The Seelie Queen, I wrote. According to V’lane she wanted the Sinsar Dubh, but why? Did she need it to recontain the Unseelie? Were there spells in there that governed their darker brethren? What was the Sinsar Dubh, really? I knew it was a book of black magic authored by the Unseelie King, but what did it do? What did everyone want it for? Did each player have a different desire/use for it? What spells and enchantments were scribed in its pages that were so heinous they could corrupt anyone who came in contact with it? Could words and symbols wield such power? Could mere scribblings on parchment unmake a person’s moral fiber? Weren’t we made of sterner stuff?
I was in no hurry to find out. My two brushes with the Dark Book had pushed me beyond pain into unconsciousness, left me weak as a baby and wishing desperately that I’d never found my way onto this game board.
Where was the Unseelie King in all this?
Did he signify or was he an absentee landlord?
If my book of dark magic had gone missing, you could bet your petunia I’d be out there looking for it. Was he? Why hadn’t he tracked me down, too? Everyone else had. How had his book gotten away from him in the first place? For that matter, indulging myself in perfect paranoia—which, in the world I inhabited, seemed perfectly reasonable—had it gotten away from him? What if it was nothing more than bait at the end of a very long fishing line? If so, what was he fishing for? Was the Lord Master himself a pawn, being moved about by a much darker, unspeakably ancient hand? Was the playing board bigger than I could see? Were we all pawns of something much larger than we knew?
Somewhere out there on the game board, the Sinsar Dubh was moving around. Who was moving it? How was it being moved? And why?
And what kind of prankster benevolent being—this was the one I really wanted to know—would create something like me that could sense the most dangerous of all relics, then give me a fatal flaw that caused me to pass out every time I got near it?
I ordered another shot and tossed it back, indulging myself in a ritual I’d witnessed too many times across my bar: swallow, shudder, breathe.
“Mind if I join you?”
I glanced up. It was the guy with the Scottish accent from the Ancient Languages Department at Trinity; “Scotty,” the one I’d gotten the envelope about the illegal auction from. Small world. And everyone keeps telling me how large a city Dublin is.
I shrugged. “Sure, why not.”
“Gee, thanks,” he said dryly.
I suspected he was unaccustomed to such a blasé response from women. He was about the same age as the dreamy-eyed guy he worked with, but the resemblance ended there. His coworker was velvety-skinned, a sexy boy-on-the-cusp-of-man, but Scotty was broader, his body more filled out, and there was maturity in the way he walked and moved, a quiet self-assurance, as if, even at his age, he’d already been tested.
Six foot two or three, his hair was long and dark and pulled back at his nape. Gold tiger eyes swept me appreciatively. Estrogen responded to testosterone—this boy was a man—and I sat up a little straighter.
“To fine Scotch and lovely lasses.” He clinked a glass of whisky to my mug of beer and we drank. I chased it with a third shot: swallow, shudder, breathe. That cold place in my stomach, where I felt alone and lost, was finally starting to warm up.
He extended his hand. “I’m Christian.”
I took it. His hand swallowed mine. “Mac.”
He laughed. “You don’t look like a Mac to me.”
“Okay, I give up. Why does everyone keep saying that? What do I look like?”
“In most places Mac is a man’s name and you, lass, look nothing like a man. Where I come from you just introduced yourself to me as ‘from the clan of’ and I’m still waiting for the rest of your name.”
“You’re from Scotland.”
He nodded. “From the clan of the Keltar.”
Christian MacKeltar. “Beautiful name.”
“Thanks. I’ve been watching you since you came in. You look…pensive. And if I’m not mistaken, that was your third shot. When a lovely lass drinks shots alone I worry. Is everything okay?”
“Just a rough day. Thanks for asking.” How sweet he was. A much-needed reminder that there were nice people in the world; I just didn’t get to hang out with them often.
“You write?” He gestured to my journal. I’d closed it the moment he’d sat down.
“I keep a diary.”
“Really?” A brow rose, his golden gaze shone with interest.
