“Shit, you really are crazy, aren’t you?”

I was about to answer when another voice came, speaking a language I didn’t recognize, but loud enough that there was no way Aunika wouldn’t hear. A shadowy figure slid past ahead. When she didn’t see that, I cursed under my breath.

“What now?” she said.

“Nothing. Just … ignore me.”

“I’m trying to. Really, really trying to.”

She resumed walking. I caught snatches of voices and saw more streaks of movement as a vision encroached on the world of the living. That was not a good omen. It meant I was teetering on the edge of a full-blown vision.

Not now. Please, not now.

I kept my eyes open, as I mentally recited Dickinson’s “There Is Another Sky,” but stopped short because, well, there was another place here, another world, and I was desperately trying to stay out of it. I switched to Dylan Thomas’s “Do Not Go Gently into That Good Night,” which seemed thematically appropriate. The voices faded, and I stayed firmly in these subterranean tunnels, my penlight beam shining on Aunika’s back.

“You doing okay?” she asked.

I nodded, and she peered at me, as if not quite convinced. “I’m being quiet,” I said. “It is a strain.”

She shook her head. “The exit is just ahead. I’ll go up first. Keep the light down and let me make sure it’s clear.”

We reached another ladder, this one wooden and not nearly as sturdy. As she pushed open the hatch, I moved to the bottom, partly to defend her but also to race up that ladder if she tried to lock me in. But she only went through the hatch and then shone her light around before motioning for me to follow.

We came out in a different building. The night wind whistled through holes in the stonework. That gave me pause. Every abandoned place I’ve been in lately has spelled fae trouble. But when I looked around, all I saw was a cavernous room with rotting crates and barrels and holes in the roof.

I got about five steps, following Aunika, when I heard the voice again, louder now, a man saying, “Put it over there,” and another man, with a younger voice, replying in the other language, which I now recognized as Gaelic.

The first man snapped, “You’re in America now. Speak American,” and the young man said, “It is called English.”

A smack, as if the older man had slapped him. “Don’t be smart, you mug. You want to go downstairs, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir. I would very much like to go downstairs.”

The older man chortled. “I bet you would. Then do as you’re told. Finish loading those barrels in the cart and haul them to the wharf. We’ve got about three hours of night left.”

“But it is only midnight.”

“And we’ve only paid the coppers to look the other way until three. Now dry up and move!”

Bottles clinked. Prohibition? The conversation and the slang suggested it, but why the hell would I be getting visions of Prohibition-era smugglers? When I see past events, they’re fae memories, locked deep in my brain and poked by my environment.

“We go this way,” Aunika whispered, pointing. “And then run across to the building next door. That should get us far enough—”

I cut her short with an impatient wave.

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m trying to …” She trailed off as she heard what I had—the sound of actual movement, like a footstep on old concrete.

I pinpointed where the noise came from and took a slow step in reverse. Then another. Backing toward the wall, because there was no place to run.

Aunika saw me and did the same, and when a man slid from the shadows, he had two guns pointed at his chest.

I looked at him and my brain shot out biker and cop. Yes, there’s a world of difference between the two, yet there is an uncomfortable similarity, too. Paramilitary organizations, insular, male-dominated, an edge of machismo, devotion to the job … The guy had the military stance and the bold smirk, that preter-natural sense of calm from a guy with two guns pointed at him. A man accustomed to having guns pointed at him. From which side of the law, though? A tattoo peeking from under a short sleeve looked military …

“Nicely done, girls,” the man said. “But you do know you’re surrounded, right?”

“Good,” I said. “Have your friends step out and say hello.”

The shadows stayed still and silent. Aunika snorted. I slid her a look, one that said not to be too certain he was bluffing. My gut told me he wasn’t.

“So, little Aunika has a friend herself,” the man said. “Or did you hire a bodyguard? If so, you have excellent taste, sweetie.”

“Stop talking like you know me,” she said. “Like I have the first damned clue what’s going on here.”

“Don’t play the innocent for your friend. We’ve been in communication for a while, and you know exactly why I’m here.”

“Stalking me and leaving cryptic messages is not communication. I have no damned idea what you people want, and I’m starting to think you have me mistaken for someone else.”

“Aunika Madole. Daughter of Gwen and Grant Madole, both deceased. Sister of Lucy. Also deceased.”

Aunika went still. “Does this have something to do with Lucy’s murder? I’ve been trying to get a hold of Ciro for days.”

There was a flash and a bang as some kind of strobe hit the floor. Aunika fell back, seeming to move in slow motion with the strobing light. I recovered fast, my gun never wavering, but the guy stumbled himself, as if equally caught off guard.