After the band toured the venue, Gareth wanted to head back to David’s house to check on Niall, but Hamish insisted they all needed a drink—that Gareth owed the rest of the band a drink and some conviviality after being such an arsehole lately. Since David had promised faithfully to text if Niall woke up or took a turn for the worse, Gareth agreed. Niall was his main concern, of course, but his band was his family too.

“One drink,” he said as he followed Hamish into the shifter bar tucked unobtrusively in Portland’s industrial district.

“Too right.” Tiff shared a nod with the bartender, holding up five fingers and pointing to the left-most tap. “It’s fight night downstairs later. We don’t want to be here when that crowd shows up.”

“Speak for yourself.” Hamish bounced on his toes. “In fact, I’m off to put my name down for a bout or two.”

“Hamish.” Josh’s voice held a hint of reproach. “Not the night before two shows.”

“Ah, shite. You’re right. Afterward though, for sure.” He grinned before bounding away.

Josh watched him go, a troubled look on his face. “One of these days, he’ll find someone he can’t beat. Then what?”

“We find a new drummer?” Spence draped his arm across Josh’s shoulders, but Josh pulled away with a frown.

“Don’t joke about that. Why does he have to fight anyway?” The three of them watched Tiff thread her way onto the dance floor and pick up the beat, several other dancers drawn immediately into her orbit. Josh sighed. “Never mind.”

Spence nudged Gareth toward the tables. “Snag us a spot, Kendrick, and don’t drink all the beer before we get back.” He pulled an unresisting Josh onto the dance floor.

Gareth nodded and headed toward the corner booth, trying not to feel out of place—and not just because he was the only fae in a bar full of shifters. Everyone here understood a language that had been foreign to him for most of his life—the language of attraction, the dance of sexual allure and completion.

How many times had he listened to Mal tout the pleasures of the flesh? Before Gareth had met Niall, Mal had been explicit, as if he’d thought it his duty to tutor Gareth in mechanics and technique. After Niall had been taken, the instructions had been more general—as if Mal were proposing the only practical way to stave off loneliness.

Mal didn’t understand that Gareth had never felt he was missing anything by not falling into bed with anyone who gave him a come-hither glance, let alone a blatant invitation. He’d never wanted that—and had never felt the lack. His passion was channeled into his music, and he felt complete. Or mostly.

It wasn’t until Niall that he’d found someone who touched that part of him that his brothers were so eloquent about. He didn’t want just anyone to fill his bed, to fill his body. He wanted Niall, and only Niall.

When Niall was gone, he could no more have replaced him than he could change his skin like a kelpie.

The server delivered their pints at the same time Hamish returned. He plopped down next to Gareth. “So you didn’t say. How’d it go? Convergence all converged? Her Majesty safely spliced to the monster?”

Gareth drew his glass toward him, but didn’t drink. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? Wasn’t that the whole point? ‘All fae must be present’ and yada yada yada. ‘No non-fae allowed and stay thee the hell out of Faerie, you shifter scum.’”

“I never said that.”

Hamish shrugged and took a long swallow of his beer. “Didn’t have to. That’s the attitude we always get whenever we show up for a gig in Faerie.”

Gareth blinked. “You what? When? I never noticed—”

“Of course you never noticed. You were too busy being the surly bard, ticked off because you didn’t want to be there. Didn’t ever occur to you that those poncy Sidhe bastards didn’t want us there either?”

“Sorry. I guess I’ve been . . . well . . .”

“A self-absorbed git?”

Gareth snorted a laugh. “That bad?”

“A talented self-absorbed git, so we made allowances, because what rock musician isn’t a self-absorbed git from time to time?”

“Well, I did the same thing this time, I suppose. I scarpered before the main event.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because the Queen’s monster turned out to be my monster.”

“You had a monster on the side? You’ve been holding out on us. I thought your one and only bloke was human.”

“I mean the monster that took Niall away. The one that stole him from the Outer World.”

Hamish’s spit-take sprayed beer all over the table. “Shite.” He grabbed a handful of napkins from the dispenser and mopped up. “The Queen’s marrying the arsehole who killed Niall?”

“Not exactly. I mean, she’s marrying him all right. But he didn’t kill Niall.” Only killed his memory of me. “In fact, that’s why I came back. Niall was there. I brought him with me before the gods-bedamned spell could kill him for good.”

