Bloodfever

I hoped he’d continue his search tomorrow, in the daylight, and not stop in here on his way by. But if, despite my efforts, he went back into the abandoned neighborhood tonight, well, I’d done the best I could, and frankly I wasn’t sure how important it was another O’Bannion remained among the living. Dad says Hell has a special place for men who abuse women. There are Unseelie monsters and there are human ones.

“Was he a good kisser, Ms. Lane?” Barrons asked, watching me carefully.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand at the memory. “It was like being owned.”

“Some women like that.”

“Not me.”

“Perhaps it depends on the man doing the owning.”

“I doubt it. I couldn’t breathe with him kissing me.”

“One day you may kiss a man you can’t breathe without, and find breath is of little consequence.”

“Right, and one day my prince might come.”

“I doubt he’ll be a prince, Ms. Lane. Men rarely are.”

“I’ll get your envelope, Barrons. What then?” What crazy zig was my life going to zag down next?

“I took the liberty of placing garments in your room. Tomorrow evening we leave for Wales.”

Turned out Elle Masters wasn’t there the next day, nor, much to my relief, was the dreamy-eyed guy.

Instead, I met a fourth-year student who worked for Elle, and was holding the envelope for me. He was tall with dark hair, a great Scottish accent, a ton of curiosity about Barrons, who he’d heard about from his employer I guess, and pretty dreamy eyes himself, an unusual shade of amber, like tiger eyes, framed by thick, black lashes.

“Scotty” (we never got around to introducing ourselves, I was in too much of a hurry to get out of there and on with my day) told me Elle’s six-year-old daughter was sick and she was keeping her out of school, so he’d swung by to pick up the envelope on his way into work.

I took it and hurried out the door. Scotty followed me halfway down the hall, making small talk with a charming Scots burr, and I got the distinct impression that he was working up to asking me out. Two gorgeous guys in the same department, two normal guys! I would only be torturing myself if I spared a second thought for either of them. The Ancient Languages Department at Trinity was off limits for me in the future. Barrons could run his own errands, or hire a courier service to do it for him.

On my way back to the bookstore, I pretended not to see nearly a dozen Unseelie Rhino-boys, escorting their new protégés down the streets, shaping them up for human society. They pointed and spoke, their charges nodded, and it was obvious they were being indoctrinated into their new world—my world. I wanted to stab every one of them with my spear as I walked by, but I refrained. I’m not in this for the little battles. I’m here for the war.

All of them were casting Fae glamours to make themselves appear human to varying degrees of attractiveness, but either they were rudimentary efforts, or I’ve gotten better at penetrating the Fae façade because aside from a momentary blurriness, a brief vacillation of color and contour, I saw them in their true forms. None were as revolting as the hideous Gray Man who’d preyed on women, stealing their beauty through the open sores in his flesh and hands, although all made me feel queasy, but that’s just the effect of any Fae on my sidhe-seer senses; it’s my early-warning system. I picked up a group of ten of them on my “radar” a full two blocks before encountering their little monster-posse. I counted three new types of Unseelie I would make notes on later in my journal, perhaps on the plane to Wales tonight.

When I got back to the bookstore, I steamed open the envelope. The adhesive edge curled quickly and the glue seemed sparse, making me wonder if I’d not been the first to do it.

It held an invitation, an exclusive one, extended by a host who denoted himself or herself with only a symbol, no address. On the back was jotted a partial list, intended to tantalize. It included an object long held to be mythical, two religious icons the Vatican was rumored to be looking for, and a painting by one of the Masters believed lost in a fire centuries ago.

Barrons and I were going to an auction tonight, a very private one, the kind of black market sale Interpol and FBI agents nurture sweet, career-making dreams of one day busting.

EIGHT

W ales is one of four constituent or home nations of the United Kingdom.

England, Scotland, and Northern Ireland are the other three.

Ireland—not to be confused with Northern Ireland—is a sovereign state, and a member of the European Union.