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“We move,” Manem shouted from the bathroom, the sound of the sink running as he tried to wash the defeat from his face. “We head that way shortly. I refuse to let a mortal confection delay the vanguard.”

I stepped between Caspian and Mal, holding up the bright pink bottles of medicine. “We are waiting for the medicine to kick in first. If you throw up in my mother’s Suburban, Manem, I am leaving you on the shoulder of the highway.”

Manem marched out of the bathroom, his shirt wrinkled, his dark face tight with unyielding pride. He took the bottle from my fingers, uncapped it, and chugged the thick, chalky pink liquid in two massive, aggressive gulps. He grabbed a plastic cup, pounded a glass of tap water, and wiped his mouth with a rough towel until his discipline looked somewhat restored.

“The illusion is broken,” Manem grunted, adjusting his collar with immense dignity. “Let us find this weapon.”

Within ten minutes, the five of us loaded back into the black Suburban, the heavy-duty leather seats groaning beneath the staggering mass of the four warriors.

I slid into the driver’s seat, twisting the key into the ignition as the engine growled with a deep rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. I shifted into drive, the heavy tires spraying gravel as I pulled out onto the foggy highway.

Beside me, Dax leaned back in his seat, admiring his cloud-shoes, while Mal leaned forward from the middle row, pointing toward the northern stretch where he had spotted the tavern.

Caspian sat in the center of the bench, his eyes locked onto the rear-view mirror, holding my gaze with a quiet, territorial fire that promised the conversation between us was far from over.

We were finally moving toward the den of smoke and numbers.

And as the miles melted away beneath the heavy wheels, the countdown to the Dagda-Fae drew closer with every single turn of the road.

FORTY-SEVEN

The neon sign buzzed against the damp Oregon mist with a harsh, flickering hum. Beneath the glowing tail, chipped black lettering spelled out the name of the establishment: The Nauti Mermaid.

I pulled the Suburban into the gravel parking lot behind the tavern, cutting the engine. The rain had cleared into a low, clinging fog that swirled around the tires, smelling of salt spray, wet asphalt, and the faint, acrid stench of woodsmoke drifting from the building’s stone chimney.

“Is this the sanctuary?” Manem asked, his deep baritone carrying a raspy thread of his morning sugar recovery. He leaned his broad frame over the front console, staring through the windshield with deep suspicion. “It looks like a sunken barn.”

“It’s a coastal dive bar,” I said, putting the Suburban in park and turning in my seat to face the four males. “In this realm, places like this are where people go to drink away their losses and mind their own business. It is the absolute best place to hide something valuable.”

I locked eyes with Mal and Manem in the back row.

“Here’s how this works,” I commanded, my voice dropping to a sharp, authoritative wire. “Mal, Manem—you two are sitting at the bar. Act normal, and order a drink. Do not stare at the patrons, do not evaluate anyone’s neck for a blade strike, and do not cause a scene.”

Mal raised a dark, elegant eyebrow, resting his chin in his hand. “And what, precisely, do we order in a mortal tavern, Princess? I assume they do not keep mountain mead or imperial spiced ale on tap.”

“They don’t,” I said dryly. “Mortal alcohol is completely different. If you ask for vanguard ale, the bartender is going to look at you like you have two heads. They serve distilled spirits here. Stronger stuff.”

Dax leaned forward, thoroughly intrigued. “Distilled spirits? Like liquid magic?”

“Like liquid fire,” I corrected. “They have brown liquors—whiskeys and cognacs, like Jack Daniel’s or Hennessy. Those are dark, heavy, and bite hard. Then they have agave spirits, like tequila. You drink that with a pinch of salt and a slice of lime. Or if you want something sweet, they mix rum with crushed ice and fruit syrup to make a daiquiri or a margarita.”

Manem’s nose wrinkled in profound disgust. “Salt and lime? Fruit syrup? What happened to standard grain and fermented hops? Mortals complicate the simplest pleasures.”

“Just order what I tell you and keep your eyes open,” I said, unbuckling my seatbelt and grabbing my leather jacket. “Caspian, Dax, and I will take a booth near the back where we can survey the room.”

Stepping through the heavy, oak front door of The Nauti Mermaid was like stepping back in time.

The air inside was thick, warm, and heavy; smelling of stale beer, fried food, and old tobacco smoke. A low hum of country music drifted from a jukebox near the pool table, and the floorboards beneath our boots were covered in a worn, dark red carpet that clung slightly to our soles.

It was mid-morning, so the tavern was sparsely populated. A couple of old fishermen sat near the jukebox, their eyes glued to the glowing digital reels, while a tired-looking bartender in a grey apron was wiping down the long laminate bar with a damp rag.

The moment our five-person squad crossed the threshold, the low murmur in the room dipped for a fraction of a second.

Even clad in modern dark denim, leather jackets, and hoodies, the four Fae warriors looked impossibly grand, broad-shouldered, and lethal for a coastal Oregon dive bar. Caspian had to duck his head beneath the low ceiling beams, his eyes scanning every rafter with predatory instinct, while Mal and Manem moved with the silent, fluid grace of assassins.

“Bar,” I whispered low to Mal, nudging him toward the high wooden stools. “Go.”

Mal gave a smooth, barely perceptible nod, adjusting his dark crewneck sweater as he and Manem strode toward the bar with practiced, arrogant indifference.