I woke up to the sound of a hunting horn and immediately regretted every life choice that had led me to sleeping on the ground in the Fae Realm. Or at the very least…the third skin of wine…that was a bad idea.

  My back hurt. My neck was stiff. And my head was pounding. I could smell flowers and roasted meat and wine, which made my stomach turn at the thought of indulging in anything resembling excess. Not even the old “hair of the dog” maneuver (as Javi called it).

  "Mac?" Garrick's voice came from somewhere to my left. "Are you alive?"

  "Debatable," I muttered, pushing myself to a sitting position as various muscles protested. "What time is it?"

  "Dawn," Saoirse said, appearing from behind our oak tree looking far too awake and energetic for someone who'd been drinking with us until well past midnight. "Oberon's gathering everyone for the briefing. We should get moving."

  By the time Garrick and I reapplied our ointment and the three of us made ourselves presentable, the camp was fully awake and buzzing with energy. Fae of every description were gathering near the central fire pit, where Oberon stood on a raised platform made of what looked like a single massive tree stump.

  He looked significantly more dressed than he had last night. His hunting leathers were properly fastened, his circlet crown sat straight on his curly hair, and his expression had changed from the careless, jovial partier that I saw last night to someone who took the hunt seriously. It was a shocking contrast, to be sure.

  "Hunters!" he called out, his voice carrying across the camp with easy authority. "Today we pursue the Golden Stag, the most cunning prey in all the Summer Realm. Most of you have hunted with me before and know the rules, but for our newcomers—" his eyes landed on me, Garrick, and a few other Fae who had been shifting nervously since he started speaking, "—I'll review them."

  He gestured to a Sidhe who unfurled a large piece of parchment that turned out to be a hand-drawn map of the surrounding forest. The detail was incredible: every stream, every clearing, every notable landmark carefully and painstakingly marked.

  "The Golden Stag's territory spans from the Whispering Brook here—" Oberon pointed to a winding blue line on the map, "—to the Edge of Sorrows here, roughly ten square miles of forest, glade, and stream. The Stag knows this territory better than any of us. He's faster than you, smarter than you, and he's been playing this game for longer than most of you have been alive."

  Someone in the crowd laughed, and Oberon grinned.

  "The rules are simple. First: no harming other hunters. This is a cooperative hunt, though the one who manages to catch and mount the Stag will receive whatever reward is within the Stag's power to grant. And maybe something from me as well…assuming I don’t get him first,” He laughed heartily, and the rest of the Fae cackled along. He continued, “Second: no ranged attacks on the Stag itself. Arrows, spells, thrown weapons—they won't work. The Stag is magically enchanted against any kind of ranged attack. You must corner him, and catch him long enough to mount him. Third: no killing the Stag with melee attacks. Anyone who attempts it will answer to me personally, and I promise you won't enjoy the conversation or consequences."

  I studied the map while Oberon spoke, my mind already working through possibilities. I spotted a possible spot that could work in our favor…Puck's Glade, marked as a tight circle of trees with only one entrance. If the trees were as tightly packed together as they looked…if we could drive the Stag there, corner it in that enclosed space, it might give someone enough time to attempt to mount and ride the stag.

  "We'll split into three groups," Oberon continued. "Each group will take a section of the territory. The goal is to herd the Stag, drive it toward the center where we can close in. Don't try to catch it alone—you won't succeed. Work together, communicate with the hunting horns, and for the love of all the seasons, don't get separated. The Spriggans who guard the Stag don't take kindly to intruders, and while they usually leave my hunting parties alone, they're unpredictable bastards at the best of times."

  "My lord," I said, raising my hand in the Fae gesture for requesting permission to speak.

  Oberon looked surprised, then pleased. "The mortal has a question. Speak."

  "I've been studying the map. If we drive the Stag toward Puck's Glade—" I pointed to the circular marking and the labeled glade, "—we could trap it in that enclosed space. One entrance, tight trees that would slow it down if it tried to escape through them. If someone were positioned there ahead of time with a net..."

  Oberon's eyebrows rose, and around the camp I heard interested murmurs. "You're suggesting an ambush."

  "I'm suggesting we use the terrain to our advantage. The Stag is faster and smarter, but it still has to have room to move. If we can herd where it will run when pressured from three directions..." I traced the paths on the map with my finger, showing how three groups could converge to drive the Stag toward the glade.

  "Clever," Oberon said, and there was genuine respect in his voice. "Very clever for a mortal. In fact, I think I’m volunteering you for that very task!"

  My stomach clenched. "Me?"

