Текст книги "Shadowfever"
Автор книги: Karen Marie Moning
Соавторы: Karen Marie Moning,Karen Marie Moning
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 37 страниц)
4
The night the walls came crashing down, I cowered in a belfry, my only goal to survive until dawn.
I had no idea if the world would survive with me.
I thought it was the longest night of my life. I was wrong.
This is the longest night of my life, walking side by side with my enemy, mourning Jericho Barrons, drowning in my own complicity.
It stretches on and on. I live a thousand hours in a handful. I count from one to sixty beneath my breath, over and over, ticking away the minutes I make it through, thinking if I put enough of them between me and his death, the immediacy of the pain might dull and I will be able to catch a breath without a knife stabbing through my heart.
We do not pause to eat or sleep. He keeps Unseelie flesh in a pouch and periodically chews it while we travel, which means he can keep going far longer than I. At some point, I’ll be forced to rest. The thought of relinquishing consciousness in his presence is not a pleasant one.
I have weapons in my arsenal that I’ve not yet tried on him. I have no doubt he is concealing armaments, too. Our truce is a floor of eggshells and we’re both wearing combat boots.
“Where is the Unseelie King?” I ask, hoping distraction might make the minutes move faster. “It’s his book on the loose out there. I heard he wants it destroyed. Why isn’t he doing something about it?” I may as well embark on an Unseelie fishing expedition, casting my nets for anything I can use. Until I know how powerful Darroc is and better understand what I have in my dark glassy lake, subtlety is the name of my game. I will make no rash moves that jeopardize my mission. Barrons’ resurrection depends on it.
He shrugs. “He vanished long ago. Some say he’s too insane to care. Others believe he cannot leave the Unseelie prison and lies encased in a tomb of black ice, slumbering eternally. Still others claim the prison never contained him to begin with and that remorse for the death of his concubine was the only bond he ever permitted.”
“That implies love. Fae don’t.”
“Debatable. I recognize myself in you and find it … compelling. It makes me less alone.”
Translation: I serve as a mirror and the Fae enjoy their own reflection. “Is that desirable to a Fae—to be less alone?”
“Few Fae can endure solitude. Some posit that energy cast into an ethos that fails to reflect or rebound it permits that energy to dissipate until nothing remains. Perhaps it is a flaw.”
“Like clapping for Tinker Bell,” I mock. “A mirror, validation.”
He gives me a look.
“Is that what the Fae are made of? Energy?”
He gives me another look that reminds me of V’lane, and I know that he will never discuss what the Fae are comprised of with me or any human. His superiority complex has in no way been diminished by time as a mortal. Rather, I suspect it has grown. He knows both sides now. This gives him a tactical advantage over other Fae. He understands what makes us tick and is more dangerous because of it. I file the energy idea away for further contemplation. Iron affects the Fae. Why? Are they some kind of energy that could be “shorted out”?
“You admit to flaws?” I press.
“We are not perfect. What god is? Examine yours. According to your mythos, he was so disappointed with his initial efforts creating your race that he tried again. At least we imprisoned our mistakes. Your god permits his to roam free. At a mere few thousand years old, your creation myths are far more absurd than ours. Yet you wonder why we can’t recall our origins, from a million or more years in the past.”
We have drawn closer to each other while speaking and both realize it at the same time. We glide back in instant retreat, regaining enough distance between us that we would see an attack from the other coming. Part of me finds this amusing.
The princes have not yet reappeared. I am grateful. Although they no longer impact me sexually, they have a profoundly terrible presence. They leave me feeling oddly two-dimensional, minus something essential, guilty, betrayed in a way I can’t understand and don’t want to. I don’t know if I feel this because I was once beneath them, with my entire sense of self being stripped from my skin and bones, or if they are fundamentally anathema to all humans. I wonder if the “stuff” of which they were made by the Unseelie King is so alien and horrific to us that they are the equivalent of a psychic black hole. That they are unspeakably beautiful only makes it worse. Their exquisiteness is the event horizon from which there is no escape. I shiver.
I remember.
I will never forget. Three of them and an invisible fourth, moving over me, in me.
Because Darroc commanded it. That, too, I will never forget.
I thought being raped by them was terrible, that it had carved me in deep places, changed my innate makeup. I’d known nothing of pain, of transforming change. I do now.
