My body would give it corporeality. Nearly immortal corporeality.
I know what the Book did the last time it walked Dublin’s streets. Killed with unadulterated psychotic glee.
The stakes are simple: me or the world.
Can Barrons save me if I let the sidhe-seers trap me? Will Barrons save me?
A strange calm settles over me as I realize it’s irrelevant.
The bottom line is we choose our epitaphs.
Every moment of every day we decide upon the actions that define us—or so a wise man that wasn’t wise enough not to steal my memory once told me—it’s all about what we can live with and what we can’t live without.
I can’t live with being the woman who freed the Sinsar Dubh to save her own ass, butchering who knows how many people in the process, and who knows how many more before I’m stopped. That’s not going to be chiseled on my Urn. No grave, I’m not getting stuck beneath the ground for freaking perpetuity. And if I have to have a bloody Urn, at least I’m going to choose the inscription.
Heroes fight, the Book derides my decision. Victims give up. Barrons is right, you’re a walking victim, a lamb in a city of wolves. You deserve to die.
I don’t reply. Sometimes the most heroic action you can take looks a lot like inaction to the rest of the world. Sometimes the hardest, longest walk is the one the white-hat takes offstage.
They’ll think they outsmarted you, trapped you. They’ll never believe you chose it. Your “noble” sacrifice will be for nothing because they won’t see it that way, the Book goads.
Totally sucks. And is perfectly probable. Whether or not they understand what I did has no impact on the value of my action. Either I decimate this place and stalk out, probably to destroy the entire world—but hey, I’ll be alive—or I let them put me on ice and trust that those who love me will find a way to rescue me.
While accepting that I may never be rescued.
It may not be the best way for me.
But it’s the right way.
Sadness fills me. I don’t want to be done yet.
I hope Mom and Dad figure it out. I want them to be proud of me. And I hope Barrons—God, I’m so pissed at him right now I can’t even complete the thought! Tears press at the back of my eyes but I refuse to let them flow.
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The fourth stone explodes from the blur of motion, skitters across the floor, sliding toward that fourth corner, sliding …
I brace myself for what’s about to happen.
I accept that it’s necessary.
I’m afraid. I hate being afraid.
I won’t get paralyzed looking that way. I square my shoulders, straighten my spine, tuck in my stomach and angle my head, notch my chin slightly upward. What’s that saying? Die young and leave a pretty corpse.
I wish I were as invisible as this battle raging around me makes me feel, fought by opponents with whom I can’t hope to compete because at least then I’d be able to—
About fucking time, the Sinsar Dubh growls. Your wish. My command.
Then it roars, RUN.
Part III
If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.
—Sun Tzu, The Art of War
25
“No one sees my face, sees me coming”
MAC
After the walls fell last Halloween (and I was no longer Pri-ya), with most of Dublin’s inhabitants dead or gone, I got to indulge one of my greatest teenage fantasies: I walked into Brown & Taylor and shoplifted everything I wanted.
An Alexander McQueen scarf of black skulls on pink leopard silk, a pair of totally come-fuck-me Christian Louboutin heels adorned with silver spikes that perfectly complemented the black dress I snatched off a Chanel rack, a classic Burberry raincoat lined with checked silk, a glamorous smoky faux-fur stole. A Louis Vuitton limited edition satchel, Prada wallet and purse, Dolce & Gabbana python boots, lingerie to die for!
Then I went next door and raided Estée Lauder’s makeup counter, before moving on to Lancôme. I’d crammed my backpack with all those expensive moisturizers I’d never been able to afford and filled another with foundation and blush, eye shadow and mascara.
