One swooped to her, wings fluttering as it hovered inches from her face. She saw its ruby-red wings tipped with gold like its—his, she knew, his—eyes.

Not a bird, not at all, but a dragon no bigger than the palm of her hand.

“Hello. You’re Lonrach, because that’s what you are. Brilliant.” She held out a hand, thrilled when he settled on her palm. “And you’re mine.”

She walked with him, drawn to the falls, the dance of the little dragons.

She realized she could see through the white water, as if it became moving and translucent glass.

And through it, she saw what seemed to be a city, gray and black, towers and spears of buildings rising into a sky more purple than blue. Like a healing bruise.

The greatest tower, a black glass spear, grew from an island of rock. A bridge, narrow, swaying, spanned over the crashing sea to connect it to the city on the cliffs.

She thought she heard weeping, war cries, and inhuman screams, the clash of steel to steel, the thunder of hooves.

Though it made her heart pound, she moved closer, saw swirls of light, explosions of it.

Was she supposed to go through, leave this wonderful place for one of weeping and war?

Why would she? Why would anyone?

Still, she found herself drawn closer as the dragon calls turned thunderous and the fall of water rocked the ground.

The dragon winged away to join the others. She tried to call him back but how could he hear over the din?

Then in the stream, in a pool of pale green, she saw the gleam of red and gold. For an instant she feared the dragon had fallen in, drowned, but he circled above her head, those gold eyes watchful.

A stone, she realized, big as a baby’s fist, with dozens of smaller ones glinting on the gold links of the chain. And the clasp, clear through the water, a dragon in flight.

Someone had lost it; someone had dropped it. Anyone could see it was important. She’d climb down, wade through, and retrieve it.

As she inched her way down the bank, the air began to pulse, to beat like a heart. It seemed the central stone pulsed as well.

The moss-covered trees whipped in a rising wind. Lightning flashed, so strong, so fierce, the world went white for an instant. And the following clap of thunder stole her breath.

A storm, she thought. No one sensible walked in the woods during a storm, or reached into water when lightning cracked.

She’d come back later. She’d go home now, where it was warm and dry and safe, and leave it to someone else to find the pendant.

But if she just reached down, reached out, she might be able to snag the gold chain and . . .

She tumbled. Instead of into a shallow pool, she fell what seemed like fathoms deep, deep into the pale green water.

She tried to kick to the surface, but her hand met a wall, solid as steel.

She swam right, met another. Left, yet another, and realized she was trapped in some kind of box under the water. She saw the sky overhead, the fury of the storm that broke with blackening skies, flashes of lightning.

She beat against the walls until her own blood threaded through the water.

I can’t breathe, she thought. Let me out. Let me out.

You are the key. Turn it. Awaken.

As her vision began to dim, she saw a lock. It glittered silver with jewels crusting it.

Too far away, she thought as she flailed.

Her heart banged; her body shook.

Marco yanked her up as her phone alarm beeped.

“Jesus, Breen, Jesus. I thought you were having a seizure.”

“I . . . I was drowning. I was in the stream, but it was too deep, and . . . Oh my God, that was awful.”

She pushed at her hair as he wrapped around her. “I was in someplace wonderful. It’s all blurry now, but I was in a beautiful place, then I was in the water. Something I needed in the water, then I was drowning.”

“You’re shaking, girl.” Shaking himself, he pressed his lips to her forehead. “Breathe it out now.”

“I’m okay.” She blew out a breath as he kept an arm around her. “The queen of all anxiety dreams, I guess.”

“Worst one ever. You were shaking and choking and your eyes were wide open. You scared the ever-fucking crap out of me.”

“Me, too.” His shoulder, always there for her, made the perfect rest for her head. “Sorry, really. My own fault. I let myself get wound up about the airport, the flight, about every damn thing. I’m going to stop, because wherever the wonderful place was, that’s where we’re going.”

“I’ll sure as hell be glad when we get there. Don’t do that to me again.” He held her shoulders, took a long look at her face. “You’re still what my granny used to call peaked. You’re the poster girl for peaked. You want me to call Sally, tell him you can’t make it?”

“Absolutely not. It was just a bad—a really bad—stress dream. Work and Sally’s will take my mind off the ten thousand things I can dream up that could go wrong.”

