Текст книги "The Shifting Price of Prey"
Автор книги: Сьюзан Маклеод
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 33 страниц)
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Surprise at unexpectedly hearing Finn’s voice flipped straight into anger. He was supposed to be back in the Fair Lands. But since he was here, and wanted to talk, he could start with an explanation.
‘What the hell were you doing answering my personal texts, Finn?’
‘You know why, Gen,’ he said, exasperated. ‘You can’t go seeing the sucker out in public.’
‘That’s my decision, not yours.’
‘Yeah, it is,’ he agreed, stumping me. ‘And you’re right; I probably shouldn’t have sent that text. I know jealousy isn’t cool, but it’s more than that, if you want to keep Spellcrackers.’
And here it was: his usual emotional blackmail. Well, I’d made my decision and even if Malik was a cowardly text-dumping over-protective idiot vamp, and our relationship was more likely off than on, I was sticking to it. No way was I going to let Finn, the satyr herd, the witches or anyone else dictate my choices in life. Not to mention if Finn wasback for good, then Spellcrackers wasn’t mine to keep anyway. I nudged my backpack nearer with my foot, resisting the urge to kick it, and dug out a Phone Privacy spell.
‘Threats are even less cool than jealousy, Finn,’ I snapped as the spell activated and the noise from Trafalgar Square muted. ‘Oh, and my keeping Spellcrackers is sort of a moot, as you’re back.’
‘I know, Gen,’ he said, his exasperation turning to apology. ‘I’ve been talking to Tavish, and like him I’ll back you all the way. Hell’s thorns, I think the herd owe Spellcrackers to you for all the hassle they’ve caused.’ He paused. ‘But things will be a lot easier if you stay away from the sucker. If you can, that is.’
Shock rocked through me. Part was his comment about ‘staying away from Malik, if I could’, though what Finn meant by that was a mystery. But mostly it was down to: ‘Did you say you’re willing to go against the rest of the satyr herd? To let me keep Spellcrackers? Don’t you want it?’
‘Gen, I enjoy the job, but a lot of that is working with you. I don’t feel any great need to be the boss and to be honest, with Nicky and the baby to look after, I could do without the added responsibility. So, yeah, I’ll back you.’
Sincerity rang in his voice, telling me he meant every word. A bubble of happy excitement expanded in me. Finn backing me, and backing down as boss, didn’t mean I’d win, but it meant I could fight with a clear conscience, knowing that I wasn’t taking anything from him. Only– ‘What about you? What will you do?’
‘Work for you, of course.’ He laughed like it was a joke, though his words held a serious note.
I blinked, astonished. ‘You’d want to work for me?’
‘Gods, Gen, I’d be happy to.’
I let that idea sink in. We were friends, we made a great team and we’d always had a lot of fun working together. Okay, so it would be different if I was the boss, not Finn. But there was no reason why it couldn’t work . . . my happy bubble deflated . . . except of course, there was. Malik for one. And Finn’s evil ex, the Witch-bitch Helen Crane. She might be stuck in the Fair Lands, but she hated me enough that I doubted I’d seen the last of her.
Finn seemed to read my mind. ‘Gen, I know you’re upset about Helen, but that’s over. And if you’re thinking the sucker’s going to be a problem, then he doesn’t have to be. I know about last night. But I want us to be together and I hope we can sort things out.’
I nearly dropped the phone in the fountain. He knew about me and Malik, and he still thought wecould sort things out? Never mind how the hell did Finn know– Tavish! ‘Tavish had no right to tell you.’
‘He didn’t, Gen. Sylvia told me.’
‘Sylvia?’ I said, even more betrayed that she’dgossiped about me. We were supposed to be friends. ‘She had no right, either.’
‘Hell’s thorns, Gen.’ Finn’s exasperation boiled up again. ‘It’s not like it’s a secret; all the dryads are talking about what happened on the boating lake last night.’
