Gareth should have known better than to try to play while rage was banging around in his head like a fourth-rate drummer. Neither of his guitars would stay in tune during the sound check—and his instruments were always in tune. It was one of the perks of being a bard.

Unless the bard was so off the rails that he could barely remember a G7 chord, let alone the intricate finger-picking of most of their songs.

“Shit on a pogo stick, Gareth.” Hamish threw his drumsticks on the stage. “Do we have to do this whole thing a cappella? Bad enough your guitar sounds like a panther shifter in heat—”

“Watch it, kangaroo.”

Hamish ignored Tiff, which never happened. “Whatever’s eating your ass is bleeding over to the rest of us. Josh’s violin. Spence’s rig. I mean can an electronic keyboard even go out of tune? Even my drums sound sour. If this is what getting laid does for you—”

“Shut the fuck up, Hamish!” Gareth hurled a cable across the stage, where it slid along the deck, causing one of the roadies to jump aside.

“Oho. So you didn’t get laid. Shite, I thought the way you and Niall were eye-fucking each other during the show last night—”

“I said shut the fuck up. Goddess strike me blind, you never know when to quit. No wonder Tiff won’t give you the time of day.”

Hamish surged up off his stool as if he were about to leap over the drum kit. Given the power in his legs, it wasn’t beyond possibility. Gareth bared his teeth and bunched his fists, ready for the fight—craving the fight. Hells, he’d have welcomed the gods-bedamned Voices if only to have someone to argue with, but they were silent. Probably off gloating in their spectral pub, the arseholes.

Someone touched Gareth’s shoulder, and he whirled, fist cocked, only to meet Josh’s eyes, wide with shock and hurt. Gareth didn’t know whether he’d have thrown the punch at his best friend—he’d like to think he was better than that—because Spence caught his wrist.

“If it weren’t for the fact we’ve got a show in an hour, I’d break your fucking arm,” Spence growled, his eyes taking on the reddish glow of a werewolf about to shift.

Gareth met his furious gaze. “Do it.” The pain in his body would be a thousand times easier to bear than the pain in his heart. It was building inside him, a vast angry sea of red, threatening to burst through breakwater and swamp him, drown him.

“Spence.” At Josh’s gentle tone, Spence’s eyes faded from red to brown. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” But Spence let go of Gareth, only to snake his arm around Josh’s waist and pull him halfway across the stage, well out of Gareth’s reach. “Nobody threatens you. Especially not some asshole who’s supposed to be your friend. Who’s supposed to be a friend to all of us. What the fuck, Gareth?”

This was worse than when Niall had left. Then, he had only his own grief for love lost. But now? He’d always imagined himself better than Gwydion, more compassionate, more moral. But he’d taken his grief and turned it into a bludgeon to pummel his brothers, his friends. Even his music had been warped by it.

Gareth turned away and hunched over his guitar again, trying to bring it back into tune. “Never mind. Let’s just get this done.”

“Done?” Hamish smacked his high hat with a clang. “I’d say we’re overdone if we can’t even manage a fecking sound check.”

Josh pulled away from Spence, who tried to catch him but fell back at the fiercest look Gareth had ever seen on Josh’s face. He approached Gareth so warily, Gareth discovered a blue undertow of sorrow in the red sea of his anger. Josh had never been afraid of him before.

He pressed his lips together, holding in the venom, beating back the tears, and allowed Josh to take his guitar from his unresisting hands.

“Gareth, I’m not sure what’s going on, but for this show, I think you’re on vocals only.”

“But Josh—”

Josh cut a glance at Spence, and he subsided into glowering silence. “I’ll handle lead guitar. Spence can pick up rhythm with the synthesizer. We’ve done it before.”

Hamish slumped on his stool, arms crossed. “Not for years. Shite, this show is gonna suck.”

Tiff, who’d been silent, watching them all with the not-wary gaze of a hunting cat, hung her bass around her neck. “You telling me you can’t handle a change in our set list, kangaroo? I thought you had more balls than that.”

Hamish glanced between Spence and Gareth, and for once, he didn’t goad anyone. When was Hamish ever subdued? “Bring it, kitty cat. I’m game.”

“All right then.” She signaled to a couple of the roadies. “Repatch the amps and strike Gareth’s instruments. He’s on mic alone tonight. Josh, draw up a new set list. Songs that don’t depend on the violin arrangement.”

