BEYOND THE PALE

Nancy Holder

   	Who rides, so late, through night and wind?

 	—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, “The Erl King”

   	“Links! Verdammt, left!” Lukas yelled at Meg, his voice crackling through her headset. “He’s there!”
 	Ebony trees and jet-black bracken jagged into silhouettes as Meg galloped wildly through the snowstorm. Her hair, braided and pulled back with an elastic band, hit her back like a fist. Deluged by sleet, still she sweated under her standard-issue German police riot helmet. Unlike the others, she’d painted no insignia on it, no coat of arms, no totem. Just her last name: ZECHERLE. The miner’s light attached to the front strobed icy blue on ferocious boughs of fir and pine. Wet splatted on her mask. She smelled the cold, and the mud, and her own stinking fear. Of smoky magick, there was no trace. And of their quarry, no sight.
 	To her left, the Black Forest raged and shook. To her right, boulders jutted toward treetops, and behind them, she knew, a waterfall cascaded. As if the icy flow had leaped the riverbanks, she was drowning in darkness and snow.
 	“Meg!” Lukas bellowed. “Reply!”
 	“Where?” she shouted into her headset. The mouthpiece was loose and she let go of the reins of her massive black stallion, Teufel, with one hand and held the mic to her mouth. “Shit, where?”
 	“You must see him! Twelve o’clock!”
 	Doggedly, she squinted through the protective mask. No night-vision goggles, no GPS, nothing. If the Great Hunt got you and dragged you across the Pale, you were worse than dead.
 	If they didn’t get that baby back …
 	Snow. Darkness.
 	“Then my Sight’s not working,” she announced.
 	“Bitte?” Lukas cried. “Not working?”
 	Through her earphones, she could hear the others responding in disbelief. It almost made her smile; they were so serious and smug. But she was clearly in deep trouble, so she spared no time for pettiness.
 	“I see trees and rocks,” she said. “Period, kaput.”
 	“Meg, where are you?” That was Sofie, Lukas’s twin sister.
 	“Where the fuck are you?” she shouted back.
 	Static crackled in her ears and snow rushed at her; tree branches smacked her chest, bolted into Kevlar body armor. Teufel grunted, then sailed over a fallen log long before she put her spurs to his flanks. She understood now why they didn’t use motorcycles or ATVs, which had been her first question when Lukas had explained about the magickal Haus of the Knights—Haus Ritter. He’d rolled her eyes and told her she was a typical arrogant American, and that the old ways were best because the old gods were alive and well in Germany. Well, yeah, heil Hitler to you, too.
 	“Meg, just focus,” another voice advised, in the polished, aristocratic British accent of Heath, who had deposited a hundred thousand pounds into a trust fund for her brother and paid off her parents’ refi, just like that, when Meg had protested that she couldn’t leave the States because her parents were too wiped out to deal with anything except their favorite TV shows. “Your Sight manifested. It can’t go away. It doesn’t work like that.”
 	“It did go away,” she yelled, furious. “I’m blind out here!”
 	Desperately, Meg scanned the flashing landscape dead ahead, then to her left, right. The German Black Forest glared back at her, far from still. Pines and firs shuddered and bowed. Snow poured from the sky. Aside from the voices of her team crackling in her ears—the four other Gifted Border riders on her patrol—the howling wind overpowered every sound, including the steady rhythm of her own horse’s hooves and the staccato pounding of her heart. In their world—of magick, and evil—she was blind, deaf, useless. It was only through sheer accident that she’d wound up on point, ahead of the others on the craggy slopes of the alpine mountain.
 	Or maybe it had been by design: Sofie had insisted that Meg wasn’t ready to ride, that she’d slow them down. Two minutes ago, the snotty German chick had been in the lead. Now Meg didn’t know where Sofie was, and her precious Sight had failed. Maybe Sofie had cast a spell of some kind to get rid of the deadweight. What had Sofie said? We travel light, or we die. Sofie’s thick German accent had made her sound like a mad scientist in a bad movie.
 	“Turn left!” Lukas shouted.
 	Setting her jaw, squinting, Meg pressed her heel against Teufel’s flank and the horse turned sharply—directly into the path of a low-lying pine bough. Meg flattened against her horse’s neck, holding on tight as Teufel soared over it, landing very hard. These animals weren’t bred for grace. Or long lives.
 	Like horse, like rider.
 	Icicles rattled down on her helmet and shoulders. Thank God for her body armor, uncomfortable though it was. And her kicker boots, which she’d insisted on wearing. She wasn’t losing her steel toes for anything. Though truth be told, her feet were freezing.
 	“Meg?” That was Heath, again, eagerly welcomed into their ranks six months ago by Lukas and Sofie. Meg was the newer newbie. Not a lot of eagerness on Sofie’s part when Lukas showed up with Meg, like a little boy with a stray puppy he wanted to keep. Heath was a European and he had a strong Gift. Plus he was incredibly hot, and Sofie was on her own Great Hunt to get him into bed. Meg supposed it made sense for Sofie to be a little bit German-centric, given her vocation as a Bavarian Border guard. But Meg would have thought she would be a little more human-centric, given what they were guarding the Pale from.
 	“Where are you?” Heath persisted.
 	“Unknown.” She was out of her element; this was crazy. “I can’t see anyone.”
 	“I’m coming for you,” Heath said.
 	“Nein. Heath, keep going.” That was Sofie. “We’re almost at the Pale.”
 	How did Sofie know? What could she see?
 	White-hot lightning crashed, revealing a rider to Meg’s left—Edouard, the fifth member of their team. The Haitian held up his gloved hand in salute. She returned it as Teufel increased his speed, slaloming around trees like a skier.
 	“Eddie at nine o’clock,” she announced.
 	Sofie said something in rapid French, Eddie’s language, and Eddie answered. Everyone on the team spoke at least two languages; unfortunately, Meg’s second language was Spanish, and no one else spoke it. After a month in Bavaria, Meg still couldn’t understand 90 percent of what Sofie said—in any language. Her accent was very heavy.
 	“Going ahead of you, Meg. I’m too close to the Pale,” Eddie informed her, rising in his saddle jockey-style.
 	Like her, he was dressed in black body armor over a black cat suit, camouflage for their night ride. Their saddles were black leather, too, and each had an Uzi and a crossbow strapped behind it. She was a good shot with a submachine gun; she had that going for her. But what use was that if she could never see the target?
 	A curtain of snow swallowed Eddie up. To dodge another tree limb, Meg cantered left, in the direction from which Eddie had just retreated.
 	“Also, Meg, vorsicht!” Lukas yelled as Teufel lost his footing, and dizziness hit Meg like a fist. Vertigo fanned from the center of her forehead, smacking her temples and ripping in a zipper down the back of her neck. Jerking on the reins, she imagined the top of her head exploding and her brains shooting like a geyser toward the moon.
 	She knew she was skirting the Pale. The Great Hunt must have crossed over. If so, Team Ritter’s mission had just failed. Humans, Gifted or not, couldn’t cross the border between the realm of Faerie and humankind. Or so they’d told her. They seemed to be telling her a number of things that might not be true.
 	She thought of that little Mexican baby, six weeks old. Her stomach clenched as the old anger overtook her. She wasn’t turning back, not this time.
 	Screw it, she thought.
 	“Giddyap,” she ordered Teufel. Not the proper German command, but she couldn’t remember what it was. She put her spurs to him, and he obeyed. She grabbed her mouthpiece and held it still, wanting to make sure she was heard. “Proceeding for extraction.”
 	“Nein!” Lukas yelled.
 	“No, abort!” Heath’s voice cracked in her ear.
 	Dimly she heard the four of them shouting at her as she leaned forward and kept her head down. The pommel pressed into her stomach as she gathered up Teufel’s mane in her fists.
 	For one strange moment she saw herself back home three months ago, out in the desert with the temperature topping 110. Before she’d known there was a Great Hunt or a Pale. Before she’d met Lukas. Red hair in a bun, khaki fatigues, mirrored sunglasses, Beretta in her hand and another in Jack Dillger’s. Opening the door to the stolen U-Haul and seeing what the coyote had left—seven desperate Mexican nationals attempting to cross illegally: six dead, one alive; and that one nearly dead and begging for water, and begging more desperately not to be sent back across the border.
 	“Lo intentaré de nuevo.” I will try it again. He said it through cracked, bleeding lips, and then he burst into heaving sobs, crammed as he was among corpses.
 	Holding the baby in her arms, Meg had started to cry, too. She never broke down in front of anyone; she was a tough bitch, but that day her mirrored sunglasses could do only so much. That damn desert day of the dead she had cracked apart, right down the middle.
 	Shortly after that, Lukas had contacted her. And now she was here at a very different border.
 	The howling wind shimmered into silvery wind-chime voices:
   	Oh, come and go with us,

