Midnight Blue-Light Special
Page 72
“I gathered.” I forced myself to relax, trying to look unconcerned. “What makes you think I’m going to talk?”
“I have a better question for you: what makes you think you’ve got a choice?” Margaret lunged across the small distance between us, grabbing my hair before I had a chance to move. She yanked my head back, making it pound even harder. “No one knows you’re here. No one’s coming to save you. You’re going to get what you have coming to you, finally, and you’re going to tell us where to find every other stinking rat in your hole.”
The pain in my head helped me focus on what mattered: she was right. I was her captive, and I was pretty sure the Covenant wouldn’t slap her wrists for using excessive force on me. All the advantages were hers. I put on my best tolerant reality television smile, trying to look like I wasn’t even a little bit concerned about my situation. “Oh, Christ, you’re a metaphor villain, aren’t you? You’re the ratcatcher, I’m the rat, you’re here to exterminate the vermin, is that it? Wow. Do they have a cliché course that they make you guys go through before they release you into the field? Or maybe you’re naturally talented. I mean, that happens, right?”
Margaret’s eyes widened in confused indignation before she let go of my hair and shoved my head hard to the side. My neck audibly cracked. I somehow managed not to squawk. “You may think you’re funny now, heretic, but you won’t be laughing for long.”
“You may as well kill me,” I said, aiming for boredom rather than bravado. I wasn’t sure that I was managing either. “I’m not going to tell you anything.”
“Aren’t you?” Margaret smiled. “You’ve already told me plenty.”
My stomach sank. “Oh?” I asked.
“You’re a traitor from a bloodline of traitors, but no Healy has ever been a coward. You wouldn’t be telling me to kill you if you didn’t have something to hide.” Margaret’s smile grew, chilling me. “You’re not the last of your family. And you’re going to tell me where to find them all before I let you die for your sins.”
I was so busy watching her face that I didn’t see her tense her arm until her hand lashed out, her fist catching me square in my unprotected jaw. The lights went out—for me, at least—and for a little while, the world went away again. My last thought before I lost consciousness was that I really, really hated this girl.
The sound of the door opening again woke me. I cracked my eyes open just enough to see that the lights were on, and that the person standing in front of me wasn’t Margaret. It was a man, slim, dark, about my height. Dominic. The sight of him made me sit up a little straighter and open my eyes all the way, my heart thudding painfully in my chest. Thankfully, I managed to bite my lip before I could say his name.
It wasn’t him. This man was the right height; that was where the resemblance ended. His hair was dark red, not brown verging on black, and his eyes were a cool, implacable blue. His skin was pale, spattered with freckles . . . and he was smiling.
“Why do you people smile all the damn time?” I asked, and was instantly ashamed of how shaky my voice sounded. Head injuries and unknown periods of captivity without food or water will do that to a girl.
“Because, love, you’re our unicorn,” he said. His accent was Irish, and heavier than Margaret’s. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
“Wait, so first I’m a rat, and now I’m a unicorn? If you’re going to be metaphor villains, maybe you should have a meeting first. Come up with a nice theme and stick to it.”
The man clucked his tongue, looking amused. “Oh, you’ve got a mouth on you, don’t you? I hoped you would. You look enough like the family standard that I assumed some other bits might breed true.” He leaned closer and murmured, with evident satisfaction, “You may have thought you were hiding, but you never stood a chance. You look too much like your ancestors.”
“And yet you people lost track of us for two generations. That sounds like a pretty good chance to me.”
“It was always borrowed time.” He leaned in and grasped my chin, turning my head so that he could study my profile. “You’ve got the Price blood in you, too. Oh, won’t those stuffed shirts be horrified to realize that their little disappearing scion really did marry the American Healy girl? You get to disappoint both sides of your heritage before you die, love. There’s people who’d love the chance to horrify their families like that.”
He was standing close to watch me squirm. My left leg was free. And I’m a trained salsa dancer.
My leg swept upward at a speed that would have seemed superhuman to anyone who’d never watched competition ballroom dance, catching the man from the Covenant squarely between the legs. The squishing feeling of his scrotum compressing against my knee was more satisfying than it probably should have been, but I didn’t worry about it much. When someone chains me up and tries bargain bin intimidation tactics on me, I figure I’m allowed to take a little pleasure in their pain.
“Ack,” said the man from the Covenant, his eyes going wide and glassy. His mouth dropped open as his hand fell away from my chin, letting me pull my head out of his grasp.
“Is that so?” I asked, dropping my leg slightly before ramming it back up into his balls.
His answer this time was much less coherent, and substantially higher in pitch.
“Huh. Think that’s something I can discuss with my long-lost family?” I dropped my leg, preparing for a third hit. You know what they say—third time’s the charm.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said a male voice.
I froze, leg still held straight out between the Irishman’s legs, and looked toward the door. The older of the two men from the Covenant was standing there, regarding me contemplatively. There was something that looked almost like sympathy in his eyes.
“It’s just that Peter doesn’t care for having pretty girls smash his testicles, and while two hits you might be able to write off as having been scared and disoriented, three sort of implies premeditation.” The man—Robert, by process of elimination—had a Welsh accent, and was wearing wire-rimmed glasses, hiding the color of his eyes. His hair was a nondescript shade of sandy blond, slowly fading into gray. I could easily have lost sight of him in a crowd. That just made him more unnerving. Covenant representatives should be easy to spot, and easier to avoid.
