She never let the cat out of the house for fear of a carriage hurting her, but somehow the beast always managed to turn up when Wren wanted her.

“Hello, beautiful puss,” Wren said softly. “Are you tired of waiting, too?”

Bastet gave a soft chuff and allowed Wren to caress her ears. The cat didn’t relax, though; her vigilant eyes never stopped searching the shadows where someone might lurk. The beast always seemed expectant. Maybe she was waiting for Qasim, too.

“Soon, puss. He’ll come soon.”

Chapter Two

Wren came awake, nerves screaming that she wasn’t alone. Even before her eyes opened, she felt the others in her room: lutins, three of them. She opened her mouth to call for help, but a cold hand slapped over it and she was dragged from her bed. The grip on her wrists was just short of bone crushing.

“Bring her to the window,” said the largest goblin, who turned toward the casement, pulled back the heavy drapes and then freed the shutter. At the sound of his voice, Wren stopped struggling. It was King Gofimbel. She had never seen him, never heard him, but still she knew his voice; every lutin in the empire had it whispering in their head.

The king turned back to her. In the moonlight, his eyes were black. A tongue that looked much like a yellow serpent flicked out quickly and dipped into a small pouch he had about his neck. It came out coated in a phosphorescent green powder that was rubbed quickly on Gofimbel’s gums before the tongue snaked back inside the goblin’s cavernous mouth. Cold, serpentine eyes watched Wren all the while.

She thought the king repellant and was ashamed.

“So, you are Qasim’s little secret.” The voice reverberated in her brain just as Qasim’s would. But this voice hurt and pried cruelly.

Her captor’s hand dropped from her mouth so that Wren could answer. She resisted the voice in her mind, but the struggle was unequal. Unable to help herself, Wren finally nodded assent. The tendons in her neck popped as she fought the acknowledgment, and pain raced down her back and shoulders as the muscles tore, but she could not refuse to answer.

Gofimbel reached out one of his left hands, and Wren noticed that the rumors were true. The king had six fingers. It was said that several goblins in his family had grown extra limbs and digits. He laid his large palm against her belly and cocked his head, as though listening. Wren urged the baby to stillness, but like her, it felt compelled to answer the king’s call. And like her, it felt pain.

“So it’s true.” Gofimbel sounded almost baffled. “Mabigon was right. Qasim has disobeyed me and conceived a child with a human. How unacceptably bold of him.”

“I am lutin,” Wren answered, desperation forcing the words from her frozen throat. The sound was barely a whisper; terror had a stranglehold on her vocal chords. “My father is lutin, so I am, too.”

“Not lutin enough—not nearly enough. After all, your bastard child lives. That should not be.” The king nodded once to the goblin on Wren’s left. “Finish it. I want to be gone before full light. I’ll deal with Qasim later.”

Wren was spun about roughly. One lutin guard held her while another cut off a hank of her hair. She watched in horror as he began braiding it into a garrote.

So that is the sentence. It is to be strangulation, she thought, numb with horror. How could this happen? It couldn’t be real—she was asleep. In a moment she would awaken and go to the window and smell the orange blossoms and mimosa on the morning air. Those were her favorite scents.

“You can smell the mimosa,” King Gofimbel said. “I hate mimosa. It’s such a human odor.”

There was a slight movement from under the bed and two golden eyes stared out at Wren. They were angry.

No! Don’t! Wren thought. They’ll kill you, too. You know they hate cats. Please . . . one of us must live so Qasim will know what happened. He must be warned to stay away or the king may kill him too.

Gofimbel shrugged off his cape of goblin hides and turned around. He opened a long ivory box sitting on Wren writing table and removed an obsidian blade. He held it close to his nose and then flicked it with his tongue. His voice was almost gentle when next he spoke, using human French. It was as though he didn’t believe she was at all lutin, and that he wanted to be sure she understood what was going to happen.

“I truly am sorry about this, but I can’t let that child—or you—live. It’s a matter of discipline. It’s taken me three hundred years to unite the hives. I can’t have anyone disrupting the union with a challenge for power, and I am very afraid that this is what Qasim means to do.”

Wren began to cry silently. She didn’t beg for mercy, though, because she knew that none would be forthcoming. Nothing had ever looked more pitiless than her king.

“Get on with it,” Gofimbel ordered.

The goblin with the garrote quickly closed the shutters, closing out the moonlight and closing in the noise. Wren closed her eyes and tried to think about the mimosa.

Maybe, she thought, if I think about that, it won’t be so bad.

Chapter Three

Qasim knelt at the side of the bed, uncaring that he squatted in shards of glass from a broken vase that had held a small bouquet of mimosa and orange blossoms. Bastet, more fastidious, sat beside him on a clean patch of rug, head bowed in a show of formal mourning. Neither of them looked at Wren’s stiffening body: Qasim because he couldn’t bear to see her glorious locks tied tight around her neck, Bastet because she had already seen it.

The emotional desolation Qasim felt was strange. He understood his anger, his impotent rage that Gofimbel should have discovered Wren and their child, whom he had killed in retaliation. But there was another sensation: a wretchedness of spirit that suggested he was feeling something more, some other loss unrelated to the frustration of his ambition.

Qasim comprehended it in part. His affection for Wren had been foolish and unintended, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t been real. Nor had it been a simple, frivolous physical desire that would eventually be forgotten when she was replaced by someone else. None of his desires were ever simple or frivolous. In that respect, he was more like a human than a goblin.

So, Qasim thought, he was suffering the death of his ambitions, but also something more. Maybe several somethings.

To begin with, though he had done his best to protect her and the baby from Gofimbel, it hadn’t been enough. Wren and the child had died because of him—casualties of war, but unwitting ones who should not have come under fire. So he felt guilt; unwanted, but not undeserved. This, too, was a more human reaction than a goblin one.

But, unlike a human, Qasim could not cry. Hobgoblins had not been created with the capacity to weep, and he had never anticipated the need. After all, weeping changed nothing. It didn’t alter fate, or soften evil hearts. It couldn’t raise the dead or cure the sick, so why should hobgoblins have been given such a visible weakness? What cared the goblin king that by not weeping Qasim was kept from something inside of himself—something that lived in desperate isolation? Better that the king’s soldiers never feel anything at all than feel weakness.

But Gofimbel had somehow miscalculated, and inside Qasim did cry out. In his heart—if heart he had—he wailed and asked for Wren’s forgiveness.

Of course, there was no answer. She was gone beyond where he could reach her, or make amends. And reparation meant nothing to the dead. He had learned this at Gofimbel’s hands. Comprehension of his loss was suddenly absolute:

There would be no future with Wren. They would have no children.

Gofimbel would remain king.

Hobgoblins would remain slaves.

“I failed, Wren.” The words were a wound in his throat.

The realization was terrible. It filled him with . . . grief. That was the word. He felt grief.

Absently, Qasim reached out for Bastet. The cat permitted the touch. She hated goblins; they were anathema to her race. But Qasim was different. Part animal himself, he understood her. The cat hadn’t understood Wren as well, but the half-lutin female had belonged to Qasim, so Bastet had stayed with her in her exile. She had stayed even for her death.

“I smell mimosa and orange blossoms,” Qasim said suddenly. “Wren loved mimosa and orange blossoms. They were her favorite flowers.”

The cat looked toward the shuttered window.

Qasim followed her gaze and then got to his feet. He went to the window, where a small current of air eddied at the shutters’ imprecise joining. He pulled the boards wide. Leaning out into the cool morning air, he grabbed limbs from the trees, ripping them free. Not sure what to do with the blossomed branches once he had them in hand, he took them to the bed. Bastet rose onto her hind legs and pawed the coverlet. Understanding, Qasim gently laid the bruised twigs on Wren’s small body, softening the grim view and making it look as though she was just sleeping in a bower. The gesture made him feel a little better.

Below them, a door slammed. Bastet hissed a sharp warning and then leapt for the open window. There were two things the cat loathed: one was goblins, the other Queen Mabigon. Qasim had never been certain whether it was the queen herself who bothered the cat, or her constant companion, the ravenous gargoyle.

Not knowing whom to expect—and, at the moment, not really caring—Qasim turned toward the door and waited.

A moment later, the Dark Queen appeared. She came veiled in black and bearing an armload of deep, red roses. Qasim noted that they still had their thorns, and their stems were as ragged as the branches of orange blossoms and mimosa he had torn from the trees. She had probably ripped them off the bushes in the garden.

“You,” he said. He added ironically, “I’m honored.”

Mabigon tactfully left her pet gargoyle outside the door.

“I came as soon as I heard,” the queen said in her dark, smoky voice. She pulled back her long black veil and then scattered her flowers carelessly over Wren’s body and face, demonstrating her true indifference to Wren’s death. The room filled with the familiar scent of dragon’s blood, thickened with myrrh and tickles of clove; it was the queen’s favorite perfume, and Qasim realized that he hated it even as it attracted him. “How upset you must be. This does rather end your little plan for freedom, doesn’t it, my foolish one?”

Qasim looked at her, wondering how—and why and when—she had heard about Wren. Mabigon was a jealous queen and also a jealous lover. This made her vindictive, a trait that did not endear her to her people. Or to Qasim.

But there was also no denying that she had a terrible, enthralling sort of beauty. It had fascinated him from the first. He wondered why he wasn’t moved by it anymore.

“It certainly ended Wren,” he said, surprised at how cold he sounded. Apparently his vocal chords were not connected to his heart, which still wailed.

“What will you do now?” the Dark Queen asked her sometimes lover.

“That rather depends on King Gofimbel. He’s bound to be somewhat . . . upset.” Qasim wondered now if Mabigon had been the one to betray him to the king. It would be like her to get someone else to do her killing for her—and she would enjoy having the goblin lord in her debt.

“I’ve spoken with Gofimbel already,” Mabigon answered quickly. “And he is prepared to let the matter pass without further punishment. Assuming that you are also going to be reasonable.”

So, she had been the one to betray him. Was he going to be reasonable about this? Qasim wasn’t sure. Wren was dead and he had just decided that no reparation could be made to her. And there was no denying that the queen could still be useful. Nevertheless, a part of him wanted to break the Dark Queen’s lovely neck. Gofimbel’s might have been the hands that wreaked the murder, but she had certainly guided them. And Qasim could kill her. The creation magic forbade him turning on Gofimbel, but his lover was another matter—and she had foolishly come with just her gargoyle, the arrogant bitch.

“You will do the wise thing, won’t you?” she asked.

He ignored her question. “And you?” he asked, distantly curious. “What is to be your pound of flesh for this indiscretion?”

“For this little half-goblin?” The queen’s nostrils flared. “She is nothing. A means to an end—a foolish end, which I hope you now realize is impossible. . . . You didn’t love her after all, did you?” The queen’s voice was a sudden whiplash.

“Love her?” Qasim repeated. He tilted his head as he considered this. He said slowly and truthfully, “I don’t think that I can love anyone. I wasn’t made that way.”

“Well, then,” Mabigon said with a cold smile, “I have nothing to be jealous of, do I? For I am far more beautiful than she.”

“Far more,” Qasim agreed.

“She is nothing—especially now. Shall we let Prax eat her?” Mabigon asked, indicating her gargoyle, who had crept a few steps into the room, drawn by the smell of death. The creature’s gaze was avid as it stared at the corpse.

Unable to explain his reaction even to himself, Qasim was nonetheless offended and even enraged at the idea. “No,” he said, managing to keep his voice calm, in spite of the heat that rolled through him. “I’m going to burn the building. The humans will find her body in bed and think it was an accident.”

The Dark Queen nodded reluctantly. Qasim knew she wanted to watch Prax eat Wren—and make him watch, too—but she was also practical. Anything that looked like a gargoyle attack would arouse the humans and bring on a hunt for the beast.

“Then let’s do it and be away. This place stinks of flowers—and you know how I hate being out in the sun.”

And death. It smells of death, Qasim thought. But that didn’t bother the queen. And had it been anyone other than Wren, it wouldn’t have bothered him either. It was what they traded in, after all.

The hobgoblin reached for the candle at the side of the bed. He lit it carefully and then lifted the flame to the bed curtains. The velvet shied away, but in the end it caught fire, began blazing grandly.

Good-bye, Wren, he thought as the flames closed in on her. It may not be our children who bring down the goblins, but the goblins will someday pay. Someday, I promise.

He suddenly remembered their last kiss—how sweet she had been and how shy, as she had looked up at him with wide golden eyes. There has been mimosa and orange blossoms in bloom then, too, and she’d worn a wreath of them in her hair.

Qasim allowed himself a moment to savor the only happy recollection of his life, and then he slammed the door on her memory.

He would never think of her again.

II

A HAUNTED MAN

Chapter One

December 20, 2005

Qasim’s face twitched. It still hurt, but the surgery in New Orleans had been largely successful. There were just a few sutures in his mouth holding his skin together at the place where his tusks had been removed by a now dead oral surgeon. Contact lenses hid his eyes, though the irises were still an unpleasant shade of gray that resembled the smoke from burning tires, and he’d learned how to roll up his tongue so that it didn’t show when he spoke. Really, in spite of the pallor that belonged on someone in a crack house, and his size, he looked quite respectable; he could be any exceptionally muscular man involved in a near-fatal car crash and then stuck in a hospital for months to recover in darkness.

Still, the Christmas crowds tended to part around him, as though these sheep somehow sensed—in spite of his brightly colored shopping bag from Cherries Galore clasped in his now five-fingered hand—that he was not truly one of them. He had actually terrified the clerk in the fruit shop into trembling speechlessness. The boy would probably have to send his uniform to the cleaners after work. It had been an accidental revelation, a moment of unusual discernment on the young man’s part and a rare moment of unguardedness on Qasim’s, when the boy had looked him in the eye and seen the true monster that dwelled behind the colored plastic lenses. It was potentially inconvenient, too, though it was good to know that he could still strike terror into the human heart without even trying. There would be a time to put such fear to use. Still, if the boy talked, he would have to be taken care of, and Qasim would rather not have the police around, fussing over a body. That would make everyone extra watchful and fearful.

Fear . . . it had its uses, but it was overused in human civilization. Qasim had seen politicians routinely use it to turn the populace into a unified voting block guided to key choices beneficial to society—at least, beneficial to the politicians’ society.

Advertisers used low-grade fear, too, and quite effectively. Dandruff, facial lines, body odor, bad breath, gum disease, flared or peg-leg jeans—it was universal, this insidious installation of concern about one’s health and appearance. It made the human populace so predictable and dull. Not that they needed much help.

Qasim stood still, eavesdropping on the thoughts around him. Yes, it was here even now: mild but chronic fear and worry. It was everywhere. Just as he’d expected. And the sheep suspected nothing. They didn’t know that death walked among them; they just milled about, row upon column upon regiment—human clots of worried eyes and troubled brains, looking at watches, looking at their children, mostly looking at the other humans who stood between them and the throne where the fake Santa Claus held court. And when there was nothing else left to stare at, they gazed into the eyes of the mechanical snowmen shoveling fake snow at the outskirts of this fake North Pole, and they grazed on pretzels and popcorn. The snowmen ignored them, as machines almost always did, but that didn’t stop the humans from staring.

Qasim didn’t understand the human fascination with machines—except for guns, which were useful and had no brains of their own. He didn’t like complex electronic devices. From cars to computers to compact-disc players, machines had to be constantly coddled because they were only semi-predictable in their behavior. And you couldn’t terrorize or cajole them into cooperation. Curse and threaten as he would, cars stalled for no reason when Qasim was in them. Computers decided that routine functions were suddenly “illegal operations” and would shut down. And CD players invariably skipped his favorite tracks, even when he programmed them carefully. Hitting the machines didn’t help, either—especially not computers. Those semi-thinking apparatuses enraged him most of all because, though they claimed to give him what he asked for, he very rarely got what he wanted. Even the porn that computers supplied was substandard. He was sure the machines were laughing at him.

He knew computers did this to humans, too, but people kept right on confiding in them, trusting them with all their secrets—even their taxes, where they told the biggest lies of all. This blind trust baffled him. Humans: they made no sense.

Qasim sighed. His mood was odd: He was half-gleeful and half-sad. He looked at the people near him in aggravation. Humans: what a pitiful army they would make. They had so many self-imposed limits. Listening to those around him, he had the sense that this entire nation was suffering from ennui brought on by nervous exhaustion. These people couldn’t seem to get beyond the perceived limits of their lives—their personal appearance and finances, their mental and physical flabbiness, the limits on their credit cards. It was as if their imaginations— even their souls—were limited by worries about money and about how fat they were. And in debt monetarily and feeling starved—and yet getting fatter every day, especially when they compared themselves to the anorexic heroin addicts advertisers insisted were the pinnacle of human beauty—they had run up a creative and spiritual imbalance as well.

Disgusted, Qasim stopped listening to their thoughts. Their small-mindedness was contagious. And that was a hazard when you had a really long life and were alone. You had to keep busy, needed passions and grand thoughts to keep the boredom at bay. Revenge was a good goal. It kept the blood hot and the mind focused. That was important. Qasim knew his failings, that at times his mind was voracious. If it didn’t find occupation, it would begin to consume itself.

He turned slowly, his body and not just his head. He was still learning to move like a human, slower and with only a few joints per limb. Wrist, elbow, shoulder—it was so limiting.

Completing a half-circle, he stopped and sighed again. What a sad sight, a crime. Though other stores were filled beyond fire safety regulations, the book store was almost empty. Books were one of the few human inventions he liked. But he knew from their stray thoughts that most of these mall-goers didn’t read—nothing except diet books and stupid texts promising to reveal the secrets of finding true love. They said to themselves that books were too expensive. He snorted. Too expensive? What of libraries? He personally adored the H.U.G. library. Actually, he loved the old building that housed it. There were so many psychic traps, it practically glowed for magical beings like Las Vegas at night. If he could, he would have sex with that building; he was sure they would both enjoy it. And it housed such precious printed material! But did humans ever see things this way? No. Instead of reading, they sat passively and let their big-screen TVs fill their empty heads with concerns about future impotence, how to achieve spring-fresh laundry and whether they were wearing the right brand of khakis.

Bah! They were stupid and cowardly—and, worse, useless. They didn’t see they could change the world. In this, they were almost as bad as the goblins.

Well, most of them were. There were exceptions. . . .

Feeling the sparkling concentration of power that had called him in the first place, Qasim finally turned toward the electric wonderland that was the heart of the shopping mall. Children’s thoughts were always the purest, the best source of energy, and so easy to sip from. He’d always loved the young. And everyone had heard the saying, You are what you eat. While Qasim couldn’t play mind games with those of the fey, who would make the best meal, human children were easy and available.

O come all ye faithful, he thought, watching the throngs deepen before the throne of the surrogate saint in the red suit. Santa Claus, Saint Nicholas, Kris Kringle—this was America’s only patron saint, not recognized by any church but acclaimed and worshipped by these empty mall people. He wondered how Kris would feel about that. Kris would probably hate the way commercial interests had hijacked the holiday. Not that the elf had anything to say about it now; he had been missing and presumed dead for more than a century. As it happened to a lot of the goblins’ enemies.

Qasim pushed the thought of Kris Kringle aside, opened up his mind just a little and began drinking in the children’s tiny dreams, nibbling away at their innocent souls. He filtered out the adults, concentrating on the youthful excitement welling up in the children’s small brains. He’d get to the adults soon enough. Maybe he’d start with that neurotically feminine creature dressed up like a parody of a sex goddess from the twenties. He could tell that she was terrified of aging. Such terror was bitter and filling. Or maybe he’d try the man beside her, who had lifted weights until his bulky shoulders impeded the movement of his head. Men usually distorted themselves that way because secretly they were frightened of being weak. That was good. Qasim would gorge on these hidden fears shortly—the kids were just an appetizer.

Qasim quickly grew light-headed, his thoughts slightly less coherent, but his hatred and disgust failed to abate. Let the human politicians have their petty triumphs of minor fears, he thought, those chronic aggravations of the masses that were like an attack of dry scalp: annoying but not deadly. Qasim didn’t plan anything so mundane. He was going to horrify them. The masses would know soul-shattering fear. For it was time for these treacherous lutins to pay for everything they had done to him— to all his people—and humankind was the tool he had chosen.

He had thought once to use his daughter Nyssa for revenge, to guide her and her fey friends into an attack on the lutin empire, but he had another plan now. A better one. He could have arranged for a slow campaign of tiny terrorisms to bring certain humans around to doing his will. But they reacted so much more predictably and cohesively—not to mention swiftly—when they were simultaneously horrified and enraged. Fifty or a hundred years ago he would have arranged for the rape of some respected woman—or women—by a hapless goblin to get humankind up in arms. These days, no one would care. Not enough. But even mall people still reacted satisfactorily when their children were in jeopardy.

Once the humans discovered the horrifying evidence of the massive lutin child-stealing ring that he would plant, most would react swiftly and terribly against the hives. There would be much official outcry and protests from the pacifists, and there would be other exceptions, of course; there were always aberrant humans who enjoyed an auto-da-fé, or a good public hanging. But most humans would move heaven and earth and goblin hives alike to save—or in this case, to avenge—those stolen children.

Qasim felt a moment of odd emotion. Sorrow? No. Even if he’d been capable of such, it wasn’t murder he planned; it was sacrifice. He wasn’t killing for fun—it was death with a holy purpose. This was about power. These children would die to start a holy war—one long overdue—that would cleanse the United States of goblins. In the aftermath, his hobgoblins would rise. They would feed off the energy of the children’s great sacrifice. And finally—finally—they would be free.

It would be wonderful, the brave new world he had always dreamed of. And to think that he owed his plan to his half-human daughter, Nyssa, and her husband, Abrial. In an effort to escape a goblin-laid trap, she and Abrial had enlisted the aid of Abrial’s dead uncle, the Pied Piper of Hamelin. And Farrar and his magic pipes had planted the seeds in Qasim’s mind that had germinated into this splendid idea.

“So Merry Christmas to you all,” Qasim whispered to the mall people in his thick voice. “I’m afraid it will be your last.”

A new ripple of energy passed through the crowd. Santa was getting up from his throne, and a choir surely composed of hard-of-hearing spastics had closed in and begun caroling, competing obnoxiously with the mall’s piped-in music. Cacophonous, off-key and off-beat—Qasim loved the din. Still, it was time to go. He had people to kill, wars to plan and Santa suits to steal.

He turned toward the exit the red-suited human imposter had used. It led to the employees’ breakroom; Qasim had checked that already as he paced the mall. He knew where the man’s locker was and that he had arrived on a bus. Like the fake Santa, Qasim had also come on public transit; the traffic around this House of Mammon on the last weekend before Christmas was tire-to-tire and all but unmoving, in spite of the constant use of horns.

Near the door to the breakroom he felt it again— that slight psychic tingle, that mere hint of exotic sweetness on his tongue, which interrupted his almost ceaseless mental tirade. Qasim paused, his hand on the latch, rolling his tongue around his lips and then touching it against the twin pits in the roof of his mouth that drew scent from the air. Yes, it was the same girl. He had been watching her earlier as she guided two children to the imposter. And she had passed this way only a few minutes earlier. Perhaps he could still find her. The young woman standing in line at the pet shop—half-goblin and part human-fey—had come as a complete surprise, both because goblins did not usually venture out in the day and also because she looked and felt a great deal like his Wren. Had he not been so distracted by her unexpected appearance, he would not have lost track of the two half-goblin children with her. Unfortunately, she had sensed his scrutiny immediately and been frightened of him—had, in fact, seemed to know what he was, though that wasn’t likely; his kind had been forgotten even by most lutins.

A pity, that there had been no time to explain to her that he hadn’t wanted her children in order to hurt them. Not at that moment. Far from it. He had just wanted to see them up close, to taste their strange but fair skin, to peer into their minds for a while and know what they were and how they thought.

And the girl herself? Well, he wasn’t sure what he might have done with her if there had been opportunity. Probably something distressing and stupid. She really did feel like a reincarnation of Wren. His lost lover had been much on his mind of late—too much on it, in fact. He didn’t like the memories that were both bitter and sweet.

Qasim pushed his softer thoughts and speculations away. This was no time for female distractions— not of any species. The large fake Santa he had been stalking was slipping out a side exit, looking for a place to enjoy a cigarette away from the children Qasim knew he despised. Large as the man was, the costume would be a tight fit. But Qasim didn’t have much choice; he would squeeze into it somehow. He was a hobgoblin on a mission, and today was the day.

And unlike the bored Santa, he would enjoy what came next. He would sit on the plastic throne and accept the mall people’s worship as they gave their children to him, because it added to his power. He would sit like a lazy spider in a web, the little kiddies would come and nestle in his lap and he’d eat up all their happy little thoughts. Then he’d give them some thoughts—thoughts about how they would all be leaving home on Christmas and coming away with Santa Claus to live at the North Pole.

Qasim laughed silently. Sometimes he really loved his work.

He slipped out through the metal door and crept up quietly behind the man in the red suit. The odor-trail made him frown. This creature had the smell of someone who combined many vices—in this case nicotine and alcohol, favorite choices of weaker humans. But Qasim could also see that this man had a sicker aura, and Qasim was willing to bet that if he bothered to search the inside of this creature’s elbows, he would find scars of darker, less healthy addictions.

Tsk, tsk! The people the mall would entrust with their customers’ children! There should be a law . . . Qasim chuckled again, still feeling a bit high after drinking in all the youthful excitement. First a little innocent sweetness, now he’d imbibe of a little experienced bitterness. Variety was the spice of his life.

Qasim silently passed a bank of lockers and saw movement inside one. He looked carefully as he ghosted by, though he was certain he knew who hid there; the mall employees kept a pet cat that had often watched him as he explored the abandoned tunnels roping the mall’s metal guts.

But that wasn’t who was observing him today. That cat was off hunting somewhere, having left behind a small nest of tiny vigilants. Qasim eyed the three furry bundles indulgently. He felt their scrutiny and their tiny feline questions as they memorized his smell and walk and face. As a rule, he left none alive who could describe him, but though these were witnesses to his passing, he made no move toward them; his secret was safe with these creatures of large eyes and appetites, soft purrs and brown fur, because cats knew how to keep secrets from goblins and humans alike. He had learned that long ago. They were the only creatures he trusted.

Qasim lengthened his stride and allowed his steps to become audible. Belatedly sensing danger, the fake Kris Kringle swung around. But he was too late. The hand of Fate had long, strong fingers topped with unbreakable talons, and it was buried in Santa’s throat and pinching off the blood supply to the brain, and it wouldn’t let go until the deed was done.

Qasim didn’t finish off the man immediately, though. He waited until he had pulled the red velvet trousers away from the thrashing legs and then torn off the coat. He didn’t want either getting messed up with bodily fluids if this creature died untidily. Even the excited children might notice that.

Soon Santa was completely unconscious, and the man’s trachea crushed easily in Qasim’s fist, making a sound a bit like someone eating potato chips with his mouth open. His head flopped to the side, his neck like a broken stalk of corn, when Qasim dropped him on the ground. The thud of his head hitting the cement floor sounded like a cantaloupe breaking.

Which reminded Qasim, he hadn’t had any lunch. Maybe he’d stop by the pizza place and have a quick snack before he went back to work.

Or . . .

Qasim looked down at his victim, his eyes narrowing.

He’d better not. The body might be discovered soon. Murder was one thing, but a victim who was half-eaten would really agitate the masses—and he didn’t want that. Not yet.

Fine, so pizza it was. He’d have the all-meat one with extra cheese.

Qasim picked up the body, stuffed it in the janitor’s rolling bin, which was half filled with paper towels and wheeled it into a closet, which he closed with a convenient padlock. Out with the old, in with the new. There was a new broom sweeping out the mall. One everyone would soon know.

He dressed in his stolen suit, not hurrying, and even swaying slightly as he pulled on the red coat that only reached three-quarters of the way down his arms. The hallway slowly filled with an eerie humming that sounded a bit like someone playing “Santa Baby” on an out-of-tune violin.

The kittens watched all this closely and listened with pricked ears, but they didn’t leave their nest or make the slightest sound. Humans might not know that death walked among them, but the kitties did— oh, yes! And they were wise enough to fear him.

Chapter Two

“Doctor? There’s a new patient in four.” Nurse Larkin added softly, “A child, age five. It isn’t so bad.”

Dr. Nicholas Anthony sighed. “Fracture or extraction?”

“Extraction. It’s another light bulb.” The nurse grimaced and handed over the chart. She was new but had already learned that he had no patience for certain types of injuries.

“Where is it lodged? Ear canal?”

“No, nasal cavity. I haven’t heard the whole story, but it seems to involve an older brother and a dare.”

“It always does. What does the brother say?”

“That it isn’t his fault. He’s using the Darwin defense.”

“I see. Well, he may be right. Some people really are too stupid to live. This is a small twinkle light, isn’t it? Not a large outdoor one?”

“Of course, Doctor.” The nurse was shocked.

“There is no of course about it, Nurse Larkin. You’ll learn that soon enough.”

“Doctor? I’m sorry.”

Dr. Anthony’s eyes narrowed. I’m sorry was a clue. They only said that with a certain kind of injury.

“Yes?”

“We have a compound fracture coming up from X-ray. He’s being taken to six. I’m afraid he’s very verbal.”

“I see. Roof?”

“Yes,” she said reluctantly.

“Lights or Santa Claus?”

“Santa—they already removed the costume,” she added hastily.

“Santa. So there is alcohol involved?”

“Um, yes. Quite a lot. But he’s been sick several times, so much of it has been purged. The only lingering effect is that he won’t stop cursing.”

“Doctor, we have a child, Jeff Santos, in one.” The nurse’s face was a study in blankness.

“What’s wrong? Not a car accident?” That was his greatest dread, seeing the small bodies crushed and lacerated because forgetful parents hadn’t used child safety seats.

“Oh, no! Nothing as bad as that. He’s just swallowed a bell, and his mother is tired of listening to him jingle and wants us to, uh . . . make it stop. Apparently this has happened before.”

“I see. Perhaps I’d better have a word with Mrs. Santos about what constitutes an appropriate diet for a child.”

“Doctor, we have a slight problem in number seven. It’s a potential facial trauma.”

“Potential?” Nicholas raised an eyebrow. He didn’t usually see accidents before they happened. At least, not in the ER. People weren’t that farsighted about planning their emergencies.

“Well, Mr. Cleary was having trouble keeping his beard on at the Christmas party and asked one of the ‘elves’ to bring his facial adhesive. Only the child couldn’t find the makeup kit, so instead he brought some superglue. The tubes looked the same so . . .”

Dr. Anthony sighed.

“This is why people should always wear their glasses.”

“Mr. Cleary forgot those, too. He was running late. This is a very busy season for rent-a-Santas.”

“I see. And does Mr. Cleary have any real beard, or is he clean-shaven?”

“He has a beard.”

“Then he is a lucky man.”

“You know how to get superglue out of hair?” the nurse asked hopefully.

“No. But it shouldn’t be any worse than a waxing.”

“But that kind of hair removal is very painful,” the nurse pointed out.

“Not as painful as having your skin ripped off,” Nick replied.

“Doctor? Number eight is next. It’s a dog bite.”

Nick put down his fork. He hadn’t had a hot meal in two days. Still, it was better than being home, where he lost all track of time and only knew what day it was by counting the number of coffee cups accumulated in the kitchen sink.

“Nurse, you sound apologetic. What were they doing to the hapless canine to provoke such an attack?”

“They were dressing the dog up in their infant daughter’s Christmas dress.”

Nick exhaled slowly. “People never seem to learn that just because an animal is small and cute—”

“It wasn’t,” she interrupted. “I mean, it wasn’t small. Mr. Maxwell was trying to stuff his mastiff into his six-month-old daughter’s dress. He hadn’t been neutered and . . . well . . . the dress was very tight. I guess the dog took exception to the rough handling.”

“And it’s only one bite? How forbearing of the animal.”

“Yes—and not even a very bad one.”

“Mr. Maxwell got off lightly.”

“That’s what Mrs. Maxwell said before she dumped her coffee all over him. I’m afraid he has a nasty burn, too.”

“Nurse?”

“Yes, Dr. Anthony?” Her voice was reluctant, and she only barely stepped into the room. There were just two more hours on her shift and then her suffering would be at an end.

“What is that commotion?” Nicholas asked gently.

“Nothing to worry about. One of the patients just got tired of waiting.”

“What is he waiting for?”

“Crutches.”

“And why does he need crutches?” Nicholas asked patiently. “I don’t want to appear authoritative and hung up on procedure, but shouldn’t I at least have a look at him before treatment is prescribed? After all, many fractures are subtle, and leg pain can be indicative of other problems.”

“There’s nothing wrong with him—truly. He’s an amputee, and his prosthetic leg got stuck in a tree. He needs a loan of crutches until a new limb can be ordered from Skelton Orthopedics.”

“His leg got stuck in a tree. An accident that could happen to anyone, I’m sure.” Nicholas leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Except you are looking guilty, Nurse Larkin. ’Fess up. How did the amputee’s leg get stuck in a tree?”

“It was a sledding accident,” she admitted. “The sled overshot the road and ended up wedged in a stand of trees in the gully on the other side. The prosthetic leg was broken. The foot is still stuck in the tree.”

“And was the amputee dressed as Santa Claus?” Nick guessed.

“No, he wasn’t,” Nurse Larkin said crossly. “And he wasn’t drunk either. At least, not then. I’m afraid he’s had a nip or two while he was waiting.”

Nick raised a dark brow. “Out with it, Nurse. There may not be a Santa suit involved, but this is another Christmas accident, isn’t it?”

“After a fashion,” she admitted, though clearly it galled her to do so. She didn’t like this holiday bondage with Dr. Anthony. No one did. They drew lots to see who would have to take the last shift with the doctor. It was when he was at his crabbiest.

“And?” his gentle voice prompted.

“If you must know, Mr. Timmons was being a reindeer. He had antlers tied to a hat, but because it was so heavy the ties came loose and it fell down over his eyes. He hit the dip at the bottom of the slope and flew a lot farther than he meant.”

Nick nodded with grim satisfaction.

“I knew it was another Christmas accident.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of being right, Ebenezer?” the nurse grumbled as she backed out of the room.

“You have no idea,” Nick answered softly. He wasn’t smiling.

“Doctor, you’re needed in seven. It’s a concussion.”

The nurse’s eyes slid away.

“And . . . ? ” Nick asked gently.

“And hypothermia.” She stared at the ceiling.

“And . . . ? ”

“And a bad case of gravel rash.”

“And . . . ? ”

“And he got it while being dragged by a giant balloon in a Christmas parade. It was a freak accident— it could have happened to anyone.” She huffed the last statement and left the room hurriedly.

“And it does, at least once a season,” Nick muttered. “And people say there are no such things as jinxes. They should just admit the fact that the parade is cursed.”

“Doctor? We have a man in nine who’s going to need stitching. We’ve already irrigated the wounds and gotten out the glass and glitter.”

“Glass and glitter?”

“He was rough-housing with his son and accidentally fell on a snow globe he had in his pocket.”

“In his pocket? I see. Not the most prudent place for a breakable object, but at least it wasn’t deliberate.”

“Deliberate? You mean you treated someone who sat on a snow globe on purpose?” The nurse was appalled.

“Not a snow globe, actually. An ornament. It was at a party, and they had run out of balloons to pop.”

“Doctor, I just can’t imagine that.”

“No? But then, in spite of your silly Christmas uniform, you are really quite rational.”

“Dr. Anthony? We have a kidney bruise. Mr. Mc-Queen here got kicked, and a nasty hematoma is forming,” the nurse whispered. Her eyes were sympathetic, as a good nurse’s should be.

“Kicked?” Nicholas Anthony sounded less compassionate, but he carefully lifted the patient’s red-and-white-striped shirt and looked at the ugly mark on Danny McQueen’s back. In spite of the bruising, the hoofmark was very clear. “You certainly did get kicked. A reindeer was it, Mr. McQueen? A buck?”

“Yeah,” the man admitted, trying not to wince.

“You were at the Central Park Christmas display, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” Mr. McQueen sounded surprised. “How did you know that?”

“Because every year someone gets the bright idea of trying to ride the live reindeer in Santa’s stable.” Nicholas lowered the shirt gently. “And every year someone gets kicked. Be glad you weren’t gored as well. I’m going to send you down for X-rays now. The nurse will help you ride the wheelchair. And don’t worry; unlike reindeer, she rarely kicks anyone.”

“Doctor? I’m sorry to wake you again.” It was a different nurse. The last one had apparently delivered enough bad news and had sent in a less senior replacement. “I know it’s only been fifteen minutes, but we have a burn victim with smoke inhalation, and another fracture. They’re in two and three.”

“Burn victim?” he asked groggily, and then with more interest: “Burns in December? How bad? Not a flaming Christmas tree?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” The nurse paused, taking a deep breath.

Nicholas Anthony’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me that it isn’t a child who was playing with candles? Or another Christmas-light electrocution?”

“No—not a child. It’s the father. And his brother. And it wasn’t the tree or the lights this time.”

“I see.” Nicholas sat up. He didn’t curse at anyone, not even silently, but he wasn’t happy. He’d known about the forty-eight-hour days when he’d taken the job. Usually he didn’t mind. It was just this time of year. . . . “Give it to me straight: What were the fools doing?”

“Well, they’d had a little too much eggnog—”

“Don’t blame the eggnog, Nurse Gwynn. My grandmother, while she lived, made eggnog every year at Christmas, which we drank. I assure you, no one broke or burned anything because of it.” That might have been because no one could swallow much of the vile brew, but Nicholas didn’t add that; it was disloyal to her memory to bring up her Christmas culinary disasters. Even all these years later, the family was careful not to mention the Christmas cookies that had broken Uncle Albert’s back molar, or the cranberry relish made with those bitter, uncooked cranberries. Or the year that everyone contracted salmonella from an under-cooked turkey.

Nicholas took the chart from the nurse.

“Well, the eggnog was only part of it,” she explained. “The two men placed a wager that the skinnier one couldn’t fit down the chimney. . . . They apparently forgot that there was a fire in the fireplace. Fortunately, Mr. Anderson didn’t get very far. And he was wearing heavy boots, so it isn’t as bad as it might be.”

“The burns are explained. And the fracture?”

“Well, naturally his brother hurried to call the fire department as soon as Mr. Anderson got stuck, but he had his hands full with the video camera, and there was a large sleigh near the ladder.”

“And he and the sleigh fell off the roof. Probably the sleigh landed on him and that’s what broke the leg. I hope he at least gets on one of those home video shows.” Nicholas headed for the door. “How bad is the burn? Should we arrange a transfer to a burn unit?”

“No, it’s not that bad, but the fracture . . .”

“Get the operating room ready.”

“It’s all prepared, and I’ve placed a call to Dr. Roberts.” The nurse hurried after him. “He’ll be here in ten minutes. Um . . . Doctor, there is one other thing. You asked me to remind you about Christmas shopping.”

“You already have. Several times, in fact.” Actually, he hadn’t said anything except to ask the staff not to mention Christmas shopping in his presence until the Thanksgiving leftovers were gone; it seemed indecent to even consider Christmas before December. But that time was past, and he couldn’t expect those who had made caretaking a profession to ignore what they saw as his weakness, so Nick added politely: “Thank you.”

“Yes, but, Doctor, it’s after twelve now—that means it’s Christmas Eve. You actually have to do your shopping today. There’s no putting it off any longer.”

“Christmas Eve?” Suddenly Dr. Anthony looked more cheerful, and Nurse Gwynn noticed how attractive he was. “Why, so it is.”

“You’re happy about going to see your family?” the nurse asked naively as she handed him the patient’s chart.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Dr. Anthony pushed through the curtain around the bed in room three. “Christmas Eve means that we only have one more week of this stupid holiday madness. Eight days from now we can go back to normal, reasonable emergencies, like car accidents and gunshot wounds.”

Nicholas didn’t see, but the nurse wrinkled her nose at him and stuck out her tongue. The patient in the bed was in less pain now that the drugs were kicking in and managed a small laugh at her act of rebellion.

“I’m glad to see you are in high spirits, Mr. Anderson,” Nick said gently as he examined the compound fracture. A bone was protruding from the skin in two places. “We’re going to get you fixed up. It won’t be too bad. As my grandmother always said, you’ll be as good as new in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“Son,” Mr. Anderson answered, looking down at his leg, “I don’t mean to be impolite, but your grandma must have either been nuts or a damned liar.”

“I’ll check on Dr. Roberts’s ETA,” the nurse said, backing out of the room.

Chapter Three

There was something wrong with the mall’s Santa Claus; Jeff was sure of it. He’d been watching— actually, spying—on him for a long time, and he was pretty certain that Santa was a vampire. Vamps weren’t supposed to be out during the day, and Jeff hadn’t actually seen Santa put the bite on anyone, but there was something really weird about the guy, something that made him nervous and more than a little afraid.

Jeff rested his borrowed binoculars on the rim of the tub that held the bushy plant he was hiding behind; they were good ones and they were getting awfully heavy. His knees hurt from squatting, too, but he was too fascinated to leave. Nothing like this had ever happened to him when he’d lived in Long Beach.

Of course, everyone knew that the real Santa was busy at the North Pole and had to send elf helpers to the malls. Jeff supposed that elves could be a little strange sometimes, but this elf Santa had a really weird mouth; he could see it plainly up there. It was too big, and it seemed like there was way too much tongue inside—and the tongue was kind of green on the top and kind of black on the bottom. Also, the skin under the too-small beard was awfully pale and shiny. It looked like egg whites that hadn’t been cooked enough—just how vamp skin would look, because they could never go out in the sun. And sometimes the contact in Santa’s left eye would slip and Jeff would get a glimpse of what looked like a yellow eye underneath. People, even elf people, didn’t have yellow eyes. Just cats and maybe lizards. And vampires. Or maybe vampires’ eyes were red. That detail eluded him.

But what was weirdest of all was that nobody else seemed to notice anything wrong with the elf Santa. That’s what had clinched the deal for Jeff: Yellow eyes or red, only a vampire could put the whammy on a whole crowd of people and make them go blind and stupid.

Jeff pulled back again and looked at the watch on his wrist, which had been a birthday gift from his grandpa. His mom said he was too young to have a watch, but he had sort of learned how to use it. He had a little while yet before he had to leave. He didn’t have to be back at the arcade until the little hand was on the four and the big hand was on the twelve, but he did need to be back by then and playing video games, otherwise Ee-Em, his mom’s new boyfriend, would be mad. He would probably be mad anyway, since Jeff had taken the binoculars without asking. They were his real dad’s binoculars, but Ee-Em thought everything in the house belonged to him now.

Jeff didn’t like Ee-Em. He was pretty sure that he was a terrorist like the ones on TV. He and his best friend, Matt, had talked it over and decided that that was what Ee-Em was. Jeff really wished that Matt was there right now so they could talk about this Santa thing. Matt was almost seven and watched a lot more TV than Jeff did, and he knew a lot more things. He could probably tell right away if Santa was some kind of a vampire or just a really weird elf.

Jeff put his eyes back to the binoculars.

Man! One thing was sure, though he wanted to defy Ee-Em and visit with Santa—mostly to ask him to bring Christmas to their house, even though Ee-Em said they couldn’t have it anymore—he sure wouldn’t be doing it today. He’d have to wait until he came to the mall with Grandpa tomorrow. Maybe the other Santa would be back then. And if he wasn’t, maybe Jeff would write a letter to the real Santa at the North Pole. Grandpa would help him— or Matt. Matt would be better, because he would understand about the vampire, and the real Santa really should know what was going on here.

Suddenly, the bad Santa’s eyes turned Jeff’s way— just like he had heard what Jeff was thinking. They blazed brightly, a wicked yellow light shining right through the contacts.

Hello, Jeff, a deep, scary voice said. Such a smart, observant little boy. Wanna come play?

The boy gasped and scrambled away from the shrubs. He almost dropped his binoculars as he fled, not even realizing that he was running away from the arcade, where his mother would be waiting. In the back of his mind, he heard laughter, and that scared him more than anything.

Nicholas Anthony knew what they called him behind his back, but he was with the original Scrooge on this one; if he hadn’t taken a Hippocratic oath, he’d want to see those drunken holiday bozos boiled in plum pudding and buried with a stake of holly through their hearts.

Every year it was the same. The world was rational until Thanksgiving, and then, sometime late on that Thursday night, Christmas rolled into every town in America and set up shop, hanging tacky decorations where they were most likely to hurt people that passed by. Gold tinsel, fake metallic trees, twinkle lights—showgirls’ costumes weren’t half so gaudy. And everywhere he went carolers were shouting at him to deck the halls and to have a silent night. As if there were any halls left to deck. Even the restrooms at the hospital were draped in garlands and blinking lights. And as for finding anyplace that was silent . . . ha! Even in the bathroom, it was impossible to escape the jingle bells they insisted on piping in with the seasonal music.

And what about those bell-ringers? Nick believed in charity, but these fake Santas who lurked about the town’s superstore seemed sinister to him, chasing people with their torturous bells, which pierced eardrums like metal spikes. He was certain that some permanent hearing loss had to be suffered by everyone who came within twenty feet of them, and he’d come to view them with as much enthusiasm as he would witches hovering over cauldrons of poison. On bad days, he had to wonder if they were part of some governmental experiment in brainwashing, a test to see how quickly the civilian population could be broken. On good days—well, there were no good days in December.

But in this feeling of distaste, he was apparently alone. Why didn’t the rest of the world see that almost everything connected to this now artificial holiday was potentially dangerous? Maybe he should try to get on “Oprah” or “Larry King.” Hospitals collected statistics, and last year there had been over four thousand emergency room visits related to accidents with Christmas lights alone. Even things as seemingly innocuous as Christmas cards could hurt people. Postmen’s sacks were twice as heavy as usual, leading to strained muscles and sprains when they fell on icy walkways. One woman had been infected with a insatiable need to send Christmas cards, and after licking seven hundred of them had been rushed to the hospital for treatment of a dangerous glue allergy.

Kissing under the mistletoe? A surefine way to spread flu and cold germs! And he had personally treated four cases of strained neck muscles acquired while trying to fit overly large Christmas trees into too-small tree stands.

And then there was all the food and drink! Leaving aside alcohol-related injuries, the nation’s collective cholesterol count shot through the roof every December. Twenty-one million gallons of artery-clogging gravy were slurped up. Twenty-five million pounds of chocolate were eaten in the United States alone. And then there was the eggnog. It wasn’t all bad like his grandmother’s; he’d had some with Chivas Regal that could be habit-forming. But it wasn’t good for the body. And then there was the final abomination—five million pounds of sugar-ridden fruitcake were consumed every year. And people didn’t even like fruitcake! They had to be noshing out of boredom with their relatives, or else seasonal depression. If people were smart, they’d take the time off work and, instead of going home to family they despised, they’d spend it with people they really liked.

And what about those crushed by Christmas merchandise? Thousands were injured and even killed every year when temporary employees got onboard forklifts and started messing about with stacks of furniture. He had personally treated a pair of sisters crushed by a falling sofa.

Then there were pellet guns. It was hard to believe, but some parents still got them for their kids. And they were always amazed when, yes, the kids did shoot eyes out.

Nick’s mind suddenly veered toward his worst Christmas memory of all, the disaster that had happened while he and his friends, David and Jason, were still in college. They had stayed at school that year, determined to enjoy the holidays for once by avoiding crazy, unpleasant or missing family. And they had almost succeeded, too. They had chipped in and bought a tree—decorative but tasteful and restrained, with a reasonable number of lights that did not have frayed cords. They’d had eggnog. They’d even had “The Chipmunks Christmas Album” to strike the right, festive mood.

But on Christmas Eve, instead of being visited by the Christmas angel bearing light and goodwill, the dark spirit of food poisoning had come around— probably from the eggnog Jason made. Eggnog! It was a wonder Nick still drank it. Only Dave was spared, and he’d had his own trauma that night, what with being dumped by the love his life and finding out his father was dying.

Vomiting and heartbreak would have been enough to make the holiday memorable, but there’d been a city-wide power outage, too, caused by frozen power lines being downed by accumulations of ice. The ensuing lack of heat had frozen the water in all the toilet bowls in the deserted dorms, and many of the porcelain receptacles had shattered. It had been a long five days and nights that led to a lot of expensive repairs and much business for the local infirmary.

That had been the last time Nick attempted to celebrate the holiday.

He shook his head. In spite of that Christmas, he, Dave and Jason had all remained friends. They had, in fact, grown closer. And he would call his buddies—after the holidays. Neither of them would be thrilled with getting a ring right now, not even from him. They’d be too busy fighting off unwanted fruitcakes from relatives and friends who just didn’t understand that some people didn’t feel the same Christmas magic as everyone else.

George Bernard Shaw had called Christmas “a cruel, gluttonous subject,” and he was right. It was both.

Not everyone feels that way, Nick. It isn’t all commercialism and drunken stupidity. Have you forgotten about the whole peace-on-earth thing?

“Bah, humbug. What peace?” Nick said to the annoying reflection in his sideview mirror. It was with him almost constantly these days—always eating something sweet and sticky, too. And it liked to talk. The first time he’d seen it was early one morning when he stumbled into the bathroom; He had been still enough in the realm of sleep to make the mistake of addressing it, of asking who and what it was.

Ghost is as good a word as any, the apparition had replied. Or revenant. I like to think of myself as a spirit messenger sent from your older, wiser soul. Calling myself a “spiritual visitation” is a bit over the top, I admit, but you’ve no one but yourself to blame for my being here. You have gotten so far removed from your spirit that normal messages sent through dreams just won’t do. Nick, my boy, you live in a world of plenty, but your soul and emotions are starving to death. It is time to release your spirit from its imprisonment and join the feast of life. This will be hard for both of us—you’ve always needed observable truth to convince you of things. But this time you are going to have to take a certain amount on faith.

Faith—yeah, right. Nick had rolled his eyes and gone back to bed, dismissing the conversation as a very weird dream brought on by a combination of too much on-the-job tinsel and exhaustion.

But the ghost had still been there when he got up an hour later. And it had remained with him ever since, chiding and cajoling and eating in turn.

Reminded of things gluttonous, Nick looked at the basket in the backseat of his car and wondered for the tenth time what to do with it. It was lovely to have won—primarily because he never won anything, and it suggested that maybe his luck was about to change—but who in his family would actually enjoy a radio-controlled car, a teddy bear with a wardrobe of twenty-five dresses or a rather juvenile heart-shaped diamond pendant? None of it suited his family’s tastes. If he offered his nose-pierced niece a teddy, she’d look at him like he’d sprouted a second head. And as for the three pounds of white chocolate snowmen . . . Nick shuddered. His analretentive brother-in-law, the dentist, would pitch a fit if Nick gave it to either his teenaged anorexic daughter or son; it had taken forever to torture their teeth into perfection.

Really, the only useful thing in the entire basket was the two-pound bag of dried apricots. Those might help his brother-in-law be a little less uptight, since Nick was sure the sourpuss still wasn’t taking Uncle Albert’s annually repeated suggestion of a Christmas cranberry punch high-colonic to sweeten his mood.

How could his sister have married such a humorless cretin? Of course, they both came from a family of humorless people, so maybe it was inevitable.

The family would probably appreciate the eggnog, though. This year, he had taken the precaution of bringing his own supplies and recipe. He was as traditional as any man, and treasured what few holiday rituals his family had, but his grandma’s recipe was something to pass swiftly from the face of the planet and never be mentioned again. Not even that chiding ghost in his mirror could argue with that. It was nice that there was something they agreed on.

