by Melissa Marr
There is a girl. The woman danced, hands lifted over her head, face tilted upward like she was speaking to the sun or moon. Leslie stepped closer, leaning into the weighty air that seemed to prevent her passing, to stop her from reaching the fountain. Without looking for traffic or for any conscious reason why, Leslie went toward the park. She paused, caught between longing and fear and not sure she truly felt either one.
"Leslie? Are you with me?" Niall took her hand, stopping her from entering the park.
She blinked. The image of the dancing girl vanished. The statues looked dim, and there weren't nearly as many as she'd thought. Nor were the trees all blooming: there weren't even as many trees as she'd thought. Instead, there were people she somehow hadn't seen: girls, many of whom seemed to be watching her and Niall, wandered around the park in small groups, giggling and talking to the guys who stood where she had thought there were only trees.
"Nothing makes sense, Niall." Leslie felt the edge of panic push against her, but it was less than real—more a murmur of an emotion that rose and faded before it found form. "I feel like … I don't know what I feel lately. I don't get scared, can't stay angry. And when I feel it, it's like it's not mine. I see things that aren't right—people with thorns on their faces, tattoos that move, horns. I keep seeing things that aren't real; I should be afraid. Instead I look away. Something's wrong with me."
He didn't offer her empty promises that it would be okay or that she was imagining it; instead he looked pained, leading her to believe that he knew something more than she did.
Which should make me angry.
She tried to summon it up, but her growing emotional instability had become so pronounced that it was like being a visitor in her own body. Calmly, as if the question didn't matter, she asked, "Do you know what's wrong with me?"
"No. Not really." He paused. "I know someone awful is interested in you."
"That should scare me." She nodded, still calm, still not frightened. He was, though.
"You taste afraid, jealous, and" — she closed her eyes for a moment, savoring some strange thread of emotion that she could almost roll on her tongue—"sad."
She opened her eyes. "Why do I know that, Niall?" Confusion filled him then; she tasted that too. If his emotions were true, he didn't know any more than she did about her new ability.
“You can—“
"Taste your feelings." She watched him, felt him try to be still, like his emotions were being sorted into boxes she couldn't open. Glimmers of tastes—chicory and honey, salt and cinnamon, mint and thyme—drifted by like shadows.
"That's an odd choice of words." He waited, not quite a question, but close enough.
So she told him more of the things she'd been feeling. "There are bursts and absences. There are so many things I feel and see that I can't explain. It should frighten me. It should've made me talk to someone. But I haven't been able to … until now."
"Do you know when it started?" He was worried. Her tongue was heavy under a lingering lemony flavor, and she knew that worry was the feeling that went with that flavor.
"I'm not sure, not really. …" She tried to focus. There was a tumble of words—the restaurant, the tattoo, the Rath, the museum, when, why—but when she tried to speak, all the words were gone.
"Irial," Niall said.
His briny anger and cinnamon jealousy surged back until her throat burned with it. She gasped, nearly choking. But as she thought of Irial, everything felt better. She felt calm again. The tastes faded from her tongue.
Niall hurried her back across the street and into the old building. "We'll still spend the day together. He won't come here. Tonight we'll talk to Aislinn and Keenan. After that you'll be safe. Can we do that?"
His worry stretched inside her, filling her up, and then it slithered away as if it had found a tunnel to escape her. In its place she felt calmness. Her body felt as languid as when she was in Rabbit's chair. Talking about this isn't necessary. She shrugged. "We didn't have a plan yet anyhow, right? Hang out, work, see Rabbit, then more hanging out? Sure."
"Just a few hours, then, and it'll all be fine." He took her hand and started up a spiraling stone staircase.
"No elevators?" She looked around. The outside had been rather nondescript, worn down like most things in Huntsdale, but the inside of the building was beautiful. As at the Rath, obsidian, marble, and wood seemed to replace what would usually be metal.
"No steel allowed in here," he said distractedly.
