Текст книги "Shadowfever"

Автор книги: Karen Marie Moning

Соавторы: Karen Marie Moning,Karen Marie Moning
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 37 страниц)

Darroc did care about Alina.

I believe him.

There was something I’d never been able to explain to my own satisfaction: I’d wondered why Darroc hadn’t been more aggressive, more brutal with me from the very first. It had made no sense to me. He’d seemed almost lackadaisical in his efforts to abduct me and had kept offering me the chance to come willingly. What kind of world-destroying villain did that? It was certainly not what I’d expected from my sister’s murderer. Mallucé had been far deadlier, far more ruthless. Of the two, I’d been much more terrified of the wannabe vamp when I’d first arrived.

Occam’s razor: The simplest explanation that accommodates all variables is most likely the truth. Darroc had resisted harming me because of Alina. He’d restrained himself because he’d cared about my sister.

Just how much—and how much I could use it against him—remained to be seen.

“My deference undermined my efforts, and the Hunters began to question my conviction.”

“So you had me raped and turned Pri-ya,” I say bitterly. How quickly he’d gone from deference to murder, because that’s what turning me Pri-ya had been tantamount to. Until Barrons had pulled me back, no one had ever recovered from being made a mindless Fae sex slave. They died from it.

“I needed to solidify my position. Then I lost you before I even had the chance to begin using you.”

“Who was the fourth, Darroc? Why don’t you just tell me?” He’d stood there watching as the Unseelie Princes destroyed me. He’d seen me naked on the ground, helpless, weeping. I calm myself by imagining the many ways I might kill him when the time comes.

“I have told you before, MacKayla, there was no fourth. The last prince of the Court of Shadows that the king created was the first dark prince to die. Cruce was killed in the ancient battle between the king and queen. Some claim it was the queen herself who killed him.”

“Cruce was the fourth Unseelie Prince?” I exclaim.

He nods. Then he frowns and adds, “If a fourth being was at the church, neither I nor my princes were capable of seeing it.”

He seems as disturbed by that thought as I am.

“I repeatedly offered you an alliance. I need the Book. You can track it. Some believe you can corner it. Some believe you are the fourth stone.”

I bristle. There’s little I’m certain of lately, but this much I’d bet the bank on. “I am not a stone.” I was pretty sure V’lane had the fourth and final one.

“Fae things change. They become other things.”

“Not people,” I scoff. “Look at me. I wasn’t carved from the cliffs of the Unseelie hell! I was born to a human woman!”

“You know that for a certainty? My sources say you and Alina were adopted.”

I say nothing, wondering who his sources are.

He laughs. “No one knows what the king truly did after he went mad. Perhaps he made one of the stones different, the better to hide it.”

“Stones don’t become people!”

“It’s what the Sinsar Dubh is trying to do.”

I narrow my eyes. Was Ryodan right? Was that what this was all about—the Book taking on a corporeal, sentient form? Interesting that both he and Darroc believed this, as if perhaps they had discussed it while forming other plans—plans such as killing Barrons and getting him out of the way! After all, it was Barrons that brought me back from the Pri-ya state where I could have so easily been used. Damned inconvenient for them.

“But the people it takes over keep killing themselves,” I say.

“Because the Book has not found the one strong enough to endure the merging.”

“What do you mean, ‘endure the merging’? Are you saying the right person could pick up the Sinsar Dubh without killing themselves?”

“And control it,” he says smugly.

I inhale sharply. This is the first I’ve heard of anything like this. And he sounds so confident, so certain. “Use it rather than being used?”

He nods.

I’m incredulous. “Just pick it up and open it? No harm, no foul?”

“Absorb it. All the power.”

“How? Who is this ‘right person’?” I demand. Was it me? Was that why I could track it? Was that why everyone was really after me?

He gives me a mocking smile. “Oh, trifling human, such delusions of grandeur you suffer. No, MacKayla. It has never been you.”

“Then who?”

“I’m the one.”

I stare at him. He is? I look him up and down. Why? How? What does he know that I don’t know? That Barrons didn’t know? “What’s so special about you?”

He laughs and gives me a look that says, You really think I’m going to tell you that? I hate it when people throw my own looks back in my face.

“But I did tell you. I answered your questions.”

“Trivial questions.”

My eyes narrow. “If you know how to merge with it, why did you insist I bring the stones into the tunnel with me when you took my parents captive? Why are you so interested in them?”

“It is said the stones can immobilize it. I have had little success getting near it. If I cannot get close enough on my own, I may need to use them. I have you to track it, the stones to corner it, and I can do the rest.”

