Iced

by Karen Marie Moning

  I’m getting used to heights. The view’s better. You see more and you might as well be invisible. People don’t look up much, not even in times like these, when they should because you never know what’s in the sky above you, getting ready to feed on you, maybe a Hunter, or a Shade. Or me.

  I watch her get out of the Humvee. She’s bouncing from foot to foot between steps, moving sideways and forward at the same time, eating a candy bar. I’ve never seen anyone with so much energy. Her hair is auburn fire in the moonlight. Her skin is luminous. She has sweet young curves and long legs. Her features are bone china fine, and expressions rush across her skin like my new Unseelie tattoos rush beneath mine.

  But it’s the heart of the girl that gets me.

  He’s big and towers over her. Hard face. Hard body. Hard walk. They look so wrong together. They’re talking. She keeps looking up at him like he gets on her last nerve. Good. Her hand hovers near the hilt of her sword and I know what she’s thinking. She despises Chester’s. She can barely stand to be in the same place with Fae without killing them. She hates them. All of them.

  It’s a category that will soon include me.

  The owner of Chester’s looks up.

  I’m deep in shadows on the roof, throwing a light glamour, a new power I’ve been testing, trying to make my face more palatable to her.

  I focus on projecting a general blanket of night and emptiness so he can’t see me.

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  His gaze stops right where I am and he gets a smug-ass look on his face, but that’s his look most of the time. I’ve nearly decided that while he might sense a disturbance in the night up here, he can’t actually see me when he inclines his head in that arrogant, imperial way so characteristic of the dickhead.

  Rage washes over me, thick and intense and smothering, and for a few seconds I drift in a black place where everything’s icy and wasted and evil and I like it. I’m glad I’m going Unseelie prince. I say bring on the power.

  I say let there be war.

  I throw back my head and slide a mane of hair over my shoulders. Cutting it doesn’t do a bloody thing. I sleep, I wake up, it’s there again. I turn my face up to the moon and inhale greedily. I want to drop to all fours and bay like a wild thing drunk on being hungry and strong, a beast that could fuck for days without cease if I could only find something that could take it as hard and long as I can give it. I want to chime to the moon in Unseelie, and hear it chime back. I can smell death in the city, everywhere, and it’s intoxicating. I can smell need and sex and hunger and it’s so bloody sweet—humanity ripe for the plucking and playing and eating! I shift my dick in my jeans. It’s painfully hard. And the Earth is round.

  I look back down, my eyes narrow. My boots are crusted with ice. The roof has gone white in a circle of snow and glittering ice in a fifteen-foot radius around me. I lope lightly along the edge of the roof, crunching snow, following as they go around back. This is going to be so much easier when I don’t have to use my feet.

  He isn’t what he’s pretending to be with her.

  I watch him all the time. I’m going to be there when he stops pretending. I’m going to be her bulletproof vest, her shield, her fallen fucking angel whether she wants one or not. He’s pretending he’s almost human. He’s no more human than me. He’s pretending to be nice, like he’s safe to be around, like he doesn’t have fangs for a reason. He’s pretending the term the “Gavel Effect” wasn’t coined about him, meaning you’re fine with him. Right up until you’re not.

  Right up until you’re dead.

  The devil in a businessman’s suit, he bides his time, gathers information, processes it, and when he makes a decision, the gavel falls and everyone that pissed him off or offended him or just breathed wrong dies.

  She won’t be given a stay of execution. No one gets one. The only things that matter to him are others of his kind.

  She thinks he’s not an animal like Barrons. That he’s more civilized. She’s right, he is more polished. But it only makes him more dangerous. With Barrons you expect to get fucked up royally. With Ryodan you don’t see it coming.

  He’s treating her like she’s fourteen and he’s a normal adult, acting like he’s taken her under his wing. Like he needs her detecting skills, same as Barrons did to Mac, and she’s falling for it, same as Mac. He’s lining up his dominoes, so they fall more easily when he feels like pushing them over, conserving energy so he doesn’t have to hunt her when he’s ready to kill her.