  "You'll need this." Oberon reached to his belt and untied a bundle that looked like tangled green vines and thread. He tossed it to me, and I caught it reflexively. The bundle was heavier than it looked, and as I held it, I realized what I was holding.

  "A hunting net," I said.

  "My hunting net," Oberon confirmed. "Weighted at the edges, enchanted to tangle in antlers and hooves. Don't drop it, don't lose it, and for the love of the seasons, don't miss. That net was a wedding gift from Titania, and she'll be very cross with me if I have to tell her I lost it because I gave it to a mortal who couldn't hold on to it."

  The weight of responsibility settled on my shoulders along with the weight of the net. "I don’t know about this..."

  Oberon ignored me and turned back to address the camp. "You heard the mortal's plan. Groups divide as usual—Red Horn, you take the eastern approach. Centaura, you lead the western. I'll take the northern with our cosmic friend and this group here—" he gestured to Garrick, and the people surrounding us, which included Saoirse "—do try to keep up with me. We leave in ten minutes. Grab your gear, mount up, and let's show this Stag why we're the best hunters in the Summer Realm!"

  The camp erupted in cheers and movement as Fae scattered to prepare. I turned to head back to our oak tree, where my backpack waited, but Garrick caught my arm.

  "Mac," he said quietly, "are you sure about this? Being alone in the forest with potentially hostile Spriggans?"

  "I'm not sure at all," I said, feeling like I might puke. "But we need Oberon's respect if we're going to figure out how to complete this Task. This is how we earn it."

  "Just... be careful. Please. Stick close to me."

  "Always am, always do," I cringed, and went to gather my gear.

  At the oak tree, I opened my backpack and started pulling out the items I'd been carrying specifically for situations like this—which is to say, situations where I was probably going to get in over my head and needed every advantage I could get.

  First: a small plastic baggie containing what looked like dark pieces of beef jerky but were actually Hermes Root, harvested during a particularly memorable trip to Olympus six months ago. Chewing it would let me run at full speed for extended periods without my muscles giving out. I'd pay for it tomorrow with soreness that would make today's back pain look pleasant, but that was tomorrow's problem. I tucked the baggie into my pocket for easy access.

  Second: A pair of rugged brown work boots that Garrick had enchanted after watching me slip and fall during a chase through the Alps. They'd grip any surface—rock, ice, bark, whatever—like they were magnetized to it. I pulled off my regular boots and laced these on, feeling the subtle warmth of the enchantment activate against my feet.

  Third: A pair of thick work gloves with the same enchantment. I pulled these on, flexing my fingers to make sure they didn't restrict movement. The enchanted grip would help me navigate rough terrain on the run and—if it came to it—climb quickly if I needed to.

  Fourth: My chef's knife, which I pulled from my knife roll with the kind of reverence it deserved. Garrick had enchanted it two years ago after getting annoyed at the sound of me constantly sharpening the blade. Now it cut through anything and never dulled. I strapped the belt with its sheath around my waist and slid the knife home.

  "Going to war?" Saoirse asked, walking up as I was finishing my preparations.

  "Going to not die stupidly," I corrected. "I hope."

  She smiled and checked her own gear—a bow and quiver across her back, two short blades at her hips, and hunting leathers that looked both practical and somehow still beautiful. "You know, most mortals would be terrified right now."

  "Who says I'm not terrified?"

  "You hide it well." She stepped closer, and those crystalline blue eyes with their cat-like pupils caught the morning light. "For what it's worth, I think your plan is brilliant. And I'll be watching for you. If anything goes wrong—"

  "You'll save my life again?" I offered with a smile.

  "Exactly." She leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to my cheek, careful to avoid the purple stains. "Try not to need saving this time, yeah?"

  Then she was gone, moving toward Oberon’s group of hunters, and I was left standing there trying to remember how to breathe properly.

  "She really likes you," Garrick said from behind me, making me jump. "And before you argue about it being complicated or impossible or any of the other excuses you've been making for the past year—you should shut up and roll with it."

  "When did you become a relationship counselor?"

  "Last night after my third skin of wine, and watching you two smile so nauseatingly cute at each other. You can cut that sexual tension with your knife." Garrick laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. "Now come on. Oberon's ready to start."

  Every once in a while, him being…sort of right…just makes me want to kick him in the shin. Anyway, I couldn’t afford to think about that now.

  The hunt began with another blast of the horn, and suddenly the camp transformed into organized chaos. Fae mounted everything from horses to giant wolves to creatures I couldn't even name. I saw the Pan from last night riding what appeared to be an enormous rabbit, the jackass on the jackrabbit, the thought made me laugh.

