I stepped back into the garage, closed and locked the door, flipped on the brightest tier of interior lights, considered the collection a moment, then crawled into the Maybach to sleep.
It occurred to me, as I drifted off, that my feelings about the car had certainly changed. I no longer cared that it had formerly belonged to the Irish mobster Rocky O’Bannion, from whom I’d stolen my spear and whom I was indirectly responsible for killing, along with fifteen of his henchmen, in the very alley where the monster Shade now lurked. I was just grateful it was comfortable to sleep in.
We expect Evil to announce itself.
Evil is supposed to adhere to certain conventions. It’s supposed to cause a chill of foreboding in the intended recipient of its visit; it should be instantly recognizable; and it’s supposed to be hideous. Evil should glide out of the night in a black hearse, fog streaming from its dark flanks, or dismount from a skeletal Harley, leather-clad, wearing a necklace of freshly scalped skulls and crossbones.
“Barrons Books and Baubles,” I answered the phone brightly. “You want it, we’ve got it, and if we don’t, we’ll find it.” I take my job very seriously. After snatching six hours of sleep in the garage, I’d made my way across the alley to the bookstore, showered, and opened shop, business as usual.
“I’m certain of that. You finding it, that is, or I wouldn’t have phoned.”
I froze, hand on the receiver. Was this a joke? He was phoning me? Of all the possible confrontations with Evil I’d imagined, this was not one of them. “Who is this?” I demanded, unable to believe it.
“You know who I am. Say it.”
Though I’d heard the voice only twice before—the afternoon in the Dark Zone when I’d almost died, and more recently in Mallucé’s lair—I would never forget it. Contrary to what Evil was supposed to be, it was a seductive, beautiful voice, mirroring the physical beauty of its owner.
It was the voice of my sister’s lover—and murderer.
I knew his name, and I’d die before I’d call him Lord Master. “You bastard.”
I slammed down the phone with one hand and was already using my other to punch up Barrons on my cell. He answered instantly, sounding alarmed. I got right to the point. “Can the Druid spell of Voice be used over the telephone?”
“No. The spell’s potency doesn’t carry through—”
“Thanks, gotta go.” As I’d expected, the store phone was already ringing again. I thumbed my cell off, and left Barrons sputtering. I was safe from being coerced over the phone lines, and that was what I’d needed to know, fast, before the Lord Master had been able to use it on me.
Just in case it was a paying customer, I said, “Barrons Books—”
“You should have asked me,” came that seductive, rich voice. “I would have told you that Voice is diluted by technology. Both parties must be in physical proximity to each other. At the moment, I’m too far away.”
I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that was what I’d been afraid of. “I dropped the phone.”
“Pretend what you will, MacKayla.”
“Don’t address me by name,” I gritted.
“What should I call you?”
“Don’t.”
“You have no curiosity about me?”
My hand was shaking. I was talking to my sister’s murderer, the monster that was bringing all the Unseelie through his mystic dolmens and turning our world into the nightmare it was. “Sure. What’s the quickest, easiest way to kill you?”
He laughed. “You have more fire than Alina. But she was clever. I underestimated her. She concealed your existence from me. She never spoke of you. I had no idea there were two with talents like hers.”
We’d been equals in our ignorance. She’d concealed his existence from me, too. “How did you find out about me?”
“I’d heard rumors of another sidhe-seer, new to the city, with unusual abilities. I would have tracked you eventually. But the day you came to the warehouse, I smelled you. There was no mistaking your bloodline. You can sense the Sinsar Dubh, the same way Alina could.”
“No, I can’t,” I lied.
“It’s calling you. You feel it out there, getting stronger. You, however, won’t get stronger. You’ll weaken, MacKayla. You can’t handle the Book. Don’t even think of trying. You can’t begin to imagine what you’d be dealing with.”
