Текст книги "Burned"

Автор книги: Karen Marie Moning

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

20

“Mama, I’m coming home”

MAC

Situated on one thousand acres of prime farmland about two hours from Dublin, Arlington Abbey is a self-sustaining fortress with multiple artesian wells, a dairy, beef cattle, orchard, and acres of vegetable gardens.

Whether Rowena performed powerful spells to protect it or the Shades simply chose to go in another direction when they decamped the city en masse a few months ago, about thirty minutes from the ancient mother house, the countryside was left untouched by their voracious appetites.

It’s difficult to believe I haven’t been out this way since mid-May, the night we sealed the Sinsar Dubh in the vast, heavily runed underground chamber beneath the fortress.

Time flies.

Especially when you keep losing it inside the Silvers.

After we defeated the Sinsar Dubh, Barrons and I retreated to his lair beneath the garage, leaving bed only when near-starvation forced us out.

A few days later we laid his son to rest, finally freeing the father from a small eternity of torment, and began discussing plans to return to the mother house and take further measures to protect the world from the great-winged prince beneath the abbey that has stood as a prison, in one form or another, in the middle of a grassy Irish field since the unlucky day the king selected our planet for that purpose.

I’d proposed pumping the chamber full of concrete the very night the king iced Cruce. Barrons later argued for removing the prince, intact in his prison of ice, and transporting the chamber into the Hall of All Days, to dump on some other unsuspecting world.

We did neither.

Obsessed with my quest to rid the world of the other book, the next thing I knew, we were stepping from the Silver behind the bookstore into a city so heavily iced it was nearly impassable. Our new enemy wasn’t one that could be physically battled, not that I was currently effective in that department anyway. Getting involved would have turned too many eyes my way, raised questions about my stalkers, and put me in closer proximity to Dani than I was ready for. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done to trust that others would handle the problem while I attempted to handle my own.

I stare out the window, watching the scenery whiz by. What the Shades didn’t devour, the Hoar Frost King decimated. But spring has begun transforming the ice-ravaged landscape, pushing buds from skeletal limbs, and a thin carpet of grass shimmers in the moonlight. After the violent, killing frost, it may be years before the emerald isle regains its legendary green.

I sprawl in the passenger seat in the Humvee, one booted foot on the dash – Ryodan refused to let me drive, no surprise there, we’re both control freaks – bracing myself for the upcoming battle. My dark flock is hitching a ride on the roof.

I ponder the upcoming confrontation like a poker game I’m about to enter, and the various ways the cards might play out.

The metaphor is appropriate, given bluffing appears to be my strongest suit.

I love a good battle, especially on the right side, and we are. The abbey belongs to us. Assuming I go inside, what cards can I safely allow myself to play?

My spear is useless. I’ve been mulling over the two times my flock ascended to the rooftops and I drew my spear: the first against Dani, the second against the Gray Woman, trying to decide what pushed me over the edge the second time and gave the Book the leverage it needed. Until I can isolate the precise moment I lost control, the how and why, I’m not using my spear again.

I left my guns at the bookstore but have a switchblade in each boot. I won’t use those either. Violence is the door the Book kicks through, sticks in a foot, and wedges open.

Barrons keeps the amulet locked in a vault beneath the garage. I wouldn’t touch it anyway. We decided months ago that it was too risky to attempt to fool it twice the same way. Besides, I’ve thought of it so many times, I’m not certain it’s not an idea the Book keeps planting. Nearly all my mental terrain is suspect to me. On days when it hasn’t stirred much, I get worried.

You can’t seek a weapon to use against it. You must become that weapon, Barrons has said over and over.

I know Voice. I’m good at it, too. There’s a useful tool. If we get into a heated battle, I can keep a circle clear around me merely by barking orders. I get a mental picture of myself, standing, unarmed and passive in the middle of a raging battle, shouting: Stay away from me! Don’t touch me! Drop your weapon!

I blow out a frustrated breath.