We clear the forest, and the terrain begins to slope downward. With the moon lighting our way, we hike through dark meadows.
I give up my fishing expedition for now. My throat is raw from screaming, and putting one foot in front of the other while keeping an impassive expression on my face takes all my concentration. I slog through a lifetime of hell in the interminable darkness before dawn.
I replay the scene on the cliff through my head a thousand times, pretending it ended some other way.
Thick grass and slender flat rushes rustle at my waist and brush the undersides of my breasts. If there are animals in the dense thicket, they keep their distance. If I were an animal, I would keep my distance from us, too. The climate grows more temperate; the air warms with the perfume of exotic night-blooming jasmine and honeysuckle.
As abruptly as night falls here, dawn breaks. The sky is black one moment, pink, then blue. Three seconds, night to day.
I made it through the night. I draw a shallow, careful breath.
When my sister was killed, I discovered that the light of day has an irrational leavening effect on grief. I have no idea why. Maybe it’s just to shore us up so we can survive the lonely, bleak night again.
I didn’t know we were on a high plain until we were suddenly at the edge of the plateau, and I am startled by the valley dropping sharply away before me.
Across that valley, on an oceanic swell of hill, it looms. It soars. It sprawls for miles in every direction.
The White Mansion.
Again I get that uncanny feeling of inevitability that, one way or another, life would have deposited me here, that in any reality I would have made the same choices that drove me to its door.
Home to the Unseelie King’s beloved concubine for whom he killed the Seelie Queen, it is so enormous it boggles the mind. I turn my head from side to side, up and down, trying to take it all in. One could hope to behold its entirety only from miles away, as we are now. Was this where Barrons had been trying to lead me? If so, why? Had Ryodan been lying when he found me on the cliff’s edge and told me that the way back to Dublin was through an IFP, an Interdimensional Fairy Pothole, as I’d dubbed the slivers of Fae reality that splintered our world now that the walls were down?
The walls are alabaster, reflecting the sun, and blaze with such brilliance that I narrow my eyes to slits. The sky beyond the House—I cannot think of it without a capital; it is far more than a mere residence—deepens to a dazzling blue that exists only in Faery, a shade that will never be seen in the human world. There are certain Faery colors that have dimension, are comprised of myriad seductive subtleties upon which the eye could linger for time uncounted. The sky is nearly as addictive as the golden floor in the Hall of All Days.
I force my gaze back to the White Mansion. I explore its lines, foundation to rooftop, terrace to tower, garden to fountain to turret. A Möbius strip of tiered structures on an Escher-esque landscape, it turns back on itself here and there, continuous and unbroken, ever-changing and unfolding. It strains the eye, tests the mind. But I’ve seen Fae in their true form. I find it … soothing. In my dead black heart, I feel something. I don’t understand how anything could stir in there, but it does. Not a full-blown feeling, but an echo of an emotion. Faint yet undeniable.
Darroc watches me. I pretend not to notice.
“Your race has never built a thing of such beauty, complexity, and perfection,” he says.
“Nor has my race ever created a Sinsar Dubh,” I parry.
“Small creatures create small things.”
“Large creatures’ egos are so big they don’t see the small things coming,” I murmur. Like traps, I don’t say.
He intuits it. He laughs and says, “I will remember the warning, MacKayla.”
After he found the first two Silvers at an auction house in London, Darroc tells me, he had to learn to use them. It took him dozens of tries to establish a static link into the Fae realms, then, once he was inside the Silvers, it took him months to find a way to the Unseelie prison.
There’s pride in his voice as he speaks of his trials and triumphs. Stripped of his Fae essence, he not only survived when his race didn’t believe he would, but he accomplished the goal he’d been pursuing as a Fae, the very thing for which he’d been banished. He feels superior to others of his kind.
I listen, analyzing everything he tells me, looking for chinks in his armor. I know Fae have “feelings” such as arrogance, superiority, mockery, and condescension. Listening to him, I add pride, vengeance, impatience, gloating, and amusement to the list.
We’ve been making small talk for some time, watching each other intently. I’ve told him about growing up in Ashford, my first impressions of Dublin, my love of fast cars. He has told me more about his fall from grace, what he did, why he did it. We compete to disarm each other with trivial confidences that betray nothing of importance.
As we cross the valley, I say, “Why go to the Unseelie prison? Why not the Seelie court?”