Crap. I’d forgotten about the trees on the island. They’d have had a ringside seat, literally, and now it would be all over London. Even if Sylvia hadn’t told Finn, someone would’ve given him a blow-by-blow account soon enough. I wanted to crawl under a stone somewhere and hide. Not that I regretted what had happened with Malik, or wouldn’t do exactly the same again (though obviously somewhere waymore private), but hell, why couldn’t the damn dryads gossip about anyone else for a change? Not to mention Finn was taking what happened with Malik awfully well, but then I hadchucked Finn out for playing happy families with the Witch-bitch Helen, so maybe he knew he didn’t have a jealous leg to stand on. Not that I wanted him to be jealous. Still, I hated that he’d found out like that. And I needed to tell him that things between us couldn’t be sorted out. Not the way he wanted anyway. Only that wasn’t the sort of discussion for a phone call.
‘Finn, look, I think we should meet up later. Once I’ve finished here.’
‘Sylvia was worried about you,’ he replied, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘The trees said it was pretty violent, and with Ricou not around she needed someone to reassure her that the sucker hadn’t hurt you.’ He stopped, then said hesitantly, ‘Did he hurt you, Gen?’
‘What? No, of course not.’
‘Sylvia said she wasn’t sure, she’d asked you, and you told her not to worry,’ he went on earnestly. ‘I know he can order you around, Gen. If you can’t tell me, there’s ways of getting round it. Just say something, like, oh, he’s a bad client. You don’t have to protect him.’
Damn it. This was why he was taking things so well; he’d cast Malik as the bad guy, me the damsel in distress and himself as the white knight riding to my rescue. Typical. ‘Finn,’ I said, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. ‘I’m not protecting Malik. He didn’t force me to do’ – the magic pricked at me, stopping me from lying – ‘what you think.’
Silence. Then, almost as if to himself, he said, ‘Sylvia told me the trees said there was some accident and the sucker forced you to drink his blood. But that was all.’ A pause as he obviously worked things out. ‘Did something more happen, Gen? Something that he didn’t force you to do?’
Yes, a lot more. But I thought you knew that.My chest constricted at the pain in his voice. Shit. I bent over, hugging myself. Way to put your foot in it, Gen!And what the hell was I supposed to say now?
I took a fortifying breath. ‘I’m sorry, Finn,’ I said quietly, ‘it was . . . he was . . . I didn’t mean for you to find out like that. I was going to tell you when you got back.’
Another, longer silence. Finally: ‘You’re working with the police on something to do with those kidnappings, aren’t you?’ He’d changed the subject. I didn’t know whether to be relieved, or cry. I scrubbed my face. ‘Yeah.’
‘Right. I’ll hold the fort here until you’re done.’ His brisk businesslike tone came out harsher than usual. ‘We can talk about this then.’
Crap. Not a subject change, just a postponement. Only I’d made my choice, and never mind Malik was an idiot, I wasn’t going to change my mind. Finn needed to know that. ‘No—’
The phone cut out.
I stared at it, warring between heartsick I’d hurt him and annoyed, both at him and myself.
A hand waved in front of my face. ‘Earth to Genny!’
I looked up to find Mary smiling quizzically at me. ‘What?’
‘We’re going scrying, remember? For your Cousin Maxim? You get to come along for the ride.’
‘Oh, yeah. Sorry.’
‘C’mon, then,’ she said, and as I followed her to Dessa and her police car, she told me the plan. It sounded like we were going to be driving in ever-expanding circles around Trafalgar Square until they got a hit. All I had to do was sit back and enjoy the ride.
I slide into the back of the car – which was like an oven after being parked in the blazing summer sun – and, as Dessa pulled out into the slow-moving traffic, stifled a yawn. Damn, looked like my restless night, thanks to the Morpheus Memory Aided nightmares, was starting to catch up with me. A nap would be good. Only I had a lot to try to make sense of. I leaned my head back on the seat, thoughts of Mad Max, werewolves, kidnap victims, gossiping dryads, Finn and Malik spinning like dervishes in my mind . . .
