Ten minutes later Lor says, “What is this crap? Who let her load the iPod?”

“Nobody else brought one,” I say. “I chose awesome music.”

“Where the hell is Hendrix on this thing?” Lor takes it out of the sound dock and scrolls through it, looking pissed. “By whose definition is this music?”

Jo says, “Did you get any Muse? I love Muse.”

“If I’d known you all had such crappy taste in songs, I would have brought more earplugs,” I say. “Dissing my taste. Like Hendrix is even listenable. And Muse is something you do.”

“Well, Disturbed,” Jo says, “is something you are.”

“And Godsmacked is something you get,” Dancer says. “But hopefully not tonight.”

“Don’t you have any Mötley Crüe or Van Halen?” Lor says. “Maybe ‘Girls, Girls, Girls’?”

“How about some Flogging Molly,” Christian says. “Dani, my darling, how could you not like the ‘Devil’s Dance Floor’? And what about Zombie?”

“I got ‘Dragula’ and ‘Living Dead Girl,’ ” I say defensively.

“Bloody hell, ‘Living Dead Girl’ is one of my favorites!” Christian says, and grabs the iPod from Lor and starts scrolling to it.

I snatch it and hold it behind my back. “Don’t mess with my lineup. Nobody else thought to bring an iPod. That means I’m in charge.”

Ryodan takes the iPod from me so fast it’s there one sec, gone the next.

“Hey, give it back!”

He scrolls through the playlist. “What’s the deal with all the Linkin Park, for fuck’s sake.”

“Dudes, we need noise. Quit taking the iPod off the dock.” Dancer snatches the iPod from Ryodan and puts it back on the dock. “And Mega has a crush on Chester.”

“I do not!”

“Do too, Mega.”

“He’s like, old!”

“How old?” Christian says.

“Like at least thirty or something!”

Lor laughs. “Fucking ancient, ain’t it, kid?”

“Dude,” I agree. I like Lor.

“You got any Adele?” Jo says hopefully.

“Not a single song,” I say happily. “Got some Nicki Minaj, though.”

“Somebody kill me now,” Ryodan says and closes his eyes.

Four hours later I’m getting a headache.

Six hours later I am a headache, my butt hurts, and I’m low on candy bars.

Eight hours later I’m sick of Nicki Minaj.

Nine hours later I’d give darn near anything for five fecking minutes of silence.

Me, Christian, and Dancer been passing around a bottle of aspirin and it’s empty. I got earplugs in my pack but wecan’t use them because we might miss something and screw up.

Across the drive, way down at the other end of the abbey, the sidhe-seers are wrapped in blankets. Dozing. Because, like, the music down there isn’t rattling the bone plates in their skull! I’m so jealous I could spit. Dejected, I eat another fecking candy bar. I hate candy bars.

“You said you were sure this would work,” Jo says testily.

I’m beat. I haven’t slept in days. I rub my eyes and say irritably, “We may have to stick with it for a while.”

“Like, how long?” Christian says, and his voice is weirdly guttural. I look at him. He’s staring down past the abbey at the sidhe-seers and the look on his face is pure, sex-starved Unseelie prince. Kaleidoscopic tattoos rush under his skin. His jeans are … wow. Okay. Don’t look there.

I realize nine hours is probably the longest he’s gone without sex in months. “Don’t you be looking at my friends like that,” I say. “They’re off-limits to Unseelie princes, dude!”

He looks at me and I have to shift my gaze away fast. He’s throwing off power like a volcano about to blow. I feel the wetness of blood on my cheeks from a bare glimpse at his eyes.

“How long?” he says hoarsely.

“Well, it only ever iced one of the clubs in Chester’s. That must mean most music doesn’t make whatever sound it’s after. If you need to leave and find somebody to … you know, go. But try not to kill anybody, okay?”

He gives me a look. I’m not even looking at him and I can feel it.

“How is that even possible? We’ve been listening to some of the weirdest shit I’ve ever heard,” Lor says pissily. “How can this thing not want to kill it? It should have been here hours ago! My head hurts. I don’t get headaches.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you’re safe,” Christian says to me, real quiet.

“Isn’t that quaint. The chivalrous Unseelie prince with the dick of death,” Ryodan mocks.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Christian says.

“I’m getting fecking sick of everybody picking on my music!” I say.

“Fine, then I’ll just change it,” Lor says.

“You touch my iPod, I’ll break every one of your fingers!”

“Knock yourself out trying, honey.” He scrolls to a new song.

I stick my fingers in my ears. “Gah, I hate Hendrix!”

“Then why do you have it on here?”

“I don’t know! I just thought ‘Purple Haze’ was a cool title, then I listened to it and ain’t had time to delete it. Who writes such stupid lyrics? ‘ ’Scuse me while I kiss this guy’?”