They might as well have been speaking a foreign language. I turned, hardly able to breathe. There was a lacy bra lying on the floor at my feet. It was mine. Shit again. The air was cool on my flushed skin. I would not ask “after what?” There were two of them. Two death-by-sex Fae. Two princes. Could I outrun them? Could I survive them? They could sift. I was between them. Could I Null them? Oh, God, not with my sidhe-seer abilities dead! “Do you know V’lane? He’s a Seelie Prince,” I managed to get out through lips that ached for touch, for fullness that had only been hinted at by the sensation of V’lane’s name piercing my tongue. I wanted to drown in men. I wanted to be stuffed plumper than a sausage. Lips would do. So would other things. I looked from one of their crotches to the next. I shook my head, violently. My mouth was parched, my head spinning. “He protects me.” Maybe they were friends of his. Maybe they could summon him. Maybe they feared him and would back off.

I wouldn’t have been surprised by villainous laughs, sneers, ribald comments—after all, I was standing there naked from the waist up. I expected some comment, some expression, any expression, but they merely rotated their heads on their necks with eerie smoothness, and examined me in a manner so far from human that my blood ran cold and I stopped breathing.

I knew who they were. They were no friends of V’lane’s. That alien gesture had given them away.

When I breathed again it was a great, sucking inhalation.

These were the Unseelie Princes. Fae that had never had the opportunity to study us, learn our habits, perfect glamour through mimicry; Fae that could employ our language but only void of reference or metaphor; that had learned about our world from a great distance, by proxy; that probably didn’t even grasp the basic Fae concepts of stasis and change. Fae that had never been free, never drunk from the cauldron, never had sex with a human woman.

But they planned to have sex with me. It was pouring off them in immense, hungry, dark waves. Lust laced the room, explosive as dynamite, its fuse dangerously short. The air reeked of it. I was drawing it in with every breath, feeding an unquenchable, exquisite Fae fever.

A third one glided into the church.

What had Christian said? Myth equates the heads of those four houses, the dark princes, with the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Pestilence joined Death and Famine in God’s house. Now only War remained unaccounted for. I hoped he would stay that way.