Malik/I strode through the twists and turns of wide shaded corridors, his/my hand on the sabre’s hilt, pantaloons ballooning about our legs, the tall headdress on our head an odd but familiar weight. Our slippered feet marched purposely past the ornately arched and curtained doorways, behind which flowed the constant murmur of female voices. The guards – plump, ebony-skinned eunuchs – bowed their heads, murmuring soft-voiced greetings.
‘Abd al-Malik’ – Servant of the King– ‘welcome.’
I slipped further into Malik’s dream/memory, acknowledging them, accepting their respect, but not stopping as the dream/memory drew me along its path.
Soon I halted at the entrance to a small courtyard garden. Gleaming mosaics patterned the courtyard’s walls in a geometric design that spoke of the Middle East, fan-shaped palms cast welcome shade, a breeze carried exotic floral scents and the quiet splash of the corner fountain was a soft relaxing music. Above, the sky stretched an endless blue, a blazing sun throwing down a fierce midday heat.
In the centre of the courtyard sat a woman in her mid-twenties swathed in layers of jewel-encrusted fabric, topped with a short embroidered waistcoat. Her glossy brunette hair cascaded in was to her hips from beneath a fez-style hat atop a headscarf, also encrusted with its own fortune in gems, as she tended to the black-haired baby girl lying on the colourful rug in front of her. The baby was in the middle of being changed, arms waving, legs kicking free, giggling as her mother tickled gentle fingers over her tummy. Sitting on the rug close to them was another child: a solemn-looking girl of about six, her hair the same glossy black as the baby’s, dressed in a miniature version of the mother’s bright, jewel-covered outfit. The girl cradled a doll in her arms, rocking it back and forth, her mouth murmuring a quiet lullaby.
The memory stilled as if I’d pressed pause.
I, not Malik, recognised the girl. It was Fur Jacket Girl, the werewolf I’d seen at the mosque, and then again in the memory I’d had at the zoo, where she’d been chained in the ash circle in the snow, her mate lying dead nearby. This was her as a child.
Malikhad known her. She’d meantsomething to him. That’s why he’d been full of rage and had killed her mate.
Even as shock stuttered within me, the memory started up again.
Behind the woman and children stood a tall boy of around nine or ten, head down, arms crossed over his thin chest, bad-temper radiating from his stance. He was dressed in a miniature version of Malik’s/my clothes: a tall headdress atop his turban, pantaloons, and a floor-length crimson coat that brushed the gem-sewn slippers on his feet. And secured through the embroidered belt around his waist was a curved sabre, similar to the one I carried, a man’s blade and not a child’s toy.
I stepped into the courtyard and the woman looked up, giving me a smile full of welcome and love.
‘Malik, canımın içi’ – light of my soul– she called. ‘You are home. Safe. I trust the campaign goes well?’
The memory sharpened and I drank in the woman’s beauty; her huge, thickly lashed, dark eyes, porcelain-pale skin touched with the sun’s blush, the perfect lines of her cheek and jaw, the tiny black crescent inked at the corner of her lush mouth.
The moment broke as child-Fur Jacket Girl jumped up and flung herself at me. I caught her, lifting her high in the air to a delighted squeal, then kissed her cheek as I carried her back to her mother. I set her on the rug as her mother offered me the baby. As she did, her sleeves fell back to reveal intricate tattoos like black vines twisting up her arms. Dropping an affectionate kiss on the woman’s forehead I took the chubby baby into my arms and tickled her tummy as her mother had done. She smelled of sweet herbs and aloes. I laughed as she giggled with innocent happiness.
A sharp cough vied for my attention and I saw a shadow flit through the woman’s eyes. I handed the baby back and turned to the boy. He was still staring at his slippered feet, his bad temper more pronounced.
‘Emir,’ I said, sketching a bow.
‘ Çorbaci’ – Commander –‘Abd al-Malik. Welcome.’ He returned my bow. Then he raised his eyes to mine, his mouth splitting wide in a knowing grin.
The memory froze again.
I, not Malik, knew that grin, even with its slightly crooked, still human teeth.