  Garrick ended up on a massive white cat—easily the size of a tiger—that looked at him with the kind of patient tolerance usually reserved for babysitters dealing with energetic toddlers.

  "Don't say it," Garrick warned as I approached.

  "I wasn't going to say anything," I lied. "Though I can't wait to hear the story about this one."

  "His name is Snowfall and he's very dignified, he said we could be pals" Garrick said, patting the cat's shoulder. The cat made a sound that suggested it agreed with this assessment.

  Snowball gave a twist of his head to indicate I should hop on as well, so I did. when the time came to break off toward Puck's Glade, I'd be ready.

  The three groups split off in different directions, moving through the forest with practiced efficiency. We bounded alongside Oberon's northern group, and the enchanted gloves proved their worth immediately, keeping me and my grip steady on the cat without hurting it, and also allowing me a quick nose scratch with minimal effort.

  The forest was beautiful in the morning light. Golden sunshine filtered through leaves that seemed to glow from within, streams burbled over smooth stones, flowers bloomed in a riot of pastel colors. It would have been peaceful if we weren’t all in a mad dash through the wilderness, horns blaring and Fae whooping. Part of me wondered why we weren’t being quiet and sneaky?

  Suddenly we slowed, and someone near the front of our group made a clicking sound and pointed. There, about a hundred yards ahead through a gap in the trees, was a flash of golden light.

  The Golden Stag.

  Even from this distance, I could see why it was legendary. Its coat seemed to glow with inner radiance, like gold in firelight, and its antlers branched in fractal patterns and blazed with a near blinding white light. It stood perfectly still, watching us watch it, and I saw it tilt its head to the side…and snort.

  Then it turned and bounded away with a speed that made me doubt we’d ever catch, much less mount the damn thing.

  "There!" Oberon shouted, spurring his mount forward. "Drive it toward the center! Sound the horns!"

  Hunting horns blared from all three directions as the groups closed in. The Stag ran, and we gave chase.

  We charged with them, me holding on to the cat for dear life as Garrick guided it effortlessly with subtle movements of his legs. Damn cosmic heroes and their dextrous grace. The forest blurred past while we kept pace with the pack, and some small part of my brain was appreciating how absolutely insane this was.

  The chase continued for another fifteen minutes, the three groups working in concert to drive the Stag toward the central area where, if my idea was right, Puck's Glade would provide the perfect trap. I was just starting to think about when I should break off to get into position when Garrick's voice cut through the thunder of the hunt.

  "LUCIEN!"

  The entire northern group came to a ragged halt, hunters pulling up short and looking around wildly. I followed Garrick's pointing finger and spotted him about fifty yards to our left, standing on a fallen tree like he owned the forest.

  Lucien Leblanc, looking as impeccably dressed and infuriatingly smug as ever.

  He caught our eyes, gave us a theatrical wink, and then opened his mouth to make a sound that definitely didn't sound like something from any human throat. It was a series of clicks and guttural noises, harsh and grating, echoing through the trees with unnatural clarity.

  "What is he—" I started, but Garrick was already shouting.

  "He's calling them! The Spriggans!"

  Lucien finished his call, gave us one more brilliant smile, and vanished like he'd never been there at all.

  For a moment, nothing happened. The forest was silent except for our breathing and the distant sound of the other hunting parties still pursuing the Stag.

  Then I heard the rustling. Movement in the underbrush, getting closer, coming from multiple directions.

  "SPRIGGANS!" someone shouted, and then they were on us.

  They came from everywhere at once, in every direction. Dozens of them, maybe more, pouring out of the forest like a nightmare tide. Each one stood about four feet tall with skin like diseased bark, their fingers long with sharp, dagger-like nails, and solid black eyes that reflected no light. The voice of Quint from Jaws echoed in my head…Black eyes, like a doll’s eyes. They carried crude clubs and moved with a speed that belied their hunched, twisted forms.

  "DEFENSIVE CIRCLE!" Oberon roared, and the hunting party responded with practiced efficiency, forming up with their backs to each other, “Keep them from flanking us!”

  The first group hit us like a breaking wave, and the forest erupted into chaos.

  A Spriggan came at me, club raised, and I drew my chef's knife on pure instinct. The creature swung, I felt the whiff of air as I barely leaned back in time to avoid getting beaned in the head. My enchanted boots helped to keep me steady on the uneven ground. I slashed with the knife and felt it connect, drawing dark blood. The Spriggan shrieked and fell back. This circle was in trouble if more came at me

  Around me, the battle was in full swing. Fae fought with weapons and magic, and the Spriggans attacked with vicious speed and coordinated tactics pressing hard against our circle, looking for a weak spot. Suddenly, several Spriggans turned to notice the only one not flinging magic or arrows…and holding a chef’s knife. Uh oh.