I had a pretty fair idea. “Is that why you called me? To warn me off? I’m quaking in my boots.” This conversation was wigging me out. I was on the phone with the monster that had killed my sister—the infamous Lord Master—and he wasn’t cackling maniacally or threatening villainously. He hadn’t come after me with an army of dark Fae, backed by his black-and-crimson-clad personal guard. He’d phoned me and was speaking in beautiful, cultured tones, softly, and without hostility. Was this the true face of Evil? It didn’t conquer, it seduced? He lets me be the woman I always wanted to be, Alina had written in her journal. Would he ask me out to dinner next? If he did, would I accept, to get a chance at killing him?
“What do you want most in the world, MacKayla?”
“You dead.” My cell phone rang. It was Barrons. I thumbed IGNORE.
“That’s not what you want most. You want that because of what you want most: Your sister back.”
I didn’t like where this was going.
“I called to offer you a deal.”
Deals with the devil, Barrons had recently reminded me, never went well. Still, I couldn’t stop myself from asking, “What?”
“Get me the Book, and I’ll get you your sister back.”
My heart skipped a beat. I held the phone away from my ear and stared at the receiver, as if seeking some kind of inspiration, or answer, or maybe just the courage to hang up the phone.
Your sister back. The words hung in the air.
Whatever I was looking for, I didn’t find it. I returned the phone to my ear. “The Book could bring Alina back from the dead?” I was chock-full of superstitions inspired by childhood fables; resurrecting the dead was always accompanied by gruesome caveats, and even more gruesome results. Surely something so evil couldn’t restore something so good.
“Yes.”
I wasn’t going to ask. I wasn’t. “Would she be the same as she was before? Not some scary zombie?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Why would you do that, when you’re the one who killed her in the first place?”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“Maybe you didn’t do it yourself, but you sent them after her!”
“I wasn’t done with her.” There was the barest hesitation. “And I had no plans to kill her when I was.”
“Bull. She found you out. She followed you into the Dark Zone one day, didn’t she? She refused to help you anymore. And you killed her for it.” I was certain of it. I’d thought about it every night before I went to sleep, for months. It was the only conclusion that made sense of the voice mail message she’d left me, a few hours before she’d died. He’s coming, she’d said, I don’t think he’ll let me out of the country.
“You’ve felt the power of my coercion. I might have lost her willing cooperation, but I never needed it to begin with.” Imperious arrogance dripped from his voice, as he reminded me how easily he’d controlled me. No, he wouldn’t have needed her cooperation. With that terrible, will-stealing Voice, he could have made her do anything he wanted, anything at all.
My cell phone rang again.
“Answer it. Barrons hates waiting. Think about my offer.”
“How do you know Barrons?” I demanded.
The line was dead.
“Are you all right?” Barrons growled, when I answered my cell.
“Fine.”
“Was it him?”
“The great LM?” I said dryly. “Yes.”
“What did he offer you?”
“My sister back.”
Barrons didn’t say anything for a long moment. “And?”
I
was quiet for an even longer moment. “I told him I’d think about it.”
Silence fell between us and lengthened. Strangely, neither of us hung up. I wondered where he was, what he was doing. I strained my ears but couldn’t hear any background noise. Either his cell phone had great noise reduction capabilities, or he was somewhere very quiet. An image flashed through my mind: Barrons, big and dark, naked against white silk sheets, arms folded behind his head, phone propped at his ear, crimson and black tattoos ranging across his chest, down his abs. Leg tangled with some woman’s.
Nah. He’d never let a woman stay the night. No matter how good the sex was.
“Barrons,” I said at last.
“Ms. Lane.”
“I need you to teach me to resist Voice.” I’d asked him this before, but he’d only given me one of his noncommittal replies.
There was another of those long silences, then, “In order to attempt that—and I assure you it will be no more than an attempt, one at which I highly doubt you’ll succeed—I’ll have to use it on you. Are you prepared for that?”
I shivered. “We’ll lay some basic ground rules.”
“You like those, don’t you? Too bad. You’re in my world now, and there are no basic ground rules. You learn how I teach you, or not at all.”
“You’re a jackass.”
He laughed, and I shivered again.
“Can we start tonight?” I’d been safe today, with the Lord Master on the phone. But if, instead of calling, he’d strolled up behind me on the street and commanded me to be silent, I wouldn’t have even been able to open my mouth long enough to release V’lane’s name.