The ghost nodded solemnly. Lovely lady, but a lousy cook.

His relationship with the specter was not a comfortable one, and Nick rather hoped it would disappear after the holidays. Things had worked that way in the Dickens story, so there was some expectation of eventual emancipation.

But Scrooge saw the light and redeemed himself, the ghost said. So far you’ve managed to keep your lights switched off.

Scrooge had a clot on the brain and was hallucinating, Nick thought in return, and then sighed. He might have a clot, too. It was scary to think about, but this ghost might not be a purely psychological disturbance. He’d have to see about an MRI after the holidays if the spirit remained with him after January second.

I’m hurt.

“You’re annoying.”

This ghost was a bit different from anything in A Christmas Carol. True, the spirit often wore a stupid holly crown and a green bathrobe trimmed in gold tinsel—a sort of poor man’s royal robes—but the ghost wasn’t simply some spirit from another realm, or the revenant of someone who had died and come back to haunt Nick. That, he could almost have understood. There was tradition for that type of ghost. No, this specter’s body was still very much alive. Nick knew for certain since it was, in fact, his own face that looked out at him. His face, if older, more lined, more grim. The sight was fairly ghastly— especially in that stupid tinsel-trimmed robe. In recent weeks, Nick had taken to avoiding all mirrors and reflective surfaces. He didn’t need any more lectures about the hell of a wasted life.

For heaven’s sake! It wasn’t as if he didn’t know his life had become a little unbalanced.

Then do something about it, the ghost said. He sounded unusually testy.

“Can you just be quiet until we get through the mountains?” Nick muttered. “I’m not dead yet and I need to watch the road.”

The ghost nodded sadly. I’ve seen corpses with more Christmas spirit than you have. Your soul is shriveling, boy. It’s nearly dead—starved to nothing. You had best wake up before it’s too late.

Nick didn’t say anything; he just stared out at the wet road beyond the windshield. Usually he liked the rain, at least the sound of it. He liked it mostly because it was something he didn’t have to respond to—not a voice, not a beep, not a siren. There was nothing he could or should do about the weather. Listening to the rain was as close to feeling lighthearted and irresponsible as he came these days.

And that is sad, sad, sad. The ghost shook its gold-tinseled head.

“Please shut up.”

A couple of hours before dawn, a lightning storm broke over the Sierra Nevada mountains, bringing with it Ping-Pong–sized hail and thick sleet that clogged his Jag’s wiper-blades.

“Merry Christmas, everyone,” Nick muttered to the heavens. “Great joke on the holiday travelers, God. Rates right up there with food poisoning.”

It isn’t a joke—it’s destiny. The ghost sounded suddenly cheerful. I was hoping that this would happen. All signs pointed this way. Say hallelujah! We are saved.

“Saved from what? You would want this. Look, just be quiet for a bit longer. I really need to concentrate. The road feels greasy.”

Nick spared an unkind thought for the bastards at the weather bureau who had sworn the night would be fair. On their advice, he hadn’t bothered to pack chains for the car. Fortunately, the road was deserted, so he was able to crawl along at a turtle’s pace for a mile or so, but soon even that became impossible. His tires could barely gain traction on the ice-slick road. Nick began looking around for a place to stop.

There’s something just ahead. Slow down just a bit more or you’ll miss it.

“Quiet, damn you. Unless you want to drive.”

But the excited ghost was right. Quite fortuitously, just as the storm reached blizzard conditions, a small dirt road suddenly appeared, leading off into the greater darkness of the forest.

This is it. Then, almost like a prayer: This must be it.

“I see.” Nick eased the car into something slower than a crawl.

Normally, he would not have risked the Jaguar’s paint on such a narrow tunnel of spiky branches. His motto was: If it isn’t paved, men don’t need to go there. But as the hail was a greater threat than the dirt path and the somber evergreens offered shelter, he quickly steered to the right and followed the trail into the blackness.

“If you go into the woods today—better not go alone . . .”

“Shut up,” Nick replied. But he said it almost absently. He didn’t actually mind the ghost’s singing, as long as it wasn’t Christmas carols, and the specter had been completely silent for the last forty-eight hours while Nick was at work.

Probably it was too much to hope that anyone actually lived out here in the wilds. The state of the road certainly discouraged any such optimistic thoughts. He’d be more likely to find an old abandoned miner’s shack, or a logger’s shelter. Or a moonshine still. Or an illegal marijuana garden. Those littered the area. Still, any structure where he and the Jag might find shelter until the storm passed would be welcome; the hail was ruining his paint, and the road was turning into an impassable river of mud.

Don’t worry, my boy! I think someone’s at home and expecting us. I can see the fire from here. The ghost’s voice was filled with a smug satisfaction that bothered

Nick more than he liked to admit. He had always assumed the ghost was benign—just a manifestation of his guilty conscience—but what if he was wrong? Just how destructive might his psyche be?

Maybe he should leave, turn back, try to drive on. The elevation was dropping. The ice was bound to disappear as the temperature warmed.

As if hearing this thought, the hail doubled and then redoubled. Thick fog closed in around the car, shutting out the moonlight in a thick white curtain. The hair rose on the nape of Nick’s neck.

“Damn it. How can there be fog up here in the mountains, and in a hailstorm? This only happens on the valley floor.”

Better not try to go on. It’s too dangerous with this mist.

He didn’t like to agree with the ghost, but it was right. One would have to have a real death wish to go on in this weather.

Nick fumbled for his cell phone, praying he could get a signal. His sister wouldn’t like it, but he was going to be late for his first Christmas visit in several years. Probably very late.

“I should make you explain this to my sister.”

I would if I could. Come on. Cheer up, Nick. You didn’t want to go there, anyway. This will be way more fun. We’re going to have an adventure.

“Quiet now. I’m on the phone.”

Adventure? Nick disliked that idea only slightly less than he did Christmas.

Chapter Four

True to the ghost’s prediction, a dilapidated cabin appeared at once, rather like those witches’ cottages in the grislier fairy tales where someone got eaten or shoved into an oven. Of course, though this old cabin looked almost magical with the light of a hearth fire flickering on the paned windows and smoke billowing from the crooked chimney pipe, it would not contain any such wonderful or horrible things that those gruesome children’s stories provided. Or so Nick hoped.

He parked his car under a thick stand of trees and turned off the engine. Looking about carefully before dousing his headlights, he found no sign of a garage or another automobile. And yet, plainly someone was at home. Fires didn’t light themselves—not indoors.

Except in fairy tales, said the grinning old ghost looking back at him from the reflection in the Jag’s window. The image was exceptionally strong now that the headlights were doused.

“It could be cross-country skiers.”

I don’t think so.

With a muttered curse, Nick unbuckled his seat belt and threw open his door. He stepped out into ankle-deep slush. Not having expected to meet with rough weather, he was wearing loafers with light socks; both were soaked within two steps. His lightweight coat and shirt were also promptly drenched when a wet accumulation of snow slipped off the pine branches and landed in his open collar. Hail plonked him on the head. He could swear that the wind was laughing.

Feeling very put upon, Nick hurried toward the cabin door, dodging hail and hoping he wouldn’t startle the occupants if they were settled in for the night—or for the winter. He was also hoping that they weren’t the sort who had their own moonshine still that they protected with heirloom shotguns, though the state of the property didn’t leave him feeling terribly hopeful of finding anything else.

He needn’t have worried about disturbing anyone. As advanced as the hour was, the occupants were apparently awake and had heard his arrival. Three small white faces took a hurried look at him through a frosted window and then the front door was opened, spilling more orange light onto the wet snow.

“Come in—quickly!” said the loveliest voice Nick had ever heard, and an angel stepped into the doorway. She gestured urgently as she looked at the sky. “The storm is about to—”

He didn’t hear the rest. A bright bolt of eye-searing lightning, followed almost immediately by a huge clap of thunder, drowned out her words. The world turned a funny shade of neon green, and then a million invisible ants boiled over Nick’s skin and warned him of imminent danger. Needing no more encouragement, he leapt for the doorway. The heavenly vision stepped back swiftly, pulling the two smaller angels with her, then the door slammed shut on a second lightning strike that fell only feet from the doorstep.

It took a moment for the bright afterimages to clear from Nick’s assaulted eyes, and for his pupillary reflexes to return to normal. His body wasn’t entirely his own either. Nick felt drunk almost, or like a puppet whose strings had suddenly broken. But when he was finally able to stand erect and see clearly again, his first impression was reconfirmed; the woman who had offered him shelter in this tumble down shack was without a doubt the loveliest creature he’d ever seen. He could only stare. She was exotic in some way he could not describe—her hair, her face, all of her was exquisite and somehow foreign. And her voice was velvet, chocolate; it summoned up everything he’d ever longed for. In short, she seemed perfect, and he was half-afraid of ruining things by talking to her and discovering that she was, after all, only another illusion.

Then he realized that she was addressing both him and the children, and he couldn’t properly hear her because of the ringing in his ears.

Nick shook his head, trying to clear it, though he knew only time would calm his tympanic membranes assaulted by the thunder. The feeling of being slightly inebriated would probably persist until then, too; the lightning had been dangerously close.

“That was the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen. Sorry. That last clap all but deafened me,” he said. “I can’t make out what you’re saying. It all sounds like garbled Greek,” he added with a smile, all the while wondering if he was speaking too loudly since he couldn’t really hear himself.

“Not Greek, Lutin,” the angel said, and this time he heard her plainly. She returned his smile shyly, and added in a gentle voice: “Please, come closer to the fire. You look very cold and wet. What a terrible night to be traveling.”

Lutin? But that couldn’t be right. That was a French word for goblin, wasn’t it? He’d never seen a goblin or heard one speak, but he had heard some nasty rumors about them from people who’d vacationed in Sin City before the flood, and he was certain they didn’t speak like this young woman. Come to think of it, they couldn’t look like her either. Goblins were supposed to have four arms.

“Thank you. I’m drenched and freezing. I wasn’t expecting this storm. Just four hours ago, the weather service said it would be clear. This storm must have come in on the Polar Express.”

“Sudden storms happen in the mountains sometimes,” the vision agreed, helping him remove his coat. The brief touch of her warm hands raised the hair on his arms—his arrector pili apparently liked her, too. “Perhaps that is how you got lost, Mr. . . . ? ”

“I’m so sorry. I’m forgetting my manners. My name is Nicholas Anthony—Dr. Nicholas Anthony,” he added, since the title lent a certain respectability. “But please call me Nick.”

He offered his hand, and after a moment she took it. Perhaps it was a leftover effect from the lightning coming so close, but her touch seemed to send pleasant shocks up his arms. The electricity traveled a path to his belly and then a bit lower. His penis stirred. Embarrassed by his body’s response, still, Nick didn’t retract his hand.

“I am Zee Finvarra,” the woman said. After a moment she added, “And these are my brother and sister, Hansel and Gretel.”

“No way,” Nick said without thought. Then, attempting to see into the folds of her faded denim skirt, where the children were hiding, he corrected himself. “I mean, what lovely names.”

“I thought so, too. It’s why I chose them,” Zee said with a certain satisfaction, retrieving her hand, which he had continued to grasp.

She’d chosen them? Nick shook his head again. His hearing must still be affected.

“What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere? Did you get stranded, too?” Nick asked. Except for the fire, he would have thought the cabin abandoned. There was certainly no sign of skis or any vehicle outside that he could see from the cabin’s small windows. Perhaps this trio had broken down up the road. Then a belated, appalling thought occurred to him. “Or do you actually live here?”

“No. Like you, the weather drove us indoors and this was the nearest shelter,” Zee said at last, her soft, slightly accented voice sounding like a lullabye. Not everything she said made sense, but he still liked listening to her.

“Oh. I see.” Nick looked around the room and decided that first appearances hadn’t deceived him. The place wasn’t really lived in; it had just been swept clean and made homey by the small fire in the hearth and the smell of some exotic tea brewing in an old, dented pan. “Where were you headed?”

Zee hesitated, and Nick realized that he was asking some very personal questions. It wouldn’t be at all surprising if she refused to answer. Who was he except some stranger? He might even be a rapist or stalker—even a serial killer. He was lucky that she had even opened the door to him.

“Perhaps you were going to see family for Christmas?” Nick suggested, trying not to appear oafish and overly inquisitive—and above all, he tried to appear non-threatening. The last thing he wanted was to scare Zee or the children. “I’m headed home for the holidays myself. I have a sister in California.”

One of the children came out from behind the angel’s full skirt. It was a little girl who looked about four. She stared up at him.

“Christmas? Like at the mall? We went to see, but we had to leave early.” The child’s accent was much more pronounced than Zee’s. The little boy joined his sister. He was perhaps five. The children’s twin black stares under their thatches of pale blond hair were disconcerting.

“They don’t know very much about Christmas,” Zee explained. “They have not been out in the world a great deal. And we do not celebrate Christmas at home. I had thought that maybe this year we could, but . . .” Zee trailed off and gave a helpless shrug. She smiled down at the children. “Next year we’ll have Christmas.”

“Where are you from?” Nick asked, trying to imagine anyplace that didn’t at least talk of Christmas.

“We are . . .” She hunted for a word, then said carefully, with watchful eyes, “lutin. We most recently lived near Reno.”

“I’m sorry. My ears are still ringing. Did you say you were Lithuanian?”

Lithuanian? The idea amused Zee.

“No, lutin.” She gave the name of her hive in the goblin tongue, and as the man named Nick failed to react to her pronouncement, she began to relax. She added, mostly to herself, “It is true then. Hu— most people here do not know of us by this name.”

“Never heard of it. I suppose it just proves that Americans are terrible with geography,” Nick admitted. Then, apparently unable to stop himself: “Are you perhaps one of the Middle European gypsy clans?”

“Our ancestors were European,” Zee agreed. “But come and sit down while we talk. I think that revealing lightning has affected you. It came very close. Most people would be . . . more affected.”

She was glad to have an excuse to touch his arm again.

“Revealing lightning?” he asked.

“We’re running away,” Hansel said suddenly, distracting Nick from his awkward question. “Luz doesn’t like us. He says we look like dirty huma—”

“Hush!” Zee said, and then added a warning to the children in their native tongue. She looked nervously at Nick, wondering if he had caught the boy’s slip.

She didn’t know how he could not know about lutins, but if he didn’t, she didn’t want to be the one to tell him. Their two races rarely got along. He might look at her with disgust if he knew, or even leave in spite of the storm. And for some reason, she didn’t want that to happen.

This time Nick could at least make out for himself the fact that Zee wasn’t speaking English. It was a funny language she spoke, not one he was familiar with, and it involved a lot of sibilants.

“Are you running away?” he asked gently, his tact apparently still knocked out of him by the lightning. “Has someone threatened you? Do you need help?”

Zee turned her dark eyes upon him.

“Perhaps we are running. In a sense. Only, we are running to something. Our mother’s new . . .” Again, Zee hunted for a word. “Our mother’s husband does not like us because we look too . . . too much like our father. And after that incident at the mall, I thought it best to take the children away with me immediately. My home didn’t seem safe anymore.”

“The mall?’ Nick asked. But his mind was busy thinking of other things. This family had a distinctive appearance. Their skin was a dark olive color, but their hair was the softest blond. The contrast was stunning and—Nick thought—extremely beautiful. He couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to send these children away because of their appearance, or for any other reason. They were the most charming creatures he’d ever seen.

“There was a suspicious person at the mall. I thought he was . . . interested . . . in the children. I took them away. But since he seemed to know me, I thought he might have followed us.”

Nick nodded absently.

“Your mother’s new husband must be an idiot,” he said. Then, realizing that he’d spoken aloud, Nick flushed and added hastily, “Well, don’t worry about it. I have some nice things from the mall in the car. No reason we can’t have a pleasant Christmas Eve right here.”

“But what’s Christmas?” the little girl asked again. “We didn’t get to see it in town because of the bad man. Does it taste good?” she asked hopefully. “I’m so hungry.”

Slightly disconcerted, Nick said, “I’ll try to explain about Christmas after I get some things out of the car. Can I have my coat back, please?”

Zee turned and looked out the small window.

“The hail stopped. I think it’s safe now. I’ll help you, but we should go quickly.”

“There’s no need for you to get cold, too,” Nick assured her. “It’ll just take me a couple of trips to unload things.”

“I won’t be cold,” Zee answered, picking up a cape made of some sort of supple green leather stitched together out of many pelts. She said something to the children, who both giggled and also went to put on similar, though smaller, cloaks. With their hoods pulled down, the three looked a bit like a family of Tyrolean dwarves.

Nick opened his mouth to protest the children being brought out into the storm, but with an effort managed to squelch his words of warning. It was an occupational hazard, looking out for the world, but it made him sound like an officious busybody. It wasn’t his place to decide what was best for these kids. He rather wished it was, though. Maybe it was simply professional concern, but he felt strangely protective of this small band of gypsies who’d crossed his path.

The voice in Nick’s head remained blessedly silent, but catching its reflection in the window saw that the ghost was watching and was pleased with what had happened. This made Nick wary, but his caution was fading fast. He couldn’t see any danger here.

Chapter Five

As was to be expected with his luck that evening, Nick slipped on the icy path and fell into a bank of snow peppered with lumps of hail. The children assumed it was a game and promptly leapt on him with joyful cries. Nick grunted as they landed on him, grateful both that they landed above his belt and that he was lying upon a surface that had some give. The kids felt more like sandbags than any children he had ever encountered; they were solid through and through.

Zee scolded and pulled them off, but it looked to Nick like her eyes were dancing at the sight of him in the snow. Struggling for a little dignity, Nick rolled to his feet and tried to brush himself off. Zee and the children helped, the children with a bit too much enthusiasm. They would probably be excellent with a piñata.

Nick fetched his duffel bag and the eggnog supplies. He almost grabbed the basket on the backseat but had a sudden inspiration. The children couldn’t stay awake much longer. Maybe after they went to bed, he would do a small Santa thing and put out some presents for them. Hansel was probably a little too young for a radio-controlled car, and it was possible that Gretel wouldn’t be able to dress that miniature teddy without some help, but still! It would mean gifts for them on Christmas morning. Probably he could find some socks—or even use his own—and put some of that white chocolate and apricots in them.

Suddenly feeling a bit enthused about being stranded on Christmas Eve, Nick slammed the trunk of the car and started cautiously for the cabin.

“Nick, you take the children inside,” Zee said. “I will go gather more firewood.”

“Wait, I’ll help,” he said.

“No.” Zee’s voice was sharp and a little worried. “I know where the wood is, but it is some distance away. It would be hard for the children to keep up, and I do not want them to be alone.”

Nick stopped just outside the cabin door and turned to look at Zee over his box of supplies. He wanted to argue with her, but a swift dart of her eyes at the children and then at the dark forest convinced him this wasn’t the moment. She didn’t want the children in the woods, and she didn’t want them left alone: He could understand that. No responsible adult would leave children alone near an open fire. But he really didn’t like the idea of Zee going into the forest on her own when clearly there was something out there that worried her. Especially as she didn’t seem to have a flashlight or a weapon.

Then a reasonable explanation occurred to him. It wasn’t hunting season, but that didn’t stop deer poachers from hunting. Maybe there was a particular messy deer carcass nearby that she didn’t want the kids to see.

“I could go instead,” he suggested gently. “Just tell me where.”

“I know where the wood is,” she said again, shaking her head. The firelight that shone through the window made her tresses gleam. “You wouldn’t find it in the dark.”

“At least wait while I get a flashlight from the car.”

“It is all right, the sky has cleared.” She gestured upward with an open palm. And, oddly enough, she was correct. The storm had departed with disconcerting swiftness. The sky was bright with stars. “The moon is brilliant enough to light the way.”

“All right,” Nick finally agreed, as he realized that his feet were going numb and his entire body was shivering from the damp. “But hurry back. If you aren’t here in ten minutes, I’m coming looking for you.”

“I won’t be that long,” Zee promised, touching his hand and giving him a grateful smile.

Though he was cold, Nick watched her until she disappeared into the forest. She looked like a sprite disappearing into an enchanted wood, and for one wild moment he wondered if she were leaving him with the children and never coming back.

“Is that Christmas?” Gretel asked, sniffing at the cooler in his arms. “It smells good.”

Nick blinked back his weird fantasy and looked down.

“It’s a bit of Christmas,” he said. “Let’s get inside. After I change, I’ll show you how to make eggnog— virgin eggnog,” he added hastily.

Zee returned with her heavy load of wood a short time later; she’d had to go farther than expected to find enough to keep them warm until morning. While she was glad to see that the children were enjoying themselves with their unexpected guest, she was rather surprised to step inside and find them whirling like dervishes, quite literally bouncing off the walls. They had been subdued and quiet since their encounter with that—that thing—at the mall who was pretending to be Santa Claus.

Nick turned to her as she came through the door, rushing over to help her with the wood. He had managed to change his shirt, but his pants were still wet and he looked a little harried.

“Their eggnog wasn’t spiked—I swear,” he said. “I don’t know why they’re acting this way.”

“Don’t worry. It isn’t alcohol that does it,” Zee said.

“Then what? The sugar?”

Zee walked over to the table and sniffed at one of the mugs. “No, it is what you call . . . nutmeg.”

“Nutmeg?” he repeated.

“Nutmeg.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. I’ve never heard of this type of allergic reaction before,” he said, watching the children literally bumping off the walls and furniture, and giggling ferociously when they collided with one another. “Will the hyperactivity get worse?”

Zee looked at the half-empty cups.

“Not much. And they will sleep well after.”

“Nicholas Anthony!” Gretel called from under the rickety table that filled the middle of the room. “Can we have some more Christmas?”

“Not right now,” Nick answered, laying the wood a safe distance from the fireplace. “And it’s called eggnog. Why don’t you come out from under there and I’ll tell you some things about Christmas?”

“Okay.” Gretel called something to her brother in their native tongue, and then both children giggled. But they obediently came to join Nick by the fireplace, though Hansel couldn’t resist doing one more somersault on the way.

“What else is Christmas?” Hansel asked, throwing himself on the blanket with an audible thump.

Zee could see that sitting on the blanket in his wet pants was uncomfortable for Nick, but he did it anyway, patting the rough wool coverlet encouragingly until Gretel joined him and her brother.

“Well, Christmas is the season of love.”

“Love!” Hansel said scornfully. “Who wants love? That’s for girls.”

“Brotherly love,” Nick explained hastily. “Peace on earth and goodwill toward all men.”

“Just men?” Gretel asked, her lower lip protruding. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Women, too,” Nick added. “And children.”

“What about frogs? Or fish?” Hansel asked. “Or grasshoppers?”

“Yes, goodwill toward them as well. Peace on earth for everybody,” Nick added. Apparently he was wise to the ways of children, and knew they would spend hours naming species if he didn’t include them all upfront.

Zee handed Nick a mug of herbal tea, and he gave her a distracted thanks. Amused, Zee gave tea to the children and then unfolded a second blanket, joining them on the floor. She was closer to the fire than she cared for, but it wasn’t intolerable and she liked the way the firelight played over Nick’s features, making his eyes gleam a sort of green-gold. Where she came from, everyone’s eyes were dark.

“What else? I like food,” Hansel said. “Tell us about that.”

“Well, there are certain foods that go with Christmas,” Nick admitted.

“Candy canes,” Zee said, remembering the name of the candy she had tried once when she’d first gone into town. She’d gone with the city children there to see the fat man in a red suit who came to the mall in December. They called him Santa Claus, but she knew he wasn’t. The real Santa was an elf; her mother had sometimes threatened her with him.

“Yes, peppermint is a Christmas flavor,” Nick said.

“And eggnog!” added Gretel.

“Toadstool pie?” Hansel suggested, feeling left out.

“Uh . . . no,” Nick said. Then, seeing the boy’s wounded expression, he added kindly: “That would probably be more of a Halloween dish.”

“Halloween?” both children asked.

Zee named the holiday in Gaelic, and both children nodded. They knew of certain pagan revels practiced by the people in the town nearest their home.

“When did Christmas start?” Gretel asked. “When will it end?”

“Well, that depends,” Nick answered. Dredging from some sparse recollection of holiday lore, he said, “In some places they practice the twelve days of Christmas. In some places, they celebrate just one day.”

“Why?” Hansel asked.

“I’m not sure—but there’s a song about the twelve days of Christmas.”

“Sing it!” the children urged.

Nick obligingly cleared his throat and began to sing about a partridge in a pear tree. His voice was nice and the children thought it terrific fun, joining in when they remembered the order of the gifts.

Nick drank deeply of his tea when the song was done. He had a slight band of sweat gathering on his brow. Zee stared at him, half-fascinated.

“Sing us another song,” Gretel begged.

“Uh . . . well, okay . . . I know one. It’s about a reindeer with a red nose.”

As Nick began to sing, Zee reached for the pan on the hearth; she poured out more tea for him and the children. There was nothing bad in the tea, but the herbal concoction would help kill any hunger pangs that might be stirring in their empty bellies. It hurt to think of the children going hungry, but she wouldn’t be able to go hunting until the morning, and they would be feeling it by then if they didn’t drink the tea.

The children approved of this song, too, though they were clearly a bit hazy about what reindeer were even after Nick described them.

“Another song! Another song!” Hansel demanded, clapping his hands together. “A food song!”

“Well . . .” Nick drank more tea and thought. “I know one more—it even has a little food in it.” He began to sing.

The song was very pretty, but when Nick got to the line about “Jack Frost nipping at your nose,” both children gasped and looked round-eyed. He stopped singing.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Zee explained quickly, “Jack Frost is a . . . do you know the word bogeyman?”

“Yes.”

“In our culture, Jack Frost is one.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He sounded nonplused.

“That is all right. It’s just a legend. I am sure the real Jack Frost is a very nice man.” She spoke for the children’s benefit. She had reassured them many times that going to see the fey wouldn’t be dangerous; she just prayed it was true. She would have liked to ask Nick his opinion, but if he hadn’t heard of lutins, he probably hadn’t heard of the fey either. “Please, Nick, go on with your song. It’s lovely.”

“No. I don’t remember all the words, anyway,” he said.

Zee poured more tea.

“What else is Christmas?” Gretel asked, still looking bright-eyed but apparently coming down off her nutmeg high.

Nick looked uncomfortable with the topic, yet he obviously wanted to be truthful and reasonably thorough about the holiday; he clearly didn’t believe in lying to children or keeping information from them. “For many people, Christmas is about celebrating a very special birthday. Have you ever heard of Jesus?” he asked.

Zee translated the name to the children, her voice soft, and they nodded. Apparently reassured, Nick launched into a story about people called Mary and Joseph, who were traveling to a town called Bethlehem. He hadn’t gotten very far, though, when Gretel again interrupted.

“The people had no room for them—just like us,” Gretel said, her eyes filling with tears. “Poor Mary! Did she have to go see the elves, too?”

Appalled and a bit thrown, Nick hurried on.

“Elves? No! Don’t worry—they found a place in Bethlehem. And after the baby was born, a bunch of wise men came and gave him wonderful presents. Anyway . . . that is only one part of Christmas. These days, it’s about Santa Claus, too.”

“Santa Claws? ” Hansel’s voice was hushed, and he raised his hands and hooked his fingers into bird talons.

“Claus, not claws. He’s also called Kris Kringle or Father Christmas.”

“Kris Kringle,” Hansel said, almost coughing on the K’s. He added doubtfully. “He sounds like an elf. A real one.”

“He is—‘a right jolly old elf,’ ” Nick said.

“A real elf!” exclaimed Gretel, sounding alarmed. But at least she had stopped crying. “Is he a good elf or a bad elf?”

“Well, a good elf, of course. And he loves children—brings them presents and treats and puts them under the Christmas tree and in their socks. That’s why we celebrate him at Christmas.”

Both children looked doubtful, but Nick was looking so harassed that Zee finally intervened.

“Time for bed,” she said, getting up. “We can have more stories tomorrow.”

Nick rose and helped Zee fold the blankets into makeshift sleeping bags, but a brief movement at the corner of his eye made him turn swiftly toward the darkened window.

“What is it?” Zee asked, also turning toward the pane. False sunrise was beginning to lighten the night sky. “Is someone there?”

“It’s nothing,” Nick said. He wasn’t about to explain how his own elderly reflection was recommending he tell the story of Ebenezer Scrooge and how the miser was finally redeemed. He turned deliberately away from the glass. It wasn’t a terrible idea, but he refused to be coached on how to approach Zee.

“Listen, both of you,” he said, kneeling beside the children as they snuggled into their hard beds. Zee had been correct; now that the nutmeg was wearing off, they were very sleepy. “I think Santa may come visit us. And then you’ll see that he isn’t a bad person at all.”

“Will he come today?” Gretel asked, giving a large yawn. “I thought the elves lived far away.”

“He’ll come while you’re sleeping.”

“But I want to see the good elf,” Hansel complained. “I think that’s just a made-up story.”

“Children can’t see Santa. It isn’t allowed,” Nick said. “But don’t worry. Your sister and I will be here in case he brings some presents for you.” Then, not sure what prompted him, he reached out and smoothed back the child’s tousled hair. “Sleep now. And have sweet dreams. When you wake up, it will be Christmas Day.”

“Good. I’m hungry,” Gretel said. “I want a partridge and a pear tree.”

Chapter Six

“So,” Nick said, trying not to be conversationally heavy-handed and fearing that he was, “tell me all about yourself.”

“That would take a while,” Zee answered, pulling out a chair and seating herself at the table. They spoke in low voices so as not to disturb the children.

“Then start with what you do.”

“Under what circumstances?” A dimple appeared briefly in her left cheek.

Nick smiled back. “To make a living. That might be easiest to answer.”

“Oh.” Was there a hint of disappointment in her eyes at his mundane question? “That is easy. I am sole owner, manager and proprietor of the Zee Finvarra Sewing Service. I specialize in upholstery work—particularly leather.”

“Upholstery work. Have you been in business long?” Nick asked.

“Not yet. I had only just moved to town and opened my business when all this happened. But I have high hopes for it once I settle somewhere safe.” Zee looked away. Following her line of vision, Nick noticed a box of dog biscuits on the rickety table.

“Oh, do you have a dog?” he asked, looking about the small cabin. Then, with a touch of alarm: “He isn’t outside, is he?”

“No. We don’t have a dog.” Her shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. Nick couldn’t be certain, but he thought maybe she was blushing. “I know it seems odd, but I have been trying to interest the children in better nutrition, and all the food out here is so strange. They like dog biscuits and, really, those are better for them than most crackers.”

“I see.” Nick was proud of the fact that he kept his voice normal. No wonder Gretel was hungry if tea and dog biscuits was all she was being fed. “I hadn’t ever thought about it.”

He reached casually for the box and began reading the ingredients. She was right. They were actually fairly nutritious. He still felt appalled.

“I wonder how they taste,” he muttered.

“Try one.”

Nick hesitated. Aside from everything else, the box was almost empty. “Maybe later.”

“My turn to ask a question,” Zee said.

“Okay, shoot.”

“ ‘Shoot?’ ”

“Sorry, that’s slang. It means, go ahead.”

“Ah. Tell me more about why you think Santa Claus will visit us here. Are you and he good friends?”

The question surprised Nick because of its seeming seriousness. He started to give a glib answer, but the distorted reflection on the side of the pan with the eggnog stopped him. Somehow, he just couldn’t find it in himself to explain Santa was a mythical figure; he’d never actually met an adult who still believed, and he wouldn’t be the one to kill the magic.

“No, we’re not—at least not anymore,” he said finally, reaching for the Chivas Regal and Stag’s Breath. “Would you like to try some proper eggnog? Or will the nutmeg bother you, too?”

“The nutmeg will not bother me as it did the children. And I would like to try eggnog,” she said. She reached for the bottle in Nick’s left hand, turning it so she could see the label. The dimple in her cheek reappeared. “Stag’s Breath? How do they collect it? It sounds a bit messy. Perhaps even dangerous.”

Nick held still, enjoying the slight touch of her fingers. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed anything so much. Frankly, it had been a long time since he had enjoyed anything at all. He cleared his throat.

“It’s a honey liqueur made from scotch. Dreadful name, but very tasty. I smuggled it through Customs last trip to Scotland.”

“If it’s tasty, then let’s have some.” Zee dropped her hand. Nick carefully cracked the seal on the Scottish delicacy and poured some into the pan.

“Why don’t you know this Santa anymore?” she asked, returning to the previous subject. “Did he only want to come to you when you were a child?”

“Well . . . yes, that’s right. When I was very young.” Nick added a second generous helping of the liqueur, then reached for the Chivas Regal. Thinking of how to easily explain, he added a generous measure. “But my family chased him away. They were inhospitable people, not the kind of folks who opened their hearts to . . . well, strangers. And I sort of . . . I don’t know. I waited for a while for Santa to come back, but eventually I gave up on the idea of him coming back into my life.”

Lame, Nick, really lame.

“But you think he’ll come here tonight,” she said, her head tilted to one side as she examined him.

Nick gave the slowly warming eggnog a stir, then poured it into their empty tea mugs. The smell of the liqueur was strong, and he wondered if maybe he had overdone things a bit.

“Santa will come tonight,” he said, keeping his voice soft so he didn’t wake the children. He took a healthy swallow of eggnog. The gray-haired reflection in the old pan was nodding at him encouragingly. “Or he’ll send someone. Santa needs help sometimes because there are so many people in the world who need him. But the children—and you— will have Christmas.”

Zee inhaled slowly and then sipped from her mug, using more caution that Nick had. She licked her lips, cleaning them of the frothy drink with a delicate catlike gesture. “But you won’t have Christmas with us?” she asked, taking another sip, obviously fascinated by this rather commonplace thing. “Santa won’t bring it for you, too?”

“I don’t think so,” Nick said, taking another large swallow. “But don’t worry. I haven’t missed it much these last thirty years. Except for Christmas trees. I always loved those. Nothing smells finer.”

“Christmas trees?” Zee repeated. She leaned back in her chair, getting comfortable. “What are they? Not those green plastic cones at the mall.”

“No, live evergreens,” Nick answered. “They are brought into the home and decorated with lights and ornaments. Or popcorn and cranberries. We did that one year when my maternal grandfather was still alive. . . . I read somewhere that people used to go into the forest and sing to the trees at the winter solstice. It was supposed to remind the spirits to wake up in the spring, or something.”

“I know this tradition,” Zee said. “It was performed by goddess worshippers. I don’t think people do it much anymore.”

“No. That was all a long time ago,” Nick agreed. He looked over at the fire. He’d missed that pleasure, too, he realized. He had a fireplace in his home but never bothered with it. Easier just to flip on the heater.

Really, his whole life was like that. He did what was easiest, most comfortable and convenient, not investing any effort or emotion in anything except his job. On the surface, he had a very nice life. Everything looked good. It was the modern American dream—good education, good job, good home.

And he realized that he hated it, and he had hated it from the beginning.

That’s what I’ve been telling you, said the voice in his head.

He was like a shadow of a man—

No, a ghost. At least, you’re headed that way.

Work was the only thing that supplied meaning, and he doffed his life every time he took off his scrubs and left them behind at the hospital. He had controlled his life until he had almost none left. Friends and family drifted farther away every year, and he made no effort to stop them because he was too busy laboring toward some forgotten professional goal.

What a time to discover that, while he had been diligently playing Sisyphus to his ambition, he had actually been rolling the stone up the wrong hill. And all the while, he’d filled his life with nos from childhood—no magic, no wildness, no passion. Then he’d added more. No play, no joy, no love.

No love. Not from anyone. What madness! How had he thought to live? No wonder he was being haunted. It was probably his psyche’s last desperate bid for freedom from its prison. All work and no play had done worse than make Nick a dull boy.

Then, isn’t it time for a change? To make a leap of faith? To feed the impoverished spirit?

It was. He was lucky that his soul hadn’t already left him and taken up residence somewhere else. It was just as the ghost had been suggesting, in his colorful metaphorical way: The real question wasn’t what had Christmas done for him, but rather what had Nick done for Christmas—or for his soul. And the answer to that was easy: nothing. He’d done nothing to help keep the Christmas spirit alive. He’d completely ignored all spiritual or emotional matters. He hadn’t fed his soul, and now it was famished.

But not anymore. Things were going to change. This was one genie that wasn’t going back in the bottle. Whatever happened, he would never ask his spirit to return to the salt barrens of its previously empty life.

The strength of his abrupt resolution made him blink.

“Nick? Is something wrong?” Zee asked, leaning forward, her eyes and voice softened by concern.

“No, I’m fine,” he lied. He didn’t like being untruthful, but he promised himself that it would only be a lie for a short time. He would be fine. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, but it seemed as if he had already started making his life better. “Do you know, this is the first Christmas Eve I’ve enjoyed in years.”

Zee smiled a little. “Oddly enough, me, too. But then, it’s my first Christmas, so I suppose that doesn’t count.”

Nick chuckled. The sound was startling. He hadn’t heard himself laugh in almost a decade. Of course, he had been living under a weight for that time that had squeezed the happiness out of him— who laughed when it was all they could do to breathe?

“I wish we had music,” he said suddenly. “It would be nice to dance.”

Zee’s smile was bright enough to light The Strip in old Las Vegas.

“I would like that, too. I’ve never danced. With someone else, I mean. I’ve watched other people do it, though. It looks fun.”

“You’ve never danced?” Nick looked over at the children; they were curled up together and deeply asleep. They wouldn’t witness anything silly that he and Zee did. Giving in to the alcohol, or to his reborn Christmas spirit, he said impulsively: “Let’s try. Help me move this.”

Zee stood up eagerly. She drank down her eggnog, then both of them took an edge and moved the warped, groaning table to the side of the room, clearing a small space. Nick and Zee stood looking at one another without the table between them.

“How do we begin?” she asked.

“Well, to begin with, we need to be closer,” he said, taking a step toward her. Zee also stepped in, bringing them face to face. Nick hesitated a moment, wondering if he would start to feel ridiculous.

When embarrassment failed to arise in either of them, he went on. “Now, I put my hand on your waist. And you put yours on my shoulder. The easiest dance is the foxtrot, so we’ll start with that.”

“Foxtrot?” The dimple made a fleeting reappearance. “We needn’t get on all fours?”

“It looks better than it sounds,” Nick assured her. “Now, when I step forward with this foot, you step back with—yes. That’s it! Now this foot . . . to the side . . . and, yes!”

“But we need music,” Zee said, dutifully following his lead.

“Right.” Going momentarily blank, all Nick could think of was the song he had learned to foxtrot to in a college dance class to which his girlfriend had dragged him. He started humming Eddie Rabbit’s “I Love a Rainy Night.”

“Does it have words?” Zee asked, drawing a little closer. She tucked her head into the curve of his neck as if they had been dancing together for years. Nick hoped she wouldn’t notice his pounding pulse; his systolic and diastolic pressure had both taken a jump. Good thing he had a lot of eggnog in him; the alcohol would help decrease his blood pressure, and maybe his heart wouldn’t burst.

You’re such a romantic, the ghost in his head thought dryly. Nick ignored him.

“Words? Yes, a few.” Clearing his throat, and mindful of the children, he began to sing quietly.

Moving slowly around their tiny dance floor, Nick felt very young—and he wasn’t certain if his mixture of youthful desire and longing was wonderful or dreadful. He couldn’t even explain to himself why he was feeling this way. He was drawn to this stranger for some reason. The obvious explanation was that she was different, so beautiful and peaceful and otherworldly. But it was more than that. And whatever it was, it was making him feel goofy, like his head was full of helium and he would simply float away to someplace wonderful.

Should he stop? He really didn’t want to embarrass himself. Or her. Or both of them. Were her legs bare under that denim skirt? Surely not! It was winter, after all. She probably had on long johns.

“I like this song,” Zee said. “I like all your songs. Sing another,” she begged, cuddling even closer.

Nick made up some spontaneous prayers about controlling himself and his contracting muscles, which were about to announce in the most unsubtle of ways that he really, really liked her. He hoped that thinking of songs would be a bit like thinking of baseball—or did he mean England? Baseball was to make things last longer, wasn’t it? Stop thinking about it! he told himself.

Desperate for distraction, he started singing a favorite song from college, “Put the Yule Log Down, Uncle John” by P.D.Q. Bach. His effort at singing all four parts of the madrigal simultaneously was not entirely successful, but it managed to do what baseball had not.

Zee giggled and lifted her head.

“I don’t know what it is about you, Nick,” she said, her eyes shining, “but I like you very much. I would think you are my Christmas present—but the elf didn’t bring you to me. Unless he caused the storm . . . ? ”

Nick swallowed and stopped dancing. Looking into her eyes made his knees feel shaky.

“I’m almost sure that it’s the other way around,” he answered. “And sometimes fate works in mysterious ways. Maybe Santa did cause the storm.”

“I like mystery. And I like . . .” Zee stood on her toes, bringing her mouth closer to his. Her eyes asked if this was what he wanted.

“Oh, yeah,” he whispered, lowering his face to hers, letting their lips meet, waiting, waiting . . .

As the kiss began, Nick knew that he had his arms about her, and hers were twined around him. Their bodies were close, pressed even closer. But he couldn’t feel any of it. His world had narrowed to his lips and hers, and to the wild, blinding sweetness that passed between them.

It was the best kiss ever. He felt like it was his first, and he knew he was a goner.

Told you so, the voice said, intruding suddenly.

“Oh, no,” Nick whispered. Please leave!

“No?” Zee pulled back slightly, her eyes fluttering open.

“I mean, yes,” he corrected hastily, and decided to try a second kiss. After all, an experiment wasn’t valid unless it was repeatable.

It worked like a charm. All symptoms of love returned: sweaty hands, pounding heart, ragged breath, a drastic drop in mental acuity, a passionate wish for the moment to never end.

This wasn’t bad, was it? People prayed for this— spent their lives looking for it. There was no reason that he should be worried about anything.

Well, answered the annoying voice in his head; it sounded apologetic. There is just one thing to worry about—maybe. The girl comes from a strange family, not your usual WASP-type home at all. But one thing at a time, right?

Oh, and you might want to ask a few more details about that bad man at the mall later. When you have a chance.

You’re worse than a cold shower. I’m begging you—go away, Nick thought.

Right! Sorry. Catch you later.

Nick’s brain snapped back to the present as Zee reached for her sweater. She undid it without a fuss. Nick was certain that he should object, that this was too fast, but he was too fascinated by the sight of her delicate hands sliding the bone-colored buttons through the buttonholes.

“The children,” he whispered, while he still could.

“They will not waken,” Zee assured him. She removed the plain white cotton bra she wore under the sweater.

Nick nodded, his mouth dry. Her skin from the neck down was exquisite, flawless, golden as sunrise. Her shoulders were soft and sloping. Her breasts were small but perfect, and her waist was tapered. The only flaw he saw was a pair of small curved marks on each of her sides—possibly scars. Or maybe they were tattoos. Right under her arms, they were down about eight inches.

“Nick,” she said softly, reaching for him.

As if awakening from a trance, Nick nodded and pulled off his own sweater. He took more care with his pants, kicking off his shoes and cautiously unzipping. Pushing down his slacks, he found he already had a painfully hard erection, which had hardly been contained by the fabric. How had he not noticed?

Zee stepped closer.

Nick reached out and slowly touched her cheek. Zee shivered. The small trembles traveled up his own arms. The sensation was exquisite; he’d never felt anything like it.

Nick explored her slowly and gently, letting his hands travel at will. Zee’s throat was long and sleek, and it led to the lovely expanse of skin above her exquisite breasts, that path only broken by the delicate necklace and charm that she wore. His hands were neither rough nor tanned, but they looked harsh against her flesh, so fine was its texture. The sight of his dark fingers on her golden skin fascinated him.

So did her sigh—especially when her eyes fluttered closed and her head fell back, pulling the line of her throat taut and bringing her collarbones into sharp relief. The faint smell of hot chocolate and musk was in the air.

He cupped her breasts gently and she shivered again, and once more small shockwaves of pleasure traveled up his arms, tightening Nick’s chest. A part of him looked on in disbelief, unable to comprehend the fact that Zee was real and standing there, naked, in his arms. The experience was dreamlike and yet more real and urgent than any he had ever faced. He had desires beyond physical longing— but he could not say for what.

His eyes traveled downward. Her pubic hair was a perfect golden triangle, a shy arrow that both pointed out and sheltered the delicate mystery he wanted to explore more than he wanted his next breath.

Nick knelt. He nuzzled her for a moment, feeling the muscles of her belly flex beneath his cheek. Guided by an instinct that said to be slow and gentle, he put his hand out and coaxed her to open. He petted and stroked, all the while feeling her trembling as if it were his own. In no hurry now—this was inevitable, their lovemaking was going to happen—he eased a finger inside her. The heat and slickness made him moan aloud. His arousal was killing him, making him shake and forget to breathe so that he was growing dizzy, yet he did not want to hasten what was the most beautiful moment he had ever known.

Nick stood slowly. He reached for the last blanket on the table and laid it upon the floor. When he looked up, Zee’s eyes had opened. It had to be a trick of the fire, but her irises blazed as radiant as the moon.

He reached out a hand and helped her to kneel. He followed her onto the rude bed. He felt a moment of regret that their first joining should be in a place so rough and bare, but then Zee smiled at him and he forgot everything but the need to be with her; he settled atop her. He could feel her softness, her wetness, and he was almost driven insane.

But as he began to ease inside Zee, her instinctive stiffening was enough to penetrate the fog of desire and alcohol that surrounded him. Nick was certain that she had never made love before. The knowledge humbled him. He hesitated.

“Zee, do you really . . . ? ”

“Yes,” she whispered, even as she blushed. “I want this.”

He wanted it, too. More than anything. More than he wanted his next breath. And how could he refuse the gift she was offering? To do so would be cruel.

And stupid, said a voice that did not belong to the ghost, and yet did not seem to belong to Nick either. Take the offering. Accept the power of this gift.

“Please,” Zee whispered, and reached out a delicate hand to wrap it around his shaft.

Her touch was electric, but it was her gaze that was Nick’s undoing. Who could refuse it?

He knew his first thrust hurt her, but she still responded; her back arched and a small cry broke from her lips as he joined and then withdrew from her body. She climaxed immediately, and as had every other shiver of her body, this one also seized him. He thrust into her a second time and then convulsed, filling her with his seed.

His seed? The thought touched Nick’s numbed brain. He hadn’t worn a condom! The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. It was barely crossing it now. He must have had a lot more to drink than he had thought. Fortunately he was healthy, and Zee was a virgin. That simply left the danger of pregnancy.

Well, there was time enough to worry about it tomorrow. Right now, what was more important was kissing Zee’s lovely mouth, and looking into her beautiful dark eyes; reassuring her that she hadn’t made a terrible mistake in giving herself to him in this moment of madness. Because she hadn’t. Nick swore this on his soul. She would not regret this night of magical madness.

Chapter Seven

Nick was fairly certain that Zee was sleeping, finally, but he gave it another slow five-minute count on his watch before slipping out from under the scratchy wool blanket, pulling on his clothes and heading for the door. Fortunately the storm had stopped completely, and he was able to open the cabin door with no more interruption than a small gust of cold air swirling into the room and disturbing the dwindling fire.

Though the urge to hurry was upon him, Nick walked carefully, crunching through the odd snow that was a slippery mix of powder and hail, and smelled oddly of ozone. What he didn’t need for Christmas was another soaking or a broken hip.

The dome light turned on as he opened the passenger door and climbed in, leaving the door ajar. He hadn’t looked too closely at the Christmas-in-a-basket he’d won at the mall, just stuffed it away with the other packages. He had hoped that maybe some Christmas stockings had been included— after all, what kind of Christmas was it without stockings? But there didn’t seem to be any. No wrapping paper, either. Well, he’d just have to use his own socks. They were rather dull, being made of sensible gray and black wool, but he could take some tinsel off the basket and tie the sock tops shut. And he had a couple of department store bags that his family’s gifts were collected in; he could cannibalize them for paper. He even had a pocket knife and some duct tape. What more did a resourceful man need?

Fortunately, the basket packers had been on top of other practical concerns, and had included batteries for the remote-control car. Nick wasn’t up on teddy bear couture, but it seemed to him that Miss Bear has plenty of accessories to go with her many outfits. And best of all, there really was a small jewelry box. Nick was getting cold and his nose was running, but he took the time to open the box and have a look at the necklace inside. It was a simple pendant, something more appropriate for a Sweet Sixteen birthday. But the diamonds were lovely, even in the dim light of dawn. And the green velvet box would look very festive with a bit more of the tinsel wrapped around it.

Nick sneezed and realized that he was losing feeling in his feet. He would have preferred to prepare his gifts outside, but he needed to get back indoors before he became a Popsicle. Poets said that love would keep you warm, but he personally doubted the veracity of their claim. At least, it didn’t seem to work when one was alone.

Don’t forget the dried apricots, the ghostly image in the side mirror reminded him. “I won’t,” Nick muttered. “Now go away, you Peeping Tom. I can take it from here.”

Zee wasn’t sleeping; she hadn’t been able to sleep for the past two nights. Every time she dozed off she dreamed that she was buried deep underground and in the presence of something terrible, some being who was aware of her and who was slowly suffocating her thoughts of freedom, eating up her dreams and draining her of life. Sleep was important. It was where she refreshed herself, strengthened from the inside, healed. But not anymore. The monster had penetrated her dreams and isolated her thoughts. He had replaced them with fear, and her dreams were no longer healing.

Tonight, with Nick, was the first time she’d thought that maybe she could sleep without dreaming. She had allowed herself to relax, to anticipate. But then he had gotten up. She had felt him slip away, taking all heat and peace with him. Zee had tried not to acknowledge the swift sinking of her heart, her secret worry that he would leave her now that they had lain together.

She scolded herself. Possibly he’d felt the call of nature; that might be why he was going outside.

Her heart dropped another painful inch when she heard the car door open, but it arrested itself when several moments passed and the engine didn’t start. Finally, she heard the car door shut again. There was the sound of the trunk being opened, and then Nick returned, laden with parcels and a large basket. He closed the cabin door with his hip and then tiptoed across the floor, being careful not to make any unnecessary noise.

Through slitted eyes, a relieved Zee watched him work, first opening his duffel and pulling out socks, then stuffing them with some unidentifiable things that were likely food, judging by the sweet smells floating on the air. She was a little baffled by his actions but wondered whether this might not be more of Christmas. He had promised that the elf or an emissary would come for her and the children. Had someone actually left something in Nick’s car? She was fairly certain that she would have heard anyone prowling outside, but she and Nick had been rather preoccupied.

She hoped that whoever it was would come back, because she needed to ask specific directions to Cadalach, the fey stronghold where Jack Frost lived. It wasn’t that she wanted to go to the fey—she was almost as frightened as the children about seeing her people’s old foe—but she was part human, too. And someone had to be told about that creature at the mall who was doing something to the children, and her own family hadn’t believed her.

Would Nick believe her, if she told him?

Zee wasn’t sure. It would be asking an awful lot.

Nick was yawning prodigiously by the time he finished tying up his socks with shiny, bristling ribbon, and when he was done folding the various boxes inside the paper squares he had torn from some large bags, he was almost asleep on his feet.

Cold and a bit clammy, he snuggled back under the blanket he and Zee were sharing, but the chill didn’t seem to interfere with his need to sleep. He draped an arm around his living treasure and closed his eyes. His last thought was that at last he had found a way to loosen some of the emotional logjam inside. For so many years, he had dreaded Christmas—and the effects of that dread had been cumulative. This year, he would have a happy memory, one he didn’t need to bury.

