“I’ll be charging six grand a week.”

Bonnie opened her eyes with a groan.

A man who resembled the chubby fry-cook that Björn had abducted—except taller, handsomer, less fat, more muscular, covered in Celtic knotwork tattoos, and much more confident—was lounging in a chair beside the couch where she lay.

“Huh?” Bonnie asked, realizing he was waiting for something.

“For shrinking you,” the man said. “Keeping you and your friends clear of mental illness,” he waved a hand dismissively. “Saving you. Stuff like that. No offense, but you immortal types have some serious issues, Bonnie.” He hesitated. “You are Bonnie, right? Björn talked a lot about you. I don’t know if you know it or not, but he’s got some major PTSD going on from what the Valkyries did to him in Ásgarðr.”

Bonnie squinted at the man. He was wearing classic Business Casual, in a sweater and expensive slacks that still smelled new.

“I used your debit card while you were sleeping,” the man said, gesturing at his attire. “Didn’t like the stuff I respawned in, so I figured it was a down payment.”

Respawned…? Bonnie cocked her head at the man. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry, my bad, I forget you guys don’t play video games.” He actually looked a little sheepish.

“Video…?”

“I mean, that is what’s going on, right?” He leaned forward, his hands together with professionally non-threatening body language. “The gods are throwing their champions at Pestilence and seeing what sticks?”

Bonnie held her head, wincing from where it felt like she was being crushed with a blacksmith’s hammer with every pound of her heart. The last thing she remembered was the barghest setting his boat on fire. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I know you. Are you related to Jessie?”

A slow smile spread over the man’s tattooed face. “You could say that…” He dropped a little wad of ethereal, glowing green twine that he’d been playing with between his hands onto the desk beside him. Bonnie peered at it. “Where’d you get faewire?”

“Just so we’re clear,” the man said, turning back to face her, “I’ll help you, but I have a wife and kids to support. I want six grand. A week. Just to be on call. More, if…” he hesitated, and reached for a pad on his desk, “Hold on, I made a list.”

Looking it over, he flipped the papers back, then said, “Ah! Okay. I want one paid vacation a year. Two weeks in June, though I reserve the right to change that around if I wanna take a break in the middle of winter or something.” He held out a hand and started counting fingers. “As to bonuses, I want an extra grand on any day combined sessions go over four hours,” he ticked off fingers as he spoke, “any time I need to answer a call after-hours, any time I need to drive more than fifty miles in one day, or on any day I get attacked by a supernatural entity, or have to save one of you. Consider it hazard pay.” He glanced around the little room, which was, to all appearances, a well-furnished psychologist’s office.

“But mostly, I think I’ll just hang out here and let you guys come to me. Deal?” He glanced at his notes again with a little frown. “Oh, and I gotta put this in here because I saw what he did to your last house: All damage to my property will be immediately reimbursed with a direct deposit withdrawal from your bank account. I’ll draw up the EFT authorization and my contract. Should be ready for you to sign by the end of the day. You’ll be footing the bill, but I’ll be helping anyone I want—no offense, but you’re rich, immortal, and you burned three million dollars like it was nothing, so I figured you could stand to pony up a few grand each month.” He grinned, his green eyes twinkling. “That, and I figured Björn probably didn’t have a working bank account, considering it didn’t seem to me that barghests have a fully functioning grasp of what a debit card was.”

Bonnie just stared at him, dumbfounded. He knew Björn? She thought, her brain stumbling over that. “Who the fuck are you again?”

“Oh, I totally forgot,” the man said quickly, returning to the pad. “You’re gonna stop buying Björn booze. It’s super bad for his mental state, and he’s on a slippery slope as it is. So many guys like him end up drowning themselves in alcohol when the realize they can’t deal, and I can totally see him killing someone if he overdoes it. So no more vodka for the barghest, capiche?”

Bonnie’s eyes returned to the faewire on the desk. Suddenly, her final moments before she had lost consciousness came rushing back. She remembered being trapped, having nowhere to run as the feylords used her as a pincushion… “Did you…?”

“Untie you, pull the arrows out, and chase off the hounds before they could rip off your head?” His lips twitched in a smile. “Yes.”

“But I thought only Tl'oghk'etnaeyen could do that,” Bonnie said.

“Well, in a way, he did.” He held out a tattooed arm that reminded her of a Viking ship. In his blood-web, Bonnie saw six different strands intertwined—a soft blue-white as the main core that was accentuated by red, purple, silver, black, and green…

…the green of a feylord.

He continued to hold out his hand to her, waiting, and she thought she saw a bit of Tl'oghk'etnaeyen in his vivid green eyes. “Do we have a deal, Bonnie? I shrink you and your friends, help you deal with whatever, and you keep me in khakis, a nice car, and white chocolate mocha frappuccinos?” With his other hand, he picked up the empty paper cup on his desk, still in its insulating cardboard coaster, and wiggled it, smiling amicably.

Bonnie tore her eyes from the cup and back to the hand he proffered her. She stared at the blood-web in his arm for long moments, feeling chills, then slowly drew her eyes back up to his face. “Who are you?” she asked, numbly taking his hand.

The man grinned. “I’m your new psychologist.”