Prologue
Saturday, November 30, 2019—Vermont
The moon was so new that there was only a tiny slice of silver in the sky. Thorolf was watching over his fellow Pyr, Alasdair, who continued to struggle with nightmares after being tormented by the Dark Queen. Thorolf’s son, Raynor, and mate, Chandra, were both asleep as midnight approached, and Alasdair was, too.
Being on watch had to be the most boring job ever. There was nothing on television, because Kristofer’s farm was so far out in the country, and Thorolf had surfed the ’net on his phone long enough. He was in the kitchen, wishing there were more chips, and debating the merit of driving into the closest town to get some.
Even out here in the sticks, there had to be some shop open at night. This was America, after all.
And Thorolf had a serious case of the munchies. He felt like he hadn’t eaten for a week, even though that wasn’t the case at all. The Pyr had dined like kings at Thanksgiving, thanks to Rhys’ amazing skills in the kitchen, and there were still leftovers. It was all healthy, though, and Thorolf yearned for salt and fat. His body, he was convinced, needed regular infusions of junk food.
The night was still, but then, it probably always was out in the country like this. Nothing had happened in the paranormal realm since Rhys had busted out of Fae with his mate. There hadn’t even been a good dragon fight since Thorolf had gotten to town. He was restless as well as hungry.
Thorolf could see Rhys’ truck from the kitchen window. The keys were on the counter, as if to tempt him. How long could it take? Down the driveway, drive a couple of miles into town, find a place and return. Twenty minutes, if he drove faster than the speed limit. Thirty, tops. He’d pick up some new kind of pickle for Chandra. The dragonsmoke barrier around the house was thick and deep—he’d breathed it with the other Pyr and thought Kristofer had insisted on it being excessive. He understood, though, the need to protect a pregnant mate. Chandra was starting to show, too.
What could go wrong in half an hour?
No one would ever know, if he hid the empty bags from the chips.
His choice rationalized, Thorolf was tugging on his boots when Alasdair awakened with a scream of anguish. “They’re coming,” he cried, seizing Thorolf’s arm so hard that it hurt. “They’re coming!” Before Thorolf could ask what the heck he was talking about, Alasdair raced out to the patio, leaving the door open behind him. He shifted shape in a shimmer of blue, becoming a dragon of hematite and silver, soaring into the night as he breathed a brilliant plume of fire.
What was that about? Thorolf swore, torn between responsibilities. Should he follow Alasdair or remain on guard? He hated when he needed to be in two places at once: there was no good choice. He peered into the sky, still able to discern Alasdair’s silhouette.
Why hadn’t that scream awakened anyone else?
“Dude!” He called Hadrian in old-speak. “Your cousin’s AWOL.”
“What was that?” Quinn rumbled sleepily. “What’s wrong?”
“What? How?” Hadrian demanded from the other end of the house.
Thorolf could hear footsteps, but Alasdair was disappearing fast. Despite his injuries, that Pyr was making good time, wherever he was going. Where was he going?
“Alasdair!” Thorolf cried, wishing he could cast his old-speak better. He jumped when Chandra touched his arm.
“Go,” she said softly. “We have the dragonsmoke barrier.”
Thorolf knew the dragonsmoke barrier wouldn’t stop the Fae, so he hesitated. “Are you sure?”
Chandra nodded, her gaze trailing after Alasdair. “The other Pyr are here. Go before he’s lost.”
Thorolf didn’t delay any longer. There was another brilliant shimmer of blue light on the patio as he shifted into a dragon with moonstone and silver scales, then he lunged into the sky. “Alasdair!” he roared in old-speak. “Get your sorry butt back here!”
But Alasdair seemed to be flying to the moon. He didn’t respond or slow down, much less turn back.
At least he had back-up. Thorolf felt the presence of another Pyr and glanced over his shoulder to see Hadrian’s emerald and silver scales gleaming in the moonlight. A team effort. Thorolf liked that. Hadrian wasn’t just Alasdair’s cousin and the closest of all the Pyr to that dragon, but he kicked butt. Between the two of them, they’d get Alasdair back to safety.
With the excitement, Thorolf even forgot about chips.
The Circus of Wonders was parked in an empty lot on the lower East Side of Manhattan, between performance locations. The tents were packed away and the trailers were nestled close together, as if huddling against the winter wind.
Rosanna, who ran the Circus of Wonders, couldn’t sleep. She felt a prickling on the back of her neck, the same kind of premonition she often had when a shifter in need stumbled into the circus. Those interactions weren’t always easy, as the abused or hunted tend to be slow to trust. She paced in her trailer, smoked half a pack of cigarettes, and waited impatiently.
It was in the early hours of the next morning when the assault came out of the blue.
Or out of Fae, as it were.
There were a dozen blinding flashes of silver light, all occurring simultaneously throughout the makeshift camp. Before Rosanna even got the door of her trailer unlocked, several propane tanks had exploded. Trailers were rocking, many in flames, and she heard the screams of trapped friends. She ripped open the door to find wolves with their tails on fire, Fae warriors slaughtering whoever they could reach, corpses on the ground, and too much blood.
Fae warriors couldn’t be mistaken for any other kind, with their blond good looks, taut bodies and ruthless savagery. Their weapons shone with an eerie silver glow, one that Rosanna had learned to despise.
Ivan—the biggest of the bear shifters—reared over a Fae warrior and snarled, taking a swipe at the intruder with one lethal claw. The Fae warrior danced backward, moving quicker than light, then stabbed Ivan in the gut with his dagger of silver fire. Another two Fae warriors jumped Ivan from behind, slitting his throat and stabbing him in the back.
Ivan’s mate, Natasha, and his twin sons, Bernard and Helmut, joined the battle in their father’s defense, but it was too late. Ivan staggered, and the Fae flung him into the harbor before slaughtering the rest of the family. It happened so quickly and was so vicious that Rosanna was shocked.
Worse, there was carnage everywhere she looked. Djinns flitted through the battle in agitation, and even they were slashed to ribbons. The air shimmered blue as circus members shifted shape, and more explosions rent the air as trailers burned.
Animals were being released, but those that couldn’t shift shape—the elephants, tigers, monkeys and snakes, among others—were uninjured, at least. Their freedom would make trouble for the circus, though, and Rosanna worried that they’d be hurt. The automatons were all running even though they weren’t plugged into any electrical source, spilling music and patter into the air in a crazy cacophony. Lights were flicking on and off all over the camp.
Rosanna shifted to her demon form to join the battle. No sooner had she stepped out of her trailer than a Fae warrior ambushed her from one side. His blade sliced one of the horns from her head, then he vanished into a silver sliver of light. She felt her own blood on her cheek and was sickened.