From the 405 we changed onto the 101 freeway. Sometime during that drive my cell phone began playing “Puttin’ on the Ritz,” which was the customized ring tone I had for David. Great—now he calls. Not that calling earlier would have made any difference to my situation. During the drive I had time to consider my every contact with Qwendar, and a lot of his statements now took on a whole new meaning. One changeling brought back to the fold. I think you might be the face of the future. A human who accepts and is comfortable with the Powers. A thing that some view with great disapprobation. Perhaps he has remembered who and what he is.
Headlights flared on the green and white overhead sign for the 134 freeway, and I realized we were going to the Equestrian Center. That added a whole new terror. What if they were going to hurt Vento, too? Images from The Godfather played in my head. I managed to get a glimpse at the clock on the dashboard. It was 1:23. Maybe a horse would be sick, I thought hopefully. But no lights beyond the safety lights burned in the barn, and there were no vet trucks parked out front.
Thug Boy parked. Qwendar got out and pulled a briefcase from the trunk. They pulled open my door, and I nearly pitched backward out of the car since my back had been resting against that door. The human managed to catch me before my head bounced on the pavement. I was flung unceremoniously over his shoulder and carried into the barn. There was shifting in the stalls and a few experimental nickers that seemed to say, Is it morning yet? Is it time to eat? When no hay was forthcoming the horses settled. I was deposited in the breezeway in front of Vento’s stall. The stallion’s long head was thrust over the stall door. He gazed down at me and chuffed, his breath ruffling the hair on the top of my head. I started to cry because I was scared and because I’d never get to ride him again and because I was going to die, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it.
The briefcase landed on a nearby tack truck with a thud. Qwendar opened it and removed a pistol, a legal pad, and a pen.
He turned to face me. “And now, Linnet, you are going to write a suicide note.” It was then the fact that he was wearing gloves really penetrated. “An angry, ranting note about how your boyfriend rejected you, and how he’ll be sorry now that you’re dead. He’ll realize how special you were. How you came out here to die with the only thing that loves you.”
Vento had begun to paw in the stall, his hoof hitting the door with echoing thuds. “Yeah. Fat chance,” was what I tried to say but it emerged from behind the gag like a series of grunts and squeaks.
“Untie her hands,” Qwendar ordered. The muscle complied. My hands began to tingle and ache with returning circulation. “Chafe them. It’s fine if the handwriting is shaky. It adds to the sense that she was distraught and furious.”
Qwendar came over and grabbed one of my hands. He drove a pin into the ball of my thumb. I yelped behind the gag. I tried to pull free, but Thug Boy pressed his hands down on my shoulders effectively nailing me in place. Qwendar carefully wiped the oozing drop of blood onto a mirror. “Soon you won’t have to hold her,” he said to the driver. He squatted down so his eyes were level with mine. He then pricked his own finger and mixed his blood with mine on the surface of the mirror. He gazed intently into my eyes. I tensed, preparing for him to bust out with some kind of Álfar shit. Nothing happened. I watched a frown begin between Qwendar’s white brows and slowly spread to encompass his entire forehead. Minutes passed. A bead of sweat trickled down the old Álfar’s temple and lodged in his sideburn.
“Is something supposed to happen?” the thug asked.
Qwendar slowly stood up. “It seems we are going to have to do this with less finesse. You’re a very strange human, Linnet. In all my long years I’ve never met a human who could resist me.” He continued to regard me, and he even stroked his chin with the air of Emperor Palpatine regarding Luke Skywalker. I had an insane desire to giggle that I knew was born out of sheer, bowel-loosening terror. “It does explain how you cheated death when Jondin was spraying bullets all about. Even a wretch as pathetic as that girl should have been able to have hit you.” He fell silent again. “But Charles was able to truss you up without incident. Perhaps your lover gave you some kind of protection against us. I wish we had more time to figure out exactly how you are doing it. But alas, I don’t. I think I will leave it to Charles to finish the job. It’s a shame about the note. I doubt we could persuade you to write one without doing violence to your person, which would undermine the theory I’m providing for the police. Charles, do you have gloves?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Excellent. Then please see to it that Ms. Ellery shoots herself in the head. Through the temple, I think. Women are known to be squeamish about shooting themselves in the mouth.”
“I could slit her wrists.”
“True, but they tend to do it in warm baths with candles all around them. And someone might find her before she bled to death. No, I want to know she is dead. But wait until I am gone. My presence might lead to another unlikely escape on her part.”
“But you’ll come back for me and take me with you?” Charles asked
“Absolutely.” Qwendar packed up the pen and legal pad, handed the pistol to Charles, and walked to the end of the breezeway. In the doorway of the barn he vanished into Fey.
Charles pressed the gun into my hand. Some feeling had returned to my hands, and I waited for the moment when he was studying the side of my head, pushing the hair back behind my ear. Then I struck out and hit him hard on the hinge of his jaw. He yelled and lost his balance as he squatted in the dirt and sawdust of the breezeway. I scrabbled at the dirt, pulling myself away from him. There was a pitchfork resting against the side of a stall across the breezeway from me. The glow from the lights glittered off the sharp tines. If I could reach it … I pictured driving it into Charles pendulous belly. Could I do that? Hell, yes, I could. But I didn’t get even halfway. The thug landed hard on my back. I felt a rib crack and cried out in pain, though it was muffled by the gag. He was a crushing weight, his breath hot and reeking of beer and garlic puffed against my ear. It was like being smothered.
“Fuckin’ bitch!”
He jerked me up and dragged me back to Vento’s stall. Dirt and sawdust from the breezeway filled my shoes, and my skirt was rucked up around my waist. He grabbed my left hand in a crushing grip, forcing the gun into my hand, and my forefinger through the trigger. His thick finger pressed mine painfully against the metal of the trigger. With his free hand he gripped my chin, keeping my head still. I fought him, but I was no match for his bulk or his strength. The barrel of the gun approached my temple. At least he had picked my left hand, I thought in what were my final seconds. John would have known instantly that it was murder since I was right-handed. Maybe someone else would make the connection. David?
I closed my eyes and felt the cold kiss of metal on my temple.
21
A whuff of warm air across that top of my head ruffled my hair. Vento telling me good-bye. I choked on a sob. From overhead there came the sharp tink of metal breaking under enormous pressure. My eyes flew open just as the stall door went sliding to the right. Without that support against my back I toppled backward into the stall with a strangled, startled cry. Charles struggled to hang onto me, but his weight also pushed me back.
There was the glitter of light on steel shoes as Vento’s hooves struck out over my face. One hoof took Charles in the head, the other hit him hard in the chest. He gave a high-pitched scream as the gash across his forehead gushed blood, blinding him. He lost his grip on the pistol and went scrabbling away on all fours, trying to elude the maddened horse. Vento went sailing over my head in pursuit of my would-be killer, his belly a flash of white.