Hamish goggled. “Fuck me sideways. You found him? The bloke you’ve been pining after for longer than I’ve known you?”

“Yeah. Want to know the pisser though?”

“Go on. What could be better?”

Gareth smiled wryly. “He doesn’t remember me.”

“Amnesia? Ah, come on, mate, you’re shitting me. That never really happens. It’s nothing more than a plot point in a movie or a dime novel.”

“First, novels don’t cost a dime anymore. Second, we’re talking about fae enchantment. He could have wiped Niall’s memory without breaking a sweat.”

Hamish ran a finger through the condensation on the side of his glass. “Are you sure . . . Now don’t go off on me, mate, but are you sure the memory was there to begin with? Maybe your memory was the one that’s faulty. Didn’t you say you were dodging Unseelie assassins at every turn back in the day? I mean, maybe one of them landed a blow you never registered.”

Gareth froze with his glass halfway to his lips. “No. I don’t believe it. There were too many memories. Years that we spent—all the times I met him at one eisteddfod after another.”

“That’s what I mean. Always at those bloody music festivals. You know better than anyone how music can cast a spell. Maybe somebody slipped you a musical mickey and you never noticed.”

Gareth set his pint on the table carefully, fighting the urge to fling it at Hamish’s head. “It’s not possible. Nobody, not even a high mage, could use music to ensorcell me. I’m the last bloody bard. My magic trumps theirs.”

“If you say so. So what are you gonna do now? You’re not gonna cast him out to flounder about on his own, right? That’s what you lot used to do in the old days. Why you’re always on about how criminal it was for that bloke to take him in the first place. You planning to do the same?”

“No. No of course not. But if he doesn’t want me—”

“Look, mate. Unrequited love . . .” Hamish’s gaze followed Tiff on the dance floor. “You think I don’t know how much it sucks? But you know what’s worse? Not making the effort. Don’t, for shite’s sake, stalk the poor bastard, but show him you care, yeah? How did you first catch his eye anyway?”

Gareth smiled into his beer. “I was onstage. Singing a song I’d written about one of the famous highwaymen who was ranging the country at the time. Robbing corrupt nobles and returning the money to the townsfolk.”

“A robbing hood kind of bloke, eh?” Hamish said with a cheeky grin.

“Robin Hood, you wanker, and yes. Niall was there, at the back of the crowd. And afterward . . . well, turns out he was the highwayman in question.”

“Get out. How’d you find that out?”

“He took me with him that night to rob a coach.”

It had been the second-to-last night of the eisteddfod, Gareth’s last night, since he never stayed long enough for the prize-giving. He’d noticed the dark, handsome man with the flashing grin and the confident swagger before; somehow he always seemed to be there, at the back of the crowd, whenever Gareth performed. Yet even through the mass of other people, Gareth could pick him out as clearly as if he were standing alone in a sunlit meadow.

When he’d slipped away after his performance, Niall had been waiting.

“It’s customary, is it not, to offer a bard a pint after a worthy performance?” Niall’s voice held a hint of an Irish lilt, which, for a Welsh fae who’d never forgotten the cruel treatment of Branwen ferch Llŷr by the Irish King Matholwch, should have been off-putting. But instead, it was one more thing—one more forbidden, and therefore exciting, thing about Niall.

“Are you offering then?”

“I am and all. Yon inn serves a decent brew, and if we hurry, we’ll be able to quaff a few before the rest of these thirsty buggers snabble the lot.”

The taproom at the inn was busy but not overly crowded, and Niall led the way to a table in the corner which had been occupied when they’d entered, but which was miraculously free by the time they reached it.

The barman brought them two pints with only a glance from Niall. “Evening, John. Keeping all right?”

“Ach, Niall. That bastard of a baron has nearly stripped us bare again. Taxes.” The barman snorted. “You ask me, them taxes is going to buy another trinket for the blighter’s jewelry box, while half the town is nigh on starving.”

“Is that so? Well, we’ll have to see what we can do about that.” He took a sip of his ale. “Ah. Always the best around, John. You never disappoint.”

“Obliged to ye, Niall.”

“By the way, this is— What was your name again, boyo?”

“Cynwrig. Gareth Cynwrig.”

“Gareth then. Gareth’s a rare bard, John, and we wouldn’t want his throat to get too parched, now, so keep them coming, aye?”

“Welcome to ye, bard. If the ale’s to your liking, perhaps you’d favor us with a tune?”

