Rosemary and Rue
Page 81
Devin turned. Slimy bastard. No honor among thieves; I know better’n to trust him, but the money’s so good. “Just bring me the box and proof she’s dead for real this time, not just lost in some pond somewhere,” he said. His smile was bitter; his eyes were empty.
Behind my own growing horror, I saw those eyes and understood that this was really happening. I worked for Devin. I was his flunky and his lover, and I knew what that look meant. When he looked like that, somebody was getting written off as a loss; somebody was already dead. And this time, it was me.
Devin was still speaking, voice getting more distant as my grasp on the spell faltered: “The Winterrose has managed to trick me before. Toby’s a little fool, but she’s Amandine’s daughter. I can’t trust her not to ruin this for me.”
Denial ceased to be an option—and so did breathing as Evening’s curse slammed down without warning, knocking me deeper into the memories of the assassin Devin set on my trail. The memory of Evening’s death and my transformation became tangled in the curse, along with the sudden bitter addition of the night I followed my mother’s people into Faerie. The weight of that memory alone was enough to force me farther down until I was drowning in a rosy mist.
There were three deaths waiting for me: I could have my choice of suffocation, iron, or gunfire, and any of them could carry me home, stop my heart, and end the pain. All I had to do was stop fighting. I could write myself out of the play, just like Ophelia before me; it could be over. Maybe I could’ve kept fighting temptation if the curse hadn’t decided to start playing dirty . . . but like the Luidaeg said, it was a beautiful piece of work, and it had been strengthened past its original purpose by my own foolishness.
Wouldn’t it be nice to get what you were looking for? it whispered. I can give you peace. I can be your flight of angels. Just give up and let me in.
The taste of roses filled the world. Maybe it was right; maybe I was done. I’d done what I was bound to do. I found the killers, or at least the one who hired them. The hope chest was safe with Tybalt. There was nothing left for me to do, and I had no Home to go to. Blood and betrayal: who needs anything else? Devin was my mentor, my friend, and my lover, and he’d tried to kill me. He’d ordered the deaths of at least two people, and he’d lied about it without blinking. Nothing was the way I’d left it; my world was dead. Why did I bother fighting?
I went limp beneath the weight of memory, letting the phantom roses wrap around me. I was ready to die, to sleep, to dream no more. No more dreams. No more deaths. No more anything. The world started to slip away.
Something that burned hot and cold at the same time hit me in the middle of my chest. The roses lost their grip as I was jerked, gasping, back into my body. The pain didn’t stop. I opened my eyes, and Lily was standing over me, one hand clutching the other, the skin looking cracked and seared.
The gun I’d stolen was on top of me, the chamber open to let the iron bullets spill out. They were bitterly cold, even through my shirt. My cup was shattered on the ground beside me, the moss around it dark with blood.
I sat up, scooping the bullets into my hand and shoving them back into the chamber before snapping it closed. I didn’t turn back toward Lily until they were all out of sight.
“You left,” she whispered. “I told you it was dangerous, but you did it anyway . . . and you left. Your body was here, and there was no one inside it.”
I glanced at her burned hand. Iron hurts purebloods worse than it hurts changelings, and as an Undine, Lily was more susceptible than most; she was only flesh because she wanted to be. To an Undine, iron is like acid, and the fact that she was willing to touch it at all showed something more than friendship. I set the thought regretfully aside. There would be time to think about what she’d done for me later . . . and time to wonder whether I could ever repay it.
Her expression was slowly returning to its normal serenity, although her eyes were pained. “Did you find what you needed?”
What I needed? I looked at the gun I was holding and nodded, slowly.
“Yeah, I did,” I said.
“And?” There was a waiting, worried edge to her voice. She knew what came next as well as I did, even if she didn’t know why.
I sighed. “Can you call me a taxi?”
TWENTY-SIX
IN THE END, LILY DIDN’T CALL the taxi; I did. Danny said he could be there in fifteen minutes, and that was good enough, because it also gave me time to call Shadowed Hills and leave a terse, angry messageto with the Hob who answered the phone. “Tell Sylvester I’m going Home,” I said. “I’ll try not to die before I get there.”
“Wait for him,” Lily said, watching me drop the phone back into its cradle. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
“Time’s too short, and the stakes are too high.” If Devin was willing to kill me to get his hands on the hope chest, how long would it be before he started trying to find its hiding place? How long before there were assassins in the bushes at Shadowed Hills, hired killers watching the Court of Cats for targets? “This ends now.”
“Yes,” she said, anxiously. “It very well may.”
I paused. “Can you send a messenger to Tybalt?” She nodded. “Tell him it was Devin; tell him he knows why, if he thinks about it. And tell him I’m sorry I got him involved in this.”
“Toby . . .”
“Just tell him.” I kissed her forehead and left the Tea Gardens as quickly as I could, heading for the parking lot where Danny would be meeting me.
I didn’t look back.
Danny picked up pretty quickly on my desire to make the drive in silence. Maybe it was the fact that I cried the whole way. The street in front of Home was deserted when we pulled up; he took the money Lily had given me for cab fare, looking at me with worry in his eyes. “You gonna be okay in there? You need some muscle?”
I patted his elbow. “I’ll be fine, Danny.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“All right. You need me, you call.” Then he was gone, tires squealing as he blazed off down the street. I watched until I was sure that he was gone before pulling the gun out of my pocket and turning to walk up to the door.
It was time to go Home.
