Emer made sure to be late when she returned to the river the next morning. In fact, it was surely past midday when she arrived, and as she approached, she scanned the opposite bank for the stranger. Not seeing him, she was both relieved as well as disappointed, but she soon realized her assumption he'd be in the same place was a mistake when he stepped out from behind the trees next to her.

Her horse startled, and the man lifted a hand to calm him, apologizing for causing the animal's fright. Emer slid from her horse and immediately wished she hadn't; the man was much taller than she was, and on her horse, she would've felt more empowered, but it would look stupid to get back on right after getting off. She stared at him in wonder. The nearest crossing was at least a day's ride. But she wasn't altogether upset that he'd made it to her side.

"You are late, lady," he said, his voice soothing and stimulating at the same time. He looked so seriously at her that for a moment, Emer really believed he was angry.

She didn't know what to say, but she regained her composure. No person was going to sway her. "It seems you're early."

"The sun is falling."

"Well, if you'd stayed long enough the last time, you'd have heard me say I prefer an afternoon swim every other day." She met his gaze, and after a moment his mouth softened into an almost-smile.

He took the liberty of securing her white, dappled horse to a tree. "It's a handsome animal you have, here."

"Not so much as yours," she admitted, looking past him to his black stallion, standing calmly some ways away. "He's beautiful."

"Aye."

Emer watched him, noticing he was dressed in the same manner as the day before. She herself had for once allowed her servant woman to braid her hair, and she'd selected a vibrant green dress. "Who are you?" she couldn't help but ask.

The man stopped petting her horse and became serious again. "My mother called me Setanta. You may do the like." He indicated her with a nod of his head. "And yours? Or do you have a name?"

"Why wouldn't I?" What a strange person he was, Emer thought.

"I've wondered if you aren't one of the fae folk, or a merrow."

Emer raised an eyebrow. "And why would you think that?"

"Aren't they found in forests and waters, waiting to tempt a man to trouble?"

Smiling in spite of herself, Emery shifted her weight. "Is that right? You think I'm tempting you to trouble?"

The glitter in Setanta's eyes hinted at mischief. "That remains to be seen."

The girl warmed. "I am called Emer."

"And will you swim today, Emer?"

Her name from his lips gave her pleasure. "Swim? When you're standing right here? Aren't you the one tempting me to trouble, then?"

"So it is a lady, before me," he replied, avoiding answering her. "Lady Emer." He turned and took several steps to the side as if thinking. "I believe I've heard your name."

"From whom?"

"A mysterious woman locked in a tower, whose beauty rivals that of a Goddess, whose grace and charm know no match. She waits, forlorn, for a lover to take her from her prison. This is what the poets sing of."

Emer was sure she reddened. Whether he was serious or not, the words he used--they were so brazen. "Aren't you presumptuous?" she scolded, and he stopped moving and looked at her, that same roguishness about him. "I'll have you know I've never been locked in a tower, I'm hardly much to look at, and I'm certainly lacking in grace and charm or any of the like. So you've heard stories, only, or tales of other ladies in towers." She was fired up, but catching his eye suddenly cooled her, and she lost her confidence. "And--and I will ask you to be more modest in your conversation with me."

"What of the lover?"

Emer shook her head, flustered. "What?"

"You denied the tower and the beauty and the grace, but you didn't deny the lover. Are you waiting for one, then?"

Shocked, Emer gasped at his impertinence. She had never had a man--or anyone--speak to her so freely. In fact, at Luglochta Loga, no one really spoke to her at all. Her servant woman told stories from time to time, more due to the sort of repetitive self-talk older people fall into, and the other servants and residents of the tower did little more than greet her. One servant in particular--Peadar was his name--seemed to have a strange aversion toward her, even, and went out of his way to avoid her. So she had had few conversations with anyone beyond Forgall himself, and he, too, seemed always detached with her. But this man, Setanta . . . she had no idea how to respond to him except to go to her horse and try to untie him as if to leave.

The man seemed to realize he'd crossed a line, though, and inclined his head. "Lady, I apologize. I am too bold."

Her fingers were useless at untying whatever knot Setanta had used to secure her horse, but she kept trying because she was agitated and embarrassed. She cried out in frustration and suddenly, the man had placed his hand atop her frantic fingers, as if to calm them. His touch made everything in her tremble.

"Emer, I beg you. Do not go."

