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designed and constructed. As a child he watched every day from the square as it went up, hope burning in his chest that he would someday live behind its walls with his kind. Back then it had been the only hope he’d had. It had kept him alive in the first harsh years after Piefferburg had been formed. He’d had no one back then, and he had learned it was better to stand on your own than to rely on anyone else.
    He slipped through a secret door in the west wing and mounted the winding stairs that would lead him to the roof of the Black Tower. The twisting cool gray stone was like something out of a human child’s faery tale. Once in a while a gargoyle head—placed there by the builders and imbued with spells of protection—jutted from the rocky walls. Small shelved alcoves held hand-carved wooden statues depicting famous Unseelie fae. Gabriel made this climb every night—had for more than a century—and knew each of them by name, as well as their stories.
    When he reached the top of the winding staircase he found Aeric Killian Riordan O’Malley, also known as The Blacksmith. Leaning in the doorway leading out onto the roof, Aeric crossed his brawny arms across his chest and lifted a dark blond brow. “You’re late and the souls are restless. We almost left without you.”
    Aeric, long ago and in another world for the fae, had been a blacksmith with an ability to forge magickal weapons that had given a whole new dimension to the battles in which they’d been wielded. These days there wasn’t much call for magicked battle weapons, though Aeric still found work here and there, making charmed restraints and the occasional illegal charmed club or sword. Now Aeric was a part of Gabriel’s host and one of his best friends.
    Some called it “the Furious Host,” but Gabriel thought they were only mildly annoyed. Probably more so than usual since he’d been making them wait.
    “I’ve been busy. I’m doing something for the Shadow King over in the Rose,” Gabriel said, reaching the door.
    “The Rose?” Aeric pushed off the door frame and fell into step beside him. His longish, dark blond hair was tied at the nape of his neck and he wore a pair of battered jeans, steel-toed boots, and a T-shirt that strained over his chest. He wasn’t a blacksmith anymore, but he still had the build of one. “What’s it like over there?”
    “Boring.” Except for Aislinn. She was a spitfire. Normally he’d tell Aeric all about it, but Aodh wanted it under wraps. “Are the rest of them here?”
    “Yeah. We’ve been waiting for the last hour.” His voice came out an angry, low growl. Aeric had a temper that was infamous in the Black Tower.
    Emerging onto the roof, he saw the rest of his host reclining on the shiny black quartz top of the tower. The mystic horses roamed aimless. There were six of the Netherworld horses tonight, which meant a healthy amount of souls to reap. Abastor was Gabriel’s black quarterhorse and the only mount that appeared nightly. A headstrong horse only Gabriel could control, Abastor led the hunt. The sleek black Netherworld hounds, Blix and Taliesin, also roamed, sniffing what there was to sniff when they weren’t tracking needy souls throughout the city.
    Melia, a petite, redheaded battle fae, lounged on the roof near her husband, Aelfdane. Aelfdane was much taller than his tiny spouse, stick thin, and had long blond hair that hung to the small of his back. Aelfdane had a gentle, almost effeminate air about him in the way all the Twyleth Teg did, but that gentleness was as deceptive as Melia’s size. They were both deadly in a fight. To boot, Aelfdane’s magick was giving sickness on a whim. Not someone you wanted to piss off.
    Bran sat at the card table playing solitaire. There was nothing unusual about that. Bran was a mystery to most of them. His skill lay in managing animals—controlling and directing creatures like the waterhorses and phookas in the Boundary Lands and even the host’s