18
“When life pushes me I push harder. What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger”
MAC
The next few days pass in the closest thing to hopeful peace I’ve known in months. Even surrounded by the debauchery of Chester’s, my inner book remains silent. I don’t know if seeing the king made it shut up for some reason, if familiar routine makes me that much stronger, or if it thinks it has me trapped in the cesspool of life here at Chester’s and my capitulation is only a matter of time.
I tend bar amid my Unseelie coven, watch for the various forms of the king, keep an eye out for princesses, and await Barrons’s return, hopefully with Dani in tow. I can’t wait to tell him the king is back and we can quit losing time in the Silvers.
When the ruler of the dark Fae took an interest in Dublin before, his various incarnations often came to the club. The Unseelie King is too vast to walk among humans in a single human body. He has to divide himself into multiple skins, and when he does, not everyone sees him the same way. Where I saw a young, hot guy with gorgeous eyes, Barrons saw a frail old man, Christian saw a Morgan Freeman look-alike, Jo saw a pretty French woman. It’s only a matter of time before we see one of them again, or I hear of a McCabe sighting or run into the old news vendor on the streets. I’ll be faster next time because I won’t be struck dumb and motionless by his unexpected return.
The thought of living divided like this, tempted every day by power I can’t use, tortured by thoughts of what my inner monster might be able to make me do if I’m not vigilant one hundred percent of the time, is more than I can stand.
Can’t eviscerate essential self, the king once said. But this copy of the Book isn’t my essential self. It’s his.
And I’ll be damned if I’m keeping it.
At least now I can stop considering a risky plan B. The king came to Dublin once before because his book escaped. It seems logical if Cruce escaped, the king would return and re-ice him and I could demand he free me. Unfortunately I’m not entirely convinced the king would (a) return or (b) give a shit about any of it. His priorities spring of stars and infinity, not the tiny moments that span a human life. And there we’d be, with Cruce loose.
Dicey plan.
Humming beneath my breath, I finish polishing my bar. It’s eleven in the morning and I’ve just opened my subclub for business. The glasses sparkle, so clean they squeak. Ice is stocked, glasses frosted, condiments fresh, liquor replenished.
I’m bent over, reaching in the fridge to pull out lemons and start making my twists, when I hear a deep baritone say, “Laprhoaig. No ice.”
The accent is Scottish, the voice one I’ve heard before. I glance up into eyes strikingly similar to Christian’s, before he began turning Unseelie. They bore into mine, cheetah-gold, assessing. Same five o’clock shadow, chiseled features, and beautiful dark skin. Serious power rolls off the man.
It’s Christian’s uncle, the Keltar they call “the Inhabited.” He once opened himself up to thirteen ancient, dark druids and has never been able to exorcise them.
I can sympathize with that problem.
The last time I saw him was the night we interred the Sinsar Dubh beneath the abbey. He was with his twin brother, Drustan, a druid who died in a fire but somehow came back to life and allegedly possesses an incorruptible heart; another of Christian’s uncles, Cian, who spent a thousand years trapped in a Silver; and Christian’s father, who was also druid to the Seelie. Talk about your messed-up family.
“Dageus, right?”
“Aye.” He palms the glass I slide him and takes a sip. “What’s with all the Unseelie behind the bar with you, lass?”
Another question I’m sick of. I get it a hundred times a day, at least once from every person that takes a stool and orders a drink, and as the day goes on, half a dozen times from the really drunk ones. I’ve heard every variation on every joke they could possibly slap lamely together in their inebriated, sex-obsessed minds.
“Ghosts,” I say, “of all the Unseelie I killed. They haunt me.” I’ve found it usually shuts people up. He doesn’t look at all surprised, but then why would he? His ghosts haunt him from the inside.
“Where’s the bastard that runs this club?”
“Around somewhere. Are you here because you’ve located Christian?” I ask hopefully.
“Nay. We’ve tried summoning the queen repeatedly to request her aid, but she’s no’ responding to any of our rituals.”
I wonder if buried in their countless records and annals they have a summoning spell for the king. Although I don’t appear to currently need it, I file the thought away for future reference, aware that asking such a question might only open a new can of worms, and turn more pairs of intensely penetrating Keltar eyes my way than I’d like.
“Now that the Compact is broken, we’ve no influence over the Fae world. Christian’s gone, without trace. The only thing of which we’re certain is he’s no’ in Ireland anymore. We’ve fair torn the country apart searching.”
“Can’t you try tracking the Crimson Hag instead?”
“We’ve naught of her to use in such a spell. We’d need flesh, bone, a gut from her gown might serve.”
“No recent sightings?”
“The Unseelie Princes claim she tried to capture them shortly after she took Christian, but they’ve since joined forces, and she’s no’ been seen again.” He rubs a stubble-shadowed jaw. “It happened differently than I foresaw,” he says heavily. “I was watching for the wrong signs.”
I’m about to ask what he’s talking about when Ryodan takes a stool beside him. “Keltar. Hear you’re looking for me.”
Translation: he was sitting upstairs in his office, watching his endless cameras, eavesdropping. I’m surprised he came down. Appears he has enough respect for the Highlander to do more than he does for most: acknowledge his presence and appear as requested. Interesting.
Dageus says just as coolly, “Hear you met with a Seelie Prince, had negotiations. You will be summoning him for us now.”
Ryodan cuts him an amused look. “Will I.”
“Aye.”
“Think again.”
“What do you want with R’jan?” I ask Dageus.
“He’s a sifter and is currently in control of all Seelie. I want him to dispatch other sifters to hunt the Hag for us.”
“Couldn’t you send some of your men as well?” I say to Ryodan quickly. “If Christian hadn’t distracted the Hag and she’d kept killing that night, who knows what might have happened. We owe him, Ryodan. All of us. We can’t just leave him out there, being killed over and over again.”
“It’s keeping her busy and out of my fucking hair,” Ryodan says.
I should have known better than to try an emotional entreaty with him. I employ reason in my next attempt. “If we don’t save him from the Hag, he’ll be more problematic to you, to all of us, should he eventually escape. He was sane enough to sacrifice himself. That sanity won’t last long in her hands.”
Ryodan shrugs. “We put him down if he returns. No different than any other Unseelie Prince. If he’s not useful, he’s disposable.”
“No other Unseelie Prince would have sacrificed himself,” I snap.
“He is Keltar, and that is all the difference necessary,” Dageus says. “In exchange for your aid, we’ll help you reclaim the abbey from those who’ve taken over.” He drops the bomb quietly.
“What?” I practically shout. “Someone has taken over the abbey?” I look at Ryodan and my hands curl into fists. He knew! And said nothing to me. “When did you find out about this?” I demand. “And why didn’t you tell me? You do remember what’s under there, right?”
“I’ll handle it when the others return. And don’t say that again in here.”
I grit my jaw. I can’t believe I just said it. Here of all places. No, I didn’t spell out what was beneath the abbey but I said enough that a curious eavesdropper might decide to go looking.
Dageus says, “Three have already met their deaths. No doubt more will be finding graves the longer you delay.”
Not if I have anything to say about it, and I could write a dissertation. I strip the apron from my waist and begin closing my bar down. I shiver, dreading the answer to my next question. All good coups begin with the deposing of the current leader. “Is Kat okay?”
“I’m sure she is. She’s a survivor,” Ryodan says.