“Is it because you eat Unseelie? Is that why you’d be able to do it?” I can slice, dice, and devour with the best of them. See Mac gorge.

“Hardly.”

“Is it something you are? Something you did? Something you know how to do?” I hear the franticness in my voice and it appalls me, but if he has some way of bypassing the whole absurdity of getting the fourth stone from V’lane, gathering the five Druids—Barrons seemed pretty sure one of them was Christian, and he’s still lost in the Silvers—figuring out the prophecy, and performing some complicated ceremony, I want to know what it is! If there’s a shortcut, any chance I can reach my goal in a matter of hours or days rather than trying to live through agonizing weeks or even months, I want it! The less time I have to spend in this hellish reality, the better.

“Look at you, MacKayla, all flushed and glowing, salivating over the idea of merging with the Book.” The gold flecks in his eyes begin to glitter again.

I’d know that look on any man’s face.

“So like Alina,” he murmurs, “yet so unlike her.”

It’s a difference he seems to appreciate. “What is it about you? Why will you be able to merge with it?” I demand. “Tell me!”

“Find the Book, MacKayla, and I will show you.”

When we finally locate the room with the Silver in it, it’s just as Darroc described: empty of furnishings, save a single mirror, five feet by ten.

The mirror appears to have been inserted seamlessly into whatever the walls are made of in the House.

But my mind’s not on the Silver at all. I’m still reeling from what Darroc told me.

Another piece of the puzzle that had been giving me fits clicks into place. I’d been perplexed by his determination to get the Book, when none of us knew how to touch it, move it, corner it, do a single damned thing with it, without getting taken over, turned evil, then killed, after being forced to kill everyone around us.

Along with wondering why Darroc hadn’t been more brutal, I’d wondered why he was hunting it when he’d never be able to use it, when even Barrons and I had been forced to admit that chasing the thing was pointless.

Yet Darroc had never relented. He’d kept his Unseelie scouring Dublin for it incessantly. The whole time I’d been stumbling in the dark, trying to figure out the four, and the five, and the prophecy, Darroc had been following a much easier path.

He knew a way to merge with the Sinsar Dubh—and control it!

There’s no question in my mind that Darroc’s telling the truth. I have no idea how or where he got this information, but he definitely knows how to use the Sinsar Dubh without being corrupted.

I need that knowledge!

I watch him through narrowed eyes. I’m no longer in a hurry to kill him. Fact is, I’d kill to protect the bastard at this point.

I mentally refine my mission. I don’t need the prophecy, stones, or Druids. I’ll never need to ally myself with V’lane in the future.

I need one thing: to uncover Darroc’s secret.

Once I have it, I can corner the Book myself. I don’t have any problems getting near it. It likes to play with me.

My hands tremble with excitement that’s difficult to contain. Trying to fulfill the absurd conditions of the prophecy would have taken forever. My new plan could be achieved in a matter of days, bringing my grief to a swift end.

“Why did you bring Unseelie through the dolmen in the warehouse at LaRuhe when you had a Silver you could have used instead?” I employ small questions to lull him. Get him off guard. Then I’ll sneak a big one in. Like most men-who-would-be-king, he likes to hear himself talk.

“Low-caste Unseelie are distracted by anything upon which they might feed. I needed a short passage, void of life, through which to herd them. I would never have gotten them out of this world and into yours. Besides, many of them would not have fit through such a small opening.”

I remember the horde of Unseelie—some wispy and diminutive, others fleshy and enormous—that had poured through the giant dolmen the night I’d caught my first glimpse of the crimson-robed Lord Master and realized, much to my horror, that he was my sister’s boyfriend. The night that Mallucé had nearly killed me and would have, if Barrons hadn’t miraculously appeared and saved me. I try to evict the memory, but it’s too late.

I’m in the warehouse, trapped between Darroc and Mallucé …

Barrons drops down next to me, long black coat fluttering.

Now that was just stupid, Ms. Lane, he says, with that mocking smile of his. They would have figured out who you were soon enough.

We battle Darroc and his minions. Mallucé injures me badly. Barrons carries me back to his bookstore, where he heals me. It’s the first time he ever kisses me. Like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

Once more he saved me—and what did I do when he needed me?

Killed him.

The silent scream is back, welling up inside me. Biting it down takes all the strength I possess.

I stumble.

Darroc catches my arm and steadies me.

I shake him off. “I’m fine. Just hungry.” I’m not. My body has shut down. “Let’s get out of here.” I step into the Silver. I expect to meet resistance, because I always have in the past when entering a Silver, so I duck my head and push forward a little. The silvery surface is thick, gluey.