Nick smiled and began snoring softly.

It was Zee’s turn to sneak away. Wriggling slowly out from under Nick’s arm, she stepped into her shoes and smoothed her clothing into place. She had wanted to do something special for Nick anyway, but after seeing his efforts to bring Christmas to the children, it suddenly felt vitally important. It was like working a good-luck spell or something—only fine things could come of it. And he had sounded so wistful when talking about Christmas trees. That would be her gift to him. Fortunately, in a forest, trees were easy to find.

He hadn’t said how large such a tree should be, but if people brought them inside, they couldn’t be all that tall—not like the wonderful display of metal trees at the mall. Anyway, she wouldn’t have time to find decorations for a large tree. All she had was aluminum foil and some dog biscuits.

Zee pulled on her cape and turned to look at Nick and the children. She had a moment’s qualm. Should she go? It felt safe; whatever evil magic had conjured that storm was now gone. The children and Nick were deeply asleep. The fire was dying, but it would hold for another hour. She would build it up when she got back. Yet . . .

Feeling the compulsion prick at her again, she turned away. Picking up a small rusted hatchet she had concealed in the small pile of firewood, Zee went to the door and opened it.

The morning was cold, the air a sharp thing that stung her lungs with invisible needles. She understood why Nick hadn’t wanted to work outside. Even in heavy clothing, the weather was a punishment. Still, it helped her keep awake. Moments of sleepiness were coming upon her in waves now; she would soon need to sleep. But not yet. She needed to do this thing for Nick . . . before it was too late and the moment had passed.

Zee looked about carefully, waiting for something nearby to present itself as an obvious candidate. The most obvious choice was one of the ubiquitous pines. But there were also a handful of twisted oaks and also several attractive manzanita bushes, which were more conveniently sized.

“Why not a Christmas bush?” she asked the early light. Zee bit her lip, wishing she had questioned Nick more carefully. She reviewed their short conversation. Nick had talked about the European tradition of singing to the trees. They didn’t have manzanita in Europe. That left the oaks and the pines.

Personally, she preferred oak trees. They weren’t so sappy, and they had beautiful branches. But Christmas was largely about smells, or so it seemed, and there was no denying the sharp pleasantness of freshly cut pine. It was a pity that there were no small ones nearby. Maybe she could just cut off a branch. It would be easier to move and it would save the tree.

But, no. If she was going to do this, she wanted to do it right. Nick hadn’t said that he missed having a Christmas branch. He wanted a tree. It was important to do this right, to bring the correct offering so everything would be well.

Familiar hunger began to gnaw at Zee as she hesitated, but it wasn’t because of her empty stomach.

Thanks to Nick, for the first time in the last two days she was not having hunger of the body. It was odd but, sometimes, when she was feeling especially lonely or frightened, Zee liked to think about food—all the wonderful dishes that she had read about in cooking magazines at the human grocery store in town when she was twelve but had never actually tasted. She thought sometimes that she would like to be fat, all filled up with wonderful things made by people who cooked with what for humans was a sort of magic. Other magazines—fashion magazines—said that to be fat was wrong, that Zee should want to be skinny because that was the key to success. But Zee’s body had always been magazine-thin, and it had very rarely been happy. And since her father died, she had felt perpetually empty inside. She needed to fill the hollow space with something.

Sighing, Zee started into the cold forest, so dark with fir-scented shadows. She didn’t like walking alone—but not because she was afraid of wild animals. It was just that being alone gave her too much time to think, to question, to doubt . . . and she was doing a lot of doubting these days.

Zee had always been aware that she wasn’t a real goblin, nor really a human, nor a fey. She was a freak, a crossbreed who was actually forbidden in many lutin cultures. Some days the aloneness of that identity pressed in on her, but never so hard as it had the last few weeks. The autumn had been brutal, dark and cold outside and inside her soul. She had kept on going only because she had to, because turning back would have meant that there really was something in the world to be afraid of after all. It was to admit that she might try to find a new life and still fail. And she had persisted because of the children. She had to go on for them, even when her own strength and courage wore thin and her dreams ran out. She couldn’t let fear stop her. If she did, then Luz would win. Destruction of her hopes and dreams was his favorite form of thievery. He had sucked her mother dry; she would not let him have this victory as well!

Leaving home hadn’t been an easy decision; it was not the lutin way. True, her life there had not been happy since her father died, but it hadn’t been so bad at first, when it was just her mother and uncles. But her mother had eventually remarried a goblin from another hive, and the creature, Luz, was a human-hating bigot who never tired of trying to turn Zee’s birth family against her and the children because they looked more human than lutin. And without her mother’s support, the campaign of alienation had slowly worked. Zee’s family’s disappointment in the trio’s increasingly human appearance, and eventual distrust of their hive loyalties, had grown until it was the only thing she ever saw in their faces. Except for her stepfather: He had looked triumphant.

And then there was her cousin, Paspar. He had steadily grown more sullen and nasty the longer he hung around with Luz, and the longer Zee resisted him. He had at first thought of her as perfect wife material—someone who wouldn’t be fussy because she was a half-breed and therefore didn’t deserve to have any standards about men. Then he had become physically and verbally abusive, telling her plainly that half-breed sluts didn’t have any right to be selective about whose bed they warmed.

But she did deserve to have standards, damn it!

And the children did too. And they never would have had any if she’d left them behind again while she made a life for herself. She had been gone for only a couple of weeks, trying to set up her business and arrange a place to live, and had been appalled at the change in them when she returned. They had been pale and silent, their eyes downcast. Asenatha, as Gretel was then called, had looked up with sad eyes and asked, “Zee, am I bad?”

Asenatha was a beautiful child—sweet, thoughtful and gifted with a passion for learning that Zee realized would never be fulfilled if she stayed with her family. They saw the child as nothing more than burdensome half-breed chattel, to be sold off to the first male who would have her. Asenatha’s psyche would store up scars as surely as her body. And she was too young to defend herself. She was too kind— and too lutin—to get angry and fight back. Zee understood. She, too, had been good and obedient as a child and allowed the others of her hive to eat away at her self-confidence and self-esteem. She had let them pull her creative teeth and claws. The thought of that passivity made her despise herself.

Perhaps it wasn’t all her fault; expressing anger was never something she had seen demonstrated by the women of her hive. Even possessing such emotion was a sin. Those who lived in a hive—especially the females—weren’t supposed to feel or think anything unapproved by the hive master. That their actual master was dead didn’t matter, that he’d been killed in the destruction of the Las Vegas hive—Luz was now the one in control. And anger, like personal ambition, had to be kept hidden from him, no matter the cost to the soul. But while the others could do it, Zee had trouble: Possessing that hidden anger and denying her dreams was like having gravel buried in the skin. Some days it was all she could do to ignore it and get on with her life. Many times she had thought about what it would be like to grow long fangs and sharp claws so that she could tear herself open and let the fear and anger and frustration out. She sometimes wanted fangs and talons for other reasons as well.

And then there was Gaust. What would happen to Gaust—Hansel—if she left him behind? Already an angry boy, would the neglect and abuse eventually teach him to be a monster, too? She feared that he would grow claws—giant, tearing talons—and would use them on anyone who got near him.

Zee had gone to her mother one last time to ask for help, but took a single look at her parent and knew the question had been decided already; it was useless to enlist her aid. Her mother had always been a quiet creature, somber in nature, but the woman who looked at Zee was more than that. She was grim and petulant, all joy snuffed out from her first husband’s death, left with nothing but her lutin family who, though they’d taken her back, would not allow her to keep her human luxuries and would never accept her half-breed children. Want for worldly, forbidden things now distorted her face and lined her forehead and deadened her eyes until she was barely recognizable. Zee knew that there would be no help from her; she’d feed her children to Luz’s family without a single protest if it made her own life more comfortable.

Nor would Zee’s other kin intervene. She had an aunt and an uncle by marriage who were gentle and sympathetic—and who kept Zee’s human books so her mother wouldn’t find them—but they were just too afraid to cross Luz. They had urged Zee to give in and seek safety in marrying Paspar, even knowing how she would likely be abused by him. That had seemed far better to them than Zee’s idea of leaving.

So Zee could not stay with any of her family. To do so would be to bite the poison apple like the human princess doomed to a sleeping death—a horrible human story that haunted Zee because she knew it was true and not just a tall tale.

There were many poisonous things in her world; Zee had learned this from watching her mother. Always a quiet woman, anxious to please, Zee’s mother had become nothing more than a drone, a slave to her new husband. What was that story— Tristan and Isolde?—where the hero was told that by taking the love potion he’d drunk his death. That had been her poor mother. She had fallen in love with a half-human, half-fey. He, being kind and generous, had given her something wonderful, a gift that was fabulous—the chance to dream and see a wider world than a goblin hive. But it also was a gift that had been taken away with his life. Because she hadn’t the tools or nature to fight, she had given up her place in the world without a struggle. And though she hated it, in part Zee understood her mother’s choice to return to the hive.

Yes, the world outside could be hostile, especially for an uneducated woman with children. Returning to the lutin fold had looked the easiest, safest course. But if Zee herself followed that path, she would be trapped, lost—her soul first, then her mind and finally probably her body, because her cousins were not gentle and most hive women did not live long; they were worn out by endless breeding as the men tried to strengthen their numbers.

Luz and his kin had called Zee a subversive thinker—a charge she had always denied—but perhaps they were right. She hated the way her family lived in the hive, and she didn’t believe that life in a larger, organized hive would be any better. All the stories suggested Lilith was a monster, though Zee herself hadn’t lived under the goblin queen because her father had taken them away when she was small. Zee didn’t recall much of the outside world from her childhood, but she had read the books her father gave her, and she even thought in the human tongue when she was angry. And many small human, rebellious thoughts—and then deeds—had begun to creep into her life. She’d had secret dreams of independence, of friendships outside the hive, of travel—of a fuller life, a life self-created and not handed to her by someone else whose soul and dreams were dead.

Was it so wrong to want to leave footprints behind to mark her journey in the world, so that she wouldn’t disappear without a trace as all her lutin ancestors had done?

Of course, it was more than that which moved her. In time, she had come to believe in personal freedom within the hive—even for females—and if she could have her way, democracy would break out all over the lutin empire, giving hive members a chance to decide their own fates. Someday they might even have elections to choose their leaders!

But these thoughts, as seductive as they were, hadn’t been enough to compel her to act. It was seeing the light in the children slowly snuffed out that had been the thing that finally moved her to extreme action. Her mother couldn’t—or wouldn’t— protect them, so Zee had to. The time to leave her family had come, and she couldn’t impede her destiny any more than a woman in labor could halt her contractions and abandon giving birth. She’d decided that she and the children were leaving and were going to be reborn . . . somewhere, somehow.

In that moment of awareness, something had risen up inside Zee, and the tide of loyalty had turned and begun pulling her away from the past and her family. She renounced her lutin blood. And she wasn’t sorry to see her past life go. Most days, Zee was certain she would eventually find another, more hospitable shore, where she and the children could put down roots and allow themselves to grow into whatever it was that nature meant them to be. In time, she might even forget everything that had happened before and learn to be trusting again. And why not? Very little of the past was worth remembering. She would just treat it as a bad dream.

It was simply unfortunate that her journey had turned out darker than she had guessed it would be. Privation and physical hardship she had expected. But who could have known about the monster that stalked her dreams? It seemed so unfair that he had been at the mall. She had taken the children inside because of the big red-and-gold banner that had proclaimed peace on earth. And because of all the wonderful lights. It was wrong that a monster should be hiding with all that beauty.

Still, she was winning the war, one small battle at a time. She had managed to take back her confiscated life from the sadistic Luz, and done whatever she had to in order to keep herself—and the children—safe from him. She would win against this other monster, too.

Of course, it was a pity that the only place where she could think to take the children was to the human world. They would probably never be fully accepted, perhaps never marry or have close friends. But that was how it had to be. They had the human language, more or less; Zee had seen to that. And they could pass for human as long as they kept their clothes on. They would even be able to go to school and learn to read and write and to do math, just like all the human children. They could have a dog, or maybe a cat. Zee loved cats and had always wanted a pet.

And the humans were turning out to be kind after all. Look at Nick—no one could be more generous or sweet. If only . . .

Zee touched the pendant that she wore over her heart, seeking comfort. It was her father’s pendant, an heirloom. On one side was a family crest, and on the other were the three faces of the goddess whom she had never been taught to worship. Though she often wore it, Zee never felt like the medallion was truly hers. It had belonged to her father, and to his father before him—and to all his grandfathers back to its creation. It had belonged to those of before, and perhaps it would belong to one who came after, but it could not belong to her because, though born in her father’s family, she did not know them—did not know who and what she was herself. And she did not know the Goddess. She wanted to, sometimes desperately, but she did not know how to find Her.

Zee didn’t know why, but she had never been taught how to touch that side of herself. Her father had said only that it was too dangerous to be fey. But though she trusted her father, Zee realized this ignorance of her nature kept her from many things that she needed to know in order to live a good life, a life where she wasn’t wasting precious energy fighting her very nature. A life that had love and a family . . . and hope.

Zee shook her head. Her father had told her once that because of the magic in her, she would know the right man when he came along. His magic would speak to hers and—whether he was goblin or fey—they would come together because the magic willed it so. But, though hugely fond of the human culture, he hadn’t said anything about humans as mates—ever. And that was worrisome. Everyone knew that humans didn’t have magic. And perhaps that was fine, since Zee was trying to be like them and she didn’t have much magic either. But how would she know the right man if he didn’t have any enchantment in him?

Of course, that begged the question—could any human be the right one for her? Carrying goblin blood, could she ever be the right woman for a human? She looked almost like them, except for those scars on her chest. But she wasn’t human—not all the way, not down deep inside.

Zee wished she had a scrying stone, some clear gem she could gaze into to focus her thoughts. Perhaps then she could find an answer. Nick certainly seemed like the right man. Even before his car had appeared, she had felt his approaching heartbeat outside her door, knocking, asking to be let inside. And what had passed between them later when they made love had felt like magic—at least magic as she understood it. He was generous, passionate, caring— and gentle with the children, too—and he made her want to do wonderful things to please him.

Oh, how she wanted to be the right woman for him! She wanted to be the one who would share his life and dreams, which had to be rich and wonderful, and she’d never go hungry again. This thought was nearly an obsession now. And if this change of thinking wasn’t magic, then what was? That they had made love at all was amazing. She had resisted this transition for so long, resentful and also fearful of the changes that happened to lutin women when they gave themselves to men. Until tonight, Zee had thought she would rather endure the worst beatings, torture and even death, before she gave away her body and will. Yet, she had made love to Nick only hours after meeting him, and was even now wandering in a dark forest in the freezing cold trying to do something to please him.

That had to be magic, didn’t it?

Which led her thoughts back to Christmas trees. She had to find one before the sun rose over the mountains. She had to find it and bring it back as an offering to Nick. Only then would everything be well.

Zee trudged on. The cold had frozen a tiny stream that she had to cross over. It had also made the ground harder and less forgiving. Sticks and branches, which once would have bent with her passage, became weapons—cudgels and knives that gorged her flesh when she touched them. The cold had also rarified the air so that every breath of wind seemed loud. This had to be the coldest night of the year.

If one were of the nervous sort, Zee thought, it would be easy to imagine something was perching in the twisted limbs of that old oak tree, or hiding in the thick needles of that ancient fir.

Zee saw a flash of light from the corner of her eye and spun about quickly, but it was nothing, no wild beast about to attack, just a choked thicket of Himalaya-berry vines that had crept among the trees in the summer, decorating them with dark but hard to obtain fruit. The now-brown vines were denuded of fruit and leaves, but were still armed with thorns. Those numerous claws sparkled prettily, even in the faint light of false dawn.

She hadn’t gone much farther when her prayers for guidance were answered. Someone had left her a clear sign. There was an entire stand of young pine trees marked with plastic ribbons—some red, some green and some yellow.

Had Nick’s elf been here after all? Zee’s skin prickled, and she sniffed the air carefully while checking the ground for prints.

Nothing. The snow was pristine. No one had been here since the storm stopped, not even deer or other nocturnal forest animals. Which, now that she thought about it, was rather odd. Surely she was not the only living soul! Yet, she had seen and heard no other beings since leaving the cabin. Perhaps they had been frightened away by the storm; animals were often sensitive to magical phenomena.

She advanced slowly, watching the dawn shadows as she went. But all remained peaceful and calm.

Most of the trees in the grove were small, between four and ten feet tall. They were somewhat sparse-looking, suggesting that perhaps they were ill or holding back their delicate limbs because of overcrowding. If thinning the trees out would make the other trees healthier, then she was doing a doubly good deed by cutting one down. She had to think that way because there were very few trees in the place where she had grown up and, though stunted by sun and wind, they all seemed like miracles to her; killing them—even for a ritual—seemed wrong.

The ten-foot tree was handsomest, at least on one side. But that would mean dragging it uphill all the way back to the cabin, and she was almost certain that it was too tall to fit inside. She walked around the other trees slowly, evaluating, and finally selected a pine that was only a little shorter than herself.

Her hatchet was very dull, and Zee was glad that she wasn’t trying to whittle through oak. As it was, she was perspiring heavily by the time the tree came down.

Once it was felled, she went around to all the other trees and removed their plastic ribbons—they would make pretty bows for Nick’s Christmas tree. She also collected several of the giant cones fallen from the larger sugar pines. They would look nice, too, and they could burn them later. Pinecones made for a hot, sweet fire.

It took several long, cold minutes to tie the pinecones onto the side of the tree that wasn’t pressed into the snow. When the last one was secure, Zee went around to the sappy stump and began dragging her treasure up the hill. The tree was not especially heavy, but it accumulated snow in its branches, gaining weight with every step she traveled. Though she was strong and used to hard work, her lungs were burning by the time she returned to flat ground.

Once she reached the cabin, an exhausted Zee realized that she was going to have trouble standing the tree upright. She had stood it up in order to shake out the snow, but it had no inclination to remain upright when she let go. Probably there was some Christmas thing that Nick used to make the tree stand up, but she didn’t have one. The only answer was to prop it in the corner of the room farthest from the fireplace and use the walls as a cradle.

Then there was the matter of getting it through the door. The tree was small and flexible, but its branches were definitely wider than the doorway. It would make a lot of noise.

Should she bring it in now? Or wait and surprise Nick once they were all awake?

A dollop of wet snow fell on Zee’s head, reminding her of how cold it was outdoors. She was also swaying on her feet.

Later, she decided. She’d bring it in once Nick was awake. Right now, she wanted a mug of hot tea and to snuggle back into Nick’s strong arms—and to sleep there. She knew that everything would feel possible and safe once she was there again. She would sleep without dreams.

Chapter Eight

“What are you doing to those eggs?” Hansel asked as Nick cracked the last one and spilled its contents into their only pan. At the sound of that bright voice, Zee began to stir. After a moment, her head peeped out from under the blanket.

“Good morning,” Nick said.

“Good morning,” she answered, and then yawned.

“Nick!” Hansel tugged his sleeve and repeated his question. “What are you doing to those eggs?”

“I’m making an omelet,” Nick said, frowning a little at how meager an omelet it would be divided between four persons. Eggnog had taken a toll on the carton of eggs. Guessing what the next question would be, he added, “You mix other things with the eggs. It’ll be tasty. You’ll see. It’s a Christmas thing,” he added, to end any potential argument.

Hansel looked distrustfully at the pan. Nick wondered if he should give the children their presents as a distraction, but he wanted to wait for Zee to be fully awake and ready before he distributed the gifts.

“You’re going to cook them?” Hansel asked.

“Yes, of course. I wouldn’t serve you raw eggs. You might get sick.”

Hansel opened his mouth, but Zee joined them and said something in their strange language. The boy shrugged. “But I don’t get sick,” he argued.

“I found some herbs,” Nick said to Zee, for some reason feeling a bit shy now that the sun was up. Fresh out of bed and she still looked lovely. She smelled lovely, too. He had noticed that last night: Zee was a rainbow of scents. And unlike the rainbow, which was made up of refracted water droplets that had only a few colors, Zee’s scent was more varied. And real. And pleasing. There was no chasing of illusions going on here. That amazed him. Many women pleased the eye—models and actresses and such—but they were as distant as the moon. Zee was here, and she pleased all his senses.

“Herbs? Here?” she asked, surprise in her voice. She struggled out from her blanket cocoon. Nick forced himself to focus on the conversation and not her tousled hair or alluring voice.

“I think there must have been a garden out there once. I know they look a little sad,” he said. This was an understatement; the herbs were trampled and frost-bitten. “But I’m sure they’ll taste fine. I’m wondering if the children should have them though.”

Zee picked up his meager collection of blackened stems and sniffed them.

“These will be lovely. Thank you, Nick, for making breakfast.”

“My pleasure,” he said, loving her smile and feeling as though he had been handed a laurel wreath.

“I will go hunting after we eat,” Zee said.

“Hunting?” Nick was startled. “But . . . should you? Surely not alone. Anyway, it’s Christmas.”

“No, I won’t go alone. I’ll take the children. They need to learn anyway.”

“Take the children?” he repeated, appalled. Then he blurted out the sort of chauvinistic thing he’d promised himself he’d never say to any woman: “No, absolutely not. Do you know how many firearms incidents occur when children are taken hunting? Gunshot wounds are difficult to treat, and last year there were—”

“Nick, I don’t use a gun,” Zee said, pulling him up short. “We don’t like guns. It isn’t our way.”

“I’m not sure a bow and arrow is any better,” he answered after a moment. “Those kids are too small to use a hunting bow safely.”

“I don’t use that either,” she said gently.

“Then what do you use? A spear?” he asked, beginning to be fascinated in spite of himself. “Or a snare?”

“No. . . . It is a little hard to explain. Have you ever seen a fisherman who stands in a stream and catches fish with his hands?”

“Yes. Once. On television,” he added.

“That’s the way we do it. No weapons.”

He looked at her with respect. “You can catch fish with your bare hands?”

She hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

“Well, this I’ve got to see. You know, I have a couple of friends who would absolutely love you,” Nick said. “If the snow doesn’t melt and we’re stuck here another day, we’ll all go fishing.”

Zee stared at him for a moment. He wished he knew what she was thinking.

“I must hunt even if the snow does melt,” Zee said calmly. “We have to eat.”

Nick stared at her as if she had lost her mind. Didn’t she know that last night had changed everything? She wasn’t alone anymore. Of course he would feed her and the children.

But maybe she didn’t know. He hadn’t said anything.

Don’t rush her, but don’t act like a deaf-mute either, the ghost advised.

“Well, of course you do—have to eat, I mean. But as soon as the snow melts we’re all leaving here. We’ll go to the next town and have a proper meal.” His voice was firm. He didn’t like to abuse the Jag, but he would force her on the roads in order to keep Zee from hunting. “Then we’ll decide about what to do after.”

“That is wonderful of you,” Zee said. She swallowed and added, “But, Nick, we can’t go with you. It may not be safe.”

“Safe? You think I would hurt you?” He was horrified.

“No! Of course not. It isn’t that.” Zee said something to Hansel, sending him away. She lowered her voice to a near whisper. “You see, I didn’t think the family would mind if I took the children, but . . .” She hesitated, eyes imploring him to understand.

“But they mind?” Nick said. “You think they’ll be looking for you around here?”

“I’m afraid so,” she said. “I thought we’d made it safely away. Then last night . . .” She trailed off. “I think someone may know where we are. We have to go soon. It’s very important that I reach Cadalach. I fear time is running out.”

“And the children can’t go back home?” Nick asked, thinking of all the strange things the children had said and done. “You think they might be neglected? Or abused? Damn it! Has someone already hurt them?”

“I think they’ll be captured and taken back as slaves,” Zee said flatly. Then she lowered her voice. “Luz would have let us go, for our mother’s sake. But his cousins . . . It’s a matter of pride. I’m sure they were hunting us last night. Fortunately, they aren’t very good hunters—and since they never bathe, they smell like something a coyote left behind. We always know when they are near.”

Nick had a sudden vision of Luz and his cousins. They would be cross-eyed and not have a lot of teeth. They didn’t bathe and so were walking storehouses of rotting bacteria. They drank mouthwash when no other hooch was available and the whole lot of them couldn’t spell dog, if you gave them the D, the O and the G and a week of thinking time. Nick shuddered. It might not be the legal thing to do, but he couldn’t blame Zee for taking the children away from them.

“But eventually they will get tired of trying on their own, and they’ll ask for help,” Zee added. Her voice was suddenly shaded with desperation. “We must be far away by then. And the children must learn how to survive on their own. Just in case something should happen to me.”

Nick caught sight of the nearly empty box of dog biscuits, and a flash of anger so sharp that it rivaled last night’s lightning passed through his body.

A cult—some foreign survivalist cult had transplanted its craziness to the U.S. He should have seen it before. It explained everything about the children’s ignorance of the world, their odd diets, strange language—everything. Then Nick thought about all the cults he had heard of and the disasters that had happened to the children caught in them. Waco, Jonestown . . . it was too horrible to contemplate. He would never let Zee and the children fall into such hands!

“Nothing will happen to you. We’re heading east,” he said firmly. It took an effort to keep the rage out of his voice. “As soon as the snow melts enough for the Jag to move. And we aren’t stopping—except for food and gas—until we get to Jace’s house.”

Zee blinked. “Who is Jace, and why would we go there? Is he a hunter?”

“After a fashion. Jason Rich is a crusader and a good friend of mine. He’s an attorney who practices family law. We are going to see about getting these children taken away from your family for good. And if Luz and his smelly cousins even try to get near them—or you—they will be very, very sorry.” Nick did not believe in violence, but he meant what he was saying. He would defend Zee and the children, whatever the cost.

“But Nick, I don’t think you entirely understand. It—”

“Don’t argue with me. Zee,” he said, reaching out and cupping her face with the hand that didn’t have egg on it. “Please. We can’t take any chances. This cult—this Luz and his family—are more dangerous than you probably know. You’re too close to the situation to see it for what it is. I’ve seen their type before. They’re fanatics and won’t be swayed by reason. I wouldn’t go so far as to call them evil—but they do evil things.”

“No, I understand how dangerous they are. I just hope that you do, too.” Her voice was flat, not at all the one he was used to hearing. The absence of warmth and animation actually hurt him. It was odd to think that he had grown this fond of her in the short time they had been together.

“I’m a doctor. I promise you, I’ve seen it all— every horrid thing that people can do to one another. I know what we have to do to make you safe.”

“Nick”—she smiled at him and raised her own hand to cover his—“it is wonderful that you wish to do this for us. Thank you. You give me strength. Once we are away from here, I will be able to take care of the children. I just need to escape.”

“Of course,” Nick said, though he had some real doubts about Zee being able to establish a business quickly enough to take care of her own needs, let alone the children’s. Unless she had help—which she would. “And I’ll be there to see that you get a job and a home and . . . whatever you need.”

He didn’t tell her that her home would be his. He was pretty certain that Jace would tell Zee that her case for custody would be strengthened if she were married—and to someone respectable, who had the wherewithal to provide for the family. And if Jace didn’t tell her, Nick would suggest it.

Yesterday he would have been shocked and unwilling to contemplate doing such an impulsive thing. But he found that in the warm light of this Christmas morning, he didn’t mind the idea at all.

“If you mean this, Nick, then there is something you can do. I will go see your friend Jace. But the children and I must first go to Cadalach. Other children are in danger, and I must tell the . . . the people there what is happening, so they can be on guard.”

“What is Cadalach? A town?”

“Sort of. The people there are . . . they are like a council. They can stop what’s happening.”

“Don’t they have a phone?” he asked. “We could just call them.”

“No, there is no phone. The only way I know to find them is to go to the desert and look.”

“I see,” Nick said slowly, picturing an encampment of old motor homes parked in the middle of nowhere—which there were plenty of in Nevada. The idea didn’t appeal to him. Still, if this cult was after other children . . .

“We couldn’t go to the police?” he asked, taking the eggs over to the fire and putting the pan on the coals.

Zee shook her head and knelt down beside him. “They will be too slow, and they’ll never find the children in time.”

Nick didn’t like that answer, but he believed it to be true. In rural areas, law enforcement didn’t always have the resources to react quickly, especially if they didn’t see the immediate danger.

“Very well, then. We’ll look for Cadalach first— but only for one day. I want you and the children away from here.” He stirred the eggs briskly, trying to keep the omelet’s base from burning.

“Very well,” Zee answered, beginning to smile. “I think we are close already. And we are still near enough to the solstice that I should be able to find them. If only I had a scrying stone—or a diamond.”

Nick started to ask what she meant, but the children came bounding over.

“Let’s have some breakfast,” Nick said as cheerfully as he could. “And then we’ll open some presents.”

Zee clapped her hands and looked at the children. “That would be wonderful. I am so hungry this morning.”

Nick felt unexpectedly pleased about having that diamond pendant, since Zee seemed to really want a diamond. That piece of jewelry was like a sign— not that he believed in portents—but still, it seemed like Heaven was aligned with his plan. True, he wasn’t giving her a ring, but close enough. The necklace would serve until he could get her a proper engagement gift.

You’re committed, then? the ghost’s voice asked.

“Yes,” Nick muttered. “I’m committed.”

“I’m hungry, too,” Gretel announced. She appeared beside the table and began sniffing the socks that Nick had stuffed with white chocolate, a few decorative candy canes and dried apricots. “These smell good. Can we eat them?”

“You can eat what’s in them. After breakfast,” Nick said. “And after we open the presents. We want to see what Santa brought us, don’t we?”

“Yes,” Gretel agreed, but she still sounded doubtful. It would take some convincing to sell her on the idea of a good but invisible elf.

Zee also said yes, but her voice was sure. There was a sparkle of anticipation in her eyes. Nick wondered if she had ever received a Christmas gift, or if—like the children—this would be her first. A part of him hoped this was all new to her. He liked being her first everything.

He hurriedly dished out the eggs. He couldn’t wait to see Zee’s reaction when she opened her present.

Chapter Nine

Breakfast disappeared very quickly, which Nick took as a compliment, though it might have also been due to the small portions. Though it disturbed him, he made no objection when the children rounded out the meal with a handful of dog cookies.

“Is it time yet?” Gretel asked again, eyeing the stockings and packages piled in the center of the table. “I want to open the Christmas socks.”

Feeling oddly excited, Nick put the communal dish from which the children had dined into the pan of snowmelt warming by the fire, then announced that it was finally time to open their presents. He had just gotten up and gone to the table when Zee said: “Wait!”

She said something to the children in their native tongue, and they got up, too. Gretel giggled. All three of them headed for the door.

“What—?”

“Close your eyes, Nick. The elf brought something for you, too.”

He stared at Zee, feeling stupid and also puzzled. Santa had come? But how? When?

“Zee . . .” he began, feeling sudden concern that if there was a package on the porch it might be something dangerous left by her cultist cousins. After all, it couldn’t really be from Santa. “Look, I don’t think that—”

“Nick!” she pleaded. “Close your eyes. Trust me.”

“Okay.” Baffled and a bit nervous, he did as she asked. The door opened and there was more giggling, followed by a scraping sound. Zee was whispering instructions. The door closed with a small slam.

Suddenly, the air was filled with the smell of fresh-cut pine. There was more scraping in the corner of the room and then Zee said: “Open your eyes!”

Nick turned and faced Zee. She and the children were standing beside a scraggly pine tied with tattered plastic ribbons and propped crookedly in the corner, where it appeared to have grown out of the floor. It looked terrible, something too sorry even for Charlie Brown—but it was still the loveliest tree he’d ever seen.

Touched to near speechlessness, Nick approached the trio and their Christmas offering. It took some stooping and stretching, but he managed to enclose all of them in a hug.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “That is the best gift I’ve ever received. Really, it’s the best Christmas ever.”

Delighted, the children began to laugh. “Zee found it on the porch! She said it was for you.”

“It won’t stand up straight,” Zee apologized, trying to adjust the stunted pine.

“That’s okay. It doesn’t need to,” Nick assured her. “It’s perfect as it is.”

“Our turn now!” Hansel said, beginning to wiggle. “I want Christmas, too.”

Nick spent another moment looking into Zee’s dark eyes, then he dropped his arms and said, “Okay, let’s see what Santa left for all of you.”

The toys were a huge hit and required lengthy discussions about proper usage. Nick was patient while he explained everything, but he was secretly itching for Zee to open her gift.

She, however, was as fascinated as the children with the radio-control car and the bear with the elaborate wardrobe, telling Nick that her childhood had been as deprived of childish distractions as Hansel and Gretel’s. Nick couldn’t spoil the moment by taking her away from the fun.

Eventually it was Zee’s turn to have her present. She handled the small box carefully, but Nick was ready to swear that she didn’t know it contained jewelry. That seemed very odd, because every female he had ever met—down to his niece, when she’d got a pearl ring at age six—knew what a jeweler’s box looked like, and behaved a little differently when given one.

Zee carefully pulled off the tinsel and opened the lid.

“Oh, Nick! How pretty! They look like stars. And they’re diamond—it’s just what I needed! How did your elf know?”

Nick smiled a little, amused by the idea that Zee needed diamonds.

“Let me see!” Gretel said, peering into the box.

Then, with a change of tone that absolutely defined her as female: “Oh! I like that.”

“They’re small but real,” he said, wondering if he sounded stupid stating the obvious. He decided to add a few other significant facts. “Diamonds are the hardest gemstones. They last forever. It’s why most people choose them for wedding rings. They endure while still being beautiful.” He didn’t add that they represented what true love should be. There were limits to his sappiness—or, at least, limits to what he would say aloud.

Zee looked up, her eyes shining easily as brightly as the diamonds, which twinkled in their bed of white satin. “I like the pendant shape. It feels . . . happy. What does it signify?”

“It is happy, because it is a heart,” Nick agreed. He was very pleased with her reaction. “Let me help you with the clasp. It can be tricky when you have long hair.”

“Thank you,” Zee said, turning and lifting her hair away and exposing the lovely nape of her neck. He noticed what looked like a diamond tattoo, and wondered when she had gotten it. And if it had been voluntary. He thought about the other marks on her body and felt his gut twist. He had been distracted at the moment and not thinking, but the marks had been symmetrical. That meant they were deliberate.

“Here.” Zee handed him the jewelry box over her shoulder. “Oh, let me take off my other pendant.”

Nick’s hands threatened to shake, but he was stern with them. He carefully lifted out the gold chain and obediently freed its tiny clasp. He lowered the pendant around Zee’s neck and then carefully joined its two ends. He couldn’t resist dropping a quick kiss on her diamond tattoo. It was dumb, but he wanted to do something to make everything better for her.

“There. You’re all set,” he said.

“Thank you,” Zee responded, turning back to Nick and touching the pendant. It rested right above her heart. “It’s beautiful. I don’t know how the elf knew to choose it, but it’s perfect.”

No, it’s not—but you are, Nick thought, though he managed to swallow the grossly sentimental reply before it reached his lips.

“But what does it do?” Hansel asked, shattering the mood. “Does it have batteries? Can it fly?”

“It doesn’t do anything,” Nick said. Then he added: “Except remind the wearer that someone cares about her. It’s something you contemplate.”

“Oh.” Hansel shrugged. “I think the elf should have brought her another car. Then we could race.”

“Can Miss Bear ride in your car?” Gretel asked, also losing interest in the necklace once it was on her sister.

“She can ride on it,” Hansel said, going to fetch his car. “The only way she would fit inside is if we cut her head off.”

“No,” Gretel shrieked, cradling the bear. Then she added: “Maybe later.”

“Bloodthirsty, aren’t they?” Nick laughed. “But then, I used to melt my green army men with matches. I liked stretching them into new, humanly impossible positions.”

Zee appeared to give the idea some thought. “I don’t think they are bloodthirsty—at least Gretel isn’t. That is part of our worry. I am not very cruel either. I think we disappointed mother. She wanted us to be mean and resourceful.”

Nick was appalled. He prayed he’d never have to meet his future in-laws.

“Don’t worry about not being mean,” he commanded. “You are better off not being cruel. Cruel people are never happy. And the children won’t need to learn how to be brutal. We’re going to take them somewhere safe and see to it that they have a good, protected life. Anyway, Christmas isn’t about dwelling on bad things. Today is for good things only.”

“What is it about?” Zee asked. “I mean, at its heart. I haven’t been able to figure that out. You said it was about a birthday. At the mall, they had a giant banner that said Peace on Earth. I thought that was lovely.”

“It is many things—and it means different things to different people at different times in their lives. They call it the season of miracles. Or the season of the spirit,” Nick answered. “But mostly, to me anyway, it’s about love . . . and being honest enough to tell the truth about how you are feeling. And, Zee, I do care about you.”

She nodded, but her smile dimmed slightly.

“What’s wrong?” Nick asked. “Have I frightened you by rushing things? I wouldn’t normally have been so . . . It’s just that the circumstances are extraordinary. Please don’t be upset that I care.”

“Nothing is wrong—not right now. But . . .” She trailed off. “Nick, there is something I need to tell you before you begin to care about me too much. And before you help the children and me.”

“What is it?” he asked gently. “Don’t be afraid to tell me. Is it about your family?”

“Yes—partly. You remember when I said we were lutin?”

“Yes, lutins from Europe.”

“My ancestors were from Europe—from France. Lutin is a French name. It means . . .” She took a deep breath. “It means goblin.”

Nick blinked.

“What?” He didn’t understand what she was saying. Lutin did mean goblin, but it could also be a name—couldn’t it?

“The children and I are part goblin,” she said softly.

“But you can’t be. Goblins are green and have four arms.” He knew that much from the news. Also, they weren’t considered human enough to study in medical school. They had their own doctors. Obviously, Zee was quite human.

“Pure-blood goblins do. My mother was a goblin-cross. She was born in the Las Vegas hive. She ran away to marry our father, who was a human-fey hybrid. You know what this word signifies? Fey, I mean.”

“Yes, it means to be psychic—to have the ability to prophesy.” His eyes dropped to her necklace. She had talked about needing a scrying stone. Did Zee think she was psychic? But that was just nonsense—superstition.

No, it’s not, said the ghost in his head.

I don’t believe in faeries and psychics and magical bullshit, Nick answered.

But you believe in ghosts?

That’s different, damn it! he argued. I have to believe in you; you’re following me.

The voice inside his head just laughed. You have a lot to learn, and you’re going to have to learn quickly.

“The power to prophesy,” Zee repeated. “That’s true. But it is also a word for faeries and elves—and other magical creatures.” She kept her voice low as she glanced over at the children. They were happily giving Miss Bear a ride on Hansel’s car.

“Yes, I’ve heard that,” Nick said automatically. Everyone had. A decade ago, there had been an amendment to the Citizens with Disabilities Act, preventing discrimination against people who had fey blood. But he had never seen a fey, had never even known anyone who’d heard of anyone seeing a fey. Most people thought feys were just . . . well, fairy tales.

His brain suddenly felt frozen. “I’ve never met a fey, though. No one I know has. They all died out in the drought, I thought.”

“Not all. There aren’t very many left. They are endangered species and they keep away from humans,” Zee said. “But those who remain are strong, and their leader is Jack Frost—the Jack Frost. He lives in a faerie mound called Cadalach somewhere near here. That’s where the children and I need to go. We were headed there when the weather goblin sent that storm to intercept us.”

“Weather goblin?” Nick pulled out a chair and sat down. He was feeling suddenly dizzy.

“Or it might have been that creature at the mall,” Zee added. “I think—I can’t be sure—but I believe it was a hobgoblin. They can control the weather, too. I hope I’m wrong, though. I don’t want that thing following us.”

“A hobgoblin?” Nick repeated.

“Yes.” She finished with a rush: “And I could feel him trying to hypnotize the children at the mall. He wanted them. That’s really why we ran away. I don’t think Luz would have attacked us in town—but that hobgoblin could have. I had to get the children away.”

“He wanted Hansel and Gretel?” Nick asked. He didn’t want to believe her, because such talk was insane, but her fear was palpable now, and he had no choice but to acknowledge that whatever had happened at the mall had frightened Zee badly. He might not believe in hobgoblins, but she did.

“All the children, Nick.” Zee said again, “All the children. There were lots of them lined up to see him. He was pretending to be your good elf, Santa Claus. But he was eating up their thoughts, draining them.”

The ghost had warned him that he needed to ask questions about the creature at the mall. He should have listened.

This couldn’t be real.

I’m afraid it can, the ghost answered.

Nick met Zee’s gaze, sure that his own was as horrified.

“If this is true, then we have to go to the police,” he said. “Right now. He has to be stopped.”

“They won’t believe us. They’re like you. Most of them don’t believe in feys or hobgoblins. Anyway, I’m afraid that it’s too late,” Zee said. “I think that he was going to take them yesterday. All we can do is go to the fey. They have hunters. They’ll be able to get the children back. But we haven’t a lot of time— and I know someone is chasing us.”

“Why don’t we have time?” Nick whispered, fearing her answer. “What is he going to do with those children?”

Zee licked her lips, her eyes worried—perhaps for the children, perhaps because she feared she wouldn’t be believed.

“I can’t explain how I know this—it must be the part of me that is also fey—but he means to sacrifice them on New Year’s Day. He’s going to kill them and blame it on goblins.”

“What? Why?” Nick was barely able to get the questions past the sudden constriction of his throat. Visions of carnage swam in his brain. “Why kill innocent children?”

“I think he wants to start a war,” Zee answered. “He wants humans to get angry enough to kill the goblins.”

“But why?” Nick asked again. He had a second momentary vision of some creature—huge and dark—swinging a giant ax. The monster was covered in gore, but he kept swinging, grunting every time his blade encountered another head. Horror clogged Nick’s brain, dimmed his eyesight. What Zee was suggesting was a nightmare, but he no longer doubted her—not in his gut.

“I don’t know why he’s doing this, or how he can even be,” Zee answered. “I don’t understand it at all. Hobgoblins are like a myth to us, something to terrify naughty children. The legend says that they were created by the first great goblin king of France—they were the lutins’ servants and the king’s bodyguards before they trained trolls. But the king had to kill them all because they were too violent and tried to overthrow him. I thought they were all dead. That’s what they taught us—that King Gofimbel and the Dark Faerie Queen executed them all.”

She swallowed, then continued. “But this one isn’t dead. And he hates goblins. Humans, too. The rage in him was so terrible that I fainted in the parking lot. The children had to drag me away from the mall—away from his aura. It was as if I had breathed in his poison, his hate—and he saw me. Nick, he looked inside and he knew who and what I am. He knew about the children, too, and wanted them.”

“What can we do?” Nick whispered to himself. “Can we defend ourselves against him?”

You can take the girl to Cadalach, the ghost said. As soon as the snow melts enough for you to get away.

You are suggesting that we run away to see faeries about a killer hobgoblin.

You’ve got a better plan?

No, he didn’t. Which was the problem. He believed Zee, and that she was right about going to the police. He couldn’t imagine trying to make them believe his story.

Think of this as an adventure. It could be exciting.

Yeah? Exciting? So are sky-diving and Russian roulette. It doesn’t mean I want to do either of those things.

Well, you have to do something.

Yeah, I know.

Nick reached for Zee’s hands, folded them in his own and brought them up to his mouth, where he breathed over their chilled flesh. He rubbed her skin lightly, part of him marveling at its texture.

“Don’t worry.” Nick looked into Zee’s eyes. They were different; beautiful, but not human—he could see that now. And it didn’t matter. “We’ll find your Jack Frost and we’ll stop this monster. Then I will take you and the children far away to someplace safe where no one bad will ever find you.”

“I don’t know if anyplace is that far away,” Zee whispered.

“There has to be. We’ll find it.”

Chapter Ten

As soon as he could, Nick slipped away from the others. He sat alone, listening to the car radio, waiting for the heater to drive back the cold. The reception was bad, but he heard enough to be assured that at least part of Zee’s story was absolutely true; the man playing Santa at the Desert View Mall had been murdered and had his costume stolen. It was believed that the imposter Santa had gone back into the mall and carried on with the murdered man’s job, seeing as many as two hundred children before closing time.

Nick shivered as he listened to the announcer’s scratchy voice, thinking how close Hansel and Gretel had come to this killer. Zee, too.

So what now? the ghost in the sideview mirror asked.

I guess we’re going to see the faeries.

Nick shuddered at the strange thought, and switched off the car engine. He didn’t like the plan, but the snow was melted enough to get back to the main road. Like it or not, it was time to leave. He took out his cell phone, hoping for a signal and that his battery wasn’t dead. It was time to break the news to his sister that he wouldn’t be coming this Christmas at all.

His family took it better than he expected. Afterward, not having much in the way of possessions, it didn’t take long to load the children and Zee into the car. His Jag was overfilled with bodies and luggage even before Nick carried out his own duffel, but the clutter was strangely cheerful. The door of the cabin closed behind him with a clunk that sounded very final. He wasn’t superstitious, but Nick had the sense that this small haven was now shut to them. They had no choice but to go on.

Looking at Zee, Nick suddenly felt that this was how it was supposed to be. They had crossed over into new territory sometime in the night. It was at odds with his usually cautious character, but Nick didn’t look back at the bridges burning behind him. Instead, he looked at Zee, who smiled at him as if he were truly a knight in shining armor. And he felt a bit knightlike that morning. It was strange, but she was getting to know a part of him that Nick himself had never met, a part dredged up out of his psyche by a set of circumstances he could never have imagined.

Of course, while he liked this new man of broad thoughts and action, Nick wasn’t sure whether he was elated or horrified by the suddenness of the change. He generally didn’t like alteration to his life or schedule—especially not of the abrupt variety. In his experience there was almost always a downside to rushing into anything.

He just prayed that this time he was wrong.

The trip began slowly. Zee was grateful because she still wasn’t used to automobiles, and she doubted the children had ever been in one. Nick was careful on the melting snow as they headed for the main road, making sure they didn’t slide around. He turned east when they hit the paved road. They were heading back into Nevada and then south; they would travel toward the desert, moving along the base of the mountain’s spine, looking for any fracture that might indicate an entrance to Cadalach.

A part of Zee was nervous and warned her to remain alert, but she was also very tired, and Nick seemed more than competent when it came to handling this machine. She hovered fitfully between sleep and wakefulness.

She was still conscious when they drove through the first town—though she thought that was a generous description of what was really just a wider stretch of road with a few buildings.

“I don’t like this place,” Hansel muttered.

Zee didn’t, either. It was an eerie spot, deserted, with one traffic light that went through its cycles even though there was no traffic to direct. The whole situation was creepy—the houses were strangely dark, the diner and gas station closed, though the string of lights in the window of the service station’s mini-mart blinked on and off at regular intervals, and frost-fallen leaves still stiff with cold scratched loudly on one another as they skittered past the car, driven by a sudden gust of wind, their dry voices frightened as they fled down the deserted street.

Zee turned her gaze to Nick. He looked at her for a moment and then gazed upward at the chimneys. He had noticed, too. There were no fires in the fireplaces, no faces in the upstairs windows, nor even footprints in the melting snow of the walkways that wended up around the town’s few houses. This was a ghost town. It reminded her of the forest when she was out hunting for Nick’s tree: Every living thing had hidden itself or fled.

“Christmas,” Nick murmured mostly to himself. She knew what he was saying. Probably everyone had left for the holidays, and all that remained were the machines—the timers on the lights, the VCRs— giving a semblance of life.

“Everyone left?” she replied just as softly, not wanting to alarm the children. “What are the odds of that?”

Nick rubbed his temples. She sympathized. Between the voice of worry, their sudden attraction and the children’s constant chatter, her head hurt, too.

“My brain’s turning into a Tower of Babel,” he said, again as though he could hear her thoughts— and perhaps he could. She seemed to be growing steadily more attuned to his. “They must have left town. What else could it be?”

“Maybe you’re right, but don’t stop,” Zee said suddenly, laying a soft hand on his leg. The muscles jumped. “It isn’t . . . nice.”

Nick nodded. He was apparently having a strong moment of intuition that agreed with her assessment of their situation. Ignoring its command to halt, he drove through the intersection against the red light.

“We need gas,” he said. “But there is another town some twenty miles on. We’ll stop there.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “Wake me when we get there.”

The town and its feeling of sticky uneasiness fell away as soon as it was out of sight, and suddenly feeling overwhelmingly tired, Zee closed her eyes. Sleep was not the refuge she hoped for, however. She came awake as soon as the highway widened and Nick picked up speed, returning to wakefulness with her nerves and frozen lungs screaming that she was trapped down in the ground, someplace darker than the hive, a place that was more like a grave. Even with her eyes open and testifying that she and the children were safe and above-ground, it took a long while for her to calm enough that she felt she could open her mouth without screaming.

It was the monster! He had come close again, that creature at the mall. She was certain that it was the hobgoblin who’d stalked her dreams, searching for her location. He had looked into her eyes and smiled and said, “I am only reasonably avaricious— less greedy than most CEOs you’ve ever heard of. And I work toward a worthy cause. Why not join me? Don’t you want to be avenged?”

And a part of her had wanted to believe him, had responded to the voice that wormed its way inside her head, leaving a clammy trail of evil behind that was with her even now.

It was just a dream, she assured herself. But that assurance didn’t help much when the nightmare images kept playing out before her eyes.

How do you know it’s a dream? Is it a wish your heart made? a rough voice asked. The monster?

“Do you hear anything?” she whispered to Nick.

“No. Just the engine.” he answered.

But it wasn’t the engine she heard. The monster had begun to hum—again. She’d heard the sound before in some other nightmare. The sound grew louder . . . and then he was there! It was just a watery reflection in the glass, but she could see him, smell him.

There was other movement as well. She looked beyond his reflection, down a long corridor, and saw something terrible at its end. Unable to pull her gaze away, she watched tiny, foreign-looking goblins cavort to some unheard music. Irrelevantly, she marked that rhythm had overlooked this particular hive. Then she realized that they weren’t dancing; they were writhing around in the green dust on the cave floor. She didn’t know these strange goblin faces well enough to judge whether they were contorted in ecstasy or if these lutins were in pain, but either way, she knew they were dying from that green dust, and that somehow this creature in the glass had made it happen.

Isn’t that just as it should be? the rough voice asked, brushing her ears with its diseased breath. Still in her head, it refused to be banished even by the end of her dream, even by her waking. It was getting louder, clearer, closer, too.

Why do you run from me? I can almost see you. The monster suddenly reached for her, his clawed hand emerging through the windshield of the car. It stopped just short of her chin, groping as though it knew she was there.

A scream began to build inside her, one that would escape, tearing out her throat and lungs! It would fill the car and shatter the glass of the windshield—

Then Nick reached over and squeezed her hands, and the monster recoiled and disappeared with a snarl of frustration. All Zee’s pent-up fear dropped away, too, escaped like air from a balloon. A wall of white noise went up between her waking mind and her subconscious, and she couldn’t hear the horrible voice anymore. She managed to pull herself the rest of the way into wakefulness.

“Bad dreams?” Nick asked, his voice low.

“Yes,” she whispered, tightening her grip on his hand. “But they’re gone now.”

He gave her a concerned look, so she smiled in reassurance.

It was silly, but she truly felt better when Nick touched her—she was stronger, smarter. Just . . . better. He was human and therefore couldn’t possess any real magic, but somehow he helped with the fear. Maybe it was something about his humanity that kept the shadows at bay and forced the horrible voice out of her brain.

