Gabriel scowled at him. “Seriously, Iri, you can’t see her if you want to stay in the court…and you know he needs you. You don’t expect him to put up with this, do you?”

“I wasn’t planning to tell him. Are you planning on spilling my secrets?” Irial stopped and stepped in front of his friend and former advisor. “Tell him the things I do when I’m not dutifully awaiting his attention?”

“Don’t be an ass.” Gabriel punched Irial. The force of it knocked Irial backward. Blood trickled from Irial’s lip. The Hound had always hit with enough force to draw blood. Several garish rings on his hand assured that every punch would wound—or leave behind distinct bruises.

“Now that you’ve made your point”—Irial licked the blood from his lips—“tell me: have you found her father? Or the wretch?”

Gabriel shook his head. “Niall didn’t want you knowing about that.”

“Niall doesn’t always get what he wants though, does he?” Irial watched a pair of coeds sizing Gabriel up. He spared them a smile that had them changing their path to approach—until Gabriel snarled at them.

The moment evoked a longing for simpler days, when he’d first met Niall and the three of them had traveled together. Various Hounds and Dark Court fey joined them here or there, but Gabriel was always with them to keep Irial safe. Niall was an innocent of sorts: he’d had no idea that he traveled with the Dark King, no idea that he himself was a Gancanagh. He was young and foolish, trusting and forgiving.

Until he met me.

Gabriel shrugged. His loyalty was to his Hounds first and then to the Dark King. A former Dark King, friend or not, fell somewhere after that. “I’m not disobeying my king, Iri, not even for you. If he wants to tell you, he will. Come on. Let’s go back to Huntsdale before he—”

“No.” Irial wasn’t in the mood to argue, at least not with Gabriel. The Hound was obstinate on his best days. “I’m not with Leslie, so you don’t need to intercede for the king. Unless he sent you after me?”

Gabriel held out his bare arms where Irial’s commands had once been written out, where Niall’s would now appear. “There are no orders here.”

“So go.”

Gabriel shook his head. “I thought he was an ass when he was with the Summer Court and trying to stay away from you, but you’re both a pain these days. Either work your shit out or walk away from the court, Iri, because this isn’t how you obey your king or work anything out with the one you claim to love.”

Irial didn’t answer. There wasn’t anything to say. His feelings for Niall and his feelings for Leslie were tangled together. He wanted Leslie to live surrounded by the protection of the Dark Court, indulged and cosseted while she lived out her mortal life. He wanted Niall to woo her and bring her home. He couldn’t truly have a relationship with either of them, but he’d done what he could to make them safe to have one with each other. If they were together, he’d have both of his beloveds in one house. It was the closest to a relationship with them that he thought possible. It was also what would make them happiest. They were just too damn difficult to take the obvious path.

Which is part of why I love them.

Leslie let herself into the building, wishing for a moment that Irial had walked her home or followed her. She knew she was safe, knew that her building was secure, knew the logical things that should make her feel okay. She still had panic attacks, though. Her therapist assured her that she was making great progress, but the hypervigilance was worse at night. And in close spaces. And in strange spaces. And in the dark when I am alone. Sometimes, she thought about inviting her faery guardians in so she wasn’t alone. My very own monsters to chase away the fears.

Now that she felt her own emotions, she wished she could give him the ones that left her shaking in cold sweats from nightmares she barely remembered. She wished she could give him the edge of the bad emotions—to nourish him and to let her get sleep.

It didn’t work like that, though. Since she’d severed her connection to Irial, she was left with mere mortal solutions. She went into her apartment, turned the door lock, but not the bolt. Not yet. She flicked on a light and then another. Then she checked each window. She opened the closets, peered under the bed, and pushed the shower curtain aside. It was obvious that no one would fit under the bed: there was no room. It was impossible to hide behind the shower curtain: it was gathered. Still, if she didn’t check, she’d be unable to rest. Once she was confident that she was alone, she turned the bolt.

Her pepper spray stayed in reach though. Always. Her phone was in reach too. The therapist, the girls in group, they talked about the difference between being cautious and being unwell. They claimed that she was being rational, that caution wasn’t bad, but she didn’t feel very rational.

“I’m afraid,” she whispered. “But it’s okay to be afraid. It’s normal. I’m normal.”

Silently she fixed a salad and took it into the living room. She slipped a DVD into the machine, so the silence wasn’t as weighty. The opening of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, a show that she’d found on DVD and loved, made her smile. It was a strange security blanket, but it never failed to remind her that she could be strong. That I am strong.

The phone rang. She picked it up. No one was there. She laid it down. It rang again.

“Hello?”

Again, no one was there.