After the demon had left the sithen with the location of the Sword of Light, Maab retired to her rooms, accompanied by Bran and Fionbharr. The Queen's rooms echoed the d?cor of the Great Hall, right down to the skeletal furniture on a raised dais, only in this case, the piece in question was the Queen's bed. She perched on the edge of it and peeled off her five-inch stiletto thigh-high boots, revealing small, neat white feet, the toenails painted in black. Maab pursed her lips in thought, looking over her guards thoughtfully.

?Bran, my raven darling. Tell me what you think of the deal I made with the demon bitch,? Maab purred.

The dark sidhe exchanged glances with his second and swallowed audibly. Maab was not known for her tolerance when it came to disagreements with her actions. Bran, however, had had millennium to learn the fine art of telling his Queen what she wanted to hear without making it obvious he was lying to her. ?My Lady was wise to extract such a bargain in exchange for calling the Hunt. Since we are unable to enter the Seelie's territory without a declaration of war, sending the demons after the Sword of Light makes sense.?

Maab nodded and then turned to Fionbharr. ?And you, my lovely white dove, do you agree with your Captain?? Fionbharr nodded his head, wisely remaining mute on the subject. Though he was as old as Bran, Fionbharr had been in the employ of the Queen for less time and hadn't quite learned diplomacy, as the scars on his back would attest to.

The Queen smiled wickedly then and slid off the bed, stalking across the room, exuding sex and malice as she moved closer to the faerie men. ?Good. I'm glad you both agree that calling up the Hunt was a good idea. Do you want to know why?? Maab stopped mere inches from Bran, who looked down his aquiline nose, his breath rapid, heart beating triple-time in his chest. The guards nodded as one, almost against their will. Maab reached out and stroked her hands down their arms and said in a silken, seductive voice, ?You both will be joining the Wild Hunt as Eamon goes after this Lycanthrope whore. I need my best with Eamon, to control him, to keep him in line. He's so willful sometimes.? The Queen turned and went back to sit on the edge of her bed. ?You're dismissed. I'll let you know when I need you again.?

The guards left the room, waves of panic making them feel dizzy. They'd heard tales from others who had been swept up in the wake of the Wild Hunt, how they'd forgotten themselves and how nothing but the Hunt had mattered to them. They'd gone for days, weeks sometimes, without food or water, without rest or sleep. The Hunt had been the only thing of consequence in their lives. Some who had joined the Hunt never came back from it and were trapped in the strange magical no man's land that held Eamon when he was not being used.

Stories of the Huntsman himself were often whispered over drinks in the darkened back rooms of public houses, stories that said Eamon was not a living being, but a force of nature, as willful as a tornado, as heartless as a blizzard, as determined as a hurricane. The last time Maab had called up the Hunt had been during the mid-nineteenth century and she had finally reined Eamon in, after the deaths of one million Irish people in the wake of the so-called Great Famine. Maab was weaker now than she had been then; the rampant use of iron in the human world coupled with the disbelief of magic had destroyed most of her power, along with most of Faerie as well. The sidhe were slowly becoming extinct and the havoc and destruction Eamon would create if he once more was allowed to run amok would be staggering.

None of this, however, occurred to Maab as she prepared for the spell used to call Eamon out of his prison of nothingness. She drew out a circle in blood-red sand on the floor of her bedchamber, a figure that measured six feet in diameter. She lit four black candles and put them in the cardinal directions around the circumference of the circle and knelt just beyond the southern candle. In front of her was a censer that burned a mixture of faerie woods. She drew the obsidian blade from its sheath on her thigh and sliced open her hand again, holding her clenched fist above the censer. As her blood dripped slowly onto the embers, she chanted softly, the ancient Gaelic words filling the room with harsh, sibilant sounds.