I can Null, but that’s only effective on Fae. Present ghoulish company excluded.

I’m good in hand-to-hand combat. Assuming I don’t black out.

My cards in this poker game suck. I need a redeal. Or at least a few wild cards.

I’m itching to meet the supposedly legendary sidhe-seer leader, stand in front of her and take her measure. I wonder about the women she commands, what their talents are, whether one of them might be like me, able to sense the Sinsar Dubh. I try to assure myself the likelihood is slim.

But if the Unseelie King really did make us to serve as prison guards for his dark disaster, it seems logical he’d also have made more like me, in case it ever got out.

I heave a conflicted sigh and decide I’m being paranoid. The sidhe-seers told me no one in their entire history at the abbey was ever able to sense the Book like Alina and me, none of them are Nulls, and considering we come from the mother house in the originating homeland where it was interred by the king himself, I sincerely doubt the “away teams” were likewise gifted. In fact, they’re probably diluted from millennia of living in far-off lands, divorced from their heritage. Good military fighters but little more.

“Christ, stop sighing, you’ll blow us off the fucking road. Something you want to talk about, Mac.”

I look over at Ryodan, inscrutable as ever in the dim light from the dashboard.

I doubt my threat to quit “protecting” him was motivation. Ryodan pursues his own agenda. “Why did you agree to help free the abbey? You never do anything unless there’s something in it for you.”

“I want their new leader off the streets. She and her followers are killing Fae. Bad for business.”

“What are you going to do with her? Kill her?” I don’t like that thought. Though I, too, intend to see her deposed, I want her neutralized, not dead. There’s been too much death in Dublin.

“Perhaps she can be recalibrated into a useful weapon. If not, then yes.”

“What happened when you and Dageus met with R’jan?” Dageus had insisted on privacy for the meeting in Ryodan’s office. I’d loitered outside, wishing I still had his cell phone with the handy eavesdropping Skull & Crossbones app. “Did he agree to send an army to hunt the Hag?”

“In exchange for an additional seat at our table.”

“Who? There are no other princes.” I wonder about that. Where are the replacements? Are they trapped somewhere, like Christian was in the Unseelie prison, becoming? Did eating Unseelie really hasten his transformation?

“An advisor whose vote will tie his with those of the Unseelie.”

“And you allowed it?”

He says nothing, but I don’t need him to. Of course he did. “The Unseelie and Seelie will always vote against each other out of sheer, stupid principle, canceling each other out, giving you the permanent upper hand.”

When he still says nothing, I resume staring out at the scenery. And jerk. “What the hell?” I exclaim.

Ryodan looks over at me, then out the window beyond me. He slams the brakes so hard my ghouls catapult from the roof and explode in a tangle of chittering black robes on the road in front of us. “Fuck, I didn’t even notice.”

The scenery has changed. Drastically. Here, just ten minutes from the abbey, spring has been at work, not with gentle brushes, but wild splashes from the vats of a painter gone mad.

“Back up,” I demand, but he’s already doing it.

We find the line of demarcation, similar to the one the Shades left outside Dublin, an eighth of a mile back.

I leap from the Hummer and straddle the line, one booted foot on each side. My ghouls pack in beside me, behind me. I tune them out, a thing I’m getting better at the more smelly, dusty time we spend together.

To my left is a thin covering of grass and weeds. To my right is a carpet of grass too tall and dense to be cut by anything but perhaps a strong man with a scythe. Fat poppies bob, black and velvety in the moonlight, and atop willowy stands of tall reeds, shadowy lilies sway.

On my left are newly budded trees with young, tender leaves.

On my right enormous, ancient live oaks, massive branches stretching skyward, others reaching low to sweep the earth, explode with greenery, draped with lush vines.

Here, a weak cricket chirps, wakened from the unexpected and brutal winter to a paltry meal.

There, birds trill an exotic aria, tree frogs sing, and the heavily draped limbs rustle as small creatures leap from one vine-fringed branch to the next.

