“Life for you is going to get really f**king painful for a little while,” Tiago told him. “You might get away with only a few broken bones. And you don’t get to keep any of your toys.” He dragged Clarence to his feet again and pinned him by the back of the neck to the wall as he fished through the pockets of the kid’s jeans and jacket. He confiscated a nine-millimeter and continued his search. There had to be one. “I’ve been to your crib. I’ve taken out your PlayStation, your Xbox, your Wii, your laptop and two PCs, the 52-inch, the TiVo, the Blu-ray, the Pioneer and the home theater system. Oh, and your Flip, of course. Speaking of which, that’s a mighty lot of toys for someone who has no job on record. You dealing or did you just steal the shit?”

Ah, there it was. He pulled out an iPhone, dropped it to the pavement and ground it under one booted heel, which prompted more teakettle whistling. He picked up Clarence and reacquainted him with the wall.

“Now I’d have to stop doing this if some witness chose to call 911,” Tiago said. “What do you think, Clarence? You see any dots that connect from, oh, say the attack you watched and filmed the other night without doing any goddamn thing about it to your current state of discomfort?”

The teakettle whistle dissolved into a soggy snivel. Tiago reached down to pick the guy up again.

A strong, lean tanned hand came down to grip one of his wrists.

Rune said in his ear, “You got the chance to discipline him, T-bird. That’s enough.”

Tiago turned toward the gryphon. Rune had lion’s eyes the color of sun shining through amber. Whatever Rune saw in Tiago’s expression made those golden eyes turn careful. “Hey, buddy, it’s time for a debriefing,” Rune said. “You need to catch me up on what’s happened since we last talked.”

“I f**ked up,” Tiago said. “It was a stupid f**king mistake and it hurt her. Bad. I don’t know how bad.”

Rune gripped him by the shoulder hard, his keen gaze steady. “All right. Whatever it is, we’ll fix it.”

“I had to walk away,” Tiago said. His voice had turned guttural, harsh. “Give her a little space. I don’t know how much space to give her. Couple hours? The rest of the night? I was just”—he looked down at Clarence, who had crumbled in a heap at his feet—“I was killing something. Killing time I guess.”

Rune looked down at the guy too. Clarence had stuffed his bleeding nose into the sleeve of his jacket. Rune said to him, “You know what a lucky little pissant you are that I came along when I did?”

“Yeah, I thick so,” said the kid. He swiped at his streaming eyes.

“Wyr don’t forgive easily,” Rune said. “And we never forget. You need to become a model citizen now.”

“Cross by heart,” Clarence said into his sleeve. “I bean it. I thick I saw Jesus in the wall just now. I’b gonna start going to church with by bob again. Baybe I’ll join the arby.”

No matter how sumptuous and inviting her penthouse bedroom was, Niniane had no desire to go back to it after her conversation with Carling. She wandered with aimless restlessness throughout the penthouse’s common areas.

She paused by the grand piano and opened the lid to finger the cool, smooth keys. It was a Steinway, the black surface polished to a high shine, and she suspected it was in perfect tune. She loved music, loved to sing and adored dancing, but her piano playing skills were desultory at best. Besides, the time had to be well past ten o’clock by now. That wasn’t terribly late and the Vampyres would be wide awake, of course, but some of their human companions and the Dark Fae might be readying for bed. She eased the lid back down with a sigh.

She looked up at the Vampyre who had become her soundless shadow. It was the stairwell Vampyre again. He was beautiful as Vampyres tended to be, with cool dark looks and a slim frame that hid what she knew would be a tensile inhuman strength. Rhoswen had disappeared, perhaps to attend to her mistress.

She couldn’t keep thinking of him as the Stairwell Vampyre any more than she should keep thinking of Carling as the Stepford Vampyre. She asked, “What’s your name?”

“Duncan,” he said.

“It’s nice to meet you, Duncan.”

“Thank you, highness.” He watched her with an attentive dark gaze and a calm neutral expression. “It is a pleasure to meet you as well.”

