Iced: A Dani O'Malley Novel (Fever Series) Page 8

  “Get out of here, you stupid fecking sidhe-sheep!” I say. “I’ll be fine. I’d have been finer if you’d never showed up!” He owns her now. He’s got some kind of spell on her. It pisses me off so bad I’m shaking.

  After Jo leaves, Ryodan glides toward me in that weird fluid way he has. He didn’t move that way in front of Jo. He walked all slow-mo when she was here.

  I see the glint of a silver knife in his hand.

  “Dude, no need to cut me. I’ll sign the fecking application. Just give me a pen.” I have to get out of here. I have to save Jo. She put herself on the line for me. I can’t stand it.

  “Kid, when will you learn.”

  “You’d be amazed the things I know.”

  “You might be able to thrash your way out of a spiderweb, but thrashing in quicksand doesn’t work. The harder you fight, the more ground you lose. Struggling merely expedites your inevitable defeat.”

  “Never been defeated. Never will be.”

  “Rowena was a spiderweb.” He touches my cheek with the hand holding the knife. The silver glints an inch from my eye. “Do you know what I am.”

  “A great big pain in my ass.”

  “Quicksand. And you’re dancing on it.”

  “Dude, what’s with the knife?”

  “I’m not interested in ink anymore. You’re going to sign my contract in blood.”

  “Thought you said it was an application,” I say pissily.

  “It is, Dani. To a very exclusive club. What’s Mine.”

  “Ain’t nobody’s.”

  “Sign.”

  “You can’t make me.”

  “Or Jo dies. Slowly and painfully.”

  “Dude, why are you still talking? Unchain me and give me the fecking contract already.”

  There’s a guillotine above my neck. I hear it swishing as it slices through the air. There’s a name carved into the shiny blade: JO. I see it in my periphery with every step I take. It’s going to make me nuts.

  After I sign his fecking contract—I got a paper towel in my fist because my palm’s still bleeding where he cut me—he lets me go. Just like that. Unchains my other arm and legs, offers to heal me, to which I say a great big kiss-my-booty, then escorts me to the elevator and tells me to go wherever my current version of home is.

  I expect him to tell me I have to move into Chester’s so he can watch my every move, like Barrons did with M—TP.

  I expect him to go all control-freak on me.

  I don’t expect him to give me my sword back and send me on my way with a casual reminder to show up for “work” tomorrow at eight P.M. He says there’s something else he wants me to see.

  I hate this.

  He’s not reeling off one thousand and one Ryodan commandments like I thought he would.

  He’s giving me all kinds of rope to hang myself with. I tie knots with rope. And I move really fast. It’s inevitable I’ll get tangled up in all that rope somehow, with a loop or two around my neck.

  How am I going to get Jo out of this?

  Four of his big scarred dudes are waiting for me when I get off the elevator. I glance warily around for Barrons and TP as I wave my contract big and noisy at Ryodan’s men so they don’t give me any grief before they take it from me to put it wherever it is Ryodan plans to keep it and I’m going to have to eventually steal it back from. I’m out of protein bars and not in the mood for a pissing contest. Fortunately, TP is nowhere to be seen.

  I hit the bathroom under heavy guard. What do they think I’ll do? Blow the place up? I can’t. I don’t have my backpack. No MacHalo either. They didn’t bring it when they nabbed me at Dancer’s. I’d look out a window but there aren’t any in the club. My bones tell me it’s night. I don’t take chances with Shades. I refuse to die so stupidly. “I need flashlights,” I say, blowing out of the bathroom.

  One of the dudes grunts and walks away. The rest of them escort me through the subclubs. I get stared at by every Fae we pass. There’s murder in their eyes.

  Something weird happens to me on the way out.

  Freeze-framing feels like picking myself up mentally and shifting sideways into a different way of being, and I like it.

  Now, as I walk out and see all the pissed-off faces, human and Fae, a completely different part of me gets picked up and shifted sideways without me even trying—in fact, I’m pretty sure I’m resisting—and I don’t like it one bit, because all the sudden I’m seeing my world with what feels like totally different eyeballs.

  I don’t like these eyeballs. They see things wrong.