 	Death never visits us

 	Oh, come and go with us …

 	“Pull back. Don’t cross. You will die. Repeat: do not cross,” Lukas said.
 	Her tears:
 	The baby had worn a tiny gold chain and a religious medal around his chubby neck. He was curled in the limp arms of his dead teenage mother, and for one hopeful moment, Meg had thought he was still alive. She had gathered him up, feather light; his little head fell back and his last breath came out, a death rattle in a dried husk. Still she had hoped, prayed, whispered to him just please, por favor, hijo, to whimper, to take a breath. Part of her mind had registered that he was dead; another part spun fantasies, bargains that would pull him back to earth and make his lungs inflate. She was here; she would save him. It would be all right.
 	It would never be all right again.
 	Jack didn’t tell anyone that she’d cried and gotten sloppy drunk and yanked at the waistband of his jeans, Okay, what about just once; they had a strong partnership and they’d be fine afterward. Or that she’d wound up drinking even more, sitting on his couch and watching the remake of Night of the Living Dead and sobbing, “Why? Why?” And Jack, bless him, fully clothed, bless him, had said, “I know. I thought George Romero got it right the first time.”
 	She asked for a week of leave and spent it driving through the desert, looking for more stalled vehicles. She’d ridden Mesa, her dappled mare, along dusty trails bordered with deer weed, white sage, and manzanita that she couldn’t reach with a vehicle. Sweating in the heat, thinking of the baby, armed with a rifle.
 	Glad Jack hadn’t asked for a new partner. Yet. Watching the ghostly forms in night vision, in the surveillance center. Men, women, children, pushing through holes in the fences; wading the swell of a stream; white blurs like phantoms. Was she looking at the coyote who had left the baby to die?
 	In a phone call, her cousin Deb, who lived in Fargo, North Dakota, had told her that every winter, she and her friends routinely got in their cars and trolled for stranded drivers, whose car engines had frozen, whose hoods were buried in snow.
 	“So it’s in our blood,” Deb had concluded.
 	In her blood.
 	After the baby died, Meg doubled her visits to Matt in the care facility.
 	Matt, her big brother. Matt and Meg. Once a West Pointer, an athlete, a practical joker. Growing up, she’d hated it when he hit on her friends. Then at twenty, he’d been struck by lightning; his heart had stopped; his frontal lobe had been fried. She’d been eighteen. How could that happen? He’d been caught in a downpour at a party; he wasn’t alone. There were twenty-seven other people there.
 	She researched the histories of people who had been struck by lightning. A man named Roy Cleveland Sullivan had been struck seven times, and had some “deficits,” but he lived to tell the tale. Then he committed suicide at the age of seventy-one.
 	Matt couldn’t even ask for more applesauce.
 	Their parents checked out emotionally when they checked Matty into the facility. Meg slipped the orderlies extra money so he would never sit in dirty diapers. So they wouldn’t drug him. So if he ever did remember her, he would be able to tell her that they had treated him well.
 	Her parents protested only mildly when she dropped her plans to get a teaching credential and instead became a Border Patrol agent. None of her friends understood. So she dumped them. Of course, she didn’t understand it, either.
 	The Mexican baby, Matt, and the child in the glowing white snowstorm. Meg wasn’t losing this one, too.
 	“Giddyap, Teufel,” she told her horse, who responded as if he spoke her language.
 	Haus Ritter—the House of the Knights—had been after the Erl King for a thousand years. Their lineage was long and illustrious. They had snatched back hundreds—maybe thousands—of babies, right out of the arms of the Erl King’s goblin minions. There were stories, paintings, songs about Ritter heroes who had died in glorious service to the cause. But no one had ever crossed the border between Faerie and forest and returned to tell the tale.
 	“Meg!” Lukas bellowed at her. His voice echoed off the rocks. The snow-battered moon blazed. Too close; too close; someone fired off a warning round; maybe they figured she had lost her mind, which is what supposedly happened to humans when they crossed the Pale. Which was about to happen to the kidnapped child, if it wasn’t already dead.
 	“Meg, stop!” Eddie cried. “Look, look!”
 	“Zurück!” Lukas bellowed.
 	Then, through the din, something clicked in the bony ridges above and below her eyes, sounding like the cocking of a rifle. It was the same sound and sensation that Lukas had magickally caused in San Diego, to manifest her Second Sight. Now, as then, shimmers of luminous colors spiraled and pinwheeled all around her. The smoky odor of magick permeated her mask; and her heart skipped multiple beats. Her Second Sight was back, and the Great Hunt roared up in front of her, fifty yards away.
 	Holy shit.
 	It was blurred at first, as if she were looking through the surveillance cameras back in San Diego. White and glowing, horses and riders.
 	Then forty yards away, the cantering parade snapped into sharp relief. Cut out in black by the brilliant lights, dozens of spiky goblins in medieval armor rode black chargers, capering and gibbering as they galloped, a thundering horde. There were at least a dozen of them sitting so high in their saddles that she figured the smallest to be at least six feet tall. Orange flames flared from the horses’ nostrils; sparks flew from their hooves. Hellhounds of ash and smoke bayed at their heels, disintegrating, re-forming—
 	Thirty yards.
 	Twenty.
 	At the lead rode the majestic Erl King himself, Master of the Great Hunt, exactly as Lukas had described him. Dressed in ebony chain mail and a solid black chest plate, the demon lord of the forest towered over the goblins. His black helmet was smooth, with no helm—no eyeholes—topped with curved antlers that flared with smoky flames; fastened at the shoulders, his cloak furled behind like the wake of an obsidian river. In his right chain-mail gauntlet, he held the reins of his enormous warhorse. His left clasped a squirming bundle against his chest—the baby.
 	He must be freezing.
 	The child had been snatched from his crib, where he slept bundled in pajamas. His name was Garriet, and he was nine weeks old. While they were suiting up and Lukas was detailing the mission, Meg had asked for a picture. Sofie had snorted.
 	“He’ll be the baby in the Erl King’s arms,” Heath had deadpanned. “But if by chance there’s two, grab them both, Meggie.”
 	The Erl King had stolen many thousands of children through the centuries. His goblins put changelings in their emptied cribs—often passing for human children, but evil creatures to the core. Adolf Hitler had been a changeling. Jack the Ripper. Charles Manson. There were other places where he could cross the Pale; it was the job of Haus Ritter to guard it here.
 	What will he do to Garriet if we don’t get him back?
 	No one could tell her. Their primary mission was to isolate the Erl King and kill or wound him, approach, and snatch back the child. It seemed an impossible task. Lukas and Sofie had done it once before, when they were nineteen. They were twenty-seven now, and this was the first verified theft since.
 	“I see them,” Meg whispered into her microphone. “My Sight has returned.”
 	“Bon, c’est bon, Meg,” Eddie said, his voice taut with excitement.
 	Then light flared around the Great Hunt, saturating the surroundings with a hazy green glow. Lightning crackled. Sparks flew. Thunder roared down the mountain. The ground shook beneath her, and Teufel whinnied.
 	A great wailing rose around her.
 	“Scheiße. They’re across,” Lukas announced. “Abort.”
 	A goblin rose in his stirrups, turned, and waved at her. His face was a mass of scars and hollows, as if someone had taken a Halloween mask and melted it.
 	She’d been taunted before. You didn’t last in the Border Patrol if you gave in to your impulses. But adrenaline was pumping through her system so hard and fast she was quivering. There was no way this was over.
 	“I can get them,” she insisted.
 	“They’re beyond the Pale, love,” Heath reminded her.
 	“It’s over,” Sofie chimed in. “Retreat, Meg.”
 	Shaking her head, Meg pressed her thighs in a viselike grip against Teufel’s flanks, reached behind, and started to grab her Uzi. She rethought. On this side of the Pale, standard-issue ammo could kill her targets. But if shot from this side to the Pale, the chambered rounds were ineffective. The crossbow bolts, coated with magicks, would work. She didn’t know why. She didn’t care at the moment. Problem was, she had yet to master the crossbow. In target practice, she shot wide.
 	She had to get closer if she was going to save that baby.
 	“I’m going,” she said, urging Teufel forward. He tossed his head and broke into a run.
 	Then she heard singing, in silvery tones, angelic and sweet:
   	Oh, come and go with us …

