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"Police, freeze," a male voice barked in English. "Put down the weapons."

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Wolf felt the
sekasha
downstairs activate their shields, blooms of magic against his awareness. Bladebite was saying something low and fast in High Elvish.

"
Naekanain
," someone cried in badly accented Elvish—
I do not understand
—while the first speaker repeated in English, "Put down the weapons!"

Wolf cursed. Apparently the police officers didn't speak Elvish, and his
sekasha
didn't speak English.

Wolf called the winds and wrapped them about him before going to the top of the stairs.

There were two dark-blue-uniformed policemen crouched in the front door, keeping pistols leveled at the
sekasha
who had their
ejae
drawn. The officers looked human but, with oni, appearances could be deceiving. Both were tall enough to be oni warriors. The disguised warriors favored red hair while one policeman was pale blond and the other dark brown. The blond motioned with his left hand, as if trying to keep both his partner and the elves from acting.

"
Naekanain
," the blond repeated, and then added. "
Pavuyau Ruve
. Czernowski, just chill. They're the viceroy's personal guard."

"I know who the fuck they are, Bowman."

"If you know that," Wolf said, "then you know that they have the right to go where I want them to go, and do what I want them to do."

Bowman flicked a look up at him and then returned his focus on the
sekasha
. "Viceroy, have them put down their weapons."

"They will only when you do," Wolf said. "If you have not forgotten, we are at war."

"But not with us," Bowman growled.

Czernowski scoffed, and it saddened Wolf that he was closer to the mark.

"The oni have been living in Pittsburgh as disguised humans for years," Wolf said. "Until we're sure you're not oni, we must treat you as if you were. Lower your weapons."

Bowman hesitated, eyeing the
sekasha
as if he was considering how likely it was that he and his partner could overwhelm Wolf's guard. Wolf wasn't sure if Bowman's hesitation was born from overestimating his own abilities, or total ignorance of the
sekasha's
.

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Finally, Bowman made a show of cautiously holstering his pistol. "Come on, Czernowski. Put it away."

The other policeman seemed familiar, although Wolf wasn't sure how; he rarely interacted with the Pittsburgh police. Wolf studied the two men. Unlike elves, where one could normally guess a person's clan, humans needed badges and patches to tell themselves apart. The officers' dark blue uniforms had shoulder patches and gold badges identifying them as Pittsburgh police. Bowman's brass nameplate read
B. Pedersen
. Czernowski's nameplate was unhelpful, giving only a first initial of
N
.

"I know you," Wolf said to Czernowski.

"I would hope so," the officer said. "You took the woman who was going to be my wife away from me.

You ripped her right out of her species. You might think you've won, but I'm getting her back."

Wolf recognized him then—this was Tinker's Nathan, who bristled at him when Wolf collected his
domi
from the Faire. The uniform had thrown Wolf; he hadn't realized the man was a police officer. At the Faire, Czernowski had acted like a dog guarding a bone. Even though Tinker had stated over and over again that she was leaving with Wolf, Czernowski had clung to her, refusing to let her leave.

"Tinker is not a thing to be stolen away," Wolf told the man. "I did not
take
her. She chose me, not you.

She is my
domi
now."

"I've seen the videotape." Nathan indicated the open box of DVDs. "I know what she is, but I don't care. I still love her, and I'm going to get her back."

"Who gives a fuck?" the thrice-damned photographer shouted behind Wolf. "It doesn't give these pointed-ear royalist freaks the right to break down my door and trash my stuff. I'm a tax-paying American! They can't—"

There was a loud thud as he was slammed up against his broken wall to silence him.

"Sir, can you step aside?" Bowman started cautiously upstairs before Wolf answered.

Wolf stepped back to make way for the two policemen.

The policemen took in the open window, the recording of Tinker in the garden, the smashed-down door, the broken wallpaper now stained with blood, and the broken-nosed paparazzi in Dark Harvest's hold.