Last time I’d seen the boy I’d been fourteen and it was our wedding night. He hadn’t been a child then but a six-foot-tall gangly fifteen-year-old. Or at least, that was the age he’d looked; as a vamp he was however many centuries old. But it didn’t matter how childish he appeared in this dream/memory, no way could I ever forget the spiteful way his lips curved. Or the lust for others’ pain that shone in his large, doe-like brown eyes.
He was the Autarch – Bastien – my psychotic murdering betrothed.
‘Hello, my sidhe princess,’ the boy-Bastien said, as if we’d last met days ago instead of eleven years.
Terror-induced adrenalin flooded my veins. I forced myself to take a calming breath, and then another. This was Malik’s memory, twisted into nightmare. A side-effect of the Morpheus Memory Aid interacting with his blood. Just like at the zoo. Nothing more. Bastien wasn’t real, which meant he couldn’t hurt me. But despite my mental bolstering, I still flinched as his hand clasped the scimitar and he rolled his shoulders back in the same way that had been a prelude to him wielding another sword on my faeling friend that betrothal night. Finally killing her after days of torture. And I couldn’t stop myself instinctively shuffling backwards to put more space between us until I bumped into the courtyard wall.
‘You’re not real,’ I whispered.
He laughed, darting to me and pinching my arm. It hurt, and I froze, shaking with panic. ‘Real is a mutable term, princess,’ he admonished. ‘Particularly when you are trespassing in someone else’s memories.’
I swallowed. ‘Yours?’
‘Come now, sidhe. Let’s not spoil our reunion with stupidity.’ He threw his arms wide to encompass the woman, the girl and the baby. ‘This vision of domestic sentimentality is certainly not something I would desire to relive.’ He leaned towards me and I pressed myself harder into the wall as he sniffed. ‘And then there is the nasty little irritation that you stink of Abd al-Malik’s blood.’
This is a nightmare. Nothing more.
Only even as I told myself to wake up, I knew I wouldn’t. Somehow I’d blundered – or been pulled? –into the Dreamscape; where dreams and reality mix.
And now I was trapped there with the one person who churned my guts liquid with horror.
The boy-Bastien’s nostrils flared again. ‘Not only hisblood, but sex too. My, my, what have you and my ever-faithful commander been up to, my lovely bride, that you smell so deliciously tasty?’
No way was he biting me. Or fucking me. Or using his sword on me. I’d die first. Or, said the scared child-voice in my mind, more likely after . . .
‘But sadly, I am not allowed to play with you, my princess.’ He stepped back and I sagged against the wall in relief. ‘Not yet, anyway, not until my pact with my commander is done. But them I canplay with’ – he indicated the woman and children on the rug, then lifted one elegant brow – ‘so which one shall I pick, my bride?’ He pointed a contemptuous finger at the woman. ‘Shall it be the beautiful Shpresa, my father’s favoured Ikbal,despite her opening her legs for any who choose to defile her? Or her youngest, Aisha, the little parcel of precious humanity that squeals like a stuck pig at her knees and takes all her attention?’ He moved to stand behind the child-Fur Jacket Girl cradling her doll, and reached out to stroke her hair, jealousy twisting his mouth. ‘Or perhaps her other daughter, the delectable Dilek.’ Child-Fur Jacket Girl frowned, feeling his touch if not hearing his voice, and hunched away from him. ‘Such young flesh Dilek has, so very pure and innocent.’
Nausea roiled in my stomach at the thought of what he might do. At what he might make me watch. Again.
The dream/memory started up again; this time it scrolled in front of me like a film I was watching.
Boy-Bastien bent to Dilek’s ear, saying something in a language I didn’t understand. A look of fear, quickly masked, crossed her face, and she turned to yell defiantly at him. He laughed nastily, pinching her cheek and, as she batted him away, grabbed her doll, holding it tauntingly aloft. She shouted, desperately jumping up to rescue the doll from him.
The woman, Shpresa, looked up from swaddling the baby, her expression the resigned one of mothers everywhere when children goad each other. She called out sharply, gesturing at Bastien to give the doll back. Bastien nodded, holding the doll by its head and feet as he offered it to the crying Dilek. As she went to take it, he shot a ‘watch this’ look in my direction and shoved the doll into Dilek’s small chest. She stumbled back and he jerked his arms gleefully apart, ripping the doll’s head from its body and tossing the decapitated parts into the corner fountain.