“And give Aoibheal the opportunity to finish me off for good? The next time I see the bitch, she dies.”
Was that why he’d taken my spear—to kill the queen? He’d lifted it without my awareness, just like V’lane had. How? He wasn’t Fae anymore. Had he eaten so much Unseelie that he was now a mutant with unpredictable abilities? I recall being in the church, sandwiched between Unseelie Princes, turning the spear on myself, throwing it, striking the pedestal of a basin, holy water splashing, steam hissing. How had he made me throw it away then? How had he taken it from me now?
“Is the queen at the Seelie court right now?” I cast my net again.
“How would I know? I have been banished. Assuming I found a way in, the first Seelie that saw me would kill me.”
“Don’t you have allies at the Seelie court? Isn’t V’lane your friend?”
He snorts disdainfully. “We sat on her High Council together. Though he gives lip service to Fae supremacy and speaks of walking the earth freely again without the odious Compact governing us—us, as if humans could govern their gods!—when it comes to action, V’lane is Aoibheal’s lapdog and always has been. I am now human, according to my fairer brethren, and they despise me.”
“I thought you said they worshipped you as a hero for tearing the walls down and freeing them.”
His eyes narrow. “I said they will. Soon, I will be heralded as the savior of our race.”
“So you went to the Unseelie prison. That was risky.” I prod to keep him talking. As long as he’s talking, I can focus on his words, on my goals. Silence isn’t golden, it’s deadly. It’s a vacuum that fills up with ghosts.
“I needed the Hunters. As a Fae, I could summon them. As a mortal, I had to physically seek them.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t kill you on sight.” Hunters hate humans. The black-skinned, winged demons have no love for anything but themselves.
“Death is not a Hunter’s delight. Too final.”
A memory flickers through his eyes, and I know that when he found them, they did things to him that made him scream for a long time.
“They agreed to help me in exchange for permanent freedom. They taught me to eat Unseelie. After tracking weaknesses in the prison walls, where Unseelie had escaped before, I patched them.”
“To make yourself the only game in town.”
He nods. “If my dark brethren were going to be freed, they would be thanking me for it. I discovered how to link Silvers and created a passage to Dublin through the White Mansion.”
“Why here?”
“Of all the dimensions I explored, this one remains the most stable, aside from a few … inconveniences. It seems Cruce’s curse had little effect on this realm, other than to splinter dimensions that are easily avoided.”
I call them IFPs but I do not tell him this. It made Barrons smile. Little made Barrons smile.
I think I’m under control, that I’ve stripped away all weaknesses. That committing to my mission has made me impervious. I’m wrong. The thought of Barrons smiling brings other thoughts.
Barrons naked.
Dancing.
Dark head thrown back.
Laughing.
The image doesn’t “gently swim up in my mind” in a dreamy sort of way, like I’ve seen in movies. No, this one slams into my head like a nuclear missile, exploding in my brain in graphic detail. I suffocate in a mushroom cloud of pain.
I can’t breathe. I squeeze my eyes shut.
White teeth flashing in his dark face: I get knocked down but I get up again. You’re never gonna keep me down.
I stagger.
But he didn’t get up, the bastard. He stayed down.
With my spear in his back. How am I supposed to find my way each day without him here to help me? I don’t know what to do, how to make decisions.
I can’t survive this grief! I stumble and go down on one knee. I clutch my head.
Darroc is at my side, helping me stand. His arms are around me.
I open my eyes.
He is so close that I see gold speckles in his coppery eyes. Wrinkles crease the corners. Faint lines bracket his mouth. Has he laughed so often in his time as a mortal? My hands curl into fists.
His hands are gentle on my face when he pushes my hair back. “What happened?”
Neither image nor pain is gone from my brain. I cannot function in this state. In moments, I will be on my knees, screaming with grief and fury, and my mission will go straight to hell. Darroc will see my weakness and kill me, or worse. Somehow I have to survive. I have no idea how long it will take me to find the Book and learn how to use it. I wet my lips. “Kiss me,” I say. “Hard.”
His mouth tightens. “I am not a fool, MacKayla.”
“Just do it,” I snarl.
I watch him weigh the idea. Two scorpions. He is skeptical. He is fascinated.
When he kisses me, Barrons vanishes from my head. The pain recedes.
On the lips of my enemy, my sister’s lover, my lover’s killer, I taste the punishment I deserve. I taste oblivion.