The air inside the circle began to grow thick with haze as the power mounted. Maab's delicate features showed the strain of calling up such power and controlling it ? her skin was dotted with sweat and her breathing was ragged and shallow. As her voice grew in volume, the haze within the circle began to solidify and a figure could be seen at the center. Maab stood, still chanting, still bleeding into the censer at her feet. The figure coalesced into the shape of a man. Finally, Maab stopped chanting and smiled triumphantly, panting with exertion. She laid the blade at her feet and snuffed out the burning embers in the censer.

The man inside the circle stepped to the very edge, still inside the line of sand, and glared out at the Queen. He was tall, about six feet even, and had an arrogant, smug look on his handsome face. He appeared to be in his early 40s, though this was merely appearance; in reality, he was timeless and immortal. He had shoulder-length, shaggy, washed-out blond hair and grey-blue eyes. He sported a few days' growth on the strong line of his jaw and was dressed in faded blue jeans, a tight black tshirt and black work boots. Maab stepped closer to him, her eyes roaming hungrily over his body. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was ragged and worn with effort. ?Eamon. I like this form you've chosen. Very nice.?

The Huntsman raised an insouciant brow and cocked his head to the side. ?Why did you bring me here, Maab? What do you want from me??

Maab reached out a bare foot and broke the line of the circle and then stepped back. Eamon looked warily between Maab and the broken circle before he stepped over the line and out of the circle. He moved like a cat stalking prey and Maab laughed. She whispered a Word and Eamon froze, the veins in his neck standing out in stark relief as he struggled against the Queen's control. ?Will you be a good boy, Eamon? Will you behave yourself??

?Yes, my Queen,? was the strained reply.

Maab nodded and whispered another Word, releasing the spell. Eamon staggered to his knees and looked up at Maab. She moved closer to him and reached out, running her fingers through his hair. He winced and tried to draw back, but Maab twisted a lock of his hair in her fist and held his head in place. ?I have a job for you. It should be easy for you to complete. You are to track down one of Heaven's agents and kill her. Think you can do that, my Pet?? She released her hold on his hair and stepped back.

Eamon stood slowly, hatred burning brightly in his eyes. ?Yes, my Queen. I will do as you wish. Who is she??

?Her name is Riley Brighid O'Rourke. She is a shapeshifter. She may very well have Seelie blood, but don't let that interfere in the Hunt. She must die.? Eamon nodded and Maab clapped her hands to summon her guards. ?Very good, my Pet. You may call your Hunters to you and begin tonight. Start in the Westering Lands, in a place called Tucson, Arizona. That is where the woman lives. Find her and maybe I'll allow you to share my bed again.?

Fionbharr and Bran entered the room and pulled up short as they spied the Huntsman. Eamon turned slowly and looked them over carefully before turning back to Maab. He hissed through clenched teeth, ?You send spies to accompany me, my Queen??

?Not spies, my Pet. They are the Captain of my guard and his second. I need them with you so I can communicate with you while you are at the Hunt.?

Eamon merely nodded, clearly not buying the Queen's tale. He whispered a Word and the room was suddenly filled with three other men, their faces eerily blank, as if they were unfinished statues waiting for the final passes with hammer and chisel. They were dressed similarly to Eamon ? jeans and t shirts. As Eamon concentrated on them, their features became defined. They were all handsome and obviously of Northern European stock. Maab sighed softly and decided then that regardless of the outcome of the Hunt, she'd keep Eamon and his Hunters around to play with for awhile. ?You may go. Good Hunting, Eamon,? she crooned.

The Huntsman inclined his head in a shallow bow and left the room, followed by his Hunters and the Queen's guards. As they left the sithen, mounted on motorcycles rather than horses, and carrying guns and knives instead of swords and bows and arrows, the sky was split with lightning. The Wild Hunt once more moved amongst humanity and the very earth under their wheels trembled in fear.

After nearly eight decades on Earth, Orla O'Fallon had learned to control the Second Sight that she had been blessed with. She Saw what she wanted to, when she wanted to. But her dreams were still haunted by Visions; she hadn't quite figured out how to control her dreams yet. Usually her dreams were harmless things, pleasant memories of her beloved Sean or her childhood in Dublin. Occasionally, though, her dreams were haunted by things yet to come, deaths or troubles for those she loved dearest.

