The creature's head whipped around, and I choked on the cry in my throat-the same shredded skin adorned its face, looking like bruise-colored scars across its pallid cheeks. Its eyes were pupil-less, nothing more than phosphorescent orbs of sickly green, and my insides twisted as I saw that it had no mouth or nose. How was it making that ragged noise? Through its pores?

The ghastly visitor made a high-pitched keening noise and threw itself from my bed to the floor, where it crawled toward us at an uncanny speed, its long fingers reaching well in front of the rest of its body. Shea scrambled to her feet, letting out the scream that I could not. My weapons were on the other side of the room, past our intruder, but Shea lurched toward her coat, searching through it with frantic hands. She needn't have hurried for her own sake-the creature had no interest in her.

I bumped into Shea's bedpost, almost losing my footing as I retreated backward until I was pinned against the wall, the creature never more than a few inches away. It grabbed my ankle, my calf, the hem of my shirt, finally coming face-to-face with me. I could feel the tug and release of its breathing, its hungry inhalation, cold exhalation. It was near weightless, but its odor was sweet like death. I knew what it wanted, why it was interested in me and not Shea. It wanted magic, and it had followed my trail in the same way a hound followed a scent. How it would go about draining the little magic I had left was the true mystery, the true terror. I flattened myself out as much as I could, eyes shut tight, afraid it would rob me of my very soul.

At the report of a gun, the creature squealed and retreated, and I fell to my knees. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied Shea, the silver pistol shaking alarmingly in her hands, and the muscles of my chest threatened to strangle my heart. That bullet could easily have hit me.

Rolling and writhing, the wounded creature crashed into my bed, Shea following it with her outstretched arm. Once more she fired, but the weapon clicked hollowly, for only a single bullet had rested in its chamber. Thatcher had removed the rest, and Shea had not thought to reload.

Further violence wasn't necessary, however, for the spindly thing was no longer interested in us. It had knocked over my bag, spilling its contents across the floor, and had picked up my only hope of returning home-the flask of Sale that might kill or save me. I tried to reclaim my feet to take back what was mine, but my trembling body gave out. Shea inched toward the door, one hand on the wall for support, the other gripping her gun and shaking so hard the weapon continually bumped against her leg.

I shrieked, but there was nothing I could do to stop that unnatural being from using its tendril-like fingers to remove the cork from my flask and pour the Sale over its head. The liquid dripped down its body, hissing and creating a steam through which I couldn't see. But I heard its deep, pleasured sigh. Next instant, the room was empty except for Shea and me, the creature having left the way it had entered, through the open window.

"No," I moaned, crawling to the remains of my belongings. "No, no, no!"

But it was too late. Nary a drop of Sale remained. Breaking into staccato sobs, I crumpled to the floor, hating the thing that had stolen my only chance of living a life with Davic and my family in Chrior, hating the hunters who had reduced me to a single, feeble hope, hating myself for being so, so stupid. If I had followed my own advice to Illumina, I would never have been a victim. If I had listened to Davic and stayed with him, I would never have been in the vicinity of the humans who'd maimed me.

I felt more than heard Shea's approach. She wrapped her arms around me, and I leaned heavily against her. The immediate fear for my life had dissipated, but a greater, overriding terror was moving in. A long time ago, before I'd lost my wings, I'd thought that bravery could be attained with an open mind and heart, by pursuing and facing my demons. Now I considered that fearlessness was the luxury of the cloistered and the blind, and that it was too late for me.

"You were right, Shea," I whispered. "About the Sepulchres. The curse didn't kill them. It turned them into monsters."

"You couldn't have known those...things exist. You're not superhuman. Er, super-Fae, I guess. And we don't know for certain it was a Sepulchre."

"It wanted me. It wanted the magic from my wounds, and when it couldn't-" I broke off and fumbled for my empty flask.

"What was in there?"

There were simultaneously too many words and no words at all to explain to Shea what had been in the flask. But without Sale, I had neither the hope of reclaiming my old life nor the possibility of neatly ending my current one. And if all else failed, that had been my plan. I blinked back a wave of tears and forced myself to breathe.

"It was a form of medicine."

Though Shea frowned, she asked me nothing more. I was thankful she didn't berate me for the way I had dismissed the cautionary tale she had told her sisters. I'd been a fool. There had been signs that something was watching me...the scratch marks on the trees in the clearing, the rattling of the window latch in Shea's bedroom. That creature must have followed us all the way from the Balsam Forest. If I'd just sacrificed a little pride and considered that Shea might be right, perhaps I could have prevented this.