Zee exhaled slowly, letting muscles unknot themselves from their painful bundles. She lectured herself about her new pessimism and chronic fear as they sped along the highway.

Why was she afraid? They were heading for Cadalach and at high speed. Nick believed her and would help her convince the fey of what had happened. They would stop the monster from doing this horrible thing—whatever it was—and the faeries would know how to keep her and the children safe in their dreams until the monster was dead. Everything would be okay. It had to be.

“It will be okay,” Nick said softly, as though she had spoken aloud. “I promise. Everything will be fine.”

And though there was no reason to, Zee believed him.

Nick felt odd: mostly wonderful, but not himself. Actually, part of him felt pretty terrible. He was tired and very aware that his body was full of bones and joints that were past their first youth and flexibility. He especially felt it in the vertebrae of his spine. Though all his skeleton had legitimate grievance, the small bones of the spine protested loudly their night on the cabin floor, carrying on like it had been a bed of broken glass and nails instead of wood. And they would probably go on protesting until he promised not to do it again. And maybe even longer—just to teach him a lesson. The only thing that would shut them up was a double chucker of ibuprofen, which he didn’t want to take until he found somewhere to stay for the night; Ibuprofen was great with pain but it, like almost all drugs, made him sleepy.

And he didn’t want his senses dulled—for many reasons, not the least of which was that he hadn’t felt so alive in at least a decade. Maybe longer.

Nick realized more than ever that his recent years had not been a real life. The ghost was right, though he hated to admit it. Every tomorrow he had been waiting for was shaping up to be just like every today, which was just like every yesterday—all of them essentially empty. Though he had saved a lot of people, given them the greatest of gifts—or at least prolonged that greatest of gifts—he still had no one to share his important thoughts with. There was no one who smiled when he did because they shared his sense of the ridiculous, or loved sundaes made with mocha ice cream and butterscotch sauce, or walking in the rain without shoes.

Consequently, he’d been drifting. It was productive drifting—useful and necessary and financially rewarding—but he hadn’t been building a path to ward any particular future. It had all seemed blank, the same, every day repeated endlessly until the end of his life. Why make the effort to build a road to nowhere? he’d thought. Drifting would get him there eventually.

Fortunately, drifting without expensive hobbies had allowed him to pay off his student loans and even accumulate a nest egg. He was glad now that he had some money set aside. He’d gladly trade it all— and all the money he’d ever earn, and maybe even his very life—to keep Zee and these children safe.

A part of him realized that this was an extreme reaction, not a feeling he had ever before known. It was, in fact, quite alien. But the feeling was there and quite real, and he had to face the fact that he hadn’t been his normal self for several weeks now. Not since the ghost had shown up.

The voice in his head chose that moment to clear its throat.

What? Nick asked, immediately wary. Can’t you see I’m brooding here? Show some respect for my privacy.

Yeah, I know you’re brooding. It’s just that I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this whole what-is-normal thing for a while now.

Talk about it how? Nick thought suspiciously. He glanced left. The reflection he saw looked a bit like someone who belonged in a detox ward.

Are you sick? he asked the ghost in sudden concern. You look older.

I’ve felt better—manifesting is hard work. But never mind that. We need to talk about what is and is not normal for you. You see, what you are feeling for Zee right now—it isn’t all that alien, under the circumstances.

No? Then how come no one I know has jumped off the emotional deep end, doing a love-at-first-sight to end all other love-at-first-sights? Are you going to tell me that everyone else in the world actually does feel this sort of thing but has managed to keep it a secret from me?

Of course not. You don’t know anyone who has reacted like you because—well, you don’t know anybody like you. You aren’t like your friends, Nick. Not entirely. You see, you aren’t quite a hundred percent human.

That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said, Nick thought indignantly. Just because I’m devoted to my work and a bit antisocial—

No, it’s not that. I mean you aren’t human. Literally. At least, you aren’t all human.

What the hell are you talking about?

This may be hard to accept—

Just get on with it. How am I not human? Nick’s hands tightened on the wheel.

One of your ancestors about three generations back had a sort of close encounter of an amorous kind with a powerful pixie. Your mother’s father.

A pixie! The car swerved slightly, and Zee sent Nick a mildly alarmed look. He tried to smile reassuringly.

“Thought I saw a bird in the road,” he muttered. Then he added to the ghost: Look what you almost made me do! Stop making up stuff, okay? At least stop while I’m driving.

Sorry, but I’m not lying—it was a pixie. And being lovestruck she, uh . . . well, a child resulted. Her family has tried to live it down ever since. Your fey ancestors have been on the run for a long while. Do you remember how your mother used to turn your pants pockets inside out before she’d let you go outside?

Nick frowned as he looked at the shadowy face in the window. He recalled vividly, now that the ghost brought it up. It had been damned annoying, too; he’d always been teased by the other kids. He would put his pockets back in as soon as she was out of sight, but occasionally he would forget to turn them out again before he got home, and his mother would have a fit, sometimes shouting and sometimes crying. Eventually, when he and his sister continued failing to cooperate, his mother took to sewing their pockets shut and insisting they always carry salt.

Well, that was a way of keeping the pixies away, the ghost explained. Your mother was always afraid they would try to come and claim you, since you were the first male offspring of the line. It’s why you spent so much time with your father’s family. They lived a long way from any magical beings and had a knack for keeping the fey away.

The ghost asked abruptly, Do you recall the story of Peter Pan, and how a fairy died every time someone said that they didn’t believe? Well, there’s some truth to that. Some humans have that power. Your dad’s family was sort of like . . .

A roach motel for magical beings, Nick finished for him. He didn’t like the thought, but it fit a little-understood pattern that had always been in his subconscious. He thought about his family’s constant watchfulness, and their extreme disapproval whenever he or his sister said something whimsical or played with good-luck charms. This could explain why he had always felt suffocated by them—at times even to the point of physical illness.

His ancestors killed fey—anything magical, in fact— dead. Not with weapons, but with their thoughts. The entire clan is psi-null, too. Meaning . . . they are like the anti-matter of the fey universe. Psychics can’t work around them either. They cancel out magic in any place, in any form. That blood had thinned by your father’s generation, so his family’s presence wasn’t physically fatal to you or your sister, but there was enough anti-magic left to keep the pixies away.

The pixies and one cheery old elf. No wonder Christmas had always been so joyless. What was a holiday without magic—even if was the magic of faith? It also explained why he thought of his family as toxic personalities and unpleasant people, even though they were well-liked and respected by everyone else.

Precisely, the ghost agreed. They are toxic to you. And it wasn’t that they believed too little in your mother’s story. It was that they believed too much, and were afraid for you and your sister. They do care about you, Nick—at least the parts that are human. If they could have exorcised the fey blood in you, they would have.

Nick felt slightly stunned and more than a little cold.

So, that’s why Mom stayed with Dad—even though she was miserable and they fought all the time.

Yes.

Damn it! Why didn’t anyone say anything about this? Why leave me and my sister in ignorance? We had a right to know.

I don’t know why they stayed silent. . . . Fear that you and Prudence would chase forbidden fruit, perhaps. You and your sister always were rather stubborn about disobeying rules. And perhaps your parents would have told you if they had lived.

It was true that he and Prudence had always been willful and resourceful when they were young. Running off to play with pixies would have seemed a great game.

So, what does all this mean for me? Why is this happening now? Have the stars come into some weird alignment?

No, the heavens are still where they should be. All it means is that you have another reason to go to see the fey—for I believe that this is happening now, not because Mercury is in retrograde or anything like that, but because you have encountered your first magical being and it’s woken up some dormant power inside of you. It’s kindled the candles of your soul. It’s time for enlightenment.

Nick thought about this.

Zee’s magical?

Yes, she isn’t just part goblin. She’s fey, too. The name Finvarra is an old one—older than even she knows.

Is it wise to go to the faeries, though? My mother clearly wanted to keep me away from them. She must have had a good reason. Zee seems afraid of them, too. And the children are very afraid.

At this juncture, I think it’s the only thing you can do. You’re up against things that you have no experience with, and I suspect that your feelings will only get stronger and harder to control the longer you are with Zee.

The ghost was right. All this—his feelings, Zee, Zee’s monster—it was all way beyond anything he had ever dealt with. He needed help.

This is why you’re really here, isn’t it? Nick asked the ghost. You’re not here to save my Christmas spirit, or even my soul. You’re here to make sure that I—

That you choose the right path and quit denying who you are. This is the crossroads, Nick. The point where you must decide who and what you will be. We erred once—I don’t want it to happen again.

What do you mean? Are you saying that I met Zee before—I mean, you did—and we, or you, walked away?

Yes, we—you—I—walked away from her. And we regretted it forever. I don’t know what future lies down this path—not entirely—but trust me on this: The road not taken has to be better than what’s in store if you go on denying who and what you are. To steal a quote here—a house divided against itself cannot stand.

So, you don’t know what happens with Zee and me?

No, but I am more hopeful now than I’ve been.

Nick was, too. But he also knew that he was going to need help. Lots of help. More help than his buddy Jace could give. More help than this ghost could provide, if the ghost was telling the truth about not knowing what came next.

I’ll do what I can. The dead have some ability to see into the future, it promised.

Thanks.

Nick exhaled. He needed help, but he also needed caffeine. A man shouldn’t have to face these sorts of revelations without a little chemical assistance.

He began eyeballing the passing terrain, and found himself wishing that he had a Jeep or some other vehicle that wouldn’t mind climbing nearly vertical cliff faces. The Jag had plenty of power and was fast, but she was also built really lean and low to the ground. She was a racehorse, when what was needed right now was a mountain goat.

The ghost interrupted his thoughts: So, I have a hypothetical question for you, Nick. How do you feel about taking goblin lives? Could you do it if you had to? You said you’d give up your life for Zee. Would you give up your principles?

Nick thought about this. Doctors were meant to help people; they took the Hippocratic Oath. He was all for truth, justice and the human way, but killing someone . . . even a goblin . . . Hell, he didn’t even like hunting.

Uh, Nick? You still with me?

Yes, I could if I had to, Nick decided finally. But he was reluctant. Doctors didn’t kill. Yet, if it came down to killing a goblin to protect Zee or the children, or human lives, he knew what he would do.

Good. I hoped you’d feel that way. The ghost sounded tired. He looked tired. He had aged at least ten years since they’d climbed in the car.

You don’t look real good, Nick said, again feeling vaguely alarmed. Are you sure you’re okay?

The ghost shrugged tiredly. My time is running out.

What do you mean? Nick felt suddenly dismayed. How can your time run out? You’re a spirit—those are eternal.

Of course spirits are eternal, but you didn’t think I’d haunt you forever, did you? the ghost answered. It forced a small smile. Come on, you’ve read your Dickens. You know that isn’t how it works. Anyway, the more you change and become someone different, the more I disappear.

But—

Heads up now. We’re coming to another town. I’ll talk to you later. I need to have a look around while you get some gas. I don’t like the feel of things.

You can look around? Nick asked, shocked, but the ghost was already gone.

The ghost was also right; the Jag soon reached the edge of the next settlement. Nick saw a gas station through the trees and slowed down for the turnoff. It wasn’t snowing yet, but a cold creeping fog hung in the trees at the side of the road, looking to Nick’s fevered imagination like the spirits of dead wood nymphs.

What? Regular ghosts aren’t bad enough? a distant voice asked, but no image of Nick’s ghost appeared in the glass.

Don’t blame me. You’re the one who put all this woo-woo stuff in my head, Nick replied.

What he didn’t add was that the outlandish proposition he was part fey had begun to feel comfortable. In the past twelve hours his brain had been rearranged, and he suddenly had a bit more room for things like a half-goblin girlfriend and a pixie grandpa. And a ghost.

I appreciate that. Things were kind of cramped and narrow in here at the beginning, the ghost joked.

“We’re stopping?” Zee asked.

They didn’t desperately need gas yet, but places to fuel up were few and far between in the mountains and would become sparser once they hit the desert floor. Also, he really needed some fresh air and coffee.

“We should get some gas. Is anyone hungry?” he asked, hoping he sounded normal. He was getting used to the idea of talking to ghosts but wasn’t quite ready to spring his idiosyncrasy on a new girlfriend—though if anyone would believe him, it was probably Zee.

“Can we get more dog cookies?” Hansel asked as the car stopped. “The box is almost empty.”

“Dog cookies!” Gretel clapped her hands.

“You don’t need to eat dog cookies now,” Nick said gently, turning around in his seat. “There are lots of tasty things to try. How about some granola bars, or real cookies? I bet you’d like Fig Newtons.”

“But I don’t know Fignewts and I like this dog’s cookies,” Hansel said, holding the cardboard box to his chest. “He has good cookies—not like the ones from the big droolie dog.”

Nick didn’t want to ask. “Well, I like Christmas trees, but that doesn’t mean I eat them,” he said instead, using fractured logic. Suddenly he felt exactly the way his mother had predicted he would when she’d threatened him with children of his own.

Hansel’s face fell.

Nick sighed and glanced over at Zee, who was suppressing a smile. She shrugged, offering no suggestions.

“I’ll see if they have dog cookies,” he finally said, surrendering to the greater will.

“These dog cookies,” Hansel insisted, holding up the box with the grinning terrier on the front and thrusting it toward Nick.

“Okay.” He shouldn’t worry so much. A preferred diet of dog cookies was probably the least of the children’s problems. “Zee, how about some coffee?” he asked.

“That would be wonderful. With lots of sugar, please.”

Something else occurred to Nick.

“Um . . . there are restrooms around back, if anyone has any need to wash up or . . . uh . . .” He stopped, feeling stupid. He was a doctor! Why the devil was he stuttering over the mention of normal bodily functions? Surely Zee and the children had normal bodily functions. . . . Of course they did. His brain really was in a meltdown. He finished with, “I’ll be back in a jiff.”

Irritated with himself, Nick headed for the tiny mini-mart with steamed-up windows. From what he could see, the interior was as gloomy as the facade. He shivered but ignored the buzz of alarm that traveled up his spine. Maybe the owner was trying to save on electric bills.

Nick half-feared that the gas station would be closed and the mini-mart abandoned, but that was not the case at all; the double glass doors opened easily with a push. “Ho-ho-ho,” said a voice behind the counter as Nick stepped inside. The air was chill, and something about the voice raised the small hairs on his nape and forearms. Nick turned slowly to face the attendant.

What the hell? was his first and only complete thought.

Nick’s brain stuttered as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Three things about the apparently sexless being that addressed him were alarming. One was the rifle held casually in its claws. Another was the fact that it had four hands, each attached to an individual arm that connected to its oddly elongated torso. Lastly, and perhaps least important, it wasn’t wearing any clothes on its greenish skin—except for a bright red Santa hat on an overly large head that seemed filled with teeth.

A part of Nick realized that he was probably seeing his first full-blooded goblin. It was huge and hideous—worse than he’d ever imagined.

“This is all I need,” Nick said to the ghost who had urged him to stop here, but his friendly Christmas spirit wasn’t there.

“And it’sss all your going to get,” the goblin hissed back, suddenly less jovial. “Sssay good-bye, human. It’sss my payday, cuz I’m going to collect the reward.”

The creature raised its rifle.

Chapter Eleven

ER doctors understood sudden death and were practiced at avoiding it—at least, at helping other people avoid it. They often had to think fast, assess risks and make split-second decisions in order to save lives. Nick did just that.

His first encounter with the lutin world brought the dismaying discovery that he didn’t like goblins. His first reaction to this dislike—also dismaying— was to hurl his car keys into the lutin’s face. And since his car keys were part of a chain-gang with his house keys, office keys, desk keys and assorted other things like a Swiss Army knife and a video rental card, the mass had some real weight behind it.

He was fairly certain that he heard the lutin’s nose break, and he knew for a fact that the creature’s shotgun discharged—fortunately into the ceiling. Nick dropped into a crouch, then sprang for the door. And though he didn’t actually enjoy the goblin’s sudden howl of pain, he couldn’t honestly say that he was sorry for what he’d done.

Nick somersaulted out the door of the mini-mart, already shouting for Zee and the children to get down, but his words were drowned out by Zee’s own shouts. Seeing her violent and alarmed gesture, Nick dove left, toward the shelter of an ice machine.

Another blast from the goblin’s shotgun shattered the glass doors behind him. The bleeding lutin leapt through the metal frame, taking aim at Nick as he tried to hide, but before the monster could cock his gun, he was buried under a hail of rocks hurled by Zee and the children. The stones hit the goblin’s body with dull thuds until a particularly large one struck his skull with a definitive splintering sound that reminded Nick of a snail shell being stepped on. The lutin dropped to the ground, doing further damage to his head on the concrete curb. It didn’t matter, though, because he was dead—at least a quarter of his brains were on the pavement.

“We got him!” Hansel crowed, jumping up and down. “Did you see that, Nick? We got him!”

Nick slowly got to his feet. He looked around quickly but didn’t see any other danger. As a rule, he didn’t show much fear because he didn’t feel much fear. Terror would only cripple him, make him slow in situations where speed and clear thinking were critical. But he felt consternation. And dismay. And, on occasion, anger. At that moment, he was feeling all three. The anger especially, and it almost blinded him.

“Get under cover. We need to make sure that he was alone,” Nick said. Surprising himself, he picked up the shotgun without checking on the goblin.

“He’s alone,” Zee said as she hurried to his side.

She touched his arm lightly, her eyes examining him. “I can’t smell any others.”

“What the hell was he doing here, anyway?” Nick asked. His nose was finally registering the faint smell of ammonia that rose from the goblin corpse. He automatically wrapped his arms around the children as they rushed to his side, though Hansel at least seemed more excited than distressed. “And why shoot at me? Do you know this—this—person?”

“I don’t know him and I don’t know why he attacked you,” Zee said. Her voice was troubled. “Maybe because of helping us. There aren’t any goblin hives around here, though. It’s why I thought we’d be safe. We’re almost to fey country, and this area is supposed to be patrolled by a dragon. Goblins usually keep away.”

“A dragon?” Nick repeated. His voice didn’t sound as incredulous as he felt. “There’s a dragon out here? And The National Enquirer doesn’t know? I’m skeptical.” He shook his head.

“I know it sounds crazy, but that’s what I hear. It’s a dragon that eats only goblins. The fey turned it loose near Las Vegas after that hive was flooded and it migrated north.”

Migrating dragons—now he’d heard it all. Nick shook his head. His ears were ringing from the shotgun blast. Belatedly, it occurred to him that Zee had saved his life, and in the process, she had been forced to kill one of her own people. Maybe it wasn’t someone she’d known personally, but one of her kind. Her race.

That thought brought him to a stuttering halt. These monsters were Zee’s people?

Only partly, he reminded himself. She was nothing like this creature. But a part of him was still appalled.

“Thank you,” he said awkwardly, trying not to let his distaste show. “You saved my life, you know. I’m so sorry that you and the children had to do this.”

“Nick, you saved ours first. If we hadn’t left that cabin when we did . . .” Zee shivered and then leaned into his body. Nick didn’t have a free arm, but he kissed the top of her head. Her hair was soft and wonderfully human. She was nothing at all like the creature on the ground. Nothing! he thought fiercely.

“Don’t think about it,” he said.

Zee shook her head. “I’m trying not to, but it’s hard. I’ve tried to keep the children away from violence, and now I’ve done this in front of them.”

Nick kissed her again, knowing the gesture was inadequate but not sure what else to do. “The example you set was to be brave and resourceful and to protect the ones you . . . you care about.”

Zee raised her eyes to his. “Do you think that’s what they learned?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what you showed them. Now listen, I know it’s gruesome, but let’s go back inside and get some supplies together while we’re here. And I’ll fill up with gas if I can figure out how to turn the pumps on. I don’t want to stop again until we find this faerie stronghold. There’s no point in giving those . . . those people any chance to waylay us again.” He was also going to get his keys and look for ammunition for the shotgun. Nick had never owned a gun before, but he had shot skeet. And he had just realized that a firearm might be a very handy thing to have.

The children wriggled away from his tightening embrace. They didn’t seem particularly troubled by the killing, though Gretel was quieter than usual and had a firm grip on her bear, which she held close. Nick shook his head, wondering if the children were used to violence, or whether they didn’t see the goblin as a person. Did they even understand that they were part-goblin? Perhaps not. They didn’t look anything like this creature. Maybe the ugliness hadn’t touched them.

Or maybe it was something simpler—perhaps they didn’t understand that the goblin was dead. Many human children of such an age wouldn’t be able to understand the concept; they assumed real life was like television and that dead people got up when a violent scene was over and acted in some other show the next week.

Nick didn’t believe in lying to children about life’s largest lessons but, on the other hand, he saw no point in trying to explain what had happened when it could only cause distress. He’d already stretched the truth for Zee; he’d just stretch it a little more.

“I’ll get the dog cookies!” Hansel said, dashing for the door of the mini-mart. Gretel followed more slowly.

“Be careful of the glass!” Nick warned, but he didn’t try to stop them from going inside. The children had just helped kill a goblin. They had escaped from a hobgoblin and from their mother’s hate-filled husband. They were tough. Zee was, too. He was learning not to fuss so much.

“I’m going to use the bathroom,” Zee said, looking around. He watched her draw in another breath of air, her nostrils flaring slightly as she sniffed the space around her. “Then we should leave. I don’t smell anything bad, but I still don’t feel safe here. It’s too quiet. Some magic is at work.”

“I agree,” Nick said, looking once more at the dead goblin. Its arms didn’t joint like human elbows. It looked like an insect—one that carried a gun. It was something out of a nightmare that had come to life. Nick doubted he’d ever feel entirely safe again, especially if he started thinking paranoid thoughts about how this ambush looked like a trap laid just for Zee. He didn’t like such an idea for many reasons. What would have happened if he were out of the picture and they’d been forced to travel on foot?

“I’ll watch the kids while you’re in the bathroom,” he said. He didn’t add that she should hurry, but Zee nodded as though reading his mind.

When she returned and they were all in the car, Nick turned the key and nothing happened. “What’s wrong with the engine?” Zee asked nervously.

“I don’t know. It’s like we’ve run out of gas. But that can’t be right—I just filled her up.” Nick scanned the dashboard for warning lights and ran down the checklist of usual Jaguar quirks. He came up blank. “I guess it might be a clogged fuel line. Or something with the ignition. I’d better take a look.”

He opened his door and everyone piled back out of the car. They watched while he popped the hood.

“What the devil?” Nick stared in consternation at the nest of torn insulation and wiring that was heaped on top of the engine. “Those are my sparkplug cables—and my ignition wiring,” he said in a hollow voice. He saw something move. “What the hell is that? A packrat?”

“It’s a furry imp. Goblins use them as gargoyle food,” Zee said, reaching down and lifting the halfreptilian rodent out. “I didn’t know they lived in the desert.”

“I didn’t know they lived in cars,” Nick muttered. “How’d he do all this so quickly? He’s torn out every piece of wiring. Look! He has some caught in his teeth.”

“What?” Zee asked, cuddling the rodent under her chin.

“I said, how did he do this so quickly? He must have jumped in the moment the car stopped.” Nick was still in shock at the sight of the nest, and not at all certain that Zee should be handling a wild animal, even if it was sort of cute and at the moment very passive. The little beast had, after all, chewed straight threw thick metal wires.

“Can we eat it?”

“Can we keep it?” Both questions were simultaneous, Hansel being in favor of putting the rodent on the menu.

“No!” Nick said, visions of driving through the rest of Nevada with the lizard-rodent in tow.

“No, what?” Hansel asked.

“No, you can’t eat it—it might have parasites,” Nick added. “And no, we can’t keep it.” He added desperately, “They get car-sick.”

“But he looks cold and exhausted. He probably climbed into the car to get warm,” Zee said, cuddling the giant rodent closer. It looked at Nick with enormous brown eyes, and seemed to smirk.

“He should be exhausted, trashing the car like that.”

“I don’t think he’s supposed to be here,” Zee said, ignoring Nick’s complaint. “Don’t they hibernate in the winter? Maybe something dangerous scared him out of his den. You may not have noticed, but all the animals in the area have disappeared. That could happen if a gargoyle were hunting in the region.”

Gargoyles? Nick shook his head. He wasn’t going to think about gargoyles.

“Zee, we can’t . . . He might have ticks. . . .” Nick trailed off. He could easily resist the beseeching look in the imp’s eyes—Nick wasn’t deceived; if he had been the one to pick the beast up, he’d be missing fingers—but he wasn’t able to resist the plea in Zee’s. Apparently she needed the comfort of a small warm body, even if it came in a weird package of fur and scales.

“Please?” she coaxed softly. “He won’t be any trouble. I’ll keep him in my lap.”

“Please,” echoed Gretel. “Miss Bear wants him, too. She said she’d share her clothes with him.”

Nick caved. Zee probably could ask to beat his head in with a two-by-four and he’d agree. And Gretel was still being way too quiet, clutching her teddy bear and looking wan. He’d rather get the children a puppy or kitten—or hell, an iguana—but this furry imp would have to do for now.

“Okay, we can try. But if he gets sick or aggressive—”

“Thank you, Nick,” Zee said softly. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“I’ve never had a furry imp before,” Gretel said softly. “Except in stew.”

“Neither have I, honey. My home kind of ran toward canines and parakeets,” Nick answered. Shaking his head, he turned back to the Jag’s shredded wiring and sighed. “Well, damn. Let’s hope that Triple-A can get a truck out here soon. Your new pet has done a real number on my car. And I bet insurance won’t cover it. It’s probably excluded under the Acts of a Malevolent God clause.” Nick glared at the rodent and added to Zee in a lowered voice, “And we’re going to have to hide that goblin before the tow-truck gets here, and sweep up the glass. Hell’s bells—how can we explain this mess? It looks like a war happened. They’re going to think we’re Bonnie and Clyde and call the police.”

It only then occurred to Nick that calling the police had never crossed his mind—probably because he couldn’t bring himself to think of what had happened as homicide, any more than he could think of shooting a rabid animal as murder. Perhaps if he’d seen a human body, like that of the gas station attendant. But no one was around. Perhaps the place was closed for the holidays. Nick prayed that was the case, and that the goblin hadn’t killed anyone while setting up this ambush.

“He must have been really hungry to eat those wires,” Hansel said, also ignoring Nick’s warnings not to pet the animal. He didn’t seem too disappointed that he wouldn’t be having the rodent for lunch, and the imp, apparently ready for détente, was willing to let bygones by bygone. Or perhaps it just liked getting stroked on its furry white belly.

Nick shook his head and pulled out his cell phone. He was annoyed but not surprised when he couldn’t get a signal.

“Universal coverage—ha!” he muttered.

“I bet he loves dog cookies,” Gretel said happily.

“Sure, why not?” Nick muttered. “Everyone else seems to.”

“Get one out of the bag in the car,” Zee instructed. “And my cape. We need to be sure that he’s warm.”

Nick walked a few feet away from the rodent fan club and then a few more, then tried to gain some altitude by climbing into the lower branches of an old oak tree that squatted near the south wall of the station. It did no good; he couldn’t get a signal. Nick wasn’t a man given to vulgarity—especially not in front of children—but he had some unpleasant things to say inside the station. He hoped the ghost could hear him.

This is all your fault, you know. I was going to go home for Christmas—eat some turkey. Watch some football. Sleep. Instead, I’m stuck here killing goblins and giving safe haven to vicious rodents.

You’re having fun—admit it, the ghost responded. Anyway, I don’t think it’s far to Cadalach now. Head west. See that mountain peak that looks a bit like a castle? I think that might be part of a faerie mound. If nothing else, there will be caves where you can take shelter for the night.

Those mountains over there? That’s miles away.

Yes.

Shit.

I wouldn’t recommend it. The kids have already seen enough for one day. The ghost laughed.

Oh shut up.

Nick turned around on his branch and began his descent, being careful not to get the shotgun caught in the tree. He called out, “Well, gang, I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is, thanks to the clear desert air, we can see the faerie mound from here.” He didn’t have time to say any more because there was a small explosion and a flurry of darts flew at them from a manzanita grove about seventy feet from the car. They shredded the leaves around him, and one struck him in the cheek.

“What the hell?” He dropped to the ground and brushed the stinger away as he ducked behind a giant tree trunk. The dart was no larger than a bee or something a fly fisherman would use, something that might have come from a blowgun, but it hurt enormously, more than it should.

Nick felt blood trickle down his cheek and he swore, this time out loud.

“Son of a bitch—I’ve had it! Come out and fight, you cowardly sons of bitches!” Without thinking, he pulled the shotgun up to his shoulder and rushed for the stand of manzanitas where the darts had originated. The scream coming from his mouth was an ululation worthy of a Scottish bagpipe, and it had about the same effect—the three goblins hiding in the bushes scampered off, scuttling for the crevices in the rock wall behind them and hissing in alarm.

“Nick! Wait!” Zee’s voice was weak, but it stopped him immediately. What was wrong with him— acting like Tarzan, running off and leaving Zee and the kids? Hell, the goblins might have guns, too. The first one had. Did he think he was bulletproof as well as a pixie?

Nick spun around and began hurrying back. Even from a distance, he could see that Zee and the children had been peppered with darts. Zee had fallen to her knees and was brushing at her face, knocking the darts aside and leaving smears of blood. The children were flat on the ground and not moving.

The furry imp still clutched in Zee’s arms had also been shot, but he didn’t seem affected, beyond wiping his paws repeatedly over his face.

For the first time in a long while, Nick knew genuine fear.

He was only ten feet from Zee when the first wave of dizziness hit him and his knees tried to buckle. He felt his tongue thickening, and his eyes began to lose focus.

Drugged—some sort of super muscle relaxant. It was also slowing his heart and causing him to lose coordination. He only had seconds, maybe a minute, before he lost all muscular control.

Nick veered toward the trunk of the Jag and fumbled with his keys. His bag . . . he had to get to his medical bag. They all needed adrenaline, and they needed it fast.

Nick grabbed the case and staggered back toward the kids and Zee. He put down the shotgun, but kept it nearby. Part of him—an ugly part that he had never suspected lurked inside him—hoped that the goblins would come back, because he wanted very badly to shoot them dead. Such rage wasn’t in his nature, but he didn’t question it any more than he did his protective feelings toward Zee and the children.

“The children first,” Zee gasped. “Get the darts out.”

Nick was already at their sides, pulling out stingers—three in Hansel, two in Gretel. He was relieved to find that many had been stopped by their thick capes. Their respiration and heart rates were fine, though the kids were both unconscious. Recalling how they had reacted to the eggnog, Nick decided he wouldn’t risk giving them adrenaline yet; he had no way of predicting how it might affect them. It frustrated him that he knew nothing about lutin physiology.

Nick turned to Zee. She wasn’t unconscious, but she wasn’t faring as well as the children. She had received the worst of the barrage and was sheened in sweat, and her breathing was ragged. He could see the pulse in her throat where it pounded like a triphammer. It was probably from the pain as much as anything. Nick’s cheek felt like a swarm of hornets had had a go at him; he could only imagine how bad Zee felt with a dozen darts in her.

“Hang on, honey. Keep an eye on those rocks and tell me if the goblins come back.”

Zee nodded once, still yanking stingers out of her body. The imp huddled on the ground next to her, safe in the folds of her cape. Nick felt a moment of annoyance about that.

“Did you recognize any of those . . . people?” he asked, substituting people for an uglier word.

“No.” She gasped in another breath. “They weren’t from my mother’s hive. I’ve never seen goblins like them. They smell wrong. And did you see that they were naked? And they had no . . . no gender.”

“No external sex organs. I noticed. And . . . goblins usually do have them?” Nick felt ignorant asking.

“Yes. And they should . . . have had . . . six nipples, too. But they didn’t. I wonder . . . if they belong . . . to that monster . . . at the mall. Something . . . about them . . . feels like . . . him.” She was breathing really erratically now.

Great, they were dealing with killer mutant goblins that worked for a monster at the mall, Nick thought. That’s just what they needed to top off the morning. He didn’t say that to Zee, though, who was chalk white and panting. Sweat was rolling down her face like tears, and her eyes were unfocused.

“Nick . . . I can’t . . .” Her voice was fading.

“Don’t worry. I have something that will fix you right up,” Nick said, offering her a lopsided smile. His left cheek refused to move: the drug on the darts was apparently also some kind of paralytic.

“Good. I . . . hurt.”

Swearing aloud, Nick dug deeper in his bag and finished mixing a cocktail of his limited drug supplies, praying he got it right since he could barely read the labels. He first shot himself and then Zee with a Dr. Feelgood mini-special—some epinephrine, some amphetamine, some synthetic dopamine—and once he was sure it was safe, for Zee he added an odd endorphin or two to block any pain she might feel. He kept the dose low and prayed the drugs wouldn’t hurt her. He didn’t like experimenting on her with human pharmaceuticals, but his choices were limited.

His vision began to clear and his heart rate increased as the hydrolysis of glycogen to glucose began.

“We have to go,” Zee murmured. “It isn’t safe.”

Nick gave a sigh of relief to hear her speaking so clearly, then inhaled sharply with a new worry. His muscles were mostly ready for either fight or flight, but he was still only human—well, human enough! He could carry the kids or he could carry Zee; he couldn’t do both.

And he was pretty certain that they were being trailed, and not just by goblins. He’d done the math and, even allowing for variables, it all came up to the same unhappy sum: Zee was probably right about them having a narrow escape from the cabin, and possibly from that first town they had driven through. This ambush hadn’t been an accident. And since he, the supposed human, Dr. Nicholas Anthony, was of no importance to goblins, he had to conclude that someone didn’t want Zee reaching Cadalach.

“What about you?” he asked the imp as Zee’s breathing and skin tone gradually returned to normal. “Do you need a shot?”

The imp curled its lip, showing a bit of fang and peeping out of the cloak. Nick took that as a definite no.

“Any sign of the goblins?” Nick asked Zee, stowing his gear.

“No, but the wind has changed direction.” She looked him in the eye. “There are five of them out there—I can smell them now.”

“Can you move?” Nick asked, already reaching out to help her to her feet. The imp scampered a few steps off and watched them fearfully, its nose twitching violently.

“Yes.” Zee swayed once before she regained her balance, but her voice was stronger. Nick handed over her cloak and she pulled the garment around her. “Give me Gretel. You take Hansel and your bag. You said that you could see the faerie mound from here?”

Nick nodded, bending down to pick up the children. He didn’t explain that he knew it was a faerie mound because a ghost had told him, and fortunately Zee didn’t ask.

“Watch her breathing,” Nick warned Zee, putting Gretel in her arms. “Let me know if she starts having any trouble. I’d rather not do it except in an emergency, but I can give her a shot if she needs it.”

Zee nodded, shifting her sister over her shoulder. Nick stooped and picked up Gretel’s fallen teddy bear, stuffing it in his coat pocket.

“The rodent?” he asked reluctantly.

“He probably belongs to the goblins,” Zee answered. “But give him to me anyway. I wouldn’t leave any living creature in their hands.”

Nick didn’t argue. Eyeing the imp warily, he bent to retrieve it. The beast seemed to know that it was Zee who wanted him, remaining calm and not showing any teeth as Nick scooped him up.

“Put him on my shoulder,” Zee instructed. “He’ll be able to cling.”

Eyeing the claws at the ends of the tiny hands, Nick could only agree.

“Be grateful she’s here,” he whispered to the imp as he deposited it onto Zee’s cloaked shoulder. He wiped his hand on his pants. “I’d leave you for wolf bait for what you did to my car.”

Nick was certain that the rodent smirked as it faced itself forward.

“Okay, honey, let’s make tracks. The sooner we reach your faeries, the happier I’ll be.”

“Me, too,” Zee answered. “Isn’t it funny? The thought of going to the faeries just doesn’t scare me anymore.”

Uh, Nick? The ghost’s voice was hesitant.

Yeah.

Just so we’re clear. I see a faerie mound. It may not be the faerie mound. It may not have anyone living in it. I’m not seeing any signs of activity, which there should be, what with the guns going off and the screaming and all. . . .

Nick closed his eyes and prayed silently for patience and some better luck.

That’s not Cadalach, then?

I don’t think so. If rumors are true, Cadalach should be more to the south and closer to the California border— though maybe this is some sort of back entrance. Or an outpost.

Just please tell me that Zee’s goblin-eating dragon doesn’t live there, Nick answered facetiously.

The ghost made no reply.

What? No way. Noooo way! Are you seriously telling me there could be a dragon out there?

I really couldn’t say. All I know is that Zee’s right about there being five goblins on your trail, and they probably have more of those nasty darts. Whatever’s in the mound has to be better than that, doesn’t it? Anyway, the dragon belongs to the faeries—how dangerous could it be? It’s probably quite tame. After all, it’s never attacked any humans.

Oh, man . . . I hope not. What we don’t need is to be facing a hostile dragon.

It wouldn’t be my first choice either, the ghost admitted.

Are you still sure that this “road” is better than the other one I was on?

The ghost sounded adamant: Yes, even if it has a dragon.

Chapter Twelve

Jack Frost stuck his head in through the door of Thomas’s computer lab. The cavernous room was full of equipment that would be the envy of MIT, assuming MIT knew it existed. Even the CIA would be impressed with this array—and also surprised that Thomas had it in his possession. Fortunately, the government knew nothing of Cadalach.

“Put the kettle on,” Jack said. “We’ve got company coming—a man, a woman and two kids. And I think you and Cyra had better come along this time and be on the welcome committee.” He explained, when Thomas cocked an enquiring eyebrow and continued to unroll the coaxial cable: “They have five of King Quede’s modified goblin trolls on their tails and they’re headed right for the elf shian and your dragon.”

“Well, at least the goblin crosses won’t be a problem for long,” Thomas half-laughed, reluctantly putting the cable aside. He shook his head and forced himself to focus. “Did you just say there was a man, a woman and two children?”

“Yes, and it gets really interesting, because the man’s a pixie cross and the woman and children are half-goblin. Word of their coming is traveling like drums along the Mohawk—the shian is very excited and nervous.”

Thomas shook his head. “We better get moving then. Goblin, half-goblin—I don’t trust the dragon’s powers of differentiation. Especially not if he’s hungry. Is Cyra out at the healing pool?” It was an obvious question. He and his wife had retrieved his wife’s selkie skin, but so far, she had been unable to use it. The skin had stopped growing at the time it was taken from her; it hadn’t died, but was in some sort of suspended animation. They were still trying to waken it from its hibernation, and the effort had Cyra’s undivided attention. A whole selkie skin was the only way she would be able to stop the current magical hemorrhaging of her powers.

“I think she is. Finish up here and I’ll get Nyssa and Abrial to do a dreamwalk. We’ll get Cyra and we’ll be on our way.”

Thomas looked up quickly. Nyssa was very near the time of giving birth, and Jack would not ask her to strain herself by doing a dreamwalk if it wasn’t extremely important.

“We need Nyssa and Abrial, too?” he asked. “Jack, who are these people?”

“I don’t know. But it seems Qasim has finally resurfaced, and the woman knows something about him. Unfortunately Qasim knows that she knows, and has acquired the services of some of Lobineau’s troll crosses.”

“And so these poor souls have bigger problems than five goblin crosses and a dragon,” Thomas finished for him.

“Quite probably.”

“And that means we have problems, too.” Thomas didn’t look happy. “Especially if Qasim has found his way into bed with Lobineau.”

“You always were good at adding two and two,” Jack said.

Thomas sighed. “Someone has to be.”

Nick eventually realized that a distinct sound could be heard above the ragged breathing that tore in and out of his parched throat; it floated over the rocky plain on the cold air, a noise so faint that one had to listen carefully to realize that it wasn’t the howling of coyotes or some wild bird. He and Zee were running flat-out, but they were almost out of firm stony ground and were encountering more patches of slippery, sandy soil that left obvious tracks and slowed them down.

Nick looked over at Zee. He was surprised that she could maintain the pace he set. She was showing signs of sunburn and dehydration, and an accumulation of worry was forming lines between her brows, however she seemed largely unaffected by the drugs he’d given her, exhaustion or the thin mountain air. It was only that the ever-brightening sun was taking its toll.

The sun didn’t bother Nick, but the cold of this place had a way of sucking the air out of his lungs and the moisture out of his skin. He knew the desert and its tricks. You could drink fluids all day long, but over time, your inner tissues went dry. If you stayed in the desert long enough, you became a desiccated shell, a living mummy.

And here he was, running through it without water.

It’s something new, the ghost’s voice offered.

Oh, yeah. It’s that and then some.

Nick was well and truly on his way to another life. Too bad the new life looked to be so uncomfortable. He felt as though someone had tied a thick bandage around his head and was tightening it like a tourniquet. It made breathing difficult, and it seemed impossible for him to open his eyes for more than a moment at a time. Nor was his mouth any happier; it was dry and musty and tasted a bit of dead leaves.

“Zee, are you okay? You look a little flushed,” he panted. She actually looked badly sunburned, but he didn’t say so. He had a sudden horrifying image appear in his brain: Zee turned into an apple-head doll that was decaying, caving in and slumping forward on its stick body as bacteria and the arid conditions did their cruel work. It was as though she had started to exhale and forgotten to stop. Another moment and she would be completely curled in upon herself.

Nick shook his head, rejecting the terrible picture.

“I’m okay. It’s just that the children and I don’t do well in midday sun. But don’t worry—I’m not at the end of my endurance yet.”

“Okay,” Nick answered. But he felt increasingly grim. If the cloud cover burned off, they would be in a bad way.

They hadn’t seen any signs of life for the last mile except a wild boar gorging itself on some kind of carrion that looked uncomfortably like a human body, but they were being paced by a pair of dust devils about fifty yards away. The dust devils never got any closer, but they never fell behind either.

Nick could only hope that the things would help wipe out the trail he and Zee were leaving in the sand. Though, the dust devils themselves were a pretty obvious marker if anyone was trying to follow them.

Nick loved both the mountains and many parts of the desert, but the scenery at this base of the eastern slope of the Sierras was parched, almost antiseptic. And so was the freezing air they were breathing. It had been stripped of all odor of vegetation. There were stunted pines, manzanita and the occasional scraggly oak about, but they might as well have been paintings for all the life they showed. If it wasn’t for the distant whoops and screams of the pursuing goblins, Nick might have believed himself and Zee to be alone on some movie set. Or in a neutral zone between worlds.

The children began to come around about forty minutes into their flight. Neither cried out or thrashed around, but Nick was certain he could hear Gretel whimper. Each tiny sound from her cut at his heart, and he found himself quite ready and able to do violence to the creatures chasing them. He and the ghost needn’t have worried about his ethics interfering with his actions. Those damn drugged darts! They not only caused a lot of pain, they might also have affected the children’s brains. He had no way of knowing what damage they had done.

It would be a shame for them to turn into eggplants, the ghost said. They’re cute, aren’t they—even if they are part goblin?

Oh, there you are. So glad you could join us, Nick answered. The ghost had been gone for a bit.

Don’t bust my chops. I was scouting ahead. Veer right. The entrance to the caverns is between those two spiked rocks.

I see it, Nick thought, and he altered their course. The dust devils shifted with them. It might have been his imagination, but it seemed that they also moved in a little closer.

You see those cyclone things? Nick asked.

Yeah.

Friend or foe?

Too soon to tell.

“Zee, do you see those dust devils?” Nick asked.

Zee glanced back. “Yes.”

“Do you think they’re . . . that they’re being caused by the . . .” What had she called it? “The weather goblin? Or the thing at the mall?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “I thought maybe they were jinn.”

“Jinn?”

Genies, the ghost translated.

“You mean genies?” Nick asked.

“Yes. Some fey can call them. They’re like . . . mascots. Or pets,” Zee explained.

“Oh. Would that be a good thing or a bad one?” Nick asked. “For us, I mean.”

“I wish I knew.” Zee shifted Gretel. She had to be tiring—Nick’s own limbs were beginning to shake with fatigue, and he ran regularly. She added, “I take it as a good sign that they are staying between us and the goblins.”

“Yeah, they are.” Nick decided that he’d take it as a good sign, too. He also hoped that the faerie mound held some human necessities—like water. They would need it very soon. Zee especially was looking bad. If this chase went on much longer, he’d have to carry Gretel.

Suddenly, the sun was entirely blotted out. Nick looked up in surprise to see a thunderhead. It was building rapidly, the clouds boiling out of the sky as black as a cast-iron frying pan, and just as flat. It looked highly unnatural.

“Zee?”

“I think that’s the monster’s work,” she warned.

The clouds thickened quickly and began racing toward the bit of mountain that looked like a giant squatting on its haunches, pushed along by some atmospheric wind Nick couldn’t feel from below. Lightning began to flicker, and deafening crashes reverberated in the air around them. A stinging, acid rain began to fall.

Nick didn’t have to say anything to Zee. She put on a burst of desperate speed, and he leapt after her. They were close to the entrance, but Nick doubted they would make it; everything seemed to be coming together at once.

Suddenly, the dust devils closed in. Nick feared that he and Zee might be overwhelmed, choked with dust, but instead the devils formed a sort of protective cocoon around them, hurling the burning rain and lightning back into the sky. Nick wasn’t any too thrilled to see two sets of yellow eyes peering at him out of the dusty red swirls, but he didn’t bother complaining. At this point, he’d take help anywhere he could get it.

Here, the ghost said.

“Here!” Nick shouted, pivoting to the right.

Zee followed, but the dust devils did not; they simply parted to let them through the mountain.

The cave interior was warm; surprisingly so. It was also fairly light, as there seemed to be overhead fissures that opened to the sky. The floor was covered in a soft red sand that could only have come from the pulverized glasslike rock walls. Nick wasn’t sure if he should be happy with the nearby tracks, which suggested that something large had recently been dragged through.

“Look,” Zee said softly, and pointed.

There were dust motes twirling softly in the shafts of light coming down from the ceiling. This wasn’t unexpected after the dust devils, but none of them had ever seen dust that glowed like the sunrise. It took a moment to realize that the dust was so red because firelight was reflecting off the cave’s glassy walls.

“What—” Nick began, only to be interrupted by a rumble like a tiny earthquake. The hair on his arms stood on end, and his nerves trilled a warning. “Get down!” he called.

He grabbed Zee and the children and toppled them to the floor. Above, a gout of fire rushed into the room, licking at the ceiling. It had come from one of the massive, darkened corridors that led from the room. The heat was intense, like a blast from an incinerator. They closed their eyes against it, but the light was so blindingly bright that they could still see a creature’s silhouette stretched over them, blocking out everything, swallowing them whole in some sort of psychic net. It took an effort for Nick and Zee to fight clear of the cobweb mesh enveloping their minds and roll themselves toward the shelter of the boulders near the cavern walls.

Then the shadow and the heat retreated, to be slowly replaced by a watery blue light, and they could hear a small stream bubbling nearby, a sound that hadn’t existed moment before.

What now? A flood?

Don’t be a pessimist, scolded the ghost.

As suddenly as it had come, the light was gone. A scent filled the chamber, a light, luscious green smell, a mix of berries and fern that evoked the clear image of a woodland. Nick was awed by the elemental power of nature, by this holy place, this sanctuary. There also came the sound of running water.

“Do you smell that?” he called to Zee, checking Hansel over as best he could while lying prone. Other than dazed, the boy seemed fine. “It’s like blackberries, fern and musk.”

“But there’s something else, too,” Zee said. Whiffs of burning rubber filled the air. She helped Gretel roll over, giving her sister an encouraging smile that the girl slowly returned.

“That must be the dragon fire,” Nick whispered, as the last of the blue light and psychic intrusion faded. He’d never considered it would smell like this. “What a weird combination of smells.”

“Weird for us,” Zee said. “I . . . I think that first smell was the shian itself. The faerie mound.”

“Is that good or bad?” Nick asked. Then: “Is it normal for a cave to smell like blackberries?”

“I don’t know. These mounds are alive, though— that’s what they say.” Zee raised her voice and lifted her head off the floor. She looked shaken, but sounded quite composed. The imp was not so calm, and the moment it freed itself from the folds of Zee’s cloak, it scurried for the cover of an outcropping of rock that looked a bit like a chair.

“Is that you, Mr. Dragon?” Zee called out suddenly.

There was a pause, and then came a slow rumbling that sounded a bit like a person clearing his throat— a very large person. Nick had the sense that the dragon was surprised at being directly addressed.

“Why, yes it is,” answered a deep voice that resonated through the chamber. “Sorry about that sneeze. Allergies, you know. And who might you all be? And why are you here on this suddenly blustery day?”

Zee hesitated, and Nick recalled some of the faerie tales he’d read about dragons. Giving them your real name was not wise because it gave certain powers over you. Zee seemed to have heard these stories, too, and she hesitated before answering.

“We are four travelers seeking the faerie stronghold of Cadalach.” She rose to her knees. She did not, however, stand up. That would put her in the range of the previous firestorm. Either she didn’t believe in the dragon’s allergies or she wasn’t willing to risk another attack of his hay fever.

There was the sound of sniffling and the air around them eddied. Maybe the dragon did have allergies.

“Is that wise?” the deep voice asked. “I mean, fee, fi, fo, fum, I smell the blood of a lutin. The fey aren’t generally friends to lutins, you know.”

“That’s not what dragons say,” Hansel piped up suddenly. “Fee-fi-fo-fum’s for giants. And we’re only half-goblins. At least, they say we are, but I’m not even sure of that. We don’t have four arms—and I’m much smarter than my cousins!”

There came a small rumble that might have been the dragon’s laugh.

“We’re very sorry to bother you,” Zee began again, then cleared her throat, suggesting that she was actually somewhat nervous. Nick reached out and squeezed her hand. “But we have a problem. We had some car trouble, and we’re being chased by five goblins—”

“Mutant goblins,” Nick corrected, also coming to his knees. The children were sitting up, looking expectant. If they weren’t afraid, he wouldn’t act that way either. “And they have some kind of nasty poison darts.”

“Do they, now? Well, well . . . mutant goblins with darts. This I have to see. Don’t be alarmed. I’m coming out. We really must talk about this at length. Mutant goblins are a favorite . . . hobby, you might say.” The dragon’s voice was suddenly very animated. There was the sound of something massive moving down one of the dark corridors. A faint glow illuminated the tunnel to the west. The temperature in the cave began to climb.

“Get behind cover,” Nick said to Zee, picking up both children and taking shelter behind a glass mound. They didn’t crouch, but Nick pressed the children back and was ready to drop flat at a moment’s notice.

“I wanna see the dragon,” Hansel complained.

“You will,” Nick said, his voice grim. He ran a hand through Gretel’s hair. She didn’t look frightened, but she didn’t seem as enthused about having a close encounter with a dragon as her brother did.

They watched in silence as a monstrous creature resembling a dinosaur clawed its way into the room. It had to wiggle to get its belly through the opening, clawing at the opening with massive talons. Nick was struck by the almost industrial smell that clung to it.

“Would you like to come with me to see the goblins? I could give you a ride,” the dragon added. His voice was almost gentle.

Nick relaxed. He felt faintly ridiculous cowering behind a rock when the dragon was being so polite.

He was still wary, though, and kept possession of his shotgun—for all the good it would do him. The dragon was armored, and its mouth was large enough to bite off Nick’s head and shoulders in one chomp.

“I want a ride!” Hansel said immediately. He smiled winningly up at the dragon. “Can you fly?”

“I would like to ride, too,” Gretel added softly.

Nick looked at the children. Hansel seemed alert enough, but Gretel still appeared dazed, her eyes slightly unfocused.

