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When we get to a particularly old section of the cemetery, the headstones so old and weathered most of the names and dates have been worn away, he pulls me close, his jaw clenched. His stormy eyes stare down at me. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Before I have a chance to say anything, our surroundings disappear. A moment later buildings and canals replace tombstones.

I stare around us with wonder. “Venice,” I breathe.

I always wanted to visit. And at the snap of the Bargainer’s fingers, we were here.

Perks of being friends with a fae king.

“Stay close,” he warns.

“It’s not like I’m going anywhere,” I mumble, trailing after him. He practically had my hand in a chokehold.

The two of us wind through back alleys, and I wrinkle my nose at the smell of sewage. When we get to a small, weather-worn door, Des stops.

I glance over at him. His jaw’s clenched, his silver eyes icy.

Still pissed.

Moody fairy. It’s not like he had to take me. He’s a king for Christ’s sake; I’m surenois the first word in his vocabulary.

I hear a lock tumble, pulling me out of my thoughts, and then the door in front of us swings open of its own accord.

Beyond it is a dark hallway. Exactly the kind of place you don’t visit if you want to stay out of trouble. Which I guess is why the Bargainer’s decided to come here.

Des steps into the hallway, pulling me in after him. Behind us, the door clicks shut.

“Well, this is cozy,” I say.

“Ssshhh, cherub,” he says, “and while we’re on the subject, try not to talk.”

I stick my tongue at him.

“I saw that,” he says, not turning around.

Eyes at the back of his head, this one.

We move deep inside the building, heading down a flight of stairs until we come to a dimly lit area that is really nothing more than a grid of pylons, cement walkways, and large, barrel-like buoys. And between the walkways and beneath the buoys is water.

Lots and lots of water.

Venice is sinking, I remember.

A slick-looking man with receding hair and a huge paunch steps out from the shadows.

“I called you an hour ago,” he says, his Scandinavian accent thick. He flicks the Bargainer’s business card out of his hand.

Des watches it hit the ground. “I’m not your lapdog,” Des says. “Don’t like my methods, call someone else.”

The Bargainer makes his clients wait? I sort of got the impression that he was as prompt with everyone else as he was with me.

Now I feel like a special snowflake.

The man jerks his chin to me “Who’s the girl?” he asks.

“Doesn’t fucking matter. Don’t look at her,” the Bargainer says.

But the man can’t help himself. I’m a siren, I’m made to be distracting. His eyes move over me, his expression turning hungry.