Gareth let them hustle around him as he fought the urge to scream at the top of his voice. Maybe he’d channel a little early Roger Daltrey tonight. Add in a “Won’t Get Fooled Again” scream. Yeah. That was it. His music. He’d use his music to channel his feelings, just as he always did.

“One thing,” he said, his voice rough and scratchy. “‘Lover’s Reel’ is off the list.”

Josh met his gaze for a long minute. “Of course.”

As it turned out, they should have canceled the show anyway. Josh was perfectly competent on guitar—bordering on brilliant, actually, if Gareth wanted to admit it. But he should have known better than to sing when his own emotions were running so hot and dangerous.

He was a fucking bard, for shite’s sake. His voice amplified emotions in his audience. He prided himself on playing those emotions as precisely as any instrument, but tonight, he hadn’t been able to separate his own feelings from the performance. He channeled his rage, his betrayal, his—yes, his hate—into every word, every note.

And the audience picked up on it.

Instead of dancing, fights broke out in pockets throughout the crowd. Even the ones who didn’t turn on their neighbors sported angry expressions, fists punching the air when they weren’t punching each other.

He’d stormed offstage at the end of the show before any of the rest of the band. They’d all been on edge too, responding to the unbridled passion in his vocals. Even the dampening effect of the electronics couldn’t rob his voice of its bardic power.

He rushed down the hallway to his dressing room and slammed the door behind him. Sweat dripped down his face and soaked the back of his T-shirt. He leaned against the door, chest heaving, unable to catch his breath. This wasn’t the usual postconcert adrenaline rush. This was something else. He should have felt some kind of catharsis after a release like that, but he didn’t. If anything, the red swirled higher until his very gaze was tinged with it.

He stumbled forward to stare at himself in the mirror. He looked exactly as insane as he felt, his hair in sweaty clumps. He laughed mirthlessly. Niall had always loved his hair. That’s why he’d never—

Fuck that. Fuck Niall. Fuck everything.

He dug in his case and pulled out a belt knife, then grabbed a hank of his hair and started sawing at it. “Fuck this. All for—” He winced as the blade caught on his hair, pulling at his scalp. “Nothing. All for nothing.” He dropped the handful of curls onto the floor and grabbed another handful. “I could have been there for Alun. For his real grief.” More curls joined the growing pile on the floor. “I could have—”

Hamish burst through the door. “I don’t know what the hell that was, Kendrick, but— Jesus fuck, what are you doing?”

Gareth glanced at himself in the mirror. Half his hair was gone, leaving a ragged mess on the top and sides. “Getting a haircut.”

“Yeah? Well if you’re going for mullet-nouveau, I don’t think it’ll ever catch on. Gimme that.” Hamish grabbed Gareth’s arm. They grappled, Hamish woofing when Gareth landed an elbow in his belly. But then Hamish dug his fingers into the tendons of Gareth’s wrist, and Gareth dropped the knife with a cry.

Gareth backed away as Hamish scooped the knife off the floor. “You’re not going to—”

“Stab you? Get real. Although if I were you, I’d steer clear of Spence for the next little bit.” He dug in his pack and pulled out a pair of shears. “Good thing for you I never travel without my scissors.”

“You what? Why?”

“I’m always shaggy after a shift, so I give myself a trim. Come here.”

Gareth choked on a hysterical laugh. “You think I’m going to let you cut my hair?”

Hamish raised an eyebrow. “A baboon with a lawn mower would do a better job than you’re doing. Give over.”

Gareth made himself hold still—or as still as he was able—while Hamish approached and started snipping at his mangled curls. Tremors still racked his body from time to time, and when they did, Hamish would pause.

“You need help, Gareth. Whatever happened, you need to get over it. If this is coming from me—I mean, I’m the first guy to say yes to a little fracas, right? So if I’m saying you’re over the top, you know you’re really over the fucking top. You need to come down.” He tossed his scissors in his bag. “There. Not exactly GQ worthy, but at least you won’t scare any children. Although . . .” He pawed through his bag, pulled out a knitted beanie, and tossed it at Gareth. “Here. Best not to take any chances on that.”

Gareth glanced at his reflection. He didn’t remember the last time his hair was this short. It was odd. Lighter. As if he’d shorn himself of part of his personality.

Maybe that’s a good thing.

But he needed more. He yanked the beanie onto his head, a fuck-ton of rage still swirling in his belly. “Take me to that shifter bar.”

