Faefever Part 7

I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. I spun the handle to full hot, and let the scalding spray steam the air. I was s.h.i.+vering, icy. Even as a child, the dream had always left me that way. It was bitterly cold wherever the dying woman was, and now I was cold, too.

Sometimes my dreams feel so real it's hard to believe they're just the subconscious's stroll across a whimsical map that has no true north. Sometimes it seems like Dreaming must be a land that really exists somewhere, at a concrete lat.i.tude and longitude, with its own rules and laws, treacherous terrains, and dangerous inhabitants.

They say if you die in a dream, your heart stops in real life. I don't know if that's true. I've never known anyone who died in a dream to ask. Maybe because they're all dead.

The hot spray cleansed my skin but left my psyche coated. I couldn't soap away the feeling that it was going to be a truly sucky day.

I had no idea just how sucky.

I learned in one of my college psych courses about comfort zones.

People like to find them and stay in them. A comfort zone can be a mental state: belief in G.o.d is a lot of people's comfort zone. Don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking faith; I just don't think you should have it because it makes you feel safe. I think you should have it because you do do. Because somewhere deep inside you, you know beyond equivocating that something greater, wiser, and infinitely more loving than we're capable of understanding has a vested interest in the Universe, in the way things turn out. Because you can feel that, as much as the forces of darkness might try to gain the upper hand, there is is an Upper Hand. an Upper Hand.

That's my comfort zone.

But comfort zones can be physical places, too: like your dad's favorite recliner that your mom keeps threatening to send to Goodwill, with those sagging springs, the torn upholstery, and some kind of no-worry guarantee because the moment he settles into it every night, he relaxes; or your mom's breakfast nook, where the sun s.h.i.+nes in at the perfect angle every morning as she sips her coffee, and she kind of glows sitting there; or the rose garden your elderly neighbor prunes to perfection, despite the sweltering summer heat, smiling the day away.

Mine is the bookstore.

I'm safe inside. As long as the lights are on, no Shades can get in. Barrons warded the building against my enemies: the Lord Master; Derek O'Bannion, who wants me dead for stealing the spear and killing his brother; the terrifyingly Satanic Unseelie Hunters that track and kill sidhe sidhe-seers on general principle; all of the Fae, even V'lane-and if by some bizarre fluke something did did get in, I've got an a.r.s.enal plastered to my body and I've hidden weapons, flashlights, even holy water and garlic in strategic locations throughout the store. get in, I've got an a.r.s.enal plastered to my body and I've hidden weapons, flashlights, even holy water and garlic in strategic locations throughout the store.

Nothing can hurt me here. Well, there's the owner himself, but if he's going to harm me, it won't be until he's done with me, and since I'm far from finding the Book, he's far from done with me. There's a measure of comfort in that.

You want to know somebody? I mean, really really know somebody? Take away their comfort zone and see what happens. know somebody? Take away their comfort zone and see what happens.

I knew I shouldn't have been up on the third floor, cataloging books, with an untended cash register and an unlocked front door two floors below me, but it had been a slow day and my guards were down. It was daytime and I was in the bookstore. Nothing could hurt me here.

When the bell over the front door tinkled, I called, "Be right down," and inserted the book I'd been about to catalog on its side on the shelf to mark my place. Then I turned and hurried for the stairs.

Something that felt like a baseball bat slammed me in the s.h.i.+ns as I pa.s.sed the last row of bookshelves.

I went flying, headfirst, across the hardwood floor. A banshee landed on my back, tried to grapple my wrists behind me.

"I've got her!" the banshee yelled.

My petunia, she did. I'm not as nice a person as I used to be. I twisted, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and yanked on it hard enough to give myself a sympathy headache.

"Ow!"

Women fight differently from men. You couldn't get me to hurt a woman's b.r.e.a.s.t.s for anything. I know how tender my own are when I'm PMSing. Besides, we feed babies with them. Using a handful of her hair as leverage, I wrenched her around, slammed her on her back on the floor, and grabbed her by the throat. I nearly choked her by default when a second banshee landed on my back, but this time, I sensed her approach and pistoned back my elbow, nailing her squarely in the abdomen. She doubled over and rolled away. A third one vaulted herself at me, and I punched her in the face. Her nose cracked beneath my fist and spurted blood.

Three more women appeared and the fight got really vicious, and I lost all my illusions about women fighting differently, or being the kinder, gentler s.e.x. I didn't care where I hit, as long as my punches connected, and I was hearing thuds and grunts. The louder the better. Six against one wasn't playing fair.

