David had expected a longer trip to the gates of Faerie—or at least something a little less prosaic than pulling into the Audubon Society parking lot and hiking down a trail in Forest Park. I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose—after all, if vampires and shape-shifters show up for regular psychotherapy sessions, anything is possible.

Even so, as he followed Alun and Mal down the path, he wished he hadn’t left his worry stone at home. He was still off-kilter. Watching Alun’s agony had been horrible, yes, but ever since he’d been revealed in all his jaw-dropping glory, he’d been different. Distant.

David could understand why. Why would anyone who looked like that—a lord of the freaking Sidhe, for goodness sake—want anything to do with dorky David Evans, temporary office manager and full-time screw-up?

The two hulking figures ahead of him stopped next to a shoulder-high boulder. Well, shoulder-high to them. It topped David by a good two inches. Why hadn’t Alun seemed this tall before? Had he actually grown during the transformation?

No, when he’d stood next to Mal that first day, David had noticed they were exactly the same height. Maybe the double dose of excessive male beauty just made him feel extra-small.

Alun turned toward him, the moonlight that filtered through the trees dappling his more-than-perfect face. “We leave the path here, Dafydd. Can you see well enough?”

He was still calling David by the name he’d first uttered in their second abortive closet encounter. That had to count for something. “Sure.” I’ll just follow the glow of your skin.

“Take my hand.” Alun extended his palm, the full sleeve of his poet’s shirt billowing in the breeze. “Mal, you follow behind.”

“No worries there. Nice pants, David.”

Alun scowled. “On second thought, you lead.”

“Spoilsport.” But Mal grinned and struck off uphill through the trees.

Although David could have sworn the dense woods would inflict serious damage on their party clothes, Mal somehow led them down a path with plenty of clearance for his double-wide shoulders.

For all I know, the trees moved aside for him.

Mal paused by a narrow stream. “This is where we see if that potion is worth what I paid for it. Are you ready, brother?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Alun took a deep breath and blew it out, then turned to David. “You must do exactly as we say from now on, understand? You don’t know the ways of Faerie, and you might do something—”

“I—”

Alun stopped David’s protest by laying a finger across his lips. “—inadvertently to put yourself or the two of us in danger.”

A fair point. David had no idea what to expect. “Okay.”

“As we cross the water, watch my feet and only my feet. Follow in my steps exactly. We’ll know if we’ve succeeded when we reach the other side.”

David eyed the stream. Mal and Alun could probably cross it with a single stride, although David would have to take a running leap. Were Alun and Mal pulling an elaborate prank on him? But Alun’s agony had been real, and his altered appearance was one heck of a persuader. “I’m ready.”

Instead of stepping across to the other bank, Alun placed one foot on a flat rock in the stream that David hadn’t noticed before. He kept his gaze riveted on Alun’s boots, as per instructions, and followed. One rock. Two. Three. Wait just a fricking minute. Four? Five? They could have crossed the silly little brook and back three times by now, but Alun kept going—another ten stones before he finally stepped out onto a grassy bank.

When David joined him, Alun was shaking, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Mal slapped him on the shoulder.

“See? No problem at all.”

“Speak for yourself,” Alun growled, but the expression on his face as he gazed around—And holy cats, where did that giant freaking hill come from?—was full of wonder.

Mal nudged David’s ribs. “Not much farther now, boy bach. Up the tor, through the woods, and we’ll reach the ceilidh glade before you know it.”

David peered up the steep, rocky slope to its distant crown of trees. “How many miles would you say?”

“Distance is relative in Faerie, but we’ll never get there if we don’t start walking.”

With every step up the tor and through the woods, Alun’s connection to the One Tree grew stronger. Power infused him, as if he were absorbing it through his skin, through the breath in his lungs. I’d forgotten. After so many years away, I’d forgotten the sheer intoxication of it.

When they arrived at the ceilidh glade, already packed with the cream of Faerie, he faltered. After two centuries in exile, what kind of welcome could he expect, especially given the reason for his exile? He nearly turned around, but then David took his hand, his eyes wide and shining as he took in the throng.

“Wow. It’s like the Waterfront Blues Festival crossed with Fashion Week and a little Game of Thrones thrown in for the cosplay.” He stood on his tiptoes, peering through the crowd to the dais on the other side of the clearing. “Hey, is that your brother? The Hunter’s Moon Facebook page said the band was playing at some festival in LA this afternoon.”

“They were.”

“How did he get here so fast?”

Alun smiled down at David. “Magic. Do you imagine the way we arrived is the only path to Faerie?”

“Cool,” David breathed.

Mal bumped Alun’s shoulder with his own. “Don’t stand here like a bloody wallflower. Mingle. You’ll be less conspicuous that way.”

Ah. Good point. Alun kept a tight hold of David’s hand and ventured out from under the trees. The glade was twice the size it had been the last time he’d been here—it expanded and contracted to fit the occasion. However, given how crowded it was, and how many fae, both high and lesser, managed to nearly run David over, Alun suspected tonight’s event might be challenging its limits.

David pressed against his side, his hand bunching Alun’s sleeve. “Don’t look now,” he murmured, jerking his chin at a point beyond Alun’s shoulder, “but that guy in the overdecorated suit is glaring at you.”

Alun snapped his head around, following the direction of David’s gaze. The Consort. He bared his teeth in a battle grimace that could pass for a smile—barely.

David punched his biceps. “Way to be subtle. What part of ‘Don’t look now’ don’t you get?”