Her eyes met his and noticed the fine, copper-colored lines flowering from his pupils, into the emerald of his irises. She was anxious at being close enough to see such detail, but she couldn't move her hands out from under his.

"I will be courteous, Lady. I swear it."

As close as he was, she couldn't help but appreciate his comeliness. But that alone made her nervous. The feelings she was experiencing--she'd felt nothing like them before. She didn't know how to react, what to say. "Untie my horse," was all she could manage.

And he, frowning, reluctantly obeyed. Setanta said nothing as she climbed back atop her steed, and Emer felt a sense of justice in knowing she'd caused him a bit of grief. But she was drawn to him, more so than she'd ever been drawn to anything or anyone, and she couldn't pretend that she didn't want to see him again . . . and maybe again and again. So before she took off, she looked down at him and said, "I will be here tomorrow, in the morning, and any day after that . . . if you wish to meet again."

And before turning away, she assured herself of the relief and satisfaction on his face.

Emery's eyes opened from her memory to find Charlie leaning over her, looking eerily hungry. She startled immediately, shoved him away, and rolled off the bed.

He seemed to take no offense and stayed where he was, lying on his side, head propped up with one of his hands. "Was it everything you hoped it would be?" he intoned, obviously mocking her.

She didn't respond. She wasn't sure how this worked, anyway, whether Charlie could actually see the memory along with her. If he could, that was weird and uncomfortable and she didn't want to think about it. If he couldn't, he didn't deserve to know about it. In either case, she wasn't going to talk to him about what she'd seen or felt. But oh--she loved remembering. Cullen had been so unlike the way he'd been when they'd first spoken the night of that party, when Adam had disappeared. He'd hardly been able to speak to her at all. No doubt it'd been because he was anxious; Emery hadn't remembered him, he was out of his time and place . . . he'd told her that since she'd lost her memory, he'd been afraid that she didn't love him anymore, because she couldn't remember why she'd loved him in the first place. The memories she'd had made her love him even more.

And she certainly wasn't going to tell that to Charlie, who already knew he had a power over her with this ability to give her back her memories.

"How can you do that--show me my memories? Is it because you were the one who took them away?"

Rolling his eyes, Charlie sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed. "That was Carman's curse, Emery. I had nothing to do with it. It wasn't until I found her and forced answers from her that I even knew what she'd done to you. But her magic was weak. If I wanted, I could snap my fingers, and you'd have everything back at once."

Emery couldn't help but show her excitement at that comment, and he caught it.

Grinning, Charlie stood to face her, did that thing where he got right up in her face. (He had zero respect for personal boundaries.) "Don't hold out hope for that, now that I know how to pull your strings . . . how to dominate you."

"Ok, gross. Can we just go, now?"

He stepped back, scrutinized her. "You need to clean yourself, first. Take a shower; put on this dress I brought you." He picked up a white garment and held it out to her.

"What? No! That is so rude. I am not dirty, and even if I haven't showered in a while, so what? I thought these people wanted to see me so bad, and now you're telling me to waste more time? Plus, that's super creepy. Why do I--"

"You will do as I say," he cut her off, and little circles of white light glowed within his eyes. "You agreed, and I meant what I said about what will happen if you go back on your promise."

"But I don't understand--"

"You don't need to." They were at a standstill for a brief moment, but then Emery noticed the fingers of his right hand, hanging at his side, were blackening, elongating slowly, talons extending toward the ground, and he added, "There are children playing, not so far from here. Need I prove my sincerity?"

Emery was enraged and humiliated, but she took the dress he held out and, fuming, stormed into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind her.

Why had Adam told her to give in to Charlie? Had the memory been worth it? While she removed her clothing, she thought of Cullen giving her that false name--Setanta. Why had he done that? Would Emer have known the name Cuchulain? And his audacity--Emery smiled remembering the way he'd spoken to her, asked her if she was waiting for a lover. Though she was alone and angry, she looked in the mirror, saw her cheeks had reddened. But catching her expression made her frown, suddenly. This was no time to be distracted. Charlie was outside that door, and she wanted nothing more than to be done with whatever it was he wanted her to do. So she slipped beyond the curtain and took the quickest shower of her life.

