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Locked in battle with a wiry stranger, her pointed nails raking at his throat, Braam struggled against the fae woman, his movements slow to meet hers or to evade his attacker’s. His lip was bloody, his face already bruised. She knew he was losing when she saw it, the confirmation of her worst fears symbolized by the object kicked just out of her husband’s reach: Braam’s raven-headed cane lay on the ballroom floor, broken in two.

The instant Katty locked eyes on him again—shirt torn, chest heaving, fighting with everything he had for his court, Katty knew an intense desire for him so hot it surged through her, and left her feeling as though she would scorch everything in her path to get to him.

And that was when she heard it. The soft connection between things, like the quartet at the de Vries house as it was drowned out by so much chatter and noise. With her passion for her husband came a strange but not quite new sense—one she had never let herself experience strongly enough to notice before. Yet it felt familiar, like a stone worn smooth. And she knew exactly what to do with it.

Once she had acknowledged it, it came at her like a tide, swirling around her feet in eddies that did not threaten to topple her. Katty forced down her shock at both its power and herself; there would be time enough to feel it after her husband was safe. She reached for it where once she would have recoiled, her passion meeting rage, her vulnerability meeting strength and her desire finding an endless well to meet it. Katty pulled eagerly, greedily, needing every bit of help that this magic could give her.

It was the magic of the Hollow Court, and by right as its lady, it was hers.

Katty’s steps pounded against the ballroom floor, echoing the peels of thunder overhead as though she’d timed them. From the tightness of her fists and the fury in the line of her shoulders, Braam could be forgiven for thinking she knew how to throw a punch, and meant to.

As the woman who must be Esmee de Groot glanced at the doorway, confusion shadowed her brow.

“Get away from my husband,” Katty snarled at her, her fists clenched at her side, “andget out of my house.”

An eerie howl rose like punctuation, a sudden wind rattling the windows and the still-boarded French doors leading to the gardens. Halfway through raising himself from the floor, Braam stiffened as a chill ran through him. He was reminded of Misman’s tales of the banshee.

The French doors burst open, knocking loose the planed wood that covered them. One of the panels flew straight for Esmee de Groot. With a shriek, Esmee dropped to the floor, the board clipping her back. Braam heard her growl and curse beneath her breath.

She stood, snarling mouth open in preparation to voice those words more loudly, her dark blue eyes locked on Braam with a hatred that made them almost black. “You” was all that left her lips before a snarl snapped her head.

Between the wildly swinging doors to the gardens, a mighty black cat stood with its head low, bellowing a warning. The fur on its underbelly was gold as an ingot, its eyes the color of the ruby on Braam’s finger and its teeth—they must have been as long as his forearm. The creature filled the space of both doors, back arched and sable hairs standing. Braam’s throat tightened. The Hollcat had arrived in his ballroom straight from myth.

Before any of them had time to react, a swarm of bats filled the doorway around the Hollcat, a chirruping black cloud that launched itself directly at Esmee de Groot. Braam glanced at Katty, now squatting and covering her head. Cutting through the sound, a massive groan like the creaking of four hundred-year-old floors flooded the room.

Braam gaped, not at the Hollcat but behind it. A tree came up by the roots. Instead of toppling with a mighty crash, it shook out those heavy roots like so many legs. It scuttled between the garden beds on them, moving like a squid through water, until its leafy crown settled behind the Hollcat. Lightning flashed, limning the strange pair, and the ground shook with thunder.

A crackle, though not of lightning, rent the air behind them. More of the trees were coming to life, shaking off a life-long slumber to aid the lands that grew them.

While the swarm of bats circled back to the ceiling in preparation for another dive, Braam took the opportunity to rise. He could barely manage it, but soon Katty was at his side, and with his bride’s help and a flood of fresh pain through his hip and leg, the Lord of the Hollow Court stood and glared at the now-disheveled Esmee de Groot.

“Lady de Groot,” he said, gazing down at her, “it would appear you are not wanted here.”

Esmee gnashed her pointed teeth at him, her face contorted in a nasty expression. “This isn’t over.”

“Oh, but I think it is.” The bats flapped overhead, a swirling river of darkness.

“You may not want to use the back door,” Katty said tartly, her hand on Braam’s chest. The Hollcat stood sentinel there, tail lashing, body ever ready to pounce.

“Now, if you’ll excuse us,” his bride said, “it’s time for the Lord of the Hollow Court and me to retire.”

The manner in which she regarded Esmee then was pure aristocratic disdain, the hardness in her eyes and of her mouth utterly withering. A subtle smile swept over Braam’s lips. It was as if the little fox was born for this.

With a replacement cane and the help of a newly recovered Misman, Braam settled onto his bed with a groan. For a long moment, Katty stood beside his bed, wringing her hands, her fingers pausing on the now cool ring. With a nervous swallow, she perched on the mattress beside him, uncertainty flitting over her for a few seconds longer before fatigue won and she sprawled across the bed on her back.

“Thank the Lord for fae beds,” she murmured.

Braam chose not to remark on the curious expression and joined her in an exhausted splay, the tensed muscles around his hip barely uncoiling as he lay down. The door clicked softly behind Misman. He had his own well-earned rest to see to.

Braam swallowed. This was his chance. He had to tell her.

“Katty,” he said, finding her hand and lacing his fingers around hers. Now it was his turn to be uncertain. “I must tell you—”

“Katrina,” she interrupted, that fierce look she wore in the Lord’s Grove returned to her handsome face. “From now on, I wish to be called Katrina.”

Braam nodded, certain there was a story there. One that would come later. And why shouldn’t it? They knew so few of each other’s stories, and this was but another. Right now, he only wished to hear how Katty—Katrina—had drawn upon his lands’ magic in such a way. It was almost witchly.

But that, like the rest of it, must wait, too.