Bloodfever

I smiled faintly. Barrons knew I’d figured out from Mallucé’s little slip that he’d had some other way to find me. Good. He didn’t underestimate me. He shouldn’t.

I’d had nearly sixty customers by four o’clock.

I was about to flip the sign for a bathroom break when I sensed someone, or something, outside my front door.

Fae—but not Fae!

I stiffened.

The cherry-framed, diamond-paned door moved, the bell above it tinkled.

Derek O’Bannion stepped in, dripping aggression and arrogance. I wondered how I’d ever found him attractive. He wasn’t darkly handsome; he was swarthy. His movements weren’t macho; they were saurian. He gave me that sharp-bladed smile and I saw my death waiting on those ivory knives.

I knew what he was feeling. I’d been there recently myself. He was pumped up on Unseelie.

I was getting better at putting things together; my deductive reasoning skills had improved a hundredfold since I’d stepped off that plane from the States.

Facts: Derek O’Bannion is not a sidhe-seer. He can’t see the Unseelie. If you can’t see the Unseelie, you can’t eat the Unseelie. Which means that if a human who is not a sidhe-seer shows up, pumped up on Unseelie, someone who can see the Unseelie must have fed it to that person, deliberately opening their eyes to a whole new dark realm, like the Lord Master did with Mallucé. A normal human can’t choose to be turned into a hybrid; he or she must be made into it, initiated into the dark rite by someone in the see and know.

“Get out of my store,” I said coldly.

“Got a lot o’ balls for a walking dead woman.”

“Who fed it to you? Red robe? Pretty boy? Did he tell you about Mallucé?”

“Mallucé was a fool. I’m not.”

“Did he tell you Mallucé rotted from the inside out?”

“He told me you killed my brother and that you have something that belongs to me. He sent me for it.”

“He sent you to die, then. The thing he sent you for is the one thing capable of killing Unseelie—which parts of you are now—which is how and why Mallucé rotted from the inside out. I stabbed him with it.” I smiled. “Did your new friend tell you that? You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.” Had I just sounded exactly like Barrons? Had I just said something to the mobster’s brother Barrons had said to me when I’d first begun pushing my way into the realm of the Fae? Please tell me my mentor wasn’t rubbing off on me. Please tell me we don’t grow up and turn into the adults that drive us crazy.

I slipped the spear from my shoulder holster and slammed it, point first, into the counter. It quivered in the wood, shimmering with alabaster light, nearly white. “Go ahead, O’Bannion, come and get it. I’m fed up with jack-petunias like you and would like nothing more than to watch you rot, slowly and painfully. I know you’re all juiced up on your new powers right now, but you should know that I’m way more than just a pretty face. I’m a sidhe-seer and I have a few kick-ass powers of my own. There’s no way you can stop me from stabbing you with this if you get within a dozen feet of me. So, if you don’t mind rotting from the inside out—did I mention that his dick went before his mind did?—step one inch further inside my store.”

Indecision flickered in those cold reptilian eyes.

“Your brother didn’t see me as a threat. Your brother’s dead. So are fifteen of his henchmen. Think about that. Think hard.”

He stared at the spear, glowing with its soft, unnatural luminescence. Rocky hadn’t known anything about the dark forces around him. Derek had been recently awakened to it, and wouldn’t make the same mistakes. I could see it in his face. This O’Bannion wouldn’t rush blindly to his death. He would retreat now. His withdrawal would only be temporary. He would regroup and return, even more dangerous than before.

“This isn’t over,” he said. “It won’t be over until you’re dead.”

“Until one of us is,” I agreed. “Get out.” I pulled the spear from the counter, fisted my hand around the hilt.

I should have let him walk into the Dark Zone that day. Instead, out of guilt for past sins, I’d saved his life. What an idiot I’d been.

I stared at the door after he was gone. My heart rate hadn’t even accelerated. I flipped the sign, went to the bathroom, then reopened for business.

Barrons didn’t show up Monday night or Tuesday. Wednesday came and went with no sign of him. By Thursday evening it had been five days since I’d seen him, longer than he’d ever stayed away before.

I was growing impatient. I had questions. I had accusations. I had memories of a fight that had ended in disturbing lust. I’d been sitting in the rear conversation area of the bookstore, every evening for hours, before a softly hissing gas fire, pretending to read, waiting for him.

The bookstore was huge and silent and I felt alone and a million miles from home.

After five days, I broke down and dialed JB on the cell phone he’d given me. There was no answer.

I stared at the display, thumbed through my short contact list: JB; IYCGM; IYD.

I didn’t quite have the balls to try the last one.

I punched up IYCGM instead.

“Ryodan,” a voice barked.

I hung up instantly, feeling embarrassed and guilty.

The phone blared with the thunder of a hundred celestial trumpets in my hands, and although part of me had fully expected it, it still scared me out of my skin.

The display blinked: IYCGM.

I sighed and pressed send.

“Mac? Are you all right? Talk to me,” a deep voice growled.

Ryodan: the mysterious man who talked about Barrons to people he shouldn’t talk to, the man Barrons had been fighting the day I’d gone to Alina’s apartment.

I hesitated.

“Mac!” the voice roared.

“I’m here. I’m fine. I’m sorry,” I said.

“Why did you call?”

“I wondered where Barrons was.”

There was a soft laugh, a deep, rumbling purr. “Is that what he’s calling himself these days? Barrons?”

“Isn’t that his name? Jericho Barrons?”

More laughter. “Is he using a middle name?”

“The initial Z.” I’d seen it on his license.