Burned

  “Smoked?”

  He nods.

  “Be right up. ”

  I pull the drain on the filthy water, rummage beneath the bar for clean towels, wash my hands, grab a chilled glass, and stir a perfectly proportioned smoked martini. I’m so used to dealing with my wraiths, I slide smoothly through them.

  When he tastes it, he smiles appreciatively and the ground beneath my feet solidifies just like that. Familiar routine is balm to a fragmented soul.

  I begin rearranging the liquor on my shelves the proper way, humming beneath my breath.

  Inside me a book whumps closed. For the time being. Looks like I’ve learned one more way to temporarily shut it up. Poems and bartending. Who’d have thought? But Band-Aids for my disease aren’t what I’m after. I want a surgeon to perform an operation that leaves a deep incision where something nasty used to be, followed by a scar to remind me every day that it’s over and I survived.

  And for that I need a half-mad king. Not getting any closer to finding the spell stuck in this place.

  “Hey, Mac,” Jo says, dropping onto a stool. “What’s with all the Unseelie behind your bar?”

  “Don’t ask. Just don’t even go there. ”

  She shrugs. “Have you seen Dani lately?”

  That question has become a stake through my heart. One of these days I’m just going to snap, Yes, and I’m the jackass that chased her into the Hall of All Days, so crucify me and put me out of my misery.

  I give my standard, noncommittal reply.

  “How about Kat?”

  “Not for a few days. ”

  Beneath a cap of short dark hair, shimmering with blond and auburn highlights, Jo’s delicate face is pale, her eyes red from crying. I shake my head and debate saying something about what I saw this morning.

  My brain vetoes the idea. My mouth says, “I saw what you did this morning,” proving my suspicion that the road between the two is as bad as the highways around Atlanta, under eternal, hazardous construction.

  “What do you mean?” she says warily.

  “Ryodan nodded and you turned away. You dumped him. ”

  She inhales sharply and holds it a moment, then, “I suppose you think I’m crazy. ”

  “No,” I say. “I think you’re beautiful and smart and talented and deserve a man that can feel with something besides his dick. ”

  She blinks and looks surprised, and it pisses me off because she should know all of that.

  “I understood from the beginning what he was, Mac,” she says tiredly. “What it was between us. But he has such … and I never felt … and I started wanting to believe even though I knew better. Began telling myself all kinds of lies. So I moved on before he did. Pride was all I had left to salvage. ”

  “Doesn’t make it any easier though, does it?” I say sympathetically. I feel my bartending skills blossoming: the pouring, listening, steering away from complete anesthetization with alcohol toward something that might actually help, change the person’s life, shake it up in a good way.

  “I don’t think I’m strong enough to stay away from him, Mac. I’m going to quit working here. I can’t see him every day. You know what they’re like. He may not have taken anyone else up those stairs this morning, but he will. I’m going to ask Kat if I can move back to the abbey. ”

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  “Know the best way to forget a man?”

  “A frontal lobotomy?”

  I snort, thinking of that song we used to play back home in the Brickyard that went, I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy. “No. With two men. ”

  She smiles but it fades swiftly. “I’m afraid I’d be needing ten to clear my head of that man. ”

  “Or perhaps,” I say, “a single incredible one. ” Stupendous sex is a drug, addictive, consuming. I know from personal experience.

  “Sounds like you have someone in mind. I’m so not in the mood, Mac. He’d only pale in comparison. ”

  “Maybe not. ” I lean across the counter and speak softly into her ear.

  When she leaves, wearing a thoughtful expression, I ponder the seed I planted, hoping it yields healthy fruit. I think it will. I think it’s exactly what she needs to buffer her heart, cleanse her body from craving the touch of a man we both know she can never hold.

  Besides, there’s a possibility it will piss Ryodan off, in a territorial sort of way, which will still further ease the sting to Jo’s wounded heart.

  Heaven knows the man I pointed her at won’t mind.

  I smile and line a few choice bottles up on my counter, and try my hand at pouring high and flashy. Patrons love a good show.

