Barrons had provoked Mallucé by calling him Junior. That was my name, bestowed upon me by Alina. I wouldn’t pervert it by using it on him. “You’re the one that deserves to die. Some people are just born wrong, Johnny.”
“Never call me that! You will NEVER call me that!” he screamed.
I’d nailed it, a name the vampire hated even worse than Junior. Was it his mother’s special name for him? Had it been his father’s belittlement? “I’m not the one that made you a monster. You came that way, Johnny.” I was nearly out of my mind with pain. I couldn’t feel one of my arms. My face and neck were dripping blood. “Johnny, Johnny, Johnny,” I chanted. “Johnny, little Johnny. You’ll never be anything but a—”
The next blow turned my cheekbone into a blossom of fire. I dropped to my knees. The amulet slipped from my hand.
“Johnny, Johnny,” I said, at least I think I did. Kill me, I prayed. Kill me now.
His next blow smashed me into the rear wall of the grotto. Bones snapped in my legs. I sank mercifully into oblivion.
Chapter 17
I don’t know where dreams come from. Sometimes I wonder if they’re genetic memories, or messages from something divine. Warnings perhaps. Maybe we do come with an instruction booklet but we’re too dense to read it, because we’ve dismissed it as the irrational waste product of the “rational” mind. Sometimes I think all the answers we need are buried in our slumbering subconscious, in the dreaming. The booklet’s right there, and every night when we lay our heads down on the pillow it flips open. The wise read it, heed it. The rest of us try as hard as we can upon awakening to forget any disturbing revelations we might have found there.
I used to have a recurring nightmare when I was a child. A dream of four distinct, subtly varied tastes. Two of them weren’t entirely unpalatable. Two of them were so vile I would wake up choking on my own tongue.
I tasted one of the vile ones now.
It saturated my cheeks and tongue, made my lips draw back from my teeth, and I finally understood why I’d never been able to put a name to it. It wasn’t the taste of a food or drink. It was the taste of an emotion: regret. Profound, exquisite sorrow that bubbles from the wellspring of the soul over the mistakes we’ve made, over the actions we should or shouldn’t have taken, long after it’s too late and nothing can be done or undone.
I was alive.
But that wasn’t my regret.
Barrons was bending over me.
That wasn’t my regret, either.
It was the look on his face that told me more frankly than a doctor’s prognosis that I wasn’t going to make it. I was alive, but not for long. My rescuer was here, my knight-errant had arrived to save the day, but I’d blown it.
It was too late for me.
I could have survived—if only I’d not given up hope.
I wept. I think. I couldn’t feel my face much.
What was it he’d said to me, that night we’d robbed Rocky O’Bannion? I’d listened. I’d even thought it had sounded terribly wise. I just hadn’t understood it. A sidhe-seer without hope, without an unshakable determination to survive, is a dead sidhe-seer. A sidhe-seer who believes herself outgunned, outmanned, may as well point that doubt straight at her temple, pull the trigger, and blow her own brains out with it. There are really only two positions one can take toward anything in life: hope or fear. Hope strengthens, fear kills.
I got it now.
“Are you…r-real?” My mouth had been badly lacerated by my teeth. My tongue was thick with blood and regret. I knew what I was trying to say. I wasn’t sure it was intelligible.
He nodded grimly.
“It was…Mallucé…not dead,” I told him.
Nostrils flared, eyes narrowed, he hissed, “I know, I smell him in here, everywhere. This place reeks of him. Don’t talk. Bloody hell, what did he do to you? What did you do? Did you piss him off on purpose?”
Barrons knew me too well. “He t-told me you…weren’t…coming.” I was cold, so cold. Other than that, there was oddly little pain. I wondered if that meant my spinal cord was damaged.
He glanced wildly about as if looking for something, and if he’d been any other man, I would have called his emotional state frantic. “And you believed him? No, don’t answer that. I said don’t talk. Just be still. Fuck. Mac. Fuck.”
He’d called me Mac. My face hurt too bad to smile, but I did inside. “B-Barrons?”
“I said don’t talk,” he snarled.
I put all my energy into getting this out. “D-Don’t let me…die…down here.” Die…down here, echoed weakly back at me. “Please. Take me…to the…sunshine.” Bury me in a bikini, I thought. Lay me next to my sister.
“Fuck,” he exploded again. “I need things!” He was standing, looking around the cavern again, with that frantic air. I wondered what things he thought he might find here. Splints wouldn’t help this time. I tried to tell him that but nothing came out. I also tried to tell him I was sorry. That didn’t come out either.
I must have blinked. His face was close to mine. His hand was in my hair. His breath was warm on my cheek. “There’s nothing here that I can use, Mac,” he said hollowly. “If we were somewhere else, if I had certain things, there are…spells I could do. But you won’t live long enough for me to get you there.”
A long silence ensued, or he was speaking and I just wasn’t hearing him. Time had no relevance. I was floating.
His face was over me again, a dark angel. Basque and Pict, he’d told me. Criminals and barbarians, I’d mocked. A beautiful face, for all that savagery. “You can’t die, Mac.” His voice was flat, implacable. “I won’t let you.”
“So…stop…me,” I managed, although I wasn’t sure the irony I meant carried through in my tone. My voice was weak, reedy. At least my sense of humor wasn’t gone. And at least Mallucé hadn’t gotten to turn me into a monster before I died. That was a silver lining. I hoped my dad would take good care of my mom. I hoped someone would take care of Dani. I’d wanted to get to know her better. Beneath all that bristle I’d sensed a kindred soul.
I hadn’t avenged Alina. Now who would?
“This isn’t what I wanted,” Barrons was saying. “This isn’t what I would have chosen. You must know that. It’s important you know that.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. There was a kernel of something gnawing at the back of my mind. Something I needed to think about. A choice to be made.
I felt his fingers on my eyelids. He eased them closed.
But I’m not dead yet, I wanted to tell him.
His hand was a warm pressure on my neck. My head lolled to the side.
D-Don’t let me…die…down here, was echoing back at me again in my head. I was astonished by how weak and stupid I sounded. How helpless. All fluff and no steel. I was pathetic with a capital P.
I tasted the second vile taste in my mouth. It drew tight the insides of my cheeks, and saliva pooled in my mouth. I examined the taste, rolling it on my tongue like spoiled wine. This time I recognized the poison before I drank it: cowardice.
I was still making the same mistake. Giving up hope before the fight was over.
My fight wasn’t over. I might not like my choices—in fact, I might despise my choices—but my fight wasn’t over.
It gave me power in the black arts, Mallucé had said of eating Unseelie, the strength of ten men, heightened my senses, healed mortal wounds as quickly as they were inflicted.
I could pass on the black arts. I’d take the strength and heightened senses. I was especially interested in the healing mortal wounds part. I may have blown one chance to live tonight. I would not blow another. Barrons was here now. The cell was open. He could get to the Fae on the slab, feed it to me.