“Know the best way to forget a man?”

“A frontal lobotomy?”

I snort, thinking of that song we used to play back home in the Brickyard that went, I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy. “No. With two men.”

She smiles but it fades swiftly. “I’m afraid I’d be needing ten to clear my head of that man.”

“Or perhaps,” I say, “a single incredible one.” Stupendous sex is a drug, addictive, consuming. I know from personal experience.

“Sounds like you have someone in mind. I’m so not in the mood, Mac. He’d only pale in comparison.”

“Maybe not.” I lean across the counter and speak softly into her ear.

When she leaves, wearing a thoughtful expression, I ponder the seed I planted, hoping it yields healthy fruit. I think it will. I think it’s exactly what she needs to buffer her heart, cleanse her body from craving the touch of a man we both know she can never hold.

Besides, there’s a possibility it will piss Ryodan off, in a territorial sort of way, which will still further ease the sting to Jo’s wounded heart.

Heaven knows the man I pointed her at won’t mind.

I smile and line a few choice bottles up on my counter, and try my hand at pouring high and flashy. Patrons love a good show.

When I glance up to greet a couple of new customers, I inhale sharply and stare right past them, staggered by the vision I see, unable to process my abrupt change in fortune. Talk about tall, dark, and utterly unexpected.

Time grinds to a halt and everything goes still around me, the thronging patrons receding beyond the edges of my periphery, leaving only one: the Dreamy-Eyed Guy, wearing an amused expression, is standing three clubs away, watching me toss my bottles flamboyantly, and I recall a night I watched him do the same.

He inclines his head, dark eyes starry. Nice show.

The Unseelie King is back in town, wearing his old skins again!

We’ve been scouring ancient books and scrolls for months, trying to find the spell to summon him, and the surgeon I need just arrived out of the blue! The one with butterfly fingers who creates and destroys worlds and can surely remove this great staining darkness inside me!

I didn’t think he’d ever come back willingly, off with his concubine somewhere, rekindling her memory and reclaiming her love.

Elation floods me. I can get my life back, and while I’m at it, get rid of my smelly Unseelie, too. Approach the queen about the Song of—I swiftly terminate that thought and repadlock it.

I vault the counter, sending glasses flying and shoving startled patrons off their stools, but by the time my feet hit the floor, the Dreamy-Eyed Guy is gone.

18

“When life pushes me I push harder. What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger”

MAC

The next few days pass in the closest thing to hopeful peace I’ve known in months. Even surrounded by the debauchery of Chester’s, my inner book remains silent. I don’t know if seeing the king made it shut up for some reason, if familiar routine makes me that much stronger, or if it thinks it has me trapped in the cesspool of life here at Chester’s and my capitulation is only a matter of time.

I tend bar amid my Unseelie coven, watch for the various forms of the king, keep an eye out for princesses, and await Barrons’s return, hopefully with Dani in tow. I can’t wait to tell him the king is back and we can quit losing time in the Silvers.

When the ruler of the dark Fae took an interest in Dublin before, his various incarnations often came to the club. The Unseelie King is too vast to walk among humans in a single human body. He has to divide himself into multiple skins, and when he does, not everyone sees him the same way. Where I saw a young, hot guy with gorgeous eyes, Barrons saw a frail old man, Christian saw a Morgan Freeman look-alike, Jo saw a pretty French woman. It’s only a matter of time before we see one of them again, or I hear of a McCabe sighting or run into the old news vendor on the streets. I’ll be faster next time because I won’t be struck dumb and motionless by his unexpected return.

The thought of living divided like this, tempted every day by power I can’t use, tortured by thoughts of what my inner monster might be able to make me do if I’m not vigilant one hundred percent of the time, is more than I can stand.

Can’t eviscerate essential self, the king once said. But this copy of the Book isn’t my essential self. It’s his.

And I’ll be damned if I’m keeping it.

At least now I can stop considering a risky plan B. The king came to Dublin once before because his book escaped. It seems logical if Cruce escaped, the king would return and re-ice him and I could demand he free me. Unfortunately I’m not entirely convinced the king would (a) return or (b) give a shit about any of it. His priorities spring of stars and infinity, not the tiny moments that span a human life. And there we’d be, with Cruce loose.