Fever - Burned Part 7

Mockery gleams in his dark eyes. Tread lightly, Ms. Lane. The floor upon which you walk is only as solid as the respect you cede it.

The floor. I get a sudden strange vision that has nothing to do with the Sinsar Dubh: me falling forward onto the hardwood planks of my room that night, catching myself with my hands, rolling over and striking the back of my head, hard, and not caring. I was doing something ... something that was utterly consuming. I frown. What? Looking at a picture of Alina? Reading a book about Irish history? Folding my clothes? It's not like I had a lot of fascinating choices in that tiny, cramped room.

How did I fall? Why? And why do I keep thinking about that day?

I have a fragment of a feeling, emotions sprung from an occasion for which I can locate no originating event. Exhilaration. Freedom. Excitement. Shame. Regret.

Normally that would bother me so much I'd go rooting around in my memory, but at the moment I have more pressing issues to deal with.

I shake it off and drop down on the chesterfield, glowering across the room at him. "You seem to have forgotten the small problem I have, Barrons. I'm hiding from all the people you invited here. I have been for months." The princes I can't even address. That he's permitting them in my bookstore offends me beyond expressing. "Why do you want this blasted meeting anyway? And why here?"

He cuts me a hard look. See Mac cower. See Mac die.

"Are you trying to p.i.s.s me off?" I growl.

He gives me the ocular equivalent of a yawn. Only Barrons can pull off such a thing and still look menacing. It's not as if there are any repercussions to consider. You wouldn't kill a scorpion if it was stinging your a.s.s.

I study my nails. There's a speck of blood beneath one. I don't know if it's Mick O'Leary's or mine from scrubbing so hard. He's wrong about that. I look up at him. "You have no idea what I'm dealing with."

Ah, such as a beast within? he mocks.

"Your beast is different." I continue talking aloud, refusing to accept the intimacy of a wordless conversation. We've had this argument. We'll continue having it until the day the king frees me. Neither of us will capitulate. I'm not sure either of us can even spell that word.

Perhaps not so very.

"Yes, but mine is more powerful," I say irritably. Powerful enough to fool even me-someone intimately acquainted with its seductive, evil ways.

His dark eyes glitter with challenge. Care to test that, woman?

The look he gives me sends shivers down my spine, and I feel it slip it into a gentler curve that achieves down-and-dirty doggie-style with sure, supple grace. There is no battlefield I prefer to the one I've found in this man's bed. We fight. It's what we do. I feel so much more intensely alive around him than I've ever felt with anyone else.

I'm obsessed and addicted and ripped-down-raw in love with Jericho Barrons.

Of course, I don't tell him that. Barrons isn't a pillow talk man. Sleeping with him, acknowledging our feelings for each other, has changed everything.

And nothing.

In bed, we're one couple.

Out of bed, we're another.

In bed, I steal moments of tenderness when s.e.x has finally exhausted me to the point where I'm too bone weary to fret anymore about the enormous capacity for evil that's taken up squatter's rights inside me. I touch him, put all those things I don't say into my hands as I trace the red and black tattoos on his skin, the sharp planes and hollows of his face, bury my hands in his dark hair. He watches me in silence when I do, eyes dark, unfathomable.

I sometimes wake up to find he's pulled me close to him and is holding me, spooned into my back with his face in my hair, and those hands that don't speak like mine don't speak move over my skin and tell me I'm cherished, honored, seen.

Out of bed we're islands.

Ms. Lane and Barrons.

The first time he retreated into distance, it hurt. I felt rejected.

Until I realized I'd done it, too. It wasn't just him. Our boundaries seem sewn to our clothes; we can no more put one on without the other than take them off separately.

I sometimes wonder if our pa.s.sion is so obsessive and enormous that we need distance between the bonfires. I'm a moth to his flame and it frightens me how willingly I'd burn my wings off for him. Destroy the world. Follow him to h.e.l.l. It's scary to feel like you can't breathe without someone. That a man has so much power over you because you love him as much as, if not more than, you care for yourself.

So I fly away for a while-maybe just to know I can-and he vanishes to do whatever Barrons does for whatever reasons he does it.

I always come back. He does, too. Actions speak.

I shift restlessly and change the subject. "You invite my enemy here. That's bulls.h.i.t."

A Day in the Life: You search ma.n.u.scripts for a spell that may not exist. You paint your nails. You clip your nails. Ah, let us not forget you examine your nails.

I scowl. "I do more than that. And leave my nails out of this."

You don't visit your parents. You don't go to the abbey. You're barely eating, and your clothes- I cut him off by pretending to examine my nails again. This week they alternate black diamond, white ice, black diamond, white ice. The color scheme comforts me, as nothing else in my life is so tidily delineated. I'm acutely aware of the sorry state of my recent outfits and have no desire to hear what he thinks of them. It's difficult to care when you're always covered with yellow dust. He's silent so long I finally glance warily up to find him regarding me with an expression women have been on the receiving end of since time immemorial, as if I'm a species he simply can't fathom.