  A bastard like him has one use for women. And she’s not old enough. Yet. I can’t decide which would be worse, if he killed her before she was old enough or waited and made her one of his endless string of women.

  She’s not that kind of girl, the endless string type. You get a shot at something like her once in a lifetime. And if you screw it up there’s a special place in hell for you.

  She breaks away from him suddenly and stomps off ahead. She’s pissed. I smile.

  I pull out my knife, twist my arm over my shoulder and scratch my back with it. Blood trickles. I sigh with relief, but it doesn’t last long. Sleeping is a real bitch. My back itches all the time and human drugs don’t work on me. I twist to get a better scratch.

  My blade hits bone with a dull clunk. I saw at it with the serrated tip of the blade but can’t get the angle right. I don’t have any friends that are glad to see me, nobody to lend a helping hand. I tried to get Dad to cut them out of my back. He said they’re attached to my spine and it would kill me. I don’t believe that. Nothing kills me. They itch. I want them gone almost as much as I’m beginning to want them.

  Fucking wings.

  Funny how things work out. Dani killed an Unseelie prince to save Mac, and I end up turning into the replacement for the prince Dani killed. But it’s not the lass’s fault. It’s Mac’s. For needing saving. Later, for forcing me to eat something I would never have eaten if I’d been in my right mind.

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  I wonder if my wings will get as big as Cruce’s. I wonder what it would feel like to fly the night sky with him and the other two. I see a vision in my head sometimes of the four of us, swooping down over the city, black wings beating air, filling the sky, owning the world. I can hear the sound we make as the four of us chime deep in our bodies. There’s a special, bloodcurdling song the Unseelie princes sing, sometimes it plays in my head while I sleep. The call to the Wild Hunt burns in my blood.

  I back up to the corner of a small brick building on the roof that houses heat pumps, lean against it and drag my back from side to side across the edge, scratching, watching as they move toward a metal door in the ground.

  He catches up with her and they walk together again.

  She glides through the night. He punches into it, a boxing glove with razor blades for knuckles. When she passes, the world is a better place. He leaves bloody footprints in a graveyard of bones.

  He lifts the door, light blazes up from a hole in the ground, and she descends, my angel into a sordid hell.

  He squats at the edge and watches her go and, for a split second, I see an unguarded expression on his face.

  It chills even a creature as cold as me.

  I know that look. I’ve seen it on my own face.

  Then the son of a bitch looks up at me and, this time, there’s no question in my mind that he sees me. He looks straight at me and inclines his head with a mocking smile. I return it coolly. My nod says, “Yes, yes, I see you, too. Be very careful. ”

  I can’t decide if what he just let me see was real—or another of his games. They don’t call him the master of manipulation for nothing. Barrons breaks heads. Ryodan turns them inside out. Barrons fucks you up. Ryodan makes you fuck yourself up. He pushes buttons and rearranges things according to his own private, coolly sociopathic plan.

  I liked it better when I thought he was going to kill her.

  I s
top scratching.

  I want those wings. They’ll make the fight that’s coming easier.

  He’s a walking dead man.

  If he wasn’t serious about what he just showed me, and he’s gaming me, he gamed the wrong Unseelie prince. I’ll kill him long before he gets around to killing her. I know how men like him work. I’m becoming one.

  If he was serious about what he just showed me, he showed it to the wrong Unseelie prince. Because what he showed me is that he sees the same things in her I do.

  He knows she’s worth waiting for.

  And when it’s time, he intends to be the one. That’s why he’s keeping her close. To those of us who live forever, a few years isn’t long to wait.

  Not for something worth waiting for. Not for a once-in-a-lifetime girl.

  A few years are a mere blink of an eye to men like us, for whom women crush sweetly like rotting pumpkins after Halloween. Sex isn’t easy for me anymore. I’m always holding back. Human women are breakable.

  Not this one.

  He sees her like I do: at seventeen, twenty, thirty. Superimposed over the fourteen-year-old, he sees the woman she’ll become.

  And he’s staking his claim.

  Over my. Dead. Fucking. Body.

