A perfect summary of their relationship. Simple, yet intensely complicated. I like some tenderness to my meatballs. I do NOT like them overdone.

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Chapter One Dani: p. We all are. Last night everything changed. End-of-the-world stuff. Uh-huh, that bad. Fae and human worlds collided with the biggest bang since creation, and everything is a mess. Fecking Shades loose in the fecking abbey. Ro through the roof with it, screaming that Mac betrayed us. Ordered us to hunt her. Bring her in dead or alive.

Shut her up or shut her down, she said. No way we can let her fall into the wrong hands, and Ro says any hands but hers are the wrong ones. I never want to fight Mac. But here I am, hunting her. Pretty much everyone else does, though. No way she betrayed us. Five hundred twenty-two sidhe-seers left at last count. Taking Dublin back. Hunting Mac. Kicking every bit of Fae ass we see along the way.

No sign of her yet. We all feel it. Taste it. Practically see the mushroom cloud hanging in the air. No way any sidhe-seer could turn away from this kinda pull. I never feel sick. Sick is for wusses and wannabes. Mac can take care of herself. I have reasons to be cocky. Five hundred twenty-two of us closing in. What everybody else wishes they could do, I can.

Being fourteen—well, I almost am—blows. She says it gets better. Gimme a blaze of glory any day. Who wants to get old and wrinkly? Not enough flashlights, she said. Smart, Dani. Real smart. Pissed me off, but she had a point. Who put you in charge? I said, but it was rhetorical and we both knew it, and she walked away. Ro put her in charge. Gag me with a spoon. Crashed and burned cars everywhere we turn.

The city is spooky quiet. Who the feck am I kidding? I feel sick, sick, sick. My palms and pits are slick with dread. I wipe my sword hand against my jeans. My body knows things before my brain can. Always been that way, even when I was a kid. Used to freak Mom out.

I kill. Five hundred strong. Drape ourselves, sidhe-seer by sidhe-seer, around the epicenter and close in tight. Or sifts. Aw, crap! I have a theory I been testing. The kinks are killer. She gets that look grown-ups get a lot and touches my hair. I jerk. Grown-ups creep me out. I roll my eyes. When I. Grown-ups telegraph everything. Somebody kill me before I get one of those Play-Doh faces.

But if she lets me make the call and things go bad, she can blame it on headstrong, uncontrollable Dani. I take the blame a lot. I do what needs to be done. Old enough to kill but too young to cuss. They make a pit bull poodle around. What kinda logic is that?

Hypocrisy pisses me off worse than most anything. Her face sets in stubborn lines. I push. Wounded that badly? Had she lost her spear? Only that she was in way deep shit. She betrayed us. Pisses me off when people jump to conclusions they have no proof for. I drop her back on the ground and look away. Her mouth sets with tiny white lines around it, and her eyes take on a look I get a lot.

It makes me feel mad and alone. Without another word, I give my feet the wings they live for and vanish into the building. My fists clench. I keep my nails real short; still, they gouge blood from my palms. Two Fae are dragging Mac down the front steps of a church. They drop her like a piece of trash in the middle of the street.

A third Fae exits the church and joins them, and they stand, imperial guards around her, heads swiveling, surveying the street. Storms of color rush under their skin. Black torques slither at their necks. Eyes of pure oblivion. They reek of it. My blood knows. I wipe my face. My fingers come away red.

My eyes are leaking blood. Kinda cool. Vamps got nothing on Fae.





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