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Irial ground out his cigarette and smiled at his most trusted companion. The Hounds had a lovely ability to induce terror in faery and mortal alike.
    “We could get a bit of fear out of the disobedient in this lot…” Gabriel murmured, and his Hounds grabbed up some of the faeries who’d smiled in support of the earlier mutinous suggestions. “The Dark Court should show a little respect to our king.”
    Faeries clambered to their feet and talons and paws, bowing and curtsying. Bananach did not move.
    Gabriel caught her gaze and grinned again. There would be no more overt objections or discussions tonight. Gabriel would organize the fey and threaten them if they refused to cooperate with Irial’s precautions. They’d be almost perversely obedient. For now. Then Bananach would step up her attempts.
    But not tonight—not yet.
    “Tonight, we’ll feast in our fallen sister’s memory.” Irial made a beckoning gesture, and several of Gabriel’s Hounds brought in a score of terrified faeries they’d rounded upfrom the other courts. None were from the High Court—which wasn’t surprising, as the High Court faeries so rarely left their seclusion—but there were both Winter Court and Summer Court faeries.
    Irial folded a trembling Summer Girl into his arms. The vines that clung to her skin wilted under his touch. She was so filled with terror and loathing that he briefly considered sharing her with the others, but he was still selfish enough to want her to himself. Keenan’s special girls were always such a nice treat. If Irial was careful, he could draw enough desire and fear out of them to stave off hunger for a couple of days. A few times, he’d been able to leave them so addicted that they returned willingly to his arms for regular visits—and hated him for making them betray their king. It was quite satisfying.
    Irial held the girl’s gaze as he told his court, “Their regents did this, brought us to this when they killed Beira. Remember that as you offer them your hospitality.”

C HAPTER 4
    The tattoo shop was empty when Leslie walked in. No voice broke the stillness of the room. Even the stereo was silenced.
    “It’s me,” she called.
    She went back to the room where Rabbit would do the work. The paper with the stencil of her tattoo waited on a tray on the counter beside a disposable razor and miscellaneous other items. “I’m a little early.”
    Rabbit stared at her for a moment but didn’t say anything.
    “You said we could start tonight. Do the outline.” She came over to stare down at the stencil. She didn’t touch it, though, strangely afraid that it would vanish if she did.
    Finally Rabbit said, “Let me get the door.”
    While he was gone, she wandered around the tiny room—more to keep from touching the stencil than anything else. The walls were covered in various show andconvention flyers—most faded and for events long past. A few framed photos, all black-and-white, and theater-size film posters were intermingled with the flyers. Like every other part of the shop, the room was impossibly clean and had a slight antiseptic scent.
    She paused at several of the photos, not recognizing most of the people or places. Interspersed among them were framed pen-and-ink sketches. In one, Capone-era thugs were smiling at the artist. It was as realistic as any photograph, skillful to the degree that it seemed bizarre to see it hanging amidst the snapshots and posters. Rabbit returned as she was tracing the form of a stunningly beautiful man sitting in the middle of the group of gangsters. They were all striking, but it was him, the one leaning on an old twisted tree, who looked almost familiar. The others clustered around, beside, or behind him, but he was obviously the one with power. She asked, “Who’s this?”
    “Relatives,” was all Rabbit said.
    Leslie’s attention lingered on the picture. The man in the image wore a dark suit like the other men, but his posture—arrogant and