Furious, I elbowed him in the gut with my free arm. “Get your hands …” I grunted, hopping backward on one foot, “off my hair!” I reached the wall, and smashed him into it. His breath exploded out as I jabbed his ribs, and his grip around my neck fell away.

I spun to stiff-arm his jaw, but he was gone. I was staring at the yellow wall. Shrieking, I went down, my legs pulled out from under me. His weight landed on me, pinning me to the wet floor with my arms over my head.

“I win,” he panted as he straddled me, his green eyes from under his short hair wild.

I struggled to no effect, ticked that it was going to be something as stupid as body mass that decided this. “You forgot something, Quen,” I snarled. “I have fifty-seven roommates.”

His lightly wrinkled brow furrowed.

Taking a huge breath, I whistled. Quen’s eyes widened. Grunting in effort, I jerked my right hand free and slammed the heel of my hand at his nose.

He jerked back out of the way and I pushed him off me, rolling. Still on my hands and knees, I flipped my wet stringy hair out of the way.

Quen had gained his feet, but he wasn’t moving. He was standing stock-still, cookie-smeared palms raised above his head in a gesture of acquiescence. Jenks was hovering before him, the sword he kept to fight off encroaching fairies aimed at Quen’s right eye. The pixy looked pissed, dust spilling from him to make a steady sunbeam from him to the floor.

“Breathe,” Jenks threatened. “Blink. Just give me a reason, you bloody freak of nature.”

I stumbled upright as Ivy dove into the room, moving faster than I would have believed possible. Robe loose and flowing, she grabbed Quen by the throat.

The lights flickered and the hanging utensils swung as she slammed him into the wall beside the doorway. “What are you doing here?” she snarled, her knuckles white with pressure. Jenks had moved with Quen, his sword still touching the man’s eye.

“Wait!” I exclaimed, worried they might kill him. Not that I’d mind, but then there’d be I.S. personnel in my kitchen, and paperwork. Lots of paperwork. “Slow down,” I soothed.

My eyes flicked to Ivy, still holding Quen. There was frosting on my hand, and I wiped it off on my damp jeans as I caught my breath. Saltwater marked me and I had cookie crumbs and sugar in my hair. The kitchen looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy had exploded. I squinted at the purple frosting on the ceiling. When had that happened?

“Ms. Morgan,” Quen said, then gurgled as Ivy tightened her grip. The music from the living room softened to talk.

I felt my ribs, wincing. Angry, I paced to where he hung in Ivy’s hold. “Ms. Morgan?” I shouted, six inches from his reddening face. “Ms. Morgan? I’m Ms. Morgan now? What in hell is wrong with you!” I yelled. “Coming into my house. Ruining my cookies. Do you know how long it’s going to take to clean this up?”