Dreamfever
Page 7

I scramble back, half-freeze-frame speed. I get the feeling he lets me. It chafes, bad.
I look past him and nearly squeak again.
Eight men fan in V formation behind him, packing weapons from head to toe, draped in ammo, toting what look like Uzis. Big men. Couple of ‘em seem more animal than human. One of ‘em looks like Death himself, with white hair, pale skin, and hot dark eyes that assess restlessly, incessantly. They fix on me. I cringe. They all move sleek and strange. Ooze arrogance like Fae, but they’re not Fae. Sidhe-seers are plastered up against the walls, trying not to draw attention to themselves. Nobody dead that I can see. I think the gunshots I heard were warnings, sprayed into the air. Hope so. The energy rolling off these dudes is fierce. Whatever Barrons has got—I can’t put my finger on it, but on a raw-power graph it’s off the fecking charts—they’ve got, too. Watching this crew stalk down the hall of the abbey makes even me feel like peeling out of the way.
One of the men has Ro banded by a forearm, knife at her throat.
I should whiz in and save her. She’s our Grand Mistress. She’s our highest priority. Thing is, I’m not sure I can make it past Barrons.
“Get out of my abbey!” she’s shouting.
“Where’s Mac?” Barrons says, soft, making my gaze dart back to him. Soft from him is a surgical knife poised above your jugular. “Has the bitch hurt her?”
If looks could kill! Someday somebody’s gonna look at somebody about me like that. I’m not about to tell him I’m pretty sure Ro was gonna let her die. “No. She’s okay.” I clarify a little. “Well, I mean, as okay as she was when she got here.”
He gives me a look and says, “Where?” again.
A cold, hard fact just got driven home for me with the doused torches and painted-over wards. I can’t keep Mac safe by myself. Even I have to sleep sometimes. With the exception of All Hallows’ Eve, Barrons has kept her safe.
Still … there’s no way anything human plucked me out of the air like that. What is he? I don’t know how much Mac trusts him. “Promise me you won’t harm Ro,” I say. “We need her.”
Something savage moves deep in his eyes. “I’ll decide that when I see Mac.”
I feel savage all the sudden, too. “Well, where the feck were you when she needed you?” I snarl. “I was there.”
Without another word, I freeze-frame out.
Only two things I trust in these walls: me, and my sword. If my instincts are spot on—as they always are—Barrons isn’t the only thing headed Mac’s way right now.
I’m gonna beat ‘em all there.
I let that old, cold sidhe-seer place in my head swallow me. I become power, strength, speed, free!
The door to Ro’s office splinters.
The sword is mine.
Then I’m in Mac’s cell, standing over her. She rolls over like she senses the heat of my body. Clings to my leg. Rubs against me. Makes noises. I pretend nothing’s weird. She can’t help herself right now. I don’t look straight at her. I haven’t since I got her out. I don’t know a lot about sex, but I do know what’s happening to her is no way to learn it. I been doing a little research. It’s got me worried. There’s not a single case of a person turned Pri-ya coming back from it. Not one. They’re mindless animals that do whatever they’re told until they die. And those were the cases of people turned by Seelie. Never been anyone turned by Unseelie, and Mac got the whammy from three of the most powerful! But Mac’s got wicked balls. She’ll claw her way back somehow. She has to. We need her.
A Fae sifts in!
Wantneedsexdie blasts me. Hesitation ain’t me! I jab my sword into its gut. It looks down. Thing is stunned, disbelieving. We stare at each other. Unbearable perfection. My cheeks get wet like last time I looked at a prince, and I don’t have to wipe them to know it’s blood. If just looking at it makes my eyes bleed, how did Mac survive three of them touching her? Doing things to her? Even mortally wounded, it’s forcing me to my knees. I want to let it do anything it wants to me. I want to obey it. I want to call it Master. Ro says they’re the equivalent of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, so who’s my sword stuck in? Death, Pestilence, Famine, or War? Dude, what a kill! I’d pat myself on the back if it wasn’t taking everything I got to keep from pulling my sword out of it and turning it on myself. It’s fecking with me. Trying to take me with it. Its iridescent eyes blaze in what I’m pretty sure is its dying attempt to incinerate me. Then we’re both falling to our knees: it ‘cause it’s dead, and me—I’m so fecking embarrassed—’cause I think I just had my first ever orgasm killing an Unseelie Prince. That’s wrong. I hate it. I hate that it made me feel that now. It wasn’t supposed to be that way.
Then Barrons is in the cell.
Then there’s another Unseelie Prince sifting in behind me. The thing is so powerful, my sidhe-seer senses pick up on it before it becomes corporeal. I spin, lunge, but I don’t get the rush of killing it, because the bastard takes one look behind me and vanishes.
I get that. I’m not stupid. It was more afraid of Barrons than of me and my sword.
I whirl to face him, to demand answers, because I’m not letting him take Mac anywhere until he explains a few things, but the look in his eyes shuts me down.
Way to go, Dani, the look says. You’re not a kid, say his eyes. You’re a warrior, and a bloody fine one at that. His look takes me in, measures me up and down, and reflects me back at myself, and in the glittering black mirror of his gaze, I am one hell of a woman. Barrons sees me. He really sees me!