The wind blew wild and restless through Pendragon; Ryna raised her face to the cloud-streaked sky and let the eddies tug their fingers through her hair. The third story of Flying Buttress Stage afforded a gorgeous view of the waxing moon’s cradle, hanging low over the BLUE’s ramshackle bulk.

Her perch had been condemned for years, but she was light, and handholds for climbing weren’t hard to find if you knew the trick of it.

This had been one of her favorite haunts in the Otherwhere. A good, defensible spot if you didn’t count the drop. Or if you knew how not to let gravity snatch at you.

Here she felt peaceful… and free.

A train’s whistle echoed across the landscape, its lonesome sound resolving gradually into the baying of hounds.

She knew it for a dream, then. They only came to her in dreams—and had, at least once a fortnight, since she left. The knowledge did not wake her—seemed more a point of curiosity as she waited, holding breath she didn’t need in anticipation.

You can check out any time you like, she thought, the melody of “Hotel California” ghosting through her mind.

The fall of silver bridle bells came next, a tinkling descant to the syncopated beat of hooves that rang through earth and air to light Ryna’s soul with incandescent joy.

And then They rode into view, breathless beauty intent on their prey. It was as if someone had brought to life an ancient tapestry of some medieval hunt… if that tapestry had been woven in threads of silver and gold, amber and lapis and garnet and jade. Even from such a distance, they stood out—a bright riot of reality overlaid on a shabby backdrop of make-believe.

“Please,” Ryna cried, one hand reaching out in helpless desire. No further words came—she couldn’t form thought or wish for them, merely stood there, tears of longing in her eyes at their perfection. “Please…”

The leader’s head turned, and Ryna saw perfectly the jet hair, the cloak studded with stars, the pitiless, inhumanly blue eyes.

The fiddler’s eyes flew open to a truth as cold and hard as the Faery woman’s gaze.

She had been cast out. Every fiber of her being wept; she wanted to crawl back into that dream, to see that beauty just once more…

Phoenix propped herself on an elbow, groggy and worried. “Artemis?”

Jet hair…

But the specifics had begun to fade, leaving only a flash of awe and longing, the memory of the intensity of those eyes…

“Hold me,” she croaked, welcoming the solid, warm feel of flesh as her love gathered her close and murmured sleepy endearments.

This would ground her.

This would save her.

Without it, she knew the temptation would be too great. Knew she would dance after Fae pipes and spend eternity happily in their thrall.

And the worst part was… she didn’t know if the thought frightened her or not.