I’d commandeered two rooms on the fourth floor of Barrons Books & Baubles (last time I saw them they’d decamped to the fifth and switched sides) and set up my own private store stocked with feminine essentials: nail polish and remover, cotton balls and lotions, makeup and perfume and insanely expensive jewelry. (Over time, I added three diamond-crusted Rolexes I found lying in the streets to my hoard. )
I’d packed four enormous closets full of boxes of tampons and those invaluable skinny liner pads for heavy days when a tampon isn’t enough. I’d lugged home crates of vitamin D, aspirin, cold medicine, and soap. Then I went back for more and piled mountains of toilet paper in the second room. I raided three pharmacies and stashed away antibiotics and various medicinal supplies and ten years of birth control and condoms. At that point I figured I’d be lucky if I lived that long.
But there’s a second fantasy I never got to indulge that I’m fairly certain I won’t outgrow: wanting to go places I’m not allowed to go so I can see things I’m not supposed to see.
I can now.
I’m invisible.
I’M FREAKING INVISIBLE!
It’s incredibly difficult having something inside you that’s sentient and pretty much brilliant, and not at all nice, that can skim your mind to an uncertain degree, observe everything you do, study and analyze you, and wait forever for the perfect moment to seize the upper hand.
It’s worse than sleeping with the enemy, it’s living with a parasite inside you that is pathologically obsessed with a single goal: take you over, annihilate your will, and do whatever it chooses with what used to be your body. We’re conjoined twins, forced to share blood and oxygen, battling daily, sneakily to be the one who controls the supply.
Last night, when I stood in Rowena’s study bluffing the Book, outwaiting it, trying to force its hand to save us, that’s all I was initially doing.
Bluffing.
But my bluff became conviction, and the moment it did, the Book stepped in and saved our asses by turning me invisible.
Not just invisible—undetectable!
I’m no longer stalked by suffocating, smelly wraiths. Last night, they vanished, and I haven’t seen them in eighteen blissful hours.
I’m still corporeal—that was the first thing I tested after I dashed from the study, a split second before the fourth stone was placed. I didn’t look back. I ran faster than a demon from Hell breaking out with Cerberus snapping at its heels. I ran until I burst through the front doors of the abbey, into the steamy, nearly tropical night beyond, where I’d stood in the driveway, gasping for breath. I’d looked down and seen nothing but two small indentations in the grass where I was fairly certain my feet were.
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I’d headed straight for the fountain, scooped up a handful of water, and heaved a sigh of relief when it worked. Although the warm water had turned invisible the moment I cupped it, I’d felt its wetness, been able to dribble it from my hand and watch it become visible again. For a moment I was afraid I was a ghost. I’d hastened to one of the large standing stones and forced myself to place a hand against its eerie, obsidian coolness. It, however, had not vanished. Apparently only small things did.
As I’d made the long trek back to Dublin on foot, not willing to boost one of the SUVs and stir any suspicions, the Sinsar Dubh had insisted I leave this world because they would never stop hunting us.
I refused.
We argued all the way back to Dublin, which had taken most of the night. It threatened, cajoled, bullied, even tried to charm.
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I’d been unmoved.
So long as I don’t draw my spear, which spurs a mindless killing frenzy, I remain in control of my feet, and I’m staying on this world, period, the end.
I’ve drawn my line in the sand, and the Book had damn well better toe it. There’s no question this is war. A lukewarm one at the moment but war nonetheless.
We’ve established a détente of sorts. The Book is now willing to toss me a bit of aid because—although it taught me the hard way that if I draw my spear to kill, it can make me kill others—last night I taught the Sinsar Dubh a harder lesson: I’m willing to sacrifice myself to save the world from what I might do to it.
It’s never going to let that happen.
So it’s keeping me invisible. Any small items I pick up or put on also vanish from the realm of the seen.
When I arrived in the city early this morning, I further tested the extent of my corporeality by shouting at two See-You-in-Faery girls hanging outside Chester’s while chucking a couple of rocks in their direction. They heard me, and were hit by my inexplicably materializing rocks. It was deliciously fun. Upon my return to the bookstore, I experimented more and realized if I wasn’t careful I could give myself away by sitting on a soft chair or sofa, creating a petunia-shaped indent. It appears minor things become invisible when I touch them but major things don’t. When I walk across the rug, my invisibility has no impact on it. When I press the handle to flush the toilet, it remains visible.