“I’m not certain it would be safe,” Zee began. Then, seeing the almost human elevation of the dragon’s brow ridge, she added, “It’s the goblin darts. They made us all very sick. Nick had to give us drugs so we could move, but I don’t think it’s good for the children to have so many human chemicals in their bodies.”

Nick also didn’t think it would be good for the children to see the dragon enjoying his hobby. It would probably give them nightmares for decades.

Never mind the children, the ghost said to Nick. I don’t want to see it, either.

“Very well then,” the dragon said. “Stay here—and watch the left cave opening. Company’s coming. Unless I’m mistaken, those are Thomas Marrowbone’s jinns outside. And mind the tail as I go by. It seems to have a mind of its own. Literally. I think it came off a stegosaurus. In any event, it remains a bit of an independent operator.” The dragon turned his head away and moved swiftly toward the cave entrance. His tail might be stegosaurus, but the rest of him was something much faster.

“Yoohoooo,” the dragon caroled as he stepped outside. It was terrifying, this singsong pitch. “Little goblins, come out, come out, wherever you are! Time for my afternoon snack.”

Nick and Zee exchanged a glance, and both of them shuddered.

Chapter Thirteen

“These goblins who are after this family . . . I’ve been thinking about this. King Quede was engineering some strange hybrid beings. We may not have discovered them all—or destroyed all his projects,” Roman Hautecoeur admitted reluctantly. His breathing was calm. Being part pooka, he was good at running. Being curious, he was determined to see the goblins that had invaded fey territory.

“And you think Lobineau has been busy hunting them up and enlisting them for his own purposes?” Thomas asked. He wasn’t winded either, but his voice reflected the fact that he, Roman and their friend Abrial had run nearly two miles at speeds humans could only imagine. He’d collected them to come on this mission. “I’ve about decided this myself.”

“Maybe. Probably. He was willing to raise a hobgoblin from the dead—though how he managed it, I still don’t know,” Roman added.

“ ‘Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?’ ” Thomas asked, only half in jest. Actually, Roman figured it was probably something less than half, since Thomas wasn’t smiling.

“Gladly. Say the word and he is gone. I can be in New Orleans before sunset and finish the job.”

“And thus would end our first attempt at détente with a goblin hive,” Thomas said gloomily. “We don’t have any proof of wrongdoing, you know. At least, not yet.”

“Hey, it’s been more taunt than détente since Lobineau took over. We’ve let him get away with . . . well, murder. Politics!” Roman sounded disgusted.

“Our lives are always about politics, one way or another. And you know what they say about diplomacy,” Thomas prompted.

“Something I won’t like?” Roman guessed. Thomas snorted.

“Chou En-lai said that diplomacy is the continuation of war by other means. Or, as Galbraith put it: ‘Politics is not the art of the possible; it consists of choosing between the disastrous and the unpalatable.’ ”

“You’re quoting humans again,” Roman complained. “Surely we fey had something to say about this.”

Abrial spoke up, finally joining the conversation. “Nothing as succinct. When it comes to politics and war, humans have always had us beaten hands down. We—the unseelie, at least—deal more in treachery and assassination.” He gave a dark smile, as if contemplating just such a solution to the invading goblins.

Thomas shook his head. “Fascinating though this subject is, further discussion will have to wait. I can smell the dragon. He’s barbecuing again.”

Roman laughed shakily. “Man! I hope that it’s goblin on the grill and not our family of four.”

Zee sat down wearily and pulled off her shoes. She upended them, emptying out a small river of sand. Nick realized that his shoes—his now mostly destroyed leather-soled loafers—were also filled with grit, and that his feet were blistered.

“Nick?” Zee looked longingly at the stream that had appeared in the cavern. “Do you think . . . ? ”

“Let me taste it first,” he answered, kicking off his shoes.

The water bubbled gaily at his approach, bathing him in soft blue light and beckoning him closer. Once again, he could smell the pleasing scent of berries and fern.

The first touch of the water eased the abraded feeling that had plagued his exposed skin. He dipped his hand fully in the water and brought it to his mouth. Instantly, the tightness in his throat eased. “I think it’s okay,” he called. “Just drink slowly. You don’t want your stomachs to cramp.”

Zee and the children approached and did as Nick had done. The dancing water seemed to affect them in the same way. Zee especially looked eased, and the angry flush faded from her skin. Smiling, they all waded into the blue stream. The water felt magnificent, as no water ever had before. They all knelt down and drank deep, reverent draughts until their bodies could hold no more, and all of their fatigue and pain fell away.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” a male voice said behind them. “I didn’t know that these waters could heal half-lutins.”

“And I didn’t know that dragons wouldn’t eat them,” another added.

Startled, Nick got to his feet, hauling Zee up beside him. They stood in front of the children, shielding them as best they could.

“Hello,” a dark-haired man said, shifting to the side of the cavern’s left most tunnel, the one the dragon had requested they watch. Two more men stepped out after him, each a little darker, a little taller and a little stranger than the one before. “I’m Thomas Marrowbone. Welcome to Cadalach.”

“This is Cadalach?” Nick asked in surprise. Zee understood what he was thinking. As strongholds went, it seemed unimpressive and not exactly defensible. At least, not with the dragon away.

“An outpost, let us say. Certainly it is a cavern friendly to the fey.”

Zee studied the one called Thomas Marrowbone first. He was the one who had summoned the jinn and who the dragon had expected to arrive—which probably meant that he was some sort of magician. He had a certain grave wizardly elegance about him—not his clothing so much, which appeared quite ordinarily human. Perhaps it was his posture and demeanor. He had an erect carriage and grave expression that she associated with the portraits of Victorian gentlemen her father had kept in his study.

The man to his left was another matter. He was a creature of the earth, strongly built, almost animalistic. Zee didn’t know how she came by this knowledge, but she was certain that he was some sort of animal fey. Perhaps . . . part river horse? A pooka?

The last of the three men was very special, very dangerous—perhaps not to them specifically, but to the world as a whole. He wore his magic like a dark cloak and had eyes darker than midnight. The first two men were of the day. The third was of the night. He was unseelie. His gaze raised goose bumps on Zee’s skin, and she found it hard to smile at him.

Executioner. The word popped into her head.

Seeing Zee’s expression, Thomas said, “Forgive my manners. These gentlemen with me are Roman Hautecoeur and Abrial Nightdemon.” He spoke softly, moving slowly into the room. He was careful to keep his posture unthreatening and his expression neutral. Nevertheless, Nick moved to stand in front of Zee and the children.

“I’m Dr. Nicholas Anthony,” he said, stepping forward another pace and reluctantly offering his hand.

Thomas stared at it for a moment, then shook the outstretched limb. Roman also shook, and with somewhat greater enthusiasm and strength. Abrial Nightdemon simply nodded.

Zee felt relief. She had a feeling that Nick touching this fey might not be wise. Nor would it be wise for Zee to touch him, either; he would be able to see the monster that haunted her dreams, and he would be hostile to it and perhaps to her.

“I am Zee Finvarra,” she said finally, when it was clear that Nicholas was being protective and would not introduce her. “The children are my brother and sister, Hansel and Gretel.”

As Nick had, there was some eyebrow-raising. She would have to ask him later to explain why these given names surprised people. Had she inadvertently chosen some notorious humans monikers?

“The pleasure is ours,” Thomas said. “But for now—come, brothers and sisters of the rainbow wherein the ancient magick dwells, enter our lands and welcome,” he invited formally.

Then, abandoning the ritual, he added, “We really should go and save Jack and Cyra a trip down. We wouldn’t normally appear in such strength to welcome you, but we were worried about the goblin trolls. Nasty pieces of work, those.” He paused, as though debating whether to say something else.

The darkest man, Abrial, was still watching them intently, and Zee had the feeling that somehow he knew even without touching her about the hobgoblin at the mall. He didn’t say anything about it, though. Instead he added, “I believe the dragon has that matter under control.”

“But the dragon isn’t back,” Hansel objected. He pushed around Nick and looked up at Thomas. “I’m sure he wants to come with us. He said he would give us a ride!”

Thomas smiled a little. “The dragon may come and visit us later. Indeed, there is very little that dragon will not do if it suits him. But he won’t come by the way we must travel. The tunnels are narrow and he’s . . . too large to fit comfortably.”

“Oh.” Hansel was clearly disappointed. He reached for Nick’s hand and looked up at his new protector with a hopeful expression.

Nick clearly didn’t want to see the dragon again, but he didn’t want to disappoint Hansel either. He had a kind streak that was at least a mile wide and deep. That thought made Zee smile, and she realized that in spite of everything, she was feeling happy and hopeful.

“Don’t worry,” Thomas said kindly. “I’m certain you’ll see the dragon again, and soon. We always see him again. He’s like a bad penny.”

“We should go,” Abrial prompted. His voice was otherworldly. He looked into Nick’s eyes, and his gaze was not as peaceful as his voice. There were small explosions there, miniature holocausts, disasters—destruction. “I’ve told Nyssa to halt her dreamwalk, but she won’t until we return. You know how it is with women.”

Thomas nodded. “I don’t want Cyra leaving the mound, either, and she will if we’re not back soon.” He turned back to his guests. “Okay, folks, there are a couple of things you need to know about faerie roads. One, they’re dark most of the time. Two, they can seem. . . breezy. That’s nothing to worry about. It just means the roads are helping us travel quickly. A walk of five minutes will carry us more than two hundred miles—a handy trick, you must admit. We’ll be fine if we stick together. Children, you need to hold an adult’s hand.”

“Um,” Nick began, “are you certain it’s safe? For us? I’ve heard some stories . . .” Fairy tales he had dismissed as pure fiction after about age seven but was now rethinking.

“Of course it’s safe. None of you are pure-blooded human, are you?”

Zee looked at Nick, feeling a bit shocked.

“You’re part fey?” she asked.

Nick nodded, then made himself answer aloud. “Yes. It seems that I’m part pixie. Surprise!”

He glanced at Thomas, wondering how the man had known he wasn’t pure human. Had he changed somehow in the last twenty-four hours? Had the awakening magic marked him in some manner obvious to other magical beings?

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Zee asked. Nick couldn’t tell if she was merely puzzled or hurt by his omission.

“Because, until a couple of hours ago, I didn’t know.” Nick spread his hands wide. He didn’t want to give details about his ghost in front of strangers, but he didn’t want Zee thinking he was deceitful either. “Look, it’s a little hard to explain. There was this . . . this voice that started speaking to me. It told me I was part pixie—whatever that is. I wanted to say something to you, but it sounded like a crazy thing to bring up out of the blue, so I just—hell, I don’t know. I guess I was hoping that I’d wake up and it would all be a dream. . . .”

Zee blinked and then nodded. She smiled at him, and he felt the same thrill he always did when she was happy.

“I felt it, too—when the mound looked at us. I didn’t hear a voice exactly, but it was like the light could see all the way inside me, and it knew things.” She sounded happy with this explanation, and though Nick felt it was wrong to continue his deception, he didn’t contradict her. “And this is a good thing. It means that you have magic inside you, too.”

Nick wasn’t sure why this fact seemed to delight Zee, but he decided not to mention that he didn’t feel magical, merely haunted.

He looked up and found Thomas watching him. He was willing to bet that the fey guessed there was something slightly off with his story. However, Thomas didn’t say anything.

“Well, if that’s all settled, we can shove off. Right this way, ladies, gentlemen and children of all ages,”

Roman called out, clapping his hands, and his voice took on the cadence of a carnival barker as he stepped back into the tunnel. “Welcome to the amazing, the astonishing, the unforgettable faerie road talked about in ancient fable and song—”

“What song?” Hansel interrupted.

Yeah, what song? Nick echoed as he followed into the black passageway.

Come on, you know this one, Nick . . . ‘You take the high road and I’ll take the low . . .’ the ghost began, just as Roman started singing.

He did know it. Not sure why, Nick found himself joining in. Zee reached out and took his right hand. Hansel clasped his left. Gretel had Zee’s right. Nick felt a bit like they should be skipping.

We’re off to see the wizard—to get a brain. And some courage. And hopefully some answers.

That’s the spirit, the ghost applauded. Much better than just whistling past the graveyard.

Oh, shut up. I am really not happy about all this. How am I ever going to explain you to everyone?

Hey, don’t complain—don’t explain. There’s no way anyone can know for sure that I’m here. Hell, you don’t even know for sure. I might be a hallucination after all. Didn’t you used to believe that?

Ha! Thomas knows about you, Nick half-snarled, and I’m betting that Abrial Nightdemon does, too. I have a feeling that nothing gets past those two. If they’re keeping quiet for now, it’s for a reason.

Hm . . . you may have a point. Still, I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. And I am you, and I’m not worried.

I’m sure you’re not, Nick groused. After all, you’re only a ghost. What can they possibly do to you?

You’d be surprised.

Nick noticed Abrial Nightdemon staring at him. It was dark, but he could swear the man smiled.

He hears us—I knew it.

Then shut up already.

Chapter Fourteen

There were more introductions to welcoming strangers when they reached Cadalach proper, and Zee found herself feeling a bit odd as the children happily disappeared with a young woman named Chloe; she herself was left alone with Nick and a room full of fey. The children had not seemed at all surprised by anything they encountered, but nothing was what Zee expected. First, there was Nick being part pixie. She didn’t know what to make of that. Surely it was a good thing, though. . . .

Then there were their hosts. Thomas was not the leader of the fey; that task had fallen to Jack Frost. The fey were not at all what she had been led to believe. They were as beautiful as she had been told— that part was correct and then some—but they also seemed in many ways to be quite human. Just as her father had. In fact, she could see nothing magical about Chloe at all.

Cadalach itself was another matter. Zee could not have envisioned a more wondrous place. She had thought the fey would live somewhere much like a goblin hive, but the shian was nothing like that. Its garden’s astonishing plants were not like anything belonging to any garden she had ever been in—or even imagined. She was willing to bet that these flowers and trees did not have seasons. These gardens were timeless; they had always been and would always be. This place was like what the humans called Eden.

Zee walked through the bower, hardly aware of her companions, dazed by the scents and colors. A part of her, perhaps the fey part, was reaching out to make contact with the life force that she felt moving around her. It was all very wonderful but nearly overwhelming. Sights and scents were all dazzling. There was a series of cascading terraces, each covered in a waterfall of radiant blossoms, flowers of inhumanly beautiful shades and more stunning fragrances. It was all somehow familiar—something she knew—yet not one flower could she identify. It seemed as though she were dreamwalking someplace beyond the human or lutin world.

The garden didn’t end its gifts with what could be taken in with the eyes or inhaled through the nose. There were pleasures of sound as well: a soft phantom birdsong and a faint musical humming that rose from the azure-tinged water of the gentle stream meandering through the cavern always near them, whichever way they walked. There was also an affectionate breeze that moved around Zee, sometimes dusting her hair with a flurry of faded petals more tender than a mother’s caress, or at least they were more tender than Zee’s own mother’s infrequent caresses had ever been. This was a place that spoke coaxingly to the child in Zee who had always felt unwanted, who didn’t belong anywhere. It was a balm to her troubled heart. If she let herself, she knew that she could belong here.

She wanted to say something to Nick about the stunning sensations bathing her senses, but . . . Zee looked about helplessly. Some experiences could not be communicated with words. Or at least, not with the words she had. This felt sacred—an answer to an unknown prayer. Many times after her father was gone, Zee had wanted to pray to the Goddess her father worshipped, but she had not known how.

Another fall of petals caressed her. They said that the Goddess had heard her confused call, and that She understood—and loved. Zee was Hers now; she should let go of worry and let the Goddess guide her.

Zee nearly wept. In the very last place she would have expected, she felt that she had finally found her roots, her homeland. And the gardens knew her, accepted her, loved her. Other than her time with Nick, she had known no peace. Now, in the space of only two days, she had been twice blessed. And she might have to let both sources of happiness go—and soon. It was too much to hope that she would be allowed to stay. Yet, to leave now would be to face exile.

And Nick . . . He had kept his word and brought her to Cadalach, but would everything he saw here drive him away? She couldn’t imagine how strange it must be for him to find out that he wasn’t human.

As though sensing her sudden emotion, Nick reached out and took her hand. He smiled encouragingly.

“I know that you’re tired,” Thomas Marrowbone said softly, stopping by a stone table surrounded by glass chairs. “But we really need to talk about what you know of the hobgoblin, Qasim. We have part of the story already, but he’s a tricky bastard to follow and any help you can give us will make our task easier.”

“Yes, of course.” Zee tried to gather herself. It was difficult, because what she really wanted was to stay lost in the enchantment around her; that was so much better than facing her fears. Thomas smiled at her encouragingly.

“The others will be—”

“The others are here,” announced a silver-haired fey with piercing eyes, appearing suddenly near the table. Zee knew instinctively that this was the leader, Jack Frost. “Please be seated. We will begin without Nyssa. She is doing another dreamwalk, seeing if she can locate Qasim. Abrial is riding shotgun with her but will join us shortly.”

“Qasim is Zee’s monster?” Nick clarified. “The fake Santa at the mall?”

“Yes. A hobgoblin. The leader of the hobgoblins, and a truly nasty bit of work.” Jack poured something into the goblets at the head of the table, and then passed the cups around. “Drink this. It will help you stay awake for a short time. We will speak briefly, and then you may rest.”

Zee tasted the drink Jack offered. It was a sweet wine that she knew would make her feel heady. She hesitated a moment, then took a deep swallow. She would need help speaking of the creature.

Jack spoke gently to her. “First of all, let me say that you were right to come to us. Qasim knows about you—you can count on it—and you will need help to survive until he is dealt with. Just begin with when you saw him, and don’t worry that we won’t believe you if you can’t be specific. We know that you have knowledge that cannot be grasped by the usual senses. Just give us your impressions.”

Feeling reassured, Zee began her story. But even with the wine and Nick’s hand tucked in hers, she found it difficult. Mentioning Qasim’s name seemed to summon his shadow. But she went on anyway.

“It’s all true,” Jack said several minutes after Zee had finished her story. He had been sitting in silence while the others talked, his head cocked to one side as though listening to someone else. “Qasim’s taken human children and is holding them somewhere near Death Valley. Nyssa is hunting for his lair even as we speak. My main concern at this point is what he means to do with them. Zee, do you have anything else you can tell us which might explain?”

“I . . .” She hesitated. “I don’t have any proof. But I believe he means to sacrifice them. It wouldn’t be enough, just kidnapping, to make the humans go to war. And I think that’s what he wants.”

“Would he do that?” Jack asked Abrial. Nightdemon had slipped into the room a few moments before. “Would he kill hundreds of human children to start a war?”

His face grim, Abrial looked down at the baby he held in his arms. It was Roman’s child, Innis. He had been practicing his parenting skills in anticipation of his own baby’s birth, and was getting pretty good at handling these tiny bits of the future contained in such small bodies.

He raised his head and then nodded once. His voice was soft. “Yes, I believe he would.”

Innis stirred, and Abrial handed the child back to Roman as though not wanting to risk contaminating the baby with his darkness.

“Okay, then.” If Jack was shocked by Abrial’s answer, he didn’t show it. “The next question is, which hive he would choose to take the fall for this deed? If we know that, we have a place to concentrate our search. He must have a ritual site chosen by now.”

“King Carbon’s nest is his first target,” Abrial said without hesitation.

“Carbon’s dead,” Jack reminded him. “And those goblins have started moving their operations north.”

“Yes. But the L.A. hive betrayed him. It’s also very aggressive with its effort to become mainstream. That’s where Qasim will begin—with a known hive that humans can target.”

“Then that is where we need to begin as well,” Jack said. “I’ll send out scouts immediately. Cyra and Io can travel together. And I want Lyris back from San Francisco.” Zee recalled that Lyris was Roman’s wife. They hadn’t met her yet. Jack continued, “She can begin checking records and hitting up her human sources. She’s better than any ferret when it comes to finding things. And Thomas—”

“Follow the money trail,” Thomas answered. “I’m on it. But don’t expect much. It’s unlikely that Qasim has been using credit cards. It’s much more his style to take what he wants and just kill anyone who gets in his way.”

“I know. But you’ve got those computers, do what you can.”

“You don’t think Nyssa will find those children in the dreamlands?” Abrial asked. He obviously had a lot of faith in his pregnant wife. “Qasim likely has them entranced. She should be able to spot them—so many entranced minds all grouped in a small space in the desert should leave an obvious signature.”

“If anyone can find them, Nyssa will. But Qasim may know how to hide himself and his words. After all, he managed to disappear months ago without the slightest trace. And we need to be ready to physically intercept him at the sacrificial site, just in case worse comes to worst. I’m not letting you and Nyssa face him alone.” Jack nodded once, again communing with someone or something unseen. “That’s enough for now. Zee needs to rest, and we need to plan.”

“Qasim’s using Mabigon’s heart?” Roman asked Abrial after Io had taken Zee and the baby Innis off to bed; as soon as the men were alone, they had got down to a council of war. Jack poured out more wine for them, and Lyris, just returned from San Francisco, had brought a tray of fruit before also retreating. Nick wondered if this was standard sexism, or if the women were taking care of some other aspect of this crisis. He couldn’t imagine that the men would try to keep the women in the dark about what was happening—not if the women were being used as scouts. He certainly had no intention of lying to Zee about what they were doing, and he would make that clear.

“That would be my guess,” Abrial answered, “and it has probably given him access to some of her nastier powers.” His expression was distant. “Still, I think we’ve got the better end of the deal. I’d rather the heart be in Qasim than Mabigon. Even dead, she was a threat. He did us a favor putting that bitch down.”

“You speak of her so fondly,” Roman commented.

“She must have been a real pleasure to know.”

“Be glad that you never had the pleasure. I’ve never seen a more selfish, ruthless creature.”

“Mabigon?” Nick asked. “Who is she?”

“She was the queen of the Unseelie Court—a queen of black magic, you might say,” Abrial explained. “She was also the living example of the old maxim about absolute power corrupting absolutely.”

“Fair enough. But Qasim is no Boy Scout. What makes him especially scary is that he has no human or fey moral checks and balances,” Thomas said. “Why would he? He isn’t human after all—and not much fey. It’s like dealing with a psychopath who isn’t crazy. The son of a bitch can reason, and he’s had centuries to plan his comeback.”

“How’s Nyssa taking all this?” Jack asked Abrial. “I can’t tell from our conversations. She’s wrapped pretty tight these days.”

Nightdemon spread his hands. “She’s distressed. In spite of everything that was done to her by Qasim and Mabigon, a part of her wants to believe that her father isn’t capable of murdering children.”

Abrial’s words stunned Nick. Qasim was Nyssa’s father? He’d met Bysshe, Nyssa’s mother. That made Qasim Bysshe’s . . . what? Not husband, surely.

“She is also considering destroying Qasim’s heart,” Abrial went on. “The only thing that has stayed her hand is that she and Bysshe think it might be a bargaining chip that we have it. I see her point, but I don’t think we can offer a trade. He’s dangerous enough with the Dark Queen’s heart— he’d be unstoppable if he had his own back. And I think we can see by his recent actions that he hasn’t become a responsible lamb to be welcomed back into the fold.”

Roman snorted. “Like you’re a good little sheep,” he said.

“Abrial, where do you stand in this coming battle?” Jack turned fully to face his friend. When the nightdemon didn’t immediately respond, Jack clarified: “Does Qasim having your old Queen’s heart mean that you won’t be able to fight him?”

Abrial hesitated. “I don’t know. I think as long as I don’t go after the heart directly, I’ll be all right. After all, he stole it from Mabigon. Theoretically, my job should be to get it back—even if she is dead.”

“We have to hope that Qasim doesn’t realize your handicap. We’ll be in trouble if you’re sidelined,” Thomas said. His voice was grim. “You know he won’t do the honorable thing and excuse you from conflict.”

“Indeed,” Abrial answered. “However, I think we may be able to get some backup from the dreamlands, in the event I can’t attack Qasim psychically. He can help with the children, too.”

“Your Uncle Farrar?” Jack asked. “He’s been useful in the past, but is that wise? We are dealing with children this time.”

“Children and the Pied Piper of Hamelin—great combination. Let’s just crawl out of the frying pan and into the fire.” Roman rolled his eyes.

Nick blinked again. The Pied Piper of Hamelin? Maybe it was the wine, but he somehow wasn’t as surprised as he might be.

“They’re dead children if we don’t stop Qasim, and soon. Pick your evil,” Abrial answered.

Jack didn’t argue, probably because Abrial looked clearly no more enthused about calling the Pied Piper than he did.

“You know, the more I listen to you all, the more nervous I get,” Nick said slowly. “I’m not a coward, but this sounds like a really bad situation that’s getting worse all the time.”

Roman nodded. “Smart man. It’s about as bad as it gets—at least for those kids. And for the goblins, too, if Qasim succeeds. You know, some days it feels like we get stuck dealing with every Asshole of Evil the underworld ever vomited up. When do we get to the fun stuff—that’s what I want to know? When’s the endless music and dancing and feasting going to begin?” Roman’s words were plaintive, but his voice was not. But then, Nick had noticed that Roman always managed to sound jovial, regardless of the situation.

“Assholes of Evil?” The usually sober Thomas Marrowbone started laughing, which made Nick feel slightly better. Could things be so bad if Thomas was laughing?

“Yeah,” Roman said, “you know what I mean. The ones who should have been strangled in infancy by civic-minded mothers, or poisoned by farsighted classmates. Or struck by lightning from a caring cosmos. But that never happens. And they never do the right thing themselves and drop an electrical appliance in their bathtubs, or plow their cars into embankments at a hundred and twenty miles per hour, or O.D. on goblin fruit.”

“I think spectacular car crashes and overdoses are reserved for rock stars. I like the TV in the bathtub, though.” Thomas continued to chuckle. “Do you think Qasim is a bubble-bath-and-soap-opera kind of guy?”

Roman shook his head. “Glad someone thinks this imbalance in the universe is funny.” He looked over at Nick. “So, pixie, got anything to add? You

may as well speak up, since you’re in this, too.”

Was he in it? Yes, Nick supposed he was.

“I don’t have much to say,” he answered, wondering if anyone had even thought to prescribe medication for Roman’s mood swings. Some human pharmaceuticals might be effective. “Usually I’m in favor of non-violent solutions. But this monster has taken children and means ill by them—Zee is sure of that. And having recently run into some of the . . . er . . .”

“Assholes of Evil?” Roman supplied, grinning. “You can say it. It’s okay. We’re all adults.”

“Chronologically adults,” Thomas corrected, and Roman gave him the finger. Both men were still smiling.

“Yes. Well, I’m fine with loosing some mayhem on Qasim—and on those nasty goblins chasing us, too,” Nick added. “Although, I still don’t understand why they were after us. Shouldn’t the goblins want Qasim stopped? Why get in our way?”

“Loosing mayhem? Would that be like opening a can of whoop-ass, pixie-boy?” Roman asked.

“Don’t mind Roman,” said a new voice. It was Zayn, who had just entered the room. The slender fey was Cadalach’s medic, or so Nick gathered, and Nick was looking forward to talking fey medical specifics with him. There was a lot he wanted to know about fey and goblin physiology. “He’s a pooka,” Zayn went on. “We just keep him around for comic relief.”

Roman’s smile broadened.

“Oh, well, that’s okay then,” Nick answered, hoping he didn’t sound as ignorant as he felt. What the hell was a pooka? It was one more question to add to the long list of things he needed to learn.

Jack spoke up, saving him. “The thing to understand about the goblin situation is that their political terrain is as tricky as any in the Middle East. The hives should unite, but mercifully they don’t get along. And our dear Qasim has found a goblin ally in New Orleans who would be only too happy to help him screw over some of the other hives— Father Lobineau. Of course, what Lobineau hasn’t figured out yet is that if you sleep with dogs you’ll wake up with fleas. Or worse. He will never be able to control Qasim, and the hobgoblin will surely end up killing him.”

Father Lobineau? Father, as in a priest? Nick was about to ask for details, but Thomas spoke up.

“What about Zee?” he asked. “She has some role in all this. The shian definitely wanted her here.”

“It will become clear,” Jack answered. “But she and Nyssa must be kept safe while we deal with Qasim.”

Nick breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t want Zee anywhere near the monster that terrified her so much. He hadn’t realized how affected she was; but just seeing Qasim from a distance had caused her to faint, and had left her with hideous nightmares that the creature could apparently invade at will.

“Why?” Roman asked Jack. “I mean, beyond the obvious.”

“Don’t you get it? Have you all forgotten the prophecy?” No one spoke up, so Jack reminded them: “Gofimbel’s curse. That his precious lutin empire would be brought down by a half-breed child. That could be Zee or her siblings. It could also be Nyssa’s baby. Think about it: There’s a reason the tomhnafurach brought these women here, something that hasn’t been revealed to us yet. And so we must keep them out of harm’s way—out of sight completely—until we know their part in the plan.”

Zee slept on a bed of glass between two skins of softest fur, and while she did, she dreamed. The dream was like no other she had ever had. She did not see anything at first; instead, a deep voice whispered in her ear as she floated in the warm darkness.

For walking with his prey, them to the steps he brought,

On which he oft before his grim sacrifices wrought.

And going up thereat, his powers to have known,

They came to a mountain stopt by sacred stone,

The ruins were red and bloody, amazed they all did stand,

As one by one the captives were crossed into the goblin land.

Suddenly, an image of a creature bloomed in her mind: a hobgoblin, shrouded in somber chains of tarnished silver that burned into his flesh. Beside him stood the goblin king, Gofimbel.

Neither creature spoke, but hatred shone in the captive’s eyes. Still, when the king gave him an ax, the hobgoblin accepted it. Then the hobgoblin turned away, dragging his chains behind him, and mounted the steps of an altar.

The terrible image faded away and was replaced by another. This image reassured Zee. She saw Cadalach as it had been when still inhabited by feys. It was stunning, full of wondrous gardens and light—a striking light brilliant but kinder than the sun or moon, because it came from the enchantment within and around every being who lived in the faerie mound.

Again a voice whispered in Zee’s brain, conveying with words and random images that it had not been humans, with their weapons of cold iron, but rather the sun itself that had grown poisonous and driven the feys away from the planet surface. The same sun that had driven the goblins underground. That was when the bitter rivalries and wars had started. Before the drought, magical races had lived together under the sky—and someday, the shian hoped those races might live together again. It was free will that made them war now, not the Goddess, not the magic of the earth and air and sky. And thus there was no reason for Zee to be at war with herself; her many parts could co-exist—if she willed them to.

Before she entirely understood what this message meant, Zee slipped into another dream. She was walking naked through the desert night, and a vivid red moon appeared from behind a dark cloud. Down reached a crimson beam, which twined itself about her. She wanted to run away, but the light was so beautiful, so soft and warm on her skin. And the blood moon loved her, too, claimed her—all of her; the human, the goblin and the fey—as its child. It told her that she had a purpose.

Zee fell back on the soft sand. Slowly, the light traveled her body, growing brighter as it pinned her down forced her arms and legs wide. Finally it reached inside her, touching something in her womb, and making all her muscles clench in something like a climax. A voice spoke in her mind.

You shall be the mother of the great union. Through you, there will be compromise and peace among races.

Zee trembled in her sleep because, though the light was beautiful and wondrous, it also was the marker of some dark destiny that was laying claim to her. She tried to sit up, but her muscles would not obey. She tried to wake, but the dream would not free her.

She was trembling and moaning when Chloe came to wake her.

Chapter Fifteen

“Nick, I admit that I’m curious about your situation. How do you feel about Zee being part goblin? Being raised human, do you have fewer prejudices about her mixed blood than a fey might?” Jack pushed a platter toward Nick; Nick wasn’t sure how it could be, but the mild fruit upon it was as satisfying as a medium-rare steak and a baked potato.

Well, do you have fewer prejudices? the ghost asked curiously.

Nice of you to finally turn up again, Nick thought back at his specter, sipping his wine to buy himself time. You know, you’ve missed rather a lot of backstory.

I heard it. Now, answer the man. This should be fascinating. It’s always fun to watch intellectual idealism meet up with cold reality. I mean, how many weeks did it take you to admit that I’m real?

Nick ignored the jibe and tried to organize his thoughts. He had so many questions that needed answering before he could reach any informed decision. The bottom line was, everything hinged on understanding magic of one kind or another— magic he hadn’t known existed, though it had apparently touched his past, colored his present and now overshadowed his future. And he knew nothing about it. He was in its heart, a place where he breathed it in, would sleep it—assuming he ever got his nap. It shimmered in the air around him. It whispered in his ears and teased his skin, yet it remained as mysterious and impossible as any foreign god. What was it? What was he? This wasn’t something that had troubled him before; it wasn’t a question he had ever asked. And now these strangers wanted to know what he thought about Zee.

Never mind your brain and its endless questions—you spend too much time in your skull anyway. What does your gut say? the ghost prompted.

“I . . . I feel one thing but sometimes think another,” Nick admitted out loud. Though the silence had been long, he was glad it hadn’t been uncomfortable. Jack seemed to understand that he needed time to formulate an answer. “Intellectually, I’m having trouble with the concept. She and the children look human. And you have to understand that I’d never seen a goblin until the one in the gas station tried to shoot me. I’ve got to tell you, even without the gun, that thing didn’t look very friendly. And a part of me is wondering how that violent, disgusting creature can have anything in common with Zee or the children.”

Jack nodded slowly.

“Zee is here. So I don’t think she has anything to do with the goblins—not anymore. You may not be able to understand this, but for Zee to leave her hive . . . Well, it would be like a human renouncing his citizenship and committing treason. As for that thing that shot at you, I didn’t see it, but those from the old hives aren’t real friendly to outsiders these days so, don’t take it too personally. Goblins shoot at feys almost as a matter of routine.”

“And I am fey,” Nick said slowly, reminding himself. He shook his head. “At least partly. And that thing could tell just by looking at me. How? I don’t look fey. I don’t—” Nick gestured at Jack, indicating his silvered hair and eyes that shone like highly polished metal. “I don’t look the way you all do. I’m so average-looking, so . . . human.”

“But you’re not on the inside. And, yes, it could tell. Probably by smell. It wasn’t just a goblin, you see. It was a troll goblin cross-breed. Cross-breeds are trackers used by the New Orleans goblins mostly, sort of like bloodhounds. Quede, the former king of that hive, was into genetic experimentation and hybridization. These troll crosses are his little gift to posterity.”

Nick shook his head. “Swell. Are there many of them around? Am I likely to bump into one every time I visit a convenience store?”

“Let’s hope not. We already have plenty on our plate, and lots to think about without this added complication. . . . And how about you, Nick?” Jack asked abruptly. “How do you feel about being part fey? Being descended from pixies is recent news for you, isn’t it?”

“Very recent.” Nick smiled a little. He repeated his earlier reply: “I feel one thing but think another. Intellectually, I’m having trouble with the concept. How the hell can I be ‘part pixie’? I’m a doctor, a man of science . . . and human. Pixies are . . . well, cartoon characters that wear green and twinkle. And they’re usually girls.”

Jack smiled back. “Believe it or not, many of us had trouble with the notion of being magical, at least at first. I wasn’t thrilled being called faerie as a teen, you know. And Cyra, who’s also a doctor and who was raised human, certainly had a rough time. Imagine finding out that you’re a shape-shifting selkie and conjurer elf when you’re thirty. She hadn’t a clue until the goblins started doing psychological experiments on her. She doesn’t look fey, either. Just like you.”

Nick nodded. The women here, except for Io, did look more human.

“What kind of fey are you—besides faerie?” Nick asked, hoping this wasn’t a rude question. “I mean, most humans have heard of Jack Frost, but you don’t seem anything like the song or the drawings I saw as a kid.”

“That was my father, actually—a colorful guy who had a gift for conjuring cold weather. I’m what they call a death fey—just like Dad—only stronger than he was. It’s all in the practice, I suspect,” Jack answered. He stopped smiling.

“Talk about having trouble with the concept. I was still a child when I found out that my magical gift was to be a bringer of death, to help people cross over. My first casualty was my pet cat. She’d been hit by a car. I didn’t want to let her go, and I inadvertently prolonged her suffering because I didn’t want to lose her. Finally, my dad made me see that I had to let her go. But it was hard stopping her heart and watching her soul leave her body. Frankly, it hasn’t gotten any easier. If I had been able, I might have walked away from my destiny.”

“I can’t even imagine what it would be like having that sort of power as a child,” Nick said. He felt intense sympathy for the boy Jack had been but didn’t know what to say to the cool adult before him; never had anyone looked in less need of sympathy.

“Do you have any siblings?” Jack asked, changing the subject.

“A sister—Lydia,” Nick answered. “But she isn’t . . . If anything, she’s more ordinary than I am.”

“No psychic twinkles?” Again, Jack smiled.

“No twinkles at all. At least, not yet. But I was a bit of a late bloomer, myself, so I suppose it’s possible she will be, too.” Nick’s brow furrowed. “Or her kids.”

“Give her some time. Though, you should be prepared for her never to show any signs of magic at all. Some kinds of magic favor certain genders. She may not have any latent powers, or she may simply be a carrier for future generations.”

“Carrier. This sounds like a disease,” Nick said uncomfortably. “I’m not sure I want to think of it that way. It’s bad enough being a different sub-species.”

Thomas Marrowbone spoke up, for the first time in ages. He had been busy fiddling with a portable PC, his brow knitted in concentration. “Maybe that’s what magic is—very special germs.”

“But what vectors would transmit it?” Nick asked, glad of the distraction. He didn’t want to think about his sister’s children, his niece and nephew. “This would have to be an inherited condition.”

Roman spoke from across the room where he was sharpening a sword on a giant whetstone. “Exactly. You don’t get it by inhalation or through sex, or a lot of humans I knew would be in trouble.” He grinned. Then he sobered. “It’s a thought, though, isn’t it? Magic as a disease. You can transmit certain things through the blood, after all, why not this?”

“A disease, though?” Nick asked. “Isn’t it more likely a simple genetic trait?” He wondered what a fey DNA strand would look like. The thought made his pulse beat faster.

“Well . . .” Roman and Jack exchanged a long look, then Roman continued. “Yes and no. Lyris and I probably won’t have another child—and it isn’t because we’re fey and thus can’t conceive.”

“Wait,” Nick said, intrigued. “Conception among fey is impossible?”

“Yes,” Jack answered. “Without magic. But that isn’t a difficulty here. Inside Cadalach, conception is possible.”

“I see,” Nick said. He didn’t, but the news relieved him slightly. His carelessness with Zee on Christmas Eve still had him kicking himself. He turned back to Roman and asked, “So, why can’t you have children?”

“Because I won’t. I was attacked by a vampire—a goblin vampire with a lot of psychic ability. In fact, he was the one who designed the goblin crosses that chased you. As Jack mentioned, unlike most goblins, he was very into high tech stuff, like genetic engineering. He engineered changes in himself. Now, Quede’s bite doesn’t seem to have affected me much—feys can fight off most things viral or bacterial—but his vampirism is somehow still floating around in my blood. In my magic. I can feel it, like cold black ink—and we are uncertain what it may do to my children. It might cause some permanent change that will be in their blood line forever, a bad change that could be visited unto the seventh generation and all that.”

“You’re talking about germ cell alteration—from a bite,” Nick murmured. “A permanent change that will be passed on to successive generations from a vampire bite. A magical disease. Can that be?” He didn’t bother asking if vampires really existed. Of course they did.

“That’s what Zayn called it: germ cell alteration. So this mutant strain of vampirism may not end with me if I have another child, and who knows what will be created.”

“But there are in utero tests and therapies—”

“For this? Get real.” Roman spoke impatiently but not angrily. “And it’s worse than you know. The physical symptoms are bad enough, but waiting for other charges is worse. You have to understand that, when he died, Quede was a fruitcake with a double helping of nuts. He was out to destroy all life. Human, goblin, fey—he didn’t care. Not at the end. And I think that it was his mutant vampirism that made him insane, not natural goblin sociopathy, which oddly enough has limits. Anyhow, he turned himself into a super virus and planned to infect the world by an army of carriers.”

“You see,” Jack interjected, “most of Quede’s goblins were engineered to be latent virus carriers like himself. Some were small and cute, like puppies. He was going to market those as pets. Many were these troll crosses—stupid, mean, tough bastards to kill.

A huge portion of the goblin population of New Orleans was affected, and they had to be dealt with very . . . carefully. But it didn’t end there. Unlike in the movies, the death of Quede didn’t mean liberation from his scheme. The crazy son of a bitch even introduced vampirism into several strains of orchids he was breeding. We spent a lot of time and resources helping the new master of the New Orleans hive—Lobineau—seek out the carriers and eliminating them.”

Nick shook his head. Vampiric orchids? He began thinking about pathogens that could infect humans, feys and plants, too. It was enough to make his head swim, and he began to worry about possible infection from the goblin darts that had struck him and Zee. He also wondered what he could do to help if Roman was truly carrying some form of DNA-borne insanity that could be communicated to his children.

“What happened to them—the infected goblins? What symptoms did they show?” Nick asked.

“Extreme sensitivity to the sun—even more than usual—and eventually they went crazy with a kind of bloodlust that made them act like they were strung out on PCP,” Roman answered. “Some even turned cannibal. They had to be killed and then incinerated. There wasn’t a hospital in the world that could deal with them when they turned—not even the one Quede built. Besides, who could risk the infection spreading into the population outside the city? Even Lobineau isn’t that crazy, I don’t think. Although, most goblin kings have warped brains, so it’s hard to know where their limits are. See, there’s no father-to-son inheritance in the goblin world. Every hive has battles for leadership when a leader passes on, and may the most ruthless psycho win. Frankly, it worries me that Lobineau survived Quede. One wouldn’t guess it to look at him, but that’s one clever son of a bitch.”

Nick felt himself blanch, his brain stuck on the word cannibal.

“Are you sure this didn’t start out as something viral? That would be far worse. Genetic engineering takes trained personnel and special equipment to reproduce, but a virus . . . But, no. It can’t have started that way. In spite of your precautions, it would surely have spread everywhere by now. Actually, this sounds like some sort of psychosis brought on by a form of phencyclidine—a drug. That’s far more likely. Quede was—”

“It wasn’t a drug,” Jack said. “Though goblins use those plenty. They have some real super-addictive stuff that can turn a human into a junkie with a single exposure,” he explained quietly. “Some are airborne, and some can be absorbed through the skin, no injection needed. But Zayn checked that option. Believe me, he checked. If you want to know more, talk to him. Or to Nyssa’s mother, Bysshe. They’ve been studying Roman’s little problem for months now, when he’s here to study.

“Roman, when does your next play open?” the death fey asked, turning to look at his friend.

“March,” came the Pooka’s reply.

“Play?” Nick asked. Then: “Wait! You’re that Roman Hautecoeur? The play producer?”

“The one and only.” The Pooka gave a graceful yet mocking bow. His sword seemed entirely out of place.

Nick blinked. What did it matter, what job the man had if he was saddled with such a horrible problem? “I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly. This must be horrible for you. And I want to help, if I can.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Roman said. “If you want to help, I’m glad to have you onboard.”

Nick nodded. Roman put a hand on his shoulder.

“Anyhow, to make this long, sad story a bit shorter, we decided that since legend has it that all cross-breed vampires are born without bones . . .”

Nick’s breath caught. “Born without bones? That’s . . . that’s beyond horrible. I can understand why you won’t take the risk of another pregnancy. What happens to a child without bones?” he asked himself softly.

“They die,” Jack spoke up. “And because they’re part vampire and quite strong otherwise, they die very, very slowly.”

“Are you lonely living here all by yourself, Mr. Dragon?” Gretel asked, stopping Nick dead in his tracks to take three quick breaths. Feeling slightly calmer, he followed the sweet sound of her voice down a passage into a large chamber. There he found both of Zee’s siblings sitting on the dragon’s scaled stomach, the beast lolling on its back with its legs in the air, rather like a dog playing dead. But the dragon didn’t look nearly as cute or harmless, and Nick had to fight the urge to rush in and pull the children away.

“Does it make you sad not to have any dragon friends?” the piping voice of Gretel went on. She wrapped her small fingers around one of its claws, and admired the shiny talons that were at least twice as long as her hand.

The dragon blinked at the question. Nick blinked, too. Dragon friends? The mind boggled at the notion of a gaggle of frolicking dragons.

“Sometimes,” the beast said at last. It eyed the little girl curiously. “What about you?”

“Sometimes I’m lonely,” Gretel confided. “But it’s better now that Nick and Zee are here. Nick is going to take care of us, and we’re going to see his friend when we leave. If you like, I could ask Nick if you could come live with us. He might say yes. He let us keep the imp. And Zee likes animals, so I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

Hearing this, Nick clapped a hand to his head and stifled a groan. The dragon glanced over at the telltale sound, its long, thin lips twitching. Its reddish-yellow eyes began to gleam in a disconcerting manner. Clearly it could see where Nick stood in the deep shadows.

“I’ll ask Nick, too,” Hansel said. “But it might be best if you didn’t mention liking dog cookies. That seems to upset him.”

The dragon finally answered, and much to Nick’s relief it said, “I rather like living in the desert. But perhaps I’ll come visit you sometime. I’m sure Nick has a backyard or a spare bedroom. And I promise not to eat any dog cookies while I’m there.”

Nick decided to intervene before things got worse.

“Hey, kiddoes,” he said, approaching the dragon and the children. “Sorry to break up the party, but it’s time for lunch and then a nap.”

“Will Mathias and Meriel be there?” Gretel asked, smiling at Nick. “Clarissa said they would be.”

“Mathias and Meriel?” Nick asked. He felt overwhelmed by the names of all the new people he’d met.

“Jack’s son,” the dragon explained, letting the children slide down his belly. Then he rolled over carefully and extracted his twitching tail from the crevice in the wall where it had been penned. “And Meriel is Thomas’s daughter, my . . . goddaughter, you might say.”

Nick shook his head. That a dragon should be a godfather did not seem all that odd anymore.

“Well, I don’t know about Mathias and Meriel being there,” Nick said to the children, taking their hands, “but I know you two need to eat and rest.”

“I’m not sleepy,” Hansel announced. “I’m not such a baby that I need a nap every day, you know.”

“Maybe not,” Nick said diplomatically. “But everyone needs to eat so they can grow up big and strong.”

“Do they have any dog cookies?” the little boy asked.

Nick heard a snort and met the dragon’s eye. He saw amusement there.

“I’m sure they have something like them,” he murmured, turning and leading the children off.

“Adieu,” the dragon called, waving a languid claw in their direction when they looked back. The beast caught Nick’s eye, and added, “I’ll be seeing you later—at dinner. And don’t worry . . . I won’t be eating dog cookies.”

Nick felt his face tighten. When they went after the hobgoblin, the dragon meant, since the dragon couldn’t fit at the dining table, large as it was.

Nick didn’t want to think about that just yet. He’d eaten, and that had helped, but he still felt like he needed about three weeks of sleep, and time to process all the new information bombarding his brain. Unfortunately, he needed even more information for things to make sense, and there was very little time to learn. He didn’t want to be walking into a confrontation with one of Roman’s Assholes of Evil until he was very clear about what he was up against.

He also had nearly a million questions about what it meant to be a pixie. Jack’s inquiry about how it felt to be part fey—and about Zee being part goblin—had started Nick’s brain down a rugged path, and hearing about Roman’s problems made Nick wonder about inheritance and what oddities might manifest themselves if he and Zee had children. Some traits were recessive, cropping up in future generations in disconcerting ways. Could he and Zee have a child with four arms? Or with green skin? Or out-of-control pixie magic? What the hell would they do then? A child like that could never be passed off as human.

And probably shouldn’t be, the ghost piped up.

Probably not, Nick agreed. He sighed.

“Are you saying that what I feel for Nick isn’t real?” Zee asked Chloe. She had goose bumps on her arms and was still damp with perspiration from her nightmare.

“No. It’s real. It just isn’t voluntary. Like the dream, the magic is making it happen to you.”

Zee digested this. “And Nick?”

“I doubt he is exercising any more free will than you are,” Chloe said quietly.

“What about you and Zayn?” Zee asked. “Are you—”

“I’m human,” she said quickly. “Magic didn’t choose him; I did. Or maybe circumstances did.”

The woman looked over at her daughter. The child playing on the floor was clearly half-troll. It was equally clear that Chloe loved her desperately. Zee wanted to ask what she meant about circumstances— how it was that Chloe was with Zayn and yet had a troll child—but sensed there was still terrible pain in this young woman, and that it was all connected to her daughter.

Here was another secret, another thing she didn’t understand and couldn’t ask about it.

Zee was feeling cornered. First it had been her family trying to make her live a certain way. Then the monster, Qasim, had invaded her life and ruined her plans. Now the magic was trying to force her into doing something with Nick. Step by step, she was being backed into a corner—a dark one, where she couldn’t make out any details. Anger washed through her, causing her to shake.

“Zee? Are you okay?” Chloe asked. “You look a little pale.”

“What would happen if I tried to leave?” Zee asked slowly, her voice hardening as she brought her quaking limbs under control. “What if I just refused to cooperate with the magic?”

“Leave Cadalach?” Chloe asked.

“No—yes. I mean, leave Nick.”

“I don’t know,” Chloe admitted. She smoothed her skirt nervously. “I . . . I honestly don’t think that the shian would let you go. I don’t know if Nick would, either. Truly, I don’t think he can. At least, not until . . . not until you do what the magic wants.”

Zee compressed her lips at these words, and Chloe looked as if she was worried she’d said too much. Zee shoved back the covers from the bed and got up. Her body was vibrating with fury.

“Where’s Nick?” she asked. “I want to talk to him.”

“He’s with Jack. But maybe you should wait a little while to—”

“I’ve waited long enough,” Zee interrupted. Then she added to herself, “I just hope that I haven’t waited too long.”

Chapter Sixteen

“We’re still modifying your shotgun. In the meantime, try this. It’s a Heckler & Koch MP5SD—with a few additions from Jack,” Roman added. He twirled the gun like a sideshow cowboy before slapping it back on the table. Nick could only hope the gun was unloaded. “Just point and shoot, and admire how it can influence a bad guy into seeing things your way.”

“Modifications? What kind, exactly? I was just getting the hang of that shotgun.” Nick was wary. He kept a grip on Hansel’s shoulder, keeping him back from the weapon when the boy’s tiny hands reached for it. True to his word, he had refused a nap, and Nick hadn’t had one either. Of the two, only Hansel was happy with the situation.

“The gun itself won’t be physically altered. Not much. The ammo will be magicked,” Thomas explained, laying a handgun on the table. “Like these guns here. Jack’s a death fey. Almost anything these rounds touch will die.”

“Almost anything?”

“Well, we aren’t entirely sure about Qasim. That hobgoblin has some special-circumstance magic going on.”

“Oh, yes. Mabigon’s stolen heart,” Nick guessed. He’d heard the description of Nyssa’s rough-andready heart surgery from Zayn, how she’d taken her father’s heart as her own, and was still appalled. He also found it worrisome that they hadn’t destroyed the hobgoblin’s heart; that seemed like daring the Devil.

“Among other things,” Thomas agreed. “We’re finding that hobgoblin has some strange immunities. He doesn’t react the way goblins do.”

“You worry too much, Quiet Man,” Roman said, looking down the edge of a giant sword carved with runes before sliding it back into its scabbard. “This is a Pampers-type situation.”

“Pampers?” Nick asked. He tried to imagine another meaning to the word but couldn’t think of any beyond the obvious.

“Yeah. As in, really shitty but fully disposable.”

