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more it uses you. I know whereof I speak, believe me. Even the simplest of spells can wound your soul, but blood magick is the absolute worst for it.”
    Sonny didn’t need a lecture on the dangers of blood magick. Faerie magick, sourced in thought and emotion, was perilous enough—especially when the heart overruled the head. But blood magick had its roots in a deeper place. It came from the very core of a person’s soul. It was easily corruptible and, as such, was almost never used to create—only destroy.
    “It’ll hook its claws into you, Sonny. Be cautious. Be wise.”
    Sage counsel, Sonny thought. Especially from Gofannon, who in centuries past had made a bargain with Auberon that had been neither cautious nor wise. Sonny had never learned the details, but he knew that the end result had been the smith’s eternal servitude to the Faerie king. The fact that he kept an abundance of iron strewn about his forge was Gofannon’s single rebellion—the hated metal was poisonous to Faeriekind—and yet Auberon had found a way to make even that serve his ends.
    “I remember when I made that,” Gofannon said, reaching out to tap the iron medallion that hung from a braided leather cord around Sonny’s throat. “I’ve put more magick into those Janus charms than I ever thought I had in me.”
    “Blood magick?” Sonny asked, gently sardonic.
    “Some,” the smith acknowledged. “Not mine, though. Still, magick is magick, and it takes its price. Those iron trinkets took more than most.”
    Sonny fingered the intricate design on the face of the medallion, thinking how he could not remember the feel of not wearing it. Even though the changelings that made up the Janus Guard had been drawn from all Four Courts to serve the Winter King, Auberon had made sure to mark them as his own from the time he had enlisted them. No other Fae would dare even attempt to remove their medallions—and the fact that they were made of iron just served to emphasize that pointed fact.
    “Speaking of iron. . .” Sonny stood, suddenly uncomfortable with the subject of what was, essentially, his slavery. He fetched an arrow quiver that he’d left by the door of the forge with his satchel. “I’ll need another two dozen or so bolts for my crossbow.” He tossed the near-empty holder onto the table.
    “That’s a lot of ammunition when there’s only three of the hunter Fae left out there.”
    “These last few Hunters are getting more dangerous and more desperate.” Sonny pushed a hand through the tangled wave of his long, dark hair. “And I didn’t really appreciate having my arse kicked all over the Borderlands in this last fight. If I can incapacitate them from a distance first, so much the better.”
    The burly smith laughed, taking two mugs and a brown earthen jug from a shelf by the door. Sitting back down at the table, Gofannon twisted the cork out of the jug and pushed one of the mugs toward Sonny’s freshly bandaged hand. “Speaking of arses. . .” he said, “if I may offer a carefully cultivated observation, Janus? You look like the hind end of hell.”
    “You’re being generous,” Sonny said wryly. “Thank you.”
    “When was the last time you slept, Sonny?” Gofannon asked, peering at him. “I mean really slept—the whole night through.”
    “I don’t remember. A few days ago. Maybe three?”
    “And what is it keeps you awake night after night? It can’t be just this hunting, surely.”
    “You said it yourself—this kind of magick gets its hooks into you.”
    “So does another kind of spell casting I know of. And it is even more dangerous.” The smith shook his head. “I know the look. You, young sir, are in love.”
    Sonny did smile then. A pure and genuine smile. “I am,” he said softly.
    “Ah. Well then. Love is the Great Discombobulator. Especially among us mortals. I should have sooner guessed.” Gofannon poured out two generous measures of golden liquid. “In that case, I will simply say