I laugh.
Darroc gives me a look.
“I am behaving,” I reply sweetly. “You can’t tell me they didn’t have that coming.”
I’m getting better at reading him. He finds me amusing. I wipe my palms on my leather pants, trying to get rid of the bloody residue from the runes. I try my shirt. But it’s no use; the red discoloration has set.
When Darroc takes my hand and leads me down the alley between Barrons Books and Baubles and Barrons’ garage, which houses the car collection I used to covet, I don’t look to either side. I keep my gaze trained straight ahead.
I’ve lost Alina, failed to save Christian, killed Barrons, am becoming intimate with my sister’s lover. I hurt Dani to drive her away, and now I’ve teamed up with the Unseelie army.
Eyes on the prize, there’s no turning back.
10
Snow begins to fall, carpeting the night in a soft white hush. We march across it, a stain of Unseelie, stomping, crawling, slithering toward Temple Bar.
There are castes behind me that I’ve seen only once before—the night Darroc brought them through the dolmen. I have no desire to inspect them any more closely than I did that night. Some of the Unseelie aren’t so bad to look at. The Rhino-boys are disgusting, but they don’t make you feel … dirty. Others … well, even the way they move makes your skin crawl, makes you feel slimy where their eyes linger.
As we pass a streetlamp, I glance at a flyer, drooping limply on it: The Dani Daily, 97 days AWC.
The headline brags that she killed a Hunter. I put myself in Dani’s head, to figure out the date. It takes me a minute, but I get it—after the walls crashed. I perform a rapid calculation. The last day I was in Dublin was January 12.
Ninety-seven days from Halloween—the night the walls crashed—is February 5.
Which means I’ve been gone at least twenty-four days, probably longer. The flyer was faded, worn by the elements. Much more snow and I’d never have seen it.
However long I’ve been gone, Dublin hasn’t changed much.
Although many of the streetlamps that were ripped from the concrete and destroyed have been replaced and the broken lights repaired, the power grids are still down. Here and there, generators hum, dead giveaways of life barricaded in buildings or holed up underground.
We pass the red façade of the Temple Bar, of the bar district. I glance in. I can’t help myself. I loved the place BWC—before the walls crashed.
Now it’s a dark shell, with shattered windows, overturned tables and chairs, and papery husks of human remains. From the way they’re piled, I know the patrons were crammed inside, huddled together when the end came.
I remember the way the Temple Bar looked the first time I saw it, brightly lit, with people and music spilling from open doors into the cobbled streets of the corner beyond. Guys had whistled at me. I’d forgotten my grief over Alina for a blessed second or two. Then, of course, hated myself for forgetting.
I can almost hear the laughter, the lilt of Irish voices. They’re all dead now, like Alina and Barrons.
I remember spending the long week before Halloween walking the streets of Dublin for hours on end, from dawn ’til dusk, feeling helpless, worthless, for all my supposed sidhe-seer skills. I wasn’t sure any of us would survive Halloween, so I’d tried to cram as much living into those last days as possible.
I’d chatted up street vendors and played backgammon with toothless old men who spoke a version of English so heavily distorted by dialect and gums that I’d understood only every fifth word, but it hadn’t mattered. They’d been delighted by a pretty girl’s attention, and I’d hungered for paternal comfort.
I’d visited the famous tourist hot spots. I’d eaten in dives and slammed back shots of whiskey with anyone who’d do them with me.
I’d fallen in love with the city I couldn’t protect.
After the Unseelie had escaped their prison and savaged her—dark, burned, and broken—I’d been determined to see her rebuilt.
Now I longed only to replace her.
“Do you sense it, MacKayla?” Darroc asks.
I’ve been keeping my sidhe-seer senses as closed as possible. I’m tired and have no desire to find the Sinsar Dubh. Not until I know everything he knows.
I open my senses warily and turn the “volume” up to a two on a scale of one to ten. My sidhe-seer senses are picking up the essence of countless things Fae, but none of them is the Sinsar Dubh. “No.”