I felt myself changing like I'd changed that day in the warehouse in the Dark Zone, when Barrons and I had first battled side by side, against the Lord Master's minions and Malluce. I felt myself turning into a force to be reckoned with, a danger in her own right, even without the dark aid of Unseelie flesh. It still didn't stop me from wis.h.i.+ng I had a bite of it handy.

I felt myself becoming sidhe sidhe-seer, growing stronger, tougher, moving faster than a human could, striking with the accuracy of a trained sharpshooter, the skill of a professional a.s.sa.s.sin.

Only problem was-their green Post Haste, Inc. uniforms were a dead giveaway-they were sidhe sidhe-seers, too.

Fight scenes bore me in movies and since I'm telling this story, I'm fast-forwarding through the details. I was outnumbered, but for some reason, they seemed a little afraid of me. I decided Rowena must have sent them, and perhaps she'd told them I was rogue, unpredictable.

Make no mistake, I took a beating. Six sidhe sidhe-seers is an army and they kicked my petunia six different ways to Sunday, but they couldn't keep me down.

How abruptly a situation can flip from bad to irrevocable, leaving you standing there thinking, Wait a minute, who's got the remote? Where's my rewind? Can I just go back a lousy three seconds, and do things differently?

I didn't mean to kill her.

It was just that, once it penetrated that they were sidhe sidheseers, I kept trying to talk to them, but none of them would listen to me. They were determined to beat me unconscious, and I was equally determined not not to be beaten unconscious. I wasn't about to let them drag me to the abbey against my will. I would go on my own terms, how and when I felt safe-and after this underhanded ambush of Rowena's, that might be never. to be beaten unconscious. I wasn't about to let them drag me to the abbey against my will. I would go on my own terms, how and when I felt safe-and after this underhanded ambush of Rowena's, that might be never.

Then they started demanding my spear, poking and prodding me, trying to find out if I was wearing it, and something in me snapped as I realized that Rowena had sent my own people after me-not to bring me in, but to take my weapon away from me, take my weapon away from me, as if she had the right! as if she had the right! I I was the one who stole it. was the one who stole it. I I was the one who'd paid for it in blood. She thought to leave me defenseless? Over my dead body. No one was taking my hard-won power away from me. was the one who'd paid for it in blood. She thought to leave me defenseless? Over my dead body. No one was taking my hard-won power away from me.

I reached beneath my jacket to pull it out and wave it threateningly, to make them back off and listen to reason, and as I yanked it from my shoulder holster, the brunette in the ball cap lunged for me, and she and the spear . . . collided. Violently.

"Oh," she said, and her lips froze on the round shape of the word. She blinked, and coughed. Blood blossomed on her tongue, and stained her teeth.

We looked down at my hand, at the blood on her pinstriped blouse and the spear lodged in her chest. I don't know who was more mystified. I wanted to let go of it and back as far away as I could from the terrible thing it had done to her-those cold inches of killing steel-but not even under such circ.u.mstances could I force myself to let go of the spear. It was mine. My lifeline. My only defense in those dangerous, dark streets.

Her lids fluttered and she looked suddenly . . . sleepy, which I guess isn't so odd; death is the great sleep. She shuddered, and sort of wrenched herself backward, twisting. Blood gushed from the unplugged wound, and I stood there holding the stopper. Green goo from stabbing Unseelie was one thing. This was human blood, on her s.h.i.+rt, her pants, on me, me, everywhere. I felt hot and cold at the same time. Too many panicked thoughts collided in my mind, blanking it out. I reached for her but her eyes closed and she stumbled backward. everywhere. I felt hot and cold at the same time. Too many panicked thoughts collided in my mind, blanking it out. I reached for her but her eyes closed and she stumbled backward.

"I'll call an ambulance," I cried.

Two of the sidhe sidhe-seers caught her as she fell, and lowered her gently to the floor, snapping orders at each other.

I fished out my cell. "What's the emergency number here?" I should know it. I didn't know it. She was still, too still. Her face was white, her eyes closed.

"It's too late for that," one of them snarled up at me.

Screw medical help. "I can get something else to save her," I cried. I should have kept those stupid sandwiches! What had I been thinking? Fact was, I should probably start carrying live Unseelie chunks with me, everywhere. "Just keep her still." I would rush outside, grab the nearest dark Fae, drag it back here, and feed it to her. She would be fine. I would fix this. She wasn't dead. She couldn't be. Unseelie would heal her. As I lunged for the stairs, one of them grabbed me and jerked me back.

"She's dead, you f.e.c.king idiot," she hissed. "It's too late. You'll pay for this." She shoved me violently and I slammed into a bookcase.

