The first thing I notice about the Crossroads Lounge is the dragon-shaped skull mounted over the neon blue sign.

Immediately after that, I note that it sits on a hill at the intersection of two unpaved country roads in the woods. It truly has no address.

We park way down the road, half in some ditch. The gravel parking lot outside the bar is tiny, could fit maybe six cars at most. Parking everywhere else is first come, first serve, and the roads are piled with vehicles. Pick-up trucks, beat-up sedans, and the occasional luxury SUV. Eclectic crowd.

There are a few massive torches lining the pathway that are probably a major fire hazard even if they are useful. Beyond their light, it’s nearing country-dark. No light pollution, so the early evening stars hang in the sky like diamonds strewn over navy velvet cloth.

“First things first, find a bathroom.” Alice pauses beside me at the top of the hill and gazes up at the skull, jaw dropped. “Is that a real…?”

“Dragon?” William supplies. “Seems so.”

“What?” Alice says, looking at me. “Dragons are real?!”

“Dragons aren’t real,” I say, then hesitate. Turn to William. “Are dragons real?”

He shrugs, his hands in his pockets. “They were real in Wales, at some point.”

“So, is this code for like… an Order-friendly bar or something?” Alice asks. “The Pendragon?”

Sel, who had sped up the path ahead of us and probably already searched every entry, appears in front of her in a silent whoosh. His eyes flash in the dark. “You are not to mention either of those words once we walk through those doors. Not the organization we’re affiliated with, or the symbol of the crown. Do you understand?”

Alice flushes, but nods.

“Good. Now I suggest—” Sel’s voice breaks off in a choking gasp. His eyes go wide and unseeing, and his hand flies to his sternum, clawing at the material.

“Sel?” William asks.

He inhales like a diver coming up for air—and doubles over, eyes pinched in pain.

“Sel!” I cry, stepping forward. His free hand shoots up to stop me and he stumbles back a step, two. “What’s happening?”

“Is it…?” The expression on William’s face frightens me. It is the same one he wore when Jonas collapsed, when he watched a man dying in a way that his swyns can’t heal.

Still bent to the ground, Sel nods. “Nicholas.”

I suck in a breath. “Is he…?” I don’t even want to finish my own sentence.

“Alive, but…” Sel makes a low, frustrated noise, like he might fight his own pain if he could. His fingers pull at the shirt fabric, twisting it in his fist. “In danger.”