“Are there many Fae?”
“The city is crawling with them.”
“Light or Dark Court?”
“It doesn’t work like that. I can only pick up Fae, not their allegiance or caste.”
“How many?”
I adjust the volume to three and a half. A tenth this much Fae in close proximity used to have me holding my stomach and trying not to puke. Now I feel charged by it. More alive than I want to be. “They’re on all sides of us, in twos and threes. They’re above us, on the rooftops and in the skies. I don’t get the feeling that they’re watching us, more that they’re watching everything.” Are they, too, hunting my Book? I’ll kill them all. It’s mine.
“Hundreds?” he presses.
“Thousands,” I correct.
“Organized?”
“There is one group to the east that is considerably larger than the others, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Then east we go,” he says. He turns to the princes and barks a command. They vanish.
I voice a growing suspicion. “They’re not really gone, are they? They never are when you send them away.”
“They remain close, watching but unseen. A sift away, with more of my army.”
“And when we find this group of Fae?” I press.
“If they are Unseelie, they are mine.”
“And if they’re Seelie?”
“Then we will drive them from Dublin.”
Good. The less Fae in my way, the better.
Few have ever seen the Seelie, save the rare mortal stolen away and kept at the Fae court and, of course, Barrons, who once spent a great deal of time there, sleeping with a princess, before killing her and pissing off V’lane for all eternity.
I’ve seen thousands of Unseelie, but until now even I—sidhe-seer extraordinaire—have seen only a single Seelie.
I’d begun to wonder why.
In the dark hours of the night, I’d wondered if maybe he was the only one left, if he was hiding something, if perhaps he wasn’t Seelie at all, despite evidence supporting his claim.
Seeing him as he is now, all my doubts evaporate.
Here are the Seelie.
They’ve finally gotten off their asses and started paying attention to the mess they’ve made of my world. I guess they couldn’t be bothered before now.
Even filled as I am with hatred for all Fae, I can’t deny that V’lane looks like an avenging angel, charging down from heaven to set my world back on its axis and clean this whole mess up. Radiant, golden, and mesmerizing, he leads an army of angels.
Tall, gracefully muscled, they stand shoulder to shoulder with him, filling the street. Stunning, velvety-skinned, dusted with gold, they are so chillingly exquisite that I have a hard time looking at them—and I’m immune from having been Pri-ya, a Fae sex addict. They are otherworldly, divine.
There are dozens of V’lane’s caste, male and female. They possess a terrifying eroticism that makes them deadly to humans. If a scientist managed to get his hands on one to study, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn their skin exudes a pheromone we crave.
The perpetual promise of a smile hovers on irresistible lips, below ancient, iridescent, alien eyes. Despite all I’ve suffered at their hands, I want to rush forward and fall to my knees before them. I want to slide my palms over their flawless skin, discover if they taste as amazing as they smell. I want to be gathered into a Fae embrace, yield my memories, my mind, my will, and be carried off to a Faery court where I could stay forever young, c
ocooned by illusion.
Flanking V’lane’s caste—which I assume is the highest ranking by how the other castes seem to protect it—are the stuff of fairy tales. There are rainbow-colored, delicate Fae that dart like hummingbirds on gossamer wings; silvery nymphs that dance on dainty feet; and others that I can’t even see, except for blinding trailers of light they leave behind as they move. They’re so brilliant and fiery, they could only be earthbound stars.
I scoff at the delicacy of his army. It’s ethereal, born to wisp about, seduce, and be served.
Mine is earthy, solid. Born to gorge, kill, and rule.
We stalk toward one another, down a snow-filled street.
Where Seelie feet touch the earth, the snow melts with a hiss. Steam rises and flowers push up through cracks, blooming brilliantly, anointing the air with the scents of jasmine and sandalwood. The Seelie end of the street is bathed in golden light.
Where my army’s hooves and scaled bellies pass over the stones, a crust of black ice forms. The night embraces us; stealthy shadows, we ooze forward from the blackness.
