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The king and queen of faerie stepped into the midnight frolic.

All eyes turned their direction as they made their elaborate entrance.

Fashionably late, with enough drama to feed those in attendance.

Arms linked, heads held high, stride cool and confident.

Imperious, deadly, superior. Whispers swirled the room like a vortex, collecting the myriad thoughts of the attendees on their elaborate attire and terrifying visage.

Graves’s face was austere and arrogant. Kierse played the lady at his side with poise and allure.

She had done this once before, but it had been a different game.

At Imani’s party, where she had proven her abilities by stealing furtive letters for Graves and had felt her magic blown to bits by the warlock’s deadly wish powder, she had been a pet.

A silly little wren at his side. She hadn’t even known what a wren was to the holly king, then.

But she had gone from plaything to queen within the year. A giant step up.

She would have happily played the pet tonight if it kept the most powerful beings in the city from sizing her up. Her entire life she had been a creature of stealth. Trying to fit into her new role was like stuffing her feet into shoes a size too small.

But she was on the outside of the game no longer. She was a player.

A waiter in a black tuxedo offered them champagne flutes from a tray. Graves took one and handed it to Kierse, who took a sip, tasting a floral hint to the dry refreshment.

The room was awash with in-bloom cherry blossom trees.

The pink petals brightened the rooftop, heedless of the fact it was too late in the season for such flowers.

She could almost scent the magic that had been used to create such a spectacle.

The roof itself was made of retractable glass, halfway open to the midnight air for the guests, but covered over the theater performance.

Tables and chairs were scattered amongst the costumed attendees, who were watching the folly and each other with unequal intensity.

“This place is stunning,” she said, taking a sip of her drink.

“It’s an exact replica of its Ziegfeld days,” Graves said. “Impressive.”

Kierse had only seen grainy photographs of what it had once looked like, but if Graves was awed, the similarity was beyond what she could discern.

The show itself was well into A Midsummer Night’s Dream .

Hermia lay on the forest floor in nothing but a silken night gown with her lover, Lysander, pressed against her breast. The girl was captivating to watch, dragging eyes back to the stage as she lay there disparaging the man for touching her, while her eyes longed for him.

“She’s incredible,” Kierse murmured.

“Lyra Anderson,” Graves supplied. “I’m…acquainted with her parents.”

“Of course you are.”

“Her father, incidentally, does not want her on the stage,” Graves added.

“What?” Kierse said with wide eyes. “Why not? Look at her.”

“Are you speaking of her talent or her beauty?”

Kierse lifted her chin, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “Both.”

“Her talent is unparalleled,” he agreed. “Her beauty doesn’t hold a candle to the sight before me.”

“Are you turning into Shakespeare?” she asked with a flush to her cheeks.

“Certainly not. I know my strengths. I shall leave Will with his.”

“First-name basis? Of course you knew him,” she said with a soft laugh.

“I was there when the Globe burned down,” he said with a shake of his head. “One of the times. And I confess,” he said as his eyes lifted back to the stage, “she is a very compelling Hermia.”

“Well, now I might be jealous,” she teased.

His arm wrapped around her waist as he leaned in to whisper, “‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is wing’d Cupid painted blind.’”

Kierse had read that exact line earlier today while getting ready. It struck a chord within her when Helena said it to show that her love was not just rooted in attraction, but also connection and understanding. That Graves was quoting it now made her shiver.

“I thought this wasn’t your strength,” she said softly.

“I’ll show you my strength later tonight,” he promised into her ear.

The middle of a mission was not the time to fall at his feet. So she went for levity. “Is this how you tell me that you do not wish to bring Lyra to bed—yours or mine?”

His hands moved to her hips and tugged her back against his chest. “I have no interest in sharing you.” His eyes lifted as he said, “With anyone.”

Kierse’s breath caught at the challenge in his voice. Then she turned to see where his gaze had moved, and she understood the meaning behind it.

Lorcan Flynn stepped into the room, looking every inch the Druid King in a sweeping forest-green cloak and brown leather clothing, a sword at his side.

A gold torc adorned his neck, and a solid amulet hung low against his breast. His dark hair was pushed back, and a small golden crown sat on his brow.

Those cerulean eyes immediately found Kierse in the dim light.

She swallowed at the look of possession on his face and watched it morph instantly at the sight of Graves at her side. One second, he could have stripped her bare and the next she wondered if he might draw that sword and run Graves through a second time.

“Don’t,” she said as Graves took a step away. Kierse put a hand to her chest and pushed back that same uncomfortable feeling beating at her breast. “We’re not here for that.”

“As you wish,” he said under his breath, more threat than agreement.

