I glimpse an unexpected uncertainty in her and think, Oh no, not her, too. Coming into sudden power can do funny things to you if you care deeply about the world around you, and we both do. It’s like suddenly getting a Murcielago LP 640, V-12 with a testy clutch when you’re used to a six-cylinder Mercedes. You drive badly at first, jerky on the gas and brake, don’t trust your own feet, sometimes even rear-end the folks in front of you when you try to start from a stop, until you get a feel for it. Or, like me today, crash into a wall and decimate whatever’s in the way.

“Kat, what’s wrong at the abbey? What’s going on?”

“You’ll just have to—” She glances past me. “Barrons.”

“Katarina.”

I feel his energy behind me, sexual, electric. Every cell in my body comes alive when he’s near. He moves past us, into the alcoved entry of the bookstore, and I shiver with desire. My need for sex seems directly proportionate to how much emotion I repress, and I’m repressing violently today. When I first came to Dublin, I talked and probed and poked into everything, splashed my feelings all over the place, like the rainbow colors of my wardrobe. Now I wear black and let almost nothing I feel show.

Until Barrons undresses me. Then I explode. I vent the fire and fury of everything I feel on him and he blows it right back at me, a hot, dangerous sirocco that levels and reshapes, and it binds us in a sacred place that needs no sun in the sky, no moon or stars. Just us.

The bell tinkles as he opens the door. I love that sound and imagine it chimes Welcome to Mac’s home each time it rings.

“The Unseelie Princes will be coming back with him,” I warn Kat as I watch him go.

“And one Seelie Prince who is fool enough to claim to be king,” Barrons growls as the door closes behind him.

“Can he really control them?” Kat asks.

She’s visibly nervous. I don’t blame her. The Unseelie Princes are deadly. The two joining us today rode the Wild Hunt in ancient times with two others of their kind, and became renowned far and wide as the fabled Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Cruce is War. I suspect Christian is becoming Death, which means Pestilence and Famine are soon to be my houseguests. Lovely. “He says he can keep them neutralized inside the store.”

Kat says flatly, “You do realize he’s not there, right?”

“Excuse me?” The man is certainly “there” enough for me. All six feet three of him and two hundred forty-five pounds of dense, solid, rough-and-ready muscle.

“Barrons. He’s like Ryodan. I feel nothing when I reach for either of them with my gift. It’s more than a void of emotion, there is no existence there. The space they occupy is blank.”

“Maybe they can block you. Erect a shield around themselves. Barrons knows wards like nobody’s business.” Okay, he seriously needs to teach me that trick. I’m blocking with everything I’ve got, yet I suspect if Kat decided to probe me, I’d be in a world of trouble.

“I can also discern the presence of wards, Mac. Nothing just walked out that door. A complete absence of anything recognizable as life.”

“Perhaps their wards are beyond our perception.” I want to get off this topic of assessing people with her gift. I don’t want her to think about doing it to me. “Kat, I’d love to come to the abbey. How’s next weekend?” I’ll find some excuse or another to no-show. I take her arm and begin gently steering her back and up the stairs, to the tables Barrons arranged for the meeting. “Hey, would you like something to drink? I’ve got soda, sweet tea, and water. I even brought some milk back last time I went through the Silvers,” I lie. Barrons brought it from Chester’s and I feel a little guilty getting so many perks. But not too guilty to drink it.

“Milk? Does it taste like ours?”

“Sure does. A little creamier.”

“I’d love a glass!” she says, and we both laugh because the things we used to take for granted are now luxuries. That’s the way it goes when the world falls apart.

You never appreciate what you’ve got till it’s gone.

Barrons Books & Baubles has spatial issues. I suspect the Silver connecting the store to hidden levels beneath the garage where Barrons has his lair is partially responsible, but I doubt it’s the only thing affecting this particular point of longitude and latitude. I sometimes dream an ancient god or demon coils slumbering in the foundation.

BB&B is four stories most days but other days five, and on rare occasions lately, seven. On Tuesday the mural on the ceiling was roughly seventy feet above my head, today it seems a quarter mile, minuscule in the distance. The harder I try to focus on it, the more difficult it is to see. I don’t understand why anyone would paint such a blurry scene on the ceiling. I used to ask Barrons about it but never got an answer. One day I’ll hunt down construction scaffolds so I can lie on my back beneath it and figure out what the darn thing is.

During my first months in Dublin, I stayed in the residential half of the bookstore and grew accustomed to my borrowed bedroom shifting floors. It even got to the point where hunting for it was kind of fun.

I expect nothing to be easy in these walls. And here is where I’ve known the finest hours of my life.

I stand with Kat at the balustrade that overlooks the bookstore, facing the front entrance. The main room is about a hundred feet long by sixty feet wide. The upper floors are half the depth of the store, accessed by an intricate, curving, red-carpeted double staircase that reminds me of the Lello bookstore in Portugal. On the upper levels are a fabulous array of antiquities and treasures in glass cases or mounted on a wall. Here a plaque of the Green Man sees all, there an ancient sword shines above a war-battered, tarnished shield. I sometimes wonder if all these “baubles” are really Barrons’s possessions collected during various centuries of his life.