Hansel giggled at the use of a forbidden word. Nick stared hard at Roman, and heard himself saying, “Little pitchers have big ears,” sounding like his grandmother. He winced.

Roman shrugged in apology. “I forgot he was here. We need to pull on his ears and make him taller.” The pooka offered a hand to Hansel, who giggled again at the ear-pulling suggestion, and led him a little way off. There he asked, “So, little man, how would you like to take a pony ride while Nick and Thomas finish up in here?”

“You have a pony?” Hansel asked, his eyes getting big. “In here?”

“After a fashion. A very large pony. A pooka pony.”

Next to Nick, Thomas opened his mouth and then closed it again.

“What?” Nick asked in a whisper. “What’s wrong?” He couldn’t imagine Roman would harm the children in any way, or let them do something dangerous. He’d seen the man with Innis and knew that he was a good father. Still, fey notions of safety might not match human ones.

“Nothing,” Thomas murmured. “All our children like to take rides. They do it all the time. Hansel will be fine.”

“I would like to take a ride, too,” said Gretel, suddenly stepping into the room. She had apparently eschewed her nap, and had followed her brother. She had also apparently been hovering outside the door, too afraid or unsure of her welcome to enter. In spite of her shyness, she looked bright-eyed and ready for action, and Nick began to wonder if he was the only one who wanted sleep.

Roman looked pleased. “Well, certainly, little lady. Let’s saddle up and hit the trail.”

Nick wasn’t surprised when Gretel added, “Maybe we could find the dragon. He would give us a ride, too. Unless he needs to look at the guns as well.”

That decided Nick. Whatever happened, it would be better than having the children around a bunch of weapons. Or a dragon. Especially Gretel, who was too gentle, and who had been far too quiet since the goblin attack.

“Okay, why don’t you both have a pony ride?” Nick agreed. “I bet it will be fun. And I’ll be finished here soon.”

“Should we ask Zee if she would like to come, too?” the thoughtful Gretel asked. “I think she’s a little sad and might need a ride to cheer her up.”

Roman’s eyes began to twinkle, but Thomas said no—immediately and emphatically.

“Killjoy,” Roman murmured. He took the children by their hands and led them out of the room, asking, “So, do you two know any really good cowboy songs?”

“What are cow-boys?” Hansel asked. “Do they have horns?”

“What does a cow song sound like?” Gretel asked.

Roman didn’t answer. Instead, he started singing “I’ve got spurs that jingle-jangle-jingle,’ ” in an exaggerated Texan accent. There was a shuffling of fading footsteps, and Nick had no trouble imagining the pooka dancing a jig.

“Okay,” Nick said, still half-distracted by Gretel’s assertion that Zee was sad. “Spit it out. What’s up with the pony? Is it really a savage unicorn or something? Is that why you don’t want Zee to see it?”

“You don’t know what pookas are, do you?” Thomas asked. He sighed. “They’re animal spirits— mischievous ones that can take many forms, including that of a river horse—which are usually good with children but have a bad habit of running off with women. Not that he would . . . Well . . .”

“And you have one of—Oh,” Nick said, recalling an earlier conversation. “Roman actually turns into a horse?”

“Sometimes. Only during the full moon, when he’s outside. But he can shift at will inside the tomhnafurach.”

That was the most bizarre thing Nick had ever heard. “It must make him popular with the children,” was all he could think to say.

“Yeah, real popular.” Thomas grinned. “You’re adapting, Nick, you really are. Remind me to tell you someday about my animal half. It makes Roman’s pony seem quite tame.”

“You have an animal half?” Nick asked. Then another thought occurred to him: “We don’t all have animal halves, do we?”

“No, you don’t. And, yes, I did. And boy, was I glad to get rid of him!” Thomas put down the rifle he’d been examining. “Okay, this baby is ready to dance. Shall we take it out for a waltz?”

“Sure.” Nick was dubious, but he didn’t refuse. He was going to fight a monster for the lives of two hundred children; he wasn’t going unarmed. Still, even with this super-weaponry, he was feeling dubious about being the Goddess’s lightning rod. In the first place, he wasn’t sure he was ready to deal with a new female divinity that everyone here believed was real and an active participant in their lives. Secondly, he was pretty certain he didn’t belong in the heavyweight division with the men of Cadalach, all of whom seemed to have spent their adult lives battling goblins and other creatures. Still, that was the thing about divine intervention—avoiding it was all but impossible. All one could do was prepare and hope.

“So, you’ve been bitten by the love bug?” Thomas asked as they walked down a long corridor lit by urns full of luminous blue water. Nick found that his eyes had adapted to the low-light situation, and they were functioning without difficulty in places where he should have had eyestrain. There wasn’t even the standard diminishment of color perception. That made him wonder about the composition of fey eyes. Could they be made up of something other than rods and cones? He’d have to run some tests on himself when he got back to the hospital.

“How would I know? Are the symptoms obvious?” Nick asked, wondering idly if Thomas literally meant he’d been bitten by an insect. Anything seemed possible now.

The man shrugged.

“Now that you’re in the mound, do you feel like you’re swimming in emotional waters that are way too deep? Climbing mountains that you know are too high? But you’re doing it anyway, even though you know it’s insane and against every plan you’ve ever made?”

“No,” Nick answered. He added slowly, “I mean, yes. I am . . . with Zee, at least. In spite of not planning on this. And the waters are deep. Really deep.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But come on, you can drown in a bathtub. Really, I’m in no more danger here than I was outside . . . am I?” he asked, when Thomas looked dubious. “I mean, this can’t be as serious as going off to fight a hobgoblin, can it? What’s going to happen? I won’t change into some monster, will I?”

“Well, yes and no—I mean about things being dangerous,” Thomas hedged, not reassuring Nick at all. “This kind of love can be quite precarious— it’s the wild wedding of our blood, you see. Outside, there is natural attraction, a strong pull among our kind. Here . . . Well, in the tomhnafurach these days, the stakes are higher than you’ve ever imagined. And we are all so different, so many cross-breeds, that it is difficult to know what to expect when we become intimate. Mixed magic makes some really weird things.”

Nick was about to ask what Thomas meant when they were interrupted by Abrial’s arrival.

“Have you managed a hack into Lobineau’s files?” the nightdemon asked. His long back hair was drawn tight and secured with a piece of silver cord. He still didn’t look at all tame.

“CID, man,” Thomas murmured.

“CID?” Nick asked.

“ ‘Consider it done,’ ” Abrial translated. He gave a slight smile. “These computer geeks love their acronyms.”

“I left the program running while I took Nick here for some target practice,” Thomas explained. “It should crack the code soon, if not by now.”

“I’ll do the weapons check,” Abrial volunteered. “Go back to your computer. I’ll work with Nick while you find a way to foil the Father’s finances. I think Lobineau needs a stern warning about what happens to people who don’t keep faith with us.”

Thomas looked at Nick; he apparently sensed Nick’s reservations about having Abrial as a teacher.

“Do what you feel is best,” Nick forced himself to say. “I’m sure Abrial can check me out.”

“And then some,” Thomas agreed. To the night-demon he said, “Take him to Jack when you’re done. I think he wants them to have a private talk.”

Nick almost groaned. Was he never going to get his nap?

“Days, nights—they can be nothing,” Jack said to him sometime later. “But sunrise and sunset, now those are always exciting. I love watching the sun claw its way into and out of the sky.”

Nick sat down on the slab of stone beside Jack and looked at the approaching sunrise. The sky was still a dark blue; she had lost her moon but not yet found the morning sun. It should have been a moment to relax and savor, but Nick felt too tightly wound to settle down. The smell of cordite clung to him and his ears were still ringing from the gunshots. It had been a useful session, though. Abrial had been a good teacher, and it turned out that Nick had an aptitude for target-shooting. But he still didn’t like it—any of it. Doctors did not shoot guns at people.

“Jack, what does it mean to be fey?” he asked bluntly, he spreading his hands wide. “Somehow, I didn’t think it would involve so many guns.”

“Being fey? That’s a tough one, Nick. I think we all have different experiences of it—and our experiences change as we do.”

“I’ve got some time,” Nick answered. “And I’m more confused than ever. Please give it a shot.”

Jack nodded. “Thomas could give you a more mystical answer,” he warned, “but I’m not sure it would help a man trained to the sciences.” He considered the lightening heavens. “Let’s put it this way: We’re carbon-based life forms—most of us— but we’re something more, too. You were talking earlier about DNA. Think of us as having some extra DNA beyond humans, and that gives us the capacity to hold magic.”

“Magic,” Nick echoed. “Yes. But being fey means something else, too, doesn’t it?”

“Lots of things. For instance, I bet you’re allergic to cashews,” Jack said. “But not other nuts.”

“I am,” Nick admitted.

“It’s because cashews are a member of the poison ivy family, and those are hard on feys of all types.”

“Jack,” Nick interrupted in frustration. He ran his fingers through his hair, messing it up but not caring. “Look, this isn’t helping. I need some straight answers. My universe has been upended and bits of gastronomic trivia won’t help. I want some Newtonian-type laws to restore order to the world— something that explains all these weird gifts and feelings. Something that explains pookas and dragons and why after a mere day or two of acquaintance I am so attracted to Zee that I can hardly think straight.”

“Okay, sorry. I . . . I just don’t think you’ll like the answer, and I worry that we’ll lose you if you get it all too fast.”

“Lose me? Why? How?”

“Why not? After all, you are already party to another social contract—an important one to which you have devoted your life. In your shoes, I might well try to walk away. Unfortunately, like it or not, you have entered into another bond. You didn’t sign any papers or have a chance to read the fine print on the—I was going to call it an agreement. But it isn’t even that. You have, in essence, been hijacked. What it means to be fey, in this day and age, is that you are a soldier. You have been conscripted for a war. In our defense, let me say that we—the fey and magic itself—are fighting for our very existence. And we have never been so close to extinction.”

Jack’s silver eyes shone eerily, and suddenly he didn’t look even remotely human. “Our enemies are everywhere, and we are very few in number— there are probably only a couple dozen of us left in the entire world, thanks to the solar pollution that caused the Great Drought. And none of us is pure-blooded. Few of us were raised understanding what we are. We are having to learn our powers as we go, and we are being sniped at by enemies all the while. The learning curve is steep and we’ve had casualties.

“It would be different if more old ones survived, but our storytellers—the seanchai—were also wiped out. Of course, bits and pieces of our legends survive in human fairy tales, but in the end, we are each left to make a spiritual pilgrimage back through the blood of our ancestors. We are on our own in this quest to discover who we are—and who are our friends and foes. The picture is frustratingly fragmented because each of us carries only a small part of the ancestral memory. But it will have to sustain us until one of the seanchai is found.”

“The goblins are the foes?” Nick asked, though he guessed that was the case. “They’re the ones who are hunting the fey?”

“Yes, but it isn’t that simple. Not all goblins are enemies. And many humans hate us, too. The old superstitions and fears about our kind are very much alive in the human population. There are whole organizations and religions devoted to stamping us out. Our best defense is that most humans don’t believe in us. Unfortunately, the goblins believe—it’s just lucky for us that they have their hands full these days, dealing with the humans and Qasim. It’s bought us some precious time to prepare. But eventually they will turn their attention our way again, and we need to be ready.”

“But how can they hurt you? You’re all so powerful and, from what I’ve hard, long-lived. Hell, you have a dragon. You can fight back.”

“Against whom?” Jack shook his head. “You can’t see the problem, can you? Most of us are at least part human. Some of us are part goblin, or even part troll. But that doesn’t help. Shall we war on our kin? Nick, we’re strong and we live long times, but we are hopelessly outnumbered, and the hate and treachery of lutins and many humans is neverending. We’d have to kill them all to be truly safe. Every last goblin, every last man, woman and child. Would you really have us commit genocide? On two entire races? Could the planet endure that much death without dying itself? I don’t think I could face it— and the cumulative karma would kill someone like Bysshe or Nyssa.”

Nick was chilled. “What do we do?” he asked. He didn’t notice using the word we, but Jack did, and smiled grimly.

“We do what we’ve always done,” Jack said quietly. “We walk the tightrope. We balance the power. We keep the humans and goblins from going to war with each other, and we don’t let either side get too powerful. And we regain our strength and numbers, keeping in mind that any failure—or setback could be the end for us. The consequences of failure are final—for everyone on the planet.”

Nick nodded tiredly, suddenly wearier than he’d ever been in his life. “Okay, I can accept that. I don’t like it, but I get it. Saving lives is what I’ve always done. But what did Thomas mean, saying that loving Zee was both safer and more dangerous than loving someone else? Did he mean the magic? Or the goblins? Why is being here with Zee different than being with her outside?”

Jack looked at Nick for a long time, clearly debating what he should say. “It isn’t like Thomas to bring up something like that. He tends to keep to himself.”

“Well, he did bring it up, whatever the reason. So, what did he mean? Was it a warning—because Zee is part goblin?”

Jack slowly nodded, apparently making up his mind. “Nick, let me ask you: How did you come to the decision to help Zee? It wasn’t a trivial matter, after all. It required you to believe some pretty wild things, to abandon your family at an important holiday and drive off into the desert with three strangers.” Jack stared at him intently. When Nick didn’t answer, he went on. “Did you analyze the situation and then decide? Did you break it down into irreducibles and come to a decision—logically— that you needed to give Zee your aid?”

“No,” Nick admitted. “I just . . . I just decided. I know it sounds impulsive. . . . I guess it was impulsive. My sister certainly thought so when I called to say I wouldn’t be coming home after all. But it just felt like the right thing to do. However weird their story, I couldn’t leave Zee and the kids stranded. I had to help them. . . .” Nick paused. “And you don’t look the least bit surprised to hear this.”

“I’m not—because I suspected as much. It’s the magic in you and her at work. One enchantment called out, and the other answered. That’s very common, by the way, at least for us fey. It’s what brought Io and me together. And Thomas and Cyra. And Abrial and Nyssa. Believe it or not, Io and I weren’t even playing for the same team when we met, but we ended up hand-in-glove on that mission anyway.”

“ ‘The wild wedding of our blood’—that’s what Thomas said.”

“Yes, that’s a good way of putting it: a wild, sweet wedding. But I’ve got to tell you, Nick, love enchantment of this sort is a double-edged sword,” Jack said quietly. “It gives us many strengths—gifts we need to survive. It provides a mate that makes us immeasurably stronger than we could ever be on our own. We each become something greater than our individual parts, and that is wonderful. But we are also subjected to the laws of magic, and are more tightly bound to our mates and it than we would ever be as individuals.”

“You make it sound like the magic is . . .” Nick hunted for a word.

“Sentient? Yes. It is. It is the spirit side of the Goddess, and far from aimless. And for the magic to survive, it needs beings in which to repose. It can’t live on in just the earth and trees and rivers. It needs for us to carry it and respond to its will. And it does whatever it can to ensure both its survival and our own.”

“But . . . ? ” Nick asked, hearing the death fey’s hesitation.

“But I think, in the end, Its survival comes first.” Jack sighed. “Understand, there is something about you and Zee together that is important to our continued existence. So the magic has mated you and brought you here for a reason. And thus, yours is a union more final than any made in any human church—especially now that you have come to Cadalach. I hope you can live with this, because I don’t know if walking away is an option. Thomas tried, and it nearly killed Cyra.”

“I can live with it,” Nick answered, and thought he meant it. He could not imagine a life now that didn’t contain Zee. Or the children. He just wasn’t as certain about himself and Zee having children of their own. He would need to do a lot of research into genetics and talk to Zayn and Bysshe. And to Zee, too. How did she feel about all this? If she had been raised by goblins, did she have fears of humans? Of feys? Hansel and Gretel had certainly, at first been afraid of his story of the elf, Santa Claus. It was strange to think that Zee might at some level find his humanity to be alien, repulsive or frightening.

“Good, I’m glad you feel this way.” Jack smiled suddenly. “It simplifies things tremendously. You know, the magic has never been wrong. As a matchmaker, It has no peer. And you will need Zee’s help in the years to come, particularly if you return to the human world. Our feyness overcomes our human nature. I’m not saying we lose our compassion, or what you would call our ‘humanity,’ but our long life adds new perspectives—and responsibilities. Our burden is often a heavy one, as you will see. A helpmate is critical.”

Nick nodded slowly. He’d been given the answers he wanted but was unsure if he was any happier knowing the facts. It sounded like Jack was saying, for the fey, there was no free will when it came to love. Nick thought of literature’s fated lovers and didn’t draw any comfort: Romeo and Juliet, Anthony and Cleopatra, Tristan and Isolde—they’d all come to bad ends.

But not Jack and Io, his ghost said, not any of the others here. Maybe modern romance is different.

Nick nodded to himself. There was yet some reason to be hopeful.

Thomas met Nick outside the door to Nick’s bedchamber. Again, Nick was prevented from seeking sleep.

“Do you have a minute?” the man asked. “I’m feeling a little guilty for bringing up something that . . . well, that you may not be ready to understand. After all, you haven’t had much time to accept who you are. Trying to understand strangeness in another is probably asking a bit much.”

“I have to admit I’m feeling a bit odd,” Nick said, leaning against the wall. He smiled as amiably as he could. “But all these questions are ones for which I need answers. Who’s to say when is the right time or place?”

Thomas nodded sagely. “If it makes you feel any better, we’re pretty normal here right now. Believe it or not, there are things far odder that used to inhabit this shian.”

“Really?” Nick couldn’t imagine. He was tired, but his mind was still functioning enough to want to know more.

“Yes,” Thomas said. “Giants. These caves were once theirs. Have you ever wondered why there are all these desert ghost towns around—Indians disappearing first, then miners?” he asked. “Humans say it’s because the crops failed, or the mines played out, and the people just up and left. But that isn’t it at all. Anytime they could get away with it, giants wiped out the human populations and took over their mines and cornfields. Then they died out, leaving massive stockpiles of precious metals and gems. The goblins swooped down on as much as they could but soon discovered the difficulty we face: Giants’ gold can’t be moved. One can possess it, but it can never be spent.”

“How frustrating,” Nick said, trying to imagine the fiendish torment this could inspire. “Have you thought of any way to break the . . . what? Spell?”

“Not yet, but I’m still thinking. Come along,” Thomas said, beginning to smile. “I’ll show you a lost, buried, enchanted treasure. Well, actually, since I’ve found it, it isn’t lost—and it’s hardly buried anymore. But it is certainly an enchanted treasure, and well worth seeing.”

“Okay,” Nick agreed, pushing upright and following to what looked like a blank wall in a cavernous room. “It’s over here?”

“In a manner of speaking. We found another branch of the old road that ended here. It will take us directly to another shian that was an elf stronghold. Cyra goes there a lot.”

Thomas passed a hand over the wall and murmured something, and Nick could suddenly see that there was a small break in the stone. It must have been a very clever overlapping of joints, because until a moment before he hadn’t been able to detect anything.

“Stay close,” Thomas said. “This path isn’t any scarier than the last you took, but it travels a little faster. It can be a shade disorienting.”

“So, what do you think?” Thomas asked a short while later.

They had passed several small chambers studded with luminescent gemstones, and finally stopped at one stocked with massive bricks of gold. All of the chambers were lit by small flames of blue and orange, which bled out of the cracked walls. There were also, in the hearts of those flames, shadows that looked like tiny, dancing reptilian creatures with massive teeth and claws. Nick looked about for the shadows’ owners, but there was no sign, and the fiery shades danced on untethered to bodies.

“The fire? It’s not . . . magical?” Nick reached out for the flame but hesitated. It felt plenty real to him.

“Natural gas and something else. Certain creatures—like the fire imps—love it. They’re everywhere down here. Frankly, I didn’t know if you would see them—not everyone does without eye ointment. Of course, your ancestors hunted them, so it makes sense that you would notice.”

“We ate those?” Nick asked, appalled as he imagined the indigestion from consuming a reptilian fire lizard.

Thomas laughed. “No. The imps weren’t killed; the pixies just used their shedding scales to make pixie dust. Notice how their skins make them nearly invisible, as well as impervious to heat.”

“Pixie dust? Please say you’re kidding.”

“I’m not, and don’t look so dismayed. It’s not the stuff in Peter Pan.” Thomas shook his head, half in sorrow and half in amusement at this literary misinformation. “Pixie dust can’t make anyone fly. It’s used to leave a trail that enchanted humans can follow, even through fire or extreme cold or dark. Forests can be dark on moonless nights, and that’s the usual time for leading humans astray.”

“Oh.” As was often the case, Nick didn’t know what to say.

Thomas went on gesturing to the tunnels around them. “The giants’ system of labyrinths was very clever. They didn’t go deep into the mountain where we live, but everywhere they dwelled is filled with this fire. We haven’t been able to extinguish it, either. It may be part of the spell that’s been laid on their treasure.” Thomas stepped into the room, and gestured. “Pick up the gold, if you like. You can handle it; you just can’t take it from the chamber.”

Nick moved closer, not touching anything. He’d heard too many stories about cursed treasure to want to risk much. He didn’t even want to look. Instead, he peered into the darkest corner of the room, where a huge dark lump huddled on the floor, trying to decide what he was truly seeing and if it was just more odd shadows. Finally, with a shiver of distaste, he decided that what he saw was real; he was looking at a pair of sandals that were made for feet three times larger than any he had ever seen on a human.

The sandals were made of fur, were the color of old hair that has been buried in iron-rich ground and were laced up with a dried leather tie that twisted itself like a molted snake skin. One sandal’s thin tongue stuck straight up in the air like . . . well, like a tongue—but one that had dried out years before and would speak no more. Nick was certain that the soles were made of some sort of bone— rafts of leg bones lashed together to form a base that had been half-ground away—and he tried not to speculate about the skin donor’s identity. Yet he had seen enough human corpses to know his body parts, and the leg bones were definitely human.

“Fee fi, fo, fum,” he muttered. “Only these guys didn’t grind all the bones to make their bread. I’ll never feel the same way about fairy tales, you know,” he told Thomas. “Unless you tell me I’m hallucinating.”

The dark-haired man followed Nick’s line of sight. “No,” he said. “That’s exactly what you’re thinking they are. You just have to remember that, to a giant, a human is just an animal—and a dangerous one at that.” Thomas didn’t mention whether the giants also used bones for their cooking, and Nick didn’t ask.

A moment later, Thomas said, “You have to admit, this is weirder than any of us. It makes me feel reassuringly normal.”

Nick nodded a reply, not happy but accepting.

He was learning another lesson. He’d always known that just because beings shared the traits of being bipedal, having opposable thumbs and a spoken language, that didn’t mean they were going to get along. It was never true with humans. But he had never guessed this carried over into other breeds of sentient being. Fairy tales were just that— metaphors, not real. And yet, here the stories were: proven, and very, very real. And so the world was far less peaceful than he had ever suspected.

“What happened to them?” He couldn’t hide his distaste. “The giants, I mean.”

“Cheer up, Nick. The sun got them,” Thomas replied. His face was suddenly remote. “As far as we know, they’re all dead now—along with all pure-blooded feys and vampires. Human DNA triumphs again. And with a little luck, maybe it’ll survive the next age, too.”

Nick knew Thomas was regretting that the fey hadn’t been so lucky.

“So, feys aren’t immortal. For instance, Abrial’s not undying, right? Just very long-lived?” Nick asked suddenly, trying to clarify what he knew.

“We are all both mortal and immortal. Our bodies die eventually, but our souls live on. Some bodies don’t die for a really, really long time. Jack tells us to worry about the laws of eternity as opposed to the laws of time.”

Nick would have asked further, but there was a slight disturbance outside. Thomas frowned, then laughed ruefully.

“Speaking of living for a long, long time—guess who’s here?” he said.

“Uh . . .” Nick smelled burning petroleum. “How did he find us?”

“More to the point—why did he find us?”

“Thomas, one would think you weren’t happy to see me,” a deep voice complained. A small, billowing flame accompanied the dragon’s words.

“My emotions are always mixed,” Thomas said. “And my question stands: Why did you come to get us?”

“I didn’t actually come to get you,” the dragon answered. His snout appeared in the doorway, but it didn’t enter the chamber, though there was just enough room to accommodate its body. “I left to see if Cyra wanted a ride back home, but she has already left the healing pool. So instead I’ve come— very generously, I might add—to offer the same to you two. After all, you missed out on the pony rides.” There was a chuckle in the beast’s voice.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Thomas said. “These tunnels are tight, and I don’t need a cracked skull.”

Nick made no protest to this high-handed assumption that he didn’t want to be carried; he didn’t want to ride on the dragon, either—and not because he feared a cracked head, though that danger was probably reason enough. All he could think of was the gingerbread man getting a ride from the fox and ending up in its gullet.

“Well, then . . .” the dragon answered, its fiery eyes now appearing in the opening. He was studying some fire imps intently.

“Don’t let us keep you,” Thomas said.

“I shall just walk with you a ways.” The dragon sniffed loudly. “What a smelly hole. Those giants were filthy creatures. But please, move as slow as you like. I’m in no hurry, and I can hold my nose.”

“We’re done,” Nick said quickly. “I need a nap. I haven’t slept in days.”

“Okay. Let’s head back,” Thomas agreed, and the dragon obligingly backed out of the doorway.

Thomas and Nick walked side by side back toward the tunnel from which they had arrived, with the dragon a pace behind. Nick wished it was the other way about, but that would hardly have been a practical way to carry on a conversation. There was also the matter of avoiding the beast’s massive, thrashing tail.

“I like northern goblins best,” the dragon said suddenly.

Nick looked back, surprised by the choice of topic, but was curious as ever.

“There are differences?” he asked. “Aren’t they all the same species?”

“Oh, there are differences,” the dragon said. “Zayn claims the northern goblins have higher levels of glucose in their tissues—something about warding off frostbite. It makes them especially tasty. Sadly, the northern hordes rarely send emissaries south anymore, so they are a rare treat these days.”

Thomas rolled his eyes and didn’t comment. Nick nodded, not wanting the dragon to see his own consternation.

He’s a dragon, Nick said to himself. He eats goblins. They’re his food. Get over it.

But calling them food didn’t make Nick feel any less uncomfortable. Probably because he knew that, as far as the dragon was concerned, he was potential food, too. And the beast’s large mouth was a mere yard away. Behind him. What would happen if Thomas weren’t there? Probably nothing.

Probably.

“You were partly wrong,” Nick said, turning to the fey.

“I was?”

“Yeah. There are still one or two things in the shian that are pretty damned weird.”

Thomas nodded, smiling a little. “You have a point. But I should call your attention to the fact that the shian didn’t make the dragon. He’s just a tourist and sometime guest.”

“I’m hurt,” the dragon interjected mournfully.

“And I’m a northern goblin,” Thomas retorted.

The dragon’s long tongue snaked out suddenly and flicked Thomas behind the ear in what might have been a playful gesture. It snapped back into the dragon’s mouth before Thomas swatted at it, and the dragon smirked.

“Liar,” it said. Then it added, “You aren’t nearly sweet enough to be a northern goblin.”

Thomas looked back with narrowed eyes, but the unrepentant dragon gave a rumbling chuckle in reply.

Chapter Seventeen

“Maybe I want to leave,” Zee said, advancing on Nick. Her posture was stiff, her eyes filled with both anger and fear. She looked very unlike herself, and yet very exciting. “If I said I wanted to go, would you let me? Would the magic let me?”

“I . . .” Stunned by the question, Nick wanted to say of course, he would let her leave. He wanted to, but the words wouldn’t come. His gut clenched at the very thought, his skin flushed with sudden fire and his heartbeat redoubled in an instant. His blood pressure had entered a dangerous realm, he realized absently.

Then he thought, I’m never going to get my nap. Half-frustrated and half something else, Nick dropped his shirt on his borrowed bed and turned to face Zee. He noted the way her eyes moved over him. There was anger, fear and something else— the same something he was feeling.

For one instant, Nick thought about the wisdom of seeking out a therapist for a little counseling, but then rejected the idea; he doubted there were any fey therapists in the area, and he somehow also doubted the local mental health clinic would offer the kind of couples therapy he and Zee needed to cope with the exciting new reality they were facing. Like it or not, he was flying solo on this one.

“Look,” he said, trying to be calm, “what I would do isn’t the point. I’ve been talking with Jack and I don’t think the . . . whatever it is that runs this place—I don’t think it will let you go without a struggle. It won’t let either of us go without a fight.”

“But you wouldn’t stop me?” Zee asked again, emphasizing the you. “You would let me leave if I asked?”

Nick stared at her in frustration. Did she want him to let her go? Really? She had seemed to love it here when they first arrived. He supposed that this question could be a test of some sort; women had been known to do such things when they were in a relationship and feeling insecure. Or was she just feeling as overwhelmed as he, and was she beginning to panic as the reality set in? Had she been thinking about what would happen later, when they left here? About having kids? About living among humans?

A picture of his mother appeared in his mind. His family had always been there, salting the ground where his imagination tried to grow—though now he could see that his impulse toward magical games and fantasies had not been simple childishness. Such misery couldn’t have been what his mother had wanted for her children, yet she had allowed it. She’d even perpetuated it. Why?

She had denied her nature, and had suffered all her life because of it. How frightened she must have been of all things fey—either those on the outside or perhaps the magic within herself—to have allowed this to happen to herself and her kin.

Had she had valid reason to fear? Had she known that, if she let it in, magic would rule her and her children? That her will would be hijacked, and that there could be no escape once the road was taken?

Then another thought occurred to Nick: Had his mother rejected magic only after she’d seen her proposed mate? Had it shown her something, some union too awful to imagine?

And had she ever loved her human husband, or was he solely a means to escape her fey destiny? If the latter, why had she needed him to escape? Damn it—who would have been her intended mate?

Nick sighed. He would probably never know.

He thought about trying to say something reassuring to Zee, but his mind was blank, logical thought drowned out by endless questions and exhaustion. His brain had been asked to deal with too much in too short a time; it had no answers for her, good or bad. In fact, he couldn’t think of much except that he was tired and that Zee smelled fabulous. Her normal scent was a bewitching blend of candied orange and sweet chocolate, supported by a delicate musk. In the throes of passion that scent became heated and morphed into something darker. There was an odor of rich chocolate about her now, but also a strong, almost animal patchouli that enslaved him. Human pheromones had nothing on this perfume.

So, why not get closer? Have another whiff—a taste, even. You know you want to. She wants you to, too, an

outside voice urged, a voice that was not his ghost. The small hairs on Nick’s arms erected themselves, but he barely noticed.

It sounded like a wonderful idea. But did Zee really want that? That she-devil Lust clearly had her honeyed-tongue in his ear—and he was half-listening. Against his will, he still got her message loud and clear. But was this the right thing to feel?

Yes . . . take her. You want to.

For the first time, Nick realized that the desire inside him was a living thing, possibly sentient. And just as Jack had said, it would take possession of him if he let it. The thought was a bit frightening. It made him angry, too. His ghost was bad enough; he didn’t need anything else haunting him, trying to force its own agenda.

“Try to leave if you want. Let’s see what happens,” he said impulsively to Zee, though he could barely get the words out, his chest was so tight. He was suddenly aware that there was magic in the room with them, and it was hovering like an angel—a dark archangel—and like those of the Old Testament, it was on a mission. Not wanting to provoke its wrath, Nick opened his mouth to take his suggestion back, but it was too late.

“Fine.”

Zee spun around and took two steps toward the door, but she staggered. She managed a third and then a fourth step, but she could go no farther. She swayed back from the door as though buffeted by wind, though there was no evidence of an actual breeze.

“Goddess damn it!” she gasped, falling slowly to her knees.

Around them, the blue light grew deeper and lightning began to crackle at the edges of Nick’s vision. He didn’t need an explanation of Zee’s words. He felt it, too—the power—but it was not the usual fear; not dread, not holy terror. This angel came bearing lust. Nick also understood what Zee was feeling. There was a sense of betrayal—not by him, but by the shian itself; she had asked it for help and shelter and it had offered those things, but at a price it was exacting now.

That knowledge should have ended his feelings of desire, but it didn’t. Heat was pouring off his skin. Desire unlike anything Nick had ever felt was roaring through him, dilating some blood vessels and constricting others. Though his temperature had to be abnormally high, he could feel every muscle in his body contracting, everything in his lower body pulling tight. Parasympathetic neurons were firing, and the arteries dilating that delivered blood to his sex. Only, there was nothing erotic about this moment—except perhaps the sight of Zee on all fours, where she had fallen. But that should not arouse him, for this was clearly an inappropriate time to be brutishly animal.

Enraged, and saying what were probably bad words in what must be lutin, Zee tried crawling for the door. Nick’s arousal immediately got worse—or better. Certainly, it was more intense. Nick also dropped to his knees and began to crawl after her, and not to administer first aid. He couldn’t see his body, but he had a feeling that he looked more stalking wolf than human. He realized that something—probably the magic about which Jack had talked—had hijacked his body and was trying to blot out his mind. He realized, but he couldn’t stop it. This was a naked display of power by the ancient magic that lived in the shian, and he realized in an instant that it would not let them win.

The only thing that might end his agony was to stop fighting the impulse. To surrender and wait for terms. Surely they would be benign; the shian couldn’t want them hurt.

“Zee,” he called out, his voice rough. “Stop fighting. Stop or . . .” Or what? Would he really attack her? Could any amount of desire turn him into a rapist? Would the magic really push him that far? He feared it might. “Stop, Zee, or it will make you lose consciousness.”

Half-gasping and half-crying, she collapsed on the floor.

“It won’t let me go—it’s as bad as the goblins,” she sobbed, and then whipped around like a cobra to glare at Nick. He’d never seen such an expression of animal desire. Perspiration had beaded on her skin; her cheeks and lips were flushed a dark rose. He could see her nipples clearly through her sweat-dampened blouse. But there was anger, too— and now fear. “Stay back! I . . . I might hurt you. I want you, and I’m very strong. Sometimes lutins bite. Hard. They—we—like blood.”

Then her scent hit him—dark, passionate, the smell of Zee’s arousal. It was heady, made his exhaustion forgotten.

Please do hurt me, Nick thought. Draw blood— do anything you like. He felt wild and giddy but didn’t laugh aloud. She meant what she was saying. Left and right, her hands gripped the floor, but her fingers were curled like talons and her eyes glittered. This wasn’t a Zee he knew. His gentle lover was gone.

He crawled toward her anyway; she was irresistible.

“Tell me you really don’t want this,” he whispered.

“Of course I want this—I just don’t want to want it,” she snapped. He was close enough now that her breath stirred his hair. He could smell the scent of her roughly awakened desire that soaked her body.

“No word games, Zee. Tell me now if you want me to stop this. I have drugs in my bag. I can knock myself out.” Nick didn’t actually know if he could crawl all the way across the room, and his bag was in the opposite direction. In that moment, it sounded impossible.

“You would do that?” she asked, eyes widening. Some of her fear and anger abated.

“I don’t want to hurt you either, and I’m afraid I might if you keep fighting,” he told her truthfully. He could speak more easily; the feeling of desperate arousal was fading back—not entirely, but enough that he could formulate sentences. “I don’t know what my own powers are, how strong I might be.”

“Nick. I still . . . I still care about you.” She ran her tongue over her lips, and he followed it with his eyes. “I just don’t want this because it wants it. Our feelings should be real—not something some fey power invented. It’s doing this for a reason—I don’t know why exactly, but I don’t think it’s because it’s best for us.”

Nick did laugh, then. He glanced down at his body. His erection had all but torn through his clothing.

“This looks pretty much like the best damned thing for me.”

“But what if it isn’t?” Zee asked urgently. “What if you don’t really want me? What if this is all a magical trick and you regret it later?”

“We’ll have enjoyed ourselves anyway?” he suggested, trying for a bit of humor.

“Don’t you understand? I don’t want this unless you care! I won’t let it do this to me! I’m tired of being used by those who don’t care about me!” Zee whipped about suddenly, and she threw her body at the threshold.

The insane lust was back in an instant; before Nick could countermand the instruction, his body leapt upon her, using his greater weight to carry her to the floor and pin her there.

The polished stone was hard but not rough or cold, and stunned by her own desire Zee lay panting upon it. She found it difficult to breathe with Nick’s weight upon her. His scent surrounded her in a muffling cloud that infiltrated her lungs, and the heat radiating from his body seemed to sear the flesh of her back—which she enjoyed.

She was captive. He could do anything he wanted to her, and she would probably let him. A part of her was enraged at the thought. But it was a small part, and one overwhelmed by the desire coursing through her bloodstream, a lust so strong that it made her want to scream and tear something apart.

For a long moment, Nick didn’t speak. Zee could feel him struggle to control his breathing. He eventually managed to calm his breath, but his erection against her buttocks never flagged.

It was wrong, not what she thought that she wanted, but this still thrilled her. Because he wanted her to the point of insanity; this she could sense. And because she remembered vividly the feel of his lips on her skin and the taste of his open mouth when he kissed her.

She had known many emotions in her life—grief, terror, rage and finally love—and only the last came close to the emotional power of what she was feeling at that moment.

Love? Was that what she was feeling right now? A kind of love?

She thought it was.

The idea wedged itself in her head, like a pry bar jammed into the gears of a clock. Love. Though her thoughts tried to progress, they could not because they were stopped by this thought, could not move beyond the point of impact.

Zee gulped in a couple of deep breaths, trying to clear her head.

She loved Nick. And just as her father had predicted, their magics had met and mated. That had happened before they’d come to the shian. The desire—the crazy lust she felt now—was something being pulled out of her, amplified and distorted, but it couldn’t be summoned if the feeling had not already been there.

Then Zee realized that somehow the two things— her love and this insane desire—had joined forces. Together, they’d crashed through her anger and resistance at being used by the magic for its own purpose. Lust alone wouldn’t have done it. If she hadn’t loved, she still would have been able to walk—or crawl—away. No magic, however strong, could stop her if she truly wanted to flee. Self-control was her shield and armor—her holy grail. With it, all things were possible.

But she wasn’t in control anymore. She loved, and so her destiny was no longer her own to decide.

Yes, she loved Nick. She wanted to make love to him again, even without magic. Fighting was stupid—it hurt both of them. And running away wouldn’t get her what she wanted, which was Nick’s love in return.

“Don’t do that again,” he finally managed to say. Then he added a typical, “Please?”

“Okay.” Zee forced herself to relax and then sighed. It was the sound of surrender and also a confession. Was he listening? Did he care? Should she speak out and tell him her revelation?

“Zee?” he asked softly.

She held up a finger and closed her eyes. Her body had said it. Her actions had said it. Her very breath said it—wasn’t it time to offer the words? I love you.

“Nick . . .” Zee hesitated. Was this the moment for such a confession? Would he think it was just the magic talking?

“Let’s just lay here a while,” he suggested, settling between her legs. “Maybe the feeling will go away.”

Zee heard herself moan as he pressed against her. She wanted him inside her. Maybe that would calm the insanity of feelings that had her weak and confused. She wanted Nick now. Fear was gone, and her desire was a fever. Her feelings for Nick made it unstoppable. She was already ravaged—why not be ravished? There would probably be consequences later, but why not let ecstasy have its way for now?

Instinctively, she pushed back, grinding against his erection. She was rewarded with pleasure coursing through her body.

“That isn’t helping,” he said through gritted teeth.

“It would,” she answered, “if you undressed.”

Nick’s breath caught and then he sighed with relief, apparently realizing that her resistance was truly gone.

“I don’t know why you’ve changed your mind, but I’m so glad you have,” was all he said, then he bit the nape of her neck.

“I’ll explain it all later,” she gasped, again finding it difficult to speak, this time for the shivers running through her body.

Nick lifted himself enough to undo his zipper, then shoved her skirt into the small of her back where it made a small pillow; Zee felt cool air rush over her legs and bottom. It was just one more caress, one more thing that made her moan. Then Nick returned, pressing his skin to hers, soft flesh to hard, penis to buttocks. Magic hummed between them, joyous and greedy. It urged them to completion.

His left arm curved under her, pulling her fully onto her knees and positioning her to his liking. Zee felt equal parts anticipation and vulnerability. She sensed that he was barely in control, and she suspected that he hadn’t had the crazy desire in him softened by any realization about his feeling for her—if in fact he had any such softer feelings. He was reacting as would an animal, barely controlled. And he was stronger than she.

His shaft pressed against the soft folds that protected her core. Zee could feel a low throbbing in her loins, and thought it must be the pulse of her heart. She wanted him inside her where he could ease her need—now! Before she died.

Nick’s hand slid lower, cupping her sex, easing a finger inside her. The base of it, his knuckle, found the small, delicate nub hidden in the soft folds that was already hardened with desire, and at the first touch she felt a small burst of sight-dimming pleasure. She felt her inner muscles clench.

“I am so glad that I paid attention in anatomy class,” Nick murmured with amusement.

Zee turned her head and bit his left biceps in passion. She had to stop herself from chomping down to the bone.

“Stop teasing,” she said through gritted teeth as she pulled her mouth away. “Please.”

“You’re not ready,” he said.

“I am.”

“You’re not—”

“I am, damn it! Nick, I mean it!” Zee thrust backward against him, and was pleased when he caught his breath.

“Have it your way.” And with a groan, Nick pulled her close and pressed into her.

Zee quickly discovered that he’d been right; she wasn’t entirely ready. She was damp, but Nick was thick, hard, hot and inexorable. This wasn’t like the first time. This penetration might leave her bruised. It might leave her insane if she wasn’t consumed by the fires building inside her.

He thrust farther forward. It hurt, but she loved it. He was in her to the hilt and could go no deeper. Her nerves felt a hundred spears of joy as he started to move. They felt the infiltration of her swollen flesh by a foreign body, felt the coarse hair of Nick’s thighs as it rubbed her aroused skin, felt his tightened scrotum pressing between her bare legs and touching the aroused nub of flesh he’d uncovered earlier. She could feel his ragged breathing, sense his hot breath as it stirred the hair on her nape. She felt it all and reveled.

Nick retreated and then retook lost ground, moving slowly but relentlessly. The internal stroking had her clenching muscles trying to hold him in place—trying to find just the right pace and position that would finally free her from the vise of desire that had her in its clutches and threatened to break her.

Sobbing, Zee reached down and pulled Nick’s hand tighter against her hip. His deep stroking went on for a few more thrusts, and then tiny sparks ignited behind her eyelids and her desire went supernova. She cried out at the violent convulsion that shook her, barely aware of Nick’s own cry as his control shattered and he, too, flew into the sun.

They collapsed onto the floor, but the deep, hard paroxysms continued for another long moment, and Zee could feel the contractions that pulled the seed from Nick’s body and propelled it into her own. And thus the magic was appeased. This was what it had wanted. Zee was certain that she had just conceived a child. She would probably be terrified about that. Soon. For now, she was still too stunned by the storm.

“Zee?” Nick whispered, his voice yet rough but closer to the one she knew and trusted.

Zee finally regained her senses and some control of her body. Having achieved its goal, the magic was retreating. Only the smell of sex—and something else—remained sharp in the air. “I finally understand why the French call it the little death,” she whispered, feeling pleased that she could again form words. For a while, all she had managed were moans and cries, barely heard above the frantic pounding of her heart. Speech meant that she was again among the sane, again in control.

“There’s nothing little about this.” Nick’s voice was slightly louder but still ragged. He swallowed hard. When he completely regained his breath, he whispered into her ear, “Zee, please don’t ever try to leave me again. This is as close as I ever want us to come to any kind of death.”

“What a way to go,” she joked, but it fell flat. Neither of them was feeling lighthearted. Zee sighed, and turned her head to kiss the arm she’d bitten. She was ashamed to see that she had drawn blood.

“What the hell are we going to do?” Nick asked after another minute passed. “You’re right, you know. This proves it. It was the magic that brought us together. Not that I’m sorry! Believe me, I’m not. But it seems wrong—like we’ve been trapped in some great scheme not of our making. I hate that anything can have this much power over us. And from here on out, we have to be more careful about using a condom. Jack says that inside this mound is where fey conceive.”

Zee’s chest tightened. His words hurt. Nick felt trapped?

She forced herself to exhale and curled into the warmth of his body. The lust fever had left her, and she felt cold. Should she tell him about what she suspected had happened? About the child? Should she even mention the word love when it was apparently not at all on his mind?

No. Clearly this wasn’t the time to mention a possible pregnancy. Or her feelings. Zee began to shiver.

“Zee?” Nick pulled her close. His voice was warm with concern. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

“I’m fine. It’s just that I don’t know what’s right and what’s wrong anymore. I don’t know what to do,” she finally said. The urge to tell Nick of her feelings was still there, and it prodded her painfully, but she found herself unable to find voice. “All I know is that we have to stop Qasim. That’s the most important thing.”

Nick nodded. “Yes. That’s for sure. We have to stop him before he launches a war that no one can win. Everything else is secondary.”

Secondary. Zee realized she didn’t like being in second place.

Qasim stepped outside and inhaled deeply of the night air. He liked the Christmas season in the desert, with its smell of bonfires that carried for miles on the cold clean air; it reminded him of the last great plague, with its endless pyres fueled night and day by the disease-ridden corpses of his enemies. Those fires had kept the winter chill away when he was exiled from the hive and wandering on the outskirts of human civilization. He’d worried at the time about the safety of eating plague victims, but other than giving him a taste for raw eggplant with his bone marrow, he hadn’t noticed any other particular change.

He took a seat on a rock and broke off a bit of mesquite tree. He began gnawing on it, sharpening his teeth. His tusks were growing back and they itched.

The children were all sleeping peacefully—all two hundred of them—tired after their long trek through the desert. They would go on sleeping until it was time for the sacrifice. Such a pity, because he would like for them to be awake, would like to be able to feed off their small minds. But spent sacrifices were not as powerful—the gods wanted meat, not vegetables, and so he couldn’t deplete them before the event.

He was hungry, though—so hungry—and nothing he ate made the pangs go away. Rabbits, coyotes, snakes—nothing helped. He’d have to do something about that soon; his judgment tended to be flawed when he was starving, and it wouldn’t do for him to make a mistake at this juncture. Especially not since he sensed that something important had just happened among the fey. There had been a shift in the magical field, and he felt the ripples even this far away. A new player had entered the game. Whether it was friend or foe Qasim couldn’t say, only that it was something or someone powerful that would have to be factored into the equation.

In any event, the new party could not be allowed to interfere. Humans were easily distracted— especially these modern ones. So many were busy pursuing full-time addictions that they spent no time to build character; like wheat under the scythe, they fell before any storm. He wished he had some other choice of army.

Still, the rare human could be tenacious and very thorough. Look at the Old Testament—it was full of determined humans. Take Joshua and his vendetta against the port city of Tyre:

Thus saith the Lord Jehovah, Behold, I am against thee, O Tyre, and will cause many nations to come up against thee, as the sea causeth its waves to come up. And they shall destroy the walls of Tyre, and break down her towers: I will also scrape her dust from her, and make her a bare rock. She shall be a place for the spreading of nets in the midst of the sea; for I have spoken it, saith the Lord Jehovah; and she shall become a spoil to the nations. And they shall make a spoil of thy riches, and make a prey of thy merchandise; and they shall break down thy walls, and destroy thy pleasant houses; and they shall lay thy stones and thy timber and thy dust in the midst of the waters. And I will cause the noise of thy songs to cease; and the sound of thy harps shall be no more heard. And I will make thee a bare rock; thou shalt be a place for the spreading of nets; thou shalt be built no more: for I, Jehovah, have spoken it—saith the Lord Jehovah.

Now that was grand stuff! A bit repetitive maybe, but excellent. Of course, in the end it hadn’t been Joshua who had overthrown the city. It was good old Nebuchadrezzar. Most people didn’t know that the King of Kings had been a lycanthrope. It had taken the man thirteen years to bring down Tyre— probably because of losing so much time around the full moon. But Nebuchadrezzar had triumphed in the end, with his human armies. There had to be some of that strength left in the species. It just needed to be awoken and guided to holy purpose.

III

THE LAST STAND

Chapter One

Her name was Zee of the Finvarra clan, and like her brother and sister and many cousins, she had been born during the dark of the moon on the shortest day of the year. But unlike the others of her mother’s family, she had only one set of arms. She was lutin, but something more. And that incredible extra had always frightened her—now more than ever.

Something brushed again Zee’s ankle, breaking in on her dark meditation. Startled, she looked down and found herself staring into the eyes of the cat. Chloe had said that it—Bastet, the cat was called— was somewhere in the shian, but that Zee and the children might not find her because she was a solitary animal and not at all fond of those of goblin blood. Yet here she was, the queen of elusive felines, sitting as straight as any pharaoh’s tomb painting, one paw slightly extended in Zee’s direction.

“Hullo, O Great Bastet,” Zee said quietly, not feeling at all strange addressing the cat formally.

Pretty little Zee, a voice seemed to say. Don’t worry. You aren’t at all like the other.

“What?” she whispered, puzzled and suddenly slightly afraid. “What other?”

The cat blinked once, slowly, and then seemed to smile. She turned gracefully, allowing her body to again caress Zee’s ankles, and then she disappeared into the garden without so much as a whisper of grass to mark her passage.

“Hello,” Nick said, settling down beside Zee. He took her hand. “Talking to yourself?”

“No, the cat,” Zee answered, leaning her head on his shoulder. “I think she was trying to encourage me, but I don’t understand what she said.”

“What she said? The cat talked?” Nick sounded surprised. There wasn’t enough energy left for shock and amazement at all the things that happened in this wonderland, but this was something new.

“Only in my head. She said I was pretty—”

“Which you are,” Nick replied promptly. He kissed her nose. Zee smiled a little.

“And that I shouldn’t worry.”

“Sound advice,” Nick agreed. “Worry solves nothing and gives one ulcers. Did the cat say anything else?”

“Yes.” Zee’s brows drew together. “She said I wasn’t like ‘the other.’ ”

“What other?”

“My question exactly. What other?”

“Hm . . . well, you know cats. They like to be inscrutable.”

“Maybe that’s it.” But Zee didn’t think so. The cat had meant something specific. Don’t worry. You aren’t like the other.

“Are you ready for some dinner?” Nick asked. “I gather that we are all going to break bread at the next meal—a sort of late-Christmas feast.”

Zee hesitated. “I know. I helped with it, actually. But I’m not very hungry,” she finally admitted. Her insides had been in turmoil since she and Nick had made love.

“I’m not either. But I feel like we should go. I gather that it’s some sort of ritual for good luck. More like a fey Thanksgiving.”

“Sympathetic magic,” Zee said. “A feast ensures future prosperity. Yes, we have to go. I’ve spent too long being hungry as it is.”

Zee had told him some more about her goblin home life, and about being on the run. Nick had been appalled and was inclined to overfeed her— something she appreciated but couldn’t take advantage of with her stomach feeling so topsy-turvy.

“Sympathetic magic?” Nick echoed. “Makes sense, I guess. Well, as much sense as anything around here.”

She looked up at him. “Does anything really make sense here?”

“As much as anywhere else,” Nick finally answered. Then he smiled and made a strange comment that she didn’t understand: “We sure aren’t in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

“Nevada,” Zee agreed. “This is still Nevada.”

“That either.” Nick looked her in the eye. “You’ve seen The Wizard of Oz, then?”

“No. I’ve never seen any wizards,” Zee answered. For some reason, this made Nick smile again.

“You’re in for a treat. That will be our first DVD rental.”

“D-V-D?”

“Never mind. It will be a surprise—a nice one. When all this is over and we’re away.” Nick reached down and pulled her to her feet. “Now, let’s get to the party.”

