I explode out the other side into a headlong sprawl. I scramble to my feet and whirl on him, as he glides from the mirror with smooth grace. “What did you do? Push me?”
“I did no such thing. Perhaps it is the Silver’s way of saying ‘good riddance’ to the stones,” he mocks.
I’d not considered the effect they might have. Tucked away in the rune-covered leather pouch in my backpack, I’d forgotten them. My sidhe-senses don’t seem to work in the Silvers. I don’t feel their cold, dark fire in the pit of my brain.
He smirks. “Or perhaps it’s saying good riddance to you, MacKayla. Give them to me. I will carry them through the next Silver and we will see what happens to you then.”
The next Silver? Only then do I realize we’re not back in Dublin but in another white room which has ten mirrors hanging on the wall. He’s made it difficult for anyone to follow him. I wonder where the other nine go.
“As if that’s going to happen,” I mutter. I adjust my backpack and dust myself off.
“You do not wish to know. Are you human or are you stone?” he goads. “If I carry them, and the mirror expels you with such force again, we’ll have our answer.”
I’m not a stone. “Just tell me which mirror goes to Dublin.”
“Fourth from the left.”
I push in, but warily this time, in no mood for another fall. This Silver is strange. It takes me into a long tunnel where I move through one brick wall after the next, as if he has stacked Tabh’rs, like the one in Christian’s desert that was inside a cactus, only these are concealed in brick walls.
But where?
I catch a blurred glimpse of a street at night through the next Silver and am buffeted by a chilly breeze. Then I’m blasted so hard across a cobbled alley into a brick wall that it stuns me. This one is solid and impenetrable.
I’d know my city blindfolded. We’re back in Dublin. I hug the wall, determined to stay standing. I’ve been on my ass enough today.
I might be shaky on my feet—but at least I’m on them when my sidhe-seer senses kick in with a vengeance, as if awakening after a long, resented sleep enforced by being in the Silvers. Alien energy slams into my brain: The city is teeming with Fae.
Objects of Power and Fae used to make me feel sick to my stomach, but continued exposure has changed me. Their presence no longer incapacitates me. Now I get a dark, intense adrenaline rush from them. I’m shaky enough already from lack of food and sleep. I don’t care where the Unseelie are, and I’m not about to start looking for the Book. I close my eyes and concentrate on turning down my “volume” until it goes silent.
Then Darroc’s arms are around me, pulling me to him, holding me up. For a moment, I forget who I am, what I feel, what I’ve lost, and know only that strong arms support me.
I smell Dublin.
I’m in a man’s arms.
He turns me around, drops his head to mine, holds me like he’s sheltering me, and for a moment I pretend he’s Barrons.
He presses his lips to my ear. “You said we were friends, MacKayla,” he murmurs, “yet I see none of that in your eyes. If you give yourself to me, completely give yourself, I will not ever—how did you say it?—let you die on my watch. I know you are angry about your sister, but together we could change that … or not, if you wish. You have attachments to your world, but could you not see a place for yourself in mine? You are even less like other humans than Alina. You do not belong here. You never did. You were meant for more.” His melodious voice deepens seductively. “Do you not feel it? Have you not always felt it? You are … larger than others of your kind. Open your eyes. Take a good look around. Are these petty, breeding, warring humans worth fighting for? Dying for? Or would you dare to taste forever? Eternity. Absolute freedom. Walk among others that are also larger than a single mortal life.”
His hands cup my head, cradle my face. His lips move against my ear. His breath is harsh, shallow, and fast, and I feel the hard press of him against my thigh. My own breath quickens.
I pretend again that he is Barrons and suddenly he feels like Barrons, and I’m fighting to keep my head clear. Images flash through my mind, those long, incredible hours spent in a sex-drenched bed.
I smell Barrons on my skin, taste him on my lips. I remember. I will never forget. The memories are so vivid. I swear I could reach out and touch those crimson silk sheets.
He sprawls on the bed, a dark tattooed mountain of man, arms folded behind his head, watching me as I dance naked.
Manfred Mann plays an old Bruce Springsteen cover on my iPod: I came for you, for you, I came for you …