Shadowfever
Page 39

I cannotshe cries.
Make haste! she warns over her shoulder.
I run after her in my dreams, trying to hear what shes saying. Stretching out my hand to catch her.
But she stumbles at the edge of an abyss, loses her footing, and is gone.
I stare, stunned and horrified.
The loss is unbearable, as if I myself have died.
I awaken violently, snapping up from the floor, gasping.
Im still trying to process the dream when my body jerks and begins to move like a pre-programmed automaton.
I watch in terror as my legs make me rise, force me to leave the bathroom. My feet carry me across the room, my hands open the balcony doors. My body is propelled by an unseen power into the darkness, beyond the protection of my crimson ward line.
Im not functioning of my own volition. I know it, and I cant stop myself. Im completely unprotected where I stand. I dont even have my spear. Darroc took it away before the prince sifted me out.
I stare out at a shadowy outline of rooftops, awaiting, dreading whatever command might come next. Knowing I wont be able to refuse subsequent orders any more than I could this one.
Im a puppet. Someone is yanking my strings.
As if to underscore that point, or perhaps merely to make a mockery of me, my arms suddenly shoot straight up into the air, flail wildly above my head before dropping limply back to my sides.
I watch my feet as they shuffle a cheery two-step. I wish I could believe Im dreaming, but Im not.
I dance on the balcony, soft-shoeing it faster and faster.
Just as I begin to wonder if Im going to be the fairy-tale girl that danced herself to death, my feet go still. Panting, I curl my fingers tightly around the wrought-iron railing. If my unknown puppet master decides Im to fling myself off the balcony next, its in for a hell of a fight.
Is it Darroc? Why would he do this? Can he do this? Does he have so much power?
The temperature drops so sharply that my hands ice to the railing. When I jerk them away, ice shatters and falls into the night below, tinkling against pavement. Small patches of skin from my fingertips remain on the railing. I back up, determined not to commit forced suicide.
Never hurt you, Mac, the Sinsar Dubh croons in my mind.
I inhale sharply. The air is so bitterly cold it burns my throat and lungs.
You just did, I grit.
I feel its curiosity. It doesnt understand how it hurt me. Skin heals.
That was not pain.
I stiffen. I dont like its tone. It is too silky, too full of promise. I try desperately to get to my dark lake in time to arm myself against it, to defend myself, but a wall erupts between me and my watery abyss, and I can find no way around or through it.
The Sinsar Dubh forces me to my knees. I strain against it every inch of the way,teeth clenched. It whips me around and I collapse onto my back. My arms and legs fly out as if Im making snow angels. Im pinned to cold metal girders.
This, Mac, the Sinsar Dubh purrs, is pain.
I drift in agony. I have no idea how long it tortures me, but the entire time Im excruciatingly aware of one thing: Barrons isnt going to save me.
He isnt going to roar me back to reality like he did the last time the Book crushed me in the street, the last time it tasted me.
He isnt going to carry me back to the bookstore when its over, make me cocoa and wrap me in blankets. He isnt going to make me laugh by demanding to know what I am or later cause me to weep when I steal a memory from his head and see him shattered by grief, holding a dying child.
While the Book keeps me spread-eagled against the cold steel of the balcony floor, while every cell in my body is charred, and every bone is systematically crushed one by one, I cling to memories.
I cant get to my lake, but I can get to the outer layers of my mind. The Sinsar Dubh is there, too, examining my thoughts, probing. Learning me, as it said once before. What is it looking for?
I tell myself I just have to survive it. That it isnt really harming my body. Its only playing with me. It came for me tonight. I hunt it. And for some reason beyond my fathoming, it hunts me. The Books idea of a macabre joke?
Its not going to kill me. At least not today. I guess I amuse.
It will only make me wish I was dead, and, heyI know that feeling. Been walking around with it for a while.
After an indefinite, endless length of time, the pain finally eases and Im yanked to my feet.
My hands grab the railing, and my upper body is contorted over it.
I curl my fingers tightly. I lock my legs down. I summon every ounce of energy I have to make my bones whole and strong again. I stare out at the rooftops, fortifying my will.
I will not die.
If I die tonight, the world will stay the way it is right now, and thats unacceptable. Too many people have been killed. Too many people will continue to die if Im not here to do something about it. Fueled by the need to defend something greater than myself, I gather my will and launch myself like a missile for the lake inside my head.
I slam into the wall the Sinsar Dubh has erected between me and my arsenal.
A hairline fracture appears.
I dont know whos more startled, me or the Sinsar Dubh.
Then suddenly its angry.
I feel its fury, but its not angry because I cracked the wall it erected. Its angry for some other reason.
Its as if I, personally, have pissed it off somehow.
Its disappointed in me?