I almost laughed. I had no doubt he thought I wrote about cute boys and pretty clothes and the latest reality TV show hunk I had a crush on; all those things that used to occupy my mind. I was tempted to shove it across the table at him, tell him to read a page or two, then see if he still wanted to sit with me, and after three shots, I was just buzzed enough to do it.
I was tired of lies and tired of being alone and tired of feeling disconnected. I was tired of being with people I couldn’t trust and wanting to trust people I couldn’t be with, like this guy for example, or his coworker, the dreamy-eyed guy. I was hungry for normalcy and angry enough to want to destroy any chance I had at getting it.
“Check it out.” I shoved my notebook across the table.
He looked startled, conflicted. I could tell he wanted to know my innermost thoughts—what man would turn down a chance to read what a woman really thought, uncensored? — yet knew he should preserve my dignity if I was too drunk to do it myself, and shove it back at me. Which would win: man or gentleman?
The man opened my journal to the first page, a page of descriptions of the latest Unseelie I’d been seeing, followed by a page of speculation about how they killed and how I might best kill them.
I let him finish both pages before reclaiming my notebook.
“So,” I said brightly, “now that you know I’m nuts—” I broke off and stared at him. “You do know I’m nuts, right?” There was something very wrong with the way he was looking at me.
“MacKayla,” he said softly, “come somewhere with me, somewhere…safer than this. We need to talk.”
I sucked in a breath. “I didn’t tell you my name was MacKayla.” I stared at him, a little too toasted to deal with the panic I was feeling over this unexpected paradigm shift. I’d been trying to destroy my chances at normalcy only to find out I’d never had any chance at normalcy in this situation because the normal boy wasn’t normal.
“I know who you are. And what you are,” he said quietly. “I’ve met your kind before.”
“Where?” I was bewildered. “Here, in Dublin?”
He nodded. “And elsewhere.”
Surely not. Was it possible? He’d known my name. What else did he know about me? “Did you know my sister?” I was suddenly breathless.
“Aye,” he said heavily, “I knew Alina.”
My mouth dropped. “You knew my sister?” I practically screeched. How did he know us? Who was this man?
“Aye. Will you come with me, somewhere private we can talk?”
When my cell phone rang, even buried as it was in my purse, it was so loud it nearly scared me out of my skin, and pub patrons three booths down turned to glare. I didn’t blame them; it was an obnoxious ring, a blaring band of celestial trumpets, set on full volume. Obviously Barrons hadn’t wanted me to miss a call.
I fumbled for it, flipped it open, and pressed send. Barrons sounded pissed. “Where the fuck are you?” he demanded.
“None of your business,” I said coolly.
“I saw two Hunters in the city tonight, Ms. Lane. Word is more are on the way. A great deal more. Get your ass home.”
I sat there frozen with a dead line. He’d said what he had to say and hung up.
I can’t explain what the word “Hunters” does to me, but it gets me where I live. It gets me in my most sacred place, the one where I used to feel safe but never will again so long as there are Fae in my world. It’s as if certain things are programmed into a sidhe-seer’s DNA and we have gut reactions
that can’t be diminished, controlled, or overcome.
“You’ve gone white as a sheet, lass. What’s wrong?”
I considered my options. There were none. The pub I was in closed early on weeknights. It was either make a run for the bookstore now, or wait a few hours, and if more Hunters were on the way, in a few hours it would only be more dangerous.
“Nothing.” I slapped down a few bills and some change. Why hadn’t Barrons come after me? My phone rang again. I dug it out.
“I would only make us a bigger target, and I’ve got my hands a bit full at the moment,” he said. “Stay close to the buildings, under overhangs when possible. Lose yourself in throngs of other people when you can.”
What was he—a mind reader? “I could catch a cab.”
“Have you seen what’s driving them lately?”
No, but I sure was going to be looking now that he’d said that.
“Where are you?”
I told him.
“You’re not far. You’ll be fine, Ms. Lane. Just get here fast, before more arrive.” He hung up again.
I stuffed my journal and phone in my purse and stood up.
“Where are you going?” Christian said.
