Bloodfever (24 page)

There is torture and there is psychological torture. Mallucé was a master of both.

I was holding up. I wasn't screaming too much. Yet. I was clinging tenaciously to the side of a tiny lifeboat of optimism in my sea of pain. I was telling myself that everything would be all right, that Mallucé might have taken my cuff, but he would never discard a relic that might prove useful to him somehow, especially not an ancient one, worth money. I assured myself that he'd tossed it in a cave nearby and that Barrons would track it, and find me. The pain would stop. I wouldn't die here. My life wasn't over.

Then he dropped the bomb on me.

With a leprous smile, his face so close to mine that the putrid odor of rotting flesh nearly choked me, he sank my lifeboat, drove it straight to the bottom of the sea. He told me to forget about Barrons, if that was my hope, if that was what was keeping me from succumbing to mindless panic, because Barrons was
never
coming for me. Mallucé had seen to it himself when he'd stripped off my “clever little locator cuff” back in the alley where he'd run me to ground, along with my purse and clothing. He'd left it lying there, amid broken bottles and debris.

Hunters had flown us here; we'd left no trail on the ground to follow. Pure mercenaries that they were, Mallucé had outbid the Lord Master for their temporary services. There was no chance that Jericho Barrons or anyone else would ever find or rescue me. I was forgotten, lost to the world. It was him and me, alone, in the belly of the earth, until the bitter end.

Phrases like “belly of the earth” really get to me. The thought of my cuff lying back there in that alley, useless, got to me even worse. I was hours from Dublin, beneath tons of stone.

Mallucé was right; without the cuff, I would never be found, alive or dead. At least Mom and Dad had gotten a body back with Alina. Mine would never show up. What would it do to them, to lose their second daughter without a trace? I couldn't bear to think about it.

Barrons was out. I couldn't count on V'lane. If he was hovering in whatever manner he hovered, he would have stopped this by now. He wouldn't have let Mallucé do these things to me, which meant he was off somewhere, probably on some errand for his queen, and it could be months in human time before he came around again. That left Rowena and her group of tightly controlled
sidhe
-seers, and she'd made her sentiments plain:
I will never risk ten to save one.

Mallucé was right. No one was coming for me.

I was going to die down here, in this miserable, dark hellhole with a rotting monster. I would never see the sun again. Never feel grass or sand beneath my feet. Never listen to another song, never draw another breath of sweet Georgia blossom-drenched air, never taste my mother's pecan chicken and peach pie again.

He was going to turn me into a quadriplegic, he told me, by slow, infinitesimal degrees. The suffering he planned to inflict on the remnant of my body was too horrific for my brain to allow my ears to hear. I turned them off. I heard no more.

Hope is a critical thing. Without it, we are nothing. Hope shapes the will. The will shapes the world. I might have been suffering a dearth of hope but I had a few things left: will, desperation in spades, and a chance.

A glittering, gold and silver, encrusted with sapphires and onyx chance.

I'd eaten today, I wasn't too badly beaten yet, and one of my arms still worked. Who knew what shape I'd be in tomorrow? Or the next day? I couldn't think about a future in this place. I might never be as strong again as I was right now. Would he really begin torturing me with psychotropic drugs, as he'd said? The thought of having control of my mind stripped from me was worse than the thought of more pain. I wouldn't even possess the wits to
try
to fight. I couldn't let that happen.

It was now or never. I needed to know: Was I epic? I might never have another opportunity to find out. He might chain me up the next time. Or worse.

He was still talking, didn't seem to care that I'd willed myself deaf and was no longer even responding with flinches to what he was saying. This was the performance he'd been living for. His sickly yellow eyes burned with psychotic zeal.

When he reached for me again, I threw myself forward, as if seeking his embrace. It startled him. I plunged my good hand beneath his robes, groped for the amulet, and locked down tight on it when I found it. It was like closing my hand around dry ice. The metal was so cold it burned, felt like it was eating straight through my flesh to the bone. I pushed through the pain. For a moment nothing happened. Then a dark fire, a blue-black light began to pulse from the folds of his robe, from between my fingers.

I had my answer: MacKayla Lane had potential for greatness!

I'd settle for a little superstrength and a map to get me out of here. I yanked, but the chain was forged of thick links. I couldn't snap it. I remembered how the old man's head had been nearly ripped off. Were the links reinforced by magic? I focused my will, tried to jerk it through his rotting neck. The translucent stone inside the amulet blazed, bathing the grotto with dark radiance.

“You bitch!” The vampire looked incredulous.

I'd been right. He hadn't been able to make it work. I smirked. “Guess you just don't have the right stuff.”