  And I can’t die.

  But I know one of his kind that recently did, and I know how. I hear there’s a Hunter up there in the night sky that likes Unseelie royalty.

  Soon I’ll have the wings to find him.

  My superpowers come back three blocks from Chester’s. I know because I’ve been trying to tap a finger in hyperspeed on my thigh the whole way back. Finally did it. I still haven’t managed to make only my eyes move like Ryodan but I’ve been practicing and can get certain parts of my body to speed up for short amounts of time. Only problem is, the place where the part connects to my body gets a little sore, like I stressed out the muscles where the slow-mo and fast-mo parts are having a kind of what-the-feck-are-we-doing-here battle with each other.

  But it’s not like I could sit in the Humvee with the dude, who would love to know sometimes I’m helpless, and practice trying to freeze-frame my whole body. If he stopped sudden, I could go shooting straight through the windshield and then I’d be all cut up for days on top of my usual bruises.

  I look at him, irritated. “Why are you never bruised?” What is he? Like the exception to everything? And if so, where do I apply?

  “Participating and all that bunk,” he says. In other words, I don’t get to know because I’m not in whatever his inner circle is. Fine. Don’t want to be there anyway.

  “You got some kind of magic salve, dude? Because it’s only fair to share stuff like that. ”

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  He pulls up to the curb out front of Chester’s. I hop out of the Humvee the second he parks and instantly start bouncing from foot to foot, sideways, in between steps forward, to make sure I’m working right again. No way I’d go inside Chester’s with no superpowers. I whip out a candy bar, devour it then munch three more in quick succession, stockpiling energy. “Aren’t we done for the night? What else have you got for me to do?” I just spent an hour in an electrified sardine can with Ryodan, after losing my powers. He saturates confined spaces, like he’s got ten people’s stuff crammed into his body. He’s pissed at me for not inspecting the scene before it blew. I’m pissed at me, too, but it wasn’t like I had any choice. Without superpowers, I’m not getting anywhere near one of those scenes. It was a sucky drive. I want some time alone, or time with Dancer. He recharges me. Hanging with him is simple and pretty much perfect.

  He doesn’t answer me and I look at him. He’s staring up at the roof of a building across the street and he’s got an amused, smug look on his face. I search the shadows of the roofline but I can’t figure out what he’s checking out. There’s nothing up there. “Dude, you listening to me? Hello? Do you even know I’m here?”

  He continues looking at the roof like he’s seeing something I can’t see. Like that stupid drop of condensation I’m still not sure I believe was there.

  “I always know you’re there, Dani. I tasted your blood. I feel you all the time. ”

  Okay, that’s disturbing.

  “You mean like when I’m around,” I clarify for him.

  “How do you think I found you at your little boyfriend’s place. ”

  “You need to look at him harder if you think he’s little. ”

  “And so breakable. ”

  “Stop talking about him. He’s none of your business. Just what are you saying? That you could find me, like, anywhere, anytime?” There’s a right answer and wrong answer to that question.

  “Yes. ”

  That was the wrong answer. I get so mad I’m breathless. “Bull. Liar. ”

  He laughs and looks at me. “Want to play hide and seek, little girl?” He purrs it in a voice I’ve never heard him use before, and he actually makes it a question.

  His fangs are out.

  “Dude, you are one weird … whatever you are. ” I’m nearly at a loss for words.

  He laughs again and I can’t even stand to look at him so I charge off to the door in the ground that is the new entrance to Chester’s.

  He holds the door up for me. I sigh gustily as I descend the ladder. I hate Ryodan.

  So I’m walking across the dance floor, cutting a beeline straight for the stairs to head up to Ryodan’s office to do whatever it is he wants me to do, when I see her.

  She’s moving across the main dance floor with Jericho Barrons behind her, and it looks like they’re heading for one of the subclubs, though I can’t figure out why. Mac doesn’t like it here any more than I do.

  I freeze.

  I hate seeing her. I hate not knowing what’s going on in her life. I hate what I’ve done. Can’t change it, though, so no point in feeling it.