There were voices sounding in the hall, and the door shook with someone's weight thrust against it again and again. Startled, we scrambled to our feet. Two men broke the lock and burst into the room, a posse of curious faces gathered behind them.

The barkeep had led the charge, and his troubled eyes fell on us. "We heard a scream and what sounded like a gunshot."

"I thought I saw someone in our room," Shea smoothly lied. "I guess we both had too much to drink."

I attempted to smile in confirmation. "Sorry for the alarm."

"You're paying for that door," the other man, presumably the innkeeper, scoffed.

Ignoring the mess on the floor and the tears on my face, the irritated pair scowled at us and headed back into the hall, waving the onlookers on their way. Luckily, the door remained on its hinges, permitting me to jam it closed. Shea plopped on her bed while I lit the lamp, then I went to sit next to her, having no inclination to be near the window.

"Why lie?" I asked. "I thought humans believed in Sepulchres."

"Not everyone does. Besides, what would you do with two hysterical girls claiming they opened fire on a glowing spectral creature?"

"Toss them in the street. And take away their liquor and guns."

Shea giggled, adrenaline and alcohol undoubtedly fueling her emotions. "That would have been a much worse end to this than paying for damages."

I smiled despite myself. "Very caring gentlemen, those two. No offer to look around, no 'Are you all right?'" I adopted a gruff, over-the-top voice. "Just, 'Fix the damn door!'"

Shea laughed once more, and this time I joined in, the relief welcome. Only our first day journeying, and already our adventures were beyond anything I could have anticipated.

After breakfast at the Morrow Bend, during which Shea and I studiously avoided conversation about the events of the previous night, we went to the livery stable and paid the rental fee for two horses. As we led the animals into the sunshine-a pleasant change from the weather the day before-I drew Shea's attention to a tannery.

"Over there," I said, pointing. "See that leather shop? I'll hold the horses if you want to get a belt."

"A belt?"

"For your bullets. And you might want to load your gun."

"Oh, right. I guess my brain isn't fully functioning yet. I'll just be a minute."

She headed to the tanner's, and I was thankful the alcohol she'd consumed hadn't made her physically ill; a muddled mind I could handle. She returned with a gun belt strapped around her hips and over one shoulder, the spare bullets Thatcher had given her already in place. After securing her pistol at her side, she buttoned the overcoat under her cloak to hide the evidence.

"Now, how do I get on this thing?" she asked, taking the reins to her mount from me.

"You don't know?"

"Nope. Not the slightest idea."

"I thought all humans knew how to ride horses."

She laughed. "We're not born on horseback, you know. Most men learn, but I've only ridden in wagons or buggies."

I laid a hand on my mount's neck to calm the animal, who had taken to pawing the ground. "It doesn't look that hard to me."

"Hold it. You mean we just paid for two horses and you've never ridden before, either?" Shea was gawking at me in disbelief.

"Well...no," I admitted. "We have horses in the Faerie Realm, along with deer, bear, and other large animals, but few of us ride. We're light on our feet and don't tire easily. And we fly, remember?"

"Don't suppose you've ridden deer or bear, either," Shea groused, and I gave her a pained smile.

"Look, we've got a lot of ground to cover, and this is the best way to do it."

Shea turned away from me to examine the bay gelding she had been given, and I did likewise, scratching my head as I tried to figure out the best approach to take to this riding business. I'd seen people mount before, so I tried to mimic the movement, placing my left foot in the stirrup. My action was apparently of great interest to my horse, as he turned his head to observe me, shifting his body away from me at the same time. I hopped on one foot to stay with him, and I could have sworn he sneered. An experienced rider would probably have guffawed at this notion, but it seemed clear to me that the big bay was taunting me. Animals usually beheld Fae with a certain amount of respect, but either I was no longer Fae or this horse was wicked.

To my credit, I finally swung my leg over my gelding's back and settled into the saddle. A glance at Shea told me she had also gotten this far, and was looking rather proud of herself. Ready to move forward, we tapped our mounts on their sides with our heels, but neither horse budged. Mine pinned its ears back and turned its head to nip at the toe of my boot. I yelped, though I had not felt the horse's teeth, startling the animal into jigging sideways. Shea's horse rumbled and spun in circles, and she ended up gripping the saddle with a nauseous expression. Then it ceased, its rump aimed at me, and began to back up.

