I swagger down the street.
Ry-O and his men are in there—least I think they are. Ain’t seen none in a while but keep hoping. See, ’cause they piss me off. They threatened me.
Nobody threatens the Mega.
I snicker. Pub ain’t no good if patrons can’t get in. I can’t keep ’em out all night, ’cause I hunt with the Guardians and kill what they trap, but I do ’nuff damage during the day. Jayne caught me one afternoon, said they’ll kill me for it. He’s heard tales of ’em, steers clear. Says they’re no more human than the Fae.
Told ’em the pricks can just try to mess with me. See, ’nother thing I didn’t tell nobody is, when I stabbed the Hunter, something weird happened: The dark came all the way up my sword and got into my arm a little. Infected me like a splinter. For a couple days, my hand had black veins and was icy like it was dead. Had to wear a glove to hide it. Thought I might lose it, hafta learn to fight right-handed.
Looks okay now.
Ain’t in no hurry to kill a Hunter again.
But I think I’m faster. And Ro’s orders don’t seem to make me feel near as conflicted as they used to.
Think Ry-O and his dudes maybe got nothing on me, and I’d like to test it. Like to show Mac, but it’s been more than three whole weeks since I saw her last. Since we broke into the libraries.
Barrons ain’t ’round neither.
I don’t worry. Ain’t my nature. I live. Leave the worrying for the warts.
But I sure wish she’d show up. Any time now’d be real good.
Sinsar Dubh’s been all over this city past few days. Took out a dozen of Jayne’s men in one night, like it was playing with us. Kept dividing us, picking us off.
Kinda starting to wonder if it’s looking for me.
5
In the House, away from my enemy, I find solace for a time. Grief, loss, pain melt away. I wonder if they cannot exist inside these walls.
The weight of my spear in the holster beneath my arm is back, heavy against my side. Like V’lane, Darroc has some way of taking it from me, but when we are apart he returns it. Perhaps so I can defend myself. I can’t imagine needing to in a place such as this.
There has never been and will never be another place in any realm, in any dimension, that holds me in such thrall as the White Mansion. Not even the bookstore competes for dominance in my soul.
The House is mesmerizing. If, deep down inside where I feel psychotic, I am angered by this, I’m too lulled by whatever drug it feeds me to focus on it for long.
I wander the rose-floored corridor, absorbing it in a dreamy daze. Windows line the right side of the hall, and, beyond the crystal-edged panes, dawn blushes over gardens filled with pink roses, wreathed heads nodding sleepily in the gentle morning breeze.
The rooms that open off this corridor are decorated in hues of morning sky. The colors of the hall, the day beyond, and the rooms complement one another perfectly, as if, from every angle, this wing was designed as an outfit, flawlessly accessorized, to be donned depending on the mood.
When the rose floor ends and a sudden turn in the corridor sets me on a lavender path, violet dusk clings to the windows. Nocturnal creatures frolic in a forest glade beneath a moon rimmed with brilliant cerulean. The rooms in this corridor are furnished in shades of twilight.
Yellow and reflective floors open onto sunny days and sunnier rooms.
Bronze corridors have no windows, only tall arched doors that lead into enormous, high-ceilinged, kingly rooms—some for dining, some filled with books and comfortable chairs, others for dancing, and still more for what I think are forms of entertainment I don’t understand. I imagine I hear echoes of laughter. Lit by candles, the rooms off bronze corridors are masculine and smell of spice. I find the scent intoxicating, disturbing.
I walk and walk, looking into this room and that, delighted by the things I find, the things I recognize. In this place, every hour of day and night is always available.
I have been here many times before.
There’s the piano I played.
Here is the sunroom where I sat and read.
There’s the kitchen where I ate truffles smothered in cream and filled with delicate fruits that don’t exist in our world.
Here, a flute lies on a table, beside an open book, next to a teapot decorated with a pattern as familiar to me as the back of my own hand.
There’s the rooftop garden, high atop a turret where I’ve gazed through a telescope at an azure sea.
Here, a library of endless rows of books, where I’ve passed time uncounted.
Each room is a study in beauty, each item in it adorned with intricate detail, as if its creator had infinity in which to work.