Hamish squinted one eye at him. “If you want a drink, mate, I can hook you up with beer or whiskey. No need to go out in public. Besides, it’s fight night. Crowd’ll be a bit rough.”

“I want to go to a bar. That bar. If you don’t want to come with me, I’ll go by myself.” He shrugged into his jacket. The roadies had packed his guitar cases with the rest of the band’s gear, so he had nothing but his duffel. “See you back in LA.” He started for the door.

“Shite,” Hamish muttered. “You realize, don’t you, that we’re all stuck here until you give us a Faerie ride back home?”

Gareth froze. Shite. He’d forgotten. “I—I can’t. The gates are all locked for some reason.”

“Outstanding. Guess we’ll be cadging a ride with the roadies tonight.”

“I’m not going back. Not tonight.” Gareth strode toward the door, but Hamish blocked his way.

“Going back to your BIL’s house?”

“Hells no.” Gareth bared his teeth. “I’m going to get drunk.”

“You’re a bard. You can’t get drunk.”

“I can damn well try. If that doesn’t work, I’ll get hammered some other way.”

“Shite on a pogo stick.” Hamish ran both hands through his hair. Wonder if mine’ll stick up like that now? “Josh’ll kill me if I let anything happen to you. Come on. I’ll take you to the bar as long as you give me your keys.”

For about ten seconds, Gareth considered resisting. He didn’t want to agree to anything tonight. Didn’t want to give in. Wanted to fight against everything.

Fight the truth.

But with Hamish looming over him, he gave in. “Fine. But we’re not leaving that bar until I throw a punch at someone.”

Everything hurt. His hands. His ribs. His face.

His heart.

Hamish hadn’t quit muttering under his breath since he’d hauled Gareth out of the basement of the shifter bar. How could everything hurt this much when he’d never even made it to the fight pens?

“If you hadn’t blocked my punch, I could have taken that guy out.”

Hamish signaled to exit the freeway. “If I hadn’t blocked your punch, your hand would be broken, and you’d have more than a black eye. That bloke was a fecking grizzly shifter, you daft twit. Next time you go off the rails, pick a fight with a bunny rabbit or a koala.”

The anger that had gotten buried under pain resurfaced. “You think I can’t hold my own in a fight?”

“I think you make your living with your hands and voice, and the angel face doesn’t hurt. If you put those at risk, how will you pay off the medical bills?”

Gareth slumped lower in his car seat and started out the window with the eye that wasn’t swollen shut. “Don’t need that. Fae heal fast, and my brother-in-law is an achubydd.”

“Yeah? From what I’ve seen of your BIL, he’s not a fan of flat-out stupidity. I’ll bet you anything you like he’ll let you stew in your own mental juice.”

Unfortunately, Hamish had a point. David, while as empathetic as anyone in either the Outer World or Faerie, had little patience with foolhardiness—which he let Gareth know when he tried to sneak into the house. He’d have been more successful if Hamish hadn’t been tailing him and banging into the furniture, bringing David charging out of the kitchen.

“Seriously, Gareth? A bar fight?” Fists planted on his hips, David glared at him, and though David was at least six inches shorter and many pounds lighter, Gareth cringed as he had when his playing hadn’t met Gwydion’s approval. Gareth’s only solace was that David was alone in the house—that Niall wouldn’t see his state. “Even The Who confined their untold destruction to the stage. And what’s with the hat?”

Gareth tugged off the beanie, wincing at David’s expression of horror. “That bad?”

“It’s . . . um . . . a bit unfortunate, yes.”

“What can I say? Hamish sucks as a barber.”

“Honestly.” David held out his hand imperiously. “Let me see your fingers.”

Gareth extended his throbbing right hand. His fingers were already swollen and purpling at the knuckles. Good thing we don’t have another gig tomorrow. He braced himself, but David’s touch was gentle as he examined the damage.

“You’ve breaks in the neck of these two metacarpal bones, here and here.” David touched the knuckles below Gareth’s ring and little fingers. “Know what they call that?”

“Really fricking painful?”

“A brawler’s fracture.”

Hamish chuckled. “Too right.”

David glared at Hamish from under his bangs. “I suppose you were right in the thick of it too. Why didn’t you stop him?”

“Oi, mate. I tried. If I hadn’t hauled him off that grizzly shifter, he’d have a sight more than a busted hand and a black eye.”

