But Trent met my anger with his own. “I didn’t send Quen into the ever-after,” he said, wispy hair floating. “As far as I know, he’s never been there. What happened to him is a direct result of your incompetence. Maybe that’s why he wants to see you. To tell you to your face that you need to stop trying to live up to your father’s name and open a nice charm stall down in Findlay’s Market and quit trying to save the world.”

I felt like I’d been socked in the gut. “You leave my dad out of this!” I almost hissed, then nearly fell when a spotlight hit us, hot and heavy.

“Congratulations!” Mr. Aston slurred, and I realized everyone was staring at us, cheering. “You’ve won the daywalkers’ best costume!”

He was talking to Trent, and the angry man caught his emotional balance with an enviable quickness, shaking the rink owner’s hand with a practiced ease, smiling as he tried to realign his thoughts and figure out what was going on. I could see his fury at me simmering under his pleasant expression. The buxom-spelled beauty giggled, draping a ribbon of entry coupons around his neck, startling me and shocking Trent when she gave him a sloppy, red-lipsticked kiss on his cheek.

“What’s your name, Mr. Kalamack?” Aston was saying, gesturing grandly to the watching people.

Trent leaned past Aston to me. His green eyes were almost black with anger. “Quen is asking for you.”

Fear slid through me at his formal words. Oh, God. I’d heard that only once before. It had been in the nurse’s office at school. I don’t even remember the ride to the hospital to find my dad gasping his last.

“Let’s all have a round of applause for Mr. Quen, here,” Aston shouted, the speaker squealing with feedback. “Winner of this year’s daywalker costume contest. If you’re afraid of the dark and those who walk in it, go home! The rest of us want to par-ty!”

The music started up, and people began moving to it, round and round in useless circles. I stared at Trent. Quen was dying?

“Sorry, miss,” Aston said as he put a hand on my shoulder and sent his bourbon-scented breath over me. “You almost had him beat, but you went overboard with the hair. Rachel Morgan’s hair isn’t that frizzy. Have a g-good night.”

The woman on his arm crooned as she led him away. The spotlight went with them, leaving only Trent and me in the small corner of the rink where the dust bunnies gathered. Looking tired, Trent removed the necklace of coupons and wiped away the lipstick with a white linen handkerchief.

“Quen is asking for you,” he said, chilling me. “He’s dying, Morgan. Because of you.”

Sixteen