“Eat, Gabrielle,” it had said softly, moving to stand behind her, briefly resting its hands on her shoulders. Then one big hand had slipped up, cradling her skull, while the other had begun gently massaging the nape of her neck. For a treacherous moment, she’d nearly melted into the magic of those hands.

Plastering a fierce scowl on her lips, she’d tipped back her head to verbally lambaste it, to tell it precisely where it could stuff its stolen goods, but it had vanished again. She hadn’t seen it since.

She knew now what it planned to do to her, and it was far crueler than force. It was going to be in her life every day, driving her crazy, provoking her, exhausting her. It was going to be, not cruel and brutal, but gentle and teasing and seductive, almost as if it somehow knew of her secret obsession with the Fae. And when she was in a weakened state, it would ply its seduction on her, hoping to subvert her to its aim.

No, it wouldn’t use force; she should have seen that coming. Hadn’t the Book of the Sin Siriche Du made it clear that the thing lived to seduce and manipulate? She supposed brute force was a thing an immortal, all-powerful fairy wearied of in a mere few centuries. She could just hear it saying, Too easy, where’s the fun in that?

Force she could deal with: It would make her fight, rage, perhaps even die resisting it. Force would fuel her hatred of it and make her more stubborn.

But seduction from that sexy dark fairy?

She was in a world of trouble, and she knew it.

Sad thing was, it hadn’t even had to look very far for a weakness to exploit. She liked nice things. She was rarely able to have them, what with her meager income barely covering her most essential living expenses and tuition. She was just as much a sucker for good food, pretty flowers, and expensive wine as any other girl. Though she’d berated herself the entire time, she’d nonetheless eaten the fabulous meal after Adam Black had left, knowing she’d never be able to afford Jean-Robert at Pigall’s on her own. After she’d finished the last succulent bite of chocolate-macadamia truffle tart smothered in whipped cream, she’d been so disgusted with herself that she’d given up and packed it in for the night.

And she had a dreadful suspicion that it was only getting warmed up.

The world is a vast adventure begging to be had, it had said as she’d sat in her gray cubicle surrounded by oodles of other gray cubicles in a gray office building, pushing paper, or rather, being pushed by paper that daily thieved more of her life; she rarely saw the sun anymore because it had yet to rise when she went in to work and had often set by the time she got home.

A vast adventure . . . Had she ever felt that way, excited by all the possibilities life might hold?

No. She’d always felt compelled, driven to be responsible. To get the best grades. To have a respectable career. To excel at said career. To be kind to small children and old people and animals. To do everything right. You don’t need to prove anything, Gabby, Gram had chided her years ago. You’re perfect just the way you are.

Right. That was why her mom had left. Because she was so perfect. If she’d been any more perfect, Gram might have left too.

With a grunt of exasperation, Gabby punched her pillow and rolled over. Her sweats got twisted, the underwire of her bra dug into her skin, and her shirt rucked up. One sock was annoyingly half-on and half-off, a disgustingly droopy feeling. She never slept in clothes and, despite the open windows and the rhythmic paddling of the ceiling fan, it was hot in her turret bedroom. Sweat was trickling down between her breasts and her hair was clinging damply to her neck.

“I’m going to kill you, Adam Black,” she muttered tiredly, closing her eyes.

Then opened them again, wide, electrified by the thought.

It was in mortal form.

Holy cow.

It could be killed.

And wouldn’t that just solve all her problems?

“I only want four of you,” said Darroc, barely concealing his distaste. He didn’t know why he even bothered to hide it; the Unseelie Hunters were far too barbaric, too brutish, to care.

“A score of us will find him more swiftly, Darroc,” said Bastion. The oldest and most powerful of the Hunters, he shifted his leathery wings, glancing hungrily around at the lush, rolling fields.

Darroc watched Bastion’s nostrils flaring at the scent of the human realm. He’d chosen to release the Hunter from his icy prison—that grim, hellish Fae realm to which the Unseelie had been condemned—and bring him to the Hill of Tara to remind him of all the Unseelie had lost. Also to ensure that the Unseelie King, who at times supported Aoibheal and at other times didn’t (and none could ever predict when, not even her) did not overhear. Though the King of Darkness rarely emerged from his dark fortress in the bleakest of reaches within his realm of shadow and ice, Darroc had no desire to draw the notice of the formidable . . . creature.