If David had thought racing down the hill between Alun and Mal had been adrenaline-inducing, it was nothing compared to dangling in the air between two massive Sidhe who hadn’t had much practice marching in step. His shoulders felt as if they’d been wrenched out of their sockets, and his breath sawed in his lungs as he struggled to keep up.

“The least . . . you could do . . .” he gasped, “is allow me . . . to walk to my doom . . . with a little dignity.”

“Quiet.” The Consort stopped crashing through the underbrush like a wounded moose and held up one hand. The goons stopped, and David was finally able to catch his breath.

So unfair. He’d just figured out he wasn’t a klutzy awkward loser. He’d finally found a man he could love—if the stupid idiot would just take off his stubborn hat. But if he was really going to die tonight, he wasn’t about to make it easier for the kidnappers. His nervous response had always been smart-assery, and nothing said nerves like the prospect of being fucked to death by a cross between Ken, Thor, and a giant douche bag.

“You guys need to work on your interpersonal skills, you know? All of you fae are the same. Do this, do that, do what I say—”

The Consort grabbed David’s jaw in one massive hand and squeezed until David’s mouth puckered like a carp’s. “If I were Cynwrig, I’d have cut out your tongue long since.”

“No mo’ woyal we?” Fish lips made it tough to talk.

“Shut. Your. Mouth.” The Consort punctuated each word with an increase in pressure and a vicious shake. David’s eyes watered, and the Consort’s mouth twisted in a Voldemort smile. He jerked his head at the goons. “The Queen and her coterie are at her pavilion. We detour through the ceilidh glade. The rest of the company will meet us there.”

He let go, and David passed a hand under his jaw, certain it had been dislocated. Oddly, he felt a soothing warmth spread from his hand to his bruised cheeks. Whoa. This stuff worked on himself too? It’s my power. Mine. And I get to choose how to spend it. He might be a mosquito compared to the fae grizzlies beside him, but mosquitoes could be freaking annoying. If that was all he had to work with, he’d own it—and damned if he’d give up without a fight.

The Consort veered off onto a narrower path, forcing them into single file. David glanced back at Goon One, whose shoulders brushed the bushes on either side of the path.

“You guys seriously need a new hobby. Have you tried fantasy football?”

Goon One grunted and glowered. Ha! In a mano-a-mano glower-off, Alun would leave this guy in the dust.

Alun. The tiny glow that his token resistance had afforded faded when he realized he wouldn’t see Alun again. That his last words to him had been recriminations. Is this how Alun had felt after his last fight with Owain? This inner maelstrom of regret and want and sorrow? If so, David could understand how he’d want to punish himself for the outcome.

They broke through the tree cover into the ceilidh glade, the place he’d been exposed as other than human. The circle of white stones glimmered in the moss carpet, and at the far end of the clearing, Gareth Kendrick stood on the dais, holding his guitar, a battered leather case open at his feet. He met David’s gaze across the empty circle, his eyes widening as he took in the Consort and attendant goons.

A group of about twenty fae, all of them the tall perfect specimens that marked them as Sidhe, strode out of the woods opposite the Consort, who moved forward to meet them in the center of the circle.

David glanced from the stones to Gareth, Alun’s words echoing in his head. “If you venture inside while a true bard plays, you must stay and dance until the music stops.”

Gareth was a true bard.

David glanced at Goon One and Goon Two. Their attention was focused on the confab going on in the middle of the clearing. Now’s my chance.

So the fae demanded beauty, did they? Well, let them get a load of David’s moves. If he could clear any given dance floor of a raft of horny men who wanted to have their twink and eat him too, these jokers stood no chance.

He captured Gareth’s gaze, indicating the guitar with a twitch of his chin. Tilting his head toward the group of fae in the dance danger zone, he mouthed, YMCA.

A smile, so like Alun’s that David nearly faltered, curved Gareth’s lips, and he nodded. As he struck the opening notes, David bolted into the circle. Goon Two shouted and followed, but Goon One didn’t cross the stone perimeter. Dang it.

No help for it. Maybe the hills coming alive with the sound of music would attract enough attention to foil the Consort’s little plan.

David’s feet broke into a skipping march without conscious orders from his brain, his hands swinging up to clap over his head. Around him, the Sidhe joined in the same moves, although their actions were smooth and as lovely as anyone could be while shaking their booty to vintage Village People as performed by the last living fae bard.

Judging by the expressions on their faces, which ranged from murderous to horrified when their gaze landed on David’s best (aka worst ever) moves, they weren’t exactly thrilled by the experience.

Too freaking bad.

Gareth’s smooth-as-velvet baritone belted out the chorus, and David led the company in a conga line of arm movements. Ha! They followed his lead, as if the horror of his dancing were mesmerizing, just like the people in the trauma group.

This is my true superpower: dance as an offensive weapon.

As Gareth launched into the second verse, David grew breathless. Shoot. He had no endgame in mind. Just a nebulous hope that he’d attract enough people to stop the Consort’s stealth operation. If that didn’t work, what then?

Over the sound of Gareth’s guitar and his exhortations for young men to check out the action in the Y, David heard a rustle in the trees from two different directions. Please let at least one regiment of cavalry be on my team.

Unfortunately, the Consort apparently noticed the sounds of approaching company too. He glared at Goon One, who dithered on the outside of the circle, as much as a man the size of a WWE champion could dither.

“Kill the bard, you fool.”

David stumbled but couldn’t stop his feet. He hadn’t meant to endanger Gareth. Damn it, he’d acted before he considered the consequences. Again.

Goon One shook his head. “Kill a bard? I cannot. I would be exiled.”

“You will be dead at my own hand if you do not stop this madness.”

Goon One nodded and pulled a longbow off his shoulder. As Goon One nocked an arrow, David tried to stop dancing, tried to stop flinging his arms in wild abandon, tried to shout anything but “YMCA.”

But he couldn’t. And Goon One let the arrow fly.