their sanity in a monster’s bed.
When R’jan, the Seelie Prince who claims to be the new king, enters, the Unseelie snarl like feral beasts.
R’jan reminds me of V’lane, before he dropped the mask, revealing his true Unseelie self, Prince Cruce. Gold-dusted skin pours like velvet over a powerful body; he has the face of a stunning, imperious Archangel. Long blond hair falls past his waist, unbound. He, too, has modified himself into something elegantly human, with fawn leather pants and dark boots, a creamy cashmere sweater, a gold torque at his throat. R’jan laughs and dismisses his dark brothers with a regal, condescending wave as if shooing a bothersome fly from a banquet surely called in honor of him.
The Unseelie leap from their chairs, Barrons rises, Ryodan joins him, and for a moment all the males in the room posture, assessing, debating the pleasure to be gained from turning this room into a slaughterhouse against whatever it is they’re after that made them agree to this meeting. Just when I’m certain they’re going to succumb to savagery, Kat and I are going to be sprayed with blood and bone fragments, and I’m going to end up taking back my spear and using it after all, Barrons growls, “You will all sit. Now.”
No one moves. I laugh softly. That’s a mistake.
Ryodan is abruptly gone.
When he reappears, he’s holding R’jan from behind, a scarred forearm around the Fae’s throat. He presses his mouth to the prince’s ear and says softly, “Need I remind you what I did to Velvet.”
R’jan hisses.
“He said sit. He doesn’t repeat himself. Nor do I.”
When Ryodan shoves him away, R’jan drops down on the third side of our square, eyes blazing with challenge and hatred. Kiall and Rath slowly take their seats with elaborateindolence, as if they do so because they wish to and for no other reason.
I eye the fourth side, wondering who else we could possibly be waiting for. When our final guest walks up the stairs and sits at our table, it’s my turn to bristle.
I know the face of an O’Bannion mobster when I see one. I helped kill two of them. Our final guest is black Irish with a light complexion, thick, dark hair and eyes, and the blood of a distant Saudi ancestor in his veins. Broad-shouldered and handsome in a rugged, outdoors way, he moves with long-limbed grace.
Kat half rises, looking ashen. “Sean?” she says. “What on earth are you doing here?”
I glance between the two. I don’t need a sidhe -seer gift to know there’s deep emotion between them.
“Yes, what is an O’Bannion doing here?” I say.
“The name is Sean Fergus Jameson,” the man says in a thick Irish brogue.
“First cousin to Rocky O,” Ryodan says. “He tends to omit his surname in certain quarters.”
“Why is he here?” Kat says again, resettling slowly.
Ryodan says, “You’re looking at the three primary suppliers of goods in this city: myself, the princes, and the black market—like his fathers before him, also known as Sean O’Bannion. Seems your boy learned a trick or two working in my club, little cat. Bribed my suppliers. Got himself into the game.”
“Only because you were charging half an arm and most of a leg for a simple meal,” Sean says hotly. “We’ve women and children in our streets who’ve no way of paying such high prices. They were dying for want of milk and bread.”
“You show your true colors, O’Bannion,” Ryodan says.
“A good and honest heart?” Kat says sharply.
The look Sean gives her tells me everything: they’re lovers, and I suspect they have been for a long time. How does he think to stand his ground against this kind of competition? He’s a human among beasts.
Ryodan cuts Kat a hard, flat smile. “That’s often how it starts. Just not usually how it ends. If the two of you had been talking about any of the things you should be talking about, you’d have known.”
“You will stay out of my business,” Kat warns softly.
Ryodan
When R’jan, the Seelie Prince who claims to be the new king, enters, the Unseelie snarl like feral beasts.
R’jan reminds me of V’lane, before he dropped the mask, revealing his true Unseelie self, Prince Cruce. Gold-dusted skin pours like velvet over a powerful body; he has the face of a stunning, imperious Archangel. Long blond hair falls past his waist, unbound. He, too, has modified himself into something elegantly human, with fawn leather pants and dark boots, a creamy cashmere sweater, a gold torque at his throat. R’jan laughs and dismisses his dark brothers with a regal, condescending wave as if shooing a bothersome fly from a banquet surely called in honor of him.
The Unseelie leap from their chairs, Barrons rises, Ryodan joins him, and for a moment all the males in the room posture, assessing, debating the pleasure to be gained from turning this room into a slaughterhouse against whatever it is they’re after that made them agree to this meeting. Just when I’m certain they’re going to succumb to savagery, Kat and I are going to be sprayed with blood and bone fragments, and I’m going to end up taking back my spear and using it after all, Barrons growls, “You will all sit. Now.”
No one moves. I laugh softly. That’s a mistake.
Ryodan is abruptly gone.
When he reappears, he’s holding R’jan from behind, a scarred forearm around the Fae’s throat. He presses his mouth to the prince’s ear and says softly, “Need I remind you what I did to Velvet.”
R’jan hisses.
“He said sit. He doesn’t repeat himself. Nor do I.”
When Ryodan shoves him away, R’jan drops down on the third side of our square, eyes blazing with challenge and hatred. Kiall and Rath slowly take their seats with elaborateindolence, as if they do so because they wish to and for no other reason.
I eye the fourth side, wondering who else we could possibly be waiting for. When our final guest walks up the stairs and sits at our table, it’s my turn to bristle.
I know the face of an O’Bannion mobster when I see one. I helped kill two of them. Our final guest is black Irish with a light complexion, thick, dark hair and eyes, and the blood of a distant Saudi ancestor in his veins. Broad-shouldered and handsome in a rugged, outdoors way, he moves with long-limbed grace.
Kat half rises, looking ashen. “Sean?” she says. “What on earth are you doing here?”
I glance between the two. I don’t need a sidhe -seer gift to know there’s deep emotion between them.
“Yes, what is an O’Bannion doing here?” I say.
“The name is Sean Fergus Jameson,” the man says in a thick Irish brogue.
“First cousin to Rocky O,” Ryodan says. “He tends to omit his surname in certain quarters.”
“Why is he here?” Kat says again, resettling slowly.
Ryodan says, “You’re looking at the three primary suppliers of goods in this city: myself, the princes, and the black market—like his fathers before him, also known as Sean O’Bannion. Seems your boy learned a trick or two working in my club, little cat. Bribed my suppliers. Got himself into the game.”
“Only because you were charging half an arm and most of a leg for a simple meal,” Sean says hotly. “We’ve women and children in our streets who’ve no way of paying such high prices. They were dying for want of milk and bread.”
“You show your true colors, O’Bannion,” Ryodan says.
“A good and honest heart?” Kat says sharply.
The look Sean gives her tells me everything: they’re lovers, and I suspect they have been for a long time. How does he think to stand his ground against this kind of competition? He’s a human among beasts.
Ryodan cuts Kat a hard, flat smile. “That’s often how it starts. Just not usually how it ends. If the two of you had been talking about any of the things you should be talking about, you’d have known.”
“You will stay out of my business,” Kat warns softly.
Ryodan
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