Dilek burst into anguished tears. Her mother gathered her up into a hug, and spoke to Bastien in a disappointed tone that indicated this wasn’t the first such incident. He shrugged his bony shoulders, a mock air of contriteness not quite hiding his satisfaction. Shpresa spoke again, pointing at the baby, and he sidled past her, surreptitiously yanking Dilek’s hair as he did so. As Dilek bawled louder, Bastien snatched the baby up, gripping her under her arms and dangling her at arm’s length. She wriggled, little arms and legs waving as he gave me a calculating glance and the dream/memory halted again.
‘Babies are such fragile things,’ he said, throwing the squealing baby into the air and catching her just before she hit the paving slabs. ‘Much like a child’s doll. Don’t you agree, my lovely sidhe?’
My heart thudded with impending dread. ‘Put her down.’
He smiled. ‘Come and join me fully in the Dreamscape.’
‘No.’ The word was out my mouth before I could think.
‘A pity. She is not as sweet as sidhe blood, I warrant, but sweet enough for me to indulge myself.’ Bastien licked his lips and buried his face in the baby’s tummy. She squirmed with a pain-filled gurgle, then he turned her to face me. Fang marks pierced her small round stomach, bright blood dripping from the tiny, neat holes. ‘Shall I feast on this plump chicken, tear its tiny limbs, suck on its marrow, crack its head like an almond and gorge myself on its infant mind? Shall I do all that while you watch and listen to its screams? Or will you join me, my princess?’
No fucking way.But despite knowing the baby was only part of whatever twisted nightmare/illusion Bastien was making, my fear of what he might make me watch unglued my feet. I took a step towards him and said, ‘Yes.’
The baby, the woman, the child-Fur Jacket Girl and the courtyard disappeared.
The white sloping walls of my attic bedroom snapped into focus around me.
It was night. The room dimly lit by the moonlight shining through the window. I was dressed in my usual sleep vest and shorts. But even as my mind tried to reject the change, a hand gripped my throat, fingers digging in, almost but not quite choking, and jerked me up on to my feet so Bastien could stare down at me. The gangly boy was gone; in his place was the grinning, teenage six-foot-plus Autarch. He flashed sharp fangs, a triumphant expression on his teenage face.
Chapter Forty
‘Well, well, my lovely sidhe princess. I am delighted you have agreed to join me fully in the Dreamscape.’ He raked his gaze down my body then his mouth twisted. He ripped my vest top down the front and prodded disdainfully at the rose-coloured bruises marking my breasts and belly.
‘Although I must remark you were prettier at fourteen; now you appear to be damaged goods.’
I punched him in the gut. He doubled over, the metallic stink of recently ingested blood belching from his surprised mouth, his fingers loosening on my throat. I followed with an uppercut to his chin, snapping his head backwards. Then I reached up, grabbed his ears, yanked his head down and headbutted him on the bridge of his nose, hearing the satisfying crunch of bone. I shoved him, wondering why he wasn’t fighting back. Was it surprise or luck? And how long before I ran out of both? He staggered slightly, and as he swiped at the blood streaming from his broken nose, fell on to his butt, laughing.
I clenched my right fist.
A ball of angry dragonfire erupted from the emerald ring on my hand.
And Ascalon sprung into my grip.
I didn’t know if you could die in the Dreamscape, but if you could, then I was going to kill Bastien.
Adjusting my grip around the knobbed hilt, I slashed it through the air, aiming for where Bastien’s neck would be when he automatically ducked.
He didn’t duck.
The sword hit his shoulder, the sharp blade slicing through his torso as if he wasn’t there. It exited the other side of his body and I moved back, automatically falling into a ready stance as I held my breath, eager for the top half of him to tumble off and blood to spurt like we were in some sort of CGI film.
It didn’t.