 	Where death never visits us …

 	“Eddie!” Lukas shouted. “Stop her!”
   	Oh, come and go with us …

 	The song washed over her, drawing out her anger like poison from a snakebite. Buried anger over her helplessness—
   	Where death never visits us …

 	“Eddie!” Lukas bellowed.

 	“Mwen regret sa,” Eddie said.

 	Something slammed into her side like a huge, spiked fist; it tore through the layers of her protective armor and sliced into her skin. Fireball heat tore through her body; then she went cold, and began to slide from her horse.
   	Oh, come—

 	“No,” she gritted, “crap.”
 	Losing consciousness, she slumped sideways. Into snow, she prayed; if she hit the rocks, or if she fell under Teufel …
 	Through the glowworm-like radiance, the image of the Great Hunt stretched and glimmered. She held out a gloved hand, as if she could scoop the riders up in her fist. Vibrations buffeted her ears; then banshee wails shot up around her. Death. Death was riding with the Hunt. The baby …
 	The wailing.
 	Just wolves, she thought, tears forming, grabbing the pommel and canting farther right. No, no, I was so close. So close again …
 	“Don’t go,” she ordered the Erl King. “Don’t, you bastard.”
 	The King of the Elves turned his head in her direction. Although Teufel was still racing forward, she froze from head to steel-toed boot. Behind his black mask, he looked at her. Saw her. She felt it as if he had laid a hand on her shoulder, or her cheek … icy cold, but gentle. Chills skittered up and down, ghost fingers on the xylophone of her spine.
 	She had never been more afraid, nor felt more alive, than in that moment.
 	“I know you,” she whispered.
 	He inclined his horned head slowly, in her direction. The chills got worse; but so did an incredible euphoria, as if she were the most powerful being who had ever lived.
 	He held her gaze, in his black mask and flaming antlers. Then he nestled the child beneath his chin.
 	And then she was gone.

*   *   *

   	In the hospital:
 	She’d heard her brother’s voice from behind the bandages, issuing from the hospital bed, after the lightning strike: “Meh meh meh.”
 	“He’s trying to say my name,” she’d told his neurologist.
 	“I’m so sorry, but it’s just a reflex. He doesn’t even know who you are,” the doctor had replied.
 	Their parents were drinking coffee in the waiting room. They couldn’t seem to make it down the hallway to see him. The nurses had all traded looks and the social worker had been called. Something about her parents’ denial. Something about he was their son, for God’s sake. They should at least see him.
 	In the desert:
 	When she had held that lifeless Mexican baby and tried to will it into living, she forgave her parents for being too afraid to face Matt. Maybe that was where the tears had sprung from, and the messy way she’d hit on Jack. He’d told her he’d been tempted until she started talking about her brother.
 	“You got issues, hon,” he’d told her.
 	We travel light, or we die.

*   *   *

   	When she awakened, she was lying on the floor of Haus Ritter’s dark blue van, and her armor was off. She was bare to the waist with a heavy blanket covering her, and she felt loopy, drugged, and supremely pissed off. Bathed in snowfall moonlight, Lukas knelt beside her, his hands resting one on top of the other, beneath the blanket, molded against her left side. His eyes were closed, his dark eyebrows furrowed as he whispered under his breath. Warmth spread from his skin to hers; he was performing a healing spell.
 	She studied his face. Lying jerk. The first time she’d met him, in San Diego, she had allowed herself to be mesmerized by his movie-star looks. Craggy jaw, oceanic blue eyes fringed with heavy lashes, deep hollows in his cheeks tinged with perpetual dark brown beard stubble.
 	She and Jack had just spoken to a class of students at UC San Diego about the rights of undocumented workers. How “illegal immigration” boiled down to sneaking across the Mexican border to El Norte—the North, the U.S.—paradise, fairyland—to get raped, robbed, murdered, to die—and she had stared at all those idealistic, liberal kids who stared at her as if she were the Great Satan, hearing nothing of what she was saying—the agents, killed in the line of duty—and decided to tell them the story of the dead baby in the desert. Not to help them understand, but to punish them.
 	“So how again do you define illegal immigration as a victimless crime?” she concluded in a flat voice brimming with venom.
 	It was too much; she’d been too brutal. Jack had intervened by passing out a stack of the public affairs officer’s business cards. Then he’d driven straight to the Elephant Bar. To unwind, he said. Trouble was, his divorce would be final in nine days; and after a few Dos Equis and tequila shots, they both started crossing over into that fairyland of their own, which involved intimacies they shouldn’t take and confessions that were mostly lies, but kind lies, designed to comfort and tempt each other.
 	But any love that was made there would definitely die. Meg had realized they were crossing the line sooner than Jack did. She’d excused herself to go to the bathroom and whipped out her cell phone, about to call herself a cab, when Lukas had appeared at the other end of the dimly lit hall, like a desperado calling her out at high noon.
 	“You’re awake,” Lukas murmured now, lifting his hands from her chest and pulling the blanket up to her chin. Tenderly, gently.
 	“Did we—?”
 	“Nein.” Blue eyes in a face puffy with cold and despair. “No.”
 	She clenched her fists to keep from exploding. “The whole thing was bullshit,” she said. “I couldn’t see. And you made Eddie shoot me.”
 	“To stop you from killing yourself,” he replied. “Crossing the Pale is like stepping on a livewire. I told you that.”
   	Oh, come and go—

