Hellhound

As I toweled myself dry, I recalled that other voice, the one that had cut through my denial. There is another way.

Who had spoken? It wasn’t Pryce, and it wasn’t the Destroyer. The voice had seemed to come from inside my own mind, squeezing its words between the no’s I was mentally chanting. Yet Difethwr had heard it, too. The Hellion had seemed afraid, or at least disturbed. No, afraid. Fear had crept into its expression before it tossed me aside like an unwanted plaything.

Probably the voice had bubbled up from my own subconscious. Things like that always happen in dreams. Yet even though it spoke inside my mind, the voice wasn’t my own.

Another way. Who’d said those words, and what could they mean?

25

I DRESSED IN JEANS AND A T-SHIRT, AND FINGER-COMBED MY hair into some approximation of a style. Feeling less icky, I entered the living room to find Tina playing with one of my swords. She’d pushed aside the coffee table and stood in the middle of the room, practicing lunges with all the grace and balance of a one-eyed alley cat with four broken legs.

“Tina!” I snapped. “Put that away before you hurt yourself.”

She staggered sideways in mid-lunge and swung around to face me, knocking over a lamp in the process.

“Oops.”

“What do you think you’re doing? I told you never to touch my weapons.”

Tina licked her lips nervously. “Your aunt said it would be okay.” She bent over to pick up the lamp, nicking an end table with the sword point.

“Do you seriously expect me to believe that?”

“But I did, child.” Mab sat in a side chair. I’d been so focused on Tina I hadn’t seen her there.

Wait. Had aliens stolen my aunt and replaced her with a copy? The Mab who’d trained me, tougher than any drill sergeant, would never let someone with Tina’s inexperience touch a sword, let alone fool around with it. I’d studied books for five long years before she’d let me practice with a wooden sword. And yet here she was, calmly watching as Tina played a bull while my living room played the china shop. A bull with a long, sharp sword.

None of these thoughts found their way out of my mouth, which simply gaped in astonishment.

“Isn’t it awesome?” Tina gushed. She’d figured out that it was a good idea to set the sword aside while she righted the lamp and also a picture frame she’d knocked over. “Mab’s teaching me to become a swordsman . . . er, swordsgirl? Whatever. I’m learning how to fight.” She snatched up the heavy long sword and swished it around like a rapier. I grabbed it from her before she carved a figure eight in the sofa cushions.

Wordlessly, I turned to Mab.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. I doubted it. First proclaiming me Lady of the Cerddorion, and then encouraging Tina to play with swords? I couldn’t begin to get my mind around those concepts. “But these are remarkable times,” Mab went on. “We need to recruit all the support we can, and this young lady is willing.”

“Right.” Tina reached for the sword, and I stepped back to keep it out of her reach. “I’ve been willing for, like, ever.”

My voice returned as I faced Mab. “She became my apprentice less than a year ago, then quit after a couple of months. She’s never been serious.”

“I have so!” Tina’s tone was indignant. “I read that whole book! You know I did, ’cause you helped me go over some of it.” She was referring to Russom’s Demoniacal Taxonomy, a basic demonology textbook. But you don’t jump from one read-through of Russom’s to swordplay; you just don’t. Mab certainly never let me do that.

Keeping my body between Tina and the sword, I spoke to Mab. “You honestly believe she’s ready to start working with weapons?”

“Honestly? No. But unfortunately we are not talking about a proper apprenticeship. We are preparing for war.”

War. The word tolled an ugly note, like a cracked bell. It subdued even Tina, who quit trying to reach around me and stood quietly with her head down. Some wisps of blonde hair, escaped from her ponytail, hung in front of her face. She looked young and vulnerable, and suddenly the last thing in the world that I wanted was to drag her into this.

“It’s not her war.”

Mab’s eyes swam with sadness. “If we can’t stop it, child, this war will destroy everyone in its path.”

26

WE COMPROMISED. TINA COULD CONTINUE TO PRACTICE, but only if she used a short sword of my choosing, one less likely to slice up the living room. I could hear Mab coaching her—“Widen your stance. There, that’s better! Now, again”—as I went into the kitchen to brew coffee. The Book of Utter Darkness lay open on the table, where Mab must have left it. That was odd. Mab was the very definition of neat and tidy, not someone to leave things lying around. Maybe she wanted to show me something in the book. In my shock over seeing Tina waving around a long sword, I’d forgotten to ask Mab if the book had revealed anything while I slept.