Kierse tracked Lorcan as she and Graves circled the room, always keeping a sizable distance. The last thing she wanted was a repeat of the winter solstice. They were a few weeks too early for the summer solstice, and they might just kill each other instead.

As they mingled with other monsters, the play continued.

Faerie mischief interfering with the lives of mere mortals.

Robin Goodfellow, the oft’ mentioned Puck, doing Oberon’s bidding and only messing up the human relationships.

Helena sobbed a bit too dramatically at Demetrius’s confession of love, when only a few scenes earlier he had scorned her.

A messy affair. Not unlike her own life.

Graves was acquainted with most of the humans and monsters in attendance. As many jockeyed for his favor as clearly despised him, but theirs was a mutual distaste that wouldn’t breech the rules of propriety tonight. They were all here for a reason, and no one was leaving until after the auction.

“Well, this isn’t a face I expected to see in polite company,” Gregory Amberdash said as he approached them.

The wraith was swathed in all-black draping robes.

His skin was sallow, and the thumbprints under his eyes were darker than ever.

Kierse had almost trusted him for a time, until he’d betrayed her to Lorcan and sent her careening into this mess.

Now she wondered how she hadn’t seen that he would one day double cross her.

“Amberdash,” Graves said, holding his hand out.

They shook once before his eyes returned to Kierse. “I was speaking of you, of course, Miss McKenna.” Kierse took his offered hand and met his gaze with a steely look of her own. “Aren’t you better off in darkened corners? Or are you here to rob us all blind?”

Kierse grinned. “If I was, I wouldn’t tell you, now would I?”

Amberdash leaned forward, the waves of death rolling off of him.

Wraiths fed off of human souls. They could drain the life out of a person piecemeal over years if they wanted to.

Some humans even signed up for it, which Kierse had never understood.

With his attention on her, she liked the thought even less than normal.

At that moment, she saw a glint of gold in the folds of his robes. She wouldn’t have paid the small thing much mind if she hadn’t been trained to put a value on everything.

“You’re treading in dangerous waters,” he said softly.

“Is that a warning or a threat?” she asked, moving in closer.

Graves stiffened at the comment. “I would choose your next words carefully.”

Amberdash smiled, and it was all translucent white teeth and terror. “You know I am fond of you. I wouldn’t want to see you get…swept away.”

Kierse narrowed her eyes. That was definitely a threat. “I can take care of myself.”

“Of course, my dear,” he said, straightening. He turned to Graves then, all nonchalance. “Are you making an appearance at Monster Con this year? I heard the speakers are hush hush.”

Graves settled back into himself as the mundane chatter of the night returned. Monster Con had been mentioned a few times in passing, but Kierse hadn’t paid it much attention until it came out of Amberdash’s mouth.

“I don’t bother with those things,” Graves said. “If you’ll excuse us.”

He put his hand on her back and urged her away from Amberdash. Kierse cast a furtive glance back at Amberdash, who was still staring at them as they disappeared. But his look was no longer diabolical—it was almost worried.

“What is Monster Con?” Kierse asked.

“An exclusive meetup for powerful monsters. The rich and entitled go there to gloat. It’s supposed to be for both sides of the aisle to come together without fear of retribution.”

“Both sides?” Kierse asked. “You mean monsters for and against the Treaty?”

“Among other things. No in-fighting allowed. It’s supposed to be a sort of renaissance—or that’s how it’s pitched, at least.”

“We have another problem,” Kierse said.

“Many,” Graves agreed.

Kierse raised the gold pin she’d lifted off of Amberdash. Graves saw what it was and laughed.

“Did you steal from him?”

“I wanted to see what he was hiding.”

“Is that a…Men of Valor pin?”

“Yes,” Kierse said softly, looking down grimly at the golden wings shot through with crossed arrows.

When she had killed King Louis in Third Floor, she had hoped it would be the end of the Men of Valor—a group of anti-human monsters who wanted to see the Treaty burn and monsters on top once more. But if Amberdash was wearing it, that only meant trouble.

“For another day,” Graves said. “Stick to the plan.”

She nodded grimly. “You’re right.”

The production of Midsummer was coming to a close with the final reveal of Theseus and Hippolyta’s wedding.

A union of power to contrast with the dream quality of the faerie realm.

Only Hermia looked as if faerie still thrummed in her veins even as she fell into society’s order and married Lysander.

But perhaps that was just Lyra Anderson’s star quality on stage.

The crowd cheered at the end, particularly loudly for Lyra’s rendition of Hermia. A promise that the actors would mingle with the audience while the stage was set up for the auction.

Kierse met Graves’s eyes. He nodded once. “Showtime.”