It makes me cold and strong again.
I have dreamed of houses all my life. I have an entire neighborhood in my subconscious that I can get to only while sleeping. But I can’t control my nocturnal visits any more than I’ve ever been able to avoid my Cold Place dreams. Sometimes I’m granted passage and sometimes I’m not. Certain nights the doors open easily, while others I stand outside, denied entrance, longing for the wonders that lie within.
I don’t understand people who say they can’t recall their dreams. With the exception of the Cold Place dream, which I began blocking long ago, I recall all the others. When I wake in the morning, they’re floating through my mind in fragments, and I can either spring out of bed and forget them or gather up the pieces and examine them.
I read somewhere that dreams about houses are dreams of our souls. In those dwellings of our psyche, we store our innermost secrets and desires. Perhaps that’s why some people don’t remember them—they don’t want to. A girl I knew in high school once told me she dreamed of houses, too, but they were always pitch black and she could never find the light switch. She hated those dreams. She wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box.
My houses are endless, filled with sunshine and music, gardens and fountains. And for some reason there are always a lot of beds. Big beds. Way more than any house needs. I don’t know what the deal is with that, but I think it might mean I think about sex a lot.
Sometimes I worry that there’s not enough room in my brain for both my dreams and reality, that I’m a hard drive with limited gigabytes and one day I won’t be able to maintain the firewall between them. I wonder if that’s what senility is.
Over the years, I’ve begun to suspect that all the houses of which I’ve been dreaming are just different wings of the same great house.
Today I realize it’s true.
Why have I been dreaming of the White Mansion all these years?
How could I possibly have known it existed?
Now that I’m a little over the edge anyway, I can admit something: My whole life, I’ve secretly been afraid that beneath my fiercely focused grooming and accessorizing, I’m, well … psychotic.
Never underestimate a well-dressed bimbo.
The real thinkers of the world aren’t the best dressed. Staying on top of the latest fashions, accessorizing, and presenting oneself is time consuming. It takes a lot of effort, energy, and concentration to be incessantly happy and perfectly groomed. You meet somebody like that—ask yourself what they’re running from.
Back in high school, I began to suspect I was bipolar. There were times when, for no good reason at all, I felt downright, well … homicidal was the only word for it. I learned that the busier I stayed, the less time I had to feel it.
I sometimes wonder if before I was born someone showed me the script or filled me in on the highlights. It’s déjà vu to the worst extreme. I refuse to believe I would have auditioned for this role.
As I stare at the White Mansion and I know what parts of it look like inside—and I know there’s no way I could know those things—I wonder if I’m a serious nutcase. If none of this is happening, because I’m really locked up in a padded cell somewhere, hallucinating. If so, I hope they change my drugs soon. Whatever I’m on isn’t working.
I don’t want to go in there.
I want to go in there and never leave.
Duality is me.
The House has countless entrances, through elaborately manicured gardens.
Darroc and I enter one of the gardens. It’s so lovely it’s almost painful to look at. Paths of glistening gold pavers unfurl through exotic, perfumed bushes and circle clusters of willowy silver-leafed trees. Dazzling pearl benches offer respite from the sun beneath lacy leaves, and silk chaises dot outdoor rooms of billowing chiffon. Flowers bend and sway in a light, perfect breeze, the precise degree of sultry—not too hot or moist but warm and wet, like sex is warm and wet.
I have dreamed of a garden like this. Small differences but not many.
We pass a fountain that sprays rainbows of shimmery water into the air. Thousands of flowers in every dazzling shade of yellow circle it: velvety buttercups and waxy tulips, creamy lilies and blossoms that do not exist in our world. For a moment I think of Alina, because she loves yellow, but that thought reeks of death and brings other thoughts with it, so I turn away from the beauty of the fountain and focus on the hated face and voice of my companion.
He begins to give me instructions. He tells me we’re looking for a room with an ornate gilt-framed mirror that is approximately ten feet tall by five feet wide. The last time he saw the room, it was empty of all furnishings, save the mirror. The corridor off which the room opened was light, airy, and had a floor of unbroken white marble. The walls of the corridor were also white and adorned with brilliant murals between tall windows.