He gazed down at David and stroked his cheek with the back of his fingers. “Haven’t you learned, cariad, that the surest way to get someone to look is to tell them not to? Besides, in this company, it’s always wisest to face trouble before it ambushes you in the shadows.”

David leaned into the caress. “Fine. So who is he?”

“The Consort.”

“The Consort? What kind of a name is that?”

“It’s not his name, it’s what he is. The consort to the Queen.”

“If everyone refers to him by his function rather than his name, no wonder he looks so pissy. Does he at least have a name?”

Alun frowned, trying to remember the last time he’d heard the Consort’s true name. “Rodric. Rodric Luchullain.”

“No wonder he prefers ‘the Consort,’” David muttered.

The Consort turned away with one last stony look at them, and Alun’s frown deepened as he tracked the man through the crowd. “I remember him being shorter. And less . . . blond.”

Mal squinted at the Consort’s retreating back. “From your former exalted position, everyone looked shorter. That’s what an inflated head does for you.” He shrugged. “The blondness I can’t answer for. Maybe your color sense was blunted by . . .” By Owain’s radiant fairness hung in the air between them as if Mal had said the words. His habitual cocky grin faded, and he turned away, muttering “Shite. Sorry.”

Alun waited for the gut-punch that followed any thought of Owain, but it didn’t come. Should I feel guilty that I feel less guilty? He’d think about it later—for now, he had David to consider.

The fifth time David had to dodge a reveler, he tugged on Alun’s hand. “Is this just because I’m human? They think I ought to step aside for them without even an ‘excuse me’?”

Alun pulled David behind him before a bejeweled courtier could knock him over. “No. This is unusual, but perhaps it’s because you’re with me. Often, when a fae is exiled, other fae aren’t required to observe the usual Court protocols. Sometimes that extends to ignoring the outcast completely.”

“Like shunning?”

“A little, although it’s more similar to the ‘cut direct’ in Regency England—they’re free to behave like supercilious arseholes, and the disgraced person has no choice but to swallow it.” Alun seethed at the unfairness. David had done nothing to warrant such rudeness. “I fear you’re being tarred with my unfortunate brush. I’m sorry.”

“They’re dissing you because of the curse? You’re the one who has to deal with it, not them. Why would they care?”

Mal scratched his chin—bare of his Outer World scruff since glamourie would be nullified in the Queen’s presence anyway. “You haven’t told him the story?”

“No.”

“Bloody hells, brother. Isn’t it time?”

“I—”

Suddenly Gareth appeared in front of them, his mouth twisted with the same disgust he’d heaped on Alun since Owain’s death. “I wonder how you dare to show your face.”

Right then. What’s a party without a family brawl? “Me? What about that latest CD of yours? If the Queen finds out you recorded Gwydion’s bloody harp, you’ll—”

“I’ll what? Be condemned to exile? I’d welcome it, never to return to this thrice-blasted place.”

“Exile might be the least of it. She could condemn you to death.”

Gareth’s eyes, vacant as the day his lover had been taken by the Unseelie fae, held no fear. “That I’d welcome too.”

“If you care nothing for yourself, consider this: if your sentence is death, as Queen’s Enforcer, Mal would be your executioner. If you care nothing for yourself, you might at least think of him.”

“Oi. Leave me out of it.”

Gareth ignored Mal and leaned in. Alun clenched his fists, willing Gareth to take the first swing, but David suddenly pushed between them and grabbed Gareth’s hand, pumping it with unabashed enthusiasm.

“Gareth. Wow, I’m a huge fan, you’ve no idea.” Gareth blinked, and David let go, a blush creeping up his throat. “Well, of course you have no idea. You don’t know me from Lady Gaga. I’m David Evans. I’m . . . well . . . I’m temping for your brother. It’s such a thrill to meet you and . . .” He trailed off, grimacing, as Gareth continued to stare at him. “Sorry. Too over the top?”

If Gareth is foul to David, I’ll throw the first punch myself.

But to Alun’s surprise, Gareth grinned, and his eyes lost their deadness. “Not in the least. I’m always happy to meet a fan.”

A tall thin fae Alun didn’t recognize sauntered over, casting a contemptuous glance over Alun and his brothers—although he ignored David. “Well, if it isn’t the three Welsh fairies.”

The three of them drew themselves up, the disdain in the stranger’s tone uniting them when blood connection could not. They stared him down until he backed off, strolling away in the company of half a dozen other courtiers, all of them laughing.

David tugged on Alun’s sleeve. “I thought you said no one called you fairies.”

“No one with any elegance of mind.”

“Or who doesn’t want to find his hand tucked under his pillow without benefit of his arm,” Mal muttered.

“So what is his problem?”

“He’s Irish,” Alun said.

“So?”

“He doesn’t consider us true Sidhe.” Gareth’s earlier smile had disappeared behind the grim face he’d worn when he’d first faced Alun. “Before Unification, he wouldn’t have bothered to spit on us.”

“And that’s a disadvantage? What, his spit is a collector’s item?” David glared after the jerk, his fists planted on his hips. “I’ll bet you can buy that crap by the bucket on eBay.”

Mal snorted, and a smile teased Gareth’s mouth for a moment before he caught Alun’s gaze.

“A pleasure to meet you, David.” Gareth nodded once at Mal, but glared at Alun. “You will take him home before dawn. I’ll be watching.” He turned on his heel and strode to the dais.

Mal ran a hand through his hair and whistled. “Look at it this way. At least he spoke to you.”

“True.” Alun tracked Gareth as he took his guitar out of its case. No harp tonight. At least he’s not a total idiot. “I’m not certain whether that’s good or bad.”