Foreboding fills me.

If you’ll just come to the abbey, Kat had said, you’ll see what I mean. This thaw … I thought when the fire-world threatening our home was gone … och, but then it didn’t and it turns out it wasn’t …

She was trying to tell me. She was asking for my help. Engrossed in my own problems, I’d heard none of it.

There’s another thing I’d like to be discussing with you, if you’ve the time. About Cruce. Seeing how you know more about Fae princes than any of us …

She’d told me his cage was still holding.

Was it a lie? What else could explain this?

I shoot a dark look at Ryodan. “I thought you knew what was going on out here.”

“It would seem there are a few things my sources neglected to mention.”

“Why wouldn’t your men tell you?” I fish.

“My men are not my sources.”

That was half of what I wanted to know. “Who is?”

His slants me a silent, Nice try. Not.

I get back in the Hummer.

On the driver’s side.

And lock the door.

He laughs. “Ah, Mac, I don’t think so.”

I lunge across the wide console, fling open the passenger door, slam it into gear, and start rolling forward.

Fast.

Ryodan curses and does exactly what I would have done, lopes alongside and explodes in, managing to dwarf the cavernous interior. “Strip my gears, woman, you’re dead.”

I shoot him a derisive look. “I haven’t stripped gears since I was ten.” I step on it and shift rapidly.

“Big Wheels don’t count,” Ryodan mocks.

“My daddy’s sixty-four-and-a-half Mustang.” After that debacle, Mom and Dad no longer left any keys hanging by the garage door. Sherriff Bowden brought me home. I’d made it a half a mile of screeching, jerking stops and starts that apparently the entire town of Ashford was witnessing out their nosy windows. The pillows I’d packed in to help me reach the pedals and steering wheel had worked as air bags when I hit the telephone pole.

It had been a while before Daddy got over that one.

Then he’d done what any wise parent would have: taught me to drive.

Give me raw, testy, ferocious power any day of the week.

I can find the sweet spot in my sleep.

I park outside the elaborate new gate on the enormous new stone wall that wasn’t there two months ago.

Ryodan intuits my thoughts. It’s not difficult, given my mouth is slightly ajar. Again. I don’t know why I bother with preconceptions anymore. Even simple ones like expecting that when I close a door the room on the other side still exists, with drywall and carpet and ceiling lights, neatly intact. For all I know, it doesn’t and never has. Perhaps it vanishes until I want it again, stored away on some cosmic zip drive to conserve quantum energy.

“It wasn’t here last month either. Bloody hell, that wall wasn’t here three weeks ago. And she said nothing of it. It seems our headmistress has been keeping secrets.”

“Along with your inept sources.” I’d really like to know who they are. I’d like them working for me. I’d insist on better info.

Right. If you’d wanted better info, my conscience pricks, you could have come out here any time. Maybe listened when she asked for help. Did you really think it was over? Did you honestly delude yourself for even one minute that Cruce would lie dormant?

Has Kat, like Rowena before her, been seduced by the evil that slumbers a thousand feet of stone beneath her pillow? I shiver. Not Kat. But where is she? And why did she tell us none of this?

“Perhaps a different caste of Seelie have settled nearby in large numbers and are affecting the environment,” I propose as an alternative, which would still be problematic. I don’t want any Fae anywhere near the abbey.

“Cruce seduced her,” Ryodan says flatly.

“You don’t know that,” I defend.

“It began the night we laid the Book to rest. He came to her while she slept.”

I look at him incredulously. “You know that for a fact? And you waited until now to say something? If not me, you could have at least told Barrons.”

“I believed she had things under control.”

“The great Ryodan, wrong?” I say in mock astonishment. “The world must be ending.” Why didn’t she tell me? Was that why she’d asked me to come out, so I could see firsthand the power he was using on her, on the abbey, and understand the battle she was fighting? Did she hold her silence because, like me, she feared condemnation and hoped to fix it before anyone else had to know?