“I have to leave. Something’s come up.” Whatever crimes I might lay at Barrons’ feet, I believed he could protect me. If there were Hunters in the city tonight, I wanted the most dangerous man I knew at my side, not a twenty-something Scottish guy who’d known my sister—who was, grim case in point, dead—so obviously he’d been of no help to her. “I want to know everything. Can I come see you at Trinity?”
He stood. “Whatever’s going on, Mac, let me help you with it.”
“You’ll only slow me down.”
“You don’t know that. I might be useful.”
“Don’t push me,” I said coldly. “I’m sick of being pushed.”
He assessed me a moment, then nodded. “Come see me at Trinity. We’ll talk.”
“Soon,” I promised. As I left the pub, I marveled at my ignorance. I’d been sitting there, believing Rowena the final, critical piece. While I’d been busy analyzing my board, making judgments and decisions, feeling pretty smart about myself, a player I’d known nothing about had strolled up and sat down, and like everyone else, he knew a great deal more about me than I knew about him.
I was back to feeling dumb.
Just where on the game board was I supposed to place Christian MacKeltar?
I took a mental swipe at it, toppled all the pieces, and stepped into the night. The heck with it. Right now I needed to get back to the bookstore, undetected by my mortal enemy, monsters whose sole purpose was to hunt and destroy people like me.
My dad had this thing he used to say to me when I’d try to convince him that a D on my report card was really close to a C. He’d say, Mac, baby, close only counts in hand-grenades and horseshoes.
I was really close; in fact, I was almost home when the Hunter found me.
Chapter 15
It was as if a new Dublin had been born while I was inside the pub, and I realized, with the exception of our brief drive through Temple Bar the other evening, I’d not walked through the district in over a month. It had been that long since I’d taken a good look at my world.
Night was their time and they came out in droves.
Rhino-boys were driving the cabs.
A caste of Unseelie new to me, ghastly white and painfully thin with enormous hungry, wet eyes and no mouths, was running the street vendor stands.
Where had the original owners gone? I was pretty sure I didn’t want to know.
There was one Unseelie for every ten humans on the street. Many of them wore glamours of attractive people and were paired off with real people, and I knew they were going into bars wearing the guise of sexy tourists and picking up the real tourists.
And doing what with them?
I didn’t want to know that, either. I couldn’t kill them all. In these numbers, I was useless against them. I forced myself to look straight ahead. There were too many Unseelie around me and I’d had too much to drink. My stomach was a roiling, queasy mess. I had to get out of here. Somewhere I could breathe. Maybe throw up.
The sidhe-seer coalition was starting to look better to me. We would need hundreds of us to fight what was happening in this city. And we only had two weapons. It was crazy; we had to find more ways to kill them.
I kept my head down and hurried through the streets, mixing in with other tourists, keeping tight beneath the eaves whenever possible, wondering what Barrons had his hands full of tonight.
The night was buzzing with Fae and I felt like a tuning fork, vibrating from their sheer numbers and nearness. I had an overwhelming desire to start screaming at everyone to run, to leave, to do…something…I couldn’t remember…something that lurked somewhere in my genetic memory…a thing we’d learned to do…long ago…a ritual, dark thing…we’d paid a terrible price…it had been our greatest shame…we’d made ourselves forget.
Footsteps sounded behind me in the darkness as I turned down Dreary Lane and onto Butterfield, solid, intentioned footsteps like rank and file soldiers. I didn’t dare look back. If I did and whatever was back there startled me, I was just buzzed enough that my face would betray me, and whatever it was couldn’t possibly know I was a sidhe-seer, unless I gave myself away, so all I had to do was keep walking, as if nothing was wrong.
Right?
“Human,” growled something behind me, “run. Run like the mangy cur you are. Run now. We like to chase.”
The voice was straight out of a nightmare. And surely it was not talking to me.
“You. Sidhe-seer. Run.”
It had called me sidhe-seer.
It knew I was one by sight.
The only Unseelie who knew my face were the Lord Master’s minions, which meant he was back from wherever he’d been—and looking for me.
I’d believed any Hunters in the city tonight were there by coincidence, not design. I’d been wrong. They were there to capture me. I could fight, I had the spear tucked securely in my holster, but with the numbers of dark Fae I’d been seeing and no backup, I needed no encouragement to be a coward. I glanced over my shoulder. The street was packed with Rhino-boys, two abreast, stretching back farther than I could see.