Only once before have Seelie and Unseelie met like this—and on that day the Seelie Queen died. This is the stuff of legends, never seen by humans, except perhaps in our dreams.
Deformed monsters and hideous demons stare with baleful, hate-filled eyes at their perfect golden counterparts.
Angels glare with disdain at abominations that should never have been born, who blemish the perfection of the Fae race, tarnish their existence simply by being.
I wonder what Darroc is thinking, bringing them together like this.
We stop a dozen paces apart.
Ice and heat slam together in the street.
My breath frosts the air, then turns to steam as it passes an invisible demarcation. Eddies swirl on the pavement between us, gathering the indigestible rinds of people the Shades left behind, and tiny tornadoes begin to form.
I realize that whoever began the fairy tale that Fae don’t feel was selling pure bullshit. They feel the entire range of human emotion. They just handle it differently: with patience born of eternity. Schooled in courtly manners, they don masks of impassivity because they have forever to play out their games.
As we study each other through the rapidly growing tornadoes, I remember V’lane telling me that they destroyed their own world by fighting. It cracked from end to end. Was this why? Will the weather disturbance that’s being generated by the clash of these two mighty courts continue to grow if they fight and tear this world apart, too? Not that I’d particularly mind, since I intend to re-create it with the Book, but I need the Book before this world is destroyed.
Which means this stormy posturing really needs to stop.
“Enough with the melodrama, V’lane,” I say coolly.
His eyes are those of a stranger. He regards me with the same expression he turns on the monsters at my back. I’m a little irritated to realize he doesn’t look at Darroc. His gaze slides over him as if he’s not even there. He’s the fallen Fae, traitor to their race, the one responsible for tearing the walls down. I’m just a sidhe-seer trying to survive.
The gold-dusted Greek god standing on V’lane’s right sneers, “That … thing … is the human you said we need to protect? She consorts with abominations!”
The gilt-skinned goddess to his left growls, “Destroy her now!”
Hundreds of Seelie, walking, dancing, and flying, begin to clamor for my death.
Without taking my eyes off them, I snap at Darroc, “I could really use my spear right now.” I assume he still has it, that V’lane hasn’t somehow plucked it from him the same way he takes it from me.
As the tiny, dainty Fae begin proposing methods for my execution, each one slower and more painful than the last, the god and goddess bracketing V’lane hammer him.
“She is human and has chosen the dark ones! Look at her! She wears their colors!”
“You said she worshipped us!”
“And she would obey us in all things!”
“They have touched her! I smell it on her skin!” The god looks revolted—and aroused. Iridescent eyes glitter with gold sparks.
“They have used her!” the goddess snarls. “She is soiled. I will not suffer her at court!”
“Silence!” V’lane thunders. “I lead the True Race for our queen. I speak for Aoibheal!”
“This is unacceptable!”
“Outrageous!”
“Beyond bearing, V’lane!”
“You will do as I say, Dree’lia! I decide her fate. And only I will carry it out.”
I mutter at Darroc, “You need to make a decision, and fast.”
“They always overreact,” Darroc murmurs. “It is one of the many things I despised at court. A session in High Council could go on like this for several human years. Give them time. V’lane will bring them to heel.”
One of the tiny, winged Seelie breaks formation and darts straight for my head. I duck, but it whizzes around me.
I’m startled to hear myself burst out laughing.
Two more of them break rank and begin to zip tight circles around my head.
As they buzz past me, my laughter takes on a hysterical edge. There’s nothing funny about what’s happening—still, I hoot and snort. I can’t help it. I’ve never been so amused in my entire life. I hold my sides and double over, chortling, guffawing, choking on sobs of forced gaiety, as they weave closer and closer around me. I’m appalled by the sounds coming out of my mouth. I’m horrified at the uncontrollable nature of it. I hate the Fae and their way of stripping away my will.
“Stop laughing,” Darroc growls.
Hilarity has me on the edge of hysterics and it hurts. I manage to raise my head from my knees just enough to shoot him a dirty look. I’d love to stop laughing. But I can’t.