 	“How did I end up on point? I couldn’t see!”
 	“Something affected your Sight,” he agreed.
 	“Maybe the Erl King did it,” Eddie said, looking over his shoulder at them. Mid-twenties, he was very sculpted, with a hooked nose and deep hollows in his cheeks. Her distant relative, carrying magickal DNA or “auric vibrations,” as Lukas referred to them. So they’d been told.
 	“How?” Meg asked.
 	“Who can say?” Sofie said.
 	Lukas glanced toward his sister, his expression hooded. “Well, it’s never happened before.”
 	“And her parents didn’t manifest any Gifts,” Sofie added.
 	“I was not adopted.” She scowled at the back of Sofie’s head as Lukas handed her a large gray sweater. She pulled it on over her head. They’d been over this. If magick could have saved Matty, someone in the family would have used it.
 	“Sometimes it’s dormant,” Lukas reminded them both. “It’s not exactly genetic. Auric vibrations are like magick bloodlines.”
 	“Then maybe magick forces we don’t yet understand have affected her Ritter vibrations,” Sofie interjected. “We need to find out if we can count on Meg’s Gift.”
 	God, did she blind me? Meg wondered. Maybe Sophie liked being the queen bee of the patrol unit. There was definitely no love lost between the two of them, but would she actually sabotage someone on a life-and-death mission?
 	“We’ll do a thorough investigation,” Lukas assured her.
 	There was a lull. Everyone looked tired and glum. They’d been on a high before the mission. Eddie and Heath had known about their special powers, but they hadn’t realized there was a worldwide confederation of magickal groups—hundreds of thousands of people—who were “different.” Gifted, in their parlance.
 	The van trundled over ancient cobblestones. Snow piled on skyscrapers of glass and steel, and on Victorian heaps whose roofs were skewered with chimneys and satellite dishes. It smacked at an angle against “perpendicular” whitewash-and-wood beams of Renaissance architecture, most of it decidedly “faux,” and all of it reminding Meg of Legoland back in California.
 	Heath, who looked to be around thirty-five, sat facing her on the floor, wrapped in a dark blue blanket, looking cold, tired, and frustrated. His face was ruddy from the cold and his crazy blond Rasta braids were soaked with either sweat or snow or a combination. Sofie was driving, and Eddie was riding shotgun, tipping his head back against the seat.
 	“How’s Teufel?” Meg asked.
 	Lukas grimaced. “Feeling guilty. You need to have a chat with him and let him know he didn’t do anything wrong.”
 	He probably means that literally, she thought. What would have happened to Teufel if she had crossed the Pale? In the heat of the moment, she hadn’t given it a moment’s thought. Her San Diego mount, Mesa, was a great quarter horse, and Meg felt affection for her, but she belonged to the Border Patrol and as such, was ridden by other agents. Meg had worked hard not to develop too close an attachment to her.
 	Here, things were different. Each rider was assigned his or her own horse, and no one else rode it. It was expected that some sort of magickal bonding would take place. Meg had been riding Teufel since she arrived, and if that was happening, she didn’t have the Gift to know it.
 	Moving stiffly, she elbowed herself to a sitting position, giving her head a quick shake when Lukas moved to help her. At the same time, Heath reached over to the left and showed Meg a thermos.
 	“Tea?” he offered.
 	When she didn’t move, Lukas took it and unscrewed the black matte plastic cap. He poured steaming brown tea into the cap and held it out to her. She wasn’t going to drink any of it, but she opened her mouth and the scalding, astringent liquid dribbled onto her tongue.
 	“It wasn’t a good time for any of us,” Heath said to her. “But at least we know it’s real. The Hunt.” His voice reeked with awe.
 	“Yeah, swell,” she retorted, to hide her freak-out. This was all a little too real for her comfort. “You didn’t get shot.”
 	Eddie turned around, looked down at Meg, and grimaced.
 	“I’m sorry,” he said. “It was just a little…” He waggled his fingers. He had a special little Gift in addition to Second Sight—he could hurl blasts of debilitating energy from his hands. Sort of like hitting someone with just a little bit of lightning.
 	“I’m okay,” she told him, remembering her euphoria, wondering if that was why she was crashing so hard now. Nothing else would have stopped her. She’d been seized by madness, designed to lure her across the Pale, so she would die.
 	“We weren’t fast enough. We’ll get better,” Heath put in.
 	I was fast enough, Meg thought.
 	The van fell into another silence. Heath said, “We debriefed while you were out.” He smiled faintly. “Lukas told Eddie it was quite common to wet your pants the first few times.”
 	“Guete ou. Lucky for you,” Eddie shot back, but Heath didn’t even acknowledge his salvo.
 	It was very different back home, even after deaths and murders and some moron’s intestines exploding because they were filled with bags of heroin. Her compadres at the Border Patrol pulled crazy practical jokes on each other, drank together. That was why Jack had been so shaky when she had broken down crying over the baby.
 	Six months’ leave of absence. That left all kinds of doors open. Jack would probably be in the middle of his first rebound.
 	“We’re home,” Lukas announced, almost as if he could read her mind, and she needed reminding that Germany was home now.
 	The crowning jewel of Ritterberg was the castle, Schloss Ritter, only half of which stood intact. Wars and time had pulled it down. Meg didn’t understand why they didn’t repair it—they could use magick, couldn’t they? It was like a distressed version of Disneyland, fairy-tale chic: circular turrets, crenellated walls; it was truly spectacular. The vast refurbished rooms, updated kitchens, and bathrooms were the official home to the 357 members of Haus Ritter, one of the hundreds of houses that composed the world of the Gifted—people who could use magick.
 	What kind of magick? she’d demanded, throwing back more tequila and eating the nachos Lukas had ordered for her. Magick to read minds; to read memories off objects; to become invisible; to travel through time; to conjure and wound and kill. Magick to hurl fireballs and bursts of energy; magick to protect. Different Gifted possessed different Gifts. In Meg’s veins ran the blood of Haus Ritter—the German House of the Knights, sworn to guard the Bavarian section of Germany from all the supernatural elements that roamed within. She was a Border guard, maintaining a line watch of the Pale as it traced its route through the Black Forest, where the Erl King rode with the Great Hunt. There were four such units, and hers had been created a year ago, when Lukas and Sofie had found Eddie.
 	It was a world Meg had never dreamed existed until Lukas came up to her in the hallway of the Elephant Bar. It probably helped his case that he was very handsome and that she was drunk, and he got her drunker. He confessed later that he’d also used a bit of charm on her, plopping herbs in her drink that would make her listen. Drugging her, in other words.
 	It had taken her longer to believe him than he’d thought it would—nearly a month—during which he awakened her Second Sight and showed her the specters of their shared history: the ghosts of fallen knights whose last name was Zecherle, like hers; and Ritter, which was his.
 	In the Middle Ages, Ritter simply meant “knight” in German—any nobleman with a coat of arms who protected his lands and his folk. But Haus Ritter was another matter—a secretive, dedicated family of Gifted warriors, who were unaware that the world over, there were other magick-using families dedicated to other causes—in some cases good but in many, many others, evil.
 	That changed with World War II, and the Nazis’ fascination with the occult. Just as the Houses began to contact each other, fear of discovery by the Ungifted sent them underground. As Germans, Haus Ritter suffered terrible losses—conscripted into armies; shipped to the death camps; fleeing Europe. The Erl King was busy in those days, riding boldly across the Pale and stealing Bavarian children—Aryan, Jewish, Gypsy, Mediterranean, and African children—while the Nazis were blamed; and the weakened Ritters seemed powerless to stop him.
