Rans shooed it away. “Yes, yes. You got us here safely. Thanks ever so much. Now do me one last favor and sod off, all right?”
The creature rumbled a little growl and trotted off, the tip of its tail twitching. It was true that the cat hadn’t made me itch with discomfort the way the Unseelie Fae did, but I still couldn’t help relaxing as the last tangible reminder of Dhuinne and its inhabitants disappeared from view around a corner.
Rans reached down and lifted my legs into the car, closing the door without a word. He went around to the other side and reached into the back seat, coming up with a plastic shopping bag. After sliding into the right-hand driver’s seat, he set the bag between us, and retrieved car keys from behind the sun visor.
“Did you eat or drink anything they gave you?” he asked, snapping off the words.
“No,” I rasped.
“Good.” He pulled out a plastic bottle of sports drink, a banana, and a bag of greasy potato chips. “Drink that. Eat this. And don’t fucking talk to me right now, because I’m pissed off enough that I might accidentally put the car in a ditch if you do.”
SIXTEEN
I SWALLOWED AGAINST the painful dryness of my throat and took the food and drink. My hands were shaking with reaction and weakness, but my desperate thirst—and maybe my horror at the idea of having to ask Rans for help after that last declaration—lent me the strength to twist the cap off the fluorescent blue sports drink.
I tried to sip slowly, not wanting to turn my queasy stomach the rest of the way against me, but instinct took over when the lukewarm liquid hit my tongue. Before I knew it, I was gulping it down, little rivulets escaping to dribble over my chin and drip on my lap. I fell on the food next, shoving it into my mouth, salty and sweet and not nearly enough to fill the gaping hole left by days of starvation.
When it was gone, I put the detritus back in the bag and set it in the foot well. Then, I wrapped my arms around myself, hugging tight. My eyes slid to Rans’ profile and away. Eventually, I let my head rest against the window’s cool glass, green hills and trees sliding past my unfocused eyes. My stomach churned, and my mind shied away from all the things I should be thinking about right now.
I drifted in that uncomfortable state as we drove through Ireland’s rolling rural landscape, thousands of miles away from the place I’d always called home and never expected to see again. Eventually, the car pulled onto a single-lane dirt road, and from there, onto something that could better be described as a track.
I slumped boneless in the seat, letting the ruts and potholes jostle me until Rans brought us to a halt in front of a rustic cottage. I stared at the building stupidly, making no move to open the car door and get out as I took in the acres and acres of nothingness surrounding it. Well... almost nothingness. I could see some white blobs in the distance, like little cotton balls. I think they might’ve been sheep.
Rans’ door opened and closed. He came around to open mine before looking down at me with an unreadable expression. “Do I need to carry you?”
I scowled. “I can walk, goddamn it.”
He gave a minute shrug and turned on his heel, heading for the front door of the little house. I watched him retrieve a key from above the lintel and disappear inside.
And now I had to make good on my little moment of defiance.
Fuck.
My entire body felt like it had rusted into immobility during the journey here. How was it that I could have been doing yoga and self-defense training mere days ago, only to feel like this now? Even after drinking and eating, I was still a complete wreck. For the first time, it occurred to me to wonder how much of my weakness was due to starvation and dehydration, and how much was due to the magic Caspian’s goon had used on me. Had they managed to damage me permanently somehow, after all?
A chill of fresh fear washed over me. What had the Fae done to me in their eagerness to find out what they wanted to know? Would I recover on my own, or would I just... always feel like this from now on?
Hatred for the blond-haired bastard who’d hurt me followed close on the heels of fear, and it was hatred that gave me the strength to climb out of the car. I tried to slam the sedan’s door, but it didn’t close all the way. I left it as it was, ignoring the way the little gap between the door and the car’s frame mocked me.
Rans had left the front door of the cottage open, but he hadn’t returned to check on me despite the fact that it was taking me a ridiculously long time to move.
