When she lowered her hands, she looked and sounded like the Mab I knew. “I intended, as soon as you were ready, to release the Morfran imprisoned in that slate so you could practice on the real thing. The worst that could happen—so I believed—was that a bit of Morfran would escape and find its way to Boston. But that seemed a small risk.” She took another deep breath. “I don’t know what happened.”
I flashed on Pryce, standing by the tile and holding up one finger. “I think it’s related to Pryce’s prophecy, the one the book won’t let me tell you about.” I tried again to say it, but Mab shrugged; my words remained gibberish to her. “Pryce said there’d be three tests. If I survive them, I’m fated to fulfill his damn prophecy—did you understand that?”
She nodded. “I’ve seen that in the book. ‘And shall thrice-tested Victory be conquered?’ But I’ve never been able to discover the tests’ purpose or what they would be.”
“I think you just helped me pass test number one.” A test where failure meant death. If Mab hadn’t been there …
Mab stood, breaking off my thought. “Come inside, child. I want you to use that salve. It will minimize scarring.” She extended a hand to help me up.
I reached for it, then paused. “Mab, look.” My jacket was a tattered mass of ribbons, except for one spot untouched by cuts and slashes. “The Morfran left my demon mark alone. It was the Destroyer. Pryce released the Morfran, and the Destroyer used our bond to call it to me.”
She inspected the jacket, looking thoughtful. “That does seem likely.” I groaned as she helped me to my feet. The pain had diminished, but I still felt like I’d lost a fight with a giant cheese grater.
Mab put an arm around my shoulders, and I leaned on her. Together, we made our way across the lawn. As I limped past the fallen slate tile, I thought about the Morfran locked inside. It gave a whole new meaning to the phrase “a murder of crows.”
22
I MAY NOT HAVE BEEN THE MORFRAN’S USUAL TARGET, BUT I sure looked like a zombie as I staggered into the house in my torn blood-covered clothes, slashed and gouged from head to toe. When she saw me, Rose screamed and covered her face with her apron.
“Get the comfrey salve in the blue jar,” Mab instructed her. “Bring it to Vicky’s room.”
Rose’s wide eyes appeared over the edge of the apron. She nodded vigorously and scurried off toward the kitchen.
Mab helped me up the stairs. It was hard going at first, but by the time we made it halfway up the second staircase, I was managing by myself.
Rose had left the jar of salve on my bedroom dresser. Mab helped me undress, which was harder and more painful than it sounds, because my clothes stuck to my newly formed scabs.
“I’ll do your back,” she said. “Then I’ll leave you to take care of the rest.”
The salve felt like a blessing on my skin. As Mab spread it on, a tingly coolness washed away the burning. When Mab left and I took over, the wounds closed almost as I watched. Gouges filled in and smoothed over without a scar. Good stuff. I wondered if it worked on regular wounds or just the kind inflicted by bloodthirsty, demonic crows.
I dropped the shreds of my clothes into the wastebasket, then took a long, hot shower. I dried off, marveling at the wholeness of my skin, put on a clean sweater and jeans, and felt good, almost back to normal. I was even hungry. I went downstairs to see what was for dinner.
Mab waited for me in the dining room. For a large, formal manor house, Maenllyd’s dining room was surprisingly intimate. A small chandelier hung over the round table, which seated four. French windows overlooked the terrace and lawn, although now the drapes, moss-green and cream stripes, were drawn. The walls were cream above mahogany wainscoting. The buffet was also mahogany. Gilt-framed landscapes of the green Welsh hills hung on two walls. Mab sat at the table, holding an empty sherry glass. Although her pursed-lip expression didn’t change when she saw me, a light came into her eyes.
“How are you feeling, child?”
“Better. Amazingly so. I want some of that salve.”
“You shall have some. Although I don’t think you’ll need it again.”
As I sat down, Rose appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray. She beamed a smile at me. “Oh, Miss Vicky, you’re looking well now. I do hope you’re hungry.”
“For your cooking, Rose, always.”
Her smile broadened as she set down the tray and served up two bowls of cawl, a Welsh stew made of lamb, bacon, leeks, potatoes, and whatever other veggies Rose had to toss in. Nobody cooked like Rose. She’d written down some recipes for me in the past, but since my acquaintance with my own kitchen was limited to knowing which drawer held the can opener, I’d never been able to reproduce them.
Mab poured herself a glass of red wine and held up the carafe, eyebrows raised. I shook my head. We both seemed reluctant to say anything. The subject of the Morfran attack sat between us like an impossible pink rhinoceros that had plunked itself down in the middle of the table. So we talked of other things. I told Mab about Tina and how she’d given up being my apprentice to pursue a career as a zombie pop star, and Mab got me up to speed on the village gossip. Then she asked a question that made me choke on my stew: “And what of you? Surely you’re seeing a young man?”
I wiped my mouth with my napkin, like that would do something about the heat rising in my face. In all my life, Mab had never asked me such a question. Never. I didn’t want her to ask it now. But in my world, when Aunt Mab asked something, I answered. Truthfully. “Um, two, actually. Sort of.”
She lifted her wineglass, took a sip, and replaced it on the table. “Tell me about them.”
“Oh. Okay,” I said, trying to look nonchalant despite my scarlet face. “Well, there’s Alexander Kane. We’ve dated off and on for a couple of years. He’s a lawyer.”
“And a werewolf, yes? Active in promoting paranormal rights in the States? I’ve heard of his work.” U.K. laws about paranormals were more enlightened than America’s hodgepodge of wildly varying state regulations. And the European Union was using U.K. policies as a model for its own draft policy for paranormal rights. Here, paranormal rights were a given, and people watched Kane’s progress stateside with a combination of admiration and bemusement.
I nodded. “That’s Kane. He’s all about work. And that’s our problem—we never see each other. He’s been in Washington for three months, but even when he’s home our schedules keep us apart.” I felt a pang as I said it. “When we do get together, half the time we’re arguing. I mean, I like him, but he can be politically correct and just plain pigheaded.”
Mab raised her napkin to her lips, but she wasn’t quick enough to hide the smile.
“Okay, so I can be pigheaded, too. Occasionally. But maybe that means we’re not a good match.”
“And your other young man?”
“Daniel Costello. He’s human, a homicide detective. When Maria was kidnapped, he helped me rescue her. And he saw me shift—believe me, that wasn’t pretty—and still wanted to know me afterward.” I swallowed a spoonful of stew, then shrugged. “But I don’t know him very well. And he’s not used to being around paranormals. He’s trying, but …” Okay, there’d been that one toe-curling kiss. But there were even more awkward moments. “I feel like he’s way too careful around me. One time, we were out together and a sip of my drink went down my windpipe. I had a coughing fit. When it passed, he was gripping the edge of the table, looking like he expected me to shift into God-knows-what at any second.”