CHAPTER 12. Folks say that the only way to avoid their fury is to hunt a branch of verbena and bind it with a five-leaved clover

Folks say that the only way to avoid their fury is to hunt a branch of verbena and bind it with a five-leaved clover. This is magic against all disaster.

—Folk Tales of Brittany by Elsie Masson (1929)

When Donia walked into the library, she saw Seth. Aislinn's friend, the one who lives in the den of steel walls. It wasn't quite late enough to see Aislinn, but if Seth was here, perhaps Aislinn was meeting him again.

He didn't seem to notice anyone around him, despite the mortals and faeries who were all noticing him. And why wouldn't they? He was lovely, tempting in ways so different than Keenan: dark and still, shadows and paleness. Don't think of Keenan. Think of the mortal. Smile for him.

She took her time, moving slowly and carefully with a casual hand for support on the vacant tables she passed, a moment's pause to catch her breath at the new book display.

He watched.

Let him speak first. You can do this. Her gaze—hidden behind dark glasses—lingered on him for a breath or two. He sat at one of the handful of computer terminals, a pile of printouts beside him.

When she was beside the desk, she smiled at him.

He folded his pile of papers, effectively hiding what he'd been researching.

She tilted her head, trying to see what he was reading on the screen.

He clicked on something on the screen and flicked off the monitor. He pointed at her. "Donia, right? Ash didn't introduce us last night. You're the one who helped her?"

She nodded and held out a hand.

Instead of shaking it, he lifted it and kissed her knuckles. He has my hand. It didn't burn like Keenan's touch.

She froze, like quarry before the Hunt, and felt foolish for it. No one touches me. As if I still belonged to Keenan. Forbidden. Liseli swore it would change when the new Winter Girl took the staff, but that was hard to believe sometimes. It'd been decades since anyone had truly held her.

"I'm Seth. Thank you for what you did. If anything happened to her …" For a moment he looked fierce enough to rival Keenan's best guards. "So, thanks."

He still had her hand; she trembled as she pulled it from his grasp. He's hers, just like Keenan is now. "Is Ash here?"

"Nope. Should be on her way from school soon." He glanced past her to the clock that hung on the wall behind her,

She stood, indecisive for a moment.

"Did you need something?" He stared at her, as if he would like to ask her a different question.

She pushed her dark glasses farther up the bridge of her nose. Looking past him, where several of Keenan's girls stood listening, she smiled wryly.

"Are you Ash's …" She waved her hand in the air.

Somberly he prompted, "Ash's what?"

"Beau?" she said, and then winced. Beau. No one uses that anymore. The years sometimes blurred, the words and the clothes and the music. It rolled together. "Her boyfriend?"

"Her beau?" he repeated. He poked his tongue at a ring in his bottom lip, and then he smiled. "No, not really."

"Oh." Catching an unusual scent, Donia sniffed slightly. It can't be.

Seth stood and picked up his bag. He stepped close to her, a handsbreadth from her, as if he were trying to make her step back, asserting some sort of male dominance. That doesn't change over the years.

She stepped back—just once—but not before she caught the slightly acrid scent of recently handled verbena, not overpowering, but there. It is. In his bag. Underneath it were the slight scents of chamomile and Saint-John's-wort.

"I look out for her, you know? She's a wonderful person. Gentle. Good." He slung his bag over his shoulder and stared down at her.

"If anyone tried to hurt her"—he paused, scowled, and continued—"there's nothing I wouldn't do to keep her safe."

"Right. Glad I could help with that the other day." Distracted, she nodded. Verbena, Saint-Johns-wort, what's he doing with those? They were chief among the list of herbs thought to give a mortal faery sight.

Then he left, trailed by several of Keenan's girls. I wonder if they'll notice what he carries in his bag. She doubted it.

Once the door swung shut behind Seth and the Summer Girls, Donia sat down at the terminal and pulled up his search history: Faeries, Glamour, Herbs for Seeing, Summer King.

"Oh," she whispered. That couldn't be good.

When Keenan got to his loft on the outskirts of the city, Niall and Tavish were waiting. They lounged as if they were relaxing, but he didn't miss the assessing looks they gave him when he walked in.

