“No,” said Riordan.

Folletti appeared around us, seeming to materialize out of thin air. And a figure stepped out of the portal connecting the throne room to Annwn.

“Hello, Sire,” said Samson. He was smiling poisonously. “I told you your association with these…people…would be the death of you. Better to keep to your own kind.”

“Sadly, a skill I have never possessed,” said Tybalt wearily.

“Lay down your arms, all of you, or I’ll tell my guards to dispose of you,” said Riordan.

“You’d break Oberon’s Law?” asked Quentin. He sounded wounded, like he couldn’t believe that an otherwise reasonable member of the Daoine Sidhe—his own race—would break the law so cavalierly. I guess dealing with so many crazy people really upped his standards for the sane ones.

“Oberon’s Law applies only to the places that Oberon is watching,” said Riordan. “Tell me, kiddo, what part of this room is Oberon watching? What part of anywhere is Oberon watching? We’d never have been able to open this door,” she indicated the portal to Annwn with a sweep of her hand, “if he’d been paying attention. Oberon’s gone. He’s not coming back for us. All you people still playing by his rules are backing the wrong horse. It’s the ones who realize the rules have changed who’ll win the race.”

“Not to be rude or anything, but you’re sort of mixing your metaphors,” I said, as mildly as I could with a dozen semi-visible swords being pointed at my vital organs. I’d survive being stabbed…probably. Quentin and Tybalt wouldn’t.

“Why do people always say ‘not to be rude’ when they’re about to be rude?” asked Riordan. “Now, are you going to lay down your arms, or are my men going to punch some nice new holes in you?”

My knife clattered against the receiving room floor. A few seconds later, Quentin’s sword did the same. Tybalt had no weapons to discard, but he raised his hands, showing that his claws were securely sheathed.

Riordan smiled. “Good,” she said. As quickly it had come, the smile faded, replaced by a look of cold dismissiveness. “Boys, take them.”

The Folletti closed in. Tybalt snarled. And something hard hit me on the back of the head, and everything went black.

TWENTY-TWO

I WOKE WITH MY HANDS TIED behind my back and my ankles tied together, lying on my side in a tangled bed of fresh-cut bracken. That, and the sweet, clean smell of the air coming through the window in the stone wall behind me, told me plainly that we were no longer in Riordan’s knowe. We were no longer anywhere in the Summerlands at all. There was no light in the room.

“Tybalt?” I whispered. I didn’t move while I waited for my eyes to adjust. “Quentin?”

Silence. I squirmed in the bracken until I could lever myself into a sitting position, making as little noise as I could in the process. Once I was upright, I opened my mouth enough to “taste” the air, breathing deep and searching for signs of the Folletti. There were none. There were no signs of Cait Sidhe or Daoine Sidhe, either. For the moment at least, I was alone. The room was small and round, making me suspect that it was some sort of tower. The walls were made of rough, unfinished stone.

“Fairy tale cliché anyone?” I muttered, and looked down at myself, taking stock. I had my shoes, which was nice. Actually, I had all my clothes, including my leather jacket. At least I wasn’t going to freeze while I was tied up in Riordan’s stupid tower. I tugged my wrists apart, testing the cord that bound them. It was rough and scratchy against my skin, like twine. It wasn’t quite tight enough to cut off the circulation, but it came close. I could work with that.

If anyone had been watching what came next, I’m sure they wouldn’t have been able to observe what followed without laughing so hard they gave themselves away. I half-scooted, half-tumbled my way across the room, nearly landing on my face several times before I managed to reach the wall. Once I was there I twisted until my shoulders were pressed flat, with my hands pinned between my back and the stone. And then, gritting my teeth against the pain I knew was coming, I began scraping my wrists up and down the wall.

The thing about tying someone with rope or twine is that it’s an innately fragile sort of bondage. Rope can be cut. Twine can be frayed. But if you do it right, most people, won’t be able to achieve these things without hurting themselves—and most people aren’t interested in hurting themselves when they don’t have to. I’m not a fan of hurting myself. I’ve just learned that sometimes it’s the only way.

My skin started giving way before the rope did, the smell of my blood seeping into the air to mingle with the scent of the bracken. I hate the sight of blood, but the smell of it strengthens me, even when it’s my own. It’s just one more annoying side effect of my increasingly inhuman biology. Still gritting my teeth—against actual pain now, not the promise of pain that might be coming—I pressed my back into the stone and sawed harder. The hardest part was forcing myself to keep sawing when the stone finished wearing through the skin at the base of my wrists. I could feel my flesh shredding. I could also feel the twine shredding. I kept going.

The first strand of twine snapped just when I was starting to think I’d have to stop and throw up from the pain. I tugged experimentally, and the remaining twine drew tight, giving me something new to saw against. I took a shaky breath, bit my lip, and went back to work.

The fact that I can bounce back from almost any injury that doesn’t kill me is usually an asset. At times like this, when I would have once needed to worry about permanently damaging my hands, it’s a godsend. There’s just one problem: I heal supernaturally fast, but pain still hurts. Normally, if you hurt yourself enough, and keep hurting yourself, your nerves will give you up as a lost cause, and you’ll stop hurting. Not optimal, but better than the alternative.

I, on the other hand, was already starting to heal. There was an itching underneath the agony that meant the cuts I’d made were beginning to knit themselves closed, flesh and muscle regenerating. And I was still sawing, which meant I was reopening those wounds faster than they could close, and the pain never got any duller. Blacking out was starting to sound like a great idea when the twine finally snapped.

I yanked my hands apart, ignoring the way the remains of the twine dug into my wounds, and bent forward to brace my palms against the floor, lean to the side, and puke. I stayed in that position for a while, dry-heaving and waiting for the pain to subside enough to let me sit up.