  When I glance up to greet a couple of new customers, I inhale sharply and stare right past them, staggered by the vision I see, unable to process my abrupt change in fortune. Talk about tall, dark, and utterly unexpected.

  Time grinds to a halt and everything goes still around me, the thronging patrons receding beyond the edges of my periphery, leaving only one: the Dreamy-Eyed Guy, wearing an amused expression, is standing three clubs away, watching me toss my bottles flamboyantly, and I recall a night I watched him do the same.

  He inclines his head, dark eyes starry. Nice show.

  The Unseelie King is back in town, wearing his old skins again!

  We’ve been scouring ancient books and scrolls for months, trying to find the spell to summon him, and the surgeon I need just arrived out of the blue! The one with butterfly fingers who creates and destroys worlds and can surely remove this great staining darkness inside me!

  I didn’t think he’d ever come back willingly, off with his concubine somewhere, rekindling her memory and reclaiming her love.

  Elation floods me. I can get my life back, and while I’m at it, get rid of my smelly Unseelie, too. Approach the queen about the Song of—I swiftly terminate that thought and repadlock it.

  I vault the counter, sending glasses flying and shoving startled patrons off their stools, but by the time my feet hit the floor, the Dreamy-Eyed Guy is gone.

  18

  “When life pushes me I push harder. What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger”

  MAC

  The next few days pass in the closest thing to hopeful peace I’ve known in months. Even surrounded by the debauchery of Chester’s, my inner book remains silent. I don’t know if seeing the king made it shut up for some reason, if familiar routine makes me that much stronger, or if it thinks it has me trapped in the cesspool of life here at Chester’s and my capitulation is only a matter of time.

  I tend bar amid my Unseelie coven, watch for the various forms of the king, keep an eye out for princesses, and await Barrons’s return, hopefully with Dani in tow. I can’t wait to tell him the king is back and we can quit losing time in the Silvers.

  When the ruler of the dark Fae took an interest in Dublin before, his various incarnations often came to the club. The Unseelie King is too vast to walk among humans in a single human body. He has to divide himself into multiple skins, and when he does, not everyone sees him the same way. Where I saw a young, hot guy with gorgeous eyes, Barrons saw a frail old man, Christian saw a Morgan Freeman look-alike, Jo saw a pretty French woman. It’s only a matter of time before we see one of them again, or I hear of a McCabe sighting or run into the old news vendor on the streets. I’ll be faster next time because I won’t be struck dumb and motionless by his unexpected return.

  The thought of living divided like this, tempted every day by power I can’t use, tortured by thoughts of what my inner monster might be able to make me do if I’m not vigilant one hundred percent of the time, is more than I can stand.

  Can’t eviscerate essential self, the king once said. But this copy of the Book isn’t my essential self. It’s his.

  And I’ll be damned if I’m keeping it.

  At least now I can stop considering a risky plan B. The king came to Dublin once before because his
book escaped. It seems logical if Cruce escaped, the king would return and re-ice him and I could demand he free me. Unfortunately I’m not entirely convinced the king would (a) return or (b) give a shit about any of it. His priorities spring of stars and infinity, not the tiny moments that span a human life. And there we’d be, with Cruce loose.

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  Dicey plan.

  Humming beneath my breath, I finish polishing my bar. It’s eleven in the morning and I’ve just opened my subclub for business. The glasses sparkle, so clean they squeak. Ice is stocked, glasses frosted, condiments fresh, liquor replenished.

  I’m bent over, reaching in the fridge to pull out lemons and start making my twists, when I hear a deep baritone say, “Laprhoaig. No ice. ”

  The accent is Scottish, the voice one I’ve heard before. I glance up into eyes strikingly similar to Christian’s, before he began turning Unseelie. They bore into mine, cheetah-gold, assessing. Same five o’clock shadow, chiseled features, and beautiful dark skin. Serious power rolls off the man.

  It’s Christian’s uncle, the Keltar they call “the Inhabited. ” He once opened himself up to thirteen ancient, dark druids and has never been able to exorcise them.

  I can sympathize with that problem.

