“Back in the store. You didn’t regain consciousness this time, Ms. Lane. I assumed that meant the book was in our immediate vicinity, and unmoving, so I went hunting for it.” He paused. “I had to stop. I wasn’t sure it wasn’t killing you.”
“What do you mean?” Passing out was such a helpless thing. The world went on around you and you had no awareness of it.
“You were … twitching. Rather agitatedly.”
I stared. “What did you do? Toss me over your shoulder and tote me around like a divining rod while I was unconscious?”
“What did you expect me to do? The last time you encountered the Sinsar Dubh it made you pass out, but as soon as it moved away from you, you regained consciousness. It was only logical to conclude that if you weren’t coming around this time, it was because the book wasn’t moving away, which meant we were probably on top of the damned thing. I thought your physical distress might visibly intensify as we got closer, even if you were unconscious. It did, and I was forced to retreat. What the bloody hell good are you if you can sense it, but can’t stay conscious around it?”
“I’ve wondered the same thing myself. I didn’t choose this ability, any more than the stupid parameters accompanying it.” I shivered. Now that the fire inside me was gone, I felt chilled to the bone and my teeth began to chatter. The last time I’d had a near miss with the book I’d felt the same thing, iced to the seat of my soul by the sheer evil of the thing.
He stepped to the fireplace, lit the gas flames, and returned with a blanket. I wrapped myself in it and gingerly sat up.
“Tell me what it feels like when it happens,” he demanded.
I looked at him. For all his solicitude with the fire and the blanket, he was cold, remote, seeing professionally to my needs. I wondered to what extent he’d allowed my “distress” to intensify before retreating. What a quandary it must have been for him to be so close to the Sinsar Dubh, yet afraid that using me to locate it would kill me—before he’d located it—effectively putting his OOP detector permanently out of commission, and losing his advantage in the game.
If he’d had any kind of guarantee of keeping me alive till that last terrible moment, would he have sacrificed me for the book?
I had little doubt on that score. There was violence in him tonight. I could feel it. I had no idea why he wanted it, but I did know this: The Dark Book was the end-all, be-all to Barrons. He was obsessed, and obsessed men are dangerous men. “You’ve never been so close to it before, have you?” I guessed.
“Not that I was aware of,” he said tightly. He whirled suddenly and punched the wall, a compact, careful blow—a controlled release of fury. Bits of plaster and lathing disintegrated around his fist, leaving it buried in the wall to the exterior brick. He leaned against it, breathing heavily. “You have no idea how long I’ve been hunting the cursed thing.”
I went very still. “Why don’t you tell me?” What might he say? Ten years?
Ten thousand?
His laughter was harsh, the brittle sound of chains being dragged across bones. “So, Ms. Lane?” he prompted. “What happens when you get close to it?”
I shook my head, and instantly regretted it. I was sick of Barrons’ evasions, but my headache was a hostile squatter occupying every inch of my head, breaking ground behind my eyes with a pointy-bladed shovel. I closed them. The day was coming when I was going to get my answers, one way or another. For now I’d give him his, in hopes that he might be able to shed light on the glaring problem of my inability to approach the book my sister had demanded that I find in her dying message.
“It hits me so suddenly and with such force that I don’t have time to think about it. All I know is one second I’m fine and the next I’m in such intense pain that I’d do anything to escape it. If it went on for very long and I didn’t pass out, Barrons, I think I’d beg you to kill me.” I opened my eyes. “But it’s more complex than that. It’s as if whatever I’m sensing is an utter anathema to everything I am. As if we’re point and counterpoint, each other’s antithesis. We can’t occupy the same space. Like we’re two magnets that repel, but it repels me with such force that it nearly crushes me.”
“Polar opposites,” he murmured. “I wonder …”
“Wonder what?”
“Dilute the opposite, would it still repel?”
“I don’t see any way to dilute the power of the book, Barrons, and I just don’t see myself getting that much stronger.”
He waited for my brain to catch up.
I scowled. “You mean dilute me? Make me a little evil so maybe the book would let me near? What good would that do? Then I’d be evil and I’d get an evil book and I’d probably do evil things with it. We’d win the battle to lose the war.”