I explode out the other side into a headlong sprawl. I scramble to my feet and whirl on him, as he glides from the mirror with smooth grace. “What did you do? Push me?”

“I did no such thing. Perhaps it is the Silver’s way of saying ‘good riddance’ to the stones,” he mocks.

I’d not considered the effect they might have. Tucked away in the rune-covered leather pouch in my backpack, I’d forgotten them. My sidhe-senses don’t seem to work in the Silvers. I don’t feel their cold, dark fire in the pit of my brain.

He smirks. “Or perhaps it’s saying good riddance to you, MacKayla. Give them to me. I will carry them through the next Silver and we will see what happens to you then.”

The next Silver? Only then do I realize we’re not back in Dublin but in another white room which has ten mirrors hanging on the wall. He’s made it difficult for anyone to follow him. I wonder where the other nine go.

“As if that’s going to happen,” I mutter. I adjust my backpack and dust myself off.

“You do not wish to know. Are you human or are you stone?” he goads. “If I carry them, and the mirror expels you with such force again, we’ll have our answer.”

I’m not a stone. “Just tell me which mirror goes to Dublin.”

“Fourth from the left.”

I push in, but warily this time, in no mood for another fall. This Silver is strange. It takes me into a long tunnel where I move through one brick wall after the next, as if he has stacked Tabh’rs, like the one in Christian’s desert that was inside a cactus, only these are concealed in brick walls.

But where?

I catch a blurred glimpse of a street at night through the next Silver and am buffeted by a chilly breeze. Then I’m blasted so hard across a cobbled alley into a brick wall that it stuns me. This one is solid and impenetrable.

I’d know my city blindfolded. We’re back in Dublin. I hug the wall, determined to stay standing. I’ve been on my ass enough today.

I might be shaky on my feet—but at least I’m on them when my sidhe-seer senses kick in with a vengeance, as if awakening after a long, resented sleep enforced by being in the Silvers. Alien energy slams into my brain: The city is teeming with Fae.

Objects of Power and Fae used to make me feel sick to my stomach, but continued exposure has changed me. Their presence no longer incapacitates me. Now I get a dark, intense adrenaline rush from them. I’m shaky enough already from lack of food and sleep. I don’t care where the Unseelie are, and I’m not about to start looking for the Book. I close my eyes and concentrate on turning down my “volume” until it goes silent.

Then Darroc’s arms are around me, pulling me to him, holding me up. For a moment, I forget who I am, what I feel, what I’ve lost, and know only that strong arms support me.

I smell Dublin.

I’m in a man’s arms.

He turns me around, drops his head to mine, holds me like he’s sheltering me, and for a moment I pretend he’s Barrons.

He presses his lips to my ear. “You said we were friends, MacKayla,” he murmurs, “yet I see none of that in your eyes. If you give yourself to me, completely give yourself, I will not ever—how did you say it?—let you die on my watch. I know you are angry about your sister, but together we could change that … or not, if you wish. You have attachments to your world, but could you not see a place for yourself in mine? You are even less like other humans than Alina. You do not belong here. You never did. You were meant for more.” His melodious voice deepens seductively. “Do you not feel it? Have you not always felt it? You are … larger than others of your kind. Open your eyes. Take a good look around. Are these petty, breeding, warring humans worth fighting for? Dying for? Or would you dare to taste forever? Eternity. Absolute freedom. Walk among others that are also larger than a single mortal life.”

His hands cup my head, cradle my face. His lips move against my ear. His breath is harsh, shallow, and fast, and I feel the hard press of him against my thigh. My own breath quickens.

I pretend again that he is Barrons and suddenly he feels like Barrons, and I’m fighting to keep my head clear. Images flash through my mind, those long, incredible hours spent in a sex-drenched bed.

I smell Barrons on my skin, taste him on my lips. I remember. I will never forget. The memories are so vivid. I swear I could reach out and touch those crimson silk sheets.

He sprawls on the bed, a dark tattooed mountain of man, arms folded behind his head, watching me as I dance naked.

Manfred Mann plays an old Bruce Springsteen cover on my iPod: I came for you, for you, I came for you …

He did. And I killed him.

I would give my right arm to be back there, for just one day. Live it again. Touch him again. Hear those sounds he makes. Smile at him. Be tender. Not be afraid to be tender. Life is so fragile, exquisite, and short. Why do I keep realizing that too late?