  The last time I saw him was the night we interred the Sinsar Dubh beneath the abbey. He was with his twin brother, Drustan, a druid who died in a fire but somehow came back to life and allegedly possesses an incorruptible heart; another of Christian’s uncles, Cian, who spent a thousand years trapped in a Silver; and Christian’s father, who was also druid to the Seelie. Talk about your messed-up family.

  “Dageus, right?”

  “Aye. ” He palms the glass I slide him and takes a sip. “What’s with all the Unseelie behind the bar with you, lass?”

  Another question I’m sick of. I get it a hundred times a day, at least once from every person that takes a stool and orders a drink, and as the day goes on, half a dozen times from the really drunk ones. I’ve heard every variation on every joke they could possibly slap lamely together in their inebriated, sex-obsessed minds.

  “Ghosts,” I say, “of all the Unseelie I killed. They haunt me. ” I’ve found it usually shuts people up. He doesn’t look at all surprised, but then why would he? His ghosts haunt him from the inside.

  “Where’s the bastard that runs this club?”

  “Around somewhere. Are you here because you’ve located Christian?” I ask hopefully.

  “Nay. We’ve tried summoning the queen repeatedly to request her aid, but she’s no’ responding to any of our rituals. ”

  I wonder if buried in their countless records and annals they have a summoning spell for the king. Although I don’t appear to currently need it, I file the thought away for future reference, aware that asking such a question might only open a new can of worms, and turn more pairs of intensely penetrating Keltar eyes my way than I’d like.

  “Now that the Compact is broken, we’ve no influence over the Fae world. Christian’s gone, without trace. The only thing of which we’re certain is he’s no’ in Ireland anymore. We’ve fair torn the country apart searching. ”

  “Can’t you try tracking the Crimson Hag instead?”

  “We’ve naught of her to use in such a spell. We’d need flesh, bone, a gut from her gown might serve. ”

  “No recent sightings?”

  “The Unseelie Princes claim she tried to capture them shortly after she took Christian, but they’ve since joined forces, and she’s no’ been seen again. ” He rubs a stubble-shadowed jaw. “It happened differently than I foresaw,” he says heavily. “I was watching for the wrong signs. ”

  I’m about to ask what he’s talking about when Ryodan takes a stool beside him. “Keltar. Hear you’re looking for me. ”

  Translation: he was sitting upstairs in his office, watching his endless cameras, eavesdropping. I’m surprised he came down. Appears he has enough respect for the Highlander to do more than he does for most: acknowledge his presence and appear as requested. Interesting.

  Dageus says just as coolly, “Hear you met with a Seelie Prince, had negotiations. You will be summoning him for us now. ”

  Ryodan cuts him an amused look. “Will I. ”

  “Aye. ”

  “Think again. ”

  “What do you want with R’jan?” I ask Dageus.

  “He’s a sifter and is currently in control of all Seelie. I want him to dispatch other sifters to hunt the Hag for us. ”

  “Couldn’t you send some of your men as well?” I say to Ryodan quickly. “If Christian hadn’t distracted the Hag and she’d kept killing that night, who knows what might have happened. We owe him, Ryodan. All of us. We can’t just leave him out there, being killed over and over again. ”

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  “It’s keeping her busy and out of my fucking hair,” Ryodan says.

  I should have known better than to try an emotional entreaty with him. I employ reason in my next attempt. “If we don’t save him from the Hag, he’ll be more problematic to you, to all of us, should he eventually escape. He was sane enough to sacrifice himself. That sanity won’t last long in her hands. ”

  Ryodan shrugs. “We put him down if he returns. No different than any other Unseelie Prince. If he’s not useful, he’s disposable. ”

  “No other Unseelie Prince would have sacrificed himself,” I snap.

  “He is Keltar, and that is all the difference necessary,” Dageus says. “In exchange for your aid, we’ll help you reclaim the abbey from those who’ve taken over. ” He drops the bomb quietly.

  “What?” I practically shout. “Someone has taken over the abbey?” I look at Ryodan and my hands curl into fists. He knew! And said nothing to me. “When did you find out about this?” I demand. “And why didn’t you tell me? You do remember what’s under there, right?”

