Shadowfever
Page 35
Stop laughing, Darroc growls.
Hilarity has me on the edge of hysterics and it hurts. I manage to raise my head from my knees just enough to shoot him a dirty look. Id love to stop laughing. But I cant.
I want to tell him to make the damned things go away, except I cant breathe, I cant even close my lips long enough to grit consonants. Whatever these lovely little Seelie monsters are, their specialty is death-by-laughter. What a hellish way to go. After only a few minutes, my sides ache from heaving, my gut burns, and Im so breathless Im light-headed. I wonder how long it takes to die of forced mirth. Hours? Days?
A fourth tiny Fae takes up the game, and I brace myself to dive inward, to find a weapon in my dark, lake-filled cave, when suddenly a long tongue, dripping venom, whizzes past my ear and plucks the dainty Seelie straight from the air.
I hear crunching noises behind me.
I snicker helplessly.
Vlane! the golden goddess shrieks. That thing, that awful thing, it ate Mree!
I hear another snap, followed by more crunching noises, and a second one is gone. I cackle madly.
The remaining two retreat, shaking tiny fists and screaming in a language I dont understand. Even angry, the sound they make is more beautiful than an aria.
My laughter loses its forced edge.
After a long moment, Im able to relax and I stop making crazed sounds of amusement. Peals fade to moans to silence. I release my sides and gulp cool, soothing air.
I stand, suddenly furious, and this emotion is all mine. Im sick of being vulnerable. If Id had my spear, those nasty little death-by-laughter fairies would never have dared approach me. Id have skewered them midair and made Fae kebabs out of them.
Friends, I hiss at Darroc, trust each other.
But he doesnt. I see it in his face.
You said you would give it to me so I could defend us.
He smiles faintly, and I know hes remembering how Malluc died: slowly, gruesomely, rotting from the inside out. The spear kills all things Fae, and because Darroc has been eating so much Unseelie, hes laced with veins of Fae. One tiny little prick of the tip of my spear would be a death sentence. As yet, we are not under attack.
Who are you talking to, human? the goddess demands.
I look at Darroc, who shrugs. I told you the first Seelie that saw me would try to kill me. Hence they do not see me. My princes keep me concealed from their vision.
Now I understand why Vlanes gaze slid over him like he wasnt there. Hes not. So it looks like Im the only one standing here? They think Im running your army!
Never fear, sidhe-seer, Vlane says coldly. I smell the foulness of what was once Fae and now cannibalizes our race. I know who leads this army. As for his being your friend, theone you so unwisely walk with has no friends. He has always served only his own purposes.
I tilt my head. Are you my friend, Vlane?
I would be. I have offered you my protection repeatedly.
The goddess gasps. You offered our protection and she refused? She chose those things over us?
Silence, Dreelia!
The Tuatha D Danann do not offer twice! she fumes. I said, Silence! Vlane snaps.
Clearly you do not under
I gape.
Dreelia has no mouth. There is only smooth skin where her lips used to be. Delicate nostrils flare beneath ancient, hate-filled eyes.
The golden god moves to embrace her. She rests her head in the hollow of his neck and clutches him. That was unnecessary, he tells Vlane stiffly.
Im struck by the absurdity of the moment. Here I stand, between opposing halves of the most powerful race imaginable. They are at war with each other. They despise each other and are vying for the same prize.
And the Seeliewho have enjoyed absolute freedom and power their entire existencesare squabbling among themselves over trivialities, while the Unseeliewhove been imprisoned, starved, and tortured for hundreds of thousands of yearspatiently hold formation and wait for Darrocs orders.
And I cant help but see myself in them. The Seelie are who I was before my sister died. Pink, pretty, frivolous Mac. The Unseelie are who Ive become, carved by loss and despair. Black, grungy, driven Mac.
The Unseelie are stronger, less breakable. Im glad Im like them.
I will speak with the sidhe-seer alone, Vlane says.
He will not, Darroc growls at my side.
Vlane extends his hand when I dont move. Come, we must speak privately.
Why?
What subtle nuance of the word private do you not understand?
Probably the same subtle nuance of the word no you never understand. Im not sifting anywhere with you.
The god at his right gasps at my disrespect of his prince, but I see a small smile shape the corners of Vlanes mouth.
Consorting with Barrons has changed you. I think he will approve.
The name is poison in my veins, from which I will die a slow death every minute I have to spend in this world without him. Ill never be on the receiving end of one of those looks again. Never see that infamous mocking smile. Never have one of those wordless conversations in which we said so much more with our eyes than either of us ever was willing to say with our mouths. Jericho, Jericho, Jericho. How many times did I actually ever speak his name? Three? Barrons is dead, I say coolly.