“When you came back out of the stairwell this afternoon, I was glad that the first thing you did was look toward Carling and that you didn’t go after Tiago again,” she said. “But I’m curious. What made you do that?”

Duncan said, “We could all feel when she stopped us. At least the Vampyres could. I’m not sure about our humans. Their senses are so much less than ours. When she released us and I returned to the hall, it was important to find out what had changed, preferably as quickly as possible.”

Niniane’s eyebrows rose. No wonder Rhoswen had no sympathy for Cowan. He’d gotten two warnings to stop before he lost his head.

Duncan spoke with a slight pleasant accent. Normally she loved to talk to people and to find out about their lives—or spooky undead existence, as it were—and the impulse to ask him more questions drifted through the back of her mind. The impulse faded almost at once. She wasn’t able to muster up a social mood.

She asked, “So what’s a girl got to do to get a drink around here?”

“She has merely to state what she would like,” said Duncan. He smiled at her. “It would be my pleasure to get her whatever she desires.”

He had an attractive smile and a pleasing manner. Niniane knew better than to believe those were the only qualities that won him a place in Carling’s entourage. “I’d like a bottle of red wine, please,” she asked.

“Anything in particular? Merlot, Beaujolais, Syrah?”

She said, “Alcoholic will do just fine.”

She went onto the slate-tiled patio where potted trees and plants were arranged attractively around a couple of wrought iron tables and chairs. She sat and looked out at the city lights while a warm breeze played with her hair. A few minutes later Duncan brought a tray out. He placed a glass of wine in front of her. He murmured, “I thought perhaps a Malbec.”

“Thank you,” she said.

He placed the bottle on the table, along with an assortment of cheese, crackers and fruit. Wishing him gone, she thanked him again, and he gave her another smile before he stepped away to take a position by the doors.

Her life felt like too much of a burden to pick up and examine at the moment. She sipped her wine and tried to exist in the now, but she couldn’t turn off her thoughts.

You should be careful where you step, Niniane. You are in a fragile place right now.

Yeah, thanks for that reminder, Carling. Like I hadn’t noticed.

Niniane downed the contents of her glass and rubbed at her forehead. On the plus side: Her identity had been easily verified so that it was no longer in question. Nobody could contest her right to the throne.

Wow, that was on the plus side? That was the only thing on the plus side?

On the negative side: Aside from her releationship with the Wyr (which was not in jeopardy), she had no strong alliances upon which she could rely with any degree of confidence, she had no real Power to speak of and she had a long estrangement from Dark Fae politics and society. She had no idea which of the delegation members she could trust.

And her relationship with the Wyr was a long-distance relationship. Her father’s relationship with the Wyr had been in good standing as well. That hadn’t saved him or his family.

She really was up shit creek without a paddle. If she was in a betting pool, she would give herself less than a year.

Then a thought occurred to her. Perhaps dear dead cousin Geril wouldn’t have tried to kill her if she had been less obvious about how unwelcome his attentions had been. Perhaps that was why he had taken her out to dinner first then tried to kill her. Otherwise why bother to feed her? Had he really thought his distant connection to the throne would be enough to make a play for it on his own? That was hard to believe. Or had he been working with someone else and decided to play all angles of the game? If she had responded to his flirtation, he might have thought he had a shot at sharing the throne with her.

Anxiety gnawed at her. She wished she had a pack of cigarettes. She took the bottle, tilted a liberal amount of wine into her glass and tossed it back.

If she wanted to lose at that betting pool and live longer than a year, she had to make an alliance with someone who had power. Or Power. Working to build a good relationship with Carling was all well and good, but that would be a long-distance relationship too, and she had to do more than build a distant alliance with another demesne. She had to make an alliance with someone close at hand. What did she have to offer that she could hope would make someone’s loyalty stick?

She looked at her plus side. Well crap.

She said out loud, “I’m going to have to marry.”

The warm wind took her words and blew them away. Not that it changed anything. She was going to have to marry to solidify her position and survive. She was going to have to find someone who wanted the throne, who couldn’t get it on his own and who had enough political clout or Power, or both, to help her hold on to it. She needed someone who had as much of a vested interest in keeping her alive as she did.