I stared at the green-garbed women huddled around the body, and my future flashed before my eyes. They would call the police. I would be arrested. Jayne would lock me up and throw away the key. He'd never buy self-defense, especially not with a stolen, ancient spear. There would be a trial. My parents would have to fly over. This would destroy what was left of them: one daughter rotting in a grave, the other in a jail cell.

They gathered her up, and began carrying her toward the stairs, taking her down to the main floor.

They were disturbing the crime scene. If I were to have any hope at all of proving my innocence, I would need it intact. "I don't think you should do that. Aren't you going to call the police?" Maybe I could make it out of the country before they did. Maybe Barrons could fix this. Or V'lane. I had friends in high places. Friends who wanted me alive and free to do their bidding.

One of them shot me a murderous look over her shoulder.

"Have you taken a good look at the Garda lately? Besides, humans don't police us," she sneered. "We police our own. Always have. Always will." There was an unmistakable threat in her words.

I poked my head over the bal.u.s.trade and watched as they reappeared downstairs. One of them glanced up at me. "Don't try to leave; we'll just hunt you," she hissed.

"Oh, take a ticket and get in line," I muttered as they banged out the door.

"I need to borrow a car," I told Barrons when he walked in the front door that night, shortly after nine.

He was wearing an exquisitely tailored suit, an impeccable white s.h.i.+rt, and a blood-red tie. His dark hair was slicked back from his handsome face. Diamond cuff links glinted at his wrists. His body hummed with energy, saturating the air around him. His eyes were startlingly brilliant, restless, darting everywhere.

I've felt that body on top of mine, been the focus of that consuming gaze. I try not to think about it. I have a box inside me now that never used to exist. I never needed it before. It's down in my deepest, darkest corner, and it's airtight, soundproofed, and padlocked. It's where I keep thoughts I don't know what to do with, that could get me into trouble. Eating Unseelie hammers on the inside of that lid incessantly. I try to keep kissing Barrons in that box, too, but it gets out sometimes.

I would not put the death of the sidhe sidhe-seer in the box. It was something I had to deal with in order to move forward with my goals.

"Why don't you ask your fairy little boyfriend to take you wherever you want to go?"

That was a thought, but there were other thoughts attached to that thought that I hadn't thought through yet. Besides, back home whenever I got really upset about something, like breaking a nail the same day I'd spent good money on a manicure, or finding out that Betsy had gone to Atlanta with her mom and bought the same pink prom dress as me, totally ruining my senior experience, I used to get in my car, crank up the music really loud, and drive for hours until I'd calmed down.

I needed to drive now, to lose myself in the night, and I wanted to feel the thunder of hundreds of stampeding horses beneath me while I was doing it. My body was bruised in a dozen places; my emotions were black and blue all over. I'd killed a young woman today. Commission or omission, she was dead. I cursed the vagaries that had led me to choose that precise moment to unsheathe my weapon, and her, that exact moment to lunge. "I don't feel like asking my fairy little boyfriend."

Barrons' lips twitched. I'd almost made him smile. Barrons smiles about as often as the sun comes out in Dublin, and it has the same effect on me; makes me feel warm and stupid.

"I don't suppose you'd call him that the next time you see him, and let me watch his reaction?"

"Don't think that would work, Barrons," I said sweetly. "n.o.body ever sticks around when you show up. Darndest thing. Almost as if everyone's afraid of you."

My saccharine humor exorcised the ghost of his smile. "Did you have a specific car in mind, Ms. Lane?"

I wanted blue-collar muscle tonight. "The Viper."

"Why should I let you take it?"

"Because you owe me."

"Why do I owe you?"

"Because I put up with you."

He smiled then, really smiled. I snorted and looked away. "The keys are in it, Ms. Lane. The keys to the garage are in the top drawer of my desk, right-hand side."

I glanced at him sharply. Was this a concession? Telling me where he kept his keys? The offer of a deeper, more trusting a.s.sociation?

"Of course you know that already," he continued dryly. "You saw them there the last time you snooped through my study. I was surprised you didn't try using them then, rather than breaking my window. You might have saved me some aggravation."

Barrons deserves to be aggravated. He's the most aggravating . . . whatever he is . . . I've ever met. The night I'd broken a window to get into his garage, it hadn't occurred to me to try those keys because I'd been so certain he was keeping some huge dark secret locked up in there, that he'd surely never let the keys just lie around. (He is is keeping some huge dark secret in there, I just haven't figured out how to get to it yet.) He'd caught my nocturnal B&E on the video cameras hidden in the garage, and left the incriminating evidence outside my bedroom door. "Let me guess, you have video cameras hidden in the store, too?" keeping some huge dark secret in there, I just haven't figured out how to get to it yet.) He'd caught my nocturnal B&E on the video cameras hidden in the garage, and left the incriminating evidence outside my bedroom door. "Let me guess, you have video cameras hidden in the store, too?"