“Then go fix your face.”

“What’s wrong with it? Besides peaked.”

“Put some smolder on those long gray eyes, girl. Didn’t I show you how? I’m going to go put on something sexy that says your bartender deserves big-ass tips. You get the bathroom first.” He walked out, called back to her as he went into his own room to change.

“How was the last day of the old life?”

“It was okay. More than okay. I’m ready for the new one.”

Later, when they walked together to the club, Breen slipped an arm around Marco’s waist.

He wore a snug red tee that showed off his slim build and gym-fit arms, and matched his belt, his high-tops.

The color made her think of the dream, but she shoved it aside.

She had reason to know she wasn’t the only one with some anxiety.

“Do you not want to talk about going over to say goodbye to your mom and dad?”

“What’s to say?” He shrugged. “We were all polite. My dad told me to have a good trip, then went down to his workshop. My mom gave me a Coke, told me how there were lots of churches in Ireland and she hoped I’d spend some time in some of them. She still believes I can pray away the gay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey, we were polite, so that’s something. Since I knew that wouldn’t happen with my brother, I didn’t go by to see him. I talked to my sister—she was swamped at work, but we had a good talk.”

“You can always count on Keisha.” She squeezed him as they walked. “We’re the family misfits, Marco, just like always. I’m feeling okay about that. You always have, but I’m getting there, and even kind of liking it. And tomorrow, when we get on the plane, nobody knows us. We can be whoever we want to be.”

“What’s your choice?”

“I work for MI6, so I can’t talk about it.”

“That’s a good one. I’m a young, billionaire philanthropist song-writing sensation who’s having a secret affair with a certain hot music and movie star.”

“Who would that be?”

“Can’t say, because secret. But his name rhymes with Moodacris.”

“As an agent for MI6, I can decipher your clever code. He is hot.”

They turned toward the club, and Marco paused at the sign in the glitter frame posted next to the door. “Did Sally say anything about a private party?”

“No. Huh. Well, tips are always excellent with the privates.”

They went inside. A club full of people let out a cheer.

Breen thought it looked like St. Patrick’s Day—one of the many holidays Sally revered—had exploded.

Shamrocks, rainbows, winged faeries, leprechauns—not a single Irish cliché missed.

She heard Marco say, “Holy shit,” and let out what was definitely a giggle.

Derrick Lacross, Sally’s smoking-hot longtime love, headed toward them with a glass of champagne in each hand. He wore a green leather vest over his very impressive pecs and a tiny, adorably ridiculous little leprechaun hat cocked over his surfer-streaky blond mane.

“You didn’t think we’d let you leave without a send-off, did you?”

He handed them both champagne, grabbed another from a tray, then turned to the club full of people.

When he raised his glass and everyone shouted, “Sláinte!” Breen let out a giggle of her own.

“This is amazing,” Breen managed. “This is just amazing.”

“We haven’t even started. Drink up, my children.”

Irish music blasted out of the speakers as Sally, his short, spiky hair dyed green for the occasion, glided over. Glided suited, as he wore a long, sparkling white dress and fluttering green wings.

“As if I’d ask you to work the night before you leave.” He rolled his eyes before he gave them both cheek kisses. “You”—he handed Marco a high-crowned black hat with a shiny green band—“go eat, drink, and be merry. And you”—he took Breen’s hand—“come with me.”

“Sally.” Marco moved in for a hard hug. “You’re the best. Man, you and Derrick are the best.”

“No question of that. Your sister had a meeting, but she’ll be here in about an hour.”

“Really? That’s—that’s just great.”

“Now you run along with Derrick. Breen’s not quite ready for party time.”

Keeping a grip on Breen’s hand, Sally wove through the crowd. “She’ll be back, ladies and gentlemen. Enjoy, enjoy.” He waved his free hand as if parting the sea. And some clever soul put a flute of champagne in it.

“Sally, this is the best surprise ever, and so sweet of you. So sweet.”

“Oh, you know me, any excuse for a party.” He led her backstage, into the communal dressing room. “But you and Marco are special to me, to Derrick.

“Now.” He walked to one of the costume racks. “We’re going to get your party on.”

He pulled out a dress—short, as green as his hair. The deep vee in the back dipped to the waist.