As Rabbit put a hand over his eyes, Irial found himself offering, "I'll take them."

Rabbit made a shooing motion at Ani. Then he flipped the sign on the door to closed. "Now, let's give this a try."

The room was exactly as it had always been, immaculate and unchanging. Rabbit had aged some, not as fast as mortals, but he looked closer to early twenties than teens now.

Rabbit motioned to the black chair where his clients sat. "You okay?"

Irial squeezed Rabbit's forearm and admitted, "Tired."

After he handed Rabbit the cords Gabriel had sent, Irial sat down in the chair and stretched his legs out in front of him.

"I heard about Guin." Rabbit pulled out three needles and as many vials.

"Gabriel's got the Hounds patrolling; they think they're immune still. The leannan-sidhe are to stay out of sight." Irial leaned back in the tattoo chair and closed his eyes while Rabbit bound him with the cords. Irial always found himself talking freely with Rabbit. In a world of careful deceit, there were so few people Irial could trust without reservation. Rabbit had inherited all of his father's loyalty, but also the mortal sense to think things through, to talk rather than fight.

"I think the ink exchange will help." Rabbit rolled up Irial's sleeve. "It's going to hurt."

"Hurt me or the girl?" Irial opened his eyes briefly. "I saw her, the mortal."

"You. Leslie will just feel the tattoo. I think. She did well with the outline. The court's tears and blood are an easier adjustment for a mortal. Her emotions will be volatile, fleeting by now. She's coping, though. Your blood will be harder for her. …" His words drifted off. He picked up the brown glass bottle that held the strange ink he'd mixed for the exchanges. "I'm not sure how she'll do, since it's you. She's good people."

"I'll look after her," Irial promised. She'd be bound to him, but he'd make sure she was well cared for, satisfied. He could do that.

Rabbit tied another cord around Irial's arm to help raise a vein. Unlike the cords that bound him to the chair, this was a simple thing—a length of rubber like those in mortal hospitals.

"It'll be fine." Irial tested his bonds, then nodded to Rabbit. There were few creatures he'd trust to hold him immobile.

Silently, Rabbit located the vein on the inside of Irial's elbow.

"She's stronger than you know, or she wouldn't have picked me."

Rabbit jabbed a thick, hollow tube into Irial's arm. "Ready?"

"Yes." It was barely a sting, not anywhere near as painful as he'd feared.

Then Rabbit added the tiny filter only he could make to the tube.

Irial's spine bowed; his eyes rolled back. It'll make me strong. Feed my court. Protect them. But the extraction of blood and essence was nightmarishly awful, as if tiny incisors were set to roam inside his body, ripping and tearing at places where sharp things should never enter.

"Keep the pups out of my reach," he gasped as his vision began to blur. "Need." Irial's stomach cramped. His lungs tightened, as if all the air he'd ever breathed were being sucked out all at once.

"Irial?" Ani's voice was in the doorway. Far enough away that he couldn't reach her; too close, though.

His hands clenched. "Rab …"

"Ani, go." Rabbit stepped in front of Irial then, blocking her from view.

"It'll pass, Iri. It always passes. Tell him, Rabbit, tell him he'll be okay." Ani's voice faded as she walked away.

"She's right."

"Starving." Irial dug his finger into the chair until the leather ripped. "You're destroying me. My court."

"No. It passes. Ani's right. It passes." Rabbit pulled out the tube with a schluck. "Rest now."

"Food. Need. Call Gabriel."

"No. Not until I finish the tattoo. Nothing until then. Else it won't work." Then Rabbit left, locking the door behind him, leaving Irial unable to move from the chair.

Chapter 21

Half afraid last night had been a dream, Leslie looked out the window. He's still here. Niall was doing some sort of stretching in the yard. Either he'd been awake for a while and was bored or he was just going about his routine. He'd shed his shirt, and in the light of day the spiderweb of scars that covered his torso was difficult to look at. Thin white lines crisscrossed thicker, uneven raised marks, as if something had clawed his skin. Seeing the full extent of it made her want to cry for him. How is he even alive? He was, though. He was a survivor, and it made him all the more beautiful.

With as little noise as she could, Leslie opened the door.

“Hey.”

He paused in midstretch, standing so still that he seemed frozen, as if he were carved of some rare dark stone. Only his voice proved that he was a living being. "Shall I take you to the school?"

"No." She shook her head as she walked toward him. Until then she hadn't decided, but looking at him— knowing that whatever happened next would mean they'd be changed from what they were in that moment—she knew that wasting the day was foolish. Spending the day at Bishop O.C. … it simply didn't make sense to her.

"What are you doing today?" she asked when she was standing beside him. Without conscious thought, she lifted her hand, letting her fingertips graze the scars on his chest, like following a map of chaos, lines bisecting lines, furrows branching into ridges and ripples.