The Fae shouted, and dimly Misty heard a clatter of his sword. Graham’s snarling went on, and then his body landed next to hers, human once more, blood pouring out of him. He got to his hands and knees and put his strong hand on her head.

“Misty. Stay with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Misty said. Or thought she said.

Kyle left off licking her face. He joined Matt, the two of them bracing themselves in front of Oison, who was still standing, minus his sword. Oison looked angry. He pointed at them, as he had in the dream.

“No,” Misty whispered.

She had no clue what Oison’s pointing finger could do—shoot fire? Cast another spell? Move back and forth while he admonished them? Misty wanted to claw her way to the cubs, to protect them, but she couldn’t move.

Graham was moving instead. He was shifting as he dragged himself to the cubs, leaving a trail of blood smeared on the polished black floor. He leapt at Oison, his mouth wide, teeth bared. Oison spun out of his way nimbly, but Graham followed him with great agility, his claws going for Oison’s throat.

Oison dropped, rolled across the ground, and came up with his sword in his hand. The blade hummed, runes on it glowing like fire.

He shouted a word, pointing the sword at Graham. Graham fell in midair, his body thumping to the rock floor with an awful sound. The cubs ran to him, positioning themselves on either side of him, howling furiously.

Oison kept shouting words Misty didn’t understand. Graham was silent, but he rocked in pain. The intensity of the pain came to Misty as though threads connected her with Graham, squeezing her heart, making her ache for him.

She could stop this. She could kill Oison . . . somehow. If only she could get to her feet.

Matt darted out and sank his teeth into Oison’s boot. The Fae snarled and brought his sword down toward Matt. Kyle howled.

Misty heard a popping sound, and a wiry hand closed over Oison’s wrist. The chain mail shattered, and Oison dropped his sword again. Oison swung around, face dark with rage, to face a man as tall as he was but his opposite—dark-skinned to his pale, black-haired to his white. Only their eyes were the same, black voids into nothing.

Reid. The name whispered through Misty’s mind.

Dougal, looking terrified, was right behind Reid. Dougal ran to Graham, but Graham gave a loud growl, and Dougal straightened up and hurried to Misty. “You okay, Misty? Can you get up?”

Misty could only look at him, her pain so strong even moving her eyes hurt. Dougal looked lost, not knowing what to do.

Reid, on the other hand, had shoved Oison away from the little group, and was grappling with him by the fountain. The cubs still yapped and growled, but they’d positioned themselves between the fight and Graham and Misty, as though determined to guard the fallen.

Reid raised a weapon—a tire iron, Misty’s foggy brain registered. He brought it down on Oison, not hitting him, but pressing it onto Oison’s bare skin.

Whatever was supposed to happen, Misty didn’t know. Reid looked surprised when Oison turned and took the tire iron in both hands, tugging it away from Reid. Oison held it up, laughing, chanting words Misty didn’t understand.

Reid took a step back, scowling. The two Fae looked so different and yet the same—one in medieval-looking chain mail and silver cloak, Reid in jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers.

Reid raised his hands, clenched them, and shouted in a guttural language. Oison’s smile evaporated as the iron bar in his hands started to bend, then undulate, then came apart into dozens of tiny fragments.

These fragments slid out of Oison’s hands, paused in midair, then dove at Oison like a swarm of ferocious bees. The iron particles slammed into the Fae’s face and neck, cutting into him anywhere the chain mail didn’t cover.

Oison clawed at his face. Reid spun away from him and sprinted for Misty. He grabbed one cub by the scruff of the neck, fell on his knees beside Misty, and wrapped his other arm around her.

Misty screamed in pain, and then the cave went away. She was lying back in the basement, under the opening to the outside world, the warm Las Vegas sunshine touching her like a lover’s caress.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"You have to save her,” Graham said. He was in excruciating pain himself and could barely get the words out, but he didn’t care.

Misty lay on his bed, her eyelids fluttering as she moved into and out of consciousness. Reid stood on one side of her, Neal Ingram, the Guardian, on the other, and they both looked grim.

Reid, who possessed the very helpful skill of teleporting, had gotten them out of the cave. He’d taken Misty first with one cub then popped back moments later for Dougal and the second cub.

Reid had returned a final time for Graham just as Oison was struggling up and groping for his sword. Oison’s face and neck had run with blood, the Fae looking as though he’d been stung by a thousand hornets. Graham had wished he didn’t hurt so bad so he could laugh.

Reid had come in with a bang, grabbed Graham, and popped them both out again.

Graham knew they’d never have survived without Reid. Which sucked, because now he owed Reid a debt. A big one.

But Misty came first. “Can you fix her?” Graham asked Neal, who had some skill in healing. Graham didn’t like the presence of Neal’s sword, which leaned in the corner, glinting softly in the afternoon sunlight. The Guardian’s sword turned dead or dying Shifters to dust, sending their souls to the Summerland. Neal wouldn’t use it on Misty, she being human, but the reminder of loss was sharp.

“I don’t know,” Neal said. “This is a Fae wound, from a Fae sword. Healing her will be different from stitching her up and putting a bandage on her.”

“But you’ll fix her,” Graham repeated in a hard voice.

“What about you?” Neal looked at the makeshift bandage wrapped around Graham’s bare side, which was already stained with blood. “You need a healer.”

“Misty first. She can’t die.”

She couldn’t. Graham touched her white skin, his heart burning when her eyes flickered. She wasn’t waking up, but not sleeping either.

Reid said, “A human hospital won’t be able to help her.”

“But you can, right?” Graham demanded. “You’re Fae. You made iron slivers go into Oison. Can you counteract magic from a Fae sword?”

Graham knew he was babbling, but watching Misty lie in his bed, pale and sweating, made him sick. His fault. Oison had wanted Graham, and Misty had gotten caught in between.