  “I’ll handle it when the others return. And don’t say that again in here. ”

  I grit my jaw. I can’t believe I just said it. Here of all places. No, I didn’t spell out what was beneath the abbey but I said enough that a curious eavesdropper might decide to go looking.

  Dageus says, “Three have already met their deaths. No doubt more will be finding graves the longer you delay. ”

  Not if I have anything to say about it, and I could write a dissertation. I strip the apron from my waist and begin closing my bar down. I shiver, dreading the answer to my next question. All good coups begin with the deposing of the current leader. “Is Kat okay?”

  “I’m sure she is. She’s a survivor,” Ryodan says.

  I glare at him. He’s never said anything that nice about me.

  Dageus finishes his drink and slides it back for another. “I doona ken the names of the slain. During battle for possession of the grounds, a sidhe-seer escaped. We found her stumbling, badly injured, along the road toward Dublin. Drustan took her to the hospital at Dublin Castle. Your Inspector Jayne said he will commit the aid of his Guardians but only if the sidhe-seers turn over either the spear or sword to his troops. Permanently. ”

  I slap lids on the condiments and shove them in the fridge. Not a chance in hell. “What happened, Ryodan? You were supposed to place more powerful wards around the grounds. That was part of our negotiations. ”

  “My men have been busy, in case you’ve forgotten. Besides, you asked us to place more wards against Fae. Not humans. ”

  “Humans took control?” This just keeps getting worse. “Who?”

  “The new sidhe-seers say it’s their home now. ”

  I narrow my eyes and snarl. Sidhe-seers came into our town and took our home? I promised Kat we wouldn’t let this happen. I promised her we would protect the abbey. We’re the home team. Nobody takes our stadium. “How many are there? What weapons do they have? How did they take the abbey? Didn’t Kat put up a fight?”

  Dageus says, “If your Kat who was with us that night is in charge
now, that may explain things. The woman we found said their headmistress has been missing for nigh a week, and someone inside their own group, Margery, invited the new sidhe-seers in. ”

  Nearly a week? That means she disappeared the day after our meeting! “Have you seen her?” I ask Ryodan.

  “What do you think, she comes to visit me,” he says. “This is Katarina we’re talking about. ”

  “Bar’s closed,” I snap at a guy about to sit down.

  He looks at Ryodan and Dageus. “They’re sitting here. ”

  “I said it’s closed. ”

  “Pour me a drink, bitch. It’s a free fucking world. ” He drops a leg over the stool.

  Ryodan smashes a fist out sideways, squarely into the guy’s face without even looking, while saying, “Assuming I arrange this meeting, the Keltar will aid in regaining control of the abbey regardless of the outcome. ” The guy flies backward off the bar stool and crashes to the floor.

  “Unlike you, we are men of our word. Unlike you,” Dageus growls, “we are men. As in human. ”

  “Humans break. ” Ryodan doesn’t say it, doesn’t have to, it hangs in the air: We don’t.

  The guy Ryodan punched picks himself up, gives us looks like we’re all crazy, and backs away into the crowd.

  I tell Dageus, “The meeting with R’jan happens after we free the abbey. ”

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  “It happens before or no’ at all,” Dageus says flatly.

  “More sidhe-seers could die!” I say heatedly.

  “Aye. Once. Christian is being butchered o’er and o’er again every day. ” The Highlander’s brogue thickens. “Who kens it—perhaps he’s died a hundred times so far. Have you any idea what that can do to a man?”

  I shiver. Yes. It sounds too similar to the hell Barrons’s son suffered. Regenerating only to be killed each time he was reborn. It turned the small boy into an animal, drove the child deep into madness from which there was no return. What is the same fate doing to Christian, even as we speak, who was highly unstable to begin with? He certainly hasn’t had an easy time of it since I arrived in Dublin: catapulted unarmed into the Silvers for years by a botched ritual, fed Unseelie by myself, locked in a desperate battle for control over what he’s becoming, and now held captive by a monster that rips out his guts every time he heals.