Silver blinked rapidly several times. “Could you repeat that?” he said, finally.

“Humans who aren’t stormworkers shouldn’t know about the Swanky Seven,” said Devon. “It’s a Fae motel.”

Struggling to process the information that the place he’d been employed for the past six months was . . . was . . . some kind of magical waypost that he wasn’t even supposed to know about, Silver instead turned his attention to the party going on around them.

“So, this shimmer is a glamour spell?” he asked, staring at Duvslaine, who was still chatting with Rosza.

The Fae threw back his head and laughed.

Remembering how he’d found the hidden city of Harbor, Silver narrowed his eyes and isolated the shimmer in his mind. He ignored the trappings of Duvlaine’s appearance – his heavy eyebrows, his pale torso, clad only in a tartan sash, his matching kilt.

He ignored the man’s animated gestures and the other partygoers traversing the space between them.

He focused only on the shimmer. And then he formed a small mental knife and used it to stab through the shimmer, poking a hole and tearing downward, as though he was ripping open the tape on a shipping box.

And just like that, the man talking to the storm was no longer human.

He retained his pale skin, but his hair was now the same violet as Fiona’s.

“Well, that answers that question,” muttered Silver.

“What question?” said Devon sharply.

Silver shook his head. “I wondered whether Fiona’s hair was dyed or naturally purple.”

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“Fiona doesn’t wear a glamour, even when she’s in your world,” said Devon. “She looks human enough, and it’s not so rare for humans to have purple hair these days.”

Duvslaine had also grown a good three feet taller, towering over Rosza. It was a little disorienting to watch the two of them together, as Rosza’s focus was still on where Duvslaine’s glamour had put his face. It looked like she was chatting with the middle of his smooth, bare chest.

His ears had taken on a distinct point at the tips and his body was more slender, moving with a preternaturally predatory grace, like a hunting jungle cat. This grace also reminded Silver of Fiona, although it was far more pronounced in Duvslaine.

Even without his height and pointy ears, the way he moved would have marked the Fae as non-human.

Silver looked around the room at the others gathered in merry clusters. “They’re all wearing glamour spells. All except Rosza.”

Devon nodded. “Rosza is the only human present. All the others are Fae. All the others were part of Duvslaine’s movement.”

Silver absently noted the use of the past tense and wondered if Duvslaine was the only one who had survived whatever coup he had started.

He watched as Duvslaine excused himself from Rosza and walk across the room to greet another disguised Fae who was just entering the room.

“What movement? Is this why everyone hates him?” Silver asked.

“Yes.” Devon pointed to Duvlsaine as he pulled a small red envelope out of a leather pouch at his waist. “Look at Duvlsaine’s costume. He is dressed as a Celtic warrior, a warrior who worshiped one of his ancestors as a god. It was common, long ago, for Fae to present themselves as gods to humans. Duvslaine is making a point with this costume. He is one of a small minority of Fae who believe our kind should still be ruling over yours.”

“And all of the Fae here agree?”

Devon nodded.

“And Rosza?” Silver frowned. “Is she – was she a part of it too?”

“No,” said Devon. He shook his head. “I hate to be like this, old friend, but can we circle back around to your job? I can’t help but feel like it has to be important. Who is the owner of your town’s Swanky Seven franchise? Do you know their name?”

Silver opened his mouth to reply and then froze as another Fae walked into the party. The man was younger here than Silver was used to, but it was unmistakably him. His boss.

“That man there,” he said, pointing. “That’s Aillen. He’s the owner of the Swanky Seven.”