Before I can retort, he launches us into the air. I let out a yelp of surprise, and he rubs small circles into my back, probably in an attempt to reassure me. I want to swap that hand away, but short of letting go of his neck, I can’t.

Instead, I fix my eyes on the sky above me, determined to recite constellations in an effort to ignore the man who both angers me and confuses me.

And naturally, I see a whopping three stars in the sky—and one of them might be a plane. So I settle on simply ignoring Des, which proves to be nearly impossible. I’m breathing in the smell of him, his hair is tickling the backs of my hands, and all I can see besides the dark night is the menacing arc of his wings.

Something like ten minutes in, I give up and rest my head in the nook between his neck and shoulder.

The Bargainer tightens his hold on me, and I feel the rough brush of his cheek as he nuzzles me. I’m starting to notice a pattern; he gets affectionate when I’m in his arms.

I’m not sure how long we stay like that, but eventually I feel us begin to descend. I peek at the world beneath us and watch as Catalina Island gets larger and the Bargainer’s house comes into view.

Fifteen minutes later, we enter his living room. Today, sheets and sheets of handwritten notes and sketches cover his coffee table. I lean in to get a good look at them. I’ve worked enough jobs as a PI to recognize a case file when I see one.

I pick up one of the sketches, immediately recognizing Des’s handiwork. He used to draw portraits and landscapes back in my dorm room at Peel Academy. Though none quite like this.

In the sketch, rows and rows of women lie in what appear to be caskets, their eyes shut, their arms folded over their chests.

Holy shit.

“These are … the women?”

I feel the air stir; a moment later Des is at my back, looking over my shoulder, and I’m so very aware of him.

“They are. Each is returned in a glass coffin.”

Last night Des told me these women weren’t dead, but they look dead.

He leans around me and pulls out another image, this one of a single coffin sitting in what looks like a great hall.

Des’s palace. It’s such a strange thought.

My attention turns to the sleeping woman, wearing her battle leathers. In one hand she holds a weapon, and in the other—

My eyes must be deceiving me. “Is that … ?”

“Yes. It’s a child.”

I stare at the drawing.

Child is not the correct word for the tiny life cradled to the chest of the sleeping fae warrior.

Infant. Baby.

Held in the arms of a woman who might as well be dead.

Being private investigator, I’ve seen and heard my fair share of twisted shit.

Fairies always manage to top it.

“Is the baby dead?” I ask.

“Oh no.” The way Des says that has me turning to look towards him.

“So it’s alive?” I probe.

“Very much so. The humans you will be interviewing? They are wet nurses to some of these children.”

My eyebrows knit together. What could a bunch of wet nurses know?

I slide a glance to his notes, written in his looping scrawl.

… Male warriors still missing …

… goes by the name ‘Thief of Souls’ …

Des takes the sketches out of my hands. “In order to assist me, you first need to learn about the Otherworld—even before you learn the ins and outs of this particular mystery. Ignorance, you see, will get you killed in my world.”

I stifle a shudder. Already the Otherworld sounds worse than I feared.

I sit down on his couch. “I’m all ears, Des.”

He takes a heavy seat next to me. From the pile of notes spread out before us, he produces a pen and a blank sheet of paper. “Here are the basics: The world of the fae is one huge hierarchy.” He draws a pyramid. “The power players are at the top, none as powerful as the queen and king of fae—Titania and her king consort, Oberon, or the Mother and the Father, as we call them. They’re some of the oldest ancients still living. You don’t need to worry too much about them. Both have gone far Under the Hill, and they have taken the undying sleep.”

“Um, in English,” I say.

“They’re in a coma-like state. Not sentient, but not dead.”

“A bit like the female warriors,” I say.

Des gives me a sharp look. “Yes,” he says slowly, “a bit like them, I suppose.”

His hand slides farther down the pyramid, and he draws another line. “Beneath them are the four biggest kingdoms. Your history books may refer to them by their traditional name, courts.

“These four kingdoms are: Night, Day, Flora, and Fauna.”

I recognize Des’s house immediately, and once again I’m struck by how powerful this man is.

“There are two additional houses that usually go unrecognized, but are equally powerful—the Kingdom of Mar, which reigns over all bodies of water. And the Kingdom of Death and Deep Earth. These two houses keep themselves apart—Death doesn’t like to dabble in the land of the living, and the Kingdom of Mar likes to stay in its watery depths for the most part.

“As for the four houses, I rule the Kingdom of Night. My people know me alternately as His Majesty Desmond Flynn, Emperor of the Evening Stars, Lord of Secrets, Master of Shadows, and King of Chaos.”

I raise an eyebrow. “No one calls you Bargainer?”

I don’t mention this strange ache I feel to learn about Des’s other life. The more he tells me, the more I realize how little I actually know of him.