"Your horse is growling-he's growling!" I slammed my heels against my mount's side, frantically trying to avoid a collision, or worse, a kick.

Laughter broke out behind us, and I swiveled in my saddle to see a young man standing in the door to the livery stable. He was perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old, and over his clothing he wore a leather apron with an assortment of metal tools poking out of its pockets.

"Horses don't growl," he said, earning a scowl from me. "They aren't wolves. You'd think the two of you are Fae, the way you ride."

"Fae can ride," I snapped. Just because I wasn't among them didn't mean I had to abide his bigotry and know-it-all attitude.

"Then you're definitely not Fae," he responded with a grin. "But since you rented the horses, I assume you want to get somewhere. I'd be glad to give you a few pointers."

"That would be very nice of you," Shea jumped in, cognizant of my foul mood.

The boy spent the next hour explaining how to rein, move forward, change gaits, halt, and dismount. He also instructed us on how to saddle and bridle the geldings, as well as basics like how to tie them and how much grain to feed them. He spent more time with Shea than he did with me-her smile was pretty under any circumstances, but especially so in comparison to my irritable countenance. I didn't like looking foolish, but there was no denying I had been served a plateful of humility.

When the boy finally deemed us somewhat competent, he slapped our horses on their rumps, sending us off at a teeth-jarring trot. For the next couple of miles, we changed between the walk and various trot speeds, trying to find one that was comfortable. At length, our horses settled into a ground-covering jog that we could sit without feeling like we were going to be catapulted across the plains. Pleased with ourselves, Shea and I shared a grin.

Now that we had the hang of horseback riding, we made good time on our way to Oaray. It was a two-day trek, during which we twice came close to military troops. I grew numb upon seeing them-I'd never encountered law enforcement or peacekeeping forces this far north. Fortunately, here on the fringe, they weren't too concerned with checking papers. If they had, Shea could have been arrested on the spot for not having proper documentation. Still, it was worrisome, and I wished I could hover into the air for a better view of what lay ahead in order to steer clear of such encounters. Given the fresh, crisp breeze at our backs, I also longed to float on the currents for the pure pleasure of spiraling to the ground. But such delights were now lost to me. Annoyed at myself for focusing on the things that had been stolen from me, I urged my horse into a faster pace. There was more than one way to feel the exhilaration of movement.

CHAPTER NINE.

THE CITY OF FALSE SMILES.

I paid for my eagerness to stretch my horse's legs and feel the wind rush-my legs were stiff and sore by the first night, and by the time we saw our destination on the horizon, it felt like my tailbone had been forced partway up my back. My entire rear resented the notion of movement in equal measure to its resentment for sitting still, and there was no muscle I could stretch to relieve my discomfort. Shea, I determined from her tart expression, was experiencing much of the same.

We arrived in Oaray in the early evening, while the town still looked like a happy, safe place to raise children. In truth, it was-but only if parents wanted their offspring to establish themselves as successful deviants come adulthood.

As I had been in the City of False Smiles before, I knew where to go and what to do. I led Shea on horseback through a few narrow streets, then into a main plaza, where the night was awakening. Greetings flew everywhere. The people of Oaray knew one another well, and visitors were welcomed wholeheartedly because they were the source of the city's income. There were nice buildings in the plaza, shops and the like, but only one remarkable structure. An open stable was attached to one side of it, and we tied our mounts before entering the peculiar bookstore-inn-restaurant-church that beckoned to us.

Every sort of person lounged inside the place, which was named The Emporium. There was drinking, but not to excess; the crowd seemed sober enough. Long fainting couches accented the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that had the attention of a few children. On the other side of the establishment, chairs were arranged like pews and a man preached. In a corner to the preacher's left, I spotted an exchange taking place: a bible for quite a bit of gold. I wondered what treasures the undoubtedly hollowed-out book really contained.

"Can I help you?" asked a woman with a bright accented voice that told me she wasn't a native of the Warckum Territory. Truth be told, she probably didn't have the papers to leave Oaray. She stood behind the counter straight ahead of us, and I smiled back, Shea close on my heels.

"Room ten-twelve," I said, and the woman, blond hair braided with twigs and pretty berries, pulled out her register.

"What was the room number you requested?"

"Four-six," I replied, ignoring the confusion in Shea's dark, penetrating eyes.

"You're all set." She flipped her book closed and handed me a key. "You know the way?"

