“An event horizon is also called the point of no return. In a sense of general relativity, it’s the point at which the gravitational pull becomes so great escape is impossible. Some theorize quantum gravity effects become significant in the vicinity of such an occurrence.”

“Whatever. Boss said some college kid thinks your brain is the only one that has a chance of cracking it.”

I glimpse Dani in Jada then, not in a jauntily cocked hip, but a small, telltale straightening of her spine.

“You may tell Ryodan I will inspect it. But I won’t work with his ‘college kid.’ That’s non-negotiable.”

“I’ll tell him. We’ll see what he says. Wait here and I’ll get someone to take you down. I’m on bouncer duty.”

When he turns away, Jada vanishes on a brisk wind.

I could have called that one. And I can predict she sure as hell isn’t going down below. She’ll find another place to examine.

Oh well, it’s obviously not going to be Jada I haunt. She’s gone with the wind. What next? As I descend the chrome stairs I’m startled to see Jo coming out of one of the restrooms dressed for work in the subclub where the waitresses wear short plaid skirts and baby doll heels, and burst out laughing before I can catch myself. The woman just keeps surprising me. Ryodan may have fired her. But Jo didn’t quit. And from the expression on her face, she’s not going to go easily if he tries to enforce it. I don’t blame her. He doesn’t get to fire her just because she slept with someone else. That’s bullshit, and I’d tell him so myself if I wasn’t currently relishing my invisibility.

Fortunately, my disembodied laugh gets swallowed up in the general din of the club.

I melt into the crowd, ducking and dodging as I go. I’m beginning to get the hang of this invisibility stuff.

I sort and discard various destinations. I don’t trust myself to go spy on the Unseelie Princes. I’d be tempted to use my spear, and although I pretty much think any humans stupid enough to go there deserve to die, I have no guarantee my resultant killing spree would be confined to the grounds of the Escheresque gothic mansion.

I could head out to the abbey, slip in and eavesdrop. Go down below and check on Cruce.

I shudder. No thank you.

Search Chester’s?

I’ve had enough of Chester’s for one day. My brain is on overload, and there’s really only one person I want to spy on now. He deserves it. I won’t feel one ounce of guilt for invading his privacy. He invaded the fuck out of mine.

I slip from the club amid a cluster of drunken revelers and navigate the surprisingly busy streets back to the place I call home: Barrons Books & Baubles.

I find Jericho Barrons sitting in his study at the back of the bookstore watching a video on his computer. He exudes tall, dark, and dangerous, even dressed casually in faded jeans, an unbuttoned black shirt, and boots with silver chains. His hair is wet from a recent shower and he smells like clean, damp, deliciously edible man. His chest is nearly covered with tattoos, black and crimson runes and designs that look like ancient tribal emblems, his rock-hard six-pack abs on full display. His sleeves are rolled back over thick, powerful forearms, and the cuff that matches the one Ryodan wears glints in the low light, reminding me they are brothers, reminding me of Jada/Dani’s cuff. There’s something anciently elegant poured over the beast that is Barrons, Old-World-Mediterranean-basted barbarian. The interior lights are set to a soft amber glow and he sits in the darkness, all hot, sexy coiled muscle and aggression and, oh God, I need to have sex.

I shove that thought from my mind because it’s highly unlikely in the near future. No point in torturing myself when the world’s been so busy doing it for me. I wonder what Barrons watches. Action/adventure? Spy movies? Horror? Bewitched?

Porn?

The sounds coming from the monitor are base, guttural. I ease into the study, walking like an Indian in the quiet, stealthy way Daddy once taught me on a camping trip: heel to toe, heel to toe.

Barrons touches the screen, tracing an image, dark gaze unfathomable.

As I move around the desk and glimpse the monitor, I bite back a soft, instinctive protest.

He’s watching a video of his son.

The child is in human form, naked on the floor of his cage. He’s in the throes of hard convulsions and there’s blood on his face, ostensibly from having bitten his own tongue.

This isn’t what Barrons’s son looked like the only time I ever met him. Then, he seemed a lovely, helpless, innocent, and frightened child, and although it was but an act to lure me close enough to attack, it was one of very few times in his tortured existence he’d looked normal. I still remember the anguish in Barrons’s voice when he asked me if I’d seen him as a boy, not the beast.