We stepped out of a shimmering gateway, a fold in space and time, and into a lavish antechamber that I hadn’t seen in years. This room still haunted my nightmares once every blue moon or so, though.

It was a circular space with white marble floors, inlaid with an enormous Celtic cross mosaic, crafted from shining gold lead and slabs of speckled greenstone. Fluted pillars surrounded the room and sprouting from those pillars was vibrant green ivy, the strands twining their way from bottom to top. A fireplace of carved granite, depicting some ancient battle scene from some long-forgotten mythology, held roaring green flames. My gaze skipped over all those minor details before finally settling on the pair of grand set of double doors, closed against our presence.

There was no other way into or out from the room—this was the receiving chamber of the High Tuatha De Danann. A room that existed on the cusp between their realm and our own. We were alone for the moment, but I knew it wouldn’t stay that way for too long.

“Everything feels wrong here,” Levi grunted, squatting down and running pudgy pale fingers over the marble. “Not like Outworld,” he said, shaking his head. “Feels…” he paused, cocking his head. “Less real. Like walking through a dream.”

“You’re closer than you know,” Sullivan said while absently checking his sword cane, revealing a glint of blade before sliding the weapon home. “Tír na nÓg is technically part of Outworld, but it’s classified as an ethereal realm.”

“An ethereal realm?” Ferraro asked, walking over to a chocolate-brown divan, and lightly tracing her fingers over the velvety fabric. “How does that make it different from the rest of Outworld?”

“It means the place doesn’t have a fixed form,” I said, suppressing a pang of hurt as I watched her settle onto the couch.

Ailia and I had sat on that very divan just over twenty years before. Sullivan had been with us then, too. We’d been running down a lead on a missing Guild diplomat—a mousy guy named Scott Hoehner, who worked as an off-the-books S2 Intel Operative. Not so different from what we were doing right now, which only increased my unease. The last time I’d walked the halls of Tír na nÓg I’d lost everything, and here I was, back again, this time with Ferraro in tow.

Repeating history, making the same mistakes, stuck like a record on repeat.

I grimaced and pushed that morbid thought away. No. This wasn’t like history. This time around, I knew exactly what in the hell I was walking into and I was packing a whole helluva lot more heat.

Our little rebel group may have been severely lacking in the manpower department, but between Ferraro, Greg, Sullivan, and the Arch-Mage, we had the arsenal of a small army. I was sporting a thigh length leather coat, a matte-black flak jacket for protection, an enchanted K-Bar on one hip, a chromed out 1911 on the other, and my god killing pistol in a shoulder holster. I had standard rounds in the chamber, but I Levi had the two immortal killing rounds tucked away on his person just in case things went completely sideways.

Ferraro was similarly decked out, though she carried a Glock 19 at her hip and a Glock 29—known lovingly as a Baby Glock—in an ankle holster. She also had a combat shottie slung across her body. The rounds were filled with a specialty mix of silver birdshot, rock salt, and cold-iron buck pellets that would be hell on wheels against just about anything that tried to get in her way. Levi looked exactly the same as ever, though that great big sumbitch hardly needed armaments to make him any deadlier. Sullivan, likewise, opted for spelled black jacket and his silver sword cane, leaving the firearms to us. He could be surprisingly ol’ fashioned at times.

We were armed to the friggin’ gills and I fully intended to use every weapon in my arsenal if it meant preventing what happened to Ailia from happening to Ferraro.

“Basically,” James said, picking up where I’d left off, “this whole place can change based on intention and will. There are certain fixed points, like this room for example.” He swept a hand around. “But the pathway between those fixed points drift and slide, distorting in the manner of dreams—”

“You make it sound so simple,” a voice resonated through the room as the double doors swung open on silent hinges, “but it is far more complicated than that—and far more deadly.”

In strutted a wiry man who looked maybe thirty-five with a swatch of jet-black, wind-tousled hair and a bird-beak of a nose. He wore a green toga, cinched at the waist with a strip of black leather, and sported a black cloak, secured at the front with a Celtic knot broche studded with a shameful amount of emeralds. He strutted like a friggin’ peacock, preening with every step, but the very business-like spear he held said he wasn’t here to play.

“The halls are governed based on star alignments, seasonal changes, the ebb and flow of ley lines, the configuration of waypoints. Impossibly complicated to understand, nearly impossible to predict. Naturally, we elder members of the court can manipulate the landscape but only for short periods of time. The Lesser Members can navigate them, but there are dangers even for them.”

“Lord Lugh.” I offered him a feral smile. Seeing this asshole here only reinforced the weird sense of déjà vu that I’d done all of this before. “Just as much of a pompous douchebag as ever.”

“Yancy Lazarus,” he said, ignoring my obvious hostility. “Just as much of a fiery tempered, socially awkward misfit as ever.” He leaned casually on his spear and gave me a sly, lopsided smile. “Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t learned impulse control since the last time we saw each other. If I recall correctly, your disposition caused you no small amount of trouble the last time you were in our lovely realm.”