The brand on the back of my skull burns, but I can’t tell if it’s Darroc’s mark that scalds my scalp or Barrons’ brand that burns me because Darroc is touching it.

“Abandon your vows to drag me down and destroy me, MacKayla,” he whispers against my ear. “Ah, yes, I see it in your eyes every time you look at me. I would have to be blind not to see it. I have lived for hundreds of thousands of years in the Court of Grand Illusion. You cannot deceive me. Decry your pointless quest for vengeance, which will only end up destroying you, not me. Let me raise you up, teach you to fly. I will give you everything. And you I will not lose. That is a mistake I will not make again. If you come to me knowing what I am, there need be no fear, no mistrust between us. Take my kiss, MacKayla. Accept my offer. Live with me. Forever.”

His lips move from my ear; he brushes kisses across my cheek. But he stops and waits for me to turn my head that last inch. To choose.

I turn to vomit hatred all over him. He claims feelings for my sister and tries to seduce me, too! Can what he felt for Alina be so easily betrayed? I hate him for seducing her. I hate him for not being faithful to her memory.

Neither of those emotions is anything Barrons would have called “useful.” I have a memory to live up to. Two ghosts to bring back to life.

I focus on the here and now. What can be used. What can’t.

Beyond his shoulder, I see where we are. If I felt anything anymore, I’d double over, fist in my stomach.

Clever, clever ex-Fae. The bastard.

We’re in the alley, catty-corner to Barrons Books and Baubles. He hid a Silver in the brick wall of the first building in the Dark Zone across from my bookstore.

It was right out back, all this time. In my backyard. He was always watching me. Us.

When I was last here, even though I knew I was leaving to walk straight into a trap, there was buoyancy in my step. Barrons had just told me that when I came out, with Darroc dead and my parents alive, he was going to give me BB&B, deed and all.

I’d had no doubt that I was going to get that deed. I was so cocky, so sure of myself.

Darroc watches me carefully.

The games here are treacherously deep. Always were. I just never saw things as clearly as I do now.

He has called me on my hatred of him and done something probably only a being that had been Fae for a small eternity could do—he has accepted it and offered a full pardon. He has proposed far more than a mere business arrangement and waits for my response. I understand his game. He has studied my race with his coldly analytical Fae mind and knows us well.

By agreeing to be intimate with him, I expose myself on two levels: physically I get close enough to him that he could harm me, and emotionally I run the risk that every woman runs when she’s intimate with a man—where the body goes, a tiny piece of the heart tries to follow.

Fortunately for me, I have no heart left. I’m safe on that score. And I’ve grown damned tough to injure.

My ghosts whisper to each other across me, but I can’t hear them. There’s only one way I’ll ever be able to hear them again.

I turn my head for Darroc’s kiss.

As his lips close over mine, the duality inside me threatens to tear me in half, and if it succeeds, I will lose my best chance at accomplishing my mission.

I hurt.

I need punishment for my sins.

I bury my hands in his hair and channel all those feelings into passion, pour them into my touch, kiss him hard, violently, with explosive feeling. I turn us both around and slam him up against the wall, kissing him like he’s all that ever existed, kissing him with a full measure of humanity. It’s a thing a Fae can never feel, no matter the form they wear—humanity. It’s why they crave us in bed.

He staggers for a moment, draws back, and stares down at me.

My eyes are wild. I feel something inside me that terrifies me, and I just hope I can hang on to the edge of this cliff I’m on. I make a sound of impatience, wet my lips, and shove at him. “More,” I demand.

When he kisses me again, the last part of me that could stand myself dies.

8

It took me a bloody fucking month to get back.

I died three times.

It was worse than the 1800s when I had to book passage on a steamer to cross the bloody ocean.

Fragments of Fae reality everywhere, took down every plane I took up.

I consider the possibility that, by the time I return, he will have caught her, cut my brand off her skull, and made her impossible to track.

Then I begin to feel her.

She is alive. She still wears my mark.

But what I sense is incongruent with her situation. I expect grief. The woman killed me and, in humans, familiarity breeds a certain emotional bond.

But lust? On the heels of murdering me, who does she lust for?

I entertain myself with thoughts of searing my brand from her skull.

When I finally arrive at the bookstore, what do I see in the alley behind it?

The woman that summoned me to save her, then stabbed me in the back at the first opportunity, isn’t lost in the Silvers, in need of saving.

She’s standing in my alley, kissing the bastard that had her raped and turned her Pri-ya.

No, let us be perfectly precise: She’s grinding herself against him and shoving her tongue halfway down his throat.

My monster rattles its cage.

Violently.