Gareth smiled at man. “It would be my honor.” He could sing his latest song, the one that would have won him the eisteddfod chair if he’d been unscrupulous enough to pit his bardic magic against human musicians. But here, he could repay the barman, and maybe catch that look of admiration in Niall’s eyes again before he had to move on.

After the song, though, Niall welcomed Gareth back to their table with an arm slung across his shoulder. “That was grand, boyo. But are you after a spot more excitement tonight?”

Gareth swallowed. Is he going to kiss me? Do I want him to kiss me?

But instead of the expected kiss, Niall led him behind the inn to the stables. Is he going to do more than kiss me? Gareth’s mouth went dry with newfound desire. He expected the Voices to mock him for that, since he’d never approached another man, but they were mute, as if Niall’s presence—so big and bold and real—had muzzled them.

But Niall didn’t lead him to the hayloft and the tryst that Gareth was suddenly desperate for. Instead, he nodded to a groom, who led out two horses.

“You can ride, can’t you, bard?”

“It’s Gareth, and yes, I can ride. Better than you, I’ll wager.” That was one thing other than music that he excelled at.

“A wager, eh? You’ve pegged my weakness. I’ll never say nay to one of those.” Niall grinned as he mounted a black stallion with a blaze on its forehead. “What are the stakes?”

Gareth took a moment to whisper to the chestnut mare the groom handed over to him. She flicked an ear back before pressing her head to his chest for him to stroke her neck and mane. Stalling. He could admit it, but if he asked for what he really wanted, and Niall said no, or worse, attacked him for the insult? He mounted, and when he glanced at Niall, his grin had widened, as if he knew what Gareth was thinking.

Gareth took his courage in both hands. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “A kiss.”

Niall’s eyebrows shot up. “A kiss is it? From some comely barmaid?”

“No. From—from you.”

Niall laughed then, a sound that Gareth had longed to try to capture in a melody. “Then, boyo, I hope you outride me for certain.” He pulled a fist-sized bundle out of his saddlebag and tossed it to Gareth. “Once we’re clear of town, put that on. Wouldn’t do for anyone to see that pretty face.”

“What about you?”

“I’ve got my own, never fear. Coming?” He urged his horse to a trot.

Gareth wheeled his own mount and followed Niall out of the stable yard. He’d never stepped a foot out of line before, the responsibility of being the last bard in Faerie weighing him down, reinforcing Arawn’s—and later the Queen’s—refusal to allow him combat training. His hands were too valuable to risk, they said; his voice too precious to break in a battle cry.

But the excitement surging in his veins tonight set off a whole new melody in his soul—bright and martial and a little bit sly.

His heart beat like a bodhran as they nearly flew through the windy night, Niall’s eyes dancing behind his mask, his grin manic in the moonlight when they intercepted the coach.

When the coachman raised his weapon, pointing it square at Gareth’s chest, he ought to have been terrified. Instead he’d never felt more alive. One moment of life before death.

But the gun misfired, and Niall’s order to “Stand and deliver!” met with no more resistance.

The trembling lord handed over his fat purse and stickpin, causing a twinge of guilt in Gareth’s chest. Thievery—the Voices were dismissive of it, all of them having been thieves or worse themselves. For that reason alone, Gareth disapproved on principle.

But then Niall led him back to the village where the lord had just been to collect taxes, returning the money to the villagers, and their gratitude, the lessening of desperation in their faces, wiped out any regret.

Niall had given the stickpin to Gareth, along with the promised kiss. Gareth had had the sapphire made into an earring that he still wore to this day, but the kiss was the greater treasure.

That night, Niall had made love to him for the first time, adding yet another thrill to a day that’d been brim full of firsts.

“Oi. Gareth.” Hamish clunked his glass on the table, jerking his head at the discreet door in the corner of the bar. “You’d best be off before the fight crowds arrive. Wouldn’t want to offend your fae sensibilities.”

“Shut up.” But Gareth slipped out of the booth nonetheless, even though the rest of the band hadn’t yet left the dance floor. David hadn’t texted yet, but Gareth couldn’t stay away any longer. He had to see Niall, make sure he was all right. He tossed a few bills on the table to cover their tab. “See you at rehearsal tomorrow.” He raised his hand in farewell to the others as he left the bar.