Hilarity has me on the edge of hysterics and it hurts. I manage to raise my head from my knees just enough to shoot him a dirty look. Id love to stop laughing. But I cant.
I want to tell him to make the damned things go away, except I cant breathe, I cant even close my lips long enough to grit consonants. Whatever these lovely little Seelie monsters are, their specialty is death-by-laughter. What a hellish way to go. After only a few minutes, my sides ache from heaving, my gut burns, and Im so breathless Im light-headed. I wonder how long it takes to die of forced mirth. Hours? Days?
A fourth tiny Fae takes up the game, and I brace myself to dive inward, to find a weapon in my dark, lake-filled cave, when suddenly a long tongue, dripping venom, whizzes past my ear and plucks the dainty Seelie straight from the air.
I hear crunching noises behind me.
I snicker helplessly.
Vlane! the golden goddess shrieks. That thing, that awful thing, it ate Mree!
I hear another snap, followed by more crunching noises, and a second one is gone. I cackle madly.
The remaining two retreat, shaking tiny fists and screaming in a language I dont understand. Even angry, the sound they make is more beautiful than an aria.
My laughter loses its forced edge.
After a long moment, Im able to relax and I stop making crazed sounds of amusement. Peals fade to moans to silence. I release my sides and gulp cool, soothing air.
I stand, suddenly furious, and this emotion is all mine. Im sick of being vulnerable. If Id had my spear, those nasty little death-by-laughter fairies would never have dared approach me. Id have skewered them midair and made Fae kebabs out of them.
Friends, I hiss at Darroc, trust each other.
But he doesnt. I see it in his face.
You said you would give it to me so I could defend us.
He smiles faintly, and I know hes remembering how Malluc died: slowly, gruesomely, rotting from the inside out. The spear kills all things Fae, and because Darroc has been eating so much Unseelie, hes laced with veins of Fae. One tiny little prick of the tip of my spear would be a death sentence. As yet, we are not under attack.
Who are you talking to, human? the goddess demands.
I look at Darroc, who shrugs. I told you the first Seelie that saw me would try to kill me. Hence they do not see me. My princes keep me concealed from their vision.
Now I understand why Vlanes gaze slid over him like he wasnt there. Hes not. So it looks like Im the only one standing here? They think Im running your army!
Never fear, sidhe-seer, Vlane says coldly. I smell the foulness of what was once Fae and now cannibalizes our race. I know who leads this army. As for his being your friend, theone you so unwisely walk with has no friends. He has always served only his own purposes.
I tilt my head. Are you my friend, Vlane?
I would be. I have offered you my protection repeatedly.
The goddess gasps. You offered our protection and she refused? She chose those things over us?
Silence, Dreelia!
The Tuatha D Danann do not offer twice! she fumes. I said, Silence! Vlane snaps.
Clearly you do not under
I gape.
Dreelia has no mouth. There is only smooth skin where her lips used to be. Delicate nostrils flare beneath ancient, hate-filled eyes.
The golden god moves to embrace her. She rests her head in the hollow of his neck and clutches him. That was unnecessary, he tells Vlane stiffly.
Im struck by the absurdity of the moment. Here I stand, between opposing halves of the most powerful race imaginable. They are at war with each other. They despise each other and are vying for the same prize.
And the Seeliewho have enjoyed absolute freedom and power their entire existencesare squabbling among themselves over trivialities, while the Unseeliewhove been imprisoned, starved, and tortured for hundreds of thousands of yearspatiently hold formation and wait for Darrocs orders.
And I cant help but see myself in them. The Seelie are who I was before my sister died. Pink, pretty, frivolous Mac. The Unseelie are who Ive become, carved by loss and despair. Black, grungy, driven Mac.
The Unseelie are stronger, less breakable. Im glad Im like them.
I will speak with the sidhe-seer alone, Vlane says.
He will not, Darroc growls at my side.
Vlane extends his hand when I dont move. Come, we must speak privately.
Why?
What subtle nuance of the word private do you not understand?
Probably the same subtle nuance of the word no you never understand. Im not sifting anywhere with you.
The god at his right gasps at my disrespect of his prince, but I see a small smile shape the corners of Vlanes mouth.
Consorting with Barrons has changed you. I think he will approve.
The name is poison in my veins, from which I will die a slow death every minute I have to spend in this world without him. Ill never be on the receiving end of one of those looks again. Never see that infamous mocking smile. Never have one of those wordless conversations in which we said so much more with our eyes than either of us ever was willing to say with our mouths. Jericho, Jericho, Jericho. How many times did I actually ever speak his name? Three? Barrons is dead, I say coolly.