This time when she reached for the wine bottle she didn’t bother with the glass.

A rush of immense wings sounded overhead, and for a wild, heart-leaping moment she was so full of hope. She jumped to her feet as she searched the sky. A pale film of clouds draped the dark blue night sky, and a gorgeous nightmare descended onto the patio.

The creature had the form of a tall female with a wingspan large and powerful enough to support her long, flowing muscular form. She was a study in pale and dark grays and black, her lower torso and strong legs covered with short, fine feathers. She had a wide rib cage and chest that supported long flight and fast speeds, high slight br**sts and magnificent sooty wings that deepened to midnight toward the primary feathers. Her long hands and feet were tipped with razored lethal talons that could slice through metal or split open a person’s skull with a single swipe, and the lines of her angular face were severe, upswept. In her human form, the Wyr sentinel Aryal had a strange, gaunt beauty. In her harpy form both strangeness and beauty were accentuated, her stormy eyes magnified, and her long black hair moved in the wind as if it had a life of its own.

Duncan blurred past Niniane with his Vampyre’s lethal strength and speed. The harpy picked him up by the neck and slammed him onto the patio so hard the slate tiles underneath him cracked. She held the Vampyre pinned as she inspected him curiously with her piercing raptor’s gaze.

“Hmm, pretty,” said the harpy. She looked up at Niniane. “If you don’t want him, can I have him?”

A confused tangle of emotion roared up inside, gladness mingled with a bitter disappointment. She said, “Aryal, don’t hurt Duncan.”

“I wasn’t going to hurt him,” said Aryal. “Not unless he asked for it.” The Vampyre’s eyes had started to glow red, and his fangs had distended as he strained against Aryal’s powerful grip. The harpy tapped his temple with one curved talon. “That’s even prettier. Dude, you ever taste harpy’s blood? We’re rarer than shit so I’m betting not. Want to go out for a drink sometime? If you put out, I might let you have a sip.”

“Aryal!” Niniane exclaimed.

“What!” The gorgeous winged nightmare blinked at her. “You know how hard it is to get a date in New York.”

The Vampyre looked so confused and aggressive, but at the mention of harpy’s blood, a startled avarice crept into his bloodred gaze.

Niniane started to laugh. She couldn’t help it. “Duncan is a very nice guy. Would you let him go, please?”

“But I’m not done sexually harassing him.” Niniane dipped her chin and glowered at the harpy, who scowled back and grumbled, “Oh all right.”

As soon as Aryal’s grip around his throat loosened, Duncan sprang to his feet and lunged to take a stance between Niniane and the harpy. It was a brave, stupid and totally useless gesture of protection.

Aryal blurred into a Wyr’s shapeshift as she rose to her feet as well. In her more human form, she was a six-foot-tall powerful woman, armed and dressed in leather, with an angular face, lean muscles, tangled black hair and stormy gray eyes. She said to the Vampyre, “You wanna hug it out?” She feinted forward and Duncan jerked back a step. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.” She bounced once on the balls of her feet and gave Niniane a feral grin. “Hey, pip-squeak.”

Aryal looked so happy to see her, the pleasure on her odd gaunt face so sincere and uncomplicated, for the moment Niniane’s disappointment that Aryal wasn’t Tiago took a backseat and she was simply glad to see her friend.

Niniane put a hand on the Vampyre’s shoulder and pressed down, silently telling him to stay put as she told him, “You know, Duncan, I have seen this harpy drunk on her ass more than a few times. Once she even—”

“Don’t say it,” Aryal warned.

Niniane grinned. “She even let me put pink lipstick on her and her hair up in pigtails.”

“Traitorous bitch!” Aryal said. “You carp-carp-carped. ‘Lemme just see what you look like, Aryal. C’mon, Aryal, I won’t tell anybody. Five minutes and you can wipe it right off.’ And now what do you do? You tell every freaking body you can every chance you get.”

The Vampyre relaxed only slightly at their banter. He asked, “How did she look?”