  The Fae hate me. A lot of the humans do, too.

  Ryodan’s men want me dead and I have no idea why he’s keeping me alive.

  TP—oh, feck it—Mac, the best friend I ever had, Mac—who made me a birthday cake and hung with me and treated me cool, and sold a piece of her soul to the Gray Woman to save me, hates me, too. She wants to kill me because I killed her sister on Rowena’s orders before I ever even knew Mac existed.

  Jo’s life dangles on a thread held by my completely unreliable hands.

  And I have a thought that I’ve never had in my entire fourteen years of life (and I’ve had a lot of thoughts!), and it’s a little muffled (probably because I’d rather not hear it) and it goes something like this:

  Geez, Dani, what the feck have you done?

  I’ve always been a speedboat blasting across the whitecaps, thriving on sensation, wind in my hair, salt spray on my face, having the time of my life. Never looking back. Never seeing what happens around or behind me.

  These new eyeballs see my wake. They see what I leave behind when I’ve passed.

  Boats capsized. People flailing in the waves.

  People I care about. I’m not talking about Dublin, my city that I always keep cool and impersonal with no real face. These people have faces.

  We pass Jo. She’s already dressed and at her new post, paired with another waitress, being trained. She does look good in the uniform. She gives me a look as I pass, part exasperation, part plea to behave. Her trainer stares daggers at me. I wonder if the waitresses I killed were her friends.

  “They shouldn’t have eaten so much Unseelie,” I mutter in my defense.

  I try to shift back to the way I was before I got off the elevator, back to Dani “the Mega” who doesn’t give a crap.

  Nothing happens.

  I try it again.

  Still feeling the breeze from that guillotine.

  One of Ryodan’s dudes, Lor, hands me a flashlight. “Gee,” I say, “thanks. A whole flashlight against a city of Shades.”

  “They moved on. Mostly.”

  I roll my eyes. “ ‘Mostly’ might be okay with you ’cause, like, they don’t eat whatever you dudes are. Why is that?”

  Lor doesn’t answer me, but I didn’t expect him to.

  The second we reach the door, I freeze-frame.

  I can outrun anything.

  Even myself.

  EIGHT

  “And I’m hungry like the wolf”

  I click on a flashlight and head for the nearest store I know of that still has Snickers on the shelves so I can replenish my supplies. I have a bottomless stomach and it hurts from hunger. That’s a feeling I take pains to avoid. Especially when my head’s still throbbing so bad. I’d put ice on it, but if I’ve been out for three days, it’s too late. Ice only works if you use it right away. I root through my hair, find the swollen, bruised patch at my nape that’s causing so much pain, and sigh, wondering what I hit and when. Some folks think since I’m always banged up I’m a glutton for pain. I’m not. It’s just the way my life is.

  Like I thought, it’s night, so the streets are pretty much deserted. Folks do their “shopping” during the day. Those that do hunt at night, do just that—hunt. They come out in packs, armed to the gills, and go after any Unseelie they can find.

  A lot of the night-hunters have a death wish. They don’t know how to live in the world the way it is now, so they take crazy ri
sks. I end up bailing out vigilantes left and right. Sometimes they run into Jayne, and before anybody can say, “Don’t shoot, we’re human,” there’s casualties. Everybody’s got jumpy trigger fingers.

  Things sure have changed since the walls fell last October. Seven months ago the streets were easy. Hit the night, kill some Fae, then kill some more. The Unseelie were simple to take by surprise because they had such a low opinion of humans. They didn’t see us as a serious threat.

  They do now.

  They’re on guard, more dangerous, harder to trap, and impossible to kill unless you’re me or Mac or a Shade. Shades are cannibals. Life is life. They don’t discriminate. We have humans fighting Fae, humans fighting humans, Fae fighting each other, and all of us trying to get rid of the Shades.