Do you think I can't protect you should you persist with your idiotic pa.s.sivity?

Idiotic pa.s.sivity, my a.s.s. As today proved, activity is far more idiotic, and deadly. Is that why he arranged this meeting? To force me to be involved? "Of course not." I change the subject.

It's time. He says his next words aloud and there's a gentleness to them that undoes me. "You're not living anymore, Rainbow Girl."

I melt when he calls me that. There's something in the way he says those two words that makes it seem he's said a thousand and they all make me glow. It says he sees the pretty-in-pink Mac I was when I first arrived, the black, kick-a.s.s Mac I've become (unless covered with Unseelie fleas), plus every incarnation in between, and he wants them all.

I know I'm not living anymore. No one could be more excruciatingly aware of that fact. It's driving me bugf.u.c.k. Pa.s.sivity isn't my nature and I'm choking on it, drowning in it, my b.a.l.l.s held firmly hostage by a Book.

I stare up at him and tell him the words I can't bring myself to say out loud.

I killed the Gray Woman today.

A corner of his s.e.xy mouth lifts. "Banner f.u.c.king day. About time."

I also killed one of the Guardians.

"Ah, he got in the way."

I have no idea what happened. I blacked out.

A human would be shocked, horrified, demand to know what happened. Barrons's gaze doesn't change and he asks no questions. He tallies debits and credits. "You took two lives and saved thousands."

Bottom line it all you want, the end doesn't justify the means, I say silently, p.i.s.sed that he elevated the conversation I don't want to be having to a verbal level.

"Debatable."

I lost control of myself. It took me over and made me kill. Said I'm the car and it's the driver. The unspoken words hang like knives in the air anyway, cutting me.

"We train harder."

I hate mys- "Never say that."

"I didn't," I mutter. Not technically.

"You are what you are. Find a way to live with it."

"Easier said than done."

"Someone told you life was easy. You believed them," he mocks.

"I just don't see why they all have to come here. Why not hold this little powwow at Chester's?" I change the subject swiftly.

Like a verbal dancer, he follows my lead, and I know why: as far as he's concerned the discussion is over anyway. He has the blood of countless victims on his hands, while I'm having a hard time dealing with one. To him, this day is no different than any other: I'm possessed by a malevolent demon and I sinned. Tomorrow I'll try again. I might sin again. I might not. But tomorrow always comes. For me and the demon. Despite my screwup, my action will ultimately save countless lives. Barrons has the thousand-yard stare and conscience of an immortal. I'm not there yet. I don't know if I'll ever be there. I ended a life before its time today. A family man. A good man. I must find a way to atone.

"I have wards in my bookstore that neutralize the princes' power while within my walls," he reminds me.

"You're inviting my rapists into my home." I toss the dual reminder that he wasn't there to save me the night the Unseelie Princes captured me in the church, and that it's my bookstore, without inflection, still it detonates in the room.

Abruptly the air is so charged with savagery that I feel squished into a corner on the chesterfield. Barrons saturates s.p.a.ce when he's in a good mood-not that I would ever really call any mood Barrons exhibits "good"-but when he's furious, it's hard to breathe. He throws off energy, crams the air with intensity and ma.s.s, forcing everything else to retract into itself.

"Or have you forgotten that little fact?" I want them dead. I think he should want them dead. I fondle the spear in my thigh sheath lovingly. "We could kill them together." I s.n.a.t.c.h my hand away hastily and busy myself plucking imaginary lint from my black Disturbed concert tee-shirt, which I'm wearing not because I've been enjoying their music so much but because it's how I feel. The images the Sinsar Dubh threw at me the second I touched my spear were graphically detailed and from this afternoon.

"You will not kill them when they come here. Nor will I." The three words are guttural, accompanied by a thick rattle in his chest. It's the sound of his beast trying to claw its way out of his skin. I can barely understand his last word. "Yet."

"Why?"

His chest expands so enormously it threatens to pop b.u.t.tons on his shirt. He says nothing for a moment, face impa.s.sive, his body frozen on an inhalation. Finally his ribs relax and he exhales carefully. I admire his self-control. I want it for my own. I may be more sparing with mention of my gang rape in the future. Although I enjoy baiting this bear, I don't enjoy his pain. Just his fire.

When he speaks again, his words are precisely enunciated. "They are a known quant.i.ty, capable of controlling the ma.s.ses. I've watched countless civilizations rise and fall. I've isolated seven components necessary to achieve the future I seek. Destroy the princes at this particular moment and it won't happen. They are currently linchpins. They will not always be."

