Be careful what you wish for, right? Fairies swarmed him, laughing and shrieking and buzzing like a flock of locusts, crawling over him, stroking his hair and skin, tugging fondly at his dreadlocks. One with a fiery shock of red-orange hair the color of hawkweed helpfully refilled an acorn cap with dew and shoved it between his lips, forcing him to drink, spluttering.

I drew dauda-dagr. “Enough!”

There was a pause. I experienced a fleeting moment of satisfaction.

“Uh-oh,” murmured a fairy with pale purple hair piled atop her head in clumps, looking for all the world like a stalk of joe-pye weed. “Uh-oh!”

All of them gazed in the same direction.

I did, too.

Oh, crap. It wasn’t my drawing dauda-dagr that had given the fairies pause after all. It was something a lot more imposing. I hadn’t reckoned on eldritch royalty, but apparently that was what I’d gotten. He stood motionless on the far outskirts of the meadow beneath the dappled camouflage of trees.

Time slowed down.

“Daisy?”

I climbed to my feet, beckoning for Sinclair to follow suit. All the fairies kept silent as the Oak King approached, not so much as a single wing fluttering.

I’d heard rumors of the Oak King’s existence, but I didn’t know anyone who claimed to have seen him—and believe me, you’d remember. His skin was acorn-brown, his hair the color of oak leaves in autumn, antlers rising from the thick, springing curls over his temples. A long cloak hung from his shoulders. One minute it appeared to be deerskin; the next, it looked to be woven of leaves and moss. He moved soundlessly across the meadow, and it seemed almost as though the meadow shrank at the same time, the trees pressing in closer around us. When he reached us, or we reached him, leaf shadows still stippled his tall figure.

I went to one knee without thinking, according him the same respect I would to Hel herself. Sinclair did the same without being prompted.

“Hel’s liaison, I believe.” The Oak King’s voice was deep and resonant, but there was a hushed quality to it, too, like the stillness at noon in the depths of a forest. “What is it you come seeking?”

I rose, sheathing dauda-dagr. “Aid, Your Majesty.” As I stood in front of him, the specifics of the request sounded too ridiculous to put into words. “I don’t know if you’re aware—”

“A boy has died, yes.” He inclined his antlered head. “You seek justice for him.” He gestured at the fairies, quiet and clustered together, looking for all the world like misbehaving children sobering in their father’s presence. “But you will find none here. My people are innocent in this matter.”

I cleared my throat. “Um, yeah. I know. Actually, we’re here to ask for their help with public relations.”