“Oh, there are Benedikt and Fran. Come. I must introduce you both to them. Benedikt will be delighted to see you again, Gretl.”

I followed as Imogen bustled off with Gretl in tow over to where a tall man with shoulder-length black hair stood with a woman who was almost as tall as he was. The woman, who faced me, looked to be in her early twenties.

“Well, now, that’s interesting,” I murmured, eyeing the woman named Fran. No matter how good Imogen looked, she had to be nearing fifty for Gretl to have known her for thirty years. Which meant her brother was probably in his forties or fifties, too, or he was a whole lot younger than Imogen. “Even if there is a big age difference,” I said as I strolled toward them, “he would be close to my age.”

And yet his wife was probably twenty-two or twenty-three. I glanced at Gretl as the couple stepped forward to greet her. A puzzled frown pulled her brows together for an instant before she smiled, quickly returning to her usual charming self. When the man turned to greet me, I saw why Gretl had frowned. I stared at him for a moment, unable to believe what I was seeing. He was in his mid- to late twenties, at least ten years younger than me, which meant Imogen was old enough to be his mother. Not an unknown situation, but not a common one, either. I realized that everyone was staring at me as I gawked so obviously at Imogen’s handsome, much, much younger brother, and I pulled my wits together.

“Sorry,” I murmured, shaking first his hand, then Fran’s. She gave me an amused glance before leaning into her husband, her arm around his waist in a possessive move that I’d have had to be blind to miss.

I chuckled to myself, wanting to assure her that I might be single and not averse to finding a man, but I wasn’t about to stoop to husband stealing and cradle robbing. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” I murmured.

“Iolanthe wishes to take my picture tomorrow,” Imogen told her brother. “She is a photographer. She wishes to take me somewhere otherworldly.”

The emphasis Imogen put on the word seemed to have some meaning for them, because they both raised their eyebrows for a few seconds. Ben slid a gaze to Gretl before returning it to me, saying in a low voice that couldn’t have been heard by anyone but his wife, “Are you with the Court of Divine Blood? I don’t recognize what you are, but I’m not very familiar with members of the Court.”

“I’m a woman,” I answered, ironically echoing Imogen’s words as I moved a few steps away from him. Clearly there was some sort of mental instability in Imogen’s family.

“Yes, of course you are,” Fran said with a comforting smile that I didn’t for one minute buy. Ben turned to answer a question Gretl asked him, leaving Fran chatting with me in a low voice. “What Ben meant was what are you? You’re not a therion or a Guardian or a Summoner. I’ve seen those, and you don’t look like them.”

“I used to be an accountant,” I told her, feeling that diplomacy was going to be my best bet if I wanted to get pictures of Imogen. It wouldn’t do to offend any of Imogen’s family by calling them crackpots. “But Barry, my boss, kept hitting on me, and when I tried to turn him in, he got me fired. Illegal and reprehensible, but true.”

“No, I meant—” Fran stopped talking when Gretl turned back to us.

“Io, you don’t mind that Imogen has asked me to sit with her for an hour or so while she reads the rune stones, do you?”

“Not at all. I’ll just wander around the fair and see the sights.”

“We’ll take care of your cousin,” Fran told Gretl as we moved off. I couldn’t help but notice that Fran wore a pair of long black lace gloves that disappeared into her shirt cuffs. “We’ll show you around and introduce you to all the people who work here. You might find someone you’d like to photograph in addition to Imogen, you know. There are lots of interesting folks. My mother is— Ratsbane! What’s he doing here?”

Fran had been steering me down the center aisle when she suddenly froze and glared to the side, where a blond man with a short goatee was strolling toward us. The man also froze when he caught sight of us, an expression of joy on his face as he waved an arm in the air and bellowed, “Goddess Fran! We have returned!”

“I thought you said they’d gone back to Valhalla?” Ben asked in a tight, low voice.

“They had. Dammit, they promised me they wouldn’t come back until I asked for their help again…. Excuse me a minute, Io. I have to deal with an old…friend….”

She hurried off to the blond man, who was joined by a second man, who also enveloped Fran in a bear hug.

“Oh, Christ, not both of them,” Ben said, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

“You don’t have to escort me around the fair, you know. I’m quite capable of trotting around by myself.”