Ryodan says irritably, “Bit busy hunting Dani and trying to patch a black hole beneath my club. While you and Barrons were MIA doing unknown things for unknown reasons with the Unseelie King’s personal valets that stalk you for yet more unknown reasons, all of which you could explain anytime now. And yes, if we don’t find a way to fix it, it is.”

End-of-the-world talk doesn’t make me as nervous as it once did. I often wake up in the morning surprised to find myself still here. I consider it icing on the cake if I’m still where I recall falling asleep.

A black SUV with dark-tinted windows pulls up. The Keltar have arrived. They get out, a small army of powerfully built, dark-haired, dark-skinned men. There’s Dageus’s twin, Drustan, a more thickly muscled version of his minutes-younger brother, with shorter hair – although it still falls halfway down his back – and a cool silver gaze, in contrast to Dageus’s gold tiger-eyes. He’s followed by Cian, an enormous Highlander with loads of tattoos and the thousand-yard stare of a man who’s done hard time somewhere; then Christopher, the only one of the lot that looks remotely civilized, a forty-five-year-old version of Christian.

As we get out and join them, Dageus growls, “No’ quite what it looked like last time. Place reeks of Fae.”

Ryodan angles his head back and looks up at the barbed wire strung atop the walls. He breaks a twig off a nearby tree and tosses it high. The branch spits and crackles when it hits, then falls to the ground, scorched.

Beyond the gate the abbey is lit as if by a thousand interior lights. An acre of fountain that also didn’t previously exist shoots water into the sky before spilling into a rippling pool of silver and gold. The gardens are surreal, vast bed after bed of spicy, jewel-toned blossoms I’ve seen only one other place. There’s no longer any question in my mind what egotistical Picasso painted this voluptuous summer atop the canvas of Dublin’s anorexic spring.

Beyond the gate a new sidhe-seer holds the prison that contains – or appears to be rather spectacularly failing to contain – the greatest evil the world has ever known (well, besides me) in the body of the most powerful prince the Unseelie King created. I should have known it wouldn’t work. Cruce probably had a contingency plan all along; the equivalent of a paper clip tucked in his pocket to work his handcuffs loose, or a shoulder that conveniently pops out of its socket.

“Has it broken free, lass?” Dageus asks, looking at me.

Cautiously, I reach out for the Book entombed, hoping the one inside me doesn’t explode into violent life.

KILL THE PRINCE CRUSH HIM DEVOUR HIM DESTROY HIM MAKE HIM BURN!!!!!

I grit my teeth to keep from clutching my head and groaning out loud. Yes, it’s still beneath the abbey, and apparently, much as the king despises his book, my book despises the king’s book. Whatever happened to the good old days when books just got along, cozied up together on bookshelves, hanging out, waiting to be read?

“It’s still beneath the abbey where we left it.”

“Has anything changed?” Christopher demands.

“I can’t tell that from here. We’ll have to see it.” And I won’t. I’ll find a way to refuse. The last time I stood in that cavernous chamber, I didn’t know I had a copy of the Book inside me. I’d still believed it was a lie the Sinsar Dubh had told me to make me doubt myself. Since that night, I’ve had far too many nightmares about getting imprisoned next to Cruce.

March willingly into the abbey, down into the prison, beside the very sidhe-seers and Keltar druids that possess enough power between them to imprison me?

Never.

I feel Barrons behind me before he speaks. My cloak of wraiths retreat, and like a supercar that’s sat too long in the garage and is in desperate need of a hot, hard run to blow out its engine, my body fires on all pistons.

“Ah, fuck.” He moves in, standing close without touching. He doesn’t need to. I sometimes think our atoms are so glad to see each other that they send little messengers back and forth, ferrying desire, strength, and love between the islands we are. “I knew we should have moved it,” he growls.

“At least pumped it full of concrete,” I agree.

“The others,” Ryodan says to him.

“Fade was the only one with me when I got your call.”