I frowned.
Why hadn’t he walked up behind me? Why hadn’t he sent his army after me? Now that I thought about it, the only two times he’d ever tried to capture me were when I’d practically delivered myself to him, and he’d believed I was alone, almost as if I’d been an opportunity too convenient to pass up. Was the Lord Master in no hurry to get close to me? Did he fear my spear after seeing what it had done to Mallucé? I’d feared it intensely when I’d eaten Unseelie. I hadn’t wanted it anywhere near me. But with Voice he could easily strip it away. He’d wanted Alina’s willing participation, and now he seemed to want mine. Why? Because it was easier if I was willing, or was it more complicated than that? Did Voice work only to a certain extent, and there was something he needed from me that he wouldn’t be able to coerce? Or maybe—a chill of foreboding accompanied this thought—I was only a small part of his much larger plans, and he’d already made other arrangements for me, and it just wasn’t the right time yet. Maybe he was even now constructing a cage around me that I couldn’t see. Would I wake up one morning, and walk straight into it? I’d been duped by Mallucé. I’d believed him a figment of my imagination until the last.
I shoved my fearful thoughts away before they could multiply. I certainly wanted to get close to him. I was going to kill him. And his nasty trick of Voice was a barrier I was going to have to be able to get past.
“Well,” I prompted, “when can we start?” I didn’t trust Barrons, but he’d had plenty of opportunities to use Voice on me in the past, and hadn’t. I didn’t believe he’d use it to harm me now. At least not much. The potential gain was worth the risk.
“I’ll be there at ten.” He hung up.
It was nine-fifteen by the time I finished my invention, forty-five minutes before Barrons was due to arrive.
I turned it on, sat back, scrutinized it a few moments, then nodded.
It looked good.
Well, it didn’t really. It looked. strange, like something out of a sci-fi movie. But it worked, and that was all that mattered to me. I was sick of not being safe in the dark. I was sick of watching my flashlights go spinning away from me. This couldn’t spin away. And if I was right about its capabilities, I’d be able to walk straight through a Shade-wall with it on.
There was one final test I needed to perform.
It was a great invention and I was proud of it. The idea had come to me this afternoon, during a slow spell. I’d been stressing over the enormous Shade outside the bookstore, when suddenly a light had gone off in my head, or rather, several dozen.
I’d flipped the sign and locked up at seven on the dot, raced down the street to the sporting goods store on the corner, and bought everything I needed, from the biking helmet, to batteries, to brackets and caving lights, to tubes of superglue, to Velcro bands as an added precaution.
Then I’d come back to the bookstore, dialed my iPod to the latest playlist I was crazy about, cranked it up to a smidge below deafening, and gone to work.
I shook my invention. I dropped it. I kicked it, and still all parts remained intact. Superglue: after duct tape, a girl’s best friend.
I was satisfied. With three quarters of an hour until my Voice lessons, I had time to test the device, and still make it upstairs to freshen up a bit, not that I cared how I looked around Barrons. It’s just that in the Deep South, women learn at a young age that when the world is falling apart around you, it’s time to take down the drapes and make a new dress.
Every truly inspired invention needed a catchy name, and I had just the right one for mine. Who needed the Cuff of Cruce to walk among the Shades?
I slipped the biking helmet on my head and strapped it securely beneath my chin. It fit snugly so it couldn’t fall off in the heat of battle. I could do a flip (if I could do a flip) and the thing would stay stuck to my head. I’d superglued dozens of Click-It lights all over the surface of the helmet. Brackets stuck out several inches from both sides and the rear, with spelunker lights attached, pointing downward.
I swept my arms out and took a deep bow: Presenting the MacHalo!
With all the lights turned on, the helmet created a perfect halo of light around my entire body, down to my feet. I loved it. If it hadn’t been so bulky, I might have tried sleeping in it. As an added precaution, I strapped on the Velcro wrist and ankle bands I’d cut little pouches in, and sewn Click-It lights into. All I had to do was hit my wrists and ankles together and the lights clicked on.