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"It's about time," the photographer cried. "Get these goons off me!"

"Please step away from him," Bowman told Dark, his hand dropping down to rest on his pistol. He repeated the order in bad Elvish. "
Naeba Kiyau
."

"He's to be detained." Wolf wanted it clear what was to be done with the photographer before relinquishing control of him. "And these buildings evacuated so I can demolish them."

"You can't do that." Bowman pulled out a pair of handcuffs. "According to the treaty—"

"The treaty is now null and void. I am now the law in Pittsburgh, and I say that this man is to be detained indefinitely and these buildings will be demolished."

"The fuck you are." Czernowski spat the words. "In Pittsburgh we're the law and you're guilty of breaking and entering, assault and battery, and I'm sure I can think of a few more."

Czernowski reached for Wolf's arm and instantly had three swords at his throat.

"No," Wolf shouted to keep the policeman from being killed.

Into the silence that suddenly filled the house, Tinker's recorded voice groaned, "Oh gods, yes, right there, oh, that's so good."

Bowman caught Czernowski as the policeman started to surge forward with a growl. "Czernowski!"

Bowman slammed him against the wall. "Just deal with it! He's rich and powerful and she's fucking him.

What part of this does not make sense to you? He drives a Rolls Royce and all the elves in Pittsburgh grovel at his feet. You think any bitch would pick a stupid Pole like you when she could have him?"

"He could have had anyone. She was mine."

"The fuck she was," Bowman growled. "If you'd scored once with her, all the bookies in Pittsburgh would know. You were always a long shot in the betting pool, Nathan. You were too stupid for her—and too dumb to realize that."

Czernowski glared at his partner, face darkening, but he stopped struggling to stand panting with his anger.

Bowman watched his partner for a minute before asking, "Are we good now?"

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Czernowski nodded and flinched as Tinker's recorded voice gave a soft wordless moan of delight.

Bowman crossed to a section of the broken wall and pressed something and the sound stopped.

"Viceroy, none of us like this any more than you do, but under international law, as of five years ago, this scumbag is within his rights to make this video."

"He's under elfin law now, and what he has done is unforgivable."

"Your people don't have technology capable of this." Bowman waved a hand at the wallpaper. "So you don't have laws to govern capturing digital images."

Wolf scoffed at the typical human sidestepping. "Why do humans nitpick justice to pieces? Can't you see that you've frayed it apart until it doesn't hold anything? There is right and then there is wrong. This is wrong."

"This isn't my place to decide, Viceroy. I'm just a cop. I only know human law, and as far as I last heard, human law still applies."

"The treaty says that any human left on Elfhome during Shutdown falls under elfin rule. The gate in orbit has failed; it is currently and always will be, Shutdown."

Bowman wiped the expression off his face. "Until my superiors confirm this, I have to continue to function with standard protocol and I can't arrest this man."

"Then I'll have him executed."

"I
can
put him in protective custody," Bowman said.

"As long as protective custody means a small cell without a window, I'll agree to that," Wolf said.

"We'll see what we can do." Bowman moved to handcuff the photographer.

Wolf felt a deep yet oddly distanced vibration, as if a bowstring had been drawn and released to thrum against his awareness. He recognized it—someone nearby was tapping the power of the Wind Clan Spell Stone. Wolf thought that he and Tinker were the only Wind Clan
domana
in Pittsburgh—and he hadn't taught Tinker even the most basic spells . . .

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As the vibration continued, an endless drawing of power from the stones, cold certainty filled him. It could only be Tinker.

Tinker and her
sekasha
had neared the far side of the Ghostlands, crossing once again into Pittsburgh but on the opposite side of the valley. The road climbed the steep hill in a series of sharp curves. As they crossed the cracked pavement, Stormsong laughed and pointed out a yellow warning street sign. It depicted a truck about to tip over as it made the sharp turn—a common sight in Pittsburgh—but someone had added words to the pictograph.