I suspect if I tried to turn myself over, the Book would take further measures to impede me. No worries there. I’ll sacrifice myself if there’s no other choice but I certainly won’t go hunting for the opportunity.
In the meantime, the Sinsar Dubh has decided to keep me as cloaked as a Klingon Bird of Prey.
“Works for me,” I say cheerfully as I bang out the front door of Barrons Books & Baubles. It’s two in the afternoon, the time of day the erstwhile ex-owner of my shop and man who dominates the top of my lengthy shit-list never comes around. I just finished showering (carefully wiping down the tile before hiding the damp towels in the back of a closet) and changed clothes (into the first outfit I’ve liked in a long time, pity that no one can see it, including myself, topped off with a lovely skull-bedecked pink scarf that I no longer have to worry about getting stained and smelly), pulled on soft-soled boots, and grabbed a few protein bars from my stash. I was actually stupid enough to look in the mirror, prelude to putting makeup on. Ha. That’s not going to happen. No need to style my hair either. Eating was a special challenge, since I can’t see myself or the food and you don’t realize how heavily you rely on a peripheral visual awareness of your body to eat until you no longer have it, but after stabbing myself in the nose and chin a few times (I decide against washing my face again, if I have chocolate smudges, no one can see them), I managed.
It’s time to find out what’s going on in the world, all those details I’ve been missing. Time to do some long overdue investigating.
MacKayla Lane: unstoppable supersleuth.
For the first time in months, it’s fun to be me.
Unfortunately, being corporeal means I’m as subject to the elements as everyone else, and it’s once again raining in Dublin; a torrential spring downpour, good for the newly planted flowers and trees but bad for me.
Once I grabbed it, my umbrella became invisible, too, but that just makes me a larger, unseen obstacle, and foliage isn’t the only new addition to Dublin’s streets, there are people out walking, just like old times, hurrying to and fro, chins chucked down beneath hats and umbrellas.
Twice passersby collided with me when I didn’t sidestep fast enough, and both times I nearly lost my parasol and took a brief but thorough drenching. This being invisible is tricky stuff. It may take me a while to get the hang of it. I make a mental note that once I reach my destination, I’m going to have to dry off so I don’t leak a trail of water everywhere I go.
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I’m halfway to Chester’s when I turn the corner and run smack into the Dreamy-Eyed Guy who’s standing outside an old brownstone converted to condos, looking up.
I flail for balance, taking a third soaking which I hardly even notice.
My savior is here, standing before me in the flesh! He’ll take back his Book and I’ll be visible again and go saunter around in front of Green Camo girl and prove I’m no longer a threat!
“There you are,” I exclaim excitedly.
“Not quite,” the Dreamy-Eyed Guy says. “But then you aren’t quite either. Quite the couple we make. You’ve chocolate on your face. ”
Freaking figures. I scrub irritably at my chin, my cheek. “We need to talk. ” I snatch the human form of the Unseelie King by his arm before he vanishes on me again. Like other large objects I touch, he remains visible.
He locks surreally beautiful eyes with mine, staring right through my invisibility cloak, but why wouldn’t he? It’s an illusion perpetrated by a part of him.
“What have you done now, Beautiful Girl?”
“Not me. You. It’s your fault. ”
“Fault schmault. Lies in the stars. ”
Not about to get sucked into an existential debate, I get to the point. “Get your Book out of me. ”
“Talking to it?”
“No,” I deny instantly. “It talks to me. I almost never answer. ”
“Cold fire. Jumbo shrimp. ”
“Huh?” I don’t want the half-mad king. I want the sane one.
“Almost never: oxymoron. Risky couplings. Gray lies. ” He removes my hand from his arm. “Not my book. ”
“Bullshit. You made it. ” I latch onto his arm again. No way he’s leaving without fixing me this time.
“So you say. ”
“It’s a fact. ”
“Nasty little buggers. Sport Halloween masks. Trust none of them. ”
“Get. It. Out. Of. Me,” I grit.