When she was done, she pulled on the white dress, which was strange. It was almost like an old-timey nightgown, and it was a little too thin for her comfort, but she wasn't going to argue with Charlie and drive him to hurt a child. She slipped her dagger into its hilt, under her dress. She'd been wearing her belt with its dagger hilt the night he'd taken her and had kept it on since that time, always under a shirt; it gave her a sense of security. Her hair was soaking wet, which got the back of the dress all damp, but she didn't care. If these people were going to make her shower before she met them--which was degrading in and of itself--then it was their fault if her hair was wet.

As obstinate and undaunted as Emery pretended to be, she knew, looking into her own dark eyes in the mirror, that she was terrified. Charlie had said these people wouldn't hurt her unless she let them, and Adam had told her to go along with it, but none of it made sense. She just had to be sure not to consent to anything they wanted . . . that's what Adam had told her. Go with The Dark Man, meet the "them" he wanted her to meet, and consent to nothing. She thought she could do that, and yet there were so many what ifs. What if they threatened to harm someone else, as Charlie had? What if they locked her in some even darker hole until she gave in to them? And what did they want from her, anyway? This all seemed so ridiculous, so pointless. Who was she, to make so much trouble over? She was no heroine, no warrior, no princess, no chosen one. She was nothing at all except a nobody who wasn't murdered as other children were. How did that make her exceptional in any way? And if it did somehow make her exceptional, that thought was almost more frightening.

"Come out, now," Charlie ordered from the other side of the door, "or I'll come in."

Emery shut her eyes against her image, took a deep breath, turned, and left the bathroom. Charlie's expression when she stepped out disturbed her. "What?" she asked.

He had one arm propped on the other, a hand at his chin, was looking her up and down. "I wish I had another fawn--you look too pure."

"You told me to put this on."

Charlie laughed. "It's a masquerade, anyhow. But they prefer things to appear . . . ceremonial. And even I have to admit, seeing you like this--I have an irresistible urge to contaminate you."

Emery had to fight back her disgust and anger. She hated this--she hated him--so much, but Adam had said . . . and she had promised . . . "Just shut up and let's go. I don't want anything to do with you, anymore."

"Always that fire, Em," he laughed. But, thankfully, he went to the bunker door and slid it aside. Then he returned to her and, to her surprise, told her to step up and out of it. When Emery stood at the bottom of the stairs and looked up into the square of dim light, her heart quickened. Was he really letting her out? Finally? And she got to go first? Clearly, he wasn't concerned about her running away or yelling for help, and when she ascended the steps of the bunker, she saw why. The skies above were gray and dark and cold, and everywhere she looked were latent fields which seemed to go on for miles before meeting distant treelines. When Emery stepped entirely out of the bunker, she looked behind her and saw a massive farmhouse, old and wooden, in need of a fresh coat of paint but otherwise impressive, and beyond that was a barn in disrepair as well as a rusting silo. Farm equipment sat randomly around the buildings, and where Emery stood right then, on the dirt in her bare feet, appeared to be the backyard of the farmhouse before a fence separated it from the fields beyond. A swingset and other children's toys littered the yard, but other than a few birds pecking about the yard, there were no signs of life.

She'd been in a storm shelter, as she'd assumed. And they were in the middle of nowhere. But they were at someone's house. And that someone had children. Emery looked sideways at Charlie as he climbed out and stood beside her. "Oh, don't worry," he said, understanding her thoughts. "They aren't exactly capable of revealing our whereabouts. I made sure of that when we arrived."

Emery did not want elaboration, and she was relieved that he didn't offer any. Instead, he led her to the front of the farmhouse, where a car was waiting. The girl had to do a double-take; it was the exact same car he'd had back in their other life. It just struck her as odd, but she didn't question it. She didn't even know what time of year it was, but the frost on everything was not encouraging, and she was freezing standing there in that stupid nightgown with no shoes or coat, hair dripping down her back, so when Charlie opened the passenger door for her, she got in without question. Once he'd taken the driver's seat and told her smirkingly to buckle up, though, she couldn't help but ask what was on her mind:

"Why are we driving? Aren't you supposed to be powerful?"

"Ever the charmer, Emery," he sneered. "I've been advised not to be ostentatious unless necessary. This world believes in nothing but is suspicious of everything."

Something occurred to her. "Your masters--or them, or whatever--they're here? In this world?"

Charlie pulled the car onto a two-lane road. "For now. But I don't want to hear your voice. Don't talk the rest of the way."

Gladly, Emery thought, her stomach turning at the thought of where they'd end up.