While I’m trying to decide just how Ryodan managed to reach Barrons in Faery, Fade glides from the shadows, tall, packed with muscle and scarred like the rest. He’s prowling in that half-invisible way Barrons moves only in private. If you’ve not seen it before, it’s eerie and impossible to mistake for human.

The Highlanders close ranks on themselves.

Fade laughs, fangs gleaming white in the moonlight.

Two of the Highlanders move their hands to ancient, odd knives in sheaths at their waist. I wonder if they have mythic properties like my spear.

Ryodan shoots Fade a look he rebounds with a snarl, but he settles into moving like the rest of us.

Our army is small yet impressive. In two groups we stand, Barrons, Fade, Ryodan, and I, near Dageus, Drustan, Cian, and Christopher, preparing to meet our unknown foe.

And a known one that’s somehow stirring, despite the ice and bars.

Provided war doesn’t break out between us – which could easily happen with this much testosterone in such close quarters – I put our odds of reclaiming the abbey from at least one of our enemies tonight at reasonably good.

The new sidhe-seers didn’t just take an abbey – they took a radioactive one.

I’m no longer certain what worries me more: the danger beneath Chester’s, the one beneath the abbey, or the one inside me. I’d like them all to go away. Reverse order would be just swell. “Do you think things will ever get back to normal?”

Barrons gives me a look. “They were normal? Did I miss that century?”

Ryodan says, “Fuck normal. Give me a good war any day.”

“No shit, boss,” Fade agrees.

Drustan snorts. “You’re daft, the lot of you. I’d give my left nut for a century of peace.”

The rest of the Keltar heartily agree, adding various body parts to the mix.

Surrounded by alpha males that know more magic than all the teachers at Hogwarts, I’m about to ask who’s going to do what to get us through the gate, when it becomes a moot point.

Powered by an unseen hand, it begins to move slowly open.

21

“This house doesn’t burn down slowly to ashes”

MAC

I used to know precisely where I was headed and how I’d handle things when I got there.

Before any event, I’d ponder the possible variables and decide what I’d say or do, if X or Y happened, or maybe Z. Although something as exotic as Z almost never happened in small-town Georgia. We closed schools and held parades when it did.

It’s how I used to prepare for dates in high school: when Billy James asks me out will I say yes the first time or make him wait; will I wear the low-cut top or something flirty and sweet; when he tries to kiss me, will I let him; if he takes me to the less popular party at Amy Tanhauser’s house instead of the party of the year at Heather Jackson’s, will I dump him; if he wants to have sex, am I ready?

Ah, my long-lost shallow life.

Back then, things unfolded so predictably. I wore flirty and sweet, I dumped him when he took me to the wrong party, and I didn’t have sex with Billy but I did have sex with his older brother later that summer.

My careful prep doesn’t work so well anymore.

Each time I think I’m braced for any possible scenario, gravity changes, my trajectory shifts, rocket fuel gets dumped into my gas tank and I end up hurtling at inconceivable speeds at some entirely new crash site I’d never considered, a big, fat nasty planet I didn’t even know existed that explodes on the horizon so suddenly no amount of frantic braking can save you from impact.

How do you brace yourself for a collision with the unimaginable?

The closer we get to the abbey, the more sultry the clime. On both sides of the drive, mist steams from the lush lawn. I feel like we’re taking a bad trip down a yellow brick road, but what waits for us behind that curtain is no charlatan, rather an enormously powerful, staggeringly dangerous wizard of chaos.

Although it’s two hours till dawn, in Ireland, for heaven’s sake, I’m sweating and my hair is sticking damply to my face. It’s hotter here than it was in Dublin. The fountain isn’t the only new addition to the grounds. Golden trellises draped with black roses offer shelter above marble benches, and I suspect the scent of the blossoms would be drugging to anyone foolish enough to pause in the alcove beneath.

“They’ve stones now,” Drustan says, eyeing a cluster rising from the mist, great bleached-bone fingers reaching for the sky.

“I care naught for the looks of them,” Cian rumbles.

