Feverborn
Page 45
I was pleased to see that V’lane/Cruce’s protection of Ashford when the walls had fallen had indeed kept it remarkably unchanged. Lights glowed in windows, there were no wrecked cars blocking the streets or signs of random rioting and carnage. No Dark Zones, no Unseelie lurking in the alleys, not one husk of the dead tumbling down desolate streets.
I supposed it was pretty much the way it had been before the walls fell—my town was too provincial and unexciting to draw the Fae.
It was as if the war between our races had given the place as wide a berth as Sherman’s armies when the troops made the devastating march from Atlanta, after burning it to the ground. Although Ashford hadn’t been torched by Sherman’s marauding army determined to “make Georgia howl,” half the town center burned to ash in the late 1890s, and they’d rebuilt it with a plan for revenue, planting a large number of shops and restaurants arranged around an enormous, beautifully landscaped square.
We passed the Brickyard where I used to bartend.
I barely spared it a glance.
My head was jam-packed with images of my dead sister, curled on the floor, screaming. Afraid of me. Crying out for Darroc.
It was too much to deal with. It was one thing to see an illusion of my dead sister, another to see her apparently terrified of me for some reason. That moment when her joy had turned to horror was scorched into my brain, eclipsing all my good mental photographs of her.
What sadistic game was the Book playing?
“See that hardware store?” I said to Christian, pointing. It was open for business, I supposed on the barter system, but I was in no mood to see anyone I knew. “Can you sift in and grab me a shovel?”
He shot me a look that couldn’t have more plainly said, What the bloody hell do you think I am? Your little fetch-it boy?
“Please,” I added. “And make it two.”
One brow arched. “You think I’m going to dig?”
“I was hoping.”
“You do know I can simply make the earth move, Mac. Even as a mere druid, I had that much skill. What do you want moved?”
“Silly me,” I said dryly. I’d not even considered that Christian was the Bewitched I’d teased Barrons about being. Truth was, I’d rather been looking forward to some physical labor. That damn steam I needed to burn off.
“Come on,” I said, sighing. “The cemetery’s this way.”
“Great. A bloody cemetery,” he said, and matched my sigh. “I’m never going to get away from Death.”
—
There were no flowers on my sister’s grave. My town puts plastic bouquets everywhere in the cemetery, which is attractive from a distance but I always thought was kind of gruesome close up. Embalmed blossoms for embalmed people.
I paused at the foot of her grave and closed my eyes. It was over a year ago I’d stood here in the pouring rain, matching it tear for drop, trying to make sense of my life, trying to envision a future—any kind of future—for myself without her.
If I’d known back then how much worse it was going to get, I might have stretched on her grave and never gotten up.
I opened my eyes and read the inscription on her headstone, although I had no need. My parents had been too distraught to think, nodding blankly as all their friends murmured sadly and too many times to count, while clutching their children close, No parent should outlive their child.
I’d made all the funeral decisions.
Alina McKenna Lane. Beloved Daughter and Sister. And beneath it, in flowing calligraphy: If love could have saved you, you would have lived forever.
Beside me, Christian snorted. “You want to dig up your sister’s grave?”
“Yes,” I said flatly.
“Why, lass?”
“I want to see her body.”
“That’s twisted, even for you.”
“Says the man who’s stalking his uncle’s corpse. You said you could move the dirt. Can you raise her casket?” I glanced around the cemetery. “And somehow glamour us so those people walking over there, staring at us, don’t see what we’re doing?”
“Bloody hell, you better find me solid information on my uncle, Mac.”
“Do all Fae get testy when humans ask them to perform minor tasks?”
“I’m not Fae,” he growled, and moved to stand beside me.
“Ow!” I snapped. “What did you just do?” I’d felt a sharp tug on my hair, as if a cluster of strands had been yanked out at the roots.
“Sorry, lass. My wings. I’m not always certain where they are. Looks like some of that red stuff in your hair is still sticky.”
I rubbed my head where it stung. I didn’t feel any paint.
Then I forgot all about my hair when the ground in front of me began to tremble and churn, as if something enormous was rising from the bowels of the earth. It shook and shivered and dirt poured up and tumbled away from the burial plot as the casket emerged from the ground.
Christian was pretty darned handy.
“I don’t know why you’re bothering, Mac,” he said irritably.
“I need to see that she’s dead.”
He gave me a strange look with those strange eyes. “There’s nothing dead in there, lass.”