Good, I thought viciously. I didn’t want him to come back. I was angry and confused and exhausted and in pain. I wanted to crawl into a fucking hole and never crawl back out.
I’d made a decision... taken action for once in my pathetic life, and done something to try and protect the people I cared about. What a shock that it had backfired on me, and might well have left those people in even more danger than before, right? And here I was, stubbornly not dead like I was supposed to be, which meant I was going to have to deal with the fallout of my actions.
But I couldn’t face any of it right now. Hell, I could barely stand up right now, and I’d chased away the only shoulder that was available for me to lean on. I eyed the short cobblestone walkway leading to the front door, and the grass on either side of it. It was a testament to the state I was in that I seriously considered lying down on that grass and saying fuck it to the world for a few hours.
But, no.
I eyed the distance between the car and the nearest wall, and pushed off. My knees wavered, but I aimed the resulting stagger in the direction I needed to go, and the wall hit me before the ground did. The wood-plank siding was rough against my palms, reminding me unpleasantly of the tree-cell. By the time I made it to the open door, I had no doubt that I’d acquired a bunch of new splinters to add to my collection. But I was fucking well going to walk through that door under my own steam if it killed me.
I made it inside, but any delusions I’d had of entering to an impressed audience of one vampire were dashed as I gripped the doorframe and looked around at the place. It was tiny—even smaller than the Fae cottage where Dad was being kept.
I clenched my jaw at the unwelcome reminder of one of the many ways I’d failed, and pushed the thought away. In front of me lay a cozy room with a living area with a large hearth on one side, a cooking area with a second exterior door on the other, and a small table with two chairs set in between.
Three interior doors were set in the far wall. Through the left one I could see the end of a bed. Through the center one was a bathroom. The rightmost one was firmly and pointedly shut. Even in my current state, I could read the message contained in those tea leaves just fine, thanks.
I kicked the front door closed with a clumsy movement of my foot, and used the conveniently placed table as a resting spot in my final push to get from the front door to the empty bedroom. When I made it, I closed the bedroom door behind me with more force than was strictly necessary, because fuck it all. Fuck this. Fuck Rans. Fuck the world.
Fuck me.
My eyes fell on an overnight bag. The very same bag I’d abandoned in Chicago when I left with Albigard for Dhuinne. The bag Rans had apparently dragged halfway around the world to a bolt-hole in rural Ireland. My eyes burned, the room growing blurry around me.
No. Fuck all of it.
I stumbled to the bed and fell facedown onto it, fully clothed and probably stinking to high heaven after days of imprisonment and terror. There was no way I’d be able to sleep right now, I thought. Not with so many terrible things swirling around the edges of my mind like ravenous carrion birds sensing a meal.
Darkness swallowed me almost before I’d completed the thought.
* * *
When I awoke, it was dark. I had no idea what time it was now, or what time of day it had been when we arrived—only that it had been daylight. I was hungry and thirsty, and it felt as though a small, furry animal had crawled into my mouth and died of some horrific disease.
With tentative movements, I
rolled over and sat up. The terrifying weakness had eased a bit, to the point that I now felt more like I was recovering from a nasty bout of flu, as opposed to being at death’s door. My stomach growled when I registered the smell of something rich and delicious wafting under the closed door.
Was that what had woken me?
The cramping hunger pangs in my belly drove me to shaky feet, propelling me with single-minded purpose toward the source of that mouthwatering aroma. I didn’t even stop to think that venturing out of my bedroom would probably mean interacting with Rans until I entered the main room to find it empty.
My eyes shot to the third door; the one that had been closed before. It was open, and also empty. Rans wasn’t here.
That might have worried me more if it weren’t for the pot warming on the stove. A single light over the counter area illuminated my surroundings—clearly, this place at least had electricity and running water, for all its isolation and rustic charm.
