Panic filled her, showing as her hand flashed to set her cup down and grip my wrist, shocking me. "No," she exclaimed softly, eyes wide and breath fast. "Rachel, you can't. You can't go into the ever-after. Promise me right now that you won't. Ever."

Her fingers were hurting me, and I tried to pull away. "I'm not stupid, Ceri."

"Promise me!" she said loudly. "Right now! You will not go into the ever-after. Not for me. Not for Trent. Not for my child. Never!"

I wrenched my wrist away from her, taken aback at her extreme reaction. I had been in the ever-after before, and I wasn't about to go back. "I told him no. Ceri, I can't. Someone is summoning Al out of confinement, and I can't risk being off hallowed ground after sunset, much less go to the ever-after."

The pale woman caught her emotions, clearly embarrassed. Her eyes flicked to my reddened wrist, and I hid it under the table. I felt guilty about the stand I was taking to stay out of the ever-after, even if it was a smart decision. I wanted to help Ceri, and I felt like a coward. "I'm sorry," I said, then reached for the teapot, wanting a cup of something to hide behind. "I feel like a pile of chicken crap."

"Don't," Ceri said shortly, and my eyes met hers. "This isn't your war."

"It used to be," I said, my thoughts going to the widely accepted theory that the witches had abandoned the ever-after to the demons three thousand years before the elves gave up. Before that, there was no witch history except what the elves remembered for us, and very little elf history either.

Ceri intercepted my reach for the teapot, pouring it out for me and carefully handing me the cup and saucer with the grace of a millennium of practice. I accepted it and took a sip. It wasn't coffee, but I could still feel the caffeine rush, and I eased into the wicker and crossed my legs. I had time, and Ceri, nervous and flustered, clearly was in no state for me to leave yet.

"Ceri," I said, putting a tone of pride in my voice. "You're something else. If I found out that I was pregnant unexpectedly, I'd be falling apart. I can't believe Trent did this to you."

Ceri hesitated over her cup, then took a delicate sip. "He didn't."

I shook my head. "You can't take the blame for this. I know you're a grown woman and you make your own decisions, but Trent is devious and manipulative. He could charm a troll out of her bridge if he tried."

A faint rose color tinged her cheeks. "I mean, it's not Trenton's child."

I stared at her. If it isn't Trent's…

"It's Quen's," she said, her eyes on the swaths of fabric fluttering overhead.

"B-But…" I stammered. Oh, my God. Quen? Suddenly his awkward silences and stiff looks meant something completely different. "Trent never said anything! Neither did Quen. They just stood there and let me believe—"

"It's not their place to say anything," Ceri said primly, then set her teacup down with a sharp clink.

The breeze shifted the wispy strands of her hair that had slipped her braid as I realigned my thinking. That's why Quen had gone behind Trent's back to ask for my help. That's why he'd seemed guilty. "But I thought you liked Trent," I finally managed.

Ceri made a face. On me it would have looked ugly; on her, it looked comely. "I do," she said sourly. "He is kind with me, and gentle. He is clever with words and quick to follow my thoughts, and we enjoy each other's company. His bloodline is impeccable…" She hesitated, her eyes going to her fingers, now sitting still in her lap. A deep breath lifted through her and was gone. "And he won't touch me without fear."

My brow furrowed in anger.

"It's the demon smut," she said distantly, shame in her gaze darting about. "He thinks it's the bloody kiss of death. That I'm filthy and foul, and that it's catching."

I could not believe this. Trent was a murdering drug lord, and he thought Ceri was dirty?

"Well," she said sourly, as if she'd heard my thoughts, "technically he's right. I could slough it off on him, but I wouldn't." Her eyes came up to find mine, dark with unshed misery. "You believe me, don't you?"

I thought back to Trent's reaction to black magic, and my jaw clenched. "Yeah. Yes," I amended. "He won't touch you, huh?"

Ceri's expression went pleading. "Don't be angry with him. Bartholomew's balls, Rachel," she cajoled. "The man has a right to be scared. I'm mean, I'm nasty, overbearing, temper driven, and I'm covered in demon smut. The first time we met, I knocked Quen out with a black charm and then I threatened him."

"The man was trying to drug me with an illegal charm!" I said. "What were you supposed to do? Ask him to play nice?"

"Quen understands," she said, her eyes watching her still fingers. "I don't have to explain myself or my past to him." Her head came up. "I don't even know how it happened."

"Uh," I murmured, sensing a story coming that I really didn't want to hear.

"I agreed to meet with Trent. I wanted to apologize for threatening him," she said. "I wanted to hear how his genetic treatments are keeping our species alive when magic could not. The afternoon went surprisingly well, and his gardens are so lovely—silent, but lovely—so we had tea the following week, and I told him of my life with Al." A tear spilled over and ran a quick path to her jawline. "I wanted him to know so he'd understand that the demon smut wasn't a sign of one's morals but simply a mark of imbalance upon one's soul. I thought he was beginning to understand," she said softly. "We even laughed at a shared jest, but when I touched him, he jerked back, and though he apologized and turned red, I saw the entire afternoon was a sham. He was entertaining me because he felt he needed to, not because he wanted to."

I could see it clearly in my mind. Trent was slime.

"So I finished our tea, playing the part of a courtesan entertaining the son of a potential ally," she said, and I felt her hurt pride and the shame her words couldn't hide. "I thank God that I saw his true feelings before…my heart softened to him."

Ceri sniffed, and I handed her one of the cotton napkins she had arranged about the teapot. Though she said she didn't care for him, I saw that it had wounded her deeply. Probably too far for Trent to ever make amends to the self-admittedly overly prideful woman.

"Thank you," she said, dabbing at her eyes. "Quen drove me home that afternoon as usual. He had witnessed the entire miserable affair, and when I fled his car to find solace in my garden, he followed me, taking me into his arms and telling me I was beautiful and pure. Everything I wanted to be. Everything I know I'm not."

I wanted her to stop, but she had to tell someone. And I knew how she felt, wanting to be loved, accepted—only to be reviled for things she couldn't control. A hot tear spilled over and ran a quick path to my chin when Ceri's eyes rose to mine, red and swimming.

"I spend time with Trent now simply so that Quen may escort me there and back," she said softly. "I think Trent knows it, but I don't care. Quen is confident and secure in his mind. When I'm with him, I feel beautiful and unsullied. I didn't have the ability to say yes or no to a man's attentions for a thousand years," she said, her voice gaining in strength. "I was a thing to Al, something to teach to showcase his talents, and when Quen stirred my passions after a particularly trying engagement with Trent, I realized I wanted more than his gentle words."

My throat was tight when her gaze found mine. Kisten. I knew what she meant, and he was gone. Utterly gone.

"I wanted to give myself to a man who would give himself in return," she said, pleading for understanding when I had already given it. "Not just sharing the ecstasy our bodies could bring each other, but sharing our thoughts as well. Quen is a good man," she said as if I would deny it. "He will instill my child with a proper frame of beliefs. I'd rather have as my husband a man of mixed birth who accepts me than a pure-blood who, deep in his soul, thinks I'm tainted."