Usna never seemed to mind. His mother was still a member of the shining court, and though he was not, they still met and talked, and had picnics in the forest. His mother drew the line at meeting him inside the hollow hill that made up the border of the Unseelie Court, and no Unseelie noble was welcome in the Seelie Court. But they had the forest and the fields, and seemed content.

He glided to the edge of the growing circle around me and said, "May I touch the ring?"

I said the only thing that came to mind: "Yes."

CHAPTER 22

Usna's fingers slid over mine in a delicate, almost dainty movement until he came to the ring, and there he hesitated. He met my gaze with grey eyes that were neither dark, nor light, but terribly medium. The eyes should have looked ordinary, but the force of his personality burned out of them, so that it wasn't the color or shape of his eyes that made you stare, but just him. If he'd had beautiful eyes to match all that, it would have been totally unfair. He was charming enough without it.

"Cut the foreplay short, Usna," Onilwyn said, "the rest of us are waiting."

Usna moved those eyes to the other man, and the heat that had a moment ago been sensual was suddenly almost rage. The change had been instantaneous, as if sex and rage were but a blink away from each other inside Usna's head. The thought should have given me pause, but instead it tightened things low in my body, brought a small sound from my lips.

Usna's eyes flicked back to me, drawn by that small sound. The heat in his eyes slid into something between anger and sex—hunger. I didn't know if he was still thinking of killing and eating Onilwyn or of having me. It wasn't Usna's fault, but sometimes he thought more like an animal than anything human. It was there in his eyes now.

And that was the moment he chose to slide his fingertips across the ring.

It pulsed to life in a breath-stealing, skin-dancing wash that drew a cry of delight from Usna and nearly buckled my knees. I swayed, and he caught me automatically, which took his bare skin away from the ring. We held each other in a loose embrace, trying to learn how to breathe again. He laughed, and it was a joyous low chuckle, as if he was very pleased with himself, and me.

"The reaction wasn't that strong when the ring first went on her hand," Barinthus said. "It was just a flash of warmth."

"It's gotten stronger," Doyle said.

"My turn," Abloec said, and his voice was still clear even though he swayed ever so slightly.

Usna turned me in his arms, as if we were dancing, but that one graceful movement put me on the other side of him away from Abloec. Usna looked to Barinthus, and only after he had gotten a small nod from him did he turn me back toward Abloec.

He reached out a hand that was as steady as his voice, but Rhys interrupted, "You need to let her go first, Usna. You wouldn't want your fertility to reflect on Abloec, would you?"

Usna nodded, and spun me, as if he heard music I did not, passing me to Abloec, as if it were indeed a dance. Abloec fumbled, trying to catch me, and failing. He was too drunk for dancing. Too drunk for so many things.

I stepped far enough away that my hand barely reached him. I wanted my distance for several reasons: one, he smelled like he'd gargled with whiskey; two, he was drunk enough that I wasn't sure what his body would do when he touched the ring. If he fell, I didn't want him dragging me down with him.

He grabbed my hand, awkwardly as if he was seeing double, and wasn't sure which hand was mine. But it didn't matter that he couldn't see straight; once he touched the ring, it flared to life. It was like a wave of heat that rushed over my skin, and flung Abloec to his knees. Only the fact that I'd braced for it kept me on my feet.

I pulled my hand free of his, easily, because the magic had finished what the drinking had begun. He stayed on his knees in the fantastically striped mink coat because he couldn't have stood.

"Was the queen angry when he showed up drunk today?" Doyle asked.

"Yes," Barinthus said.

"He will be worse than useless in a fight."

"Yes," Barinthus said, again.

They stared down at the kneeling guard, and both their faces showed what they wanted to do with him. If the queen had not chosen him, he'd have been sent back to the court in disgrace, and never seen the press conference. But sadly, that wasn't an option.

Onilwyn stepped around the kneeling guard the way you'd step around garbage in the street. He held out his hand, wordlessly, and I didn't try to argue. The queen had sent him, and that was that. Besides, letting the ring touch him didn't put him in my bed. I was still hoping to talk the queen out of Abloec and Onilwyn. I'd have to keep at least one of the three of her choice, and strangely the best of the bunch was Amatheon. That he was the best of the three made me wonder what the queen was basing her decisions on. If I could think of a way to ask her that wouldn't be insulting, I'd ask.

I gave Onilwyn my hand, and the moment his fingers touched the ring, it flashed through me like a knife, a cut of pleasure so sharp, it hurt. Onilwyn actually jerked back from me and said, "That hurt. That actually hurt."

I rubbed a hand across my stomach, fighting an urge to touch lower, because it felt almost like a wound, and it wasn't my stomach that was hurt. "I've never had the ring hurt like that, not at first touch. Not ever."

Onilwyn's eyes were wide enough to flash the whites, like a frightened horse. "Why did it do that?"

"It seems to be acting differently with each man." Barinthus turned to Doyle. "Is that also something new?"

Doyle nodded.

Onilwyn backed away from me, cradling his hand. I wondered if it was only his hand that hurt, or if he, too, was fighting an urge to hold lower things.

"Carrow," Barinthus said, and motioned the other man forward.

Carrow didn't hesitate, coming to me with the same smile he'd been giving me since I could remember. He, like Galen, never had a hidden agenda, but unlike Galen, the only thing that showed on his face was a polite good humor. It was his version of Frost's arrogance, or Doyle's blankness.

"May I?" he asked.

"Yes." I held my hand out to him, and he took it.

His hand slid over the ring, and there was nothing. Nothing but the warm brush of his skin against mine. His hand was warm in mine, but that was all. The ring lay cold between us.

For just a second a disappointment showed through that smile, so bitter that it filled his eyes with a brown so dark it was as if night had fallen in his eyes. Then he recovered himself, closed long lashes over his eyes, and bowed, giving my hand a kiss. He made light of it all as he stepped back, but I had some idea what that casual act must have cost him.

All eyes turned to Amatheon, for he was the only one left. The look on his face was painful to see. The conflict inside him was painted across those handsome features. One thing was clear: He did not want to touch the ring. I don't think he wanted to know. He was male, and he had needs, and this was his only way out of the trap the queen had all of her guard mired in. But Onilwyn had said it best: For Amatheon to have his needs met with me, who represented almost everything he thought was wrong with the sidhe, was almost worse than forced abstinence.

"This is not the choice that either of us would make, Amatheon, but we must make the best of it." I walked toward him, and panic carved his face into harsh lines. He looked as if he wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere that the queen wouldn't find him. She was the Queen of Air and Darkness, and unless there was a land where night never fell, she would find him. Eventually, she found everyone.