Darkfever
Page 52
V’lane, prince of the Tuatha Dé Danaan, feared something.
And it was in my hand.
The imperious Fae was gone. Just like that. Blink of an eye, if I’d blinked. I hadn’t. He’d vanished.
I sat, breathing deeply, clutching the spear, and trying to regroup.
The room seeped slowly back into my consciousness: a buzz of noise, a blur of color, and finally, snippets of conversation here and there.
“What do you suppose she’s doing?”
“No idea, man, but she’s got a great ass. And talk about your tits to die for!”
“Cover your eyes, Danny. Now.” A mother’s tight, pinched voice. “She’s not decent.”
“Looks better than decent to me.” Accompanied by a low whistle and the flash of a camera.
“What the hell is in her hand? Should somebody call the cops?”
“I dunno, maybe the paramedics? She doesn’t look so well.”
I glanced around, wild-eyed. I was on the floor, surrounded by people on all sides, a circle of them, pressing in on me, staring down at me with greedy, curious eyes.
I sucked in a ragged breath that wanted to come back out as a sob, crammed the spear back in my purse—how in the world would I explain having it?—yanked my skirt back down over my bottom, clasped my bra over my bare breasts, fumbled for my shirt, yanked it over my head, picked up my shoes, and scrambled to my feet.
“Get out of my way,” I cried, plunging blindly into the crowd, shoving them aside, vultures, one and all.
I couldn’t help it. I burst into tears as I raced from the room.
For such an old woman, she sure could move fast.
She cut me off less than a block away from the museum, darting in front of me, blocking my path.
I veered sharply left, and detoured around her without missing a beat.
“Stop,” she cried.
“Go to hell,” I snapped over my shoulder, tears scalding my cheeks. My victory over V’lane with the spear had been completely overshadowed by my public humiliation. How long had I been sitting there with parts of me sticking out that no man had ever gotten a good look at in broad daylight unless armed with a speculum and a medical license? How long had they been watching me? Why hadn’t someone tried to cover me up? Down South, a man would have draped a shirt around me. He would have taken a quick glance while he did it, I mean, really, breasts are breasts and men are men, but chivalry is not entirely dead where I come from.
“Voyeurs,” I said bitterly. “Sick scandal-starved people.” Thank you, reality TV. People were so used to being taken straight into other people’s most intimate moments and viewing the sordid details of their lives that they were now far more inclined to sit back and enjoy the show than make any effort to help someone in need.
The old woman got in front of me again and I veered right this time, but she veered with me and I crashed into her. She was so elderly and tiny and fragile-looking that I was afraid she might topple over, and at her age, a fall could mean serious broken bones and a long recovery period. Good manners—unlike those creeps in the museum, some of us still had them—temporarily eclipsed my misery, and I steadied her by the elbows. “What?” I demanded. “What do you want? You want to bean me in the head again? Well, go ahead! Do it and get it over with! But I think you should know that I couldn’t help seeing this one and the situation is—well, it’s complicated.”
My assailant was the old woman from the bar that first night I’d arrived in Dublin; the one who’d rapped me with her knuckles and told me to stop staring at the Fae and go die somewhere else and—although now I knew she’d saved my life that night, she might have done it more nicely—I was currently in no mood to thank her.
Tilting her silvery-white head back, she stared up at me, a flabbergasted expression on her wrinkled face. “Who are you?” she exclaimed.
“What do you mean, who am I?” I said sourly. “Why are you chasing me if you don’t know who I am? Do you make a habit of chasing strangers?”
“I was in the museum,” she said. “I saw what you did! Sweet Jesus, Mary Mother of God and all the saints, who are you, lass?”
I was so disgusted with people in general that I shrieked, “You saw what that thing was trying to do to me and didn’t try to help me? If it had raped me, would you have just stood there and watched? Thanks a lot! Appreciate it. Gee, it’s getting to the point where I’m not sure who the bigger monsters are—us or them.” I spun sharply and tried to walk away but she latched onto my arm with a surprisingly strong grip.
“I couldn’t help you and you know it,” she snapped. “You know the rules.”
I shook her hand off my arm. “Actually, I don’t. Everyone else seems to. Just not me.”
“One betrayed is one dead,” said the old woman sharply. “Two betrayed is two dead. We count precious each of our kind, never more so than now. We cannot take risks that might betray more of us, especially not me. Besides, you held your own in a way I’ve never seen—and against a prince, no less! Sweet Jesus, how did you do it? What are you?” Her sharp blue gaze darted rapidly from my left eye to my right and back again. “At first your hair fooled me, then I knew it was you, from the bar. That skin, those eyes, and the way you walk—och, just like Patrona! But you can’t be Patrona’s, or I’d have known. From what O’Connor line do you come? Who is your mother?” she demanded.
I tossed my head impatiently. “Look, old lady, I told you that night in the bar that I’m not an O’Connor. My name is Lane. MacKayla Lane, from Georgia. My mom is Rainey Lane and before she married my dad, she was Rainey Frye. So there you have it. Sorry to disappoint you, but there’s not a single O’Connor anywhere in my family tree.”
“Then you were adopted,” the old woman said flatly.
I gasped. “I was not adopted!”
“Ballocks!” the old woman snapped. “Though I’ve no notion the hows and whys of it, you’re an O’Connor through and through.”
“The nerve!” I exclaimed. “How dare you come up to me and tell me I don’t know who I am? I’m MacKayla Lane and I was born in Christ Hospital just like my sister and my dad was right there in the room with my mom when I was born and I am not adopted and you don’t know the first thing about me or my family!”