She followed him until he stopped at a door that was too beautiful to be exposed to casual passersby. Stones—not cut jewels, but raw stones—were embedded in the wood to create a mosaic. She reached out, hand hovering in the air in front of the door. "It's gorgeous."
Niall opened the mosaic door. The inside was no less lovely. Tall, leafy plants dominated the room. Innumerable birds swooped through the air, nested in nooks in tall columns that supported vine-covered ceilings.
"Be welcome in our home, Leslie," he said.
The words felt strangely formal, setting off warnings that this was not the right place for her, that running would be wise. But Leslie could still feel Niall's emotions—he was happy, honored—and in the middle of it all was a thin cord of genuine love for her. So she stepped farther into the room, breathing the summer-sweet scent of flowers that bloomed somewhere in the loft.
"Make yourself at home while I bathe." Niall motioned to an overstuffed chair. "Then I'll make us breakfast. We'll stay here. We'll figure it out."
She thought about answering, but he seemed to be talking to himself more than to her. She settled in the cozy chair, watching the birds dance through the air over their heads. With Niall or with Irial, that's where I should be. She wasn't sure why, but it was clear to her then. Every day her feelings had become further skewed from normal, and other people's emotions had been growing identifiable. She heard the excuses she'd been using to explain the changes away—and knew they were lies and self-deceits. She could see it all with a peculiar clarity. Something, the same source as the changes, was preventing her from thinking too much about the reasons why she was changing; it was somehow forbidden. But why worry? Whatever was changing made her feel good, better than she had in a very long time. So she closed her eyes and enjoyed the languor that had filled her during her conversation with Niall.
Chapter 22
They'd spent the day together playing video games, talking, and just being near each other. By the time Leslie had to go to work, she'd begun completely tuning out his worries and murmured warnings. She simply didn't feel those things. He was worried—she could taste that—but she felt good.
Niall left her at the door of Verlaine's with another reminder not to go anywhere with Irial or any strangers.
"Sure." She kissed his cheek. "See you later tonight?"
"I don't think you should be walking alone. I'll meet you and walk you to Rabbit's, and then I can walk you to the Crow's Nest after."
"No. I can call Ani or Tish or Rabbit to come meet me, or I'll take a cab." She gave him a reassuring smile before she went inside.
Work passed in a blur. They were busy enough that she had a nice amount to add to the money already in her bag. At the end of her shift, she cashed out and went over to Pins and Needles. Between finally getting her ink and the promise of seeing Niall—again—later, she was almost giddy. Everything was going better than it had in a very long time.
When she walked through the door of the tattoo shop, all but one of the doors to the rooms adjoining the waiting area were already shut. From the one open room came Rabbit's voice, "Shop's closed."
"It's me." She went inside.
Rabbit sat on his stool. His expression was guarded. "You could change your mind still. We could do something else with—"
"Change the design midway?" She scowled. "That's stupid. Honestly, Rabbit, your art is beautiful. I never took you for insecure."
"It's not that. …"
"What then?"
"I just want you to be happy, Les." He tugged at his goatee, seeming more nervous than she'd ever seen him.
"Then finish my tattoo," she said softly. She slipped off her shirt. "Come on. We already had this conversation."
With an unreadable look on his face, he motioned to the chair. "You chose this. You'll be all right. … I want you to be all right."
Grinning, she sat down with her back to him again. "And I will. I'll be wearing the prettiest, most perfect art on my skin—my choice, my skin. How could I not be all right?"
Rabbit didn't answer, but he was often silent as he went about setting up his supplies. This routine was meticulous. It made her feel good, knowing that he was concerned about his clients' safety. Not all tattooists were so responsible.
She glanced back to watch Rabbit open a strange bottle. "What's that?"
"Your ink." He didn't look at her.
She stared at the brown glass: for a moment, she could swear black smoke danced like small flames above the lip of the bottle. "It's beautiful, like bottled shadows."
"It is." He glanced her way, briefly, face as expressionless as she'd ever seen it. "If I weren't so fond of the shadows, I wouldn't be doing this."
"Tattooing?"