Home’s door was often closed but never locked; all you had to do to get inside is want to be there. Kids were posted in the front room twenty-four hours a day, making sure trouble didn’t start unless they started it. But when I turned the doorknob, nothing happened. The door was locked against me. Devin knew I was coming.
Behind my own growing horror, I saw those eyes and understood that this was really happening. I worked for Devin. I was his flunky and his lover, and I knew what that look meant. When he looked like that, somebody was getting written off as a loss; somebody was already dead. And this time, it was me.
Devin was still speaking, voice getting more distant as my grasp on the spell faltered: “The Winterrose has managed to trick me before. Toby’s a little fool, but she’s Amandine’s daughter. I can’t trust her not to ruin this for me.”
Denial ceased to be an option—and so did breathing as Evening’s curse slammed down without warning, knocking me deeper into the memories of the assassin Devin set on my trail. The memory of Evening’s death and my transformation became tangled in the curse, along with the sudden bitter addition of the night I followed my mother’s people into Faerie. The weight of that memory alone was enough to force me farther down until I was drowning in a rosy mist.
There were three deaths waiting for me: I could have my choice of suffocation, iron, or gunfire, and any of them could carry me home, stop my heart, and end the pain. All I had to do was stop fighting. I could write myself out of the play, just like Ophelia before me; it could be over. Maybe I could’ve kept fighting temptation if the curse hadn’t decided to start playing dirty . . . but like the Luidaeg said, it was a beautiful piece of work, and it had been strengthened past its original purpose by my own foolishness.
Wouldn’t it be nice to get what you were looking for? it whispered. I can give you peace. I can be your flight of angels. Just give up and let me in.
The taste of roses filled the world. Maybe it was right; maybe I was done. I’d done what I was bound to do. I found the killers, or at least the one who hired them. The hope chest was safe with Tybalt. There was nothing left for me to do, and I had no Home to go to. Blood and betrayal: who needs anything else? Devin was my mentor, my friend, and my lover, and he’d tried to kill me. He’d ordered the deaths of at least two people, and he’d lied about it without blinking. Nothing was the way I’d left it; my world was dead. Why did I bother fighting?
I went limp beneath the weight of memory, letting the phantom roses wrap around me. I was ready to die, to sleep, to dream no more. No more dreams. No more deaths. No more anything. The world started to slip away.
Something that burned hot and cold at the same time hit me in the middle of my chest. The roses lost their grip as I was jerked, gasping, back into my body. The pain didn’t stop. I opened my eyes, and Lily was standing over me, one hand clutching the other, the skin looking cracked and seared.
The gun I’d stolen was on top of me, the chamber open to let the iron bullets spill out. They were bitterly cold, even through my shirt. My cup was shattered on the ground beside me, the moss around it dark with blood.
I sat up, scooping the bullets into my hand and shoving them back into the chamber before snapping it closed. I didn’t turn back toward Lily until they were all out of sight.
“You left,” she whispered. “I told you it was dangerous, but you did it anyway . . . and you left. Your body was here, and there was no one inside it.”
I glanced at her burned hand. Iron hurts purebloods worse than it hurts changelings, and as an Undine, Lily was more susceptible than most; she was only flesh because she wanted to be. To an Undine, iron is like acid, and the fact that she was willing to touch it at all showed something more than friendship. I set the thought regretfully aside. There would be time to think about what she’d done for me later . . . and time to wonder whether I could ever repay it.
Her expression was slowly returning to its normal serenity, although her eyes were pained. “Did you find what you needed?”
What I needed? I looked at the gun I was holding and nodded, slowly.
“Yeah, I did,” I said.
“And?” There was a waiting, worried edge to her voice. She knew what came next as well as I did, even if she didn’t know why.
I sighed. “Can you call me a taxi?”
TWENTY-SIX
IN THE END, LILY DIDN’T CALL the taxi; I did. Danny said he could be there in fifteen minutes, and that was good enough, because it also gave me time to call Shadowed Hills and leave a terse, angry messageto with the Hob who answered the phone. “Tell Sylvester I’m going Home,” I said. “I’ll try not to die before I get there.”
“Wait for him,” Lily said, watching me drop the phone back into its cradle. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
“Time’s too short, and the stakes are too high.” If Devin was willing to kill me to get his hands on the hope chest, how long would it be before he started trying to find its hiding place? How long before there were assassins in the bushes at Shadowed Hills, hired killers watching the Court of Cats for targets? “This ends now.”
“Yes,” she said, anxiously. “It very well may.”
I paused. “Can you send a messenger to Tybalt?” She nodded. “Tell him it was Devin; tell him he knows why, if he thinks about it. And tell him I’m sorry I got him involved in this.”
“Toby . . .”
“Just tell him.” I kissed her forehead and left the Tea Gardens as quickly as I could, heading for the parking lot where Danny would be meeting me.
I didn’t look back.
Danny picked up pretty quickly on my desire to make the drive in silence. Maybe it was the fact that I cried the whole way. The street in front of Home was deserted when we pulled up; he took the money Lily had given me for cab fare, looking at me with worry in his eyes. “You gonna be okay in there? You need some muscle?”
I patted his elbow. “I’ll be fine, Danny.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“All right. You need me, you call.” Then he was gone, tires squealing as he blazed off down the street. I watched until I was sure that he was gone before pulling the gun out of my pocket and turning to walk up to the door.
It was time to go Home.
Home’s door was often closed but never locked; all you had to do to get inside is want to be there. Kids were posted in the front room twenty-four hours a day, making sure trouble didn’t start unless they started it. But when I turned the doorknob, nothing happened. The door was locked against me. Devin knew I was coming.