I half turned toward the book, letting my gaze skitter across the open pages. Words formed in my mind: There is another way. The book slammed itself shut.

I jumped back. That was a new trick.

I pulled on Juliet’s pink rubber gloves and tried to reopen the book. It wouldn’t budge. I yanked the gloves off, tossed them aside, and tried again. No visions leapt at me when I touched the cover. But I still couldn’t open the damn thing. It was like a solid block of wood.

There is another way. The words shimmered in my mind, then faded. The book remained stubbornly closed.

Coffee. That’s what I needed. Sometimes, the best way to deal with a crazy world is to brew a good, strong pot.

I scooped some beans into the grinder and pressed the button. The machine’s jarring whirr was the perfect soundtrack for my mood. As much as I tried to keep it out of my mind, I kept seeing Pryce’s face, his heavy-lidded eyes fringed by black lashes, in the moment before I pushed him away. When I forced that image from my mind, it was replaced by Tina lunging and waving around my sword. I’d rather picture the grinder blades pulverizing coffee beans into dust.

Still, I needed my coffee. I turned off the grinder, but its harsh sound continued. What the—? I pushed the button several times, then yanked out the plug. The blades weren’t turning, but the grating sound didn’t stop.

Then I spotted the black butterfly perched on my coffeemaker. The grinding noise turned into speech. “Whoa, that was some dream,” Butterfly said. “You’ve got enough weird stuff going on in that head of yours for an army of psychoanalysts to write a whole library of books.”

“Did you find out where Pryce goes in the Ordinary?”

“I’ve been occupied with much more . . . interesting things.” I swatted the demon off the coffeemaker and measured the water and grounds. Maybe if I ignored the thing, it’d go away.

Didn’t happen.

“I wonder what the ol’ werewolf boyfriend would think? Have you considered that?”

Exactly what I’d been trying my damnedest not to think about. I started the coffeemaker and searched the cupboard for my favorite mug.

“I’ll tell you what he’d think of it,” Butterfly continued. The demon didn’t seem to realize I was ignoring it. “First of all, his poor, delicate werewolf-y feelings would be all hurt. I mean, another male trespassing on his territory, playing kissy-kissy with his female. And she liked it.”

“I did not!” So much for ignoring the demon. There were no words for the repugnance I felt at its suggestion.

“Did so. You liked it a lot until you realized who it was.”

“Exactly. I like kissing Kane. I don’t like . . .” My words trailed off as I shuddered.

“Uh-huh. Well, here’s the million-dollar question, sweetheart. When did your smooching partner switch from the wolf to the demi-demon? ’Cause I think I detected a few seconds there when you enjoyed playing kissy-face with you-know-who.”

“You’re wrong!” I slammed down the mug with such force I cracked it. Butterfly’s suggestion spread nausea through my entire body. I desperately needed to gain control of this conversation—now.

“You know, my apprentice is practicing fencing moves on the other side of that door. Maybe I should invite her in here for a little target practice.”

“You mean that teenage zombie?” Butterfly’s laugh was a cross between a bray and a snort. “Go ahead. Want me to call her for you? She’d never get within an inch of me. But she’d destroy your entire kitchen trying, and your mortification when she found out you’ve got your very own Eidolon would be . . .” Butterfly sighed happily. “Delicious.”

Okay, so maybe siccing Tina on Butterfly wasn’t the answer. But I had other weapons. Positive thoughts and happy images usually force an Eidolon to back off. So I reached for a thought that felt good. It was spring. Everyone loves springtime in New England, right? I pictured the warm May sun in a clear blue sky, birds chirping, lilacs blossoming—the image didn’t hold. The pleasant landscape coalesced into Pryce’s damn face, his lips glistening from our kiss.

“Yum,” Butterfly said. The only other sounds were the heavy, wet noises of a demon chewing and swallowing.

All right, if I couldn’t banish Pryce’s face, I’d use it. I merged the picture of that face with the Eidolon’s munching sounds. Pryce’s eyes remained half open, suffused with the pleasure not of kissing, but of eating. As he tipped his head back, he raised his hand. In his fingers was a fat, squirming maggot. One with the face of a demon. Just to be sure the image was clear, I mentally tattooed the word Butterfly along the demon’s side. Pryce opened his mouth wide and bit the demon in half. His eyes closed with pleasure as he chewed.

Butterfly screamed. “Stop! That’s terrible! Knock it off!”

“No fun being somebody else’s snack, is it?”

“That’s different.”

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