Instead he laughed again and, as time seemed to slow, his doe-brown eyes filled with viscous red blood, blotting out his pupil, iris and sclera. Mesmerised, I stared, expecting the blood to spill like tears down his cheeks. Instead, bone cracked as his nose reset itself, the blood on his face disappearing back into his skin as he healed. His lips curved in a cruel smile and he jumped up, stuck his arm out and closed his fingers around my neck again. His nails dug into my throat, piercing the flesh with needle-sharp pain, and I felt hot wetness trickle down my chest.
My pulse thundered in my ears. Ascalon had cut through him. The sword was blessed and bespelled to kill all unless they were an innocent. Bastien was no innocent. But Ascalon had done nothing. Did that mean you couldn’t die in the Dreamscape? Yet I’d hurt him. He was hurting me now. And I was bleeding. So why the fuck hadn’t it cleaved his torso in two? Why wasn’t he dead? Had I imagined I’d hit him? Maybe he’d moved vamp-fast and I hadn’t registered it.
Gritting my teeth, I tried again, a two-handed thrust up through his gut, aiming for his heart. Again the sword met no resistance, only this time his body seemed to shimmer translucently for a millisecond. Then he chopped at my wrists and elbows in quick succession. I cried out, agonising pain shooting through both arms as bones broke, and the sword clattered to the floorboards from my useless hands.
‘Stop moving, my pretty sidhe, else I will rip out your throat.’ He leaned closer and opened his blood-soaked eyes wide. ‘Losing the muscle, sinew, tendons, blood vessels, cartilage, windpipe and voicebox hurts.Even one as difficult to kill as you will find it hard to heal that.’
He was right. I knewhe was right. I knewI might not heal it at all. I hadto do as he said. It was the only way . . .
I frowned at the thoughts in my head. They sounded wrong . . .
He touched his tongue to his fangs. ‘Or don’t. I would enjoy fucking you while you suffocate and drown in your own blood.’
Panic froze me as memories of my wedding night and him killing my friend, Sally, slammed into me. I hadto do as he said. I stopped struggling. His pressure on my throat increased, almost cutting off my air. I forced myself to stay still, to stare back stoically as my lungs heaved for breath, to concentrate on calming my pulse, even as my vision greyed around the edges. He watched me intently for what felt like hours, then his hand at my throat relaxed slightly. I gasped for oxygen before I could stop myself.
‘I see you understand, my pretty sidhe.’ He sighed. ‘Although I find it disappointing.’ He hooked his fingers into my briefs and tore them off. Fear clenched my stomach and I forced myself to stay still. He contemplated me like I was a bug pinned under a microscope, and started poking at Malik’s rose-petal bruises again. I tensed, skin crawling at his touch, the small pains insignificant to the fiery ones in my wrists. As his prodding moved lower, I desperately searched my mind for what little I knew about the Dreamscape. The only time I’d been here before was via Malik’s ring: I’d put the ring on to enter and he’d taken it off to make me leave. Or rather, to wake me up. While I was here, I was asleep in real life. That meant all I had to do to escape was wake up. But without Malik’s ring to remove, I didn’t know how. It hit me I was trapped in the Dreamscape with Bastien. Despair filtered into my mind. My recurring nightmare made real.
He gave my throat a quick squeeze. ‘Now, I am going to ask you a question. I know a sidhe cannot lie, but know I want you to answer only yes or no. No prevarication, do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ I gasped, my lungs struggling for breath.
‘You reek of Malik and sex,’ he said, voice soft. ‘Has my commander filled you with his seed, my bride?’
Shock sparked like lightning. ‘ What?!’
‘Answer me.’
‘No,’ I croaked. Where the hell was this going?
He frowned then slid his hand down my belly and between my legs. I shuddered in fear and disgust as his finger penetrated for an instant. He brought it up to his nose, sniffed and then licked it.
‘You are correct,’ he said.
Indignant anger rose. He hadn’t believed me. ‘Sidhe,’ I spat, ‘can’t fucking lie.’
His mouth thinned. ‘He has wanted you for a long time. He has even marked you.’ He poked a bruise on my left breast and I forced myself not to squirm. ‘But he has still not made you his, even though the spell should have done away with his resistance by now. It is a puzzle.’