The drive back to Hillsboro was interminable despite the lack of traffic this late at night. When he got to the house, he’d barely parked the car in the garage before he was out of it, the last minutes of separation suddenly too much to bear.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he closed the front door behind him. Then he heard the murmur of voices from the guest room. Niall was awake? Had he gotten worse? Why hadn’t David called him?

He strode down the hall and stopped in the doorway, anger warring with anxiety. Niall wasn’t speaking—in fact, his eyes were closed, tremors shaking his body as he moaned. David and Bryce were standing at the foot of the bed, frowning at Niall’s back, which seemed worse than it had been not two hours ago when Gareth had left.

Anger won out over anxiety. “You promised me you’d call if he worsened,” he whispered fiercely. “I’d call this worse.”

David glanced up, his cupid’s bow mouth forming an O of surprise for an instant before he blinked. “Calm down. We’re just about to apply a more potent remedy.”

“You should have called.”

Bryce dug something out of one of the many pockets in his canvas vest. “You’d have gotten here at exactly the same time, so I don’t see the problem.”

“The problem,” Gareth said as he advanced into the room, “is that I should have been here.”

Bryce glanced at Gareth irritably, the harsh words Gareth had flung at Mal the night the Unseelie King was deposed obviously still hanging between them. Those words would have been harsher if I’d known that the Unseelie monster Mal had been abetting was the one who’d kidnapped Niall. “You’re here now, so don’t get in the way.”

Gareth circled the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress. He couldn’t help it—he had to touch Niall, at least a little. Surely it wouldn’t matter since Niall was unconscious and would never know. Very gently, he laid his fingers over Niall’s where they rested on the sheet.

Bryce snorted, but Gareth ignored him. Sometime in the not too distant future, he needed to sit down with Bryce and clear the air. He still wasn’t entirely onboard with Mal’s relationship with a druid—nobody knew better than Gareth that relationships between fae and other species rarely ended well, although in the case of a fae/druid pairing, it was the fae with more at stake.

“Why should that matter to you, boyo? Aren’t you the bloke who wants all fae to suffer?”

Not all fae—only the Unseelie. And definitely not his brothers.

Bryce handed David an ampoule of some cloudy liquid, which David inserted into a spray pump. David moved to the side of the bed opposite Gareth and used the device to mist Niall’s back with the potion. The skin on Niall’s back twitched.

“You’re hurting him. Druid potions—”

“I told you. Bryce doesn’t believe in the cathartic healing power of pain. The potion is cold and Niall is reacting to it, that’s all. He’s pretty out of it anyway, so even if it stings a little, he won’t know.”

“He might. You don’t know—”

“Gareth.” David’s tone was laced with exasperation. “Do you want him to get better or not?”

“Of course I do!”

“Then stop being obstructionist.”

Gareth gazed at Niall’s tousled hair, his dark curls spilling across the pillow, stroked Niall’s fingers and sighed. “I’m sorry. I— I just feel so helpless. I want to do something.”

“Then why don’t you sing to him? Something soothing so he can rest more easily.”

“I . . . can do that, I suppose.”

“Good thing you’re cooperating for a change,” Bryce grumbled as he gathered packets of herbs from the top of the dresser.

“Bryce.” David’s voice held a warning this time. “You need to behave too. I don’t allow anyone to distress my patients—even if they’re not conscious enough to know about it.”

Bryce huffed, then ran his fingers through his hair, sending it spiking every which way. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just— Well, the portents are really weird right now. I’ll be much happier once Mal and Alun get back.”

David’s lips compressed into a line. “You and me both.”

“I’ll check back in the morning, but call if you need anything.” With one last glower at Gareth, Bryce walked out of the room.

Gareth laced his fingers with Niall’s, and when Niall’s tightened on his, a tiny thread of joy wound around his heart. He settled down with his back against the headboard and began to sing a Welsh lullaby. When that made Niall stir restlessly, earning Gareth an admonitory glare from David, he switched to “Bridge Over Troubled Water.”

He knew he should sleep. He knew he should rest his voice; he had a concert in less than twenty-four hours. But screw that. Niall needed him, so he sang. Simon and Garfunkel. Fleetwood Mac. Five for Fighting. All the popular Outer World standards.

When he ventured into one of Hunter’s Moon’s songs, though, with their roots in Celtic folk music, or one of the old ballads he used to sing when he and Niall had been lovers, Niall would thrash and moan. So Gareth sang his way through songs Niall had never heard until the dawn bled through the blinds and Niall finally opened his eyes.