He lifted the bottle and tipped it into a series of caps. Some of the caps already had a crystalline liquid in the bottom. In the dim light, it looked as if the ink separated into variations of darkness as Rabbit poured a little into each cap.
Tiny black tears, like a cup dipped into the abyss. She shook her head. Too many weird events, making me think strange things. She asked, "Is it the other liquid in there that changes the colors? Like two inks mixing?"
"They mix into what I need for your work. Turn." Rabbit motioned for her to look away.
She did, moving her body until her back was to him. He wiped her skin, and she closed her eyes—waiting.
Soon the machine hummed, and then the needles were on her skin. They barely pierced the surface, but that slight piercing changed everything. The world blurred and sharpened; colors bloomed behind her closed lids. The darkness grew and split into a thousand shades of light, and each of those shades was an emotion, a feeling she could swallow and cherish. Those emotions would make her live, make them all so much stronger.
Nourish us, save us, the body for the soul. Her thoughts were tangled with waves of feelings that fluttered through her and drifted away, like the strands of a lost dream after waking. She grasped at them, her mind struggling to hold the emotions in place, to identify them. These weren't just her emotions: she could feel the yearnings of strangers outside on the street—a montage of fears and worries, lusts and angers. Then cravings too bizarre to visualize washed over her.
But almost as soon as they touched her, each feeling skittered away, spiraling out onto some cord that led away from her into the shadows, into the abyss from which the ink in her skin had been collected.
Irial drifted in uneasy slumber. He felt her—his Leslie— being stitched closer to him with each brush of Rabbit's needles, tying her to him, making her his, far more truly than any of his fey were, than anyone had ever been. And it felt like Rabbit's needles were puncturing Irial's heart, his lungs, his eyes. She was in his blood as surely as his blood was in her skin. He felt her tenderness, her compassion, her strength, her yearning for love. He felt her vulnerabilities and hopes—and he wanted to cosset and love her. It was decidedly unfit for the king of the Dark Court to feel such tender emotion. If I'd known, would I have done the exchange?
He wanted to tell himself he wouldn't, but he'd allowed far worse to be done to him to ensure the safety of his fey.
In his nightmares, she was the girl he'd carried down the street, his Leslie, bleeding from wounds done to her by men whose faces came slowly into focus. He wasn't sure what was real and what was fear-distorted. She'd tell him, though. He'd walk through her memories as they drew closer. He'd comfort her—and kill the men who'd hurt her.
She'd make him stronger, nourish him by feeding him human emotions he couldn't touch without her. And he'd learn to hide how much she suddenly meant to him, how sickeningly mortal he felt. What've you done to me, Leslie? He laughed at the realization of his new weaknesses: by making himself strong enough to lead them, he'd simultaneously made himself far less of the Dark Court than he'd ever been.
What have I done?
As Leslie sat there—eyes closed and waiting—she heard the laughter again, but it didn't bother her this time. It felt good—welcome, even. She smiled. "It's a nice laugh."
"Stay still," Rabbit reminded her.
Then he went back to work, the hum of the machine sounding louder, as if her hearing had shifted. She sighed, and for a moment she could almost see the dark eyes that were now etched on her skin—except they seemed to be looking at her from beyond the room, just close enough that she wondered if she'd see them when she opened her own eyes.
She noticed the hum stop but couldn't quite open her eyes as Rabbit cleaned her back again.
Sleep now. It was just a whisper, but she felt certain that there was a real person talking to her—not Rabbit.
Who?
And he answered, her imaginary speaker. You know who I am, Leslie. You might not like the answer just yet, but you know me, love.
Beside her, she heard the bandage package rip, felt pressure as the pad was put over her tattoo.
"Just rest for a few minutes, Leslie," Rabbit murmured as he helped her stand, directed her onto the chair again, reclined now like a bed. "I'll be right back."
Listen to Bunny-boy. I need to wake up, and you don't want to be awake for it. Trust me, love. I want to keep you safe.
"Listen to who?"
"You're strong, Leslie. Just remember that. You're stronger than you think," Rabbit said as he draped a blanket over her. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Just rest."