"No, Ms. Lane, but I can smell you. I know when you've been in one of my rooms, and I know your nature. You snoop."

I didn't try to deny it. Of course I snooped. How else was I supposed to find anything out? "You can't smell where I've been," I scoffed.

"I smell blood tonight, Ms. Lane, and it's not yours. Why is your face bruised? What happened today? Who bled in my bookstore?"

"Where's the abbey?" I countered, fingering the lump on my cheek. I'd iced it, but not soon enough. It was hard and painful to the touch. I'd taken most of the blows to my body. My ribs were a mess, it hurt to breathe deep, and my right thigh was one ma.s.sive contusion. My s.h.i.+ns had huge goose-eggs on them. I'd been afraid several of my fingers were broken, but aside from being a little swollen, they seemed okay now.

"Why? Is that where you plan to go tonight? Do you think that's wise? What if they attack you?"

"Been there, done that. How did you find me last night? Were you looking for me?" The question had been vexing me. Why had he shown up when I was with V'lane? It seemed too coincidental to have been coincidence.

"I was on my way to Chester's." He shrugged. "Coincidence. The bruise?"

Chester's. Where Inspector O'Duffy had spoken to a man named Ryodan who, according to Barrons, talked too much about things he shouldn't be talking about-Barrons himself. I made a mental note to find Chester's, track down the mysterious Ryodan, and see what I could learn. "I got in a fight with some other Where Inspector O'Duffy had spoken to a man named Ryodan who, according to Barrons, talked too much about things he shouldn't be talking about-Barrons himself. I made a mental note to find Chester's, track down the mysterious Ryodan, and see what I could learn. "I got in a fight with some other sidhe sidhe-seers. Evade if you want, Barrons, but don't treat me like an idiot."

"I knew you were nearby last night. I detoured to make certain you were safe. How did the fight go? Are you . . . unharmed?"

"Mostly. Don't worry, I'm intact in all the ways you need me to be. Never fear, your OOP detector is here." My hand went to the base of my skull. "Is it the brand? Can you find me so easily by it?"

"I sense you when you're near."

"That sucks," I said bitterly.

"I can remove it if you wish," he said. "It would be . . . painful." His brilliant gaze met mine and we stared at each other a long moment. In those obsidian depths I saw the darkness of Malluce's grotto, tasted my own death again.

Through the annals of history, women have paid a price for protection. One day, I won't have to. "I'll deal with it. Where's the abbey, Barrons?"

He wrote "Arlington Abbey" and an address on a sc.r.a.p of paper for me, got me a map off the bookshelf, and marked it with an X X. It was several hours from Dublin.

"Would you like me to accompany you?"

I shook my head.

He studied me a long moment. "Then good night, Ms. Lane."

"What about OOP detecting?" We hadn't done any in days.

"I'm busy with other things now. But soon."

"What are you busy with?" It was innocuous as questions go. Sometimes he answers those.

"Among other things, I'm tracking down the bidders on the spear," he said, reminding me that he'd gotten several names from Malluce's laptop in the grotto; contenders in an auction for the immortal weapon. I imagined he was trying to find out what they had in their possession that we wanted, and we'd be robbing them as soon as he had the lay of the land, and a plan in place. OOP detecting loomed on the horizon. I was startled to realize I was rather looking forward to it.

Barrons inclined his dark head and left. I stared at the door after he'd gone. There were times that I wished I could go back to my earliest days with him, when I'd thought he was just an overbearing man, as in hu human. But he wasn't, and if there's one thing I've learned in the past few months, in some of the most painful ways, it's that there's no going back, ever. What's done is done, the dead stay dead (well, mostly; Malluce had a few problems with that), and all the regrets in the world can't change a thing. If only they could, Alina would be alive and I wouldn't even be here.

I picked up the phone and dialed the number I'd looked up earlier. I wasn't at all surprised that someone answered at such a late hour, at Post Haste, Inc., the Dublin courier service that housed Rowena's bicycling sidhe sidhe-seers who kept tabs on what was happening in and around the city under guise of delivering letters and packages.

Their motherhouse, the abbey, was far from the city, and I was informed stiffly that the abbey was where Rowena was now.

"Fine. Tell the old woman I'll be there in two hours," I said, and hung up.

FIVE.