“Perhaps, Ms. Lane, you and I are fighting different wars.”
If he thought becoming evil was a solution, not a problem, he was right, we were.
THIRTEEN
“What the feck is going on in your back alley?”
I glanced up. Dani stood in the doorway of the bookstore with the early afternoon sunlight gilding her auburn curls, bathing her delicate features in light. A sprightly slip of a girl, she was wearing a uniform of light green trousers with a white and green pinstriped poplin shirt, emblazoned on the pocket with a shamrock and the letters PHI. She looked cute and sweet and innocent, and I knew better. I didn’t know which startled me more: her presence, or the sunshine. Both had crept up on me while I’d been reading, absorbed in the day’s news.
I returned my attention to the gruesome story. A man had killed his entire family—wife, kids, stepkids, even their dog—then driven his car halfway across town, straight into a concrete bridge abutment at eighty miles an hour, not far from where Barrons and I had been last night. According to friends, neighbors, and coworkers, no one could explain it. He’d been a loving husband, an excellent employee at the local credit union, and a model father who’d regularly made time for his children’s sporting and academic events. “You want to cuss, Dani,” I told her, “do it around someone else.”
“Feck you,” she retorted.
“Real mature there,” I said, without looking up. “Trying on adulthood by cussing. You and a gazillion other teens. Do something original.” Back home, I’d rarely read anything other than the Sunday paper, specifically the lifestyle and fashion sections. Had crimes like these always been going on, and I’d just never noticed? Had I been so criminally oblivious?
Dani wheeled her bike in the door. “I don’t have to do something original, I am original.” She hesitated. “So, what’s going on out back?”
I shrugged. “You mean the cars? No clue.” I wasn’t about to admit to someone who was plugged into the sidhe-seer community that I’d stolen a Fae Hallow and in the process gotten sixteen humans killed. I’d been reading up on the paranormal and it appeared there was a golden rule: Harm no innocents, and humans somehow seemed to unilaterally get accorded that status, an irony heavily underscored by the newspaper I was reading.
“No. I meant the half-wiped Grug.”
“Grug?”
She described it, what was left of it. “I call them Rhino-boys.” I dropped the paper. “There’s one out back, half eaten?”
She nodded and her lips quirked. “Rhino-boys, I get that. They’re gray and lumpy and make that funny noise in the back of their throats.”
“Is Grug their Unseelie caste name?” Was this true sidhe-seer lore? I was starving for it. I wanted explanations, rules. I wanted someone to take my life and make sense out of it. I wanted a Sidhe-Seer Compendium.
She shrugged. “We don’t know squat about the Unseelie. It’s just what we call them. I like your name better. So, you gonna finish it off, or do you get off on torturing ’em? What do you do with the other parts? Keep ’em in a jar or something?” She glanced around, looking for those jars with an expression that said simultaneously “I’m so bored” and “Hey, way cool.”
“Oh, God, you think I—No, Dani, I
don’t get off on torturing them! I didn’t know it was out there.” It bothered me immensely that something big and bad enough to eat Unseelie had been nearby, and I’d not even known it. It bothered me more that Dani thought I was so twisted. Who was this kid’s role model? Where did she get her ideas? TV? Video games? Kids these days seem both dangerously impressionable and dangerously desensitized, as if their lives have somehow assumed comic book proportions, ergo, comic book relevance—or a complete lack thereof. If I had to read about one more group of teenage boys killing a homeless person and saying, “I don’t know why we did it, it was like … hey, you know … that Internet game we play,” I was going to start stabbing humans with my spear, golden rule be damned. “Did you kill it?” I asked.
“With what?” She poked out a slim hip. “You see a sword tucked into this uniform? Strapped on my bike somewhere?”
“A sword?” I blinked. Surely she didn’t mean the sword. “You mean the Seelie Hallow, the sword of light?” I’d read about it in my research; it was the only other weapon capable of killing Fae. “That’s what you’ve been getting your forty-seven kills with? You have it?”
She gave me a smug look.