I was ready.
But first, I wanted a test run inside the store before I went outside.
I clicked myself on from head to toe, hurried to the panel, and began flipping off the interior lights in the front part of the bookstore. Not the exterior ones, just the interior. Even though I knew the building was still surrounded in light outside, it was hard to make myself do it. My fear of the darkness had grown beyond a rational thing. That happens when you know a shadow can eat you alive if you touch it.
My hand hesitated over the last row of switches for a long, difficult moment.
But I had my MacHalo, and I knew it would work. If I gave fear a toehold, it would screw me. I’d learned that lesson from Barrons, and had it driven home by Mallucé: Hope strengthens. Fear kills.
I flipped off the last row, plunging the bookstore into complete darkness.
I blazed as bright as a small sun in the room!
I laughed. I should have thought of it before. There wasn’t an inch of me, not a centimeter, that wasn’t lit up. My halo radiated outward a good ten feet in all directions. And I was right; if I had the courage, I could walk right through a Shade-wall. None of the vampiric life-suckers could get close to me in this getup!
My iPod began playing “Bad Moon Rising” by Creedence Clearwater Revival, and I did a little dance, giddy with success. I had one more weapon in my arsenal to make me safer, and I’d thought of it myself.
I whirled around the bookstore, miming the epic fighter I was now going to be, armed with my clever MacHalo, no longer afraid of dark alleys in the night. I leapt chairs and darted around bookcases. I pounced sofas, I hurdled ottomans. I stabbed imaginary enemies, immune to Shade-danger by the brilliance of my own invention. There’s not much room in my life for good, plain, stupid fun, and there hasn’t been much to celebrate lately. I take advantage of both when I can.
“ ‘Hope yo
u got your things together,’ ” I sang, stabbing a pillow with my spear. Feathers exploded into the air. “ ‘Hope you are quite prepared to die!’ ” I spun in a dazzling whirl of lights, landed a killer back-kick on a phantom Shade, and simultaneously punched the magazine rack. “ ‘Looks like we’re in for nasty weather! ‘“ I took a swan dive at a short, imaginary Shade, lunged up at a taller one—
— and froze.
Barrons stood inside the front door, dripping cool old-world elegance.
I hadn’t heard him come in over the music. He was leaning, shoulder against the wall, arms folded, watching me.
“ ‘One eye is taken for an eye. ’ ” I trailed off, deflating. I didn’t need a mirror to know how stupid I looked. I regarded him sourly for a moment, then moved for the sound dock to turn it off. When I heard a choked sound behind me I spun, and shot him a hostile glare. He wore his usual expression of arrogance and boredom. I resumed my path for the sound dock, and heard it again. This time when I turned back, the corners of his mouth were twitching. I stared at him until they stopped.
I’d reached the sound dock, and just turned it off, when he exploded.
I whirled. “I didn’t look that funny,” I snapped.
His shoulders shook.
“Oh, come on! Stop it!”
He cleared his throat and stopped laughing. Then his gaze took a quick dart upward, fixed on my blazing MacHalo, and he lost it again. I don’t know, maybe it was the brackets sticking out from the sides. Or maybe I should have gotten a black bike helmet, not a hot pink one.
I unfastened it and yanked it off my head. I stomped over to the door, flipped the interior lights back on, slammed him in the chest with my brilliant invention, and stomped upstairs.
“You’d better have stopped laughing by the time I come back down,” I shouted over my shoulder.
I wasn’t sure he even heard me, he was laughing so hard.
“Can Voice make you do something that you find deeply morally objectionable? Can it override everything you believe in?” I asked Barrons, fifteen minutes later when I came back down. I’d made him wait, partly because I was still stinging from his laughter, and partly because it pissed me off in general that he was early. I like it when a man’s on time. Not early. Not late. Punctual. It’s one of those lost dating courtesies, not that Barrons and I are dating, but I think dating courtesies are common courtesies that should be practiced in most all civilized encounters. I pine for the days of good, old-fashioned manners.
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