Bloodfever

I wasn’t about to admit to a man who already knew how O’Duffy had died that I knew he was keeping some kind of monster under his garage. I shrugged. “I don’t know. What?”

“It’s broken. Did you hear anything last night?”

“Had my hands a little full, Barrons.”

“Of Shades, not V’lane, one hopes.”

“Ha.”

“You weren’t in my garage, were you?”

“No.”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

“Of course not.” No more than you would lie to me, I didn’t add, honesty among thieves and all.

“Well, then, good night, Ms. Lane.” He inclined his head and whisked silently through the connecting doors, into the rear of the building.

I sighed and began collecting the various books and baubles I’d knocked from the display table. I couldn’t wrap my brain around the thought that Fiona had sneaked in last night and turned off all the lights. Chase me away, my petunia. That woman had wanted me dead. I couldn’t imagine anyone knowing Barrons well enough to develop such strong feelings for him. Still, I knew there was something between the two of them, if only the intimacy and deep possession of long association.

From the rear of the building came a howl of outrage. A moment later Barrons exploded through the connecting doors, dragging a Persian rug behind him.

“What is this?” he demanded.

“A rug?” I batted my lashes, thinking what a stupid question.

“I know it’s a rug. What are these?” He thrust it beneath my nose, stabbing a finger at the dozen or so burn marks.

I peered at them. “Burns?”

“Burns from dropped matches, Ms. Lane? Matches one might have dropped while flirting with a pernicious Fae, Ms. Lane? Have you any idea the value of this rug?”

I didn’t think his nostrils could flare any wider. His eyes were black flame. “Pernicious? Good grief, is English your second language? Third?” Only someone who’d learned English from a dictionary would use such a word.

“Fifth,” he snarled. “Answer me.”

“Not more than my life, Barrons. Nothing is worth more than my life.”

He glared at me. I notched my chin higher and glared back.

Barrons and I have a unique way of communicating. We have these little nonverbal conversations, where we say all those things we don’t say with our mouths with our eyes instead, and we understand each other perfectly.

I didn’t say, You are such a stuffy asshole.

And he didn’t say, If you ever burn one of my quarter-of-a-million dollar rugs again I’ll take it out of your hide, and I didn’t say, Oh, honey, wouldn’t you like to? And he didn’t say Grow up, Ms. Lane, I don’t take little girls to my bed, and I didn’t say I wouldn’t go there if it was the only safe place from the Lord Master in all of Dublin.

“You might reconsider that one day.” His voice was low, fierce, on the verge of guttural.

I gasped. “What?” Intrinsic to our wordless free-for-alls was a tacit agreement never to elevate those conversations to a verbal level. It was the only reason either of us was willing to participate.

He gave me a cool smile. “That nothing is worth more than your life, Ms. Lane. Some things are. Don’t put too high a premium on it. You may live to regret it.”

He turned and walked away, dragging the rug behind him.

I went to bed.

The next morning I woke up, dismantled my haphazard monster alarm, opened the door, and found a small TV with a builtin VCR/DVD player sitting in the hallway.

Manna from heaven! I’d been thinking, since Fiona was gone, about swiping the one she kept behind the counter. Now I wouldn’t have to.

There was a tape next to it.

I toted the TV into my room, plugged it into the wall, slipped in the tape, and turned it on. The program was already cued.

I winced and turned it back off. I kicked a chair.

Every time I think I’m getting smarter I realize that I’ve just done something stupid. Dad says there are three kinds of people in the world: those who don’t know, and don’t know they don’t know; those who don’t know and do know they don’t know; and those who know and know how much they still don’t know.

Heavy stuff, I know. I think I’ve finally graduated from the don’t-knows that don’t know to the don’t-knows that do.

Barrons had security cameras in the garage. He’d just given me a tape of myself breaking into it.

FIVE

I flipped the sign, boldly lettered in hot pink Sharpie—Barrons Books and Baubles Summer Hours: 11 A.M. to 7 P.M., M.-F., it said—and locked the front door, feeling good about myself.