And it was in my hand.
The imperious Fae was gone. Just like that. Blink of an eye, if I’d blinked. I hadn’t. He’d vanished.
I sat, breathing deeply, clutching the spear, and trying to regroup.
The room seeped slowly back into my consciousness: a buzz of noise, a blur of color, and finally, snippets of conversation here and there.
“What do you suppose she’s doing?”
“No idea, man, but she’s got a great ass. And talk about your tits to die for!”
“Cover your eyes, Danny. Now.” A mother’s tight, pinched voice. “She’s not decent.”
“Looks better than decent to me.” Accompanied by a low whistle and the flash of a camera.
“What the hell is in her hand? Should somebody call the cops?”
“I dunno, maybe the paramedics? She doesn’t look so well.”
I glanced around, wild-eyed. I was on the floor, surrounded by people on all sides, a circle of them, pressing in on me, staring down at me with greedy, curious eyes.
I sucked in a ragged breath that wanted to come back out as a sob, crammed the spear back in my purse—how in the world would I explain having it?—yanked my skirt back down over my bottom, clasped my bra over my bare breasts, fumbled for my shirt, yanked it over my head, picked up my shoes, and scrambled to my feet.
“Get out of my way,” I cried, plunging blindly into the crowd, shoving them aside, vultures, one and all.
I couldn’t help it. I burst into tears as I raced from the room.
For such an old woman, she sure could move fast.
She cut me off less than a block away from the museum, darting in front of me, blocking my path.
I veered sharply left, and detoured around her without missing a beat.
“Stop,” she cried.
“Go to hell,” I snapped over my shoulder, tears scalding my cheeks. My victory over V’lane with the spear had been completely overshadowed by my public humiliation. How long had I been sitting there with parts of me sticking out that no man had ever gotten a good look at in broad daylight unless armed with a speculum and a medical license? How long had they been watching me? Why hadn’t someone tried to cover me up? Down South, a man would have draped a shirt around me. He would have taken a quick glance while he did it, I mean, really, breasts are breasts and men are men, but chivalry is not entirely dead where I come from.
“Voyeurs,” I said bitterly. “Sick scandal-starved people.” Thank you, reality TV. People were so used to being taken straight into other people’s most intimate moments and viewing the sordid details of their lives that they were now far more inclined to sit back and enjoy the show than make any effort to help someone in need.
The old woman got in front of me again and I veered right this time, but she veered with me and I crashed into her. She was so elderly and tiny and fragile-looking that I was afraid she might topple over, and at her age, a fall could mean serious broken bones and a long recovery period. Good manners—unlike those creeps in the museum, some of us still had them—temporarily eclipsed my misery, and I steadied her by the elbows. “What?” I demanded. “What do you want? You want to bean me in the head again? Well, go ahead! Do it and get it over with! But I think you should know that I couldn’t help seeing this one and the situation is—well, it’s complicated.”
My assailant was the old woman from the bar that first night I’d arrived in Dublin; the one who’d rapped me with her knuckles and told me to stop staring at the Fae and go die somewhere else and—although now I knew she’d saved my life that night, she might have done it more nicely—I was currently in no mood to thank her.
Tilting her silvery-white head back, she stared up at me, a flabbergasted expression on her wrinkled face. “Who are you?” she exclaimed.
“What do you mean, who am I?” I said sourly. “Why are you chasing me if you don’t know who I am? Do you make a habit of chasing strangers?”
“I was in the museum,” she said. “I saw what you did! Sweet Jesus, Mary Mother of God and all the saints, who are you, lass?”
I was so disgusted with people in general that I shrieked, “You saw what that thing was trying to do to me and didn’t try to help me? If it had raped me, would you have just stood there and watched? Thanks a lot! Appreciate it. Gee, it’s getting to the point where I’m not sure who the bigger monsters are—us or them.” I spun sharply and tried to walk away but she latched onto my arm with a surprisingly strong grip.
“I couldn’t help you and you know it,” she snapped. “You know the rules.”
I shook her hand off my arm. “Actually, I don’t. Everyone else seems to. Just not me.”
“One betrayed is one dead,” said the old woman sharply. “Two betrayed is two dead. We count precious each of our kind, never more so than now. We cannot take risks that might betray more of us, especially not me. Besides, you held your own in a way I’ve never seen—and against a prince, no less! Sweet Jesus, how did you do it? What are you?” Her sharp blue gaze darted rapidly from my left eye to my right and back again. “At first your hair fooled me, then I knew it was you, from the bar. That skin, those eyes, and the way you walk—och, just like Patrona! But you can’t be Patrona’s, or I’d have known. From what O’Connor line do you come? Who is your mother?” she demanded.
I tossed my head impatiently. “Look, old lady, I told you that night in the bar that I’m not an O’Connor. My name is Lane. MacKayla Lane, from Georgia. My mom is Rainey Lane and before she married my dad, she was Rainey Frye. So there you have it. Sorry to disappoint you, but there’s not a single O’Connor anywhere in my family tree.”
“Then you were adopted,” the old woman said flatly.
I gasped. “I was not adopted!”
“Ballocks!” the old woman snapped. “Though I’ve no notion the hows and whys of it, you’re an O’Connor through and through.”
“The nerve!” I exclaimed. “How dare you come up to me and tell me I don’t know who I am? I’m MacKayla Lane and I was born in Christ Hospital just like my sister and my dad was right there in the room with my mom when I was born and I am not adopted and you don’t know the first thing about me or my family!”
