Masked musicians played from an enclosed loft, and servants swirled through the crowd, delivering glasses of cool wine. The body heat from so many dancers quickly brought up the temperature in the room, and Alex wondered if it would be possible to discreetly slip out onto the terrace.

“Would you give me the pleasure of a dance, Miss RiDahn?” Hubert asked, cutting off that avenue of escape.

Alex kept her sigh of resignation purely mental, and pasted on a false smile. “Of course, Mr. RiGrath.”

“Please, call me Hubert.”

She nodded, but didn’t encourage him by giving him permission to return the familiarity. It didn’t seem to dampen his spirits at all. He led her to the dance floor and they settled into a waltz. His hand on hers was damp, and she could feel the heat of his fingers on her back even through the gown. God of the waning year, if only…

She glanced about, saw Pook standing at the edge of the dance floor, staring fixedly at her. The mask obscured his expression, but she thought there was something desperately unhappy in his stance. It startled her so badly that she missed a step and had to murmur an apology to Hubert.

What’s wrong with him? She would have sworn that Pook wasn’t the sort of boy to manipulate a girl’s heart for his own amusement. Perhaps that isn’t it. Perhaps he no longer wants me, but does not wish for me to have anyone else, either.

“Forgive me, Miss RiDahn, but is everything all right?” Hubert asked.

Startled back to reality, she glanced up at him and saw concern on his flushed face. “It’s nothing,” she murmured. “I only…”

A flash of…something…out of the corner of her eye disrupted her thoughts. She cast a glance in that direction, trying to sort out what had struck her subconscious as wrong, but the dancer was gone.

“I’m just a bit distracted,” she finished lamely. One of the servants moved past her, and she started to call for a glass of wine, until she noticed that the mouth beneath his mask was filled with sharply pointed teeth.

She stumbled to a halt, her heart beating hard. Chernovog, no. Not now.

A waltzing couple spun past; the man was dressed all in darkest black, including the lace on his cuffs and collar. A black mask hid his face, but the sly smile he gave Alex was as familiar as his brown eyes.

Camhlaidh.

A woman brushed by; her skin had a distinct greenish tint to it, and her eyes were obsidian. Another reveler lifted his—its—full mask to take a sip of wine, giving a glimpse of something furred and inhuman beneath. The music floating from the balcony changed, becoming wilder and more chaotic, and she realized that the human musicians were no longer in attendance.

“Hubert,” she said urgently, turning to her dancing partner. She meant to warn him, to beg him to get away…but he simply kept dancing without her, his glazed eyes focused on nothing.

The music!

She spun, trying to shove her way through the enchanted humans who were caught helplessly in the faery reel. Her short height made it hard to even see where she was going, and the oblivious dancers knocked into her without even seeming to realize she was there. She fell to her knees, ripping her gown, hemmed in on all sides.

A hand thrust towards her, and she grabbed it blindly. A moment later, she found herself pulled to her feet. Long nails pricked her skin, and eyes like those of a cat stared gleaming into her own, seeming to demand that she fall beneath their spell.

A dark shape came in between them, shoving the fae back. Pook thrust Alex behind him, his sword in his hand and a look of mixed fear and rage on his face. “Show yourselves, God damn you!” he shouted.

Mina’s voice cut through the music and the noises of the crowd. “Pook! Alex!”

The fae was gone. Pook grabbed Alex’s arm, pulling her behind him through the crowd. When they broke through, Alex saw that Mina stood near one end of the hall, next to Dagmar. Duncan’s wheelchair wasn’t far away.

“Go to Duncan,” Pook ordered. Alex started to ask him what he meant to do, but he was already gone, striding towards Mina and Dagmar with his sword in his hand and his coat flaring behind him.

Dagmar stood alone, surrounded by catatonic guards who clearly had no awareness of the danger. She looked pale and frightened, but she held her head high. “Reveal yourselves!” she commanded, echoing Pook’s earlier demand.

The light of the chandelier and the candles faded, leaving most of the room in darkness. The temperature in the room plummeted, and frost covered the mirrors. The bluish glow of corpse candles appeared, flickering and dodging through the ballroom, leading enchanted humans who stumbled mindlessly behind them, hands outstretched as if they beheld some wonder. The mortals seemed to fade, to be hidden behind a veil, while the fae took on a terrible clarity.

They came from within the crowd, walking or crawling or slithering across the cold marble. Their eyes were those of owls, or cats; or were the color of obsidian, or glowed sickly green, or burned a dull, bloody red. They wore tattered silks, or gowns spun from cobwebs; rotting shrouds or sumptuous brocades.

Two figures emerged from the swirl, going before all the rest. The woman was pale as snow, with golden eyes and a small, cruel mouth. Her dark hair streamed down her back, and a gown of black and red velvet clung to her curves. Her hand rested lightly on the wrist of the man who led her, white against his mocha skin.

His eyes were the color of a night without moon or star. A crown of web and shadow held back hair like midnight silk, revealing a beautiful face with full lips and a broad nose. Looking at him, Alex thought that she had never seen any man quite so exquisite…but his mouth was set in a cruel sneer, and his nails were long and sharp enough to draw blood.

Dagmar faced them squarely, and Alex felt the slow build of power in the room. “What is the meaning of this?” the queen demanded coldly.

Camhlaidh appeared from the crowd; even with the black mask, there was no mistaking his identity. He gave Dagmar a mocking bow and gestured grandly to the couple who waited like statues of ice. “Allow me to present their majesties, Finn Bheara, Lord of the Sluagh, and Oonagh, his consort.”

Utter silence followed his pronouncement. Alex cast a desperate glance at Pook and saw that he had lowered his sword and stared at the couple. The expression on his face bordered on despair.