She'd learned ? mostly through trial and error ? that if she dreamt of a thing three times in as many nights, it was something that might happen; if she dreamt of a thing nine times in as many nights, it was something that would happen. Orla had had the same dream nine nights in a row and what she saw in those dreams frightened her to her very core.

Orla was sitting in her tidy mountain cabin, huddled under a hand-made afghan, cuddling a steaming hot cup of raspberry tea. Artemis, her enormous, shaggy canine familiar was lying at her feet, soulful brown eyes looking up at her. She reached down and absently scratched the dog's head, the feeling of the animal's wiry hair soothing her jangled nerves. She set the cup of tea down next to her and picked up her journal, a slim leather-bound volume that was just one in a very long line of similar books. She took up the Mount Blanc fountain pen that Riley had given her for her 75th birthday and began writing.

?In the dream, I am standing in the Old Country. There is a Lake with No Name stretching out to the horizon at my feet. To my left is a road that leads to off to the Dagda's tomb at Newgrange. To my right is a Cave where the Fountain Tree grows. Buried in the roots of the Tree is the Sword of Light, hidden for three millennium, safe from Maab and her sluagh.

?I hear a sound in the distance, thunder I think. I look to my left, to the road that leads to Newgrange and I see a black cloud, roiling and swarming towards me. It crackles with blue lightning and I think I can make out human shapes in the depths of it. I turn on my heel and run towards the Cave and barely make it inside before the cloud descends upon me.

?Part of the cloud breaks free from the mass and hits the earth at the entrance to the Cave. The bit of cloud becomes a woman, a very pretty woman with long black hair and eyes that are as black as coal. I know she is a demoness, sent from the very Pits of Hell for King Silverhand's sword. She enters the Cave and approaches me. I am the only thing standing between the Horde's wicked plans and their fruition.

?Then suddenly, there is another group of men behind the demoness. They are tall and handsome and my heart leaps to see the one standing at the front of the group. I think I love him. He smiles at me and beckons me come to him. I leave my spot, where I stood protecting the Sword. I don't care. I long for his touch, his kiss. I am willing to give everything up for him. He smiles and takes my hand, pulling me close to him. ?Look,? he whispers in my ear and points towards the Fountain Tree.

?The demoness has picked up the Sword. It has blackened, tarnished at her touch. She laughs and two more demons drag someone forward. He looks familiar to me and I look more closely at him. It is Rhys Bristol, that nice lad Riley O'Rourke brought to me. He's bound in chains and looks a mess. The demons throw him at the demoness's feet and she raises the blackened Sword of Light high above her head, the tip of the blade poised above the lad's heart.

?I tense and the man holding me whispers, ?Don't ya worry, Beauty. Ya soon will join him.? Then the demoness plunges the blade into the lad's heart and he screams out, ?Riley!? before he dies, his heart pierced through with the blackened Sword, his life's blood spilling out across the roots of the Fountain Tree.

?I suddenly realise that I am not me. I am Riley and then I feel a sharp pain in my neck, then nothing. I wake up, cold and shivering. Nine nights now. I need to phone Riley and warn her.?

Orla closed the book and put the pen down on top of it. She picked up the cup of tea, her hands shaking so hard that tea sloshes over the edge of the cup and onto the saucer. ?Oh, Riley me girl. What hae ye gotten yerself into now, lass?? Artemis whined and Orla looked down at her. ?I know it, dog. But it's too late to phone her now. It's gone two of the clock in the morning. She'll be sleeping now. I'll phone her first thing in the mornin'. Ye remind me, aye?? The dog made a chuffing noise that clearly indicated agreement and put her head down again on her massive paws. Orla sipped her tea, contemplating the dream again, mulling it over and trying to sort out its meaning for Riley and for her lad.