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face. I’d have thought it a threat, if not for the slight widening of his eyes. Did he want me to back down? Give in?
    Pursing my lips, I ignored the rush of heat to my face and glared hard.
    “I thought you didn’t have a problem with the fae?” he asked, mouth quirking sideways.
    “I don’t.”
    “Sure looks like it from where I’m standing.”
    “Because you’re standing too close.” I gave him a tentative shove. He backed off, but at his own leisurely pace. “It’s not the fae …” I said, and sighed, relieved, but more worryingly, disappointed.
    “Then it’s me?”
    I didn’t answer, didn’t need to. Reign was everything we loved and hated about the fae. That little power play was proof. The likes of him were poisonous.
    He must have seen the honesty on my face. He threw his hands up and laughed a short, sharp bite of derisive laughter. “You know what … my debt is paid. You saved me at Chancery Lane. I saved you here. We’re even. Have a nice life, American Girl.” With a flick of his coat, he strode away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk, heart racing, watching him glide around pedestrians.
There goes my story.
    “Hey …” I called, jogging after him. “Wait …”
    He strode on, long, confident strides eating up the sidewalk. The people around us flowed back and forth, eyes blank, minds on their destinations. Reign stuck out like a panther in a litter of kittens.
    I touched his arm through his sleeve. He flinched and yanked away, and for a moment he looked at me as though
I
could hurt
him
before the sneer found its place on his lips and he strode on. I mirrored his pace. “It said it was here for me.”
    He stopped. I jerked to a halt beside him. We formed an island around which the foot traffic flowed. The sound of marching feet, rumbling cars, and my own rapid heartbeat grounded me in the moment. “What does it mean?” I asked.
    He lifted his head and focused somewhere behind me. “It means you should leave London.”
    I swallowed. “I can’t do that.”
    The aggression I’d seen moments before melted away. His eyes were normal again, as normal as fae eyes can be, and his face had lost the shadows that had made him look almost alien. He blinked and lifted his hand to my face but stopped, not quite touching. His dark eyebrows pinched together, lips parting slightly. Why did he look at me like I was the puzzle?
    “Who is the queen, Reign?” I asked quietly.
    A thread of fear tightened his face. He pulled his hand back and hid the confusion behind a mask of stoicism. “Go home, Alina.” He turned and strode away. The crowd swallowed him up, leaving me alone yet surrounded by strangers.

Chapter Six
    The terraced townhouse had all the grandeur of a country mansion, condensed into three floors and sandwiched between its identical redbrick neighbors. Iron railings led up marble steps to a glossy black door. I knocked and waited. A cool autumnal breeze whispered through the leaves of the evenly spaced trees lining the street.
    I’d gathered my wits about me, searched the guest list, placed names with addresses, and had begun knocking on doors all within an hour of Reign leaving me with nothing but more questions and a niggling feeling that I was somehow buried deeper in his mess than I deserved to be.
    This Victorian terrace was my third stop. The first address had been vacant, the second hadn’t, but the resident, a well-known politician, refused to open the door to me. So far, my run of bad luck was holding steady.
    My foot brushed a folded newspaper on the step. I gave it a poke with my shoe and got a look at the headline: A CCIDENT C LAIMS F AE V ICTIM . Below the fold, a smaller front-page story highlighted the rise in human-fae clashes. I scooped up the paper, but before I could read it, the doorknob rattled. The door swung open a few inches and snagged on its security chain. I caught a narrow glimpse of Charmaine, the BBC’s Sunday-morning talk-show host. Pale blue eyes