must carry on our work in the vineyards when we’re gone.”
The vine-covered hills at the center of the Satyr compound produced grapes, which were made into wine each season. Labeled Lords of Satyr, it was hotly sought by the wealthy and titled throughout Europe and beyond. Some whispered that Satyr wine possessed magical properties, which it in fact did.
The brothers’ trio of estates was strategically placed at triangulated points along the borders of an ancient forest, like guard towers at three corners of a fortress. At the center of each estate stood an ancient castle with extensive gardens and grounds that met and eventually mingled with the trees of the magnificent old-growth forest. The forest in turn ringed the base of the sloping hills of the vineyards, which formed the central core of their lands.
Theirs was ancient ground chosen by their ancestors for a special purpose—to serve as a sacred joining place for ElseWorld and EarthWorld. In centuries past, many Satyr had secretly dwelled here, protecting the portal that led between worlds. Now there were but three.
Raine flicked a speck of dust from his immaculate jacket, the expression in his gray eyes opaque. “Your offspring are welcome to my share. Let that settle the matter.”
“For now,” Nick relented.
Raine shrugged.
“Then it’s only left to determine which daughter we select,” said Lyon.
“Rome is most convenient for me,” said Nick. “Any objections?”
“None. I’ll take Paris,” said Raine. “Damn, I abhor traveling.”
“Traveling? To Paris? I’ll remind you I’m left with Venice,” said Lyon. “The journey there will be excruciating after the rains.”
Raine quirked an eyebrow. “It should be no hardship since you travel there to meet buyers with regularity.”
“Still, it’s a bad time to be away. Many of my animals are in foal,” said Lyon. “And the vineyards need watching.”
“We can exert enough of our combined Will to bolster the forcewall around Satyr lands for weeks,” said Raine.
“Why take unnecessary risk? It’s my opinion some of us should stay,” said Lyon.
“Agreed,” said Nick. “I will go first. Once I secure my bride, your searches can follow.”
Raine and Lyon assented, and soon thereafter, all three turned to the door.
Once outside, Nick breathed deeply. “The vines begin to awaken. I will make haste.”
Eyes of sapphire blue, ashen gray, and tawny gold locked for a potent moment and then slid apart as the three Lords of Satyr were dispatched into the late morning mist.
2
Tivoli, east of Rome
Two weeks later
She was here.
Excitement thrummed in Nicholas Satyr’s blood as he caught the tantalizing hint of Faerie magic riding on the air.
He surveyed the swarm of humanity at the afternoon festivities now underway in the Renaissance gardens of the Villa d’Este. The wildly integrated assemblage of jugglers, musicians, and costumed artisans mingled with Rome’s social elite. Most had ventured the twenty miles for a day in the country, as he had.
But they had come for different purposes.
Neither the fountains nor the other entertainments on offer held his interest at the moment. He had other business here. The business of finding a specific prey—one who was destined to become his wife.
For the past week, Nick had attended every such social gathering of any consequence in the offing in Rome. It now appeared Feydon had miscalculated. The first of the Faerie brides wasn’t to be found in Rome after all. Today he’d taken a chance he might locate her here, in nearby Tivoli instead. His hunch appeared to have borne fruit.
Still, he’d wasted precious time tracking her in Rome. Thus occupied, he hadn’t buried himself in feminine flesh for days, a considerable dearth for one of Satyr lineage. He would find remedy in the arms of his meretrice—or mistress, as the English more politely called their bought whores—later that evening.
Nick strode into the crowd, his concentration focused on his task. His keen olfactory senses sorted through perfumes and natural Human odors, searching, testing, rejecting.
There was no question King Feydon’s daughter lurked somewhere in this throng of Italian and English society.
But where?
Amid the greenery, enormous hats with dancing plumes vied for attention with swagged, embellished skirts. Since Napoleon’s fall, fashions had turned away from high-waisted, slim-fitting gowns in favor of a more romantic look. Waists were now well cinched, and skirts belled across the landscape like oversize parasols.
His height allowed him to gaze easily across the sea of faces, passing over the male ones and pausing on those of the females. It was unlikely he would know her by sight. She would be hiding any outward manifestations that might betray her parentage, as he did. No, he would have to rely on scent alone.
Pausing at the base of the steep steps leading to the gigantic Water Organ fountain, he looked toward the statue of Bacchus, seeking inspiration. Instinct had him turning to stroll the Avenue of One Hundred Fountains. Here mythological creatures and gargoyles lined the path, spouting and sputtering with cascading waterworks.
He stilled, his interest sharpening. There it was again. A faint but unmistakable Faerie fragrance. He started in its direction, only to be brought up short when a fleshy hand gloved in canary yellow tapped his shoulder.
“I say! That you, Satyr?”
Nick turned to find two couples with whom he had a marginal acquaintance. The persona of respectable aristocrat slipped over him like a carefully constructed cloak. He gave them a polite nod. “Lord and Lady Hillbrook. Signore Rossini, Signora Rossini.”
Today’s event had been organized at Lord Hillbrook’s instigation. Wealthy Englishmen such as he commonly wintered in Italy, often sojourning well into spring to escape England’s chill. But the first hint of Italy’s infamous summer heat always saw them scurrying homeward.
“Unusual to see you at one of our little occasions,” Lord Hillbrook enthused. He stroked his profuse side-whiskers, which pointed in a dozen directions as though uncertain of the direction his conversation might go. “Honored to have you.”
“I don’t visit Tivoli as often as I might like. But as I happened to be here, I wouldn’t miss one of your functions,” Nick commented affably. “’Tis a credit to its hostess.”
Lady Hillbrook preened under his praise. “You Italians are so temperate in your weather. In England it would be difficult to hold an open-air event this time of year, fearing rain.”
“Ah, but there can be such a thing as too much sunshine. Our vines welcome the occasional spring shower,” said Nick. “Too little rain makes for puny grapes.”
“Speaking