David squinted at Gareth’s chest. “Don’t forget the ribs. Three of ’em.”

Shite, no wonder it hurt to breathe. “Wasn’t Hamish’s fault.”

“No? Well, I blame everyone. So I suggest you get on to wherever you need to be, Hamish, and let me fix this.”

“Think you can fix his hair too?”

David raised one eyebrow. “I doubt anyone could fix that. I’m an achubydd, not a miracle stylist. Shoo.”

Hamish clapped Gareth on the shoulder once—ow—and left.

David shook his head. “Honestly, Gareth. After a couple thousand years of life, I’d expect you to have more sense.” He nodded toward dining room. “Go sit in one of the chairs, backward, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Gareth trudged over to a chair and arranged himself as ordered. David banged around in the cabinets for a few minutes before washing his hands and carrying a first aid kit to the table.

Gareth blinked at the kit. “Do you need that? I thought—”

“Obviously you didn’t think. So I’m going to help you remember. The ribs and the hand—oh, and your hip. Don’t think I missed that limp, Mister Sir. Those I’ll take care of the supernatural way. But the black eye? Nope. I’ll give you the same treatment I’d give any human idiot who let his temper override his intelligence. You can think about it every time you look in the mirror.”

Niall would see. Niall would know.

But so what? You don’t care what he thinks anymore anyway, right?

But he’d know how much it mattered to Gareth. How devastating the truth was. The only thing he had left was the tattered remains of his pride.

“David, please. I don’t mind the pain, but—” He swallowed against a lump in his throat. “Never mind.”

David’s touch, light and somehow impersonal, nevertheless sent soothing warmth through his chest and abdomen. “I know. I can see that pain too, you know. But you have to deal with it yourself—you and Niall. It’s not an injury I can heal. There. Turn around now and let me see your hand.”

Gareth complied, breathing a relieved sigh when David’s healing touch knit the bones in his injured hand. He really hadn’t been thinking, had he? Letting his hurt and anger get the better of him, so much so that he’d lashed out in a way he could never expect to win. He’d had no combat training. But in a way, he’d wanted the punishment. For my behavior. For my naïveté. To atone for what I’ve done to my brothers. So why didn’t he feel better now? Maybe keeping the black eye was a good idea.

“I’m sorry.”

David glanced up. “For being a dope?”

Gareth smiled wryly. “Not entirely. For making work for you.”

“I don’t mind that. It’s what I do. And I can feel your gratitude, which means you’re giving me back everything I’m sharing.”

“That’s not all, though. I’m sorry for how I acted, how I treated Alun all those years. What I said to Mal about Bryce. My hostility toward Bryce.”

“Well, not that I disagree, but why the sudden change?”

“Because it was all for nothing. A lie. An illusion. A trick.”

David released Gareth’s hand, a frown puckering his forehead as he poked in the first aid kit. “Maybe you should talk to Niall before you jump to that particular conclusion.”

“Why? Our whole relationship was a fraud, at least on his part.”

“You need to talk to him. Seriously. Close your eye, please.”

Gareth crossed his arms as David wiped some cool, astringent-smelling lotion on his face. “There’s no point.”

“There’s every point. Honestly, you fae are so blasted stubborn sometimes. Things are not black or white, right or wrong, Seelie or Unseelie. There are shades of gray here, and more popping up all the time. I think this whole Convergence is a perfect example of how you need to adjust your world view. Be a little more flexible, for goodness’ sake.”

“Flexible.” Gareth snorted, then winced at the twinge in his bruised flesh. “I’m not certain that word exists in the fae lexicon.”

“Then put it there.” David shook a couple of blue-green capsules into his palm and handed them to Gareth with a glass of water. “Here. The fae equivalent of ibuprofen.”

Gareth swallowed the pills. “Where—” Did he want to know? If Niall was gone, then Gareth didn’t have to face him. But where could he have gone in this place and time? Gareth had brought him here and then abandoned him.

Serves him right.

But did it? That’s what fae nobles had been doing to humans for time out of mind.

Except he’s not human.

Gareth had no desire to discuss their past relationship—or their nonexistent future one, for that matter—but he should at least make sure Niall had the resources to survive in the Outer World. Assuming he didn’t want to return to Faerie. Assuming Faerie even existed anymore.

“Where is he?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow. In the meantime, go sleep it off, because I am so over all this freaking fae drama!”