“How on earth did you get it?” According to the last book I’d read, it had been in the custody of the Seelie Queen herself!
The smug look faded a little.
I narrowed my eyes. “Rowena gave it to you.” From her crestfallen expression, I continued guessing, “And she keeps it, and doesn’t let you carry it much, does she?”
Dani scowled and propped her bike against the wall. “She thinks I’m too fecking young. I’ve killed more Fae than all her other little kiss-ass acolytes she sends out combined, and still she treats me like a child!” She stomped over to the counter, and looked me up and down. “I bet you can’t kill the Grug. I bet Rowena’s wrong about you. What kind of special powers do you have? I don’t see anything special about you.”
Without another word I skirted the cashier counter, pushed through the connecting doors, and headed for the rear of the store.
What was eating Unseelie outside my bedroom window? I didn’t like it one bit. It was bad enough that I had to worry about Shades and whatever was beneath the garage but now I had to worry about a monster-muncher, too. Nor did I like that such a thing had happened twice now, with me in the immediate vicinity. Were such macabre feasts taking place across the city and I just didn’t know it because I wasn’t getting out much? Or was it happening specifically around me? Was it coincidence, or something more?
I pushed open the back door and scanned the alley, left and right.
It took me a few moments to spot it. Nearly two-thirds of it was gone and what remained—the head, shoulders, and stump of a torso—had been tossed into an overflowing Dumpster. Like the mangled Fae in the graveyard, it was in obvious agony.
I hurried down the stairs, scrambled up the small mountain of trash, and crouched over it. “What did this to you?” I demanded. No mercy killing this time. I wanted information in exchange.
It opened its mouth, made a wordless, whimpering sound, and I turned away. In addition to having no hands or arms left, it had no tongue. Whatever had stopped short of devouring it meant for it to suffer, and had left it unable to speak or communicate in any way.
I removed the spear from the holster I’d rigged beneath my jacket this morning, and stabbed it. It died with a rank gust of icy breath.
When I clambered back down the pile of refuse, Dani was waiting for me, wide-eyed. “You have the spear,” she said reverently. “And what an awesome holster! It’s so compact I could carry it around all the time, everywhere. I could kill them twenty-four/seven! Are you superfast?” she demanded. “If not, I should probably have that spear.” She reached for it.
I put it behind my back. “Kid, you try to touch my spear, I’ll do worse things to you than you’ve ever seen done.” I had no idea what I was talking about, but I suspected if anyone tried to take the spear from me, that savage Mac inside, the one that hated pink and hadn’t particularly minded watching the Rhino-boy flail in eternal pain, might do something we’d both regret. Well, at least one of us would regret. I was becoming too complicated for my own peace of mind. Would Dani try to take it with her superspeed? Would I find something in that hot, alien place in my skull to fight her with?
“I’m not a kid. When are you fecking grown-ups going to see that?” Dani snapped, turning away.
“When you stop acting like one. Why did you come here?”
“You’re in trouble,” she tossed over her shoulder. “Rowena wants to see you.”
Turned out PHI was not the twenty-third letter in the Greek alphabet but Post Haste, Inc. Courier Services, and Dani a delivery girl, explaining the uniform and bike.
It was two in the afternoon on Thursday, when I hung my Closed Early placard on the bookstore door and locked up. “Shouldn’t you be in school, Dani?”
“I’m home-schooled. Most of us are.”
“What does your mom think about you running around killing Fae?” I couldn’t imagine the mother of any young child being okay with it. But I guess when there’s a war on and you’re born a soldier, there’s not much choice.
“She’s dead,” she said nonchalantly. “Died six years ago.”
I didn’t say I was sorry. I didn’t mouth any of the platitudes people resort to in times of grief. They don’t help. In fact, they chafe. I commiserated on her level. “It fecking sucks, doesn’t it?” I said vehemently.
She flashed me a look of surprise and the nonchalance melted. “Yeah, it does. I hate it.”
“What happened?”
Her rosebud mouth twisted. “One of them got her. One day I’ll find out which one, and kill the fecker.”