 	Then World War II ended. Resuming the title of Guardian of the House—Wächter—Andreas Ritter, Lukas and Sofie’s grandfather, began the slow process of finding the scattered family members. Their father, Marcus, had been killed in a car crash in 1990—Lukas and Sofie didn’t believe it had been an accident—and the leadership of the Border patrol had fallen to the twins. Through rites and rituals, they continued the search for more personnel.
 	On the damn desert day that Meg had let down her guard and cried, Lukas had found her. Then he boarded a plane to San Diego to meet her.
 	To woo her to Germany, he had shown her proof of her magickal Gift—the Gift of Second Sight. Sitting in his room at the Hotel del Coronado, giving her a cracked, weathered leather glove, he lit candles and told her to close her eyes while he whispered strange words. After about thirty minutes, she saw visions of Ritter midnight rides, and a redheaded man who could have been her own twin, gazing at her from centuries ago and nodding encouragement. Despite herself, she was drawn in, pulled hard; she knew him, deep in her soul; blood sang to blood.
 	But when she’d snapped out of the trance she’d turned down Lukas’s invitation, insisting he had drugged her again, and pointing out that she had a life in San Diego, and her own border to protect.
 	“You have more boundaries than that,” Lukas had drawled. “More walls.”
 	She took offense, even though he was right.
 	Lukas had suggested she come with him to Germany just to see. To visit. Then to train, just a bit. Take six months to be fair. And now, tonight, to ride with them for the first time.
 	What an epic fail.
 	She stared up at the Ritter coat of arms, barely visible in the storm: a shield bisected into fields of blue and white, superimposed by a tree trunk sawed nearly down to the roots. The Erl King’s name had been mistranslated; to some, he was known as the Alder King, alder being a kind of wood. But he was King of the Other Side—the elves and goblins, the baby thieves.
 	Sofie downshifted and the van climbed the hill on which the castle was perched. Moving gingerly, Meg pulled her cell phone out of a Velcro pocket in her pants. The face remained black. Crap, had it fried?
 	“It’s only two a.m.,” Lukas informed her. They had gone on duty at ten p.m., and gotten the call about the child abduction at midnight. It seemed like much longer to her.
 	The van stopped and Lukas pulled back the door. He unfolded himself and reached out a hand to Meg. It was warm. The wound at her side was warm, too.
 	She moved from the door and crowded beneath an umbrella that Eddie snapped open. Lukas looked at the two of them as if they were exotic creatures, then turned and joined Sofie at the back of the van. Heath followed. Breath rising like steam, they began unpacking the weaponry, passing out the crossbows and Uzis. The horses would be seen to and trailered back to the castle barn by stable hands.
 	“You don’t have to carry your gear,” Lukas said, but Meg gave him a look and slung the strap to the Uzi over her head, then her crossbow quiver, still loaded with bolts, and the crossbow itself. There were several metal containers of ammo; she hoisted one up, grunting under her breath at the pull in her side, and headed for the castle. Two bundled Ritter security guards stood at attention before the large ornate wooden door, which had once borne a carving of knights in pursuit of the Erl King. It was worn nearly away, and everyone used a smaller door cut into the old one.
 	The five filed inside, Lukas and Sofie leading. Meg was in the middle, then Heath, and finally Eddie. The entrance to the castle glowed with firelight and golden magick; it was warm if not cozy, as the cavernous ceiling stretched up into the front turret.
 	Wächter Andreas Ritter, the Guardian of the Haus, strode toward them as staff approached and took their weapons and ammo. Tall, gangly, with a shock of white hair and gray eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, he was dressed in a black turtleneck sweater, black wool trousers, and boots. With his salt-and-pepper beard, he looked like an intellectual—some kind of college professor. It was hard to believe that he was over 165 years old. It was said that his great-grandfather had tried to parley a truce with the Erl King. No one could tell Meg if that was true.
 	The lithe older man spoke to the group in German, and everyone was galvanized by his attention. He was their resident sorcerer and guru. Sofie and Lukas spoke earnestly, and attention turned to Meg.
 	“You really tried it?” Andreas asked her in English. “To cross the Pale?”
 	She nodded, and he shook his head. “I’d like to talk to you about that. Could you come to my office in a little while? Shall we say at nine?”
 	“Okay,” she replied.
 	Then Andreas turned to Sofie and spoke in rapid German: “This is your team, yours and your brother’s. Can you not control your people?”
 	Meg’s voice tingled with shock. She understood every word.
 	“Not her,” Sofie replied, and Lukas shook his head.
 	“She’s new. She’s trying.”
 	“She’s dangerous,” Sofie put in.
 	“Did you get the changeling?” Lukas asked Andreas, changing the subject.
 	“The extraction team hasn’t reported in yet.”
 	Damn. Suddenly German was no longer a language barrier.
 	“Hey,” Meg began; then a wave of weariness crashed over her. She was too tired to go into it now. Too heartsick.
 	And not trusting enough.
 	“Yes?” Andreas prompted.
 	“I’ll see you at nine,” she said.
 	He dismissed them. The Border patrol units were elite squads with their own luxurious rooms and bathrooms. Located in a turret, hers was a large half circle, the stone floor covered with dark blue mohair carpets emblazoned with the Ritter crest, matching hangings warming the imposing heavily carved canopy bed. Medieval-looking gilt antiques—scooped chairs with leather slings, a table inlaid with a mosaic of a saint—and a real coat of armor finished off the decorations. It was so unlike her messy but pleasant condo. Her cell phone was working; she set the alarm for eight thirty. Shakily, she stripped out of her kicker boots, cat suit, and the sweater.
 	Naked, she shuffled into the bath and showered, luxuriating in the hot, hot water. In her mind, she replayed the mission; saw herself objectively, as if at a distance. Saw the Erl King. He bowed his head to me. He knew me. And I knew him.
 	There was no way she was going to rest if she lay down. Her busy brain was too fully engaged. So she dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, and a white turtleneck sweater. She braided her wet hair and left her room. Her boots clacked as she walked down a stone corridor illuminated with overhanging mosaic lanterns powered by fluorescent bulbs.
 	I saw a demon king, she thought. And real goblins. They took a baby. And I couldn’t do shit. And now I can understand German and I’m hung up about who likes me and who trusts me and what the hell is wrong with me?
 	I nearly crossed into another dimension.
 	Her legs buckled and she held herself up against the wall. Her breath came in quick gasps; she was shaking, hard; then she slipped to the floor and pushed her back against the stone, bringing her knees to her chest and burying her head.
 	This is crazy, so crazy, she thought. She could remember having this same conversation with Lukas, back in California: Fifty years ago, people who saw your Border Patrol surveillance system would have thought it was magick. What’s to say that we aren’t simply using some other kind of technology?
 	All his rationalizations. All hers.
 	Maybe the Erl King was a man in a costume. The goblins, too. It’s an urban legend and these guys buy into it or perpetuate it, and I’m on a reality show. Or it’s some elaborate practical joke Jack cooked up. Speakers in the trees, special lighting.
 	Except … I speak German. And I was going to cross over. I couldn’t stop myself.