She didn't have much of a choice: she was suddenly more exhausted than she'd ever been. "Just a few minutes. Going out dancing, then."
Chapter 23
Irial woke with a scream half formed on his lips. He was unbound but still on Rabbit's chair. Red welts crossed his arms and legs. A bruise stretched across his arm where the tube had been. He tried to sit up, sending paroxysms of pain through his whole body.
Ani sealed her lips to his, swallowing his scream—and the ones that followed.
When she pulled back—lips blood red, pupils dilated, cheeks flushed—he gaped at her. Halflings didn't, couldn't, feed on faeries. Mortal blood overcame most of their fey traits. The traits that remained had never included this one.
More troubles.
"How?" he asked.
She shrugged.
"Ani, you can't stay here if you need to—"
"Feed?" she prompted with a smile that was all Gabriel, wicked and predatory.
"Yes, feed, like your father. No wonder Rabbit's had so much trouble with you." Irial concentrated on keeping his focus, on not trying to go check on Leslie, on dealing with Ani first. Leslie's not ready to talk to me. Not here. Not when I'm so weak.
"Your pain's like a big sundae. Didja know that?" Ani licked her lips. "Cherry. With extra sugar."
"What about Tish?" He pulled on the shirt Ani had given him. Business first. Then Leslie. Somehow she didn't seem like business anymore.
"Nope. Just me." Ani leaned closer. "Can I have another taste?"
She bit his chin, drawing blood with her sharp canines.
He sighed and pushed her away. No violence in disciplining Gabriel's daughter.
"I can feed off mortals without the ink exchange. No exchange. Just me." She sighed dreamily. "If they're rolling, it's like drinking rainbows. Rainbows. Big, sugary rainbows."
"Mortals?"
She swayed into him. "If I find a strong one, it's okay. It's only when I pick the wrong ones that they get all stupid. Not so different than what you're doing, is it?" She plopped down beside him. "She's fine, you know. Leslie. Resting and all that."
"Rabbit!" he y
elled. Then he sent a mental message out to Gabriel. They'd need to take Ani with them for a while.
"What's she done?" Rabbit leaned in the doorway.
“Fed.”
He nodded once. "I wondered if that's why—"
"You wondered? Why didn't you tell me? Warn me? She could've gotten hurt, could've gotten in trouble." Irial stared at him. "And she could have been what we needed to forestall …" He let his words drift away. The idea of finding Ani earlier, of not being with Leslie, made his stomach tighten in unfamiliar panic. Here was a solution that was too little, too late, and he was perversely glad of it.
Beside Irial, Rabbit was still, cautious, all the things Irial wasn't feeling. Rabbit said, "She's my sister, Iri. I wasn't going to turn her over for testing, not when you had a plan that might work."
Ani swayed and tried to step around Rabbit to leave. He scooped up his sister, holding her aloft and away from his body like she was feral, but looking at her with the same affection he'd had when Ani was just a newborn pup.
He pointedly changed the subject. "Leslie's leaving now."
To hide just how confused he was about the feelings he was having for Leslie, Irial focused on Ani, who was kicking her feet in the air and giggling. "Ani can't stay here," he said.
"I know." Rabbit kissed Ani's forehead. His eyes twinkled as he added, "Dad's going to have an awful time with her."
Irial felt the Hounds approach, a skin-prickling roll of terror that he let wash over him like soothing balm. Fey outside—not his, but summer fey—cringed as the Hounds passed. He let himself take nourishment from the horror they wrought by their presence.
"Daddy!" Ani squealed, kicking her feet again.
The Hounds stayed outside—all but Gabriel. He nodded at Rabbit. "Pup."
Rabbit rolled his eyes at his father and turned to Irial. "You ought to go after Leslie soon. Daddy can handle Ani." He grinned then, looking every bit like Ani's sibling. "In fact, I'll get Ani's bag together first so she'll be ready to leave with the pack."
Ignoring the look of panic that flashed over Gabriel's face, Irial answered, "Don't let Ani roam while you do."