“Impossible! You are no one,
nothing
!”

“This nothing is going to kick your ass, vamp.” Bluff, bluff, bluff. And pray there was some truth in it. When the chain snapped abruptly, I stumbled backward into the wall, clutching the amulet.

For a moment, he stared blankly; his gloved hand went to his neck, and I knew he was wondering how I'd gotten it off him when he'd had to nearly behead the last owner to tear it free, then his face contorted with rage. He fell on me, fangs tearing, fists flying, trying to take the amulet back before I was able to use it.

I curled in on myself, clutching it, protecting it, focusing on it fiercely.

Nothing happened.

I flexed that hot place in my brain and tried to impose my will on it.
Destroy him,
I commanded it.
Rip him apart. Kill him. Save me. Make him die. Let me live. Make him stop hitting me make him stop make him stop make him stop!

Still the blows rained down. I wasn't impacting reality one bit.

The amulet was colder than death in my hand, seeping up my arm. It radiated dark light, offering me its chilling, immense power. It had some kind of shadowy life, this arctic thing in my hand. I could feel it pulsating, the thud of an impatient dark heartbeat. I could feel that it
wanted
to be used by me. It was hungry for purpose, but there was something I didn't understand about it, something I had to do to make it mine. I realized then that I'd not broken the chain; it had snapped of its own dark accord,
chosen
to come to me because it had sensed I could use it.

But that was where it stopped.
I
had to figure out how to make it work.

What did I need to do?

Mallucé's teeth were in my neck, tearing. His stiffly gloved fists were eighty-mile-an-hour hardballs in my sides, trying to force me to uncurl so he could take the amulet back. The pain was rapidly becoming more than I could think past.

The Dark Hallow was useless.

If I'd had time to learn how to make it work for me, I'd have had a chance.

As it was, I'd managed to do just enough to really piss Mallucé off: I'd proven myself epic when he wasn't.

As he continued to pound me, I had a sudden insight into his character: At the core of it, beneath the monstrous villainy, the vampire was a self-indulgent, spoiled bully. Not a sociopath at all, but an out-of-control, petulant child that couldn't stand anyone else having better toys, more wealth, or greater power or, in my case, being more epic than him. If he couldn't own it, do it, or be it, he would destroy it.

My mind revisited the bodies he'd left at the Welshman's estate. The terrible ways they'd been killed.

No one was coming for me. I couldn't make the amulet work. Rotted though he may be, I was not and would never be a physical match for Mallucé. There was no way out for me. That was just the truth of it.

When all the control you have over your world gets stripped away, leaving you no choice but to die—the only difference how you do it: quickly or slowly—life distills to a bitter pill. The pain I was in made it easier to swallow.

I would not let him make me a quadriplegic.

I would not let him take my mind away from me. Some things are worse than death.

He was in a blind rage, more intense than I'd felt coming off him yet. He was on the brink of total loss of control. I braced myself to fuel it, to push him over the edge.

I remembered what Barrons had told me about John Johnstone, Jr.'s past. The mysterious “accidental” death of his parents, how rapidly he'd disassociated himself with everything they'd stood for and been. I remembered how Barrons had provoked Mallucé with references to his roots, and the vampire's instant, livid fury, his irrational hatred of his own name. “How long have you been insane, J.J.?” I gasped out, between blows. “Since before you killed your parents?”

“It's Mallucé, bitch! Lord Master, to you. And my father deserved to die. He called himself a humanitarian. He was squandering my inheritance. I told him to stop. He didn't.”

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.

SEVENTEEN

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.

“Barrons.” I forced my eyes open. They felt heavy, weighted by coins.

His face was in my neck and he was breathing hard. Was he grieving me? Already? Would he miss me? Had I, in some tiny way, come to matter to this enigmatic, hard, brilliant, obsessed man? I realized he'd come to matter to me. Good or evil, right or wrong, he mattered to me.

“Barrons,” I said again, this time more strongly, infusing it with everything I had left which wasn't much, but enough to get his attention.

He raised his head. His face was all harsh planes and angles in the torchlight, his expression bleak. His dark eyes were windows on a bottomless abyss. “I'm sorry, Mac.”

“Not your … fault,” I managed to get out.

“My fault in more ways than you could possibly know, woman.”

Woman, he'd called me. I'd grown up in his eyes. I wondered what he'd think of me soon.

“I'm sorry I didn't come for you. I shouldn't have let you walk home alone.”

“L-Listen,” I said. I would have clutched urgently at his sleeve, but I couldn't move either arm.

He bent nearer.

“Unseelie … slab?” I asked.