I want to tell him to make the damned things go away, except I can’t breathe, I can’t even close my lips long enough to grit consonants. Whatever these lovely little Seelie monsters are, their specialty is death-by-laughter. What a hellish way to go. After only a few minutes, my sides ache from heaving, my gut burns, and I’m so breathless I’m light-headed. I wonder how long it takes to die of forced mirth. Hours? Days?
A fourth tiny Fae takes up the game, and I brace myself to dive inward, to find a weapon in my dark, lake-filled cave, when suddenly a long tongue, dripping venom, whizzes past my ear and plucks the dainty Seelie straight from the air.
I hear crunching noises behind me.
I snicker helplessly.
“V’lane!” the golden goddess shrieks. “That thing, that awful thing, it ate M’ree!”
I hear another snap, followed by more crunching noises, and a second one is gone. I cackle madly.
The remaining two retreat, shaking tiny fists and screaming in a language I don’t understand. Even angry, the sound they make is more beautiful than an aria.
My laughter loses its forced edge.
After a long moment, I’m able to relax and I stop making crazed sounds of amusement. Peals fade to moans to silence. I release my sides and gulp cool, soothing air.
I stand, suddenly furious, and this emotion is all mine. I’m sick of being vulnerable. If I’d had my spear, those nasty little death-by-laughter fairies would never have dared approach me. I’d have skewered them midair and made Fae kebabs out of them.
“Friends,” I hiss at Darroc, “trust each other.”
But he doesn’t. I see it in his face.
“You said you would give it to me so I could defend us.”
He smiles faintly, and I know he’s remembering how Mallucé died: slowly, gruesomely, rotting from the inside out. The spear kills all things Fae, and because Darroc has been eating so much Unseelie, he’s laced with veins of Fae. One tiny little prick of the tip of my spear would be a death sentence. “As yet, we are not under attack.”
“Who are you talking to, human?” the goddess demands.
I look at Darroc, who shrugs. “I told you the first
Seelie that saw me would try to kill me. Hence they do not see me. My princes keep me concealed from their vision.”
Now I understand why V’lane’s gaze slid over him like he wasn’t there. He’s not. “So it looks like I’m the only one standing here? They think I’m running your army!”
“Never fear, sidhe-seer,” V’lane says coldly. “I smell the foulness of what was once Fae and now cannibalizes our race. I know who leads this army. As for his being your friend, the one you so unwisely walk with has no friends. He has always served only his own purposes.”
I tilt my head. “Are you my friend, V’lane?”
“I would be. I have offered you my protection repeatedly.”
The goddess gasps. “You offered our protection and she refused? She chose those … things over us?”
“Silence, Dree’lia!”
“The Tuatha Dé Danann do not offer twice!” she fumes. “I said, ‘Silence!’ ” V’lane snaps.
“Clearly you do not under—”
I gape.
Dree’lia has no mouth. There is only smooth skin where her lips used to be. Delicate nostrils flare beneath ancient, hate-filled eyes.
The golden god moves to embrace her. She rests her head in the hollow of his neck and clutches him. “That was unnecessary,” he tells V’lane stiffly.
I’m struck by the absurdity of the moment. Here I stand, between opposing halves of the most powerful race imaginable. They are at war with each other. They despise each other and are vying for the same prize.
And the Seelie—who have enjoyed absolute freedom and power their entire existences—are squabbling among themselves over trivialities, while the Unseelie—who’ve been imprisoned, starved, and tortured for hundreds of thousands of years—patiently hold formation and wait for Darroc’s orders.
And I can’t help but see myself in them. The Seelie are who I was before my sister died. Pink, pretty, frivolous Mac. The Unseelie are who I’ve become, carved by loss and despair. Black, grungy, driven Mac.
The Unseelie are stronger, less breakable. I’m glad I’m like them.
“I will speak with the sidhe-seer alone,” V’lane says.
“He will not,” Darroc growls at my side.
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