“I’d much rather show you around than deal with those two lunatics,” he said, nodding toward the nearest booth. “What would you like to see first? I can’t vouch for the tattooing, but the demonologist is a friend of mine and can be quite interesting if he’s holding a private group session.”

“I’m fine just people watching, if truth be told,” I said politely, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. The words “demonologist” and “private session” just seemed like an incredibly bad juxtaposition. “People are so fascinating if you have the time to really study them.”

“True words. I won’t ask you any more about yourself, since I’m sure Imogen will pump you for all the information you’re willing to divulge,” he said, laughter rich in his voice as we moved on at a slow amble. “My sister appreciates people watching, as well. Some might call her nosy, but in reality she just likes mortals.”

Keep in the open, I told myself. Stay around other people. Do not, under any circumstances, go off anywhere alone with this bizarre man. “I really am not all that interesting, I assure you. I do feel bad about my horrible foot-in-mouth disease with Imogen, though.”

He paused in front of a booth dedicated to personal time travel, shooting me a curious look. “Pardon?”

I made a little face. “I said I wanted to take photos of Imogen at the place your father met his end.”

“My father?” Ben blinked. “My father is in South America.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” A blush warmed my face as I realized that once again I’d verbally embarrassed myself. “I thought you and Imogen had the same father.”

“We do. He’s in Brazil, I believe. Or Argentina. Somewhere with lots of nearly naked young women and a high level of debauchery.”

I stared at him in incomprehension. “He’s not dead?”

“No.” He leaned in close and said in a low voice, “My father is a Dark One. He can’t die unless someone goes to quite a bit of trouble, and I can assure you that no one has done that in several centuries.”

“Several centuries,” I repeated, just as if that weren’t the least bit startling, although, of course, my brain was screaming at me to run far, far away from the crazy man.

And then the thought hit me—what if Imogen and her brother were having me on? What if they were teasing me, the ignorant little American tourist? What if they were waiting to see me freak out, whereupon they’d all have a good giggle at my expense?

The bastards. I wouldn’t give them the pleasure!

“Well…three hundred? That seems about right. I think it was in 1708 that he flipped out. So three hundred and a bit.”

I may not have had a lot of pride left that wasn’t in tatters after the smear campaign by Barry of the Many Hands, but what I did have I gathered around me. “Oh, that kind of Dark One. I thought you meant the…um…non-three-hundred-year type.”

He looked at me as if potatoes had started a cabaret act on my head. “The what?”

“You know, the kind that aren’t around for three hundred years.”

I think the potatoes may have begun a trapeze act, because the look he gave me was one of utter incredulity. That killed my idea of his pulling my leg—people who were teasing you seldom bore that sort of expression when you sussed out what it was they were doing.

“You did say three hundred years, didn’t you?” I asked, suddenly worried that I misheard him. Maybe he had every right to look at me as if I was the odd one.

“Yes.” He continued to eye me. “My father is actually older than three hundred years. He’s…let me see. I’m three hundred and nineteen, which means he must be around three hundred and sixty. Or seventy. Somewhere around that age.”

What do you say to a man who claims he’s over three hundred years old? I don’t know what you would say, but I decided that the best thing to do was to agree with him and try to get rid of him.

“Just so. Those are my favorite kind of Black Ones.”

“Dark Ones.”

“Sorry.” I cleared my throat and tried to sidle away. “I think I’ll just—”

Ben evidently wasn’t having any of it. He followed after me, giving me a curious look. “There are only two types of Dark Ones, Io—redeemed and unredeemed. My father is the latter, naturally.”

“Naturally.” I wondered whether if I dashed into the big main tent, he would come after me, or whether I could lose him in the crowd that was starting to gather.

“Although he did love my mother. In his own fashion. It was only afterward that he lost the ability to feel any such emotions.”

“Well, you know how it is with Dark Dudes—that happens.”

He stopped me by taking hold of my arm, swinging me around to face him, his eyes narrowed on my face. “You do know what a Dark One is, don’t you?”

“Of course,” I lied, giving him what I hoped was a serene smile. “They’re…um… They live a long time, and they…uh…hang out at fairs, and…er…do other stuff like…urm…”