His brows drew together. He glanced over his shoulder, looked back at me. “It's there, if that's what you mean.”

My voice was terrible when I said, “Bring … it … me.”

He raised a brow and blinked. He glanced at the twitching Unseelie and I could see his mind working. “You—what—was Mallucé—” He broke off. “Exactly what are you saying, Mac? Are you telling me you want to
eat
that?”

I was beyond speaking. I parted my lips.

“Bloody hell, have you thought this through? Do you have any idea what it might do to you?”

I strove for one of our wordless conversations. I said,
Pretty good one. Like make me live.

“I meant the downside. There's always a downside.”

I told him a bigger one would be being dead.

“There are worse things than death.”

This isn't one. I know what I'm doing.

“Even
I
don't know what you're doing, and I know everything,” he snapped.

I would have laughed if I'd been capable of it. His arrogance knew no bounds.

“It's dark Fae, Mac. You're planning to eat Unseelie. Do you get that?”

I'm dying, Barrons.

“I don't like this idea.”

Got a better one?

He inhaled sharply. I didn't understand the things that flashed across his face then—thoughts too complex, beyond my grasp—thoughts he discarded. But he hesitated a few seconds too long, before jerking his head in a single, violent negation, and I knew that he'd had some other idea, and had deemed it worse than this one. “No better ideas.”

There was a knife in his hand. He gave me a tight, mocking smile as he moved to the slab. “Wing or a thigh? Ah, I'm afraid we don't have any thighs left.” He sliced into the Fae.

They didn't have wings either, but I appreciated the humor, black as it was. He was trying to lessen the terrible reality of my impending meal.

I didn't want to know what parts of it I was eating so I closed my eyes when he raised the first slice of Unseelie flesh to my lips. I couldn't look at it. It was bad enough that it crunched in places and continued to move the entire time I chewed it. And the entire time I swallowed it. The tiny pieces fluttered in my stomach.

Unseelie flesh tasted worse than all four of my nightmare tastes combined. I guess our instruction booklets only cover this world, not Faery, which is fine with me. I'd hate to have to dream all the bad tastes of their world, too.

I chewed and gagged, gagged and swallowed.

MacKayla Lane, bartender and glam-girl, was screaming at me to stop, before it was too late. Before we could never again go back to being the uncomplicated, happy young southern girl we'd been. She didn't get that it was already way too late for that.

Savage Mac was squatting in the dirt, stabbing her spear into the ground, nodding and saying,
Yesss, finally, some real power! Bring it on!

Me—the one who tries to mediate between the two—wondered what price I was going to pay for this. Were Barrons' concerns founded? Would eating dark Fae do something terrible to me, make me dark, too? Or do you only turn dark if you have the seeds of darkness in you to begin with? Perhaps eating it a single time wouldn't change me at all. Mallucé had eaten it constantly. Perhaps frequency was the killer. There were many drugs a person could do a few times without paying too high a price. Perhaps the living flesh of a dark Fae would heal me, make me strong, and do little else of consequence.

Perhaps it didn't matter, because the bottom line was that I'd made the mistake today—or tonight, or whatever it was—of giving up hope too soon, and I wasn't about to make it again. I would fight to live with whatever means I had at my disposal, and pay whatever price I had to pay without complaining. I would never again accept death. I would battle it until the last second, no matter the horrors confronting me. I was ashamed of myself for giving up hope.

You can't go forward if you're looking backward, Mac,
Daddy always said.
You run into walls that way.

I dropped my regrets, a burdensome piece of baggage. Looking forward, I opened my mouth.

He sliced off another piece of flesh and fed it to me, and another. I chewed more strongly, swallowed more vigorously. A chilling heat suffused me and I trembled, as if in the grip of a brutal fever. After several more pieces, I felt my body begin the painful process of knitting itself back together. It was not pleasant. I cried out. Barrons covered my mouth with his hand, wrapped his arms around me, and crushed me against him while I thrashed and moaned. I guessed his efforts to keep me quiet meant Mallucé was somewhere nearby, or some of his minions were.

When the worst of it had passed, I ate more, and endured the brutal cycle again and again. Against his hot skin, I healed. Bracketed by his arms, I shuddered and writhed, and grew back together. The lacerations on the inside of my mouth faded into smooth, unbroken skin. Bones straightened and fused, tendons and torn flesh knitted itself, contusions melted. It was an agony. It was a miracle. I could feel the living Unseelie flesh doing things to me. I could feel it changing my innate structure, affecting it on a cellular level, infusing me with something ancient and powerful. Healing every ill, taking it farther, past perfect mortal health, into the realm of the extraordinary.