  And then Garrick showed why he was known as a hero.

  "ENOUGH!" His voice carried power that made the air itself vibrate, and the golden and red star light of cosmic energy erupted from his hands. The energy wrapped around the nearest Spriggans like glowing ribbons, and when he spoke again, his voice thundered, as if amplified standing in the middle of a stage in a concert arena.

  "Return to your nature. Take root and sleep."

  The Spriggans that were eyeing me froze mid-attack as the beams wrapped around them. Their bark-like skin began to thicken and harden, and instead of being “bark-like” they became “actual-bark”. Their limbs stiffened into branches. Within seconds, what had been hostile creatures were now small, twisted trees, rooted to the ground and utterly still.

  "That's new," I heard one of the hunters mutter in awe.

  Garrick moved through the battle like a force of nature, binding Spriggan after Spriggan with this starbound energy, transforming them back into the trees they'd once been. He wasn't killing them—that was the brilliant part. He was compelling them back to their original form, and even as violent as they were, even Oberon couldn't object to that.

  But there were so many. Even with Garrick transforming them as fast as he could, more kept coming.

  I blocked another club swing, countered with my knife, and heard Saoirse's voice cutting through the chaos from somewhere to my left.

  "MAC! GET TO THE GLADE! We’ll keep them distracted."

  I looked over and saw her group had engaged a massive cluster of Spriggans, her twin blades flashing as she fought. Even as I watched, she dispatched two of them with movements too fast to follow, then shot me a look that was equal parts urgent and fierce.

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  "GO!" she shouted again. "We'll handle this! The other groups are still on the Stag—someone needs to get to Puck's Glade!"

  She was right. The plan only worked if someone was in position when the Stag arrived. I looked at Garrick, who was in the middle of transforming three Spriggans at once, cosmic power blazing around him.

  "Garrick!" I shouted.

  He glanced over, saw what I was asking, and nodded. "Go! Stick to the plan! We've got this!"

  I didn't let myself think about leaving them in the middle of a battle. I just ran.

  The enchanted boots carried me through the forest at a speed I couldn't have managed otherwise. Behind me, I could hear the sounds of combat—shouts, impacts, Garrick's voice commanding Spriggans to "take root and sleep"—but I focused on the path ahead.

  I pulled out one of the pieces of Hermes Root as I ran and bit off a piece and started chewing. The dark, jerky-like substance tasted like dirt, beef and iron, with a finish of something like fried liver. Almost immediately I felt the effect. The burning in my muscles faded. My lungs expanded. My legs found a rhythm that felt like I could run forever. Hermes warned me to use with care, and I could understand why. This was a feeling someone could easily get used to.

  The forest blurred past me as I sprinted toward Puck's Glade, following the mental map I'd memorized from Oberon's briefing. The enchanted boots kept me sure-footed over roots and rocks, and the Hermes Root kept my muscles from giving out. Left at the split oak, straight through the meadow of blue and purple flowers, right at the stream, and then—

  There. The circle of tightly packed spruce trees, exactly as marked on the map. One entrance, barely wide enough for the Stag to fit through at speed. Perfect.

  I slowed as I approached, catching my breath and scanning the area. The glade was enclosed, just as I'd hoped, with branches so thick that even the morning light struggled to penetrate. If the Stag came through that entrance—

  A sound behind me. A chuckle, low and nasty.

  I spun and found myself facing two Spriggans.

  They were the same as the ones we'd fought with the hunting party—short, twisted, bark-skinned—but these two looked different somehow. Slightly bigger. Older, maybe. Meaner, definitely. Their black eyes held intelligence that suggested they weren't just mindless guardians.

  "Well, well," the first one said, its voice like gravel scraping across metal. "Look what we've got here. A little human, all alone in the woods."

  "You led us on quite a chase, little morsel," the second one added, circling to my right while the first moved to my left. "Running so fast, so determined. All by yourself now. Thought you could hide from us in our own forest?"

  "I'm not trying to hide from you," I said, trying to keep both of them in view. My hand moved to my chef's knife, and I remembered Saoirse's words from earlier. Try not to need it this time.

  Too late for that.

  "Oh, we know why you're here," the first Spriggan said, its club tapping against its palm in a rhythm that suggested anticipation. "That pretty thief told us all about it. Said there's one among the hunters who came to catch and kill our Stag. Warned us proper, he did."

