By the time I staggered back to the Full Moon Garage, I was bleeding from a dozen cuts, had gum and other suspicious substances in my hair, and was babying a bad ankle. The pranks had started sometime around noon and gotten less and less playful as the day wore on. I'd slipped and rolled the ankle when one of the little buggers had tipped motor oil down my front and onto the pavement on my feet. I was moving slowly, but if I could make it inside, I could subtly alter the wards to keep the faeries out for the night.

But when I rounded the corner, intent on the front door, I found someone waiting for me. I had a hand on the hilt of my sword, and the blade halfway from its sheath before I recognized the red buzzcut and the bulldog of a man it belonged to. Hendricks was doing his best to look unobtrusive, slumping against the pile of tires that had been stacked high on one side of the garage, keeping in the slanted shadows so as not to be seen. It was a lost cause. He was too big, too broad, and too clearly bad news to not draw the eyes. That was probably why he'd forgone the hat. I was twitchy at the best of times, and the arrival of Marcone's right-hand man never boded well.

Gravel crunched beneath my right foot, betraying my approach. He straightened, eyes wheeling until they found me limping toward the front door. They went wide as he took me in, and he stepped forward, hand out like he might steady me.

"What the hell happened to you? And is that blood?"

I shook my head. "Motor oil. A damned faerie spilled some on me. It's also why I'm limping. I'm pretty sure it's a sprain, not a break, but I won't know for sure until I can get behind my wards and check. Mind giving me a hand?"

Hendricks did me one better and bypassed the hand, scooping me from the ground in one smooth motion, as if I weighed nothing at all. Which might have been a feat for someone else. I was shy of six feet and I'd weighed around a hundred and fifty pounds before I'd even started working out. I'd put on around twenty-plus pounds of muscle in the intervening years, so I sat around a hundred and seventy-five. And yet, I was pretty sure that Hendricks could have bench-pressed twice my weight if called upon to do so.

"Any chance that the faerie could come back?"

"Faeries," I corrected. "And they'll almost certainly be back. They've got beef with me. Well, actually, the problem is the lack of beef. The first and second divisions really like the meat lover's special."

"What?"

I sighed. "Never mind. I've got a headache and I need to put a brace on my foot. I may need stitches, too. You can tell me what Marcone wants when we're inside."

Hendricks shrugged. If what I said confused him, he hid it well. Maybe he'd just gotten used to the more insane aspects of the job by now, and pizza-related gibberish didn't even register on his radar. He adjusted my weight as he approached the door, ready to seize the handle when I'd lowered my wards. But as I gathered my will to undo the network of defensive spells, a hundred pulsing lights crested the roof and dove for our heads. I barely had time to cobble together a shield as the second, third, fourth, and fifth divisions descended toward us, makeshift weapons drawn.

I'd give the Wee Folk credit—they could do aerial maneuvers that would put any ace pilot to shame. Only a handful impacted the shield at full speed and fell to the ground, stunned. The rest braked with astonishing speed and veered off, grazing the edges of the half-circle of power. Some of them avoided it altogether and came darting in at a new angle, aiming for our flanks. We were only feet away from the door, but with this many faeries swarming us, it might as well have been a mile. I couldn't maintain the shield, my pain blocks, and undo my wards while under attack.

From far-off, I heard the shrill blast of an air horn and the tinny shout of, "Charge!"

"What the hell is going on?" Hendricks shouted over the shrill cries of the faeries and the short blasts of the horn.

"A worker's strike," I said grimly.

"What do we do?"

"We find your company car and get the hell out of Dodge. Where are you parked?"

"Close."

"Good. Now run!"