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“A half-piece?” My voice hitches into what would be a screech if it weren’t for the squeaky pitch of it. “For a valerian stalk?”

She grins, her human teeth as white and dazzling as freshly polished pearls. “It’s imported.”

Eamon chokes on a laugh.

I throw a scowl at him.

It’s Dare who asks, “Grimroot?”

He’s taken another almost imperceptible step closer to the kinta.

If she notices, she keeps her secrets.

That’s what I see in her eyes as she turns to look through her lashes at him.

Secrets.

“Do you know how hard it is to get anything smuggled into this world from Dorcha? I’ve got a better chance of waking up full fae than getting my hands on grimroot.”

He just looks at her.

I’m certain he didn’t listen to anything she said.

“Valerian is all I have for you.” She gestures around but her gaze lingers over me. “You’re half human. You can try some human stuff but it’s hardcore, so I suggest sticking to the stalk—unless you want to talk to the gods.”

Before I can ask whathardcoremeans, Eamon shakes his head and a darkness has settled over his face. “It’s as bad as recreational use of the white and black powders.”

The rattle of metal skids across the table.

Daxeel tossed a single gold nugget to Bee. He settles back into the leathered cushion of the bench and spreads his arms out over the backs. He returns to his detached lounging.

Bee slaps her hand down on the gold piece and, with a wink aimed at me, pockets it. “That’s two.”

True to the deal, even if it’s a bad one, she sets two rolled valerian stalks down beside the hefty glass bottle in a metal tin, and I have not the faintest clue where she pulled them from.

Aleana is quick to snatch one up.

Daxeel throws her a dark warning look.

I think of the tower at Comlar, of all the efforts made to keep the smoke of the grimroot away from her.

I lean in closer. “Can you smoke that? Are you well enough?”

She shrugs, an impish smile on her face. “We will find out.”

And we do.

As it turns out, Aleana can handle two or three puffs of valerian before the fatigue of it starts to drape over her like a thick fur coat. By the time her lashes are so low over her eyes that they might as well be shut all the way, and we’ve smoked through the two valerians as a group, some have splintered off.

Eamon and Ridge have found the dancefloor to be their entertainment—and though it’s packed fuller than dehydrated pixies in a cushion, I spot them all too easily.

I make no move to join them, but I watch with blatant interest. My gaze is as homed in on the dancefloor, on swaying hips, on bottoms dropping to the sticky floors, hands above heads, stolen kisses, and bodies merged together as one.

I find the dances of the human lands rather… unrefined.

Yet, it interests me all the same.

Part of me hungers to go down there, but Daxeel’s constant iciness keeps me at the table. I know I will be the one to suffer for this trip, not Aleana.