  Lucien. Of course. He hadn't just called them to attack the hunting party—he'd told them specifically about the plan, about someone going to Puck's Glade, probably painted me as the biggest threat to the Stag. Which meant he’d been observing us from somewhere, or had a friend in our little gathering. I could see why Garrick despised him so much.

  "I'm not here to kill the Stag," I said firmly. "I'm here to catch it. There's a difference."

  "Maybe there is, maybe there isn't," the second Spriggan said, still circling. "But we're counting on roasted brains for supper now, and yours look nice and plump."

  My hand gripped the hilt of my chef's knife, and I drew it in one smooth motion that Garrick had drilled into me over countless practice sessions. The blade caught the filtered sunlight, and I fell into a defensive stance—weight balanced, knife held properly, every muscle ready to move. I hoped that I at least made them think twice about seeing me as helpless.

  The Spriggans looked at each other and started laughing.

  "Oh, it's got a knife," the first one said. "How adorable."

  "Let me handle this one," the second one said, stepping forward while its companion hung back. "Haven't had a mortal to toy with in years."

  It came at me, and I realized immediately that this was going to be bad.

  The Spriggan was fast. Not blindingly fast, but faster than any human I’d come up against, and its club swung in arcs that would crack my skull if they connected. I deflected the first blow with my knife, the enchanted blade catching the club and redirecting it. I used the momentum of the impact to spin away from the second strike. Even managed to take a few swipes at the creature's torso.

  But it was playing with me. I could see it in the casual way it moved, the way it pulled its strikes at the last second, the way it grinned every time I successfully blocked or dodged. The enchanted gloves helped me maintain my grip, and the boots kept me steady, but I was still outmatched.

  "Come on, little morsel," it taunted. "Show us what you've got."

  I took another swing, aiming for its arm, and the blade actually connected—a clean cut that drew dark blood and made the Spriggan hiss.

  "This is boring," the idle Spriggan called out. "I'm getting hungry. Hurry up."

  "Don't rush me," the one fighting me retorted, turning to face its companion. "I haven't had fun like this in forever, and we haven’t had one to east since that time, back in—"

  I saw the opportunity and took it. I lunged forward, blade extended, and slashed across the Spriggan's turned side. The enchanted knife cut deep, and the creature screamed.

  Then it turned back to me, and all the playfulness vanished from its expression.

  "Oh," it said softly. "Now you've made me angry."

  The attack that followed was nothing like what had come before. The Spriggan moved with genuine speed now, and its club hit me twice before I could even register the motion. Once in my left side, right in the ribs, which sent a blinding light of pain to my eyes, and then a jab to my gut that drove all the air from my lungs and dropped me to my hands and knees.

  I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. I could only gasp, well, gag really, like a fish while my body desperately tried to gulp in some air. The chef's knife fell from my hand, landing on the ground next to me. I couldn’t even move to grab it, my whole body feeling completely starved of oxygen and barely holding me up.

  The second Spriggan joined its companion, both of them standing over me now. I looked up through watering eyes and saw them grinning.

  "That's better," the wounded one said, twirling its club. "Much more satisfying."

  I tried to move, tried to get up, but my body wasn't cooperating. The enchanted boots and gloves were useless when I couldn't stand. The Hermes Root was still in my system, but all it could do was keep my muscles from cramping while I died.

  This was it. I was going to die in a Fae forest because I'd stupidly volunteered a plan (and unintentionally, myself) for this position, and the last thing I'd see would be these two ugly bastards licking their lips as they fought for who got to carve my brain out of my melon.

  I should have stayed with the group. Should have let someone else take this position. Should have—

  The Spriggan raised its club, licking its lips, clearly savoring the moment. "Time for supper."

  The club started to descend, and I watched it come, time seemingly slowing down. In that frozen moment I saw something shiny suddenly poke through the Spriggan's wrist in a spray of dark blood. An arrow.

  The club fell harmlessly to the ground in front of me as the Spriggan screamed.

  I looked up and saw Saoirse charging through the trees, tossing her bow aside and drawing her twin short blades in smooth, practiced motions. Her silver hair caught the light, her blue eyes were blazing, and she looked absolutely terrifying.

  The wounded Spriggan grabbed its club faster than my eyes could track, and both creatures turned to face her.

  "A Sidhe bitch!" one of them spat. "You dare interrupt our supper?"

  "We were only playing with him a bit," the other added before picking up his club in his not wounded arm, and then they both attacked.