 	She rested her head on her knees.
 	Struck-by-lightning stories: August Hellman of Arkansas was struck twice and lived to tell the tale. No permanent injuries. No brain damage. Each time he was hit, he smelled ozone and felt “a terrible sense of foreboding” seconds before.
 	That monster took a baby. Why? What do they do to them?
 	No one could tell her. No one knew.
 	Someone was coming; she got to her feet and wiped her face, averting her head. Living in the castle was like living in a big office building, with people coming and going at all hours, busy, busy, busy. Guarding the Pale was only one of the duties of Haus Ritter. Apparently there were vampires called Blutsauger. And gnomes. A lot of guarding.
 	Hysterical laughter welled up inside her. She thought about calling Jack. Guess what. I’m living in an Underworld movie.
 	She didn’t recognize the man ambling toward her, apparently texting, head down, fingers flying. He wore jeans and a dark brown sweatshirt with the Ritter crest silk-screened in black.
 	“Abend,” he said casually. Evening.
 	“Guten abend,” she replied.
 	I should tell someone about all this. I shouldn’t wait until nine.
 	She continued on down the corridor of stone, knowing that Andreas’s office was on the fifth story of the castle and that she had to make two lefts before she reached the birdcage elevator, a Victorian contraption that scared her to death—
 	She heard a low, deep moan, and stopped walking. It was almost sub-audible, as if it were originating from underneath her. She looked around. There was nothing.
 	She walked on.
 	The moan came again.
 	Cocking her head, she turned down a passageway lined with oil paintings of Ritter knights, maybe Renaissance. At a T-intersection, she shrugged and forked right, turning around, wondering if she’d imagined it. It could be the water pressure in the pipes. A movie.
 	Except … she felt compelled to find it.
 	More woo woo, she thought.
 	Another moan.
 	Slowing, she spotted two wooden doors flush with the wall, very plain, with brass doorknobs. She tried the first one. It was locked. But the second swung open, into a dimly lit stairwell.
 	An ornate brass stair railing curved both up and down, and a faint light glowed from below.
 	Cocking her head again, she started down the stone stairs, worn and uneven but clean. She didn’t know why she didn’t summon someone to investigate. Why she didn’t sound the alarm. It seemed the right thing to do.
 	She reached the landing.
 	Another moan.
 	Another floor down.
 	She kept going.
 	And going.
 	Then the stairs stopped. On the wall was a faded sign that read EINTRITT VERBOTEN. No entry. It was so dark she had trouble reading it. But no trouble at all translating it, apparently.
 	Passing the sign, she looped around and started down the next flight of the staircase. About halfway down, a terrible stench wafted beneath the scent of her shampoo and body splash. She knew that smell—people crowded in too tightly; sick and neglected people.
 	She coughed into her fist. The sound echoed. There was a rustling as if in response, and a gasp. And another moan.
 	She descended one more flight. The smell grew worse, sickening her; making her remember the baby in the desert, and the baby on horseback.
 	At the bottom of the next landing, a strip of luminous tape had been attached to the stone floor. It gave off white light, like the Pale.
 	I should get the hell out of here, she thought. I’m not supposed to be here.
 	Then the moan became strange sounds, like wind chimes:
 	“****.”
 	Twinkling silvery.
 	“****.”
 	And she knew they meant “home.”
 	“Hello?” she whispered, staring at the tape. EINTRITT VERBOTEN.
 	“****.”
 	Home.
 	“Do you need assistance?” she asked in a louder voice.
 	Silence. And … weeping, and then a kind of gasping, like strangling. And another voice, higher-pitched:
 	“********.”
 	Help.
 	Meg sucked in her breath and made a semijump over the tape, bracing herself for a shock, or pain, but nothing happened. Her boots echoed. Rustling, scrabbling sounds came from the space in front of her, which was filled with vague, shadowy box shapes. As she walked forward, her eyes began to adjust.
 	She was standing at one end of a double row of cubes or boxes. They stretched far into the darkness, into some vast section of the castle she couldn’t picture; an open space this wide, with no supporting beams or columns for the weight of the building above it, shouldn’t be possible. Magick, she realized, and walked to the closest box, about three feet from the line of luminous tape.
 	The front was barred; she couldn’t tell if there was an additional barrier—Plexiglas, regular glass—but something sat inside, on the floor, with long shins perpendicular to the floor, and feet that appeared to be pulled from gray clay. Long, nubby fingers were wrapped around the shins, and a bald head rested on the knees. Meg stared at it, transfixed.
 	What the hell?
 	With a hiss, it whipped its head up and glared at her, its features deep and plain, very human, its eyes filled with hatred so deep that she took an involuntary step backward.
 	It was a holding cell. And the thing inside it was imprisoned.
 	It glared, and then it slowly shut its eyes. It remained that way, head raised, eyes closed, as Meg stared at it.
 	Jesus, she thought.
 	The moan sounded again. She moved past the box—the cage—and was about to pass another one when she froze. There was a naked child inside, a towhead, with big blue eyes and a quivering lower lip. It was a little girl, and when she saw Meg, she shrieked and threw herself backward, much as Meg had done at the first cage.
 	“Hey, it’s okay. I won’t hurt you,” Meg said.
 	The moan again:
 	“********.”
 	She raised a hand to the terrified toddler—I’ll be back—and hurried on, past more cages with more children in them. Most of them were fair-haired and blue-eyed, very German. An imprisoned mini Aryan nation. A few of the prisoners were like the first one, almost claylike, but most were like the little towhead.
 	Then she came to a cage inhabited by what appeared to be a child half carved from wood, but unfinished—arms that ended in stumps, one leg, the torso an approximation of a chest. No sex organs. No eyes.
 	“********.”
 	It was the thing that was moaning.
 	She looked around, pretending to be suspicious that this was all a joke, but the sick thudding of her heart belied her actions. She was believing this.
 	More moans joined the first. Home. Help.
 	Their eyes were huge and sorrowful. They were lonely, and homesick, and miserable.
 	She understood: they were the changeling children, from beyond the Pale. They were the babies who had been put in the beds of the human children taken by the Erl King. The fruits of the Ritter extraction teams.
 	She thought of the Mexican baby; and Matt; and the child who had been taken tonight. Garriet. What was going on? What was this about? Why was it that these … children could survive on this side of the Pale, but she couldn’t cross it?
 	She wandered among the cages and cells, seeing more misery and despair, and deep hatred. Her cell phone alarm went off: eight thirty. Sliding it off, she hurried back up the stairs, fully intending to confront Andreas.
 	As she headed for the birdcage elevator, she saw him striding toward the castle entrance, bundled up in a black overcoat and a white fur hat. She hurried after him; he turned his head, took note of her, and said in English, “Emergency. We’ll have to postpone the meeting.”
 	“What’s going on?” she asked, not expecting him to tell her.
 	He frowned, shrugged. “It’s the damnedest thing. Garriet’s mother refused to give our extraction team the changeling. It’s a mess. She’s hysterical.”
 	“Let me come with you,” Meg said, striding along beside him.
 	He raised his brows. “You’re a Border guard. This is not anything to do with you.”
 	“I want to go.”
 	“You should rest. It was a hard night.”
 	“Bitte,” she said in German, and he smiled at her quizzically.
 	“You Americans are so pushy.”
 	“Assertive,” she corrected him.
 	He pursed his lips and made an eye sweep of her appearance. “There’s an extra coat in the car. Come on, then.”

