The object that glints from the shadows in a room in Rookskill Castle is an object he’s seen before. The beautiful silver skull of the Witch’s Watch. Moloch remembers the last time it was used. Poor unfortunate Queen Mary of Scotland. Her interference with time may have doomed her.

It’s a magical artifact that Moloch is quite certain has not been used in the human world since then, which means it must be in the hands of . . .

Moloch smiles.

He twists the mirror, trying to see more of the room, but the crack distorts the image. He sees what might be a human moving or might not, and the window closes to become just a mirror. Moloch tosses the mirror aside and summons one of his sluagh hunters.

“Rookskill,” he tells the hunter. “Quickly. Tell me what you find. I must make ready.”

The hunter bows its head. The sluagh have lately begun to treat him as more than just a leader—they’re treating him as their king.

*   *   *

The hunter flies through the thin place between worlds and lands atop a swaying pine tree deep in the forest that surrounds the hulking castle. Thick, swirling Scottish mist fills the air and hides the fae from anyone who might look in its direction. It lifts its head and sniffs.

And is confused.

There are strange enchantments within the forest. Ancient magic that is not faerie magic. Magic that has been invoked from a primal past. Dire wolves slink through the underbrush. Skeletal shadow-banshees lurk, and pixies and powries wait. Even for this Unseelie fae hunter, the evil magic in Rookskill’s forest reeks of fear.

And other magic—wards—protects the castle itself like invisible walls, wards that come from somewhere within the castle, wards that are for the moment strong enough to fend off the dark magic. But for how long?

The fae hunter spreads its great leathery wings and swirls back through the thin place to return to Moloch with the news that the castle is both protected and under threat.

*   *   *

Moloch listens carefully.

The smile spreads slowly. So perfect. Great magic both good and bad is awake again at Rookskill and that can mean only one thing.

“Ready my dragon, Wyvern,” Moloch demands of his sluagh. He’ll wait until the Seelie fae are drunk or sleeping, the silly Seelie. Moloch will be ready to pass through a thin place when the moment comes.

And he will fly Wyvern because a dragon spreads terror to humans. Breathing fire, screeching . . . such a lovely thing, a dragon.

Moloch strokes his scar with one clawlike finger (when did his fingers begin to look like claws?). Maybe he’s been wrong all this time. Maybe he’s happier exactly where he is. With the stupid sluagh in the dark corner of the fae realm.

He’ll certainly be happy when he’s found the Guardian.