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fact—but had been transformed into a portal, a gateway between realms, by a mad Faerie king. A king Fennrys had helped . . . and then helped kill. “I thought we left a hole where that island used to be.”
    “We did,” Maddox said drily. “It grew back. And it’s proving to be a nexus of dangerous magick.”
    Fennrys raised an eyebrow at him.
    “Aw, hell. Don’t ask me for specifics.” Maddox put up a hand. “That’s all I know. Me and a few of the others, we’ve stayed Hereside. But Faerie is shutting itself off from the mortal realm for the time being. Just in case.”
    “In case of what?”
    “In case the mortal realm . . . ends.”
    “Oh, come on .” Fennrys snorted. “How likely do you think that is?”
    “You tell me.”
    Fennrys didn’t really have anything to say to that. For all he knew, yeah—it was pretty likely. He didn’t really care. Even if the sky fell or the seas boiled, there was only one thing on his mind. And that was finding Mason and bringing her home.
    “Now that I have a weapon,” Fenn said, grimacing, “anybody got an extra shirt? I don’t want to catch my death. Again.”
    Rafe snorted and left his position by the curtained doorway. He walked over to a cabinet in the wall that held an assortment of what looked like promotional T-shirts for various brands of beer and jazz bands. He pulled out a black one with a Blue Moon beer logo on the back side and tossed it over to Fennrys. Fenn remembered how Mason had once posited a theory that he was a werewolf—and how her theory was based partly on the fact that he had expressed a fondness for that particular brand of beverage. That was in the days before they had met Rafe, who was really Anubis, and really a werewolf. It seemed like a lifetime ago. It had only been a few days.
    Fennrys nodded his thanks to the Egyptian deity and pulled the shirt on over his head. His shoulder pained him only slightly as he tugged the shirt down. Webber had done good work.
    Suddenly, there was a low, sonorous rumbling that came from somewhere deep beneath them. Deeper than the subway tunnels. Much deeper. The overhead light fixtures in the club began to sway, and an entire stack of plates began to clatter and shimmy, rattling toward the edge of the shelf, where they toppled off and smashed on the floor with an earsplitting crash. The floor of the restaurant felt as if it was alive—a bucking, writhing, broad-backed creature trying to shake them off. From out in the main room of the jazz club, the sounds of the band tangled madly, stuttering to a discordant halt, and some of the patrons began to scream and shout in alarm.
    The dim overhead lights winked out completely, and aside from the candles on the tables, the whole club was plunged into darkness. It lasted for only a moment, and then the rumbling stopped and the lights sputtered reluctantly back to life. In the glow from the wall sconces, Fennrys noticed that Webber wore a deeply worried expression on his long face. His too-large eyes stared, unblinking, at Fennrys.
    “You’re a pre-cog,” Fenn said. “I remember you telling me that long ago. You can see the future. What do you see?”
    Webber held up one long hand. “I catch . . . glimpses. Mostly by accident. At least, I used to, but everything is so in flux right now that even if I wanted to I sincerely doubt I’d be able to tell you much of anything about what’s going to happen.”
    “Really? Then why is it that every time you think I’m not looking, you’re staring at me like I’m a rabid dog that should’ve been put down?” Fennrys asked. “Rather than patched up and let back out of his cage.”
    “Hey . . . I have nothing personal against you,” Webber said. “In fact, I happen to think that what you did—with the Valkyrie and all, saving Herne’s life and sacrificing your own—that was commendable.”
    “But now you’re wishing I’d just stayed dead after the fact, right?”
    Webber sighed and his tangled