  What followed was the most impressive display of combat I'd ever witnessed. Saoirse's blades moved in mesmerizing patterns, so quick that it looked like a wall of spinning blades surrounded her—deflecting, parrying, redirecting strikes that should have overwhelmed her. She fought like water, flowing around their attacks, and her short blades flashed in the filtered sunlight as she turned defense into offense against her attackers.

  Then one of the clubs connected—a solid hit to her left side that made her grunt and stumble back a step.

  Her expression changed. The calculated efficiency vanished, replaced by something cold and angry. Her eyes started to glow, actually glow, with some power from within that I’d never seen in my previous adventures with her.

  And then she moved faster than the Spriggans.

  The battle became a blur of motion. I heard one scream. The other made a gurgling, gagging sound. When my eyes caught up to the movement, I saw both Spriggans with blades through their vital areas—one through the chest, the other through the throat.

  Saoirse looked at them coldly. "Play time's over, boys, off to bed without supper."

  She withdrew the blades with smooth efficiency, and both Spriggans collapsed dead.

  Then she was kneeling beside me, those glowing eyes fading back to their normal crystalline blue. "Mac? Talk to me. Are you hurt?"

  "Ribs," I managed, breath finally returning in painful gasps. "And my pride. Definitely my pride."

  "Pride heals faster than ribs," she said, helping me sit up properly. "Can you stand?"

  "In a minute." I looked at the dead Spriggans, then at her. "Thank you. Again. That's twice now you've saved my life."

  "I have a vested interest in keeping you around," she said with a smile that didn't quite hide the worry in her eyes. Then her expression shifted into something more playful. "Besides, I’d like you healed and whole for later."

  Before I could respond, she grabbed my shirt, pulled me in, and kissed me. It wasn't gentle or tentative—it was fierce and claiming and absolutely perfect. I kissed her back, ignoring the pain in my ribs, ignoring everything except the fact that Saoirse was here, I was alive, and she was apparently very interested in making sure I knew how she felt.

  The sound of hunting horns—close, very close—interrupted us. We broke apart, both breathing hard, and Saoirse grinned at me.

  "That's our cue," she said. "I need to get back in position with the western group. Can you do this?"

  I looked at where my chef's knife had fallen, reached over with my enchanted glove to grab it, and used a nearby tree to pull myself to my feet. Everything hurt, but the Hermes Root was still in my system, and adrenaline was doing the rest. "I can do this."

  "Then do it," she said, squeezing my hand once. "And Mac? Don't die. We have plans later."

  She sprinted back into the forest, bow in hand, moving like a ghost through the trees. I watched her go, then turned to face Puck's Glade and the task ahead.

  Right. Net. Tree. Stag. I could do this.

  I examined the entrance to the glade and spotted my target: a large tree right at the entrance with multiple branches, several of which extended out over the path. The enchanted boots and gloves were already on, which meant climbing would be a snap…as long as my ribs didn’t complain too much.

  I approached the tree and started climbing. The enchantments worked perfectly—my gloved hands gripped the bark like I had magnets attached, my booted feet found purchase on the surface of the bark with ease (even though my foot should slipped without a more solid perch). I scrambled up with an ease that would have made Spider-Man proud, my body moving with confidence despite the pain in my ribs.

  I reached the level where branches extended toward the entrance and started shimmying across, Oberon's hunting net hooked to my belt and bumping against my hip with every movement.

  I could see them now in the distance, through gaps in the trees. The hunting parties were converging, and at the center of it all was the brilliant radiance of the Golden Stag, leading the pack with what looked like genuine enjoyment.

  And there, riding on that massive white cat, was Garrick. Even from here I could see cosmic energy still flickering around him. He must have finished with the Spriggans and rejoined the hunt. I made a mental note to ask him later how exactly he'd ended up on that particular mount, and whether turning Spriggans into trees was something he could teach me. He’d laugh, look at me, and say, “Nope,” but it was always fun to ask.

  I positioned myself on a branch that gave me a good view of the entrance, braced my back against another branch for balance, and started unrolling the net. My hands were shaking with adrenaline, pain, fear…all of it mixing together, but the enchanted gloves helped me maintain my grip.

  Once I had it unrolled, I gave it a few test movements to get used to the weight in my hands. Then I went to position it out from the branch and over the path. The net snagged on something. Of course it did.

  I leaned out, reaching precariously to untangle it from a smaller branch where it had caught. The pack was getting closer. I could hear the horns, the shouting, the thunder of hooves and paws and whatever other locomotion methods Fae mounts used. I had to hurry.

  My gloved fingers found the snag, started working it loose. The Stag was mere bounds from the entrance. I could see the golden glow, see the magnificent antlers—

  "OUT OF MY FUCKING TREE!"