Dageus agrees, “Nor do I.”

Cian grunts and points, a darker-haired version of Lor, at two enormous black megaliths. I think they might like each other. Grunts and all.

“A dolmen awaiting the cover stone,” Ryodan murmurs.

Barrons says, “We bring jackhammers next time. I want those stones destroyed.”

I agree. I watched Darroc usher an Unseelie horde into our city through a dolmen at 1247 LaRuhe, in the heart of the Dark Zone adjacent to BB&B. I later asked V’lane/Cruce to crush it. I want this one crushed, too, before it’s completed and who knows what arrives on our planet next.

As we skirt the fountain, I say, “You do realize we’re walking into a trap, right? Do we have a plan? Is someone going to tell me what it is?”

Seven male heads swivel my way.

“Would you shut her up,” Ryodan says to Barrons.

Barrons slants him a cold look that shuts Ryodan up. I’d sacrifice my eyeteeth to perfect that look. Then again maybe that’s precisely what’s required: long, inhumanly sharp ones like theirs to pull it off.

“I doona ken why you permitted the woman to come. We doona risk ours in battle.” Cian’s brogue is so thick it’s hard to follow.

“Tell that to Colleen,” Christopher says grimly. “She’s inside.”

Drustan gives him an incredulous look. “You let her come tonight? And she’s already inside? How?”

“We need all the information we can get if we hope to rescue Christian from the Hag. These women know the Seelie nearly as well as we do, the Unseelie even better. Colleen joined up with the new sidhe-seers a week ago, to infiltrate the abbey and search their archives.”

“The new group? How?” I demand. “She’s not a sidhe-seer.”

“And you allowed this?” Cian explodes.

“Keep it down. They’re going to hear us,” I warn.

“Honey, they opened the front gate,” Fade says. “They know we’re here. Trap. Remember.”

Christian’s father snorts. “Try stopping her.”

“Is she?” I press.

“What?” he snaps.

“A sidhe-seer.”

“She has other … skills.”

“Why the bloody hell are those Unseelie following you, lass?” Drustan demands. “At first I thought they were drawn to all of us for some reason, but the moment Barrons moves away from you, they’re on you like midges. Is there something about you we should know?”

Seven male heads turn my way again.

“She said they’re ghosts of the Unseelie she’s killed,” Dageus says.

“Not a ghost of truth in that one,” Ryodan says dryly.

“Oh, just shut up, all of you,” I say, exasperated, moving closer to Barrons again, reclaiming a little personal space.

We continue walking in silence toward the abbey.

“So, do we have a plan?” I say again after a few moments.

“Walk up to the front door and go inside,” Barrons replies.

“That’s not a plan. That’s a suicide mission.”

“We’re a little hard to kill,” Fade says.

“Some more than others,” I say pointedly. “I’m not so sure the Keltar get back up quite as easily as—” I bite that one off myself when all four Keltar shoot me looks of death.

Clearly, I impugned their virility, when all I was trying to do is remind my team that the other team doesn’t have the same Get Out of Death Free card.

“Why did you bring her again?” Dageus says.

“Because once she gets with the plan, she’s as useful as the rest of us,” Barrons says.

“It’d help if I knew what the bloody plan was,” I grumble.

“Besides, we can use her Unseelie as body shields,” he adds.

Well darn, that was one I hadn’t thought of.

The front door, which was once slats of wood reinforced by steel, now looms black as polished obsidian, covered with ancient runes I’ve seen before.

Below the abbey, in the chamber that houses Cruce.

It swings silently open.

I move forward and pause on the threshold, looking in to get the lay of the land before I inadvertently plant a foot on a mine.

Seven men march past me, boots echoing on the stone floor.

I hurry to catch up. Well, I mostly hurry. I linger a moment, absorbing the raw fearlessness of their stride, the determination to never quit that squares their shoulders, and it fortifies my resolve. I will match the bar these men set so high. They all have their inner demons. And they manage them.

