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“Welcome, Brighid. You’ve left me speechless,” I said over the end of Oberon’s mockery. She might wonder what I was thinking.

“Atticus,” she purred. I’m not kidding—she purred at me. Brighid can not only beat Hank Azaria at producing voices, she can do multiple voices at the same time. She can sing three-part harmony all by herself in addition to the lead. It comes in handy when she’s crooning ballads as the goddess of poetry, and now I saw—or rather felt—how it could be used for other purposes. “I hope I have not come at an inconvenient time,” she said in voices evocative of rose hips, caramel, and silk. It made me feel warm inside but I shivered outwardly, like a tuning fork quivering in hot chocolate.

“Not at all. Won’t you please come in?” I stepped aside and gestured for her to enter, the Bronze Age host once more.

“Thank you,” she cooed as she slunk by, a shimmering vision of soft blues and pulsing gold. Damn.

She flicked her eyes around the edges of my living room. “Your modern home is interesting.”

“Thank you. May I offer you any refreshment after your long journey from Tír na nÓg?”

“Ale, if you have any, would be splendid.”

“Coming right up.” I shot forward into the kitchen, beckoning her to follow, and grabbed a couple of Newcastles out of the fridge, tucked back behind the Stellas. She thanked me as I handed her one, then said, “There has been much unrest in Tír na nÓg since you slew Aenghus Óg. His confederates finally revealed themselves, and I was forced to spend some small time putting them to rout. They waged a propaganda war too, if you can believe it.”

I nodded. “I can believe it. What sort of nonsense did they spew?”

“Chief among their complaints was my lack of consort,” Brighid snorted, “as if Bres ever did anything useful or practical in his long life. All he did was sit there and look pretty. He was a pretty man,” she sighed, and then her face drew down into a tiny frown. “And a petty man.”

Where Bres was concerned, I had nothing to say. I’d killed him, yet here was his widow in my kitchen, spreading a wee bit of shit on his memory and dressed for epic bed sport. I couldn’t even manage a noncommittal grunt. There are no etiquette books that cover this particular situation, so I just took a long pull on my beer.

“But you are not petty, are you?”

“It would be rude of me to say yes when you put it like that.”

She laughed richly at my lame joke, and I finally understood what Chris Matthews meant when he said on national television that he felt a thrill go up his leg. I could think of nothing to do except take another long drink to disguise my reaction.

“No, you are not petty. And you have a sense of humor as well. Bres had none. That is why I think you should be my new consort.”

I sprayed a mouthful of beer onto the linoleum.

Oberon said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I must have surprised you,” Brighid said.

I put my thumb and index finger together with a couple centimeters of space between them. “A bit,” I admitted.

“I suppose it sounds a bit unusual, but, like the Tuatha Dé Danann, you have found the secret to eternal youth. You are more powerful than Bres ever was, and you have proven yourself the equal—nay, the better—of two of our number. With my imprimatur and aegis, none will dispute your right to rule by my side, and certainly none will dispute whom I choose to take to bed.”

Ignoring the dangerous end of her sentence, I focused on the first part: “Forgive me, Brighid, but it has never been my ambition to rule over anyone.”

“You need not do it, then,” she said, shrugging off my objection. “Bres didn’t do anything either. It’s a figurehead position, but the Fae feel that it needs to be filled.”

“I see. And where would I need to be to satisfactorily fill this figurehead