  The voice was right next to my ear, high-pitched and offended, and the surprise was so complete that I didn't even process what was happening before my foot slipped from the branch when my mind focused on moving away from whatever it was…and not keeping my grip.

  A Brownie. There was a Brownie living in this tree, and I'd just invaded its home. Son of a…

  Suddenly I was falling.

  My hands grabbed the net on pure reflex, clutching it like my life depended on it—which, given that I was falling from twenty feet up, it probably did. The net was still attached to something above me, and I had just enough time to think this is going to hurt before—

  I hit something. Not the ground. Something that gave slightly under the impact, something warm and alive that grunted at the sudden weight, and then I was being yanked forward as that something started moving.

  Fast.

  The world became a blur of motion. Up, down, sideways, spinning—I couldn't tell which direction was which. I felt like I was on the worst carnival ride ever invented, bouncing and whipping around while sounds rushed past me. Cheering? Laughter? I couldn't tell.

  My arms were burning, the muscles screaming at me to let go of the net, but I held on. The enchanted gloves helped, protected my palms from being shredded like strings of cheese, and gave me grip that my ungloved hands couldn't hope to maintain. But every bounce threatened to tear my grip loose anyway.

  Around and around. The world spinning. My stomach trying to squeeze its way through my throat. The net was tangled in something. The bouncing world stopped bouncing just long enough for me to see what it was caught on. Antlers, I realized distantly, I'd landed on the Stag and the net had caught in its antlers—and the Stag was running, trying to shake me off, and I was holding on for dear life.

  The cheering got louder. I could hear Oberon's booming laugh, could hear other voices shouting encouragement or amazement, could hear the thunder of hooves as the hunting party followed alongside this absolute madness.

  Finally, mercifully, the momentum began to slow. The bouncing became less violent. I heard a long exhale of air, frustrated and resigned, and then a deep bass voice said, "Fine. I yield. Now get the hell off me."

  A large thump as we both hit the ground.

  I lay there on my side, gasping, still clutching the net, trying to figure out if I was alive or if this was what being dead felt like. My arms felt like overcooked noodles. My ribs were screaming. Everything hurt.

  Slowly, carefully, I released the net and pulled myself to a sitting position.

  The Golden Stag lay on the ground next to me, relaxed, with Oberon's net thoroughly tangled in its magnificent antlers.

  It turned its head to look at me with eyes that were far too intelligent for any animal, supernatural or otherwise, and I could have sworn I saw amusement in them.

  "You have vitality, little mortal," the Stag said in that deep bass voice. "I am impressed. You are the first human to ever catch me."

  There was a roar of applause. I looked up and realized the entire hunting party had gathered at the entrance to the glade, and they were cheering. For me.

  "A gracious victor, as well," the Stag continued as I worked at the tangled net. "How delightful. Yes, please, help me with this infernal tangle. And while you're at it, tell me—was the falling part of your plan?"

  "Not exactly," I admitted, working at the knots with shaking hands. "There was a Brownie in the tree who took exception to my intrusion."

  "Ah, yes. Twigtoes. Territorial little bastard." The Stag held still while I worked. "Still, falling onto my back while clutching the net was rather ingenious, even if accidental."

  Garrick and Saoirse reached me first, both of them talking over each other in their excitement.

  "Mac, that was incredible!" Garrick was saying, cosmic energy still flickering faintly around him. "The way you just dropped and grabbed on—I can't believe that actually worked!"

  "Greatest rodeo I've ever seen," Saoirse interrupted, and then her voice dropped lower, more intimate. "If you can ride that well..."

  My face heated up despite the pain and exhaustion, and I was saved from having to respond by Oberon's booming laughter as he strode into the glade.

  "Your crazy human plan worked after all!" He clapped me on the back hard enough to make my ribs protest. "This calls for a huge celebration! Something that has never been seen in Fae has been witnessed—a mortal catching the Golden Stag!"

  The hunting party erupted in cheers again, and I found myself surrounded by Fae congratulating me, asking how I'd done it, wanting to hear the story. The Stag stood once I'd freed the net, shaking its head to settle its antlers, and looked at me with what might have been respect.

  "You have earned a boon, Mac Sullivan," it said formally. "What would you ask of me?"

  I opened my mouth, closed it, and then smiled. "Can I tell you on the way back to camp? I'm pretty sure I can't walk."

  The Stag's laughter rang through the glade. "Climb on, little mortal. You've earned the ride."