I lifted the lid from the pot, revealing soup. It looked and smelled like vegetable beef, hints of marjoram and thyme teasing my nose. It wasn’t as though it could have been meant for anyone else, so I rummaged around in the cabinets and found a bowl, a spoon, and a wooden ladle that had seen better days.
The small fridge held an assortment of bottled water along with more sports drinks. I grabbed some water and carried my small feast to the table. The light above the counter barely reached the dining area, but the dimness suited my mood right now.
I ate and drank, going back for seconds and eventually thirds. I felt like one big, gaping hole that needed to be filled up before I could focus on anything else. And—oh yes—I was painfully, viscerally aware of how many things required my focus right now. But at the moment, the soup was here, while the person who could answer at least some of the many questions I had was not.
I finished the entire damned pot of soup, along with two bottles of water. When I was done, I dutifully washed the pot, bowl, and utensils, setting them to dry in one side of the sink. Then I succumbed to paranoia and peeked out a front window just to confirm that the car was still there.
It was.
My eyes scanned the darkness outside, illuminated only faintly by the moon as it played tag with banks of clouds. There was no sign of glowing blue eyes... no silhouette of a brooding figure in my field of view. I could have made a circuit of the other windows in the house to check—or just gone outside and walked around the cottage—but Rans had made it clear enough he wanted space.
Besides, now that my stomach no longer felt like a black hole, exhaustion was hitting me again. The soft bed I’d collapsed in earlier suddenly sounded a whole lot more appealing than playing hide and seek in the dark with a pissed-off vampire. I left the kitchen light burning and headed back to my room, pausing this time to undress and pull on an oversized t-shirt before climbing under the covers.
Jesus. I desperately needed a shower. Unfortunately, the moment I touched the bed, my body seemed to grow heavier and heavier until my arms and legs were too difficult to lift. My eyes slid closed once more.
* * *
Daylight. Once again, the smell of food reached my nostrils. Oatmeal, maybe? My stomach rumbled, and I began to wonder how much food it would take to convince my body that it wasn’t being starved anymore.
I felt a little stronger than I had when I got up during the night. As tempting as the smell of breakfast was, the smell coming from my armpits really needed to be dealt with first. I poked my head out of the room, but the little cottage still had that quiet feeling of emptiness about it. The door to Rans’ bedroom was once more standing open. The main room was devoid of life.
I went into the bathroom to scope out the bathing options. An old claw-foot bath had been outfitted with a shower nozzle on a freestanding metal arm, positioned so it would rain down over the center of the tub. There was no shower curtain to prevent splashes, but the tiled floor sloped down to a drain in the center of the small room.
Good enough for me.
The water pressure sucked, but it was at least nice and hot. Scrubbing at the days of grime, I let it flow over my head and face, blocking out the rest of the world. The soap and shampoo options were basic, but I had some leave-in conditioner in my luggage. Brittle hair probably shouldn’t be my biggest worry now, regardless.
I dried off and wrapped the towel around myself before returning to my room. Not gonna lie, here—the silence of this place was starting to get to me. I took comfort in the familiar ritual of moisturizing and picking out my curls, then I noticed something folded up in the corner of my bag.
It was Rans’ shirt—the one I’d stolen as revenge after he tore my nightgown. Chewing my lip, I debated for several moments before pulling it out. It smelled like him, with a faint hint of my body lotion layered over his scent from when I’d worn it briefly back in Chicago. I put it on and buttoned all but the top two buttons.
The pot was back on the stove. As I’d suspected, it contained oatmeal. Since my dietary choices still seemed to be relatively low on the list of things likely to kill me, I ladled up a bowl and grabbed a sports drink from the fridge, wishing briefly for orange juice instead.
After blowing on the first spoonful of oatmeal and popping it in my mouth, I made a face and reached for the cheerful little sugar bowl sitting in the center of the table with the salt and pepper. Rans had salted the oatmeal but not sweetened it at all. I wondered if that was an Irish thing... or maybe a Middle Ages thing. With the addition of what was probably too much sugar to counteract the salt, it was surprisingly good.