“I have a better question for you: what makes you think you’ve got a choice?” Margaret lunged across the small distance between us, grabbing my hair before I had a chance to move. She yanked my head back, making it pound even harder. “No one knows you’re here. No one’s coming to save you. You’re going to get what you have coming to you, finally, and you’re going to tell us where to find every other stinking rat in your hole.”
The pain in my head helped me focus on what mattered: she was right. I was her captive, and I was pretty sure the Covenant wouldn’t slap her wrists for using excessive force on me. All the advantages were hers. I put on my best tolerant reality television smile, trying to look like I wasn’t even a little bit concerned about my situation. “Oh, Christ, you’re a metaphor villain, aren’t you? You’re the ratcatcher, I’m the rat, you’re here to exterminate the vermin, is that it? Wow. Do they have a cliché course that they make you guys go through before they release you into the field? Or maybe you’re naturally talented. I mean, that happens, right?”
Margaret’s eyes widened in confused indignation before she let go of my hair and shoved my head hard to the side. My neck audibly cracked. I somehow managed not to squawk. “You may think you’re funny now, heretic, but you won’t be laughing for long.”
“You may as well kill me,” I said, aiming for boredom rather than bravado. I wasn’t sure that I was managing either. “I’m not going to tell you anything.”
“Aren’t you?” Margaret smiled. “You’ve already told me plenty.”
My stomach sank. “Oh?” I asked.
“You’re a traitor from a bloodline of traitors, but no Healy has ever been a coward. You wouldn’t be telling me to kill you if you didn’t have something to hide.” Margaret’s smile grew, chilling me. “You’re not the last of your family. And you’re going to tell me where to find them all before I let you die for your sins.”
I was so busy watching her face that I didn’t see her tense her arm until her hand lashed out, her fist catching me square in my unprotected jaw. The lights went out—for me, at least—and for a little while, the world went away again. My last thought before I lost consciousness was that I really, really hated this girl.
The sound of the door opening again woke me. I cracked my eyes open just enough to see that the lights were on, and that the person standing in front of me wasn’t Margaret. It was a man, slim, dark, about my height. Dominic. The sight of him made me sit up a little straighter and open my eyes all the way, my heart thudding painfully in my chest. Thankfully, I managed to bite my lip before I could say his name.
It wasn’t him. This man was the right height; that was where the resemblance ended. His hair was dark red, not brown verging on black, and his eyes were a cool, implacable blue. His skin was pale, spattered with freckles . . . and he was smiling.
“Why do you people smile all the damn time?” I asked, and was instantly ashamed of how shaky my voice sounded. Head injuries and unknown periods of captivity without food or water will do that to a girl.
“Because, love, you’re our unicorn,” he said. His accent was Irish, and heavier than Margaret’s. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
“Wait, so first I’m a rat, and now I’m a unicorn? If you’re going to be metaphor villains, maybe you should have a meeting first. Come up with a nice theme and stick to it.”
The man clucked his tongue, looking amused. “Oh, you’ve got a mouth on you, don’t you? I hoped you would. You look enough like the family standard that I assumed some other bits might breed true.” He leaned closer and murmured, with evident satisfaction, “You may have thought you were hiding, but you never stood a chance. You look too much like your ancestors.”
“And yet you people lost track of us for two generations. That sounds like a pretty good chance to me.”
“It was always borrowed time.” He leaned in and grasped my chin, turning my head so that he could study my profile. “You’ve got the Price blood in you, too. Oh, won’t those stuffed shirts be horrified to realize that their little disappearing scion really did marry the American Healy girl? You get to disappoint both sides of your heritage before you die, love. There’s people who’d love the chance to horrify their families like that.”
He was standing close to watch me squirm. My left leg was free. And I’m a trained salsa dancer.
My leg swept upward at a speed that would have seemed superhuman to anyone who’d never watched competition ballroom dance, catching the man from the Covenant squarely between the legs. The squishing feeling of his scrotum compressing against my knee was more satisfying than it probably should have been, but I didn’t worry about it much. When someone chains me up and tries bargain bin intimidation tactics on me, I figure I’m allowed to take a little pleasure in their pain.
“Ack,” said the man from the Covenant, his eyes going wide and glassy. His mouth dropped open as his hand fell away from my chin, letting me pull my head out of his grasp.
“Is that so?” I asked, dropping my leg slightly before ramming it back up into his balls.
His answer this time was much less coherent, and substantially higher in pitch.
“Huh. Think that’s something I can discuss with my long-lost family?” I dropped my leg, preparing for a third hit. You know what they say—third time’s the charm.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said a male voice.
I froze, leg still held straight out between the Irishman’s legs, and looked toward the door. The older of the two men from the Covenant was standing there, regarding me contemplatively. There was something that looked almost like sympathy in his eyes.
“It’s just that Peter doesn’t care for having pretty girls smash his testicles, and while two hits you might be able to write off as having been scared and disoriented, three sort of implies premeditation.” The man—Robert, by process of elimination—had a Welsh accent, and was wearing wire-rimmed glasses, hiding the color of his eyes. His hair was a nondescript shade of sandy blond, slowly fading into gray. I could easily have lost sight of him in a crowd. That just made him more unnerving. Covenant representatives should be easy to spot, and easier to avoid.