  Ryodan slams into my back, knocking me forward into the crowd. “Walk much?” I say testily as I careen off of a hulking Rhino-boy that gnashes yellowed tusks at me.

  As usual, he doesn’t miss a trick. His gaze does that ocular-shiver thing all over my face. “I thought you and Mac were friends. ”

  “We are friends,” I lie.

  “Then go say hi. ”

  Shit, I hate how much he notices. “We might have had a tiny tiff. ”

  “Tiny, my ass. ”

  “Quit nosing into my business. ”

  “Learn not to wear it on your face, kid. Except in private, with me and no one else. You need some serious training. Telegraph like that, it’s only a matter of time before somebody hoists you on your own entrails. ”

  “Dude, who uses words like entrails? Or hoists?”

  “Tell me what happened. ”

  I fist my hands at my waist. “It’s none of your business and that’s the beginning and end of it. Some things you can horn into. Some things you can’t. Stay the fuck out of it. ”

  He looks at me weird. “You said fuck. Not feck. ”

  “That’s all you got from what I just said?”

  “You want privacy on this. I’ll give it to you. See how easy that was. If you want something, ask me for it. You’ll find I can be a generous man. When you treat me right. If you ever figure out what that is. ”

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  He moves past me and heads for his office.

  I can’t help myself, I look back at Mac. I grin and kick myself inside for doing it but there was a time when I loved waking up every day in Dublin, different than I do now, because I knew she was there at Barrons Books & Baubles and we were going to go do something cool that day and then she baked me a birthday cake and picked me out presents and we watched movies and we fought back-to-back and I ain’t never had anything like that before and sometimes I feel like a homeless dog out in the rain and thunder and I’m muddy and cold and I’m staring in the window at the pretty collie sleeping on a doggie
bed close to the fire, and there’s a name on the bowl that’s next to her, and I wonder what it would be like to—

  “Gah! Get over yourself, wussy-girl. ” I got big-dog teeth and a big-dog bite and I know the rules: you stay inside, you get collared and spayed. I pick myself up and start to freeze-frame after Ryodan when a commotion in Mac’s general direction makes me stop, stay in slow-mo and glance back.

  There’s a new type of Unseelie in Chester’s tonight and they’re something out of a horror flick. They look like anorexic wraiths that might drift around graveyards, breaking open coffins and feeding on rotting corpses. They’re draped in black cloaks with hoods so you can’t see their faces, and they don’t walk, they hover and glide just above the floor. I glimpse a flash of bone at the sleeves. In their hoods I catch a quick hint of pale, bloodless skin and something black. There are twenty or so of them in the subclub Mac and Barrons are just entering. They make me think of carrion crow that sense the coming of a storm and perch in treetops everywhere, waiting for the destruction to begin so they can swoop down on the dying and tear flesh from bone with sharp beaks. I’m suddenly certain they don’t have normal mouths. And equally certain I’d rather never see what they do have.

  They turn toward Mac like they’re a single unit or something, which is totally creepy, and begin making a chittering noise that sets every nerve in my body on edge. There are no snakes in Ireland. Not because St. Patrick banished them like folks like to tell, but because of the island and climate issues. When I was a kid I was fascinated by snakes because I’d never seen one. I took a holiday after Mom died and Ro freed me, before she started controlling me, too, and went to a bunch of museums and zoos. I saw a rattlesnake. When it moved its tail, it had the same effect on me as these hooded Unseelie when they chitter. The dry, dusty rattle elicited some kind of atavistic response in me and got me thinking maybe genetic memory really does exist and certain sounds just make you want to run like hell.

  What are they? How come I’ve never seen them before? What’s their unique prey? How do they feed? How can they be killed? Better yet, why are they all peeling away from Mac like she has the Unseelie version of the bubonic plague?

  There are too many people on the dance floors between us. I can’t get a good view. I slide sideways into fast-mo, blow past Lor and Fade guarding the stairs at the bottom, making sure I catch Lor a good one with an elbow and snicker when he grunts, then stop at the top of the stairs and look down. Much better view.