I’m massively suspicious of that word. It means to accept without question. I did that once. “I’m sorry, Rowena.” My voice catches on the words. I hang my head. I want my sword back.
“I can see you have feelings for that, that—”
“Mac,” I supply, before she calls her something that really pisses me off.
“But I swear I will never ken the why of it.” She pauses heavily, and I know it’s my cue to begin justifying my existence.
I tell her everything she wants to hear. I’m lonely, I say. Mac was nice to me. I’m sorry I was so stupid. I’m really trying to learn to be the person you want me to be, I tell her. I’ll do better next time.
Ro dismisses me but keeps my sword. I deal. For now. I know where it is, and if she doesn’t give it back soon, I’ll find an excuse for something that needs killing.
In the meantime, I got a lot to do. Because I’m superfast, they have me whizzing all over the county, collecting lamps, bulbs, batteries, a whole list of supplies. The crazy stuff we saw in Dublin hasn’t started happening out here yet. We still got power. Even if we didn’t, we got backup generators out the wazoo. Our abbey’s totally self-sufficient. Own electric, food, water. We got it all.
So far, I haven’t spotted a single Unseelie. Guess they prefer the city. More to feed on. Kat thinks they won’t go rural ‘til they’ve gorged on urban, so we should be safe for a while, ‘cept for those fecking Shades. ‘Tween times, I check on Mac. Keep trying to get her to eat. Ro has the key to her cell. Don’t know why she needs locking in, since she has all those wards around her and can’t seem to walk. If I don’t get food in her soon, I’ll be requisitioning that key. I can coax her to crawl over to the bars, but I can’t force her to eat through them.
Thing I really want to know is: Where the feck is V’lane? Why hasn’t he come for Mac? Why didn’t he stop the Unseelie Princes from raping her? I call for him as I dart around the countryside, but if he hears me yelling, he doesn’t answer to me. Guess not to Mac anymore, either.
And Barrons—what’s his deal? Doesn’t he want her alive? Why have they all abandoned her when she needs ‘em the most?
Men.
Dude, they suck.
I dump supplies in the dining hall. Superglue, lights, batteries, brackets. Nobody looks up. Sidhe-seers at every table, making more of the cool helmet Mac was wearing the night we fought together. After I snatched her from the princes, Kat and the others went in, kicked ass, snagged Mac’s spear and backpack, and found the pink helmet inside.
Now they got an assembly line going that I keep supplied, ‘cept it’s getting hard to find Click-It lights. I might have to go into Dublin, even though Ro says not to raid stores there.
Since so many of us work as bike couriers for Post Haste, Inc.—that’s the front for the international sidhe-seer coalition, with offices around the world—most of us already have our own helmets. Just need ‘em modified. With Shades in the abbey, everybody’s arguing to be first in line for the next one done. I told ‘em Mac called it a MacHalo, but Ro forbade anyone to call it that, like it pissed her off Mac thought of it or something.
I whiz into the kitchen, yank open the fridge so hard it tips over catty-corner and I have to right it, then stand there cramming my mouth full of food. Don’t know what I’m eating, don’t care. I’m shaking. I have to eat constantly. Superspeed drains me. I go for high fat, high sugar. Butter, cream, raw eggs go down fast. OJ. Ice cream. Cake. I keep my pockets stuffed with candy bars and don’t go anywhere without my fanny pack. I gulp two sodas and finally stop shaking.
I picked up a couple protein drinks for Mac at the store. I worry she might choke on solid food if she resists. She’s gonna eat this time, period.
Cassie says Ro’s making rounds. It’s time for that key.
I don’t cry. I don’t remember if I ever cried. Didn’t when Mom was killed. But if I was gonna cry, I’d do it when I look at Mac. See, her and me? We’d die for each other. Seeing her like this slays me. I drag my feet on the way to her cell, which, for me, means walking like a Joe. I munch a couple more candy bars.
She won’t keep her clothes on. Tears ‘em off like they burn her skin. Dude, I want to look like her when I grow up. When I brought her here, Ro took her and locked her downstairs in one of the old cells they used back when. Stone walls. Stone floor. Pallet. Bucket for waste. She’s not making any, ‘cause she’s not eating or drinking, but still—it’s the principle! She’s not an animal, even if she’s acting like one. She can’t help it! Prison bars for a door.