Keep an eye out for white marble floors, he instructs me, because only two of the wings—as of the last time he was here—have them. The floors in other wings are gold, bronze, silver, iridescent, pink, mint, yellow, lavender, and other pastels. The rare wing is crimson. If I see a black floor, I am to turn back immediately.
We enter a circular foyer with a high glass ceiling that collects the sunny day. The walls and floor are translucent silver and reflect the sky above in such vivid detail that, when a cream-puff cloud scoots overhead, I feel as if I’m walking through it. What a clever design! A room in the sky. Did the concubine create it? Did the Unseelie King design it for her? Could a being capable of creating such horrors as the Unseelie also create such delights? Sunlight bathes me from above, bounces back at me from the wall and floors.
Mac 1.0 would have hooked up an iPod and stretched out here for hours.
Mac 5.0 shivers. Not even this much sun can warm the part of her that has gone cold.
I realize I’ve forgotten my enemy. I tune him back in.
Assuming, of course, Darroc is saying, that the room we seek still opens off one of those white-marbled halls.
That gets my attention. “Assuming?”
“The mansion rearranges itself. One of those inconveniences I mentioned.”
“What is with you fairies, anyway?” I explode. “Why does everything have to change? Why can’t things just be what they are? Why can’t a house be a normal house and a book a normal book? Why does it all have to be so complicated?” I want to get back to Dublin now, find the Book, figure out what needs to be done, and escape this damned reality!
He doesn’t answer, but I don’t need him to. If a Fae were to ask me why an apple eventually rots or humans eventually die, I would shrug and say it was the nature of human things.
Change is the nature of Fae things. They are always becoming something else. That’s a critical thing to remember when dealing with anything Fae, as I learned from the Shades. I wonder how much further they’ve evolved since I last saw them.
“Sometimes it rearranges itself on a grand scale,” Darroc continues, “while other times it merely swaps a few things around. Only once did it take me several days to find the room I seek. I usually find it more quickly.”
Days? My head swivels and I stare. I could be stuck in here with him for days?
The sooner we get started, the better.
A dozen halls open off the foyer, some well lit, others soothingly dim. Nothing is frightening. The House exudes a sense of well-being and peace. Still, it is a grand labyrinth, and I wait for him to choose our path. Although I have long been dreaming of this place, I do not know this foyer. I suspect the House is so large that an entire human life of dreams would not be enough to explore it all.
“There are several rooms in the mansion that house Silvers. The one we seek holds a single mirror.” He gives me a sharp look. “Avoid the other mirrors if you stumble upon them. Do not gaze into them. I am not forbidding you knowledge, merely trying to protect you.”
Right. And the White Mansion is really black. “You make it sound as if we’re splitting up.” I’m surprised. He worked so hard to get me at his side. Now he’s letting me go? Have I been so convincing? Or does he have an ace up his sleeve I don’t know about?
“We cannot afford to waste time here. The longer I’m here, the more chance there is for someone else to find my book.”
“My book,” I correct.
He laughs. “Our book.”
I say nothing. My book—and he’s dead the moment I’ve got it and know how to use it. Sooner, if he’s no longer useful.
He leans back against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest. In this room of sky, he is a golden angel, shoulders propped against a cloud. “We can both have everything we want, MacKayla. With you and I allied, there are no limits. Nothing and no one can stop us. Do you realize that?”
“I get to use it first.” He won’t exist to use it by the time I’m done with it. No, wait, unmaking him would be too easy a death.
I want to murder him.
“We have plenty of time to decide who does what with it first. But, for now, are we friends or not?”
It is on the tip of my tongue to mock him, to tell him words mean nothing. Why does he ask me absurd questions? I can so easily lie. He should judge my actions, but I don’t share advice with the enemy. “We are friends,” I say easily.
He gestures for me to take the nearest corridor on my right, one with a dusky-rose floor, and turns for the first one on his left, which gleams deep bronze.
“What do I do if I find it?” I ask. It’s not like we have cell phones programmed with nifty little acronyms.
“I branded you at the base of your skull. Press your fingers to the mark and call for me.”
He has already turned away and begun walking down his hall. I hiss at his back. The day will come, and soon, when I remove his brand, if I have to scrape my skull down to bare bone. I’d do it now, except I don’t want to run the risk of damaging Barrons’. It’s all I have left of him. His hands were on me there, gentle, possessive.
There is a smile in Darroc’s voice when he warns, “If you find the Silver and return to Dublin without me, I will hunt you.”