  The journey back to camp was slower than the hunt, partly because everyone was in celebration mode and partly because I was riding the Golden Stag, which apparently warranted some kind of ceremonial processional pace. Oberon rode beside us on his own mount, and after the initial excitement died down, we fell into conversation.

  "Tell me honestly, Mac Sullivan," Oberon said. "Have you ever felt such a rush? The chase, the danger, the victory? Do you understand now why I love the Hunt so much?"

  I thought about it—the adrenaline, the fear, the moment of triumph when I'd realized I'd somehow actually caught the Stag. "I do," I admitted. "Despite nearly getting killed by Spriggans…that was fun."

  But then I looked over and saw Saoirse riding nearby, and she caught my eye and smiled, and I remembered the kiss in the glade, the feeling of her pulling me close despite the danger we'd just survived.

  "But there are better rushes out there," I said, still looking at her.

  Oberon followed my gaze, saw where I was looking, and snorted. Then his expression softened into something I hadn't expected from the lord who'd been lounging with multiple partners just yesterday. For just a moment, I saw something in his eyes that looked like longing.

  "Aye," he said quietly. "There is nothing quite like that rush either."

  We rode in silence after that, and I wondered if maybe I understood Titania and Oberon's relationship a little better than I had before.

  The celebration back at camp was already in full swing by the time we arrived. Someone had started multiple bonfires, food and drink appeared on tables as several people were bringing it all out from assorted tents and temporary kitchens. The music was loud enough to make conversation difficult without yelling.

  I found myself pulled in multiple directions. Hunters wanting to hear the full story, Fae wanting to congratulate me, someone even handed me a drinking horn that I was pretty sure was larger than my head. Through it all, I kept catching glimpses of Saoirse, and every time our eyes met, something warm bloomed in my chest.

  The Hermes Root was wearing off, and I was starting to feel every single injury from the day. My ribs ached where the Spriggan had hit me. My arms felt like jelly from holding onto that net. Even my jaw hurt from clenching my teeth during the ride.

  After a while of eating and drinking and recounting my story, I managed to extricate myself from the main celebration and found a quieter spot near one of the smaller fires. Saoirse found me there a few minutes later, carrying two mugs of something that smelled like honey and blackberries.

  "Here," she said, handing me one. "You look like you need this. Mead from my own casks"

  "I look that bad?"

  "You look like someone who got hit by Spriggans, fell out of a tree, and then got dragged around by a stag for five minutes." She sat down next to me, close enough that our shoulders touched. "So yes. Pretty bad."

  I took a drink—it was mead, sweet and strong—and let the warmth spread through me. "You saved my life today. Again."

  "Told you I have a vested interest in keeping you around."

  "Why?" I asked, and immediately regretted it because it sounded needy and insecure, but the exhaustion had stripped away my usual filters.

  Saoirse looked at me, those crystalline blue eyes catching the firelight, and her expression was softer than I'd ever seen it. "Because in Crosstown, you saw me. Not the Leanan Sídhe, not the Fae journalist, not any of the roles I play. You saw me. And you've been writing me into your notebook ever since—don't think I haven't noticed—and you kept the flower I sent you, and you look at me like I'm something precious instead of just something pretty."

  "You are something precious," I said without thinking. "You're brilliant and brave and funny and—"

  She kissed me, cutting off what was probably going to become an embarrassing ramble. This kiss was different from the one in the glade—slower, deeper, with no urgency except the need to be close to each other, and feel raw affection as my body responded with fire from my head to my toes.

  When we broke apart, I was breathing hard and my heart was pounding a heavy rhythm in my chest.

  Saoirse blushed—actually blushed, pink rising in her bronze skin. "I'm sorry if that was too forward. I know we haven't really talked about what this is, and I just thought—"

  I leaned in and kissed her, the same way she'd kissed me, and everything else—the pain, the exhaustion, Oberon, Titania…it allfaded into background noise.

  When we finally broke apart again, I realized something. The purple stains from the protection ointment had completely faded. We'd been celebrating for hours, which meant the protection had worn off completely.

  The intoxicating air of the Summer Court was working on me again—I could feel it, that warmth and desire building. But looking at Saoirse, feeling her hand in mine, I realized that maybe it wasn’t the air after all.

  "The ointment's worn off," I said softly.

  She smiled, understanding immediately. "Yup."

  "Should I reapply?"

  "Eventually," she said, and kissed me again.

  And in that moment, surrounded by celebrating Fae, wrapped together with Saoirse by the fire inside a larger, more private tent, I decided that Garrick had been right.

  There was nothing wrong with being happy, and being happy didn’t always require a plan.