Io brought the first course to the giant onyx table. The ritual began with what Nick would liken to vichyssoise, though it was made up of a host of flavors he couldn’t identify. It was served with herbed croustades—though again, Nick couldn’t say which herbs were used. He noticed, though, that everyone from the youngest to the oldest—who was probably Abrial—ate and drank heavily, and that soon after consuming the first course everyone seemed energized. Nick felt it, too: a falling away of exhaustion that made him sit up and want to smile.

The second course, brought by Cyra, was a dish that tasted a good deal like salmon, except that its color was pale blue. Seeing his bewilderment, Io explained that it wasn’t actually fish, but a sort of yam that grew in the shian. Nick nodded, beginning to wonder if the herbed mashed potatoes beside the faux salmon was actually potato. He poked at what looked like a side of saffron risotto but might be bugs or who knew what, and raised an eyebrow at Io.

“Saffron risotto,” Io confirmed, making him feel a little silly. Everyone else, especially Zee, was eating heartily.

The third course, brought this time by Roman’s wife, Lyris, was duck in a cherry sauce with roasted eggplant roulade that cradled minced carrots and chard with a side of forget-me-nots. By now, a very amused Io was whispering the names of the dishes to Nick without being asked.

“And the forget-me-not is also called Scorpion Tail. It’s a cure for many neurotoxin venoms. It’s very healthful stuff. For feys.”

“Oh,” was all Nick said.

It was perhaps an optical illusion caused by the sparkling waters dancing in the chandelier fountains around and over the table, but it seemed to Nick that everyone at the board had taken on a sort of glow, an aura of health and well-being. Even Zee seemed happy and energized as she chatted with Zayn—a state she had not been in for the past two days.

The fourth course, this one prepared and served by Nyssa, was a pasty smothered in exotic mushrooms, with a side of love-in-the-mist, which Nick ate in spite of his cautious inner voice whispering about the dangers of mushroom poisoning. As before, Io explained which mushrooms were safe for feys, and how the seeds of love-in-the-mist had been used by Egyptian women to promote beauty. She also added that the French called the flower cheveaux de Venus, and Nick had just enough mastery of the French tongue to blush. After that, he found the soft, hairlike fronds wrapping the black seeds of the flower to be rather suggestive.

Chloe brought a salad next, a mix of wild weeds that were bitter and yet somehow delicious when paired with the tart wine she served.

Nick had just begun to wonder when the feast would end when Zee excused herself and rose from the table. She returned a moment later, proudly bearing what looked like a small mountain of lemon sorbet in a lake of raspberry sauce sprinkled with pansies and sweet violets.

“Heart’s ease,” Io whispered as Zee began serving counter-clockwise—widdershins, they called it. “Also known as Johnny Jump-ups. Good for helping the heart to be unafraid.”

“It looks fabulous,” Nick said.

“I made it myself,” Zee whispered, slipping back into her seat beside him after she had served everyone. “Io showed me how. I’d never seen a lemon before.”

Nick took a bite. Delighted, he allowed his eyes to roll back in his head.

“Superb,” he said, and meant it. He had never tasted anything quite so good, so rich and sparkling. Every other dessert he could recall seemed anorexic in comparison. Zee squeezed his hand and looked terribly pleased.

“I wanted to help with the feast because it’s a sort of magic spell. At first I thought it was kind of crazy, but it’s real, isn’t it? You can see it, too.”

“Yes. Everyone looks terrific.”

“I’ve never seen so much food. For once, I don’t feel hungry.”

Nick took her hand and thought about some of the great banquets he had partaken of, or even read about in stories like Bracebridge Hall and A Christmas Carol. They had been as grand—served on platters of silver and gold—but none could compare in gratification or variety to the one they had just enjoyed.

Of course, the thought of the Dickens story brought Nick’s own ghost to mind. Are you there? Nick asked guiltily. You’ve been awfully quiet lately.

I’m here, came the faint reply, and enjoying everything. Please have some more sorbet. I’ve never tasted any thing quite like it. Actually, I still haven’t. But I enjoy watching you and living vicariously, the spirit confessed.

His words caused Nick a small pang. How terribly lonely a ghost’s life must be.

Not lonely, the ghost answered with a sigh. Just a bit short of physical sensation.

Your voice is so faraway now. Are you well?

Naturally, I grow fainter. The farther you travel from your old life course, the more distant you become. And that’s a good thing. It means your destiny has been recharted. Follow your new star, Nick, and don’t look back. The ghost’s voice had almost vanished.

“Is something wrong?” Zee asked softly, and Nick realized that he was frowning.

“Not a thing,” he whispered back, lacing his fingers with hers and marveling again at how soft she was and how delicious she smelled. “And how are you? All is well?”

“I’m well,” she answered.

Nick noticed then that the others were rising from the table and leaving as couples. Suddenly he could feel that familiar magic—sex was floating on the air. It, too, had apparently been called to the feast. For a moment, both he and Zee were wary. But the energy that floated on the air was somehow different than what they had last encountered. It was something that had been invited, and it was waiting for permission to enter them.

“Come then,” Nick said softly, looking into Zee’s eyes.

She nodded.

In their bedchamber, the blue waters in their crystal decanter danced with soft light. It seemed all the shian was rejoicing with its inhabitants.

There was a moment’s work to remove their clothing, and then Zee and Nick were nestled in the soft furs of their bed, pressed length to length, hardness against softness.

Part of Zee expected an assault, but Nick’s touch was delicate, almost lazy. He trailed his long white fingers over her breasts, following with his mouth, where his lips and warm breath offered two more forms of caress. Here was a touch that savored but insisted on nothing in return.

“You are a delight to me,” Nick whispered against the skin of Zee’s belly. “So warm and soft—and sweet.” He turned his head and gazed up at her. His slow hands traveled again, skimming over her right breast, seeking the pleasure of touch and simply that.

“Nick,” she sighed, putting into his name what she could not ask or say.

“I’m here,” he replied, his voice soothing as he kissed his way up her body. “You can give yourself to me. I will care for you—and I need you, Zee, if that means anything. Me, not any magic.”

“Do you need me, Nick?” she asked, aware that her body was ahead of her mind and already questing after more of his touch.

“I do,” he answered, his slow, sensual touch descending the slope of her waist and the flare of her thigh. “There is something in you that calls to me, that gives me life. I was slowly becoming a ghost, just a shadow of who I could be, and every year I grew thinner in spirit, less hopeful. You saved me from that.”

Zee sank her fingers into Nick’s dark velvet hair and drew a sigh from him.

“Such lovely hands,” he said, “so small, and yet they have such power.”

Zee let go of her lingering wariness. She let her hands glide over Nick’s body, enjoying the hard muscles of his shoulders, the slope of his back, the light dusting of hair on his chest; given free rein, they explored and touched at will, reveling in the textures that were Nick’s physique.

Her legs shifted languidly, parting in hope of more of his touch. She arched with pleasure when he accepted the invitation, gliding his fingers up her inner thigh and to the heart of her. Zee opened as a flower offered the first rays of the spring sun.

“I’m so glad that you can trust me again,” Nick said. “I was afraid that perhaps that was destroyed, driven off by the last time we . . .” He searched for words. Made love wasn’t the correct term for what they had been compelled to do.

Did she trust him? With her life, with the lives of her brother and sister, yes. But with her secret? With both secrets? Suddenly, Zee felt more vulnerable than she ever had in her life.

“What is it?” Nick asked, feeling the sudden confusion that split her mind. “Don’t you trust me? I swear that I would never harm you. You must know that.”

Harm her? No, he wouldn’t. But he might break her heart. For all his words, he might not be able to love her—might not be able to love their child once they were away from here.

Not wanting to face that thought, Zee wrapped herself around Nick, pulling him closer and taking comfort in the warmth of his body.

“Make love to me,” she said into the curve of his throat. “It’s what I want.”

“You’re certain?” Nick asked, pulling back far enough to look at her. His eyes held concern.

“More certain than I am of anything else,” Zee answered, straining upward toward his lips. She allowed herself to enjoy the sweetness of his kiss, let physical sensation push emotional doubt aside. And for a time, it was enough.

Chapter Two

“The press is aware of the mall Santa’s murder— and though there was nothing on the radio yesterday, by now they probably know about the children’s disappearance,” Nick said to Jack the next morning over breakfast; he’d seen it on the Internet. He was feeling odd: happy, but with an edge. He was sated but still anxious, because he knew the time for battle was approaching and his contentment would not last. He’d tried reading poetry as a diversion but soon noticed that though the book he’d found described misery in great detail, it little discussed degrees of happiness. Probably because happiness was often ephemeral, whereas misery was forever.

“Maybe so, but I’m betting the details were hushed up. The lutins won’t want this getting out and the human authorities will want to avoid panic. They’ll probably keep the children’s families quiet by telling them to wait for a ransom demand,” Jack answered.

“So, the humans and goblins are going to hold hands—or at least their tongues—on this?” Nick asked, disbelief casting a first shadow over his good mood.

“I suspect so. Still, I can’t imagine Qasim allowing that to happen. He’ll need the press for his announcement, and he’ll offer them something spectacular as a lure. If the bribe is impressive enough, they’ll broadcast anything he wants.”

Nick felt suddenly cold and the last of his happiness died. “We have to find those kids. Now.”

“We have!” Thomas Marrowbone said, walking into the room. He carried several sets of papers in his hands, which he spread out on the table. “Abrial and Roman are on their way back as we speak. Take a look. I’ve confirmed Nyssa’s findings with Spy-Sat photos. Qasim was definitely headed toward L.A., and he had all two hundred children with him.”

“Spy-Sat photos?”

Thomas smiled and confessed, “I sometimes borrow the government’s toys.”

“And the cavalry has arrived as well. Nick, meet my Uncle Farrar,” Abrial announced before Nick could speak, waving a hand toward what looked like a giant centaur. The creature didn’t seem particularly solid, and Nick wondered if he were a hologram or perhaps a ghost. Whatever Farrar was, Nick knew he was there because Nyssa had summoned him from someplace called The Yesterdays.

Abrial’s wife was now in another room, in a deep trance, attended by her mother. The chamber where she lay was an odd one, made of dark glass that seemed to have large forms fused into its black crystals; Nick had caught a glimpse on his way to this council of war. She was lying on her side on an altar of glass, one delicate arm curved protectively over her round belly. Her pregnant vulnerability had moved him and made him even more determined to find and stop Qasim before the hobgoblin hurt his daughter again.

“It’s a pleasure,” Nick lied to the Piper. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the centaur, but he definitely found the Piper’s colorful cloak lined in skinned but living rats repulsive.

“Isn’t it?” Farrar answered. His eyes spiraled crazily as he looked at Nick, and Nick found himself wondering if that was entirely accidental.

Abrial ignored his uncle’s odd behavior—which perhaps wasn’t odd for Farrar—and gave everyone in the room what looked like a pennywhistle without any holes. Each was threaded on a long thong, which the others dropped around their tunics. Nick tried the whistle and detected no sound, yet he was sure that some sound was being made.

“Softly, young man,” Farrar warned, moving a little closer. The hair on Nick’s arms began to lift and the smell of ozone filled the air. He thought of that line from Macbeth: “And by the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.” Farrar’s eyes grew bright, as though guessing his thoughts and finding them amusing. “That little pipe can call many things besides children.”

Roman entered the room. The pooka looked unusually sober and didn’t give Farrar more than a glance.

“Okay, so here’s the plan,” Jack said. “Farrar will bespell the captured children and divide them into three groups. We’ll each take one group to guide out of the ancient hives, where Qasim is hiding them. We will try to remain together during the escape, because the roads are tricky and in some places booby-trapped, but will split up if we have to.

“The dragon will be running interference, and Cyra, Lyris and Io will set off some diversions we have planned in case the goblins try to interfere with the rescue—it isn’t a happy thought, but we have to assume that at some point they will become aware of the fact that we have crossed the fringes of their territory, and that they will send search parties to intercept us. They are, after all, hunting Qasim, and they will want to get him before we do—in case we are insane enough to be helping him. Paranoia in the L.A. hive is at an all-time high, and they don’t trust us a bit.

“And of course we have to watch out for Lobineau’s crew.

“Remember, gang, we need to watch out for their darts. We have some antidote and will carry it, but if enough poison gets into our systems, we’ll be incapacitated for several hours.”

“Or until a goblin cuts your head off,” Farrar murmured, earning himself a withering look from Abrial.

“Why three groups?” Thomas asked.

“Because other than Cyra, none of us can enchant so many minds and manage them and still remain mentally clear enough to fight off any enemies who happen along. We also can’t do it without leaving the kids fey-struck.” Jack looked over at Nick and explained: “You may have heard of being pixilated? It’s a sort of addiction to faerie magic that can come after a human is deeply enchanted by a fey. The young are especially vulnerable, and there is no cure for the ailment. The infected would become magic junkies, trying their whole lives to get enchanted again. For humans, it’s worse than crack. Frankly, it would be kinder to let the kids die now.”

“Once you go fey, there’s no other way,” Roman joked, but his smile did not reach his eyes. Clearly he was disturbed about what they were going to do, though supposedly Farrar’s musical enchantment would not harm the children permanently.

Jack shook his head, anticipating Nick’s next question. “No—Cyra can’t bespell them without hurting herself. She has started having convulsions every time she conjures, and will continue to do so until we can reanimate her selkie skin. Farrar is our best and maybe only choice.”

Nick nodded. He didn’t like the sound of this, but he knew they would never be able to lead two hundred panicked children out of the hobgoblin’s lair and through the goblin tunnels without this plan. The whole endeavor was a bit of a long shot. He prayed they wouldn’t be detected. He’d been getting a crash course in goblin hives and knew they were terrifying and confusing—much worse than the giants’ caverns had been. Added to that was the possibility that the children were already fey-struck. There was no way of knowing how careful Qasim had been. Zee seemed to think that his mind control had been fairly clever and delicate, that he hadn’t wanted to terrorize or hurt the kids unduly, but that was what she’d sensed before he had stolen them away; there was no knowing what he had done to the children recently. They might not even be in any shape to flee. Which was a danger they all refused to contemplate. They simply did not have enough people to physically carry two hundred children to safety.

“This seems easy enough, but don’t get overconfident. Remember, wars are won one battle at a time,” Jack told them.

Nick didn’t think the warning was necessary. None of this seemed easy to him, am he was in no danger of getting cocky.

“And just remember,” Abrial added, “we need to win them all. We are living in a house of cards. Lose one battle and our entire world comes down. Like it or not, we’re all interdependent.”

“Every man’s death diminishes me,” said Thomas, thinking of John Donne.

Nick had never felt such a weight of responsibility: They needed to save these children, which would stop a war between humans and goblins, but they also needed to avoid provoking a war between themselves and a slowly uniting goblin empire. Fate did not often ask so much.

Perhaps it was just as well that they were setting off almost immediately. Nick’s friends who were in the army had told him that it wasn’t the firefight that shot one’s nerves, it was all the waiting beforehand; that was where uncertainty blossomed into dread and when a man began to doubt his abilities and goals.

The only thing that cheered him was the ghost’s absence. The spirit seemed to appear only when the situation was on the verge of being dire, or when he thought Nick was about to screw up.

“I don’t know how this affects us, but we have a new wrinkle with the Lobineau problem,” Thomas said, producing a second sheaf of printouts. “It looks like several of the cemeteries inside New Orleans have been systematically excavated— including the tombs of Marie Laveau and Malvina Latour, the voodoo queens.”

“Excavated?” Jack asked, a frown gathering between his brows. Nick felt the flesh on his arms begin again to creep, moving toward his neck and shoulders.

“Like King Tut’s tomb,” Thomas confirmed. “There isn’t so much as an earbone left in any of the ossuaries. They’ve been vacuumed clean.”

“Isn’t this how Qasim was found? Could someone be looking for more undead hobgoblins again?” Roman asked. “Or are they after some magical voodoo grave power?”

Thomas shook his head. “I don’t know. Whatever it is they were looking for, if it was there, they have it. And a lot of bones as well.”

Jack was calm. “I think we’d best prepare ourselves for some nasty surprises. I don’t see how this affects this operation—not directly. But we will bear it in mind.” He looked at each of the men in turn. “We have time yet to say good-byes. Do it. Make any peace that needs to be made. Then we have to go. I can feel a darkness gathering. It is the human New Year’s Eve tonight, and there will be both a blood moon and a lunar eclipse. Other than the Lupercalia in February, there won’t ever be a better time for Qasim to do his dark work.”

Make peace. That was exactly what Nick wanted to do: go back to Zee, climb back into their bed and hold her close, to breathe in her rich scent and fill his senses so that he could carry her with him while he went to war.

The team split up—except for Farrar, who seemed content to perch on the table, swinging his hooved foot impatiently until Bysshe entered the room. Her appearance made him smile.

Nick hurried back to the chamber he and Zee shared, and he was pleased to find her still abed, her golden hair spread out on her pillow. “I’m glad you’re still here,” he said, kneeling on the fur coverlet and leaning down to kiss her.

Zee’s eyes fluttered open and she sighed, returning his kiss.

“Of course I’m here. I’ve made my bed and I’ll have to lie in it. That’s the saying, yes?” Zee asked, smiling a little.

“Yes.” And she’d be lying in it spread-eagled and tied to the bedposts if Nick had had any say in the matter. Then, his moment of lightness abandoning him, he said, “We are about to embark. The children have been found and Jack says that he can feel the danger getting close. We have to go now.”

Zee’s eyes clouded and she sat up, sliding her arms around Nick and cuddling close to his chest. “The Goddess be with you all,” she whispered, running a hand through his hair. “You come back to me, Nick. To me and the children. We aren’t finished yet. I . . . I have something important to tell you when you come home.”

Home. Was that what Cadalach was? He couldn’t really say. In many ways, it was more like home than his apartment near the hospital, but he probably felt that because Zee was here.

“I will be back, never fear,” he promised, and he meant it. He was nervous—maybe even a bit frightened—about going into the goblin lands and taking these children from Zee’s monster, but he had a definite sense that this wasn’t his day to die. And since she would be here, in Cadalach where it was safe, all would be well. “I’m sorry that I have to go when things are . . . well, so wonderful. It’s sort of like finding out that you’re honeymooning on the Titanic.”

Zee shook her head, her hair gliding over his hands. “You have to go,” she said, her voice unhappy but resigned. “Our parts in this play were assigned long ago, and we must do what Fate wishes.”

“Must we?” Nick asked, pulling back enough to look into her eyes. He’d never heard her talk this way. She sounded fatalistic.

“Sometimes. This time,” Zee answered. Then she leaned forward and kissed him again.

“Are you all right?” Nick asked, wondering where the question came from. Why wouldn’t Zee be all right? She was here in Cadalach, safe, healthy—and she would remain so whatever happened, because the goblins would never reach this stronghold.

“I’m fine,” she assured him. “Don’t worry. Fate has plans for me, too, I’m sure—but they will never be as dangerous as what you face.”

Nick nodded and stood.

“Zee, I . . .” he began, but found he couldn’t find the words for what he wanted to say. “Just, be well. I’ll be back soon. And then we’ll have lots of time to talk.”

“Lots of time,” Zee echoed, averting her gaze.

Nick took a deep breath and forced himself to turn away. The sooner he went, the sooner he’d return.

Qasim stared sightlessly at the sleeping children curled up on the cavern floor. His head was full of memories tonight—bad ones. He mostly thought about his prison.

Prison. What an inadequate word for the hell to which he’d been confined for two centuries. It had been more awful than even Gofimbel intended. Because he’d been imprisoned in the heart of a faerie tree, he hadn’t actually slept, hadn’t hibernated, hadn’t died. Qasim had been frozen in place but still aware, still screaming with his mind, if not with his stopped-up voice. He’d hungered and thirsted and gone slowly insane as the wood of the tree grew into his sinews and chewed through his brain. And thus he’d lived for two hundred years.

Worse still, he had thought at the time that it would go on for eternity. He had known utter despair. For that, more than anything, he hated Gofimbel and Gofimbel’s goblin heirs.

Qasim’s hands clenched, his claws puncturing his palms, but he didn’t notice; the small physical pain was no match for the anguish of his mind. His brothers were probably still suffering this way, thinking themselves shut up for all time, buried in trees and inside stones, starving and screaming, praying for a death they realized now would never come.

It was because of their damned fey blood, the tiny bit supplied by Gofimbel when he’d stolen that lock of King Finvarra’s hair and put it in his creatures as a vicious jest. It would not let them die so long as they were in fey wood or fey stones; it wouldn’t let them age, wouldn’t let them sleep. Not ever. They could starve, could go insane—but they couldn’t expire. That was the blessing, and that was the curse. And only one of Finvarra’s blood, one from that Seelie line, could remove the taint and take back the stolen faerie magic.

Qasim would gladly give away the blood and its power to have his brothers’ freedom—that was all he was living for, anyway—but his research said that all the Finvarras had died in the Great Drought. So, he had only one other choice, one other way to free his agonized brothers.

Qasim’s eyes slowly focused on the sleeping children. His expression didn’t change, but he felt a small bit of pity, and had it been possible, he might have shed a tear.

But that wasn’t possible, so he turned on his heel and walked away. It was time to begin.

Chapter Three

Zee sat bolt upright in bed, fighting off sudden dread and trying to understand where the fear was coming from. She wasn’t in danger. Nor was Nick. Not yet. But . . .

She waited, concentrating fiercely. Breath left her body, and breath returned. Nothing bad happened. No monsters jumped out of the closet. Nothing growled from under the bed. Life went on— normally, if such a word could apply while in the shian—in spite of her misgivings about her situation and uncertainty about her place in the order of things.

Love went on, too, she thought, her heart contracting. She could turn away and pretend she didn’t feel; she could play deaf and mute, but her feelings were still there—stronger than ever. Denying them had not made them disappear; they only clamored louder now that Nick had gone. And she was discovering that for some things there was no analgesic, no forgetfulness. The love she had sought had been found. And that love had disassembled her defenses and left her naked to new kinds of worries and pain. And she would remain unclothed and vulnerable until she acknowledged her emotions and knitted up some new reality that encompassed the truth of her love.

That was terrifying.

But necessary.

So, it all came down to faith. She had to trust— trust that Nick wouldn’t hurt her, that he wouldn’t reject her when they left the protection of the shian because of what had happened, because of her being pregnant and having goblin blood. And she had to trust that if he did not love her yet, he would eventually. And that he would love their child, too. There was a purpose in their lives—that’s what all the Goddess’s people said. Their feelings were guided by something greater and were not just random acts of chaos—and the Goddess was not just some fey deity doing what was expedient.

Zee hugged Nick’s pillow to her face and breathed deeply, and a shiver of pure elation passed through her. Grateful, she held the pillow tighter. It was weak of her, but she needed this tie to Nick, to feel that he was close.

Because she was still afraid?

Yes, and the fear was growing. And not just the fear of what Nick would say or do. Something dangerous was on its way. Something huge. It would be there soon. She had to prepare.

I should have told him about the baby. I should have told him that I love him.

With hands that trembled, Zee pushed the covers away and got out of bed. She didn’t know what she could do to protect Nick, but she had to do something. It was time to begin.

The entire rescue party except Farrar wore dark leather and looked a bit like something out of a Hollywood movie set in a trendy s & m bar. Nick had never worn leather before—not right next to his skin. But the clothes were remarkably comfortable, so long as he had no idea what animal the skins had come from and he wasn’t inclined to ask. He was glad to have something sturdy and non-absorbant between his skin and the caustic atmosphere.

He was also glad of the nifty little nose filter that he had been given, though it felt a bit odd having something jammed up his nostrils. The air around him looked and felt thick, and he was certain that it was semi-toxic.

Welcome to the lutin empire, his ghost muttered. Please enjoy your stay and come again soon.

The others were serious and quiet, but Farrar at least seemed disposed to enjoy the hunt. And why not? He was already dead and didn’t have a lot to lose. Anyway, how often did one get to reprise one’s life’s most fabled role.

And how do you feel? Are you ready?

Distracted really—not focused on the task at hand, Nick answered: I’m thinking about Zee.

It was strange: At the moment he’d allowed himself to consider the notion of a life with a wife, kids and a cottage with a picket fence, he’d also discovered that he was fey, his lover was half-goblin and their potential children were—well, who knew what they’d be? And that cottage with a picket fence wasn’t looking too likely, either. Not if he and Zee were now on some goblin hit list. Living in the human world might not even be possible anymore.

And what about his sister? The thought of the sorts of explanations to his family and friends that such a drastic change of lifestyle would entail was daunting to consider.

And yet, even with all this, he didn’t regret what had happened. He was ready—anxious, even—to get on with things.

But first he had to survive the next few hours. And keep the world from going to war. Which meant he needed to get his brain in gear.

He had to push Zee from his thoughts.

“Qasim needs the ceremonial ax,” Nyssa said abruptly as she entered the room. Her eyes were wide and her voice breathless. Zee, recalling her dream of the hobgoblin, couldn’t repress a shiver. “It’s in a chamber about half a mile from where the children are being held. It won’t open until the eclipse begins. He’ll either have to fetch it or bring the children there—either way, we have time. We can get the ax first.”

“Can you contact Abrial?” Bysshe asked, putting down her teacup. Zee followed suit.

“No.” Nyssa’s brows knit. “I think that he’s shut me out because he doesn’t want me to see what happens to Qasim. He’s put up a wall between me and Farrar as well.” She looked at her mother. “I have to go.”

“No!” Bysshe said immediately, her lips flattening. “Your time is too close. Tonight is the darkening of the moon—”

Appalled at the thought of the very pregnant Nyssa attempting a journey through goblin caves, Zee heard herself saying, “I’ll go. I’m used to goblin hives.”

“Thank you, Zee,” Nyssa said, smiling at her. “But no one else will be able to find this place. I can’t maintain a psychic link to either of you and also keep tabs on those children. Mother, I’m sorry, but you know I’m right. This is our chance to stop the slaughter without anyone getting hurt. I have to go.”

“He’ll just use something else,” Bysshe objected, her worry plain. “And how can you say that no one will be hurt? What of your baby?”

“I don’t think he will use something else,” Nyssa answered. “I don’t believe this is just about starting a war between the lutins and the humans. I believe—I know—that Qasim intends to resurrect his hobgoblin brethren tonight. I can feel that he means to do this. He’s going to turn his kind loose on the world.”

Bysshe paled, as Zee suspected that she herself did. She knew that the childhood tales she’d heard of hobgoblin terror were probably exaggerated, but the thought of more hobgoblins being released into the world was petrifying.

“He’s going to observe the ceremonial magic. We have to get that ax before he does.” Nyssa took a deep breath. “There’s no one else to do it. Abrial has closed his mind off from me. Lyris, Cyra and Io have already gone. That just leaves us and Chloe, and she . . . She had best stay with the children.”

Nyssa was right. Fragile Chloe would be no help.

“Then we all go,” Zee said quietly, rising to her feet. She was glad that her legs held her up, because her knees felt very weak. “And we had better go before the moon rises and the eclipse begins.”

Nyssa and Bysshe nodded.

The wind was moaning, and Nick fancied it as miner’s ghost lost forever in the caverns where it had died trying to liberate the giants’ gold. In the Underground, this abandoned goblin world, the wind was a living thing; it carried with it an acrid taint that Nick could not identify, but he smelled it even through his nose filter. It coated his tongue and furred his throat, making it difficult to swallow.

Occasionally the rescuers heard a rustling noise, like leaves disturbed by a wind or the careless footfalls of a large beast crushing shrubbery as it passed. And once in a while there was another sound— again like wind, but one that chirred and croaked and whispered up from the dark swamps of the world. The cumulative noise had an effect on Nick, making him both restless and nervous.

Thomas, seeing his unease, had volunteered that it was the smell and sound of an old goblin lair waking. He didn’t seem concerned, so Nick tried to remain sanguine in spite of the hair rising on his arms. He didn’t like the place, though. It was anathema to him, and he wouldn’t voluntarily return. His body and spirit needed air and light. It completely rejected this dark, dank hole.

The group had flashlights but didn’t use them, choosing instead to rely on the uneven green phosphorescence that coated the walls of the tunnel and caverns they traversed. It struck Nick that, though they were on what amounted to a military mission, this team had no general, no one who wore braid and medals and would direct the troops into battle. They each took turns, silently leading when their talents were needed. Yet they constantly moved in synchronicity, as if given the same commands.

Abrial was point-man now, and he led them surely and swiftly down Unseelie roads, making only one detour.

“Quicksand,” he said softly, his nose wrinkling. Nick had the feeling that the words were spoken aloud for his benefit; the others likely recognized the smell.

“Quicksand?” Nick repeated. It smelled far worse. Perhaps it was quicksand where many, many things had died. Nick had smelled ghastly things in the ER—ruptured intestines, gangrene, rot of many kinds—but this was unlike anything in his experience. It was offal mixed with chemical waste . . . and something else, too, a sort of miasma that caked the membranes of the throat and perhaps the mind as well.

And you thought I was a bad haunt to have around. The ghost sneezed.

I’ll never complain again, Nick promised, following Abrial despite his misgivings.

Nick had always been cautious by nature. For him, prudence was like breathing. But he and his old reality were no longer compatible. He was now on the endangered species list, and the group he was sharing the crisis with was of the fortune-favors-the-bold school. No one was going to be deterred by a smell. Nor could he afford to be; the stakes were simply too high.

“Remember not to look too closely at things,” Thomas cautioned. “We don’t want this to be a flip trip.”

“Flip trip?” Nick repeated. Then, figuring it out: “Oh. Are we likely to be flipped out by something we see down here?”

“Not really. We’re all fey—though not Unseelie, of course, except for Jack and Abrial. We’ll be fine. Still, there’s no need to dawdle with any of the shades lingering here.”

Nick had no intention of dawdling—especially not with these smelly shades.

The tunnel broadened again into another cavern. The sight of a pile of dirty brown-and-white bones with an enormous red-handled sword shoved through them didn’t please Nick, either; though at another time, he might have liked to examine the jumble mounded on the rock ledge serving as a sort of bowl for the abused skeletons. It was obvious even at a casual glance that the bones had suffered trauma. Most were shattered, were so splintered that he could only think that some giant animal had been at them, perhaps sucking out the marrow. And a strange hairy lichen had begun to grow.

“What the hell is that?” he whispered.

“Bone salad with a side of mold,” Roman suggested.

Jack paused for a moment beside the skeleton. He was clearly troubled but wasn’t able to identify the point of the mass grave. It had been a pyre. He shook his head, then suggested Nyssa could come here later to talk to any ghosts that lingered.

Nick shook his head, wondering why she would want to. The mound was made up of many different kinds of bones—human, fey and goblin. He supposed that was fairly unheard of, all races having an aversion to spending eternity resting with one another, and who were traditionally very careful to separate their dead. Still, nothing they had to say would be positive, and it would probably be variations of Get these other smelly bastards off me!

Thomas said it looked like a dragon’s larder, but no one could explain the giant sword that topped the pile like a cherry on a particularly sinister sundae. They all agreed it was an old grave, though. Whatever had made it was long gone. Or should be. They moved on.

After that, Nick found himself looking behind him with increasing regularity. Paranoia had found a crack in his psyche and was systematically looking for a chance to blossom into panic.

As they drew near the next fold in the mountain where the tunnel turned abruptly, Nick could see that the stone was not as smooth as it first appeared. In places it was fissured with sharply angled clefts, and it looked a bit as if it had been hewn open by a giant ax and then carelessly refilled with rubble— was the creation of some insane creature who cared little for engineered stability.

Could this be the work of the hobgoblin? Nick had no idea. He actually didn’t know anything about the creature they were going to rob and possibly fight to the death. How had he not asked earlier?

“What is he? Qasim, I mean,” Nick asked quietly. “I mean, I know he’s a hobgoblin, but what is that exactly—besides big and ugly?”

“Big and ugly hardly covers it,” Roman answered. He added, “Best not to use his name down here.”

“I’m not sure this is the moment to go into this . . . ,” Thomas began.

“Yet, what better time?” Jack said. He glanced at Nick.

“Tell him,” Abrial agreed. “He has a right to know.”

“The hobgoblins were a creation of the first great goblin king, Gofimbel, and a terrible mistake that he was warned repeatedly not to make. But, of course, he did create them. It was inevitable really, given his arrogance.” Jack began.

“All the old ones were arrogant,” Abrial interjected. “The Seelie king, the Unseelie queen, the goblin court. Dynasty builders have to be ruthless visionaries.”

“Fair enough. But Gofimbel was something beyond arrogant or visionary. He repeatedly messed with the rules of creation—was an insane Prometheus really.” Jack fell back to walk beside Nick.

“Frankenstein,” Nick muttered.

“Exactly. He was a goblin Dr. Frankenstein. The first one—there have been others since. Anyhow, it is said that though he created them, Gofimbel feared the hobgoblins from the very beginning, and especially Qasim, because it turned out that they were actually more endowed with the capacity for magic than the goblins themselves. And all three monarchs—Gofimbel, Mabigon and Finvarra— played a role in what happened next.”

“Why? How?” Nick asked.

“We can’t know for certain, unless Abrial knows, but it is believed that the goblin king arranged to steal a lock of hair from the Seelie king, Finvarra. It was in retaliation for Finvarra’s efforts to stop the creation of the new, goblin slave race—Gofimbel knew it would enrage the Seelie king to see his family’s blindingly golden hair on the heads of the goblin slaves. Then there was Mabigon’s contribution to this disaster. It is said that she gave Gofimbel a bogey’s fingerbone to include in their first hobgoblin monster: Qasim. She thought that she could secretly influence him this way. But it was that bogey bone that made him more deadly than the others, and Mabigon could not control him either.”

Nick turned to stare at Jack. “Wait. Sorry, the penny just dropped. You said Finvarra? He was the Seelie king?”

“Yes, quite a coincidence, isn’t it, your Zee having that name and also fey blood and gold hair?”

“Damn. I hate coincidence.”

“And I don’t believe in it,” Thomas said.

“Anyhow, as I was saying,” Jack went on. “Gofimbel enlisted the aid of the dark queen, Mabigon, and having her own reasons for playing a trick on Finvarra, Mabigon agreed to assist. She sent a succubus to visit the Seelie king, and to cut off a lock of his hair while he slept.

“But this small act of mischief backfired horribly, because it somehow endowed the already physically stronger hobgoblins with special magical powers. The beasts became goblin, Seelie and Unseelie—something Gofimbel never anticipated. Like Samson in the human Bible, they somehow drew power from this stolen hair. And Qasim did from the bogey bone. Though Gofimbel later chopped off Qasim’s finger and had the hair burned off of all the hobgoblins who shared it— burned the flesh down to the bone and then cut away the scalp to boot—the damage was already done.

“So, Nick . . . you ask what hobglobins are. They are super-goblins who eventually learned to use many powerful forms of magic against their enemies, forms of magic that would naturally be denied to them. They are Seelie and Unseelie and goblin. And it took the combined will of these three powers—the only time the three races all cooperated, I might add—to lock them up.”

“But we now have Qasim’s heart—the source of his greatest power,” Abrial spoke up. “And we are only facing him, not an entire army of these creatures. There is no need to panic,” he said, looking at Nick’s white face.

“Precisely,” Jack agreed. “And if we can take care of Qasim, the rest of the problem goes away. Or at least remains static. Their prisons will hold the hobgoblins for eternity—the three great monarchs saw to that.”

Nick nodded. The idea that something could be locked up for eternity seemed at once both cruel and yet not nearly safe enough, not when one considered how many successful jailbreaks there were in the mortal world. But the only way to be sure the hobgoblins wouldn’t be a problem would be to kill them, and like Jack, Nick couldn’t quite embrace the notion of genocide. This was a tough one, and it was more of the perpetual balance of power: the duty of the remaining fey that Jack had spoken of. It gave Nick a headache.

Jack stopped suddenly, his head cocked as he listened. Nick knew that the cavern was speaking to him.

“They’ve found us. The goblins!”

“Well, damn,” Roman muttered. “And we were having such a nice, non-violent hike, too.”

“Okay, it’s time for Plan B. Make haste, my friends. We are now on a short clock. We need to check out our escape routes.”

They split up, so that each team could take one of the three branching tunnels that led off the main path from the bone repository. They would meet up again at the chamber where the kids were being held. Thomas and Nick were one team, Jack and Roman made up another. Abrial, Farrar and Zayn were the third.

“Keep your minds open so Abrial can talk to you if Qasim moves, or if the goblins get tricky and try to surround us. We are enough ahead of them that we should be fine, but better safe than sorry. Good luck,” Jack called, as he headed off.

“Good hunting,” was Abrial’s reply.

Nick was feeling slightly more comfortable with the night demon, but he still found him disconcerting. The fey looked hard enough to eat bullets for breakfast. Actually, Nick had yet to see him eat anything at all for breakfast. Maybe bullets weren’t a bad guess.

“Your shirt’s hideous,” Roman said to Thomas by way of farewell. Nick wasn’t surprised when he added, “It looks like a Smurf vomited on it.”

“But blue’s my lucky color,” Thomas responded, smiling a little.

Roman saluted. “Well . . . I hope the luck rubs off on our new recruit. Keep an eye on him. We don’t want to lose the pixie the first time out.”

Thomas embraced him, and then the pooka punched Abrial, Zayn, Nick and Jack in their arms, and bounded away.

“Merry we meet again,” Zayn said softly, and Nick was sure it was some sort of blessing.

“Take care.”

It was all that Nick could think to add, though he suddenly felt very close to his new brothers in arms. They were good men to be in a fight with—though perhaps not exactly men. At least, not human men. And not perhaps good as he had previously defined it. Most of the good people he knew didn’t carry guns or deal death so efficiently. Still, they were effective and shared his moral outrage at what was being done to innocent children. And they were willing to accept Zee and her siblings in spite of their goblin blood. That was all that Nick asked, and he knew it was probably more than he would get from his own family.

“Well, once more into the breach,” Thomas muttered, when he and Nick were alone. He sighed. “You know, Roman’s right: I’m really getting tired of dealing with these Assholes of Evil.”

Chapter Four

Their travels went without incident. The three teams regrouped outside the chamber where the children slept, slumped bonelessly on the floor. Nick was relieved that the air was relatively clear and the chamber fairly warm. It had grown steadily colder the deeper they went, and he had feared that the children might be suffering from hypothermia, since he could not imagine Qasim stocking his prison with two hundred little coats or sleeping bags or kettles of hot chocolate.

There was also something else in the chamber with the sleeping children, a goblin with a broken neck—a very broken neck. The head had been twisted around until it stared over the dead creature’s back. Again, Nick was grateful for his nose filter.

“Where’s Qasim?” Jack asked, doing a quick 360°.

“Not here—and I can’t feel him,” Abrial answered with a frown.

At the same moment, Roman said, “Up to no damn good.”

“Damn it!” Abrial reached down for the goblin corpse. “Let’s see what he knows.”

“What are you doing?” Nick asked. “You want my expert opinion? He’s dead—real dead.”

“Even the dead can sometimes tell us things,” the nightdemon answered. “I’m going to see if he has anything useful to say.”

Nick nodded but turned; not even his curiosity was enough to make him watch whatever it was Abrial was going to do to the body.

“The air smells cleaner, and it’s warmer,” Nick said in relief as he knelt beside the nearest child and felt for a pulse. He’d been worried about the children breathing bad air for prolonged periods of time. Though they looked like broken dolls, they didn’t seem dehydrated or starved. Still, he had a great deal of respect for fey magic and how it could mask appearances. Who knew what these children were thinking or feeling as they dreamed in unnatural slumber?

It was a relief to feel a light but steady heartbeat in the boy’s neck. His skin was also cool but not dangerously chilled.

“It’s convective currents,” Abrial answered, sounding remarkably like a modern man of science. Nick still didn’t turn to look at him. Instead, he checked the child’s red and green backpack. It said jeffrey in gold letters. Feeling its heaviness, Nick opened the canvas sack. Inside were a pair of expensive binoculars.

“Cold outside air is heavier and cleaner, so it displaces the goblins’ foul stench,” Thomas explained. He also knelt. He and Zayn were both swiftly checking the children. “Air is also heated by the underground thermal pools, which then rises. And you should be thanking your lucky stars for that. The smell of an ancient goblin midden can be . . . debilitating.”

“I don’t wish to sound alarmist,” Farrar interrupted gently, “but I really do feel that we should get this moveable feast underway. The goblins are getting closer. I can smell them—and they us. Especially the children. Their scent will remain after having been kept here for so many days.”

“Do it,” Jack ordered. “Abrial? Anything useful?”

The nightdemon made a sound of disgust and tossed the goblin aside; the body hit the wall and then slid to the floor. “There’s nothing here. Qasim drained his brain. I think he may have been drugged as well.”

Farrar began to play his pipe. Nick could discern no melody to the strange song that floated on the air, but it had an immediate effect on the children. It was too much to say that they awoke, but their eyes did open and they climbed to their feet. Their slack expressions bothered Nick, but he was relieved that they were at least mobile and not panicked. This part of the plan had sounded farfetched to him.

“Move them out as quickly as you can. I can hear our unfriendly hosts coming from the west.”

Nick couldn’t hear anything except the Piper’s song, but he didn’t doubt Jack’s word.

He and the others managed to get the children out of the chamber and into the passage that led back to the bone repository just as goblins began coming—a dozen at first, then a score, a hundred, two hundred . . . too many. They had a plethora of extra appendages, all carrying weapons. The goblins apparently hadn’t seen them yet, but they would soon. Nick had been told that the enemies’ eyes were nearly as keen as the feys’ and their noses were often better—especially those of the trolls, if the goblins had any with them.

“Farrar?” Jack asked. “Can you do anything to slow them?”

“I can’t do the goblins and hold the children enthralled. It would wreck their brains,” he answered, looking in the direction of the approaching swarm. “I don’t know if I could do these all anyway. They’re acting crazed. What the hell is wrong with them?”

“They’ve frenzied,” Thomas said. Nick didn’t know what he meant, but judging from his expression, it wasn’t good. As if to confirm, Thomas added, “They’ve overdosed on goblin fruit and corpse powder—likely a booby trap that they stumbled into, probably courtesy of Qasim. He always was one who liked to play with poisons.”

“Swell,” Roman answered.

“The good news is that they’ll die eventually,” Thomas said. “Corpse powder overdose is nearly always fatal.”

“And the bad news?” Nick asked—reluctantly, but he asked.

“They won’t croak before they try to tear these children—and us—to shreds. It will also be harder to kill them, because they won’t feel pain or shock from any wounds. Corpse powder is like goblin PCP.”

“And if that weren’t enough, I see trolls,” Roman mentioned. Nick squinted down the narrow corridor and could see what looked like giant goblins bloated with muscles in the midst of the pack. They had enormous noses and more teeth than he had ever imagined any mammal could have. They were drooling what looked like blood.

“I see them,” Thomas said. “They’ve frenzied, too—chewed off their own tongues. I guess we know what was done with all those bones from New Orleans. Qasim must have made bushels of corpse powder and put it around this chamber as a trap. Or maybe he planned all along for the goblins to attack the children and do the killing for him.”

“This isn’t good news. We had better split up,” Jack ordered. “Nick, head left—and watch for the dragon. He’ll be coming this way, and he tends to flame first and ask question later. Abrial?”

“Zayn, take the kids—you’re better with them,” the nightdemon said. “I’ll hold the goblins here for as long as I can, then try to lead them away from you.”

Jack clapped the nightdemon on the shoulder. “Our cause needs many things, but not a martyr. Buy us what time you can, then get the hell out. No heroics, Abrial, and I mean it. We don’t want to lose this battle, but it would be worse to win the battle and lose the war.” When Abrial opened his mouth to object, Jack said: “Executioner, have you forgotten Qasim? He still has to be found and dealt with. You may be the only one strong enough to track and take him.”

“I haven’t forgotten. Get going,” Abrial agreed. Turning swiftly and dropping to one knee, he sighted down his rifle barrel. “Thomas?” he called.

“I’ve already summoned the dragon. He’s on his way. It may take him a while, because some of the tunnels are too narrow.” Thomas had to raise his voice to be heard above the screams now echoing up the passageway. He turned to Nick. “Can you manage the children?”

“Yes,” Nick answered immediately. He would have to. He was okay with a gun, but Thomas was the better fighter, and they couldn’t leave Abrial here alone; he’d be overwhelmed in minutes— maybe even seconds, if any goblins sneaked up behind him.

“Take off, Jack,” Roman said, unslinging his weapon, which looked like some distant cousin of an Uzi. It carried a lot of rounds, but Nick wondered if it would be enough. For the first time in his life, Nick found himself wishing for hand grenades and anti-tank missiles—and perhaps even nuclear weapons.

“You’re better with children,” Jack objected. “And I’m . . . I’m a death fey. This slaughter won’t bother me as much as it will you.”

“That’s true, but we can’t afford to lose you,” Roman answered. “That’s the bottom line, Jack. And you know I’m right. We can lose anyone but you.”

Jack’s tight mouth said he didn’t like the bottom line, but he didn’t argue further. He put his whistle to his lips and turned down the righthand passage. A large group of children followed. Jack did not look back.

Taking a deep breath, Nick did the same. A third of the rescued children obediently turned in his direction, staring with blank eyes. Nick prayed that he wasn’t doing anything terrible to their minds.

“Farrar, go with Nick,” Abrial said as he began shooting. He was fast, but he made every bullet count. Sadly, it didn’t slow the horde at all.

Roman knelt beside Abrial and Thomas, bringing his own rifle into position. Its first blast was as loud as a thunderclap. Whatever was in his gun, it finally penetrated their trance; the goblins screeched loudly and then began to return fire in a disorganized fashion, shooting more of their own than at the fey. Still, the mob did not slow.

“Nick—leave!”

“I’m gone,” he said.

He pulled back as the tunnel erupted in ricocheting bullets and chips of razor-sharp rocks. He walked backward, looking on with respect. None of his friends so much as flinched. Even when shattered stone stabbed them, they went on shooting methodically, buying him and Jack and Zayn time to get the children away.

Nick glanced at the Piper. He wasn’t sure if he was grateful for the company or not. Farrar would be better at handling the children and knew his way around the goblin tunnels, but the Piper was disconcerting and more than a bit repulsive.

“Have a care, nephew. And the Goddess watch after you all.” Farrar didn’t wait for Nick to agree or add his own blessings; he blew his flute and the children filed into the passage after him. They flowed around Nick as if he weren’t there. Farrar called, “Nick, watch our backs. I’ll scout ahead. If any goblins are still sane, they may try to cut us off through side passages as well as come up from the rear.”

“I’m on it.” Nick looked down at the gun in his hands. It was ugly and, he knew, very efficient. It even smelled like death, bringing home the fact that dress rehearsal was over. The curtain had finally gone up, and everything that happened from here forward would be real. This was battle to the death.

Nick turned and followed the fleeing children. Like Jack, he didn’t look back.

“We’re in the Death Valley tunnels now, under the Panamint Mountains. There’s an exit at Furnace Creek. The locals call it Devil’s Hole.” Nyssa’s tone was conversational, but Zee wasn’t fooled; the woman was near panic. They could all sense that time was running out and danger closing in. “The Christian Bible speaks of a bottomless pit where demons dwell, in Revelations. There is a preacher on television who believes that Devil’s Hole is one of the portals to Hell. He tells his parishioners that it is no coincidence that this place is found so close to Nevada’s brothels. ‘For a whore is a deep ditch and a strange woman is a narrow pit,’ or something like that. I never can keep the Proverbs straight.”

“Lovely,” Bysshe muttered breathlessly as they jogged. “I just adore picturesque places.”

Zee didn’t say anything, and she didn’t laugh either.

Nyssa made a face. “I read that Charles Manson searched for a bottomless pit in Death Valley in which he and his family could hide until he would come forth as leader of the new world. He’s a goblin, you know. Insane, too. A rogue from Los Angeles.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Bysshe said. She lifted a hand to her nose, pale in spite of her exertions. The ambiant smell was getting stronger. Zee didn’t care for it, but it didn’t make her ill the way it did the other two women.

“There is a small platform around here some where,” Nyssa said with a small cough. “We need to climb up to it and then follow along a ledge and down a tunnel. It’s at the edge of a canyon. From there you can look down this abyss into a pool at the bottom. The pool connects to a vast underground lake, the bottom of which has not been explored— at least, not by us or the humans. It has some endangered species of tiny prehistoric pupfish found nowhere else on Earth. They’re small but ferocious. Thomas and Cyra believe the pool may be connected underground to other small pools of pupfish located hundreds of miles away in Arizona and New Mexico. The Devil’s Hole is also connected to the underground caverns located beneath Area Fifty-one.”

“What is that?” Zee asked.

“A place where the government has been doing some nasty experiments. They let people think it’s with aliens from another world, but I suspect it is really with some fey bogeys—perhaps a hobgoblin. Supposedly these reptilian-type aliens live in the tunnels and show up now and again to scare the locals. We had only just started investigating when this thing with Qasim came up.”

“And this is where the ax is? In this chamber with an abyss?” Bysshe asked.

“Yes.”

“But not at the bottom of a pit with the ferocious pupfish or whores?” she clarified.

“No. At least . . . I don’t think it is.”

Bysshe rolled her eyes.

Chapter Five

A migration of upright shadows followed, collecting up strays as it went so that the tunnel grew darker as Nick progressed through the goblin lands. He had the oddest conviction that if he stepped among them, he would hear them murmuring—dark ghosts lost in underground oblivion where night always ruled and the dead never rested.

“Your woman is brave.” Farrar’s voice startled Nick. Apparently it wasn’t necessary for the Piper to play constantly to keep the children moving.

Brave? That was a word for her. The more he knew Zee, the more he admired her. Nick doubted that anyone had ever told her that she could be president or an astronaut—or a leader of a hive when she grew up. Hell, he doubted they’d told her she could be anything. Yet, when she’d seen that she wasn’t really living—wasn’t thriving, at least—she had turned her back on the only society and family she had, and had set off to find a place where she could live and grow. And she had struck out boldly, taking her young siblings with her. Such a proposition was enough to make most young women quail, but Zee had never looked back.

Then she had run into a monster with an evil plan. Faced with Qasim, most people would have run as far away as possible. Instead, Zee had gone for help. She had found what were her supposed hereditary enemies and asked them for help in saving human children she didn’t know.

Yes, she was brave. And she was compassionate.

And she was . . . part goblin.

He kept running into that thought.

Nick shook his head. He didn’t know a lot about goblin culture, but everything he had heard over the last few days had convinced him that Zee was nothing like the family that had birthed her. She was a swan born into a family of vicious ducklings. And didn’t he believe—didn’t he know—that people could rise above their rough beginnings? The son of a racist wasn’t always a racist. The offspring of killers didn’t always kill. The demon seed myth was just that: a myth. Zee could be whatever she decided to be.

The floor of the cavern gradually grew folded, and in places the stone had shattered. The children slowed and many began to stumble.

“What happened here? An earthquake?” Nick asked, as he helped the unresponsive children as best he could.

“After a fashion,” Farrar answered, watching as Nick tried to deal with the small bodies. There was nothing else the centaur could do, having no physical body of his own. “And damn puzzling it will be to geologists, too.” He glanced down the tunnel and then back at Nick. There was admiration in his voice. “This is Cyra’s work, unless I miss my guess. The cave was already pissed at the goblins for their careless excavations, and was in the mood to do some damage. Still, it was quite a feat, getting the mountain to cooperate and cause a quake at the ideal moment.”