  I slow to a Joe-walk, running out of steam. I need food fast. I already ate everything I had stuffed in my pockets. Three days of starvation does a number on me. Swinging my sword around my wrist (it took me months to perfect that move—and it is smooooth!), I duck into a convenience store with broken-out windows, shelves spilled sideways, cash register open and overturned. I can’t see why anybody would bother stealing money. It doesn’t get you anything. People’s eyes are finally open, money’s as worthless as it always really was. Used to amaze me when I was little how everybody passed around pieces of paper that they all agreed to pretend meant the same thing when everybody knew it didn’t mean anything. It was the first adult conspiracy I became aware of. Made me think maybe no adults should ever be the boss of me. I’m the smartest person I know. Except maybe for Dancer. Not bragging. It’s a real pain in the ass a lot of the time.

  “Buying” nowadays operates on something solid and real: the barter system. Ryodan has the bartenders and waitresses at Chester’s coached to take certain items he either wants for himself or can turn around for something else he wants. If you have a big item he’s interested in, he’ll give you a line of credit. I hear he gets favors from the Fae in exchange for making them a place where they can prey on humans. Though I hate Jo working at Chester’s, in a way I’m glad because I’ll get more inside scoop now. Figure out what motivates Ryodan, what his weaknesses are. Dude’s got to have some chink in his armor. Everybody’s got their kryptonite.

  I circle a pile of clothes and husks (fecking Shades, I hate them!) and head for my candy rack.

  It’s empty.

  Not a single Snickers.

  Not a single anything for that matter.

  I head down the cracker aisle.

  The shelves are bare.

  My stomach growls. Pissily. My knees aren’t wobbling yet but they’re close.

  I turn my flashlight to wide beam and sweep it around the store.

  The place has been cleaned out.

  I’d blow out a melodramatic sigh but it’s an expenditure of energy I suddenly can’t afford. I’m no longer swinging my sword or bouncing from foot to foot the way I do a lot. I’m not moving a hair I don’t have to. My life just got harder. When you’re a supercar like me, you either need a huge gas tank, which I don’t have at five feet two and three-quarters first thing in the morning, or you need to live in a city with a lot of gas stations.

  My gas stations are drying up.

  It’s okay. I saw this coming. Dancer did, too. I squirreled away stashes of food, water, and medical supplies, in lots of hidey-holes around Dublin months ago. Me and Dancer have been building on those reserves in our spare time over the past few weeks. He doesn’t know where all my hideouts are, and I don’t know where he keeps all his stuff. That way if somebody tries to torture one of us to tell, we can’t totally wipe each other out. I tried to tell the sidhe-sheep to do it, but they thought I was crazy. They said that with more than half the population gone there was plenty of stuff in the stores to last a good long while. I said somebody was going to try to monopolize food distribution. Dude, barter system—food and water are the premium. They said everyone was too busy trying to survive. I said that wouldn’t last long and didn’t they read A Canticle for Leibowitz, see how things trend? They said what did A Canticle for Leibowitz have to do with food? And I said should I start calling you sidhe-simpletons instead of sidhe-sheep? Do I have to spell out everything? Can’t we metaphor some things?

  I hate always being right, I mutter in my head. Talking takes breath and breathing takes gas I don’t have.

  I Joe-walk out of the store and nearly have a fecking heart attack when I see the Unseelie prince standing there, half in the shadows. The half-out part of him is splashed with moonlight, but the moon doesn’t glow the same way it used to before the Fae came. It’s rarely the same color from night to night. Tonight it has a silvery purple luminosity, making half of him a black silhouette, the other half lavender-metallic. He’s tattooed and beautiful and eerie and exotic, and gets my heart thumping in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

  My sword flashes up. My blade is long and alabaster. I lock my elbow so my arm doesn’t wobble.

  “Easy, lass.”

  “Fecking stop sneaking up on me like that!” How can I not hear him? Him and Ryodan can both get the jump on me. It makes me crazy. I have superhearing. My hearing is so good that I can hear air displacement when other people move, for feck’s sake. Nobody sneaks up on me. Both of them managed to do it that night on the water tower, and Christian just did it again. Got within five feet of me without me even knowing it. “Sword. Lower.”

