For an odd moment, she realized that it was true: No Dark Court faeries were in sight. Because I’m supposed to be in class. She thought about screaming. One of them was surely in hearing range. He’s my brother. If they came, if they saw him near her, they’d hurt him. Despite everything, that wasn’t her first choice.

“Your boyfriend wasn’t human, Les.” Ren stepped forward, grabbed her arm, and pulled her closer. When they were near enough that it looked like they should embrace, he let go and pulled his jacket open. Inside, he held a gun, hidden from view by both the jacket and her proximity. “Scream or fight, and I’ll shoot you, Sis.”

Leslie stared at the gun for a long moment. She knew nothing about guns, nothing about make or model, nothing about their effect on faeries. When she pulled her gaze away, she looked at her brother’s face. “Why?”

“Nothing personal.” Ren smiled, and it wasn’t a reassuring look. “You think I like working with low-end dealers? I can make a pretty sum if I collect a freak. Business is business.”

“I don’t know what you think they are—”

“Don’t care. Smile, now.” Ren dropped his arm over her shoulders and started walking. She felt the gun muzzle pressing against her side.

“This is a mistake.” Leslie didn’t look around. He’s my brother. He won’t actually shoot me. Ren was a lot of things, had done horrific things, but he’d never had the stomach to dirty his hands directly. Like everything in his life, he half-assed this too.

“Let’s go home, Les.” Ren kissed her cheek and reminded her, “Smile. I’m not intending to shoot you if I don’t have to. You’re just bait.”

She smiled, trying her best to look convincing. “Why?”

“Met a guy. He had a business offer.” Ren lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I saw the pictures. You were living like a freaking celebrity. Looked like you were having a killer time….” He paused and laughed at his own weak joke. “The man who pays more gets the prize. Your old man wants to ante up, I don’t shoot him or take him in. He doesn’t want to pay, I go with the original plan.”

Blackmail Irial? The thought of it was ludicrous: Irial would kill Ren. Maybe Niall would find a solution, but Niall wasn’t nearby. For all she knew, Irial wasn’t either. She saw him once a week. Last night. Today, he was who knew where. This isn’t their fault, not their problem. If they got hurt because of her, she wouldn’t be able to recover from that.

Leslie stumbled.

Ren pulled her tighter to him and shoved the gun tighter into her side. “Don’t be stupid. You’re not strong enough to escape or fast enough to outrun a bullet.”

“I’m…not. I tripped, Ren.” She tried to keep the waver from her voice.

What do I do?

Letting him into her home seemed stupid. Calling out for help seemed dangerous. Her brother had been behind the horrors she couldn’t forget. If I call for them, they’ll kill him. Once, she had wanted to believe he was sick, that he could get well if he got help. Addiction is a disease, that’s what she’d reminded herself. It didn’t mean the things he’d done, the thing he was currently doing, were okay, though. Not every addict wants to get well.

“We’ll go to your place, and you can call them,” Ren said. “He can pay me more, or I can take him to them. His choice.”

Leslie felt numb as she walked with her brother. If she called Niall, help would come. Irial would know too. Gabriel would know. And my brother will die. If she didn’t call, she wasn’t sure what would happen. Niall would call her sooner or later; Irial would notice when she wasn’t at the coffee shop; and the guards would notice. Neither Dark King would invade her privacy—unless she was in danger. She knew that. What would happen if Ren shot them? If he knows what they are, what sort of bullets does he have? She thought about seeing Niall when he was sick from steel exposure. If the bullets were iron or steel, if that entered a faery’s body—any other than a regent—it would be horrific. Leslie wasn’t ready to make the decisions she felt like she had to make, nor was she able to ignore them. Ren was here.

The tangles of panic and fear and guilt hit Irial like an unwelcome banquet. If they were anyone else’s fears, it would be a welcomed treat, but the emotions that assailed him were hers. They’d come flooding toward him over his mostly severed connection with Leslie.

No. He hadn’t figured her pursuer would enter her classroom. Most mortals didn’t escalate from a few calls to a dangerous public scene that quickly.

“Leslie needs help. Get Niall,” Irial snarled. “Now.”

Mortals paused and shuddered, but they didn’t hear. Only faeries heard his order—and he knew that Dark Court faeries would obey as quickly as they had when he was still a king.

He ran to Leslie’s classroom; she wasn’t there.

Leslie, he called, hoping that the thread that bound them was still alive enough to let her hear him. Once in a while a fleeting moment of connection flared in it. He’d felt her panic. Now he needed to feel her, to know where she was. He called louder, LESLIE.

The thread that once bound them lay silent.

Irial felt a surge of terror. In the centuries he’d led the Dark Court, Irial had only felt true terror one other time. Then, it had been Niall in danger; then, he had been useless. Now, he felt much the same: she was in danger, and he hadn’t been there to stop it.