Sisters in vengeance. I touched her shoulder and smiled. She looked startled, unaccustomed to sympathy. Six years ago, Dani would have been seven or eight. “I didn’t know they’d been around that long,” I said, meaning the Unseelie. “I thought they’d only recently been freed.”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t an Un that got her.”
“But I thought the … other ones”—I spoke vaguely, mindful of the wind—“didn’t kill us because of the … you know.”
“Compact? That’s a bloody crock. They never stopped killing us. Well, maybe some of them did, but most of them didn’t.”
We walked the rest of the way in silence, with Dani pushing her bike. She wasn’t comfortable talking on the streets. We skirted Temple Bar and crossed the River Liffey.
PHI Courier Services occupied a three-story building painted the same light green of Dani’s pants, trimmed in cherry, adorned by tall, arched windows. The sign above the entry sported the same emblem emblazoned on her shirt, but the shamrock looked misshapen, out of proportion. Something about the sign perplexed me. If I’d happened down this street on my own and seen it, I’d have walked straight into the building without hesitation, gripped by an irresistible compulsion.
“It’s spelled,” Dani explained, watching me study it. “It draws people like us. So does the ad in the paper. She’s been gathering us for a long time.”
“You think maybe you’re telling me things she doesn’t want me to know?” Where did her loyalties lie? Wasn’t she Rowena’s creation?
Dani thought about that a minute and I had a sudden insight into her character. Like me, she didn’t trust anyone. Not completely anyway. I wondered why.
“Go to the back.” The gamine redhead hopped on her bike. “I’m late for deliveries. See ya around, Mac.”
Around back were dozens of green and white bicycles, four motorbikes, and ten delivery vans, all emblazoned with the same misshapen shamrock. If PHI was a cover, it was nevertheless a thriving business.
I walked up the rear steps of the building and knocked. A woman in her forties, with rimless glasses and a shiny cap of brown hair opened the door, ushered me inside, led me up two flights of stairs, to a room at the end of a hall, and left me at the door withou
t saying a word. My sidhe-seer senses were getting a tingle. There was either a Fae or Fae OOPs through that door—and I doubted it was an actual Fae. Rowena probably kept Dani’s close sword at hand, perhaps other relics as well.
I pushed it open and stepped into a handsomely appointed study with hardwood floors, paneled walls, and a huge fireplace. Sunlight spilled through tall windows framed with velvet. Floor and table lamps lit every nook and cranny. I would find this was a common trait among sidhe-seers, turning on all the lights we can. We hate the dark.
The old woman was seated behind an antique desk, but she wasn’t looking so old today. On the two prior occasions I’d seen her, she’d been drably dressed. Today she wore a turquoise suit with classic lines and a white blouse, and looked twenty years younger, closer to sixty-something than eighty-something. Her silvery hair was pulled back from her face in a single plait that circled her head like a crown. The creamy pearls that glowed at her ears, throat, and wrist were the same lustrous color as her hair. She looked elegant, in charge, and, although diminutive of build, full of piss and vinegar as my father would have said. I guessed the dreary, aged appearance she donned in public was deliberate and useful; people tend to grant unkempt seniors a special invisibility, as if by not noticing them they won’t have to acknowledge the same creature in themselves clawing closer to the surface with each tick of the clock.
Glasses on a beaded chain rested on her chest. She raised them now, slipped them onto a finely pointed nose. They magnified the size, fierce color, and the fiercer intelligence of her sharp blue eyes. “MacKayla. Do come in. Have a seat,” she said briskly.
I gave her a curt nod and stepped into the room. I glanced around, wondering where the sword was. Something Fae was in this room. “Rowena.”
Her eyes flickered and I knew she didn’t appreciate the familiarity. Good. I meant to establish us as equals, not mentor and student. She’d lost the chance to mentor me when she’d turned her back on me. We looked at each other in silence. It stretched. I wasn’t about to speak. This was our first battle of the wills. It wouldn’t be our last.
Karen Marie Moning’s Fever Series 5-Book Bundle: Darkfever, Bloodfever, Faefever, Dreamfever, Shadowfever Page 43