“I put something dead in there,” I snapped. “And it had damn well better still be there.”
“Whatever.” He shrugged.
When the casket settled next to the gaping hole in the earth, I stepped close and ran my hands over the lid.
I supposed it was pretty much the way it had been before the walls fell—my town was too provincial and unexciting to draw the Fae.
It was as if the war between our races had given the place as wide a berth as Sherman’s armies when the troops made the devastating march from Atlanta, after burning it to the ground. Although Ashford hadn’t been torched by Sherman’s marauding army determined to “make Georgia howl,” half the town center burned to ash in the late 1890s, and they’d rebuilt it with a plan for revenue, planting a large number of shops and restaurants arranged around an enormous, beautifully landscaped square.
We passed the Brickyard where I used to bartend.
I barely spared it a glance.
My head was jam-packed with images of my dead sister, curled on the floor, screaming. Afraid of me. Crying out for Darroc.
It was too much to deal with. It was one thing to see an illusion of my dead sister, another to see her apparently terrified of me for some reason. That moment when her joy had turned to horror was scorched into my brain, eclipsing all my good mental photographs of her.
What sadistic game was the Book playing?
“See that hardware store?” I said to Christian, pointing. It was open for business, I supposed on the barter system, but I was in no mood to see anyone I knew. “Can you sift in and grab me a shovel?”
He shot me a look that couldn’t have more plainly said, What the bloody hell do you think I am? Your little fetch-it boy?
“Please,” I added. “And make it two.”
One brow arched. “You think I’m going to dig?”
“I was hoping.”
“You do know I can simply make the earth move, Mac. Even as a mere druid, I had that much skill. What do you want moved?”
“Silly me,” I said dryly. I’d not even considered that Christian was the Bewitched I’d teased Barrons about being. Truth was, I’d rather been looking forward to some physical labor. That damn steam I needed to burn off.
“Come on,” I said, sighing. “The cemetery’s this way.”
“Great. A bloody cemetery,” he said, and matched my sigh. “I’m never going to get away from Death.”
—
There were no flowers on my sister’s grave. My town puts plastic bouquets everywhere in the cemetery, which is attractive from a distance but I always thought was kind of gruesome close up. Embalmed blossoms for embalmed people.
I paused at the foot of her grave and closed my eyes. It was over a year ago I’d stood here in the pouring rain, matching it tear for drop, trying to make sense of my life, trying to envision a future—any kind of future—for myself without her.
If I’d known back then how much worse it was going to get, I might have stretched on her grave and never gotten up.
I opened my eyes and read the inscription on her headstone, although I had no need. My parents had been too distraught to think, nodding blankly as all their friends murmured sadly and too many times to count, while clutching their children close, No parent should outlive their child.
I’d made all the funeral decisions.
Alina McKenna Lane. Beloved Daughter and Sister. And beneath it, in flowing calligraphy: If love could have saved you, you would have lived forever.
Beside me, Christian snorted. “You want to dig up your sister’s grave?”
“Yes,” I said flatly.
“Why, lass?”
“I want to see her body.”
“That’s twisted, even for you.”
“Says the man who’s stalking his uncle’s corpse. You said you could move the dirt. Can you raise her casket?” I glanced around the cemetery. “And somehow glamour us so those people walking over there, staring at us, don’t see what we’re doing?”
“Bloody hell, you better find me solid information on my uncle, Mac.”
“Do all Fae get testy when humans ask them to perform minor tasks?”
“I’m not Fae,” he growled, and moved to stand beside me.
“Ow!” I snapped. “What did you just do?” I’d felt a sharp tug on my hair, as if a cluster of strands had been yanked out at the roots.
“Sorry, lass. My wings. I’m not always certain where they are. Looks like some of that red stuff in your hair is still sticky.”
I rubbed my head where it stung. I didn’t feel any paint.
Then I forgot all about my hair when the ground in front of me began to tremble and churn, as if something enormous was rising from the bowels of the earth. It shook and shivered and dirt poured up and tumbled away from the burial plot as the casket emerged from the ground.
Christian was pretty darned handy.
“I don’t know why you’re bothering, Mac,” he said irritably.
“I need to see that she’s dead.”
He gave me a strange look with those strange eyes. “There’s nothing dead in there, lass.”
“I put something dead in there,” I snapped. “And it had damn well better still be there.”
“Whatever.” He shrugged.
When the casket settled next to the gaping hole in the earth, I stepped close and ran my hands over the lid.