"What does it say?" Pony asked.

"Watch for Acrobatic Trucks," Stormsong translated the English words to Elvish.

The others laughed and moved on, scanning the mixed woods.

"You speak English?" Tinker fell into step with Stormsong.

"Fuckin' A!" Stormsong said with the correct scornful tone that such a stupid question would be posed.

Tinker tripped and nearly fell in surprise. Stormsong caught Tinker by the arm and warned her to be careful with a look. Most of Tinker's time with Windwolf's
sekasha
had been spent practicing her High Elvish, a stunningly polite language. Stormsong had just dropped a mask woven out of words.

"For the last twenty-some years, I pulled every shift I could to stay in Pittsburgh—" Stormsong continued. "—even if it meant bowing to that stuck-up bitch, Sparrow."

"Why?" Tinker was still reeling. Many elves first learned English in England when Shakespeare still lived and kept the lilting accent even if they modernized their sentence structure and word choice. Stormsong spoke true
Pitsupavute
, sounding like a native.

"I like humans." Stormsong stepped over a fallen tree in one long stride and paused to offer a hand to Tinker; the automatic politeness now seemed jarringly out of place. "They don't give a fuck what everyone else thinks. If they want something that's right for them, they don't worry about what the rest of the fucking world thinks."

The warrior's bitterness surprised Tinker. "What do you want?"

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"I had doubts about being a
sekasha
." She shrugged like a human, lifting one shoulder, instead of clicking her tongue like an elf would. "Not anymore. Windwolf gave me a year to get my head screwed on right. I like being
sekasha
. I do have—as the humans say—issues."

That explained the short blue hair and the slight rebel air about her.

Stormsong suddenly spun to the left, pushing Tinker behind her even as she shouted the guttural command to activate her magical shields. Magic surged through the blue tattoos on her arms and flared into a shimmering blue that encompassed her body. Stormsong drew her ironwood sword and crouched into readiness.

Instantly other
sekasha
activated their shields and drew their swords as they pulled in tight around Tinker. They scanned the area but there was nothing to see.

They were in the no-man's-land of the Rim, where tall young ironwoods mixed with Earth woods and jagger bushes in a thick, nearly impassable tangle. They stood on a deer trail, a path only one person wide, meandering through the dense underbrush. For a moment no one moved or spoke. Tinker realized that the birds had gone silent; even they didn't want to draw the attention of whatever had spooked Stormsong.

Pony made a gesture with his left hand in blade talk.

"Something is going to attack," Stormsong whispered in Elvish, once again becoming the
sekasha
.

"Something large. I'm not sure how soon."

"
Yatanyai
?" Pony whispered a word that Tinker didn't recognize.

Stormsong nodded.

"What does she see?" Tinker whispered.

"What will be." Pony indicated that they should start back the way they had come. "We're in a position of weakness. We should retreat to—"

Something huge and sinuous as a snake flashed out of the shadows. Tinker got the impression of scales, a wedge-shaped head, and a mouth full of teeth before Pony leaped between her and the monster. The creature struck Pony with a blow that smashed him aside, his shields flashing as they absorbed the brunt of the damage. It whipped toward Tinker, but Stormsong was already in the way.

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"Oh, no, you don't!" The female
sekasha
blocked a savage bite at Tinker. "Get back,
domi
—you're attracting it!"

A blur of motion, the beast knocked Stormsong down, biting at her leg, her shield gleaming brilliant blue between its teeth. The Blades swung their swords, shouting to distract the creature. Releasing Stormsong, the creature leapt to perch high up the trunk of an oak. As it paused there, Tinker saw it fully for the first time.

It was long and lean, twelve feet from nose to tip of whipping tail. Despite a shaggy mane, its hide looked like blood red snake scales. Long-necked and short-legged, it was weirdly proportioned; its head seemed almost too large for its body, with a heavy jawed mouth filled with countless jagged teeth.