My eye twitched and I seriously considered going for my gun. A few rounds of .45 ACP wouldn’t kill Lugh but he would definitely wipe the grin off his face.

Sullivan, reading the situation, swept in front of me, patting me on the shoulder in passing.

“Lord Lugh, it’s a pleasure to see you again even though we left on somewhat rocky terms last time.”

“Lieutenant Commander Sullivan,” the Irish godling beamed, then faltered. “Or is it still Lieutenant Commander?” He reached up and tapped the corner of a pointed ear. “A little birdy may have mentioned that there is some sort of dispute in the ranks of your esteemed Guild of the Staff.”

As though he didn’t know every single detail. Lugh played the carefree playboy, but he was the brains behind the throne and probably knew more about the current lay of the land than we did.

“Just a little squabble,” James said coolly. “Usurpers. But the Arch-Mage lives and is still in charge, which makes us the legitimate faction. Though sadly Iron Stan has passed, which makes me the current Commander of the Fist.” That was news to me, though I shouldn’t have been surprised.

“Well deserved, I’m sure,” Lugh replied with a dip of his head. “God’s but it truly is good to see you both again. Why, it feels like just yesterday that the pair of you showed up on my doorstep.”

“It was twenty years ago, dickhead,” I said, folding my arms across my chest so I wouldn’t go for my gun on instinct. See, I could do impulse control when I wanted to.

Lugh didn’t even bat an eye. “What is twenty years to an immortal, hmm? Just a long nap for most of my people. Although”—he offered me a shrug—“I will admit your departure last time was spectacularly entertaining. The most excitement we’ve seen around Tír na nÓg in centuries. It’s still the talk of the town, as your folk say. I must admit I’m sad to see that Judge Levchenko is absent…” he paused, a hungry glint igniting in his eyes as they landed on Ferraro. “Though I see you’ve brought along another legendary beauty.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” Levi said, completely deadpan. He trotted over, his steps heavy, and extended a calloused palm. The hand of a craftsman.

And a monster.

Lord Lugh’s smile broadened, and he extended a hand accepting Levi’s grip. Big mistake there. Levi might’ve looked like a mild-mannered insurance adjuster, but just below the surface was an absolute powerhouse. The MudMan squeezed, slowly exerting pressure, and Lugh’s smile vanished entirely. He didn’t crumple to the ground, hand pulped into mush—he was a small g god, after all—but it was obviously taking everything he had to stay on his feet.

“Now here is a great curiosity indeed,” Lugh said, focusing on the camouflaged golem. Boring into him with brilliant emerald eyes as sharp as drill bits. “It’s not every day that I see something new. Not even every century. And what might you be, exactly?”

“I’m a friend to these fine folks,” he replied slowly, “and I’ll crush you into meat paste if you try anything to hurt them.”

“Well stated,” Lugh replied, finally managing to wriggle his hand from Levi’s crushing mitt. “Friends of Levi, I welcome you. For those new to the realm, I am Lord Lugh, Chief Ollam of the Tuatha De Danann. When we felt your presence, my King dispatched me to send his warmest regards. With that said, my King must sadly ask you to depart the realm without venturing further. Like you and your vaunted Guild, we are dealing with some internal matters of our own at the moment and aren’t properly prepared to host such esteemed visitors as yourselves.”

He genuinely looked crestfallen. Devastated by the notion that we were making poor hosts of the Tuatha De Danann. Except I knew that was absolute bullshit.

“Cut the crap, Lugh.” My hands balled into fists. “And don’t give me any of that Chief Ollam horsecrap either. You and I both know you aren’t just some court poet. King Dagda might be the figurehead of your enterprise, but you and I both know you pull the strings.”

“Dagda and I have an amicable partnership, Yancy,” he admitted with a shrug. “But I’m afraid in this, I cannot budge. Dagda has made his will publicly known to the court and so the matter is out of my hands. You know the game we play, and we absolutely must keep up appearances.” He spread his hands in a what can you do gesture. “I’m sure you understand.”

“I have an easy solution,” Ferraro offered, stepping forward and resting one hand on the butt of her Glock. “You want us to leave, then just bring us Candace Edgar. King Dagda’s Scion.”

“Absolutely,” I said with a shit-eating grin. “I don’t need to step on Dagda’s giant, mishappen toes. We’re really just here for the kid.”

Lugh’s smile slipped just a notch and something dark and dangerous bloomed behind his eyes. “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he said more coolly than before. “But, for the sake of candor, let me assure you, she’s in good hands—perfectly safe.”

“Is that right?” Sullivan said. “Because I’m sure all of the other Kings and Queens of the Fae Courts thought so too. But so far as I can tell, each and every one of them is down a Scion.”

“Ah but we are at an advantage,” Lugh said, seeming to get a little bounce back in his step. “My King and I, we know the Morrigan better than anyone. She would never dare set foot here.” His face darkened, brow furrowing. “Not after what she did.” He didn’t elaborate, but he looked deeply pissed. “We’ll put her head on a godsdamned spit if she shows her face around here again.”

