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“Vi, wake up. It’s over.” Oh God. Had he failed her? Was she dying? Killed by his own shortsightedness? Another man’s child dead in his arms because of his failing?
    Vi’s lips parted, sucking in air like it was water. Her eyes flashed open, green and full of terror in the light of the moon.
    “Tink save you, you’re okay,” he whispered, his eyes filling with tears. She was herself. Sylvan was no longer in her thoughts. That terror of a woman no longer burned her.
    With a frightened whimper, Vi threw herself at him, her thin arms cold as they wrapped around his neck. “Don’t let him hurt me,” she begged as she cried, her little body shaking. “Please, don’t let the statue hurt me anymore!”
    A clear, healthy glow enveloped them as Jenks held her close, his hand against the back of her head as he whispered it was over, that she was okay, and he was taking her to her papa. He promised her that the statue wouldn’t hurt her again and that Uncle Jenks would take care of everything. Foolish promises, but he couldn’t stop himself.
    Uncle Jenks,
he thought, wondering why the term had fallen into his mind but feeling it was right. But below them, Daryl waited on the dark sidewalk. And Jenks—was pissed.
    Jaw clenching, he descended more slowly than he wanted in order to give her younger ears a chance to adjust. Vincet met them halfway down, his wings clattering and dusting in fear until he saw Vi’s tears. With a cry of joy, the grateful man took his daughter. Vi’s sobs only strengthened his resolve.
    “Get your family to ground and stay there,” Jenks said grimly.
    “I can help,” Vincet said, even as Vi clung desperately to him.
    “I know you can. I’ll take the field, you take the hearth,” he said, falling back on the battle practices of driving off invading fairies. One always stayed in earth to defend the hearth—to the end if it came to that.
    Vincet looked as if he was going to protest, then probably remembering his sword was broken at the base of the statue, he nodded, darting away with Vi to vanish beneath the dogwood.
    Free, and anger burning in his wings, Jenks drew his sword and dropped to where Bis was clinging to Sylvan’s statue, hissing at Daryl as she stood in a spot of light with a satisfied smile.
    “What the hell is wrong with you!” Jenks shouted, darting to a stop inches from the woman to make her jerk back. “You could have killed her! She’s only a year old!”
    Daryl’s thin eyebrows rose. “A pixy?” she said haughtily, then stifled a cough. “Take your complaint to what demon will listen to you. Sylvan is in that statue, and there he will stay!”
    “I’ll take my complaint to you!” Jenks shouted, poking his sword at her nose.
    The woman shrieked, robes furling as she swung her fist to miss him completely. “You cut me! You filthy little mouse!”
    Jenks darted back, only to dive in again to slice another cut under her eye. “I’m letting Sylvan go if only to piss you off! You look like a sorority sister in hell week with that discount sheet around you! What is that, a one-fifty thread count? My three-year-old can weave better than that.”
    Clasping a hand over her eye, the woman shrieked, her voice echoing in the darkness. “I’ll destroy you for that!” she cried, spinning to keep Jenks in front of her.
    “Jenks?” Bis said loudly, half hiding behind Sylvan’s statue. “Maybe we should leave the goddess alone.”
    “Goddess!” Jenks pulled up a safe eight feet into the air. His sword glinted red in the lamplight, and his wings hummed. Cocky, he dropped back down. “She’s no goddess. She’s a whiny. Little. Girl.”
    Angry at the woman’s lack of respect, Jenks slashed at her robes with each word.
    “Uh, Jenks?” Bis warbled his creased face bunched in worry as she screeched.
    “Get out of here!” Jenks yelled at her like she was a stray dog. “Go find a museum or something. That’s where you belong! Tell them Jenks sent