There was nothing he could do to draw attention to himself. And he’d tried everything. To all intents and purposes, Adam Black didn’t exist. Didn’t even merit his own measly slice of human space.
He knew why she’d chosen this particular punishment: Because he’d sided with humans in their little disagreement, she was forcing him to taste of being human in the worst possible way. Alone and powerless, without a single distraction with which to pass the time and entertain himself.
He’d had enough of a taste to last an eternity.
Once an all-powerful being that could sift time and space, a being that could travel anywhere and anywhen in the blink of an eye, he was now limited to a single useful power: He could sift place over short distances, but no more than a few miles. It’d surprised him the queen had left him even that much power, until the first time he’d almost been run down by a careening bus in the heart of London.
She’d left him just enough magic to stay alive. Which told him two things: one, she planned to forgive him eventually, and two, it was probably going to be a long, long time. Like, probably not until the moment his mortal form was about to expire.
Fifty more years of this would drive him bloody frigging nuts.
Problem was, even when Circenn did return, Adam still hadn’t figured out a way to communicate with him. Because of his mortal half, Circenn wouldn’t be able to see past the féth fiada either.
All he needed, Adam brooded for the thousandth time, was one person. Just one person who could see him. A single person who could help him. He wasn’t entirely without options, but he couldn’t exercise a damned one of them without someone to aid him.
And that sucked too. The almighty Adam Black needed help. He could almost hear silvery laughter tinkling on the night breeze, blowing tauntingly across the realms, all the way from the shimmering silica sands of the Isle of Morar.
With a growl of caged fury, he stalked out of the alley.
Gabby indulged herself in a huge self-pitying sigh as she got out of her car. Normally on nights like this, when the sky was black velvet, glittering with stars and a silver-scythe moon, warm and humid and alive with the glorious scents and sounds of summer, nothing could depress her.
But not tonight. Everyone but her was out somewhere having a life, while she was scrambling to clean up after the latest fairy debacle. Again.
It seemed like all she ever did anymore.
She wondered briefly, before she managed to push the depressing thought away, what her ex was doing tonight. Was he out at the bars? Had he already met someone new? Someone who wasn’t still a virgin at twenty-four?
And that was the Fae’s fault too.
She slammed the car door harder than she should have, and a little piece of chrome trim fell off and clattered to the pavement. It was the third bit of itself her aging Corolla had shed that week, though she was pretty sure the antenna had been assisted by bored neighborhood kids. With a snort of exasperation, she locked the car, kicked the little piece of trim beneath the car—she refused to clean up one more thing—and turned toward the building.
And froze.
A fairy male had just stalked out of the alley and was standing by the bench in the small courtyard oasis near the entrance to her office building. As she watched, it stretched out on the bench on its back, folded its arms behind its head, and stared up at the night sky, looking as if it had no intention of moving for a long, long time.
Damn and double-damn!
She was still in such a stew over the day’s events that she wasn’t sure she could manage to walk by it without giving in to the overwhelming urge to kick it.
It.
Fairies were “its,” never “hims” or “hers.” Gram had taught her at a young age not to personify them. They weren’t human. And it was dangerous to think of them, even in the privacy of her thoughts, as if they were.
But heavens, Gabby thought, staring, he—it—was certainly male.
So tall that the bench wasn’t long enough for it to fully stretch out on, it had propped one leg on the back of the bench and bent the other at the knee, its legs spread in a basely masculine position. It was clad in snugfitting, faded jeans, a black T-shirt, and black leather boots. Long, silky black hair spilled over its folded arms, falling to sweep the sidewalk. In contrast to the golden, angelic ones she’d seen earlier that day, this one was dark and utterly devilish-looking.
Gold armbands adorned its muscular arms, showcasing its powerful, rock-hard biceps, and a gold torque encircled its neck, gleaming richly in the amber glow of the gaslights illuming the courtyard oasis.
Royalty, she realized, with a trace of breathless fascination. Only those of a royal house were entitled to wear torques of gold. She’d never seen a member of one of the Ruling Houses before.