*   *   *

   	It was nearly four, and still black out. The Erl King rode only at night. They rolled in a Mercedes through the snowy streets, followed by another navy blue van. Their driver was the texter Meg had passed in the hall.
 	A single pedestrian fighting against the snow took the time to wave. That there were goblins and ghosties had been accepted by the locals; and that the Ritters were the ones to go to for help was appreciated. Meg was boggled. Why had she never read about any of this? Wasn’t this groundbreaking, earthshaking?
 	Andreas was in cell phone communication with the leader of the extraction team. Since she could understand German now, she listened carefully. The house was isolated, deep in the forest. The woman was alone with the changeling. She had a gun.
 	“No, it’s not imperative that the Dämonkind survive,” he said. “But the woman … that would cause an incident. Ja…”
 	After a while, he flicked off the phone and sighed, looking out the window. She studied his profile.
 	“Are you going to put the baby in that dungeon downstairs?” she asked him.
 	He turned his head and looked at her.
 	“Where you keep all the others?” she added.
 	He frowned. “How do you know about that? That’s classified.”
 	Classified. Did Sofie and Lukas know about it?
 	“You know, where I come from, we just ship them back across the border,” she said.
 	He raised a brow. She could feel energy moving off him in waves; a thrill of fear centered in her back. Eddie had knocked her out with the flick of his hand. What could this guy do?
 	“Back where you come from, they aren’t evil.”
 	“No. They’re just desperate.” She shifted; the wound in her side was hurting a little. “What’s going on? Why does this happen?”
 	The snow fell as the Mercedes plowed through the storm. Unless the Erl King had gotten Garriet indoors, he’d probably frozen to death by now.
 	“In the earlier times, when a deformed child was born, the people would say it was a changeling,” Andreas began. “A slow mind, a missing limb … they would say this child was not a human child. Then they would take it into the forest, and leave it.”
 	“Charming.”
 	“Their hope was that the faeries would take it back.”
 	She pursed her lips. “So what are you saying, that the Erl King takes the deformed kids from us and leaves, what? Demons in their place?” She thought a moment.
 	“Nein. We don’t know why he does it. But he never took the castoffs. And he leaves … what he leaves.”
 	She took a deep breath. “About what he leaves. They want to go ho—”
 	The Mercedes pulled to the right, and the engine went off. She looked past Andreas, to see a small white A-frame chalet sitting in the billows of snow, surrounded on three sides by fir trees. Smoke came out of a chimney set in the shingled roof, and empty flower boxes fronted a window beside the wood door, and another one above the door, where there must have been an extra little room.
 	The building was surrounded by what appeared to be a SWAT team in full body armor and helmets, crouched, holding crossbows. They all had Uzis slung across their chests. The soldier closest to the car looked over his shoulder at them, and made a fist.
 	Andreas murmured under his breath. She knew he was speaking Latin, and that he was conjuring a spell that would protect them. Energy washed over her in strong, surging waves, making her feel tall and light on her feet, and powerful—but it was a weak sensation compared to what she had felt at the Pale.
 	The soldier approached and brought Andreas up to speed: the woman was inside with the changeling; she was hysterical, armed, and defiant.
 	Andreas turned to Meg. She knew he was going to tell her to stay in the car.
 	“I’m going in with you,” she said in English, although she knew how to say it in German. And in Latin.
 	What am I doing? What am I, period?
 	The Wächter—the Guardian—parted his lips as if to deny her request; before he could speak, she pushed, somehow. Her intentions—her thoughts—carried power. She didn’t know exactly what that meant, but she did know she could make him say yes.
 	Then he blinked, and he told the soldier to form a bodyguard around the two of them. Andreas kept glancing at her, as if he knew something was up, but he didn’t know what. The disorienting, manic high she had first felt at the Pale thrummed through her as they were fitted with vests and Andreas was given a radio. Then he knocked on the door and spoke kindly to the woman, launching into hostage-crisis speak. He was good at it. He was charming her magickally; maybe she knew it and maybe she didn’t. The odor of the wood smoke from the chimney changed, and magick permeated the air.
 	Then they were in. The house was simply furnished, and a box of disposable diapers sat next to the door. The woman was around Meg’s age—twenty-eight, give or take—and she was holding the silent, unmoving baby against her body, as the Erl King had held little Garriet. Holy shit, she had a Glock in her hand, the weight of which must be wearing her down. It wouldn’t be long before she surrendered.
 	Her name was Brigitte, and her eyes were bloodshot. Her face was swollen with crying. She ticked her glance from Andreas to Meg and leaned her head against the baby’s head. The baby looked like any normal little baby, with a wisp of strawberry hair and those mirrorlike gray eyes of newborns. Younger than Garriet, then? She could smell the smoky magickal scent of him, like ozone before lightning.
 	“He doesn’t want to go with you,” the woman said to Andreas. In German, of course.
 	Andreas began to reply, but Meg spoke first.
 	“Ich weiss.” I know.
 	Andreas looked at Meg sharply. She ignored him, focusing all her attention on the woman. Brigitte. Before Meg knew what was happening, her mind filled with the image of the baby in the desert, and of Matty … and of the Erl King, nodding at her.
 	Had it been so hideous in Mexico that the mother had had to cross? So terrifying in Matty’s hospital room that their mom couldn’t cross?
 	What lay beyond the Pale?
 	I crossed the tape in the dungeon, she thought. I don’t think I was supposed to be able to do that.
 	Meg heard Andreas’s thoughts, echoing in her head: This poor woman is crazy with grief. She’s trying to substitute the little monster for her little boy. Crazy, crazy.
 	And then Meg thought about the possible desperation of the Erl King. Was he a cunning monster, salting the world with genocidal dictators and serial killers? Or a coyote, finding places for the children of the desperate?
 	Or something else altogether?
 	In the house:
 	It all happened so fast.
 	Meg reached out her hand to Brigitte. Andreas watched, hand on his radio. She knew dozens of weapons were cocked and ready.
 	Brigitte held her breath.
 	Meg nodded her head, once.
 	Brigitte exhaled and gave Meg the Glock.
 	“Gut,” Andreas said, grunting his approval as he held out his hand to Meg for the weapon. He said into the radio, “Achtung, hier spricht—”
 	Then Meg raised it and aimed it point-blank at his face. “Tell them to back away,” she ordered him. “Now.”
 	But he didn’t. First he tried to reason with her, and then he started to warn the SWAT team. So she knocked him out with the Glock, hard across his temple.
 	“Was?” Brigitte whispered, thunderstruck.
 	“Come with me. Now,” Meg ordered her.
   	Oh, come and go with us …