It wasn’t the only one. For some weird reason, it sounded like he wanted Malik and me to have sex. Had encouraged it, even. The utter improbability of the Autarch ‘matchmaking’, allied to my earlier indignation, shattered something in my head. ‘What spell?’
He touched his forehead. ‘The one lodged within the delta brand.’
The sadistic Jellyfish spell I’d removed. Bastien’s gaze narrowed as he saw recognition on my face. ‘Well, well, my princess, it seems I underestimated you . . .’ He licked his lips, his gaze skating hungrily down my body.
Think! There had to be a way out of this.
‘You are not afraid of me,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Why not?’
I stared at him. He really was insane as well as psychotic if he didn’t think I was scared.
He tapped my forehead. ‘You are afraid here, but not here.’ He tapped over my heart. ‘You were before, but now you are not. Why not?’
I blinked. He was right. In the last few seconds I’d lost my mind-numbing terror of him. Not that I didn’t think he’d hurt me, but he wasn’t the big, bad, bogey-vamp of my fourteen-year-old nightmares any more. He was just another sucker, after all– And suckers could get into your mind. Make you think and feel and see anything they wanted with a combination of mesma,vamp mind-mojo and illusion. And I was the stupid idiot who’d forgotten it.
Bastien squeezed my throat. ‘There are not many who do not fear me, my sidhe princess. I find it interesting.’
May you live in interesting times.
The ambiguous Chinese saying flashed in my head, and I decided it was time this got interesting for him.
‘You’re not real,’ I whispered. ‘You have no substance. You are nothing but your thoughts in the Dreamscape.’ That was why the sword, Ascalon, hadn’t cut him. I’d have realised it earlier if not for my stupid childish panic. His other injuries had just been him playing with me. Using them to convince me that if I could hurt him, then he could hurt me. I stepped back.
His fingers didn’t unclench, but they didn’t rip my throat out either.
‘You’re not here,’ I said with more emphasis, lifting my arms as the pain and illusion they were broken vanished. ‘You. Are. Not. Real.’
‘I am real, sidhe.’ He waved his hand and the beautiful woman, the girl, the baby and the young Bastien, with Malik standing next to them, reappeared behind him. The five were in the sun-bright courtyard with its gleaming mosaic walls the same as when I’d first seen them in Malik’s memory, but the picture overlaid my bedroom like a holograph or a vamp-conjured illusion. ‘Just as they were real once. My loyal commander couldn’t save them– Save us,’ he amended, with an oddly conflicted expression, ‘when the Emperor came before.’
‘You. Are. Not. Here,’ I said, and taking a deep breath, I walked straight through him and out of my bedroom door.
‘Now the Emperor comes again, my sidhe princess.’
I woke up in the back of the police car.
‘And only you can save . . .’ His voice faded like morning mist banished by the sun.
The car was parked in a layby in front of a row of local community shops; a launderette, a newsagent, an off-licence, a boarded-up video rental place, a Subway and a butcher’s. And I was alone. A scrawled note on my lap, addressed to Sleeping Beauty, said Mary and Dessa were checking out a possible hit on their scrying and would be back soon. Something I was grateful for, as my reaction to tangling with Bastien suddenly made itself felt.
I just had time to stick my head out of the open car window (having discovered I was locked in) before my stomach revolted. Vomiting into the gutter, I tried not to think about exactly how and where Bastien had touched me. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t shown up physically, that our meeting had been in the Dreamscape; it still felt like he’d violated me. I heaved again, catching sight of the feet of passers-by in my peripheral vision. No one stopped; the one advantage to puking your guts out from the inside of a marked police car. Even if the police were nowhere in sight.
My heaves finally subsided and I grabbed a bottle of water from my bag, rinsed away the sour taste of regurgitated orange juice (thankful I’d had nothing more than that and vodka for hours), then used the rest to sluice my mess down the nearby drain, wishing I could flush psycho Bastien away as easily. I shoved the empty bottle back in my bag. Next time I ran into the sadistic bastard in real life, I was going to kill him.