"Well?" Tavish asked as he muted the television, silencing the weather report about a freak hailstorm.

Beira must have heard I spent the day with Aislinn. She often snarled over any progress he made with the mortal girls, but she couldn't—by rules of the contest—actively interfere.

"Not great." Keenan was loath to admit it, but Aislinn's resistance was wearing on him. "She doesn't react as they usually do."

Niall flopped into an overstuffed chair and grabbed a controller for one of the game systems. "Did you ask her out?"

"Already?" Keenan picked up a half-eaten slice of pizza from the box on one of the geode tables scattered around the room. He sniffed it and took a bite. Not too old. "Isn't that too soon? The last girl …"

Niall glanced up from the TV. "Mortal habits change faster than ours. Try a casual 'friends' approach."

"He doesn't want to be her friend. That's not what the girls are for," Tavish insisted in his usual stiff manner. He turned and held out a hand for the box of leftover pizza. "You need protein, not that. Why you two insist on eating mortal food is beyond me."

Because I've had to live so long among them? But Keenan didn't say it. He handed over the pizza and sat down, trying to relax. It was easier here than most places they'd lived. Tall leafy plants dominated every possible space in the loft. A number of birds flitted through the room, squawking at him and retreating to nooks in the columns that supported the high ceilings. It made the room seem open, more like being outside. "So casual's what they like now?"

"It's worth a try," Niall said, his attention still on the screen. With a muttered curse, he tilted to one side and then the other in the chair—as if that would make the onscreen image move. It was hard to believe he could speak more languages than a faery would ever need: give him a toy, and he was hopeless. "Or perhaps try aggressive—tell her you're taking her out. Some of them like that."

Tavish returned with one of the green concoctions he was forever insisting Keenan drink. He nodded approvingly. "That sounds more fitting."

"Well, there you have it: sure wisdom on which to try"—Niall paused and shot a grin at Tavish—"casual."

"Indeed." Keenan laughed.

"How is this amusing?" Tavish sat the green protein drink on the table. His lengthy silver braid fell over his shoulder as he moved; he flicked it back with an impatient gesture, a telltale sign that he was agitated. He didn't let his temper slip, though. He never did anymore.

"When's the last time you dated?" Niall asked, still not looking away from the screen.

"The girls are more than adequate company—"

Niall interrupted, "You see? He's rusty."

"I am the Summer King's oldest advisor, and"—Tavish stopped himself, sighing as he realized that he was only underlining Niall's point—"try the boy's advice first, my liege."

And with the impeccable dignity he wore like a comfortable cloak, Tavish retired to the study.

Keenan watched him go with more than a little sadness. "One of these years, he's going to strike you for your belligerence. He is still summer fey, Niall."

"Good. He needs to find some passion in his old bones." Mall's humor fled, replaced with the cunning that made him every bit as important as Tavish in advising Keenan these past centuries. "Summer fey are made for strong passions. If he doesn't loosen up, we'll lose him to Sorcha's High Court."

"The search is hard on him. He longs for what the court was like under my father." Feeling every bit as somber as Tavish, Keenan let his gaze drop to the park across the street.

One of his rowan-men saluted.

Glancing back at Niall, Keenan added, "What it still should be."

"Then woo the girl. Fix it."

Keenan nodded. "A casual approach, you say?"

Niall came to stand beside him at the window, staring down at the already frost-laden branches, more proof that if they didn't stop Beira's ever-growing power, it wouldn't be many more centuries until the summer fey perished. "And show her a exciting night, something different, something unexpected."

"If I don't find her soon…"

"You will," Niall assured him, repeating the same words he'd been repeating for almost a millennia.

"I need to. I don't know if"—Keenan drew a steadying breath—"I will find her. Maybe this one."

Niall merely smiled.

But Keenan wasn't sure either of them believed it anymore. He wanted to, but it became more difficult each time the game was played out.

When the Winter Queen bound his powers—making him unable to access much of summer's strength, freezing the earth steadily—she'd also begun crushing the hope of many of his fey. He might be stronger than most faeries, but he was far from the king they needed, far from the king his father had been. Please let Aislinn be the one.