 	Silently, she and Brigitte went out the front door, holding the baby. Brigitte began sobbing. The snow was pouring down. The soldiers couldn’t really see what was happening. The first one to approach her asked her if Andreas was coming out.
 	“Ja,” she told him, sounding unnaturally calm. “He’s securing the interior. Get us to the Mercedes. The woman stays with us.”
 	The soldier complied. They were halfway to the car when Andreas’s voice crackled over the radio: “Stop them!”
 	Meg burst into action, clocking the soldier on her right with the Glock, grabbing his Uzi, aiming it at the solider on Brigitte’s left. He backed away, yelling. She swept a circle, shooting blam blam blam; the Uzi was her weapon. She covered Brigitte as the woman sprinted to the vehicle.
 	Meg heard Andreas’s thoughts: Gone mad when she hit the Pale; she’s under his control; what’s happening; will we have to kill her?
 	Now the soldiers were opening fire, but something surged around her, protecting the three of them as she charged to the driver’s side, yanked open the door, and dragged him out. Jerking him toward herself, she kneed him; as he crumpled, she aimed her elbow at his Adam’s apple. He fell backward far enough for her to leap in, slam the door, and peel out.
 	What would they do? Pursue? Kill an innocent civilian and a Ritter—one of their own? She didn’t know how to drive in snow; she kept swerving. She flew along the road, with no thought but to save the baby from the dungeon. Death in a U-Haul, in a cell beneath a castle. Brigitte was screaming. The baby was silent.
   	Oh, come and go with us …

 	Down a lane, up into the forest. Horns were blaring; sirens. Gunfire erupted.
 	“What are you doing? What’s happening?” Brigitte shrieked.
 	She felt another surge, like a mania, and kept driving, sliding all over the icy road.
   	Where death never touches us.

 	Vertigo washed over her, and she reeled. Lights pinwheeled across the windshield. Part of her wondered just how this had happened; the other part of her believed it was all connected, inevitable. Even down to Matty.
 	Suddenly she was thrown forward, hard, then backward. The car stopped moving. They’d hit something. Light flared around her; she couldn’t see out.
 	“Are you all right? Is the baby all right?” she shouted in German, but Brigitte was still screaming.
 	Meg fumbled for the Glock. The rear window shattered. She couldn’t hear anything as she flattened herself against the seat and searched for the gun. Her surroundings slid into white light, white noise. Despite the danger and the stakes—or maybe because of them—excitement tripled her heart rate.
 	There. She wrapped her hand around the weapon, then cracked the door and rolled out. A bullet zinged past her cheek. She dove into the snow, making herself harder to hit as she tried to take aim in the darkness. Pine boughs bobbed overhead; she’d slammed the car into a tree.
 	Light shimmered and whirled. Light shot up to the sky, in geysers, and silver songs exploded all round her. Her heartbeat went off the charts; her euphoria skyrocketed. She had to fight to stop shaking the Glock, double-fisting it, panting.
   	Where death never touches us.

 	She took aim, took pause, and tried to think about what she was really doing.
 	Saving him.
 	She fired off a round. How many did she have left?
 	Nearly blind—again—she was able to see that something had dropped in the snow. A soldier. She had hit a man. And he had been aiming his crossbow at her, not his Uzi. As if she were magick.
 	On her elbows, she scrabbled forward, reaching for the weapon.
 	The lights dampened; the silvery songs faded. She turned around and saw the glowing green light behind her, and the Great Hunt roared into focus. The goblins, the horses, the dogs … and the Erl King. His black mask gazed at her; his antlers burned at the tips. He was holding a swaddled baby in one arm, against his chest. Did the baby move? Meg couldn’t tell.
   	Oh, come and go with us.

 	Brigitte was still in the car, shrieking and crazed. Meg didn’t know if she could see the Great Hunt.
 	“No bullets can touch me,” Meg decreed, in German, and Latin. English, and Spanish. “Nothing can touch me.”
 	Meg reached into the car and yanked the changeling out of Brigitte’s hands. He was so light. He smelled like smoke.
 	The car fell deeper into the snow as bullets shot out the tires. She raced back across the Pale, assaulted on all sides by the colors, the singing—a kaleidoscope. Behind her, Brigitte ran yelling; a soldier came up beside her and threw himself protectively over her.
 	Flailing, Meg staggered forward, holding out the baby. She lifted the crossbow, to show the Erl King that she had it. No bolts, she realized belatedly, but she wasn’t about to let him know.
 	“Trade!” she yelled.
 	The goblins put spurs to their horses, heading toward her; the hellish dogs snarled and snapped. The Erl King held up his hand. The human baby in his arms squirmed.
 	Armor clanked.
 	Horses chuffed.
 	The ratatatat of the firefight died away.
 	In the silence, vibrant, multihued light formed a wall behind the Great Hunt. Then it undulated and wove together, descending, resting on Meg’s shoulders like a cloak of many colors. It was warm, almost too hot, and it wrapped around her like body armor.
 	The Erl King walked his charger forward and lowered his hand toward her. He leaned down in his saddle, extending his arm.
   	Oh, come and go with us.

 	He looked at her hard through his blank black mask. And she understood—not all of it—but she knew that there were lines he, too, could not cross.
 	Lines that she could cross.
 	At the moment, precisely why, or how, or what that meant, didn’t matter. So she took his hand, and he hoisted her up behind himself in the saddle, magickally, so that the baby in her arms was never disturbed. Then somehow, she was holding both babies, feather light, and as they squirmed, they opened their eyes and looked at her. The changeling baby trilled, and the human baby cooed.
 	As she settled in behind the Erl King, the colors and lights were nothing compared to his radiance, and the heat of his body as she gripped the horse’s flanks with her thighs and held the babies for dear life.
   	Oh, come and go with us.

 	Where death never touches us.

 	For dear life.
 	“Giddyap,” she said, and the Erl King’s horse shot into a full gallop. Then it broke into a run, hooves sparking against the snowy ground. The hellhounds belled and bayed, spewing flames. The goblins capered and gibbered; and they laughed.
 	Maybe someday she could save Matty, too.
 	The Great Hunt soared through the night, far beyond the Pale.