There are times when brave is just stupid: I ran.
Down one street. Up the next. Through an alley. Across a park. I vaulted benches and splashed through fountains. I ran until my lungs burned and my legs were weak. I got turned around by the old brewery and tacked on an extra six blocks to my journey.
I ran.
I ran as if my feet had Dani’s wings, and finally, blessedly the footsteps behind me faded and there was silence but for the pounding of my shoes on cement.
I spared a glance over my shoulder.
I’d lost them. I’d really, truly done it. Rhino-boys might be strong, but with their stumpy arms and legs, they were neither swift nor lithe of limb.
I turned a corner and drew up just short of plowing into a brick wall. Dead-end alleys spring up as unexpectedly as one-way streets in this city. I had to get out, before the soldiers tracked me down again. There was no way I could scale the wall. It was twelve feet of sheer brick and there were no convenient Dumpsters piled in front of it.
I was three blocks from Barrons Books and Baubles. It was just over this wall and down two streets. Close, so close.
I turned.
And froze.
It was as if a giant freezer had opened in the sky above me. The temperature plunged bitterly. Tiny, glistening bits of ice began to pellet my skin.
It was there. I knew what it was. Every cell of my being knew what it was. And not because I’d read about them, or Barrons had told me about them, or I’d seen sketches of them.
The beast above me hovered darkly. I could feel the great whuf-whuf of giant wings beating air. The scent of brimstone and ancient dusty things filled my nostrils. If Hell had dragons and they smelled, thi
s was their scent.
Sidhe-seer, it said, without speaking at all. The voice was inside my head, in that hot, alien place. Slave. We own you.
“Get out,” I snarled, and lashed out at it with all the hot, alien fire in my head.
It was gone from my mind, but not from above me. I could feel the air moving. I could smell its acrid stench.
I gauged the distance to the end of the alley, mentally calculated my run from there. How fast was it? For that matter, how big was it? The descriptions I’d read had varied widely. Could it fit between buildings? Could it swoop down and pluck me from the sidewalk in its talons? Might it rip the bookstore apart, rafter from eave, looking for me? Summon all its dark brethren to demolish the building? Would anyone even notice, or did Hunters have the same “cloaking” effect as Shades and Dark Zones? Did I dare lead it to Barrons? Did I dare not? If I got inside somewhere, anywhere, would it leave me alone or assume an eternal dark perch on my eave like Poe’s raven, only far more macabre and deadly? Could it shift? Simply materialize wherever I was?
“Fuck,” I said emphatically. Sometimes there’s just no other word for it.
I had to know what I was trying to outrun. Knowledge is power. That is one truth I’ve learned that has never failed me.
Brushing ice flakes from my face, I looked up.
Straight into eyes that glowed like twin furnaces from Hell, staring malevolently back at me from a swirling fall of black ice.
The books I’d read had compared the Royal Hunters to the classic human depiction of the Devil.
The books had been right.
Somewhere in our ancient human past a sidhe-seer, or a few, must have had something to do with recording religious myths and the Bible. They’d seen the Hunters, and had used their memories to scare the hell—literally—out of humanity.
For a moment it was hard to separate the thing from the night; they were both forged of blackness. Then my vision cleared and something in my genes kicked in, and it was clearly visible. Great, dark, leathery wings flapped from a great dark leathery body, with a massive satyrlike head, cloven hooves, and a forked tail. Its tongue was long and bisected down the middle. It had long curved black horns with bloody tips. It was black, but it was more than black; it was the absolute, utter, and complete absence of light. It absorbed the light around it, swallowed it up, took it into its body, devoured it, and spit it back out again as a miasma of darkness and desolation. And it was cold. The air paddled by its slow-moving wings churned with glittering black ice flakes, swirling beneath the great, leathery sails. It was the only Fae—besides V’lane, that first time we’d met—whose presence in our world altered our world around it. V’lane, too, had iced the air, though not so overtly or dramatically. It was powerful. It was making me feel so sick to my stomach that I almost couldn’t breathe.
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