  “Why should I do that?” He’s turning erotic, like the other UPs. My used-to-be best friend Mac calls them death-by-sex Fae because they can kill with sex. And that’s the best-case scenario. Worst case? They turn you Pri-ya like they did Mac. They leave you alive, totally addicted to sex, insatiable and out of your mind. The other UPs corralled me once, kept me between them, and did things to me I don’t like to think about. I don’t want sex to be that way. Like you’re some kind of helpless animal. I’ve had helpless animal up to my eyebrows already in my life. What Christian is throwing off isn’t a tenth of what the other UPs have, but it’s bad.

  “I’ll never hurt you, lass.”

  “Says the Unseelie prince.” But I lower my sword, prop it against my leg. I wasn’t sure how much longer I was going to be able to hold it up anyway.

  The muscles in his face ripple, like they’re competing to shape an expression, and rage is looking like the victor, and I get the feeling calling him an Unseelie prince might just have been a tiny error of judgment on my part. Been making a few of those lately.

  “Say my name, lass.”

  I cover my ears and look at him like what the feck? His voice just came out as big as a house.

  “Say my fucking name!” Thunder rolls in the sky. I wrap my arms around my head to mute his voice. Times like this, I hate my superhearing. I look up. There’s no storm moving in. It’s him. Influencing the weather, just like Fae royalty. I look back down. A veneer of ice coats the sidewalk around him, a shimmer of crystals dusts his black boots and frosts halfway up his jeans.

  “Christian,” I say.

  He inhales sharp, like something hurts in him somewhere just from me saying his name, and closes his eyes. His face ripples, goes smooth like Silly Putty just out of the egg then ripples again. I wonder if I touched it, I could mold it into shape, maybe stamp some funnies from the comic section of the newspaper on it. Cracking myself up again!

  “Say it again, lass.”

  If it keeps him from turning all UP on me, fine. “Christian. Christian. Christian.”

  He smiles faintly. I think. Feck if I can figure out what’s going on with his face. No more than I can figure out how he keeps sneaking up—

  “Holy flour chunks!” It dawns on me. “You can sift! You really are turning total UP. Like with all the superpowers. Dude! What else are you getting?”

  If it was a smile, it just disappeared. He doesn’t look as happy as I’d be if I was getting all that juice. I bet his fuel tank doesn’t run out of gas. I’m so jealous I could spit. But that, too, would require
energy.

  He moves forward, steps from the shadows, and I see he’s carrying a box under his arm.

  “I’m going to kill Ryodan,” he says.

  I unwrap my arms from around my head. We’re doing normal conversational tones again. I tuck the sword beneath my coat.

  “Good luck with that. You figure out how to, you let me know, okay?”

  “Here, take this.” He shoves the box at me.

  I fumble for it, clumsy from hunger. It’s slippery with a coating of ice. I catch it as it hits the ground. Sloppy! I recognize the color and shape now that it’s in my hands, and light up like a Christmas tree. “Christian!” I beam. I’ll say his name however many times he wants. I’ll crow it from the top of water towers. What the feck, I’ll compose a jaunty ditty for him and sing it as I whiz around Dublin!

  He just handed me a whole box of Snickers! I rip open a wrapper, break the half-frozen bar in half and cram it in my mouth sideways.

  When I toss my hair out of my face and look up to thank him around a mouthful, he’s gone.

  Three candy bars later what just happened sinks in.

  I sit on the curb, stow the candy bars away in my pockets and pack, and say, “Aw, bugger.”

  Christian knew how bad I needed food. He watches me. I wonder why. I wonder how often. I wonder if he’s out there right now, looking at me from somewhere and I don’t even know it. Dude, I got an Unseelie prince spying on me. Great.

  Tank full again, I swing by Dublin Castle. Three days was a long time to be out of commission. I got a job to do. A beat to walk. A superhero’s work is never done. Between patrolling my city, printing and distributing the Daily, slaying Unseelie, keeping an eye on Jo and the other sidhe-seers—and now working for Ryodan all night every night—there aren’t going to be enough hours in the day!

  “Where the bloody hell have you been?” Inspector Jayne says the instant he sees me. “I’ve got Unseelie spilling out of every cage. We agreed that you would come by three times a week and slay them with the sword—and that’s barely enough as it is. I haven’t seen you in five days! Five bloody days! If you won’t take your responsibilities seriously, my men will relieve you of that weapon.”