He pushed through the door that joined the rear, private residence part of the bookstore to the public portion.

I followed, hot on his heels. It was dark outside, drizzly with a light fog beyond the tall windows, and the interior was lit only by the soft amber glow of the recessed lights I left on all the time so the store would never be fully dark.

“Jericho Barrons,” an elegantly cultured voice said.

“Who the fuck are you?” Barrons demanded.

I caught up with Barrons just in time to see a man step from the shadows in the rear conversation area.

He walked toward us, offering his hand. “I am Pieter Van de Meer.”

Long and lean, with the impeccable posture of a man trained in martial arts, he was in his mid to late forties. Blond hair framed a Nordic face with deep-set pale-green eyes. He had the quietly watchful air of a snake, coiled but not about to strike unless he had to.

“Take one more step and I’ll kill you,” Barrons said.

The man paused, looking surprised and impatient. “Mr. Barrons, we don’t have time for this.”

“I’ll decide what we have time for. What are you doing here?”

“I’m with the Triton Group.”

“So?”

“Let us not play games. You know who we are,” the man chided.

“You own the abbey, among other things. I don’t like your kind.”

“Our kind?” Pieter Van de Meer afforded a small smile. “We have watched you for centuries, Mr. Barrons. We are not a ‘kind.’ You are.”

“And why am I not killing you now?” Barrons purred.

“Because ‘my kind’ is often useful, and you’ve long sought a way to infiltrate our ranks. You never succeeded. You are curious about us. I’ve brought something for the girl. It’s time for the truth.”

“What would anyone in the Triton Group know of truth?”

“If you will not hear me out with any degree of objectivity, perhaps you will listen to someone else.”

“Get out of my store right now and I’ll let you live. This time. There won’t be another.”

“We can’t do that. You’re on the cusp of making a grave mistake, and we have been forced to show our hand. It’s her choice. Not yours.”

“Who is us?” I’d been alternately eyeing Pieter and peering into the dimly lit conversation area, keeping a careful watch on the other figure seated there. There wasn’t enough light to make out her features, but there was enough that I knew it was a woman. I had butterflies in my stomach and a strong sense of foreboding.

Pieter’s pale-green eyes drifted from Barrons to me. His features softened.

I was instantly uneasy. He was looking at me like he knew me. I didn’t know this man. I’d never seen him before in my life.

“MacKayla,” he said gently. “How lovely you are. But I knew you would be. Letting you go was the hardest thing we ever did.”

“Who the hell are you?” I didn’t like him. Not one bit.

He extended a hand toward the person on the sofa.

She rose and stepped into the light.

I gaped.

Although time had worked delicate changes on her face, softening the jaw, brushing creases at the corners of the eyes and mouth, and her hair was much shorter now, barely brushing her shoulders, there was no doubt who she was.

Blond hair, blue eyes, beautiful. I’d seen her, twenty years younger, standing guard in a warded corridor at the abbey. She’d said: You do not belong here. You are not one of us.

I was looking at the last known leader of the Haven, Alina’s mother.

Isla O’Connor.

“How—what—” I stammered.

“Please forgive me.” The plea was soft in her words, anguished in her eyes. “You must know it was necessary. I had no choice.”

Barrons said, “You died. I saw you. You were in a coma. I went to your funeral.”

I jerked. He’d just confirmed it. She was Isla O’Connor. I didn’t know why I cared. She wasn’t my mother. Alina had been her only child. I was the Unseelie King.

“It’s a long story,” she said.

Barrons shook his head. “And one we’re not listening to.”

“But you must. Or you’ll make a terrible mistake,” Pieter said grimly. “And MacKayla will pay for it.”

“He’s right. We need to talk now, before it’s too late.” Isla didn’t seem to be able to take her eyes off me. “You want to hear it, don’t you?”

I shook my head. I didn’t trust myself to speak. How did I keep getting so brutally blindsided by life? When we’d walked into the Silver, I’d fully expected to walk out the other side, get in a car, and go driving around, hunting for the Sinsar Dubh.

Not for one moment had I entertained the possibility that Isla O’Connor might be waiting for us in the bookstore, long black limousine parked out front, a wide-shouldered chauffeur by the passenger doors, scanning the street up and down. I was willing to bet that beneath that dark uniform I’d find a gun or two. What was the Triton Group, besides the company that owned the abbey? Why did Barrons dislike them so much? What was Isla—one more person who was supposed to be dead but wasn’t—doing here?

Her fine-boned features crumpled and tears spilled down her cheeks. “Oh, darling, giving you up was the hardest thing I ever did. If you will hear nothing else from me, hear that. You were my baby. My sweet, helpless baby, and they said you were going to doom the world. They would have killed you if they’d known about you! Both my daughters were in danger. We all knew about the prophecy. Knew it had been foretold that sisters would be born to one of the most potent bloodlines. Rowena was watching me. She’d hated me since the day my talents began to manifest. She wanted her daughter, Kayleigh, to become Haven Mistress, wanted the O’Reillys to run the abbey forever. She never forgave Nana for turning her back on the order. She would have done anything to get rid of me. If she’d known I was pregnant again … I had no choice. I had to give you up and go away, pretend to be dead.”

“You weren’t pregnant when I helped you leave the abbey,” Barrons said coolly.

“Nearly five months. I carried well and dressed to hide it. It was a miracle my baby wasn’t injured when I escaped. I was so afraid I would lose her.” More tears spilled.

I was still shaking my head. I didn’t seem to be able to stop.

“Oh, MacKayla! It was torture every day, knowing you were out there, being raised by someone else, knowing that I could never see you or Alina again without putting you in danger. But you’re here now, and you’re about to do something that would have terrible consequences. It’s time for the lies to stop. You need to know the truth.”

I shoved my fists in my pockets and turned away.

“Don’t turn your back on me,” she cried. “I’m your mother!”

“Rainey Lane is my mother.”

“Unkind and unfair,” Pieter said. “You aren’t even giving her a chance.”

“Why do you care?” I said irritably.

“Because I’m her husband, MacKayla. And your father.”

I had brothers: Pieter, Jr., who was nineteen, and Michael—everyone called him Mick—who was sixteen. They showed me pictures. We looked alike. Even Barrons seemed rattled.

“We staged your mother’s death, cremated a Jane Doe, and smuggled the two of you from the country. Took you to the States and did our best to find you a good home far from danger.” Pieter took Isla’s hand and clasped it between his own. “Your mother nearly didn’t survive it. She didn’t speak for months afterward.”

“Oh, Pieter, I knew it had to be done. It was just—”

“Hell,” he said flatly. “It was absolute hell giving them up.”

I jerked. They were saying all the things I wanted to hear. It was breaking my heart. I had parents. Brothers. I’d been born. I belonged. I only wished Alina had lived to see this day. It would have been perfect.

“You said you had something important to tell her. Say it and get out,” Barrons ordered.

I looked at Barrons, torn. Part of me wanted to tell him to be quiet so I could hear more, and part of me wanted them to go away and never come back. I’d just gotten my head wrapped around one reality. Now they wanted me to abandon that reality and embrace a new one. How many times was I supposed to decide who I knew and what I was, only to learn I was wrong? I was no longer feeling bipolar, I was feeling schizophrenic, with multiple personalities.