Bloodfever

“Is it because I killed Rocky O’Bannion and his men? Is that why I keep seeing you? Because I collected their clothes and threw them in the trash instead of sending them to the police, or back to their wives?” I’d had my share of psych courses in college. I knew a perfectly healthy human mind could play tricks on itself, and mine wasn’t healthy. It was burdened by vengeful thoughts, regrets, and rapidly multiplying sins. “I know it’s not because I killed all those Unseelie in the warehouse or stabbed Mallucé. I feel good about those things.” I studied it a moment. How honest did I have to be with myself to get rid of it? “Is it because I left Mom back home in Ashford, grieving, and I’m afraid she’ll never get better without me?”

Or had this thing’s dark conception taken place long before that? Had the seeds of it been planted on a warm sunny day by the side of a swimming pool, while I was stretched out, tanning my pampered hide and listening to happy, mindless music while four thousand miles away my sister was stretched out, bleeding to death in a dirty Dublin alley?

Was it because I’d talked to Alina every week for hours, over the course of months, and never once clued in to anything in her voice, never pulled my head out of my happy little world far enough to sense that something was wrong in hers? Because I’d dropped my stupid cell phone in the pool, been too lazy to get a new one, and missed her dying call, and my last chance for the rest of my life to hear her voice? “Is it because I failed her? Is that it? Am I seeing you because I’m ashamed that I’m the one that lived?”

Darkness yawed beneath the specter’s cowl, a nameless, blameless, silken darkness that promised oblivion. Was I subconsciously seeking it? Had my life become so foreign and awful that I wanted out and—contrary to torturing myself with fear of death, a death I thought I deserved—was I actually comforting myself with the promise of it?

Nah, that was way too complicated for me. There wasn’t a suicidal bone in my body. I believed in silver linings and rainbows, and all the monsters and guilt in the world weren’t going to change that.

What, then? I couldn’t think of anything else I felt bad about, and frankly, I wasn’t in the mood to keep hunting; psychoanalyzing myself ranked right up there with getting an unnecessary root canal.

I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, my feet hurt from walking all day, and I was tired. I wanted comfort food, a warm fire, and a good book to read.

Wasn’t I supposed to be able to banish my own demons? I felt like the biggest idiot, but gave it a try. “Begone, dastardly fiend!” I flung one of my flashlights at it.

It sailed straight through it and bounced off the brick wall behind it. By the time it clattered to the cobbled street, my Grim Reaper was gone.

I just wished I believed it would stay gone.

TEN

W hy hasn’t the Lord Master come after me yet? It’s been two weeks.” When Barrons stepped into the bookstore Monday evening, an hour earlier than was his usual custom, I voiced the worry that had been on my mind all day.

It was raining again. Unlike the streets, the customers had dried up. Despite the lack of patrons, I felt guilty about having closed early more often than not since I’d started my new job, and was determined not to lock the doors this evening until seven o’clock on the dot. I’d been staying busy restocking shelves and dusting displays.

“I suspect, Ms. Lane,” he said, closing the door behind him, “our reprieve is a matter of convenience. Note the ‘our’ in that sentence, in case you were foolhardily considering striking out on your own again.”

He was never going to let me forget that I would have died that day I’d gone off into the Dark Zone by myself, if he hadn’t come after me. I didn’t care. He could dig at me all he wanted to. His heavy-handedness was beginning to roll off me. “Convenience?” It was certainly convenient for me, but I didn’t think that was what Barrons meant.

“His. He’s probably occupied with something else at the moment. If, when he disappeared through his portal, he went to Faery, time moves differently there.”

“That’s what V’lane said.” I emptied the cash drawer, counted the bills into stacks, then began punching in numbers on an adding machine. The store wasn’t computerized, which made bookkeeping a real pain in the neck.

He gave me a look. “The two of you are getting downright chatty, aren’t you, Ms. Lane? When did you last see him? What else did he tell you?”

“I’m asking the questions tonight.” One day I was going to write a book: How to Dictate to a Dictator and Evade an Evader, subtitled How to Handle Jericho Barrons.

He snorted. “If an illusion of control comforts you, Ms. Lane, by all means, cling to it.”

“Jackass.” I gave him a look modeled on his own.

He laughed, and I stared, then blinked and looked away. I finished rubber-banding the cash, put it in a leather pouch, and punched the final numbers in, running the day’s total. For a moment there he hadn’t looked dark, forbidding, and cold, but dark, forbidding, and…warm. In fact, when he’d laughed he’d looked…well…kind of hot.

I grimaced. Obviously I’d eaten something bad for lunch. I inked the day’s earnings into the ledger, tucked the pouch into a safe behind me, then skirted the counter, and flipped the sign on the door. I waved to Inspector Jayne as I locked the door. I saw no point in pretending he wasn’t there. I hoped he was wet, cold, and bored to tears. I certainly hadn’t needed the reminder of O’Duffy’s death staring me in the face all day.

“What about Mallucé?” I asked. “Is he definitely dead?” I’d been so busy worrying about the enemies I was seeing on a regular basis that I hadn’t gotten around to worrying about the ones I hadn’t seen in a while.

Mallucé—born John Johnstone, Jr., to a wealthy British financier—had conveniently lost both his parents in a hit-and-run car accident that had never been resolved to the insurance company’s satisfaction, and gained a nearly billion-dollar fortune at the same time, all at the tender age of twenty-four. He’d promptly divested himself of his redundant name, assumed the singular Mallucé, and reentered society as one of the recently undead. That had been eight or nine years ago. Since then, he’d acquired a worldwide cult following of true believers who traveled in droves to the south-side Goth mansion where the citron-eyed, steampunk vamp held court.