At my nod, she finished, "Sleep well! Service will be up in a few."

I thanked her and turned toward the stairs that curved behind the entry desk. But before I could take more than a few steps, Shea caught my arm.

"Care to explore a bit?" She glanced around the establishment, clearly intrigued by its atmosphere, and my stomach clenched, wondering how many young men might be on the loose in Oaray. At the concern on my face, Shea tentatively added, "I mean, this looks like an interesting place."

I sighed, feeling like an overly strict guardian. "Not now. Business to attend to first. We'll see if there's time after."

She nodded and followed me to the staircase. Up, up, and up we went until we found the third floor, which was nothing more than attic space. Unlocking the only door, I ushered my friend inside a tiny, dingy room stuck under the eaves that held but a couple of chairs and a table. Its smell was rancid, a mixture of spilled alcohol, cheap food, pipe tobacco and blood.

Shea wrinkled her nose against the odor. "Anya, what the hell? I know we're on a tight budget, but there's no bed up here, and this room is not labeled ten-twelve. That service the girl mentioned had better be good."

"It will be. Just relax."

We sat around for half an hour or so, Shea occasionally parting the dusty curtains to peer through a small window, until finally there was a knock on the door.

"The person you're expecting?" she asked, and I hopped to my feet with a nod.

But the person who came through the door was not Deangelo, the trustworthy Faerie with a despicable attitude who had sold me my forged papers when I'd gone on my original Crossing. This was not Deangelo, to whom we Faeries were sent for aid, to whom Evangeline would have gone for travel papers stating she was human, the man Illumina would have been told by my father to see. This was a new man, young, small in frame and height, but with sharp hazel eyes. He wore suspenders, a top hat, and heavy eyeliner, probably so he could blend in with the night crowd of Oaray, although the clothes suited him better than a costume of convenience should have. Behind him came an older man, large, bald, and carrying a wooden box.

"Who are you?" I asked confrontationally, but the fellow in the suspenders was neither insulted nor surprised.

"I'm not Deangelo," he drolly admitted, tapping a cane he didn't need on the ground to punctuate his words. "A blessing from the perspective of some of his customers."

"Not from mine."

The bald man carried his box to a beat-up desk and set it down amidst a cloud of dust, and Suspenders spun to flop dramatically into a moth-bitten armchair. I scrutinized him-he was not much older than Shea and I.

"There's no way around this, darling. I do the papers now. Deangelo got taken away about two months ago."

"Taken away?" My gaze drifted to Shea, hoping she was keeping an eye on the bald fellow. She didn't disappoint. Her hand rested on the pistol at her hip.

"You're not going to trust me unless I'm straight with you," the suspendered fellow went on. "I respect that. If you worked with Deangelo in the past, then you have to know it's dangerous, what he used to do, what I do now. Every once in a while the Governor decides it's time to raid Oaray. The rumors about this place finally get to him or something. Who knows? But Deangelo went down in the last sweep."

"Well, where is he now?" I demanded, thinking not only of the aging Faerie, but of Evangeline, who might have wandered into the middle of this sweep.

"How should I know?" The cane tapped a few times, whether out of impatience or nervousness, I couldn't tell. "The Governor's laws protect the Fae, but they sure as hell don't protect criminals, not even magic ones."

For the first time, the bald man spoke, muttering something in a language I couldn't understand. At his partner's quick shake of the head, he went back to the wooden box.

"You want papers or not?" Suspenders drawled.

Though I wasn't happy about things, I nodded. We needed travel documents for Shea, no way around it.

"Tell me your names," I grumbled. "So I'll know who I'm dealing with in the future."

"Haruspex by first, Eskander by last. But you can call me Spex-the rest just gets in the way. That big guy over there is Hastings. So what name are we putting on these papers? I guarantee they'll look as official as if the Governor himself put his seal on them."

"Mary Archer," I said, giving the name only a moment's thought. Shea could pass for a Mary, and the last name was common enough not to draw questions. "We just need the one set."

Hastings pulled up a creaky chair and opened his box, removing a few materials. The basic papers were already made up, but he mixed together some ink that had a distinctive shine in the light, and made careful swoops with his hand to draw out the necessary print. When he was finished, he waved Shea over, handed her the quill, and instructed "Miss Archer" to sign her name.

"That's everything you need," Spex said, standing with the same sort of flourish with which he'd sat. "Now, about what I need."

"I know, twenty gold," I said, pulling out my money pouch.