I will, too.

The entry hall is large and rectangular, with a ceiling that soars to open roof rafters. On three walls, fireplaces that could serve as small bedrooms blast more heat into the already warm room.

The sofas are faded and worn, dotted with handmade pillows and crocheted throws, the floors warmed by century-old rugs, the walls hung with antique tapestries. Chairs perch near tables that hold open books and perspiring glasses of iced drinks.

The room is empty.

“Where the bloody hell is everyone?” Dageus growls.

“Quiet. Someone’s coming,” Barrons says.

Several seconds pass before I hear the sound of people approaching. I envy his preternatural senses, rue that my monster has no such benefits.

I offer benefits with which you could retire from this paltry planet and rule galaxies. You refuse them. Embrace your destiny and we will destroy the prince before we leave this world. It will be our parting gift.

Right. As if either Sinsar Dubh would leave my planet intact. Criminy, I can’t even think about it without it stirring. I mutter Poe beneath my breath and watch as four women enter the room. I’m relieved to see they’re ours. I sat at a table with these women not so long ago.

Leading the group is Josie, a skinny dark-eyed girl with platinum hair and goth makeup, followed by Shauna, a petite brunette with hazel eyes and a quick smile, and the twins, Clare and Sorcha MacSweeney. They are the women Kat brought to our clandestine meeting in a pub, after Rowena instructed a group of them to ambush me and try to take my spear. They failed. I accidentally killed a sidhe-seer in the process. Moira. I never forget the names of humans I’ve slain. I catch myself reaching protectively for my spear but stop, unwilling to invite more of the Book’s unwanted commentary so near another copy of itself plus so many vulnerable humans.

“Why have you brought Unseelie inside our walls, Mac?” Shauna says grimly.

I sigh. “I didn’t. They, I—” Shit, how do I explain this one? I blurt, “I was trying to do a spell and it backfired and they’ve been stuck to me like glue ever since.” I practically roll my own eyes. It’s the weakest lie I’ve ever heard myself tell.

Dageus gives me a look.

Ryodan laughs.

“They’re harmless,” I add. “They don’t even kill anything. They just stalk me.”

“The Unseelie doesn’t exist that doesn’t kill,” Josie says coolly.

Sorcha moves past me, inspecting them from a cautious distance. Then she surprises me by saying, “I’m not certain they’re Unseelie, Mac.”

I frown. “What else could they be?”

“I don’t know but they’re … different.”

That would explain why I can’t Null them, but not why my sidhe-seer senses seem to pick up on them as Unseelie. Or do they? Is that yet one more preconception I accepted without bothering to consider simply because they looked like Unseelie, and what else would they be? I realize I’ve never listened past their incessant chittering for their caste’s dark melody. But I will, in the near future. At the moment I want no distractions.

Barrons says impatiently, “Who the fuck cares. They follow her. Where is the one that holds you hostage?”

Josie laughs, a brittle sound. “That’s what you think? We’re being held hostage? The woman saved us!”

“Saved?” I echo.

“Aye, saved. And we’ve no need of your army, Mac. We’re just fine. The lot of you can be leaving now. With your Unseelie.”

“I’m telling you,” Sorcha says, “they’re not Unseelie.”

“We’d be finer if we knew Kat was all right,” Clare says.

“And Dani,” Shauna adds. “Two of our best have gone missing.”

“Dani isn’t one of our best,” Josie says sharply. “She’s a liability, a hotheaded child. And Kat, well … you see where her plans got us.”

Josie doesn’t look much older than Dani herself. And Kat’s plans kept them alive this long.

Clare disagrees, “How can you say that when it was Dani and Ryodan that saved us from the Hoar Frost King?”

“They didn’t save us from Cruce,” Josie says hotly. “Jada did.”

I narrow my eyes. “Who’s Jada?” Was this the name of the supposedly mystical fighter that was leading them now? “And what do you mean you’re ‘fine’? This place is a mess. It’s obviously been taken over by—”