The future he seeks? I want to know what Jericho Barrons plans, to be privy to his goals. I don't ask. He shares when he's ready and his reply was already generous for him.

And fascinating. I know what linchpins are.

When I was child, Daddy used to ride me around on his lap when he cut gra.s.s. I loved those hot Georgia days, drenched with the smell of a fresh mowed lawn, magnolia blossoms bobbing heavy in the humid, sticky air, a gla.s.s jar of sweet tea steeping on the front porch, near two ice-filled gla.s.ses topped with a sprig of mint from the garden.

One day I "helped" Daddy change the tire on the lawn mower and he taught me about linchpins. I think I fell in love with all things with wheels that day, sprung of a golden summer hour with the man who can always make me feel like both princess and warrior.

A linchpin is a fastener that keeps the wheel from falling off the axle. It's inserted crosswise directly through the axle's end, where it stays securely in place until manually removed. The end of the pin usually has a loop of metal so it's easy to pull out.

In a broader sense, a linchpin is a key component that holds the elements of a complicated structure together. Some theorize if you can isolate the linchpin of a social, economic, or political a.s.semblage, you can destroy it in one fell swoop with a minute nudge or adjustment. Conversely, if you identify linchpins and protect them until you've achieved your desired result, you can shape the outcome. It doesn't surprise me Barrons lives and breathes The Art of War. "I can kill them when they're not?" I want to be perfectly clear about this.

"The instant they're not, I will."

We'll fight about who does the honors later. I'll just have to make sure there are no humans in the vicinity when it happens.

"You could let Ryodan host this summit. At Chester's."

"And have your ghoulish army in attendance?"

"You could ward the club against them."

He snorts. "Now I'm your personal warder. You have no idea how complicated such magic is."

Actually, I have a fairly good idea. He hasn't died in a while and his chest is covered, both arms are fully sleeved, and half his back is tattooed with black and crimson protection spells. The magic in which he dabbles is dangerous. Speaking of magic, "Barrons, it's been three weeks since Dani disappeared. Isn't there some kind of spell you can do?"

"Ward this. Spell that. How did you navigate life before you met me?"

I shrug. "It's kind of like realizing you married Bewitched. Except not in the married sense," I add hastily. "But you know what I mean. Why break your back vacuuming when a saucy twitch of the nose can clean the whole house?"

"My nose has never twitched, saucily or otherwise. And that was an utterly absurd premise. The only price for using magic was compounded human stupidity. Humans consistently engender chaos without violating alchemical principles."

"Oh, my G.o.d, you watched-"

"I did not."

"Yes, you-"

"Did not."

"You just said-"

"Inescapable pop culture."

"Oh, you so watched it." I imagine this big, barbaric man stretched out on a tangle of silk sheets, naked, one arm behind his head, watching the comic antics of Darrin and Samantha Stephens on a large flat-screen TV. The idea tickles me, turns me on somehow. It's so anachronistic, it makes me want to hunt down old DVDs, stretch out beside him, and lose myself in a simple show from a simpler time when the only price for magic was compounded human stupidity. Laugh together, do something mindless and fun. Then of course do something else mind-blowing. I'd love a few long rainy carefree days in bed with this man.

"Repet.i.tion of an erroneous a.s.sertion fails to alter reality. And you know we can't track her in Faery. That's why she went."

Great, now I'm hearing the theme song from Bewitched in my head. It's always a hard one to get out. "When she gets back, I want somebody tattooing her. The instant she gets back."

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, after all the grief you gave me. Have you forgotten our tattoos haven't worked right since the walls fell? Give it time. We'll find her. At the moment the most pressing matter on our agenda is this meeting."

The meeting. I shift restlessly and my amus.e.m.e.nt vanishes just like that. "Are you sure we can't move it somewhere else?"

"It happens here. You will attend."

He asks little of me and gives much in return. I can't imagine the world without him and don't want to. Once, I almost destroyed it because I believed him gone forever.

"Aye aye, master," I mutter crossly.

He smiles faintly. "You're learning, Ms. Lane, you're learning."

Katarina McLaughlin, Rowena's replacement as headmistress of the abbey, is the first to arrive.

The slim brunette's patient gray gaze searches mine the instant I open the door, reminding me why I've been avoiding her. Her talent is emotional telepathy and I have no idea how deep she can go. In nightmares, she peels me like a pearly onion and reveals the rotted inner bulb.

I hold my breath while she completes her inspection. Does she sense the malevolence of the Sinsar Dubh? The guilt of my afternoon murder?

"How are you, Mac? We've not been seeing much of you lately." You weren't at the abbey, defending us, is the message I think I read unspoken in her eyes and am shamed by it. But I've been a little paranoid lately so I'm probably wrong.