Bloodfever
Page 5

Barrons gave the inspector a wolfish smile. Certainly. He removed a wallet from the inner pocket of his suit. He held it out but didnt let go. And yours, Inspector.
ODuffys jaw tightened but he complied.
As the men swapped identifications, I sidled closer to ODuffy so I could peer into Barrons wallet.
Would wonders never cease? Just like a real person, he had a drivers license. Hair: black. Eyes: brown. Height: 6' 3". Weight: 245. His birthdaywas he kidding?Halloween. He was thirty-one years old and his middle initial was Z. I doubted he was an organ donor.
Youve a box in Galway as your address, Mr. Barrons. Is that where you were born?
Id once asked Barrons about his lineage, hed told me Pict and Basque. Galway was in Ireland, a few hours west of Dublin.
No.
Where?
Scotland.
You dont sound Scottish.
You dont sound Irish. Yet here you are, policing Ireland. But then the English have been trying to cram their laws down their neighbors throats for centuries, havent they, Inspector?
ODuffy had an eye tic. I hadnt noticed it before. How long have you been in Dublin?
A few years. You?
Im the one asking the questions.
Only because Im standing here letting you.
I can take you down to the station. Would you prefer that?
Try. The one word dared the Garda to try, by fair means or foul. The accompanying smile guaranteed failure. I wondered what hed do if the inspector attempted it. My inscrutable host seems to possess a bottomless bag of tricks.
ODuffy held Barrons gaze longer than I expected him to. I wanted to tell him there was no shame in looking away. Barrons has something the rest of us dont have. I dont know what it is, but I feel it all the time, especially when were standing close. Beneath the expensive clothes, unplaceable accent, and cultured veneer, theres something that never crawled all the way out of the swamp. It didnt want to. It likes it there.
The inspector apparently deemed an exchange of information the wisest, or maybe just the easiest course. Ive been in Dublin since I was twelve. When my father died, my mother remarried an Irishman. Theres a man over at Chesters says he knows you, Mr. Barrons. Names Ryodan. Ring a bell?
Ms. Lane, go upstairs, Barrons said, instantly, softly.
Im perfectly fine here. Who was Ryodan and what didnt Barrons want me to know?
Up. Stairs. Now.
I scowled. I didnt have to look at ODuffy to know he was regarding me with acute interestand pity. He was thinking Barrons was the name of the flight of stairs Id fallen down. I hate pity. Sympathy isnt quite as bad. Sympathysays, I know how it feels, doesnt it just suck? Pity means they think youre defeated.
He doesnt beat me, I said irritably. Id kill him if he did.
She would. She has a temper. Stubborn, too. But were working on that, arent we, Ms. Lane? Barrons turned his wolf smile on me, and jerked his head up toward the ceiling.
Someday Im going to push Jericho Barrons as far as I can and see what happens. But Im going to wait a while, until Im stronger. Until Im pretty sure Ive got a trump card.
I may have been forced into this war, but Im learning to choose my battles.
I didnt see Barrons for the rest of the day.
A dutiful soldier, I retreated to the ditches as ordered and hunkered down there. In those ditches, I had an epiphany. People treat you as badly as you let them treat you.
Key word there: let.
Some people are exceptions, mostly parents, best friends, and spouses, though in my bartending job at The Brickyard, Ive seen married people do worse things to each other in public than Id do in private to someone I couldnt stand. Bottom line is most of the world will push you as far as you let them. Barrons might have sent me to my room, but Im the idiot that went. What was I afraid of? That hed hurt me, kill me? Hardly. Hed saved my life last week. He needed me. Why had I let him intimidate me?
I was disgusted with myself. I was still behaving like MacKayla Lane, part-time bartender, part-time sun-worshipper, and full-time glamour girl. My recent brush with death had made it clear that chick wasnt going to survive over here, a statement emphatically punctuated by ten unpolished, broken fingernails. Unfortunately, by the time I had my epiphany and stormed back downstairs, Barrons and the inspector were gone.
Worsening my already foul mood, the woman who runs the bookstore and carries a major torch for Barrons had arrived. Stunning, voluptuous, in her early fifties, Fiona doesnt like me at all. I suspect if she knew Barrons kissed me last week shed like me even less. I was nearly unconscious when he did it, but I remember. Its been impossible to forget.
When she looked up from the numbers she was punching in on her cell phone, I decided maybe she did know. Her eyes were venomous, her mouth a moue fanned by delicate wrinkles. With each quick, shallow inhalation, her lacy blouse trembled over her full bosom, as if shed just dashed somewhere in a great hurry, or was suffering great distress. What was Jericho doing here today? she asked in a pinched tone. Its Sunday. Hes not supposed to be here on Sunday. I cant imagine any reason for him to stop by. She scanned me from head to toe, looking, I think, for signs of a recent tryst: tousled hair, perhaps a missed button on my blouse, or panties overlooked in the haste of dressing, left bunched in the leg of my jeans. I did that once. Alina saved me before Mom caught me.