Flanking V’lane’s caste—which I assume is the highest ranking by how the other castes seem to protect it—are the stuff of fairy tales. There are rainbow-colored, delicate Fae that dart like hummingbirds on gossamer wings; silvery nymphs that dance on dainty feet; and others that I can’t even see, except for blinding trailers of light they leave behind as they move. They’re so brilliant and fiery, they could only be earthbound stars.

I scoff at the delicacy of his army. It’s ethereal, born to wisp about, seduce, and be served.

Mine is earthy, solid. Born to gorge, kill, and rule.

We stalk toward one another, down a snow-filled street.

Where Seelie feet touch the earth, the snow melts with a hiss. Steam rises and flowers push up through cracks, blooming brilliantly, anointing the air with the scents of jasmine and sandalwood. The Seelie end of the street is bathed in golden light.

Where my army’s hooves and scaled bellies pass over the stones, a crust of black ice forms. The night embraces us; stealthy shadows, we ooze forward from the blackness.

Only once before have Seelie and Unseelie met like this—and on that day the Seelie Queen died. This is the stuff of legends, never seen by humans, except perhaps in our dreams.

Deformed monsters and hideous demons stare with baleful, hate-filled eyes at their perfect golden counterparts.

Angels glare with disdain at abominations that should never have been born, who blemish the perfection of the Fae race, tarnish their existence simply by being.

I wonder what Darroc is thinking, bringing them together like this.

We stop a dozen paces apart.

Ice and heat slam together in the street.

My breath frosts the air, then turns to steam as it passes an invisible demarcation. Eddies swirl on the pavement between us, gathering the indigestible rinds of people the Shades left behind, and tiny tornadoes begin to form.

I realize that whoever began the fairy tale that Fae don’t feel was selling pure bullshit. They feel the entire range of human emotion. They just handle it differently: with patience born of eternity. Schooled in courtly manners, they don masks of impassivity because they have forever to play out their games.

As we study each other through the rapidly growing tornadoes, I remember V’lane telling me that they destroyed their own world by fighting. It cracked from end to end. Was this why? Will the weather disturbance that’s being generated by the clash of these two mighty courts continue to grow if they fight and tear this world apart, too? Not that I’d particularly mind, since I intend to re-create it with the Book, but I need the Book before this world is destroyed.

Which means this stormy posturing really needs to stop.

“Enough with the melodrama, V’lane,” I say coolly.

His eyes are those of a stranger. He regards me with the same expression he turns on the monsters at my back. I’m alittle irritated to realize he doesn’t look at Darroc. His gaze slides over him as if he’s not even there. He’s the fallen Fae, traitor to their race, the one responsible for tearing the walls down. I’m just a sidhe-seer trying to survive.

The gold-dusted Greek god standing on V’lane’s right sneers, “That … thing … is the human you said we need to protect? She consorts with abominations!”

The gilt-skinned goddess to his left growls, “Destroy her now!”

Hundreds of Seelie, walking, dancing, and flying, begin to clamor for my death.

Without taking my eyes off them, I snap at Darroc, “I could really use my spear right now.” I assume he still has it, that V’lane hasn’t somehow plucked it from him the same way he takes it from me.

As the tiny, dainty Fae begin proposing methods for my execution, each one slower and more painful than the last, the god and goddess bracketing V’lane hammer him.

“She is human and has chosen the dark ones! Look at her! She wears their colors!”

“You said she worshipped us!”

“And she would obey us in all things!”

“They have touched her! I smell it on her skin!” The god looks revolted—and aroused. Iridescent eyes glitter with gold sparks.

“They have used her!” the goddess snarls. “She is soiled. I will not suffer her at court!”

“Silence!” V’lane thunders. “I lead the True Race for our queen. I speak for Aoibheal!”

“This is unacceptable!”

“Outrageous!”

“Beyond bearing, V’lane!”

“You will do as I say, Dree’lia! I decide her fate. And only I will carry it out.”

I mutter at Darroc, “You need to make a decision, and fast.”

“They always overreact,” Darroc murmurs. “It is one of the many things I despised at court. A session in High Council could go on like this for several human years. Give them time. V’lane will bring them to heel.”

One of the tiny, winged Seelie breaks formation and darts straight for my head. I duck, but it whizzes around me.

I’m startled to hear myself burst out laughing.

Two more of them break rank and begin to zip tight circles around my head.

As they buzz past me, my laughter takes on a hysterical edge. There’s nothing funny about what’s happening—still, I hoot and snort. I can’t help it. I’ve never been so amused in my entire life. I hold my sides and double over, chortling, guffawing, choking on sobs of forced gaiety, as they weave closer and closer around me. I’m appalled by the sounds coming out of my mouth. I’m horrified at the uncontrollable nature of it. I hate the Fae and their way of stripping away my will.