I snorted and rolled my eyes. “I think there’s a word for this…” I paused and tapped at my chin for a moment, mimicking Lugh from a few moments before. “Oh yeah. Delusional. The Morrigan knows this place inside and out and she’s not operating alone. Maybe you’ve tangled with her, but she has a heavy—a guy called the Savage Prophet. He’s sharing his soul with Old Man Winter and is hosting an honest to goodness end-times Demon. He’ll slap the shit out of every one of you. Plus, I’d wager at least a few of the Royal Court are batting for her side, no matter what they say to your face. Long story short, if the Morrigan wants the kid, believe you me, it’s only a matter of time before she gets her.”

“She’s safer with us, ol’ boy,” Sullivan said, grim as the reaper. “You have my solemn word, we’ll protect her.”

“You can’t even protect yourselves,” Lugh said, finally dropping all pretense of friendliness. “Now, I think it’s time for you to leave. Let’s make it another twenty years until we see each other again.”

“We aren’t turning away empty handed,” I growled, opening myself to the primal powers just out of sight. The sweet rush of lifegiving Vis flooded into my body followed in short order by the toxic, sickly power of Nox. I could feel the golden tattoos encircling my arm burn to life as streams of violet Nox began to leak from my fingertips like plumes of smoke. “Not sure if you’ve heard, but the Morrigan isn’t the only one running with some new friends these days. I’ve got some god-league power of my own, so kindly get the fuck out of my way or I’m gonna run your ass over like a freight train.”

Lugh took a step back flourishing his golden spear, the smile once more stretching across his face. But instead of lashing out, he dipped his head and waved the spear toward the colossal set of double doors, hanging open at the far end of the room.

“Why, I would never think to battle you and your friends?” he asked. “I am but a simple court poet. Besides, I remember well how things went the last time you decided to unleash your wrath on the Court. I won’t fight you, but neither will I be your guide. Please feel free to enter the pathways of Tír na nÓg. Bare in mind, however, they can be notoriously treacherous for the uninitiated. Still, best of luck finding your way to the other side.” He gave us a deep bow as a hazy mist swirled up from the floor. Wisps of green and gold circled around him, licking at his skin.

Then, in the space of an eyeblink he was gone. Whisked away, though the faint ghost of his laughter lingered in the air. Mocking us.

“Well shit, what in the hell do we do now?” I asked, my mood suddenly souring. I should’ve known this wasn’t going to be easy. Dealing with supernatural beings never was and the older they were, the more of a pain in the ass they were. Still, I’d come spoiling for a fight, but this possibility hadn’t even been on my radar.

“Unless we want to go back without the Scion,” Ferraro said, “then it looks to me like we only have one course of action.” She checked her shottie, then nodded toward the hallway.

“It’d be suicide,” Sullivan said with a grimace and a shake of his head. “The High Lords of Ladies of the Tuatha De Danann can shape these halls with a thought. But we don’t belong and more importantly, they’ve actively denied us an invitation into their realms. If we go in there, chances are we’ll end up wandering in a never-ending labyrinth until we die of hunger. Or worse.”

“That or Lugh and his pals sick all the horrors of Tír na nÓg on us like guard dogs,” I grumbled under my breath. “There are a lot of nasty things that call this place home and Lugh can make sure we bump into ever damn one of them.”

We all stood around in silence for a beat and my thoughts instinctively turned toward Azazel. That shitheel seemed to know just about everything about everything. He spoke every language and was the lord of dark magicks, plus he’d once helped me navigate the treacherous Cubiculi ex Ostia, which was certainly as complicated as this place. If I went to him, he could probably help, but what would be his demand? Hell, he might give me a hand free of charge, but even in that there would be a hook.

Getting me to depend on him when the chips were down.

“I think I can get us through,” Levi said interrupting my dark train of thought.

He was crouched over, one knee on the floor, fingers pressed against the marble. He dragged his digits across the slick surface, a curious look tattooed on his face, his eyes hazy and far away. “This place. It feels wrong. Unsteady.” He rocked his other hand back and forth. “It’s almost like a giant spiderweb. But there are these touch points where things come together. I can feel ’em. And there’s a big one at the center.” He cocked his head as though listening to some unheard voice. Finally, he grunted and nodded. “I think maybe I can get us there.”

I licked my lips and ran a hand along my jaw. I’d seen Levi in action more than most—he’d guided us through the twisting tunnels beneath Pandæmonium. Trekking around the halls of Tír na nÓg was dangerous, reckless even, but the Morrigan wasn’t going to win again. Not if I could do something about it. And I could do something about it, even if it meant taking a few risks. Or even a metric ass-load of risk. And honestly, trusting Levi was way less risky than extending an olive branch to Azazel.

“Screw it,” I said, tossing my hands up. “I’m feeling lucky.”

“You can’t be serious,” Sullivan replied, taken aback. “Sully, you just need to trust me on this one. Levi might not look like a whole helluva lot, but he’s got skills.” I turned to Levi. “Lead the way big guy, and please don’t make me regret it. Everyone else, stay on your toes. There’s no telling what horrorshows we might stumble across.”