“It sounds a feat,” Nick answered, having a hard time imagining the delicate Cyra in control of such strong magic. It was also hard to imagine that anyone could communicate in any direct way with the earth. He’d seen Jack listening to the shian, but Jack never answered back—not that Nick had seen, at any rate. Nick supposed he had a long way to go in his recent education.

“That wasn’t her best trick, though,” Farrar said. “You’ve met the dragon, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s Cyra’s invention.”

“She made the dragon?” Nick tried not to gape. “You can make dragons?”

“The dragon—its personality—already existed inside Thomas. He was a split-personality back then, two actual beings sharing one body. Cyra was able to give the dragon its own body. She pulled dinosaur bones right out of the rock they had fossilized in, and then conjured flesh and fire for it.”

So this was Thomas’s animal half! Nick could now understand why the man had been glad to be rid of it.

“Cyra sounds a dangerous lady,” he said slowly. “She looks so fragile, too.”

“Don’t be fooled by appearances, Nick,” Farrar chided. “They are all dangerous ladies. Io singlehandedly took out the goblin hive in Detroit. Jack killed the leader, but the destruction of that underground city was all Io. Sober little Lyris killed the goblin king of New Orleans, who was also a master vampire. And Nyssa took out most of King Carbon’s elite troops by summoning the Wild Hunt— something few pureblood feys could do and remain sane, or even live to tell about it.” Farrar gave one of many periodic trills on his pipe, guiding the vacant-eyed children around a deep gouge in the floor. He added, “It wouldn’t surprise me at all if your Zee has some hidden greatness in her, too. Cadalach only calls warriors to service. And the magic mates you for a purpose. There are seeds of greatness in all of you that will be realized in the next generation as well.”

This notion was by no means new, but Nick didn’t like thinking about it. Hadn’t he just decided the whole genetic destiny thing didn’t really apply?

“It’s kind of you to help out with our problem— especially since the fight isn’t really yours,” he said diplomatically.

Farrar laughed. “Kind? I don’t think I’ve done anything out of kindness since good King Wenceslas looked out on the feast of Stephen.”

“That would be the . . . thirteenth century?” Nick guessed. His knowledge of such things was hazy.

“Eighth, actually. And lots of good it did him being kind to the peasants. They assassinated him the moment my back was turned.”

This was fascinating, but Nick refused to be distracted. “Well, if not out of kindness, why are you helping?” he asked directly.

“Three reasons,” Farrar answered. “I hate the goblins. I love my nephew. And I was bored. I leave you to decide which was the most motivating.” The centaur’s grin was spectacularly wide and a little scary.

A distant rumble rolled toward them through the quaking air, and Farrar stopped smiling.

“Um . . . the cavern isn’t likely to convulse without Cyra, is it?” Nick asked.

“That wasn’t the cavern. That was a bomb,” Farrar answered, looking suddenly quite grim.

“Something of Jack’s?” Nick asked.

“No, Jack would never use a weapon that harmed the earth—especially not so close to Las Vegas.”

“Near Vegas?”

“Yes. Remember that traveling the faerie road is not linear. We move around in space and time, and distances fold in on themselves.” Farrar cocked his head, listening. “We have to go. Right now. There’s another road nearby.”

“We are going. The children are doing the best they can.”

Farrar blew on his pipe and the children began to run. Apparently they could do better. Nick grumbled.

“We need to go faster,” the Piper said, and Nick picked up the pace.

“Why?” he demanded. “Will the blast come our way? Will it cause a cave-in?”

“Jack would never do anything to harm something innocent like the earth, but the earth isn’t so discriminating. Something hurt it and it will probably hurt back.” As if to underline this pessimistic prediction, the wall began to tremble and its iridescent green dust began to flake away. A few white stalactites freed themselves from the ceiling and smashed to the ground behind them, drilling into the floor.

“That was a warning shot,” Farrar said. “The next one won’t miss.”

Nick didn’t answer; he just picked up the two smallest kids and raced after the centaur and the others.

Farrar led them through a warren of chutes and caverns that seemed to cross and recross themselves until Nick lost all sense of direction. A horrible odor buffeted them, trying to force them back with scent that abraded mind and body. Nick began to feel desiccated, his skin dry and crisp. Even his eyeballs felt as if they had been buffed by sandpaper. The goblin lands were hostile.

“How do the goblins manage here?” he muttered, looking down at the smallest girl, who trotted near him. She showed no sign of distress, but Nick picked her up anyway. He knew that he probably looked ridiculous.

“Scent trails,” Farrar answered. “And they see really well in the dark.”

The thought wasn’t comforting.

The tunnels grew warmer and the smell more pungent. Nick thought it was like walking into the throat of some giant beast with particularly bad halitosis. Then, a possible reason for the temperature change occurred to him.

“Is it the dragon?” he asked Farrar. “Is that why things are warming?”

“Yes, and I do believe the beast’s been barbecuing again. That’s probably good news for us.”

They came into an amphitheater jammed with stalagmites and stalactites and precarious hanging cliffs that jutted out of walls that climbed upward beyond the fire light. It all looked to Nick like an avalanche waiting to happen.

As Farrar predicted, there was a barbecue in progress. A dozen goblins had been jammed into cracks in the walls and left to burn like torches. More were burning in a pyre in the center of the room.

“Thomas has told him and told him not to play with his food, but he never listens,” Farrar lamented. Nick cuddled the little girl a bit closer, shielding her eyes with his hand, though the children supposedly would not remember anything they saw.

There was no sign of the dragon, and so they went on quickly. The tunnels began to narrow again. There were dark niches cleft into the rocks, each filled with a barely discernible giant humanoid skeleton—which was still too discernible for Nick’s taste. The air was growing thick and suffocating, and was heavy with the odor of old death. The smell was better than new goblin, but not by a lot.

“Here there be monsters. . . . These are early-model trolls and hobgoblins,” Farrar explained, his voice floating on the miasmatic air.

“They look fierce,” Nick commented. And large—they were very, very large. And they’re almost as big as the giants must have been to fit in that pair of shoes Thomas showed me.”

“Yup. They’re like any predator—built to kill. Only, they were a little too good at it for the goblins’ peace of mind. You’re looking at the remains of one of the world’s many unknown genocides.”

“Do you feel sorry for them?” Nick asked, surprised at the shade of sorrow that had seemed to color Farrar’s voice. There had been no compassion in the centaur when he looked at the burning goblins, and no particular worry about the human children he was guiding.

“Oddly enough,” Farrar answered, “I do. Imagine being born with no purpose other than to be the goblins’ slaves. Most of these poor devils never saw the sun or the moon. They never loved and barely lived. Can you imagine anything so horrible?”

“I can’t imagine any of it. . . . But bad as that is, it doesn’t excuse what Qasim is doing,” Nick said. He was praying Farrar agreed. Otherwise, he’d start being really nervous about being lost in the Underworld with the Piper instead of just uncomfortably wary.

“No, I don’t suppose it does. But it explains a lot, don’t you think?” Farrar asked reasonably. And if there had been any compassion in his voice, it was now gone.

Chapter Six

They came to a stream, an icy affair of black water and patches of eerie mist, and Nick knew that they were on a new trail. They hadn’t passed anything like this on the way down.

Farrar didn’t hesitate to enter the stream— possibly because he didn’t so much ford as float through it. The children followed, but obviously the stream’s current affected them. Their footsteps stuttered and then slowed to a crawl. Nick waded in last, gasping at the cold that ate at his flesh down to his bones. This brought home how complete the Piper’s control over the silent children was: The kids never flinched.

“Hurry,” the Piper urged Nick, speaking not with his voice now, but directly into Nick’s mind.

Nick heard his ghost snort, and wondered if the Piper heard him, too. Fortunately, the ghost didn’t say anything about the unneeded plea for haste.

For it was unneeded. Nick required no urging to get out of the cold stream. He understood the dangers of hypothermia to his small charges, and if that wasn’t incentive enough, they had never completely escaped the angry howls of the following goblins, though those had grown steadily fainter.

One little girl of about three was having trouble with the deepest part of the stream, which reached above her waist. Nick, hands beginning to go as numb as the rest of his body, picked her up and flung her unresisting body over his shoulder.

At the end of the stream, Farrar was urging the children under a waterfall; Nick watched as they passed through and seemed to disappear completely. It would be cold as hell, but if it got the goblins off their trail, Nick was willing to take a cold shower of smelly cavern water.

It occurred to him, as he thrust his body under the brutal, black stream, that he would actually be happy to see the dragon and its endless supply of fire.

There they were, eyes upon him; Nyssa, Bysshe and the girl who looked like Wren. For Qasim knew her now—not her name, but that she was descended from Wren’s family line. And that she had the blood of the late Seelie king in her as well. It called out to him as surely as his imprisoned brothers. Fate had brought her to him. The cruel bitch Goddess was finally answering his prayers for a Finvarra, but in her usual backward fashion: The child of Wren’s line had arrived centuries too late.

Qasim studied the unlikely trio. The three women were trapped on a ledge across a chasm. Goblins and one vicious-looking troll were closing in on both sides as they clawed their way over the loose scree, and the way behind the women was blocked with a giant boulder they could never hope to move without help.

The fey cavalry was nowhere in sight. Where the hell were they? They always managed to turn up when things got interesting.

Qasim could help them himself—if he wanted to die. The leap across the chasm was just possible, even in his weakened state. And he could probably move the stone.

But he was even more vulnerable to the goblins’ poisoned darts then they, especially now that the Black Queen’s heart was damaged beyond repair, run through by a frenzied troll who had caught him unawares. That troll was sleeping in Hell now. But the lutins had been tinkering with their poison formula and had designed something special, a new drug against hobgoblins that paralyzed the muscles. Qasim had been hit by a dozen already, and if it weren’t for the lingering strength of the magic in Mabigon’s stolen heart, he would have fallen. If the drugs slowed him any further, all the goblins would need to do was pierce his body with a silver sword and he would die.

And if he fell, what would become of his people—those few who were left, locked in their forest prisons? Would they remain there for eternity, not dead, but not alive either? There was still time to complete his mission—if he left now. He could reach the ax and sacrifice enough children to raise his nearest brethren.

No, he couldn’t risk a rescue of these women. Not even to save his daughter and the half-breed who looked like Wren.

Qasim turned his back and started to run for the cave where the children were sleeping. He took three steps forward and then stopped, confused by the soft voice and light that were suddenly filling his head. He was in a hurry—he had to get back to the children and begin the sacrifice while the moon was dark. They all had to die before sunrise, or there wouldn’t be enough power to wake his brethren. He knew this, but still he listened carefully because he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

He couldn’t disbelieve it, either.

And then Bastet appeared. Her body was changed—huge, larger than a panther’s—and her eyes were unusually cold and determined as she faced first Qasim and then the goblin horde. She chuffed once, then, letting loose a high-pitched yowl, Bastet leapt across the chasm and charged the first enemy who was closing in on the women.

Praying the feys’ bitch Goddess had not lied, Qasim spun about and ran for the ledge where the women were stranded. Reaching for the faraway stones, he threw his bleeding body forward and hurtled through space.

Something huge leapt out of a crack in the tunnel’s ceiling, and Zee was knocked back against the wall with enough force to break a human spine. While she was still too stunned to react, a rough hand gripped her under the armpit, and another thrust itself between her legs, where it pinched cruelly. Zee felt herself hoisted into the air and then hurled at the ground.

The blow was stunning, but Zee managed to roll onto her back and bring her legs to her chest. The protective gesture hurt, making her think that she had cracked her ribs, but she still kicked out as hard as she could when the shape loomed over her. She knew that she probably wouldn’t survive a third assault.

Her attacker was a troll. She hadn’t seen one before, but her mother had spoken of them. The creatures were tough. Ridges of muscles filled places on their bodies where muscles shouldn’t be, and this troll lived up to the reputation of his kind, barely grunting at the force of Zee’s blow. He leaned down swiftly, toothy mouth gaping wide under the hideous piece of gristle that passed for its nose, and Zee recalled the goblin word for troll—it meant chawer of bones. The creature’s rancid breath buffeted her face. The first whiff stopped her lungs, which refused to inhale any more stench.

Panicked, Zee lashed out with her hands, sinking nails into the creature’s nose and twisting viciously. Half of it tore off in her fists, and the troll screamed in rage, spraying her with more noxious fumes, blood and saliva.

Then it gasped, its scream cut off abruptly. The creature jerked upright and its ribs exploded.

Something hot that burned like a mild acid geysered over Zee’s face. She froze, watching in fascinated horror as an arm sprouted from the middle of the troll’s chest, holding a beating heart. It withdrew at once, and a second later the evil-smelling body was cast aside, its head dashed against a sharp rock that cut through the bowl of the skull. That bony lid slipped upright with a clatter, part of the brain still clinging to it.

“Run, girl,” a deep voice said as the troll’s stolen heart was thrust into a wound in her savior’s chest. It was the creature from the mall, Qasim, the hobgoblin. He had somehow crossed the chasm that divided them and killed the troll that attacked her.

If the troll had been frightening, this creature was the distillation of nightmares. He was huge, with limbs that jointed in both directions. His pale, mottled skin had ruptured in several places, and ropes of red muscle showed through his tattered Santa coat. Zee thought he looked like the cats that humans called cheetahs—only he was much stronger and scarier. Oddly enough, a giant cat had also appeared, and was slashing at the goblins that had encircled Nyssa.

Insanely, Zee felt relief. She also did what the hobgoblin ordered. Arm clamped to her injured side, and gasping for air though every breath hurt her ribs, Zee ran toward the opening in the tunnel that had suddenly appeared. Bysshe and Nyssa beat her there. They were both bruised and shaken but unharmed. The giant cat looked like a monstrous Bastet upon closer inspection, and it had driven the goblins away long enough for them to escape.

“Run, you fools!” the hobgoblin called again angrily, turning swiftly and sweeping a half-dozen new goblins off the ledge. “They’ve been drugged with corpse powder and have frenzied. I can’t hold them back forever.” It was only as he turned back that Zee understood the import of the hole in the middle of his body.

“Come with us to Cadalach,” Nyssa gasped, staring at the gaping wound in Qasim’s chest. “I’ll give you back your heart.” Zee found herself nodding stupidly.

The hobgoblin shook his head. “No, there’s no time. We’d never make it. More—so many more— goblins are coming.” His voice was harsh, and perhaps a bit weaker than it had been only a moment before. “I want you all to leave, and I’m going to seal the tunnel after you. That will buy you time.”

“But—”

“Just go! You’ll need that heart for something else—and soon.”

“What?” Nyssa demanded, flinching as the goblin reinforcements grew louder. The cat’s answering howls were equally as fierce, though Zee could see that the beast was peppered with many darts and was bleeding from a cut in its shoulder. “Why would we need your heart?”

Zee stared in horror and hoped that the men had gotten the bespelled children safely away. The little ones would never be able to survive this onslaught, especially not if they were drugged with the goblin poison.

“One of the fey babes about to be born shall come into the world without a heart,” Qasim predicted. “It will need mine to survive.”

“What?” Zee asked, her attention caught. A sudden chill washed over her body. She glanced at the very pregnant Nyssa and then down at her own body. A funny dark stain covered half her shirt, and she finally realized that she was bleeding.

“Which one?” Nyssa demanded, a protective hand on her distended belly as she knelt on the floor, catching her breath. “Which baby? Do you mean mine?”

Qasim shook his head. “Too many questions and not enough time for explanations. Go now, daughter, or we’ll all die here. They are sealing off the escape tunnels one by one, herding us toward a trap. The way behind you is the last route to safety.”

Then Qasim looked away from his daughter and to the woman he had once wronged two centuries ago. He said roughly to her, “Bysshe, take our daughter away. Now. You cannot help here.”

Bysshe’s face was anguished at this command, but she took Nyssa’s arm and helped her daughter to her feet.

Zee watched, feeling detached. Nyssa’s pregnancy had slowed her considerably, but the woman was still strong and had good reflexes. Given enough time, she might get away. But watching the obviously failing hobgoblin and the wounded cat, she felt they couldn’t do it alone. Zee went with her friends as far as the mouth of the tunnel and then, once Nyssa and Bysshe were safely inside, she turned, her shotgun raised, ready to fight beside the hobgoblin.

Qasim saw what she meant to do and reacted immediately. “No—save the child inside you. Your man will know how to give it my heart. And do not fear that your flesh will reject me, for I am of Finvarra’s clan, too. Do it, and it shall set my people free. Do it, so I don’t give my life in vain.”

Stunned, Zee stared into the creature’s eyes. “The child inside me? You know of it?”

“Yes, and it’s all true,” he rasped. “You carry the future of my race inside your womb.”

“But—”

“Eventually all the prisons will be discovered, and you will know where we are. Without your child’s help, my people shall be hunted down by humans and goblins, and they will surely and finally die. If you have any compassion, any sense of justice, you will not participate in this genocide.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“If you want to help, go. Go!”

The last of Qasim’s words were drowned out by an enormous blast, and part of the cave’s ceiling rained down around Zee, filling the air with choking dust. The goblins had blasted their way through the partially blocked tunnel. A flurry of darts flew everywhere, most lodging in Qasim’s hide as he shielded her as best he could.

The giant cat reacted immediately, hurling its body at the goblins. Zee cried out as dozens of spears pierced the beast’s flesh, running it through. The cat was thrown aside, and goblins fell on it, biting viciously.

“Go, girl,” Qasim said again, stepping into the goblins’ path. “The end is near.”

Stunned, and not knowing what to say or believe, Zee spun around and hurried as best she could after Nyssa and Bysshe. Warm blood ran between her fingers and down her side.

Behind her, the air filled with an inhuman howling that shook the very stone of the cave and drowned out the goblins’ screams: It was the war cry of a hobgoblin. Qasim, master of all hobgoblins, was making his last stand.

Zee said a prayer to the Goddess, whom as a child she had always been forbidden to worship, asking for something she had never thought she would request: that Qasim would not give his life in vain. That her child would be spared—for her sake and for Nick, but also because it might save the hobgoblins. Hobgoblins! Yet, she wished this with all her heart. Qasim looked to be a monster, but in the end he had turned out more compassionate than her own people.

Chapter Seven

Nick stopped dead in his tracks in the tunnel, as stunned as if he had been clubbed in the head or stabbed in the chest. “Zee?” he whispered. “Where are you? What happened?”

She didn’t answer, she was elsewhere, but he knew that she was in trouble—bad trouble. He had to go to her. Now! But . . . Nick looked at the children around him. They were his responsibility, too. Most of the goblins had been left behind, probably all barbecued or shot, but that wasn’t the only danger. Could he safely leave these defenseless children with the Pied Piper of Hamelin as their only guardian?

“You’re forgetting Abrial and Nyssa,” Farrar said, as though reading his mind—which he probably was. It was an annoying trick that ghosts seemed to have. “Even if I was inclined to make off with these kiddies, your friends would find me—and be very ir ritated when they did. Go after your woman. I shall see the children safely away.”

As if to reinforce this command, the dragon appeared, backing into the room while being careful with its massive tail. Farrar blew a quick trill, parting the children so that the serpent had room to maneuver. There were a few weak goblin shouts and a flurry of arrows, which the dragon’s scales turned away. Then two goblins leapt into the room, waving guns.

Nick lifted his rifle, but the dragon breathed an answer to the goblin’s puny assault before he could even aim. Flaming lutins hurtled through the air and splattered against the wall. Their flesh was burnt away instantly, their skeletons melted by the heat.

“I can take it from here,” the dragon said, head whipping around. Nick swore it gave a toothy grin. “Go find your woman. She and Nyssa and Bysshe are being chased through the tunnels that lead back to Cadalach. It is too small for me to follow where they go. Qasim bought them some time, but Nyssa is in labor and Zee has been hurt. They need a healer. You must get to them.”

Qasim? Nick wanted to know about the hobgoblin and why he was supposedly helping the women—and why they were in a place where they needed help—but he didn’t wait for more explanation. He turned in the direction from whence he had sensed Zee’s mental call for help, and he ran as he had never run in his life.

Zee did her best to keep up with Nyssa and Bysshe—a not-so-difficult task, because Nyssa had gone into labor and her contractions slowed her to a stagger. Bysshe had her hands full just keeping her daughter upright and moving, so neither of them noticed as Zee began to lag behind.

Qasim had kept his word and somehow sealed the passage behind them. The goblins had tried blasting it open, but whatever the hobgoblin had done, the way had so far been closed off.

Truthfully, Zee wasn’t worrying about the goblins anymore. She knew her bleeding was bad, and she was growing weak and dizzy. And inside, she knew something was wrong. Her child was hurting. She had to get back to the shian—back to Nick. He would save her and their baby. The desperate thought drove her, giving her some urgently needed energy.

Her world was going black, though. Her vision narrowed to the barest of tunnels, where she could see only the dimmest gleams of light. She knew the passage they were in now, knew it should be sparkling like diamonds lit by blue fire. She also knew that she should feel warm—but she did not. All the world was cold, an arctic wasteland lost in eternal night. And she was alone, so alone!

There was a constant ringing in her ears as well, as though a tuning fork was struck on her brain and left to vibrate. It filled her head with pain.

“I found Abrial!” Nyssa gasped. Her voice came from very far away. “They did it! The children are all together with Farrar and the dragon, and Abrial’s on his way here with Zayn. Jack and Roman are meeting up with Cyra and Io. Lyris is already back at the shian. Everything is fine.”

Nyssa’s footsteps faltered again as a contraction seized her. This time, her mother couldn’t hold her up.

“Sit down before you fall down,” Bysshe instructed.

“Damn it! I am not having this baby in a damned goblin hole. I—Zee! Mother, what’s wrong with Zee?”

What was wrong with Zee was that she had lost too much blood. The world tilted suddenly, and Zee fell into Bysshe’s outstretched arms and was lowered gently to the floor. She was certain from her difficulty breathing that at least one rib had punctured her left lung.

“Zee, why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?” Bysshe demanded, pushing Zee’s sweater aside so she could see the wound. The healer’s reaction wasn’t good. She went totally still, and Zee could still see well enough to make out her stricken expression.

“Don’t worry,” Zee said, trying to comfort her. What else could she say? There was nothing Bysshe could have done to help her, not with the goblins chasing them and her own daughter in labor. “Nick will know how to fix me. Qasim said so.”

“Don’t talk,” Bysshe said, tearing off a piece of her shirt and wadding it against Zee’s side. Zee knew it wasn’t a good sign that she couldn’t feel the pressure through her pain.

“Thomas says that Nick is already on his way,” Nyssa panted, bracing herself against the tunnel wall. Contractions wrung her body. “He felt Zee get hurt. . . . Damn it. . . . Nick left the dragon and Farrar a few minutes ago. . . . Hang on, Zee. . . . Nick and Zayn will both be here in a minute. They can fix anything.”

But a minute would be too late; Zee knew that. In spite of her brave words to Bysshe, she could already feel her spirit unwinding from her body and slipping away.

I’m sorry, Qasim.

And Nick, I love you. I only wish I told you when I had the chance.

Nick peeled off his leather shirt as he ran, no longer caring if the goblin salts in the air dried or tore his skin; for some reason he just couldn’t breathe properly, and he felt terribly constricted in his chest. His left side was one long flame of pain, which caused him to remain hunched over. So, though driven by panic, an ancient Egyptian mummy could have run faster than he.

Still, he knew that he was heading in the right direction and that he was getting close. Zee’s voice was fading, but Nick could feel her presence now, and it grew stronger with each staggering step he took.

Nick felt alienated from himself, freed from his old conscience yet chained to something new. He wondered if he would miss his old limited understanding of the world. Would he miss being an island unto himself? It wasn’t that he had become a ruthless monster or suddenly believed that the ends always justified the means—although in this case they did. It was just that the rules of the universe had changed because the universe itself was different. He would kill or die to protect Zee—that was his new reality.

As if to test his resolve, a troll cross leapt in front of him. Nick never slowed. Ignoring the pain, he jumped for the armed monster and, making an educated guess about its anatomy based on its outward similarities to a human, he struck what should be a killing blow; he landed with a knee on the creature’s chest, slamming it into the ground even as he used a sharp chop to the throat to crush its trachea. The windpipe collapsed with a sick, crunching sound. The wound didn’t kill immediately, but Nick knew the troll wouldn’t be getting up to follow.

The troll cross convulsed as Nick sprang to his feet, and it fired the gun it was carrying in its lower left hand. Fortunately, the shot went wide, and Nick was away before the dying creature could get off another blast.

Ears ringing, pain worse than ever, Nick ran on, feeling his way as much as seeing it, for his eyesight was dimming. “Zee, don’t you die,” he gasped.

It took him a moment to notice that Abrial was suddenly running beside him, a supporting hand under his left arm that propelled Nick down the tunnel.

“Left,” Nick gasped.

“I know,” Abrial said. “Zee is with Nyssa, who’s having our baby right now.” The nightdemon hesitated. “You can probably tell from the sympathetic pain, but Zee has broken several ribs that have punctured her left lung. She’s bleeding heavily.”

Nick tried to run faster and found that he could. Abrial obliged him by keeping pace and holding more of his weight. Nick sensed that the nightdemon could have moved even faster, but he was deliberating slowing himself to stay with Nick.

“There is one other thing you should know,” Abrial warned. “Nyssa says that Zee found out that she is with child.”

“Zee’s pregnant?”

“Yes.” Nick sensed Abrial wanted to say more, but left it at that. “Zayn is right behind us. He may be able to help you with Zee.”

Nick stared doggedly ahead, trying to understand what Abrial wasn’t saying. But his brain refused to think of anything except the fact that there was only one more bend in the tunnel and then he would be with Zee.

And then he was there, looking down at his lover, who was as pale as salt, her eyes sunken in and her chest barely moving. Her clothes were drenched in bright red blood. More blood than anyone could lose and survive.

Nick stared, stunned. Zee was close to death. Only a few weak heartbeats away. How had this happened? She was supposed to be safe! If anyone was going to get hurt, it was supposed to have been him.

“I’ve done what I can,” Bysshe said, shifting away to make room for Nick. “The rest is up to you, boy. I just hope the bond is strong enough to save her.”

Zee dreamed that she dined at a feast on a table so long that she could not see the end of it. Every food she had ever imagined was there. But though she ate and ate, she was not sated, and it occurred to her that she was only dining on new hallucinations shaped like her old dreams.

The thought was painful, but it seemed right. Wherever she was, there would be no true succor or comfort to be had here.

One thing would make her hunger cease, and one thing alone: She had to fill herself with the thing that would never be depleted. Not meat, not a dream of freedom, but love—that was the only thing that was real and eternal. Only with this, would the void inside her finally be filled. Love— that was the world’s most sumptuous dish. It was what she had always craved. And though she hadn’t found in her family the kind of love to end her soul hunger, it didn’t mean that all relationships would be as fruitless and unfulfilling.

But how to find that love now? She was so hungry—so tired and weak.

Fear, child. It is your fear that makes the void inside you and makes you weak. You must have faith that your future can change.

Fear. Yes, and she had clung to her fear even after she had seen the Goddess and she had been told that she was safe and could let herself love.

Yes, and now it’s time to let the old wounds heal, to fill up your soul with what is good and nourishing.

Zee nodded weakly. But how?

First, child, you must pluck out every arrow that punctured your heart. Forgive the cruelties inflicted on you. Empty yourself of that poison and disappointment. Only then will the pain cease, and will you be able to believe that your future shall be different than your past.

Zee did what the Goddess asked. She reached inside herself and took hold of one of the arrows that had pierced her heart. She jerked it out and instantly felt a bit better. She held up the arrow. It had writing on it. The words said: bad daughter. That was from her mother. Zee threw it away and reached for another. This one also had writing on it. She recognized Luz’s rough hand: Half-breed traitor.

Zee threw that arrow aside as well, and felt stronger. After that she worked faster, not pausing to read what all the painful shafts said, just pulling them out and casting them away. But there was no way to move fast enough.

Nick stared at Zee, trying to understand the meaning of Bysshe’s words through his growing despair.

Too late! I’m too late! Nothing can save her.

“Stop that!” Bysshe shook Nick and said gently, “It isn’t too late. Her spirit is still here; I can see it. Nick! I know that your relationship has been difficult and that it is awfully soon for you to know your feelings, but you can still save her. All you have to do is search for her with love.”

“Love?” he repeated stupidly. How could love stop bleeding or give Zee back a whole lung?

“Listen to me, Nick: This isn’t about the body. It’s about the spirit. The soul is the place of record for love given, for love taken. For perfect love hoped for, and for imperfect love that somehow grew more perfect in spite of its flaws. Look into your woman’s eyes—really look—and you will see what’s written in her soul. There is love there, I swear it. It is that which you must talk to. That is the only thing that can call her back. You are fey, Nick, and Zee’s mate. The magic will let you do this. Believe me.”

Call her back? He wanted to . . . but how? Nick had never felt more helpless in his life. What did he know of magic? Still, Bysshe’s words brought faint hope. Faint hope that was growing stronger as he saw Abrial nod at him.

“You can do this,” the nightdemon said. “All fey can. It’s part of us.”

“I’m just not certain that I understand—still— what it means to be fey. How can I save her when I don’t even know what I am?” Nick asked. He turned to Zayn. “How will I know what to say and do? I’ve never worked a spell in my life. I’ve never seen one worked.”

“You can know yourself, if that’s what you truly want,” Abrial said. “Your ancestral memories are on a sort of neurological umbilical cord linking you to your past—your hereditary destiny. All you have to do is unearth the link in your mind. Grab it, and it will take you home. Give the memories their voice and they will tell you the story of all that you are and all that you can be. You simply have to listen—but be prepared for what they might reveal. They will tell you who you are and what you need to do. They will give you the words to call back Zee’s soul. All you have to do is be brave and listen.”

Did he really want to know his fey nature? No, not really, and especially not at this instant. What did that mean for his future? But nothing mattered when he compared his fear of unwanted knowledge against Zee’s life.

But you must. We must, the ghost said.

Determined, Nick dropped to Zee’s side, taking her cold hand in his and pulling it close. Around his own fist he could feel warmth and knew the ghost was with him, doing all he could to help her.

Be strong.

Though it was not his body that was dying, Nick’s entire life passed before his eyes, images pulled along by a rope of silver that raced away from him even as he watched, a reel of gleaming thread being wound around a spindle held in an old woman’s hands. She stared at him with fixed, dark eyes.

He was four and then six. Eight and then ten. Images flashed by. His childhood had been privileged in many ways. There was plenty of food, good schools, travel for educational purposes—though he hadn’t visited Disneyland until a high-school field trip. He had enjoyed the visit, of course, but the Magic Kingdom had come along too late in his life. He hadn’t been able to believe in manmade enchantment. Mickey was just a guy in a mouse costume. And any awe Nick had, he stuffed deep inside where no one would see it—because that was what he always did. Because that was what he’d been taught to do.

Seeing the end of the line, the last bit of light, Nick reached out a hand and clutched at the silver rope, trying to slow it down. Instead he was pulled along with it, dragged backward toward understanding and away from Zee. Frightened, he fought the rope but could not make himself let go; somehow the silver cord had embedded itself in his hand.

Nick turned his head, looking at his destination. The cord was ending in some sort of dull metal box. Now that he looked, Nick could see the box at the center of his soul—built by his family’s expectations and his own need for self-defense against their disappointment. And this was the place where all his joy and love had gone.

Understanding blossomed. He wasn’t sure how he felt, discovering that the trouble wasn’t that he hadn’t had any magic in his life, but that it had been secured away from him all these long years in a treasury that he had hidden from his family and forgotten.

But you know me now, a gentle feminine voice said. And I shall always be with you. Just let me in and you shall know all that you need to live.

Yes. He knew magic now. And joy. And love. It had taken finding Zee—and then losing her—for Nick to rediscover that this strongbox existed, and where the keys to the lock were.

Partly guided by the ghost, Nick grabbed the key that floated in the air and stuffed it into the box’s rusty lock. It hurt his hand and his heart, but he forced the key to turn.

Above, his closed-up heart broke open, but it did not shatter into useless pieces as he half-expected it would. Instead it cracked open and let Zee’s love— and his unspoken love for her—come inside. Knowledge of his true nature came, too. All his doubt and fear disappeared.

The ghost sighed a long exhalation of relief.

Suddenly, he was beside Zee again, kneeling on the floor of the goblin tunnel.

“Talk to her, Nick. Call her back,” Bysshe urged one last time. “Mother Nyx is near and drawing up the thread of life. You must hurry.”

Nick nodded. He was no longer afraid. He had never worked any magic, but he understood what he had to do. The words came to him, supplied by the ghost, his older, wiser spirit. He looked into Zee’s dulled eyes and began to speak.

“The music of the heart can be gentle—and it can be stirring. Maybe this isn’t news for you, Zee, being born with great compassion and an ability to love . . . but I didn’t know this. Before you, there was little joy in my life. In fact, there was not one day of glorious happiness. But those days are all gone, and now I know that you’re the reason I’m alive for the first time in years. There is color in my world, and happiness in my heart—and all because of you.

“Please fight. Please stay. I don’t want to end up living out my life in that old, awful silence where I’ve been,” he whispered as he broke every rule of medical training and lifted Zee’s body and held it close. “Come back, Zee. I love you. If you love me, too, then Death has no power here.”

In his arms, Nick felt Zee shudder and then gasp for breath. Slowly, she began to warm. Half afraid, he looked down and was relieved to see color flushing her cheeks. Her eyelids began to flutter.

Mother Nyx appeared suddenly at the feasting table beside Zee. She turned in her chair and reached out with her dark cobwebbed arms, stilling Zee’s hands, which were plucking out bloody arrows. Her touch was not cold, though Zee had thought it would be.

Zee looked into the crone’s beautiful black gaze, so filled with comfort and compassion that she almost surrendered to her death. But then she heard Nick’s voice, calling her home.

“Nick?” she whispered, turning away from the death goddess.

After a moment, Mother Nyx dropped her hands, freeing Zee and letting her decide what her soul wanted to do.

“Yes, I’m here. I love you, Zee,” Nick said again when he heard her faint whisper. He could feel himself grow stronger with the repetition of those words. He said a third time: “I love you.”

“And I love you.” Zee’s eyes slowly cleared and she smiled. It was a weak effort, as faint as her voice, but Nick felt it for the blessing and miracle that it was. Zee had died, but because they loved, she lived again. He, too, was being offered a chance at new life. He would snatch it up and not worry about the future.

“It’s okay now, Nick,” Zayn said, putting a hand on Nick’s shoulder and kneeling beside him. The healer was breathing hard. “You brought her back. You rescued her soul. Now let me help you to see to her body so we can get out of here.”

Chapter Eight

The moon had scarcely gone when Nyssa gave birth in a goblin lair, and Abrial Nightdemon first beheld his child: She was a lovely girl with her father’s night-black hair and her mother’s kind eyes.

Nyssa wept as she held her daughter, partly in happiness and partly because her father—horrible as he had been—had not had the chance to see his grandchild born. “Not that he would have cared,” she added sadly.

A still-weak Zee reached out a hand to both Nyssa and Bysshe, and she said softly, “He cared. Don’t ever forget that he died saving us when he could have gotten away.”

Nyssa shook her head. “The queen’s heart was wrecked. He was dying. We were just an afterthought.”

“No.” Zee shook her head; she knew better. “He would have lived long enough to steal someone else’s heart if he abandoned us. He chose to make his stand because he wanted us—and our children—to live.”

Nyssa thought for a moment and then nodded. She held her daughter close and sighed into the child’s dark hair.

A moment later Io and Cyra were there, exclaiming and fussing. It took only a moment for Nyssa and Zee to be lifted and carried toward home. Jack, Lyris and Roman were still missing, but they had gone with Farrar to take the children to the nearest human town.

“What the hell is that?” Nick asked, staring at the small wheeled vehicle rolling toward them as they neared the gate to the shian. It carried some sort of a camera whose lens was splashed with mud. He held Zee supported in his arms, though after drinking Zayn’s draught she had insisted that she could walk.

“A robot,” Abrial answered, stepping in front of Nick and lashing out at it with his foot. A few kicks reduced the mini-jeep to twisted metal. It was an impressive act of violence: the demon didn’t even disturb his sleeping wife, who was cradled in his arms. “The university set dozens of them loose down here back in two thousand two after the Las Vegas flood took out the Yucca Mountain nuclear storage facility. They figured it wasn’t safe to send humans, so they have these drones mapping the tunnels for them. They have robotic fish, too. They haven’t found the shian yet. Thomas has some scrambler in place and he sends out kill-bots of his own. And the goblins have managed to keep them out of their territories, too. So far. But it’s probably only a matter of time before we have a breach.” Abrial sighed.

The sound was an odd one, coming from him. Like his next words: “It never gets any easier.”

Late morning almost a week later, the dragon squatted down on all fours as a puppy might, hindquarters in the air but with his nasty tail tucked out of sight. He gave a wiggle and then pretended to pounce. Gretel and Thomas’s daughter Meriel squealed and darted away. The dragon faked a swipe that missed them by several inches and then mock growled when the children got away. Nick knew it was a mock growl because he’d heard the real thing; it wasn’t a sound that one forgot.

He was still far from easy about allowing the kids to play with the dragon, but no one else seemed alarmed at their games, so Nick held his peace, content to play with Zee’s hair as she napped in his lap, one hand trailing in a pool of blue healing water, the other tucked in the stone imp’s fur. Zee’s ribs had healed and she was gaining strength fast, but she was still napping several hours a day.

As soon as she was well enough, they were getting married. Nick couldn’t wait for the day.

“So, you are leaving us for a while?” Thomas asked. “Jack managed to fix your Jag, I hear.”

“Yeah, we’re going for a while on a sort of . . . honeymoon. Chloe and Zayn have offered to keep the kids—if I get them more dog cookies,” Nick answered. He smiled wryly. “Actually, the real reason is that I don’t want to end up on one of those missing-without-a-trace programs. I’ve got affairs to see to. But we’ll be back before the baby is born—long before. I am taking no chances. We’re going along with the idea that Qasim’s prediction is true and we’ll need his heart.”

“It’s a bit scary to think about,” Thomas agreed. “Have you figured out what to tell your family?” He watched the dragon waddle by, chasing his small daughter, but didn’t turn a hair when the beast snapped its massive jaws together in an audible crunch.

“Not really,” Nick answered. “I’ll have to think up a good lie. Except for my sister. I need to tell her some version of the truth, since this . . . this heritage, affects her as well as me. And—I have to admit this—I’d like her to think about moving farther away from my dad’s family. I’ve been doing some research, and it seems that they actually were elf-killers many years ago. Even if she doesn’t manifest any overt fey signs, I think she’d be happier with some distance between them.”

Thomas nodded. He gave no indication of whether he thought Nick’s confiding in his sister was a wise thing to do.

“There is also the matter of my job. I’m in a fairly small town. I have to find a replacement before I leave, or lives could be lost.” Nick sighed. “And I have a few close friends. They’re humans, though, and the most no-nonsense people you’ll ever meet. . . . Damn. I don’t know what to do about them either. Of course, I’ll introduce Zee and the kids later on, but after that? I can’t see us getting together for Fourth of July picnics, you know?”

Thomas nodded sympathetically. “That’s tough. Most of us here have gone through it, though. Some of us manage to keep our outside contacts, but eventually most of us find it easier to withdraw.”

“I still don’t know what I’m going to say. One thing’s for sure, they’d never believe all this.” Nick gestured at the gardens and the dragon. “If I told them even half the truth, they’d be calling for a straitjacket and feeding me anti-psychotics.”

“Humans do love their pills. Listen, it sounds a bit Pollyanna-ish, but these things usually work out. I have become a believer in serendipity.”

Thomas turned to watch his wife. Cyra was wading in the pool, her selkie skin cradled in her arms. The pelt had finally begun to wake up and grow. Nick wasn’t in a place of complete faith yet, but he was beginning to believe that there was a similar sort of benevolent providence looking over him and his new family.

He looked down at Zee and smoothed back the golden hair that fell like a veil over her face, and he felt a stab of pure, sweet emotion, right through his awakened heart. There were some things that a man did only once—like falling deeply in love. He was born one time, and he died one time . . .

Unless he’s a coward. Then I think the quoted number is one thousand, Nick’s ghost’s voice said.

I wondered where you’d been! I have a bone to pick with you. I’ve been doing some research, and the Ghost of Christmas Future was supposed to be the silent one. Didn’t you ever read the story?

Oops, guess I got that part wrong. The ghost laughed.

Nick squinted down at the pale face forming in the healing pool. He hadn’t seen it for some time, and he found himself smiling at the reflection.

Sorry to interrupt your beautiful thoughts, but I’m leaving you now and wanted to say good-bye.

What? Why?

You’re on the right path. I need to be getting on to what comes next.

The right path. How can you say that? Nick asked. I’m as confused as ever about what to do, and I could use some advice. Are you certain you have to leave this instant?

Yes, I’m sure. You have Zee now—and many other fine friends to guide you. You don’t need me. The ghost smiled, but already he was looking more tired and pale. Come on, Nick. You don’t really think I’d stop nagging if I didn’t know you were doing the right thing, do you?

That gave Nick pause.

So you think it’s wise to give up our outside life when the baby is born? That we can be happy here?

Oh, yes. Only give things up when you have to, but don’t turn away from the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Not for anything. And especially not because you’re upset and confused at having lots of happiness, love and friendship thrust upon you, the ghost said slyly.

Put that way, Nick’s continued worry and resistance did seem rather stupid.

What will happen to you now? he asked the watery figure. The ghost’s smile widened, and for a moment his image grew stronger.

Don’t you get it? We’re both going to live happily ever after.

Really?

Really. Good-bye, Nick. You take care of us. Our future is in your hands.

But . . . Well, good-bye. Be well.

Merry we meet, merry we part, merry we meet again. The ghost saluted, and his shadowy image gradually faded away, leaving Nick feeling slightly bereft but also hopeful.

“What was that?” Thomas asked, leaning over the water.

“What? Did you see something?” Nick asked, curious and startled. Could someone else have seen his ghost?

“I—I don’t know. I guess it might have been your reflection,” Thomas said. He shook his head and snorted. “Of course that’s what I saw. Sorry, Nick. The last couple of days have left me a bit jumpy.”

“I think we’re all that way,” Nick answered.

But everything was basically back to normal—or as normal as things ever were anymore. The children had all been returned, apparently without physical harm. The respectable news outlets who had any knowledge had been bribed into silence by the goblins who had—belatedly—decided that a preemptive strike against Qasim in which they murdered all the human children and hid their bodies where they would never be found might have been somewhat ill-advised. And while wild rumors were flying around the Internet about the event, and at Humans Under Ground, so far, aliens from outer space were being blamed by the conspiracy theorists. There would still likely be one or two repercussions, but there was time before the feys at Cadalach would learn what they were.

“So, do we attack Lobineau for what he did? He had to know what the corpse powder was for,” Nick added, changing the subject. A part of him marveled at how calmly he could now talk about killing goblins. He hadn’t thought of himself as a vengeful man, but almost losing Zee had changed that.

“No. He was helping Qasim, of course, and Qasim is dead. Anyway, better the devil we know. For now. And he has been punished—sudden massive withdrawals have happened in his bank accounts.” Thomas smiled a bit grimly. “The money is going to the families of those kidnapped children to pay for any counseling they might need down the road.”

Roman suddenly galloped into the garden on noisy hoofs. In horse form, he had Mathias and Hansel on his back, their small hands wrapped in his mane as they shrieked with laughter. Nick looked at the prancing pooka and felt his seriousness shaken loose by the sound of Roman’s whinnying—it sounded like laughter.

Yes, this was a good place. It was good for Zee as well. And when he stayed here, his children would grow up loved and knowing exactly who and what they were.

Epilogue

Jeffrey woke up vaguely alarmed, though his eyes told him that he was in his own bedroom and everything looked as it had the last time he’d seen it. He had a vague memory of a really scary dream where the Santa Claus at the mall was a monster who chased him. But it had just been a dream. His mother had told him that he was sick. That he had had a bad fever, and had wandered away from the mall and out into the desert. While he had been ill he had been suffering from hill-lucy-nations—bad dreams caused by his high temperature—but none of the scary things he remembered were real, and he was all better now. All the children who were sick had gotten better.

Which was great. He never wanted to have bad dreams like that again. It sucked that he had missed Christmas, though. They were going to have another Christmas on the weekend, with Grandma and Grandpa. And his mom had already gotten him a bike. There’d be extra presents then, as well as a turkey. But it wouldn’t be the same as Christmas Christmas.

Oh, well; one good thing had come from his adventure: His mother’s terrorist boyfriend, Ee-Em, had gotten tired of looking for him and, after shouting at the police, who thought maybe he had kidnapped Jeffrey, he had left in a huff. Now it was just Jeffrey and his mom again. That was the way it should be. Nobody needed stupid terrorists in their home.

Nick and Zee wandered through the farmers’ market, looking for souvenirs to take back to the kids at Cadalach and sharing a bag of kettle corn— something Zee craved regularly now that her pregnancy had advanced into its sixth month. Today was special because it was the summer solstice. It was also their last day before returning to Cadalach. Nick was taking no risks; he wanted her near Zayn and Qasim’s heart.

Nick was distracted by a medicinal herb vendor and turned away to talk shop; since working with Zayn, he had grown increasingly more interested in treating ailments through herbs. But Zee was too restless for another long lecture on plant medicine, and she continued to wander through the stalls until she reached the end of the aisle where there was a small cardboard box under a green umbrella. It said: kittens—free to a good home.

Reeeowww.

Heart beating a little too quickly, Zee approached the box. All the kittens were asleep, except a tan one with black ear-markings and huge yellow eyes that studied Zee without blinking.

It was her. Bastet! Zee was certain. She hadn’t seen the cat since Qasim’s sacrifice.

With shaking hands, Zee reached for the kitten and lifted it carefully. “Which of your nine lives are you on?” she whispered to the baby feline with ancient eyes.

Reeow, it said again.

“I’m sorry, love,” Nick said, coming up beside her. He had a small pot of Greek oregano in his right hand. “I know I get distracted at these things. There’s just so much to learn.”

Zee cuddled the kitten close in a tentative embrace, letting it rest on her slightly swollen belly. The new Bastet put her ear to Zee’s tummy and began to purr. Zee shivered at this further sign.

“I take it you want this kitten?” Nick asked with a smile. “Cats seem to do fine at Cadalach. Probably because they are uncanny creatures themselves.”

“Yes, she’s meant to be ours. The kids will love her, don’t you think?” Zee asked, stroking the cat’s velvet ears. “Maybe I’ll call her Bastet.”

“That’s a lovely name,” Nick said.

And Bastet smiled.

“I found him!” Abrial announced as he walked in on Midsummer’s Eve dinner. “Kris. I found him.”

“Kris Kringle?” Thomas asked, putting down his fork and looking at Jack and then back at Abrial. “The one and only Santa Claus?”

“Where is he?” Jack asked. He sounded resigned.

“Up north—where we expected. He’s been wandering the wastelands, living with the polar bears and seals. He’s suffering from total amnesia, and I’m betting it’s either a goblin drug that did it or one of Mabigon’s nastier hexes.” Abrial’s voice held distaste for the dead Unseelie queen.

“What are we going to do?” Thomas asked. He couldn’t keep the awe from his voice. Kris Kringle was a legend, and not just in the human world. He was a death fey who’d completely renounced his magical destiny and gone to do good works among the humans. He had been—at the time of disappearance, and even after—the best ambassador of goodwill the fey had ever had. Nowadays, everyone thought he was just a legend, a charming folk story. They no longer recalled that Kris Nicholas Kringle, Santa Claus, the Saint, had been real.

“What will we do? I’ll go and get him, of course,” Jack said. “I can’t very well leave my great-uncle living with polar bears.”

“Well, damn,” Thomas said, exhaling slowly. “Have you thought about what this means—what he’ll do when he remembers?”

“Yes,” Jack answered slowly. “And it’s a bit daunting, I must admit. But our way of holding back the tide can’t work forever. We juggle well, but someday we will drop the ball and there will be war—unless we can convince the world that it no longer needs to fight. Anyway,” he added with a wink, “don’t you think it’s time we took Christmas back from the merchants and the unbelievers?”

And the three feys sat and contemplated the magic yet to come.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Dear Reader,

It’s a bit unusual to urge readers away from a book, but I am doing it. I’m making an earnest plea right up front. If you haven’t read the other four books in the Wildside series, please go back and do so before you read this one. The experience will be much more fulfilling, believe me. At the very least, read Still Life. I don’t want you lost in the strange lands of goblins without an understanding of the terrain you wander through. In order, the stories are Traveler, Outsiders, The Courier, and Still Life.

That said, though this book travels deep in the goblin lands, it is also about something familiar to most of you: Christmas. The Yule season was always an important and beloved holiday in our family. It was my grandfather’s firm belief—expressed often over an acre of warm Christmas cookies and homemade apricot wine—that if you are too old to enjoy the holidays, then you are probably too old to enjoy any of the things that make life worthwhile. And the rest of us enthusiastically agree. I throw kisses at his shade and think of him every year when I bake sugar cookies, dye Easter eggs, or carve jack-o-lanterns.

Given this background, it took some imagination stretching to envision someone who didn’t like the holiday, and others who had never had the pleasure of celebrating Yule when they were young enough to truly feel the magic. But with my own grandfather’s Christmas spirit to direct me, leading the misguided Nick and the innocent Finvarras to festive salvation was a pleasure.

Qasim was a harder case, but I like to think of him being redeemed too. Salvation has to be possible for all of us— and he wasn’t so much evil as a creation gone wrong. And like Qasim, I also grieve for Wren and hate what the goblins did to her. However, like her namesakes in Wales and Ireland that are sacrificed so cruelly on St. Stephen’s Day, she too played a part in Fate’s plan.

On a lighter note, the packrat/imp story is true. Just ask Carolyn Johnson, who got to pay for a tow and to replace her car’s wiring after a visit to Arizona when the rodents made a mess of her engine.

Also, Nick’s lethal eggnog is not a fantasy and actually came from a horror writer friend, H. R. Knight. If you are feeling intrepid, below is Harry’s recipe for one of life’s real ambrosias.

Harry’s Nog (aka, Nick’s salmonella special)

Ingredients:

12 eggs

1 pound sugar

1 pint Chivas Regal

1 pint Stag’s Breath (scotch and heather-honey liqueur)

3 pints milk

1 pint cream

Directions:

Separate yolks and whites. Beat yolks to a froth. Add sugar, beating lightly, then liquor. Let stand an hour or more. (Overnight is best.) Add milk, cream. Beat whites with 1⁄4 teaspoon salt for each 4 whites. Fold whites into egg mixture. (Cut and dip only—the smallest amount of beating at this point can ruin the nog.) Drink sparingly and while wearing a Santa hat.

As always, I love to hear from you. Below are email and snail mail addresses, so don’t be shy.

Happy holidays the whole year through,

Melanie Jackson

www.melaniejackson.com

melaniejaxn@hotmail.com

P.O. Box 574

Sonora, CA 95370-0574

RESOURCE LIST:

The Worst Case Scenario Survival Handbook (holidays) by Piver & Borgenicht

Just Say Noel by David Comfort

Inventing Christmas by Jock Elliott

Anatomy and Physiology (Cliff’s Quick Review)

The Honest Courtesan by Margaret Rosenthal

Webster’s Compact Dictionary of Quotations