So... now I was fed, rested, and bathed. Which meant I was quickly running out of excuses and distractions. Real life was going to come crashing back down on my head before long, I was certain.
I staved it off for a few more minutes by brushing and flossing my teeth. Then I repeated the faintly ridiculous ritual of checking that the car hadn’t moved, because seriously—did I think the oatmeal had cooked itself? It was still parked in the same place.
The morning was beautiful. So was the landscape around the cottage. Yesterday’s gray clouds had given way to brilliant sunshine, turning the blue of the sky and the green of the fields to jewel tones.
For the lack of anything better to do, I pulled on some shorts under the oversized button-down shirt and padded outside barefoot. It was pleasantly cool here. Much cooler than it would have been in St. Louis or Chicago in late June.
That gave me pause. It was the end of June, though I couldn’t honestly have said what the exact date was. But I knew it was almost July. It was almost the twentieth anniversary of my mother’s death. A thick feeling clogged my throat, and I swallowed hard to clear it.
I couldn’t face all the things that came along with that realization just now, so I started walking instead of thinking.
It wasn’t obvious whether this place was a farmhouse attached to the surrounding lands, or just someone’s private getaway retreat. There were indeed sheep wandering in some of the fields in the distance, but I didn’t see any outbuildings nearby for keeping animals or equipment. That probably meant it wasn’t a farm.
The area around the cottage was landscaped, with stone paths and hedges and a few carefully placed shade trees. Flowers dotted the meticulously maintained beds at the bases of the trees. My mind flickered back to the choking plant life of Dhuinne, and I shook my head sharply to dislodge the image.
Someone—okay, Rans, since no one else was here—had closed the passenger-side door of the car properly, after I’d left it unlatched. I wandered around the side of the cottage, noting that the kitchen door led onto a little stoop. Beyond lay a modest herb garden. The smell of lavender and basil wafted through the air, carried on the light breeze.
The land behind the house was just grass. No effort had been made here with landscaping, although there was a weathered wood-and-wrought-iron bench set facing toward the rolling green hills beyond.
A figure sat halfway up the nearest hill, picked out in blac
k and white. Rans.
I swallowed hard and walked toward him, the soft grass tickling my bare toes. He was dressed similarly to the first time I’d ever seen him, minus the gruesome bloodstains—dark jeans, white shirt, black leather vest, combat boots. His knees were drawn up, forearms resting on them limply as he gazed out across the valley. He didn’t look at me as I approached—not even when I sat down next to him, separated by an arm’s length, my joints creaking in protest.
“So,” I said, when the silence grew too stifling. “Are we still doing the not-talking-about-it thing?”
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he finally glanced over at me, and his gaze dropped from my face to the shirt I was wearing. After a beat, he looked away again, staring into the distance instead.
“Still experiencing incandescent rage whenever I try to think about the last three days,” he said eventually, “so continued silence on the subject would probably be the best plan, yes.”
I pondered that for a minute. “Okay,” I said, not sure how else to really answer.
The silence stretched again, even longer than before.
“It reminds me of home a bit, this place,” he said at length.
I didn’t know what to say to that, either.
We sat, separated by three feet and the unspoken gulf of my betrayal. When it became obvious that neither of us had anything else to contribute to the conversation, I climbed inelegantly to my feet and walked back down the hill to the cottage.
Once inside, I nosed around the place, poking into closets and drawers. I was getting more and more of a ‘vacation home’ vibe from the little house, with the way it was furnished just enough for someone to be able to stay here comfortably, without so much as a hint of anything personal.
There was also precious little in the way of entertainment to be had. No TV, no radio, no computer, no bookshelves. Who normally stayed here, I wondered? I could maybe picture it as a writer’s retreat—a place with distractions so few and far between that someone might pound out an entire novel through sheer desperation to keep the boredom at bay.
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