“How many times must your king say it? Can’t eviscerate essential self. ”
“Oh! I knew you were going to say that! It’s not my self. It’s yours. And you’re not my flipping king. ”
“Didn’t say I was. Certainly not flipping. Although occasionally I do a cartwheel. ”
He’s making little sense. But he rarely does. I suspect it’s even more difficult for the virtually omnipotent being to communicate when he’s functioning than it is for one of his multiple human parts. The only way the Unseelie King can walk among humans is by parceling out his vast sentience and power among a dozen or so human bodies. “I can’t live with your monster inside me. I shouldn’t have to. ”
“Ah,” he clucks with mock sympathy, “because it’s not fair. And life always is. There is that whole ‘sins of the father’ thing. ”
“You’re not my father. And no, it’s not fair. ”
“In a manner of speaking, you are unequivocally the king’s and always will be. Caveat: what you fear most will destroy you. ”
“Exactly. So, get it out of me. ”
“Stop fearing it. ”
“You dumped it. Why shouldn’t I?”
“And we’re back to square one. BG wake the fuck up, can’t eviscerate essential self. ”
I stare at him. “What are you saying? You never got rid of it? Are you trying to tell me you dumped all your evil into a book and it infected me and made me evil—and it didn’t even work for you?”
“Try to behave with it. ”
Then the Dreamy-Eyed Guy was gone, just gone, leaving a final cryptic comment floating on air.
“ ’Ware the Sweeper, BG. Don’t talk to its minions either. It’s not about eating the candy. It’s about giving away words. ” Soft, enormous laughter rolls through the rainy streets like thunder. “Even that broody ass poet’s. ”
Try to behave with it? That was his useless advice? Sweeper? Minions? Candy? What the hell is he talking about?
I stomp my foot on the sidew
alk, slip and fall on my ass into the overflowing gutter. “Fucking fairies,” I yell, shoving wet hair from my face. “I hate you. All of you. Fuck you, Dreamy-Eyed Guy!”
A sudden breeze snatches the umbrella from my hand, turning it visible again and sends it whirling down the street, chute over handle, before smashing it into a brick wall. Metal spokes snap and it collapses on itself. Lightning crashes and thunder rolls.
I’m not sure but I think the Unseelie King just said “Fuck you, tiny insignificant very wet human” back.
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After a moment I drag myself up, collect my battered umbrella, and begin slogging through the rain toward Chester’s.
After drying myself off thoroughly in one of the restrooms, I make every effort to stride purposefully across the crowded dance floors of Chester’s, but were I visible, someone watching would see an erratic zig followed by a stumbling zag that vaguely resembles a drunken bumblebee. It’s impossible to avoid people who have no idea I’m there.
I take two pops to my rib cage from flailing elbows, a backhand to my jaw (they call this dancing?), and a fist to my thigh (really, who gyrates like that?) before I even clear the first subclub.
I pause in an unoccupied space between clubs, assessing my surroundings, seeking the clearest path.
It’s easy to find. Behind a tall dark mountain of a man for whom the crowd parts with the same mystical obedience as the Red Sea opening for Moses.
“Barrons,” I growl.
Thanks to the challenges of my recent transformation, coupled with the Sinsar Dubh’s endless harangue about why I should leave Earth this very second, quadrupled by how pissed I am the king didn’t even seriously consider my request—perhaps the king’s parts are all different, some more sane and logical than others, and I should start hunting McCabe—I’ve not had time to brood about what Barrons did to me.
Bristling with righteous indignation, I stalk off into his Red Sea wake. With only a few minor mishaps, I move in close behind him. I may be invisible but my body still responds to him and it makes me even madder. I’m tense at first, worried he’ll sense or smell me, but whatever the Book is doing that keeps my stalkers from locating me seems to work on Barrons, too. I wonder why he’s here. I wonder what he thinks happened to me. I’m itching to know what transpired after I left the abbey.