“Right back at you, Darroc,” I say in the same light, warning tone. “Don’t even think of leaving without me. I may not have a mark on you, but I’ll find you. I’ll always find you.” I mean it. The hunter is now the hunted. I have him in my sights and will keep him there. Until I decide to pull the trigger. No more running. From anything.
He stops and glances over his shoulder at me. The tiny gold flecks in his eyes flare brighter, and he inhales sharply.
If I know Fae as well as I think I do, I just turned him on.
The Dani Daily
97 Days AWC
Dani “Mega” O’Malley SLAYS a HUNTER!!!
READ ALL ABOUT IT IN TDD, YOUR ONLY SOURCE FOR THE LATEST NEWS IN AND AROUND DUBLIN!
Sidhe-seers celebrate! We did it, we took one down!!! Took us all feckin’ night, but Jayne and the Guardians finally bagged one of the flapping fecks! Pumped it full of so much iron it crashed to the street. I stabbed the blimey feck straight through the heart with the Sword of Light! It was something to see, you shoulda been there! Thing bled dark up into the sword, all the way to the hilt, & for a sec I worried it mighta broke it or something, but it’s working again fine, so tell Ro not to get her panties in a twist!
Call to arms, dudes! Get outta that abbey and fight, fight, fight!!! Enough reconnoitering already! Rhymes with loitering, dudes—USELESS! DO something. We CAN make a difference. Haul ass to Dublin Castle. ’S’ new headquarters for the new Garda, and they’re way cool. Said all sidhe-seers welcome. ’SPECIALLY SINGLE ONES!!!!
Need to repopulate Dublin, ya know. Ain’t gonna happen by itself. Lots of heroes on the streets, risking their lives, kicking Fae ass. Hook up NOW!
MEET TONIGHT!!!
DUBLIN CASTLE!!!
EIGHT O’CLOCK!!!
JOIN THE HUNT!!!
PS: Mac’s sorry she can’t be there, still busy with other stuff, but she’ll be back REAL soon.
I slap the latest edition of my rag to the streetlamp and pound in a nail. I tell ’em what’ll work for me and don’t tell ’em what won’t. ’Times you gotta lie.
I cram a candy bar in my mouth and freeze-frame to the next streetlamp on my route. I know my rags are getting to the peeps. I been seeing results. Couple sidhe-seers ditched the abbey already. I’m taking over where Mac left off—shit-stirrer extraordinaire, bucking Ro’s rules and regs, all the while telling her whatever she wants to hear.
Two candy bars and a protein pack later, I’m done with my route and burning up the pavement for my fave place. I got hours for myself now and gonna spend ’em all circling Chester’s, slicing and dicing everything that comes within a ten-block radius of it.
I swagger down the street.
Ry-O and his men are in there—least I think they are. Ain’t seen none in a while but keep hoping. See, ’cause they piss me off. They threatened me.
Nobody threatens the Mega.
I snicker. Pub ain’t no good if patrons can’t get in. I can’t keep ’em out all night, ’cause I hunt with the Guardians and kill what they trap, but I do ’nuff damage during the day. Jayne caught me one afternoon, said they’ll kill me for it. He’s heard tales of ’em, steers clear. Says they’re no more human than the Fae.
Told ’em the pricks can just try to mess with me. See, ’nother thing I didn’t tell nobody is, when I stabbed the Hunter, something weird happened: The dark came all the way up my sword and got into my arm a little. Infected me like a splinter. For a couple days, my hand had black veins and was icy like it was dead. Had to wear a glove to hide it. Thought I might lose it, hafta learn to fight right-handed.
Looks okay now.
Ain’t in no hurry to kill a Hunter again.
But I think I’m faster. And Ro’s orders don’t seem to make me feel near as conflicted as they used to.
Think Ry-O and his dudes maybe got nothing on me, and I’d like to test it. Like to show Mac, but it’s been more than three whole weeks since I saw her last. Since we broke into the libraries.
Barrons ain’t ’round neither.
I don’t worry. Ain’t my nature. I live. Leave the worrying for the warts.
But I sure wish she’d show up. Any time now’d be real good.
Sinsar Dubh’s been all over this city past few days. Took out a dozen of Jayne’s men in one night, like it was playing with us. Kept dividing us, picking us off.
Kinda starting to wonder if it’s looking for me.
