Страница 51 из 54
So what’s my rope-a-dope? Killing A
I suppose I should go tell her.
In the kitchen, my mother is chopping some kind of leafy herb. There’s an open jar of green liquid on the counter that smells like a mixture of pickles and tree bark. A
“What’s down here?” she asks, and opens it up.
A
Probably not. The haunting seems to be a manifestation of A
“Nothing we need to worry about,” I say, walking over to close it. “Things are going pretty well upstairs. How are they in here?”
Carmel shrugs. “I’m not much use. It’s sort of like cooking, and I can’t cook. But they seem to be doing okay.” She crinkles her nose. “It’s kinda slow.”
“Never rush a good potion.” My mother smiles. “It’ll go all wonky on you. And you’ve been a big help, Carmel. She cleaned the crystals.”
Carmel smiles at her, but gives me the eye. “I think I’ll go help Thomas and Morfran.”
After she goes, I wish she hadn’t left. With just me, A
A
My mom glances at me. “Not just now, dear. Thank you.”
As we walk through the living room toward the foyer, A
“You have no idea how strange it is,” she says. “Having people in my house, and not wanting to break them into tiny little pieces.”
“But that’s an improvement, right?”
She crinkles her nose. “You’re … what was it Carmel said earlier?” She looks down, then back at me. “An ass.”
I laugh. “You’re catching on.”
We walk out onto the porch. I pull my jacket closed. I never took it off; the house hasn’t seen heat in half a century.
“I like Carmel,” says A
“Why not?”
She shrugs. “I thought she was your girlfriend.” She smiles. “But that’s a silly reason to dislike someone.”
“Yeah, well. I think Carmel and Thomas are on a collision course.” We lean against the house, and I feel the rot in the boards behind me. They don’t feel secure; the minute I lean back it’s like I’m the one holding them up instead of the other way around.
The pain in my head is more insistent. I’m getting what feels like the start of a ru
“It’s starting to hurt, isn’t it?”
She’s looking at me with concern. I guess I didn’t realize I was rubbing my eyes.
“I’m okay.”
“We have to get him here, and soon.” She paces to the railing and comes back. “How are you going to get him here? Tell me.”
“I’m going to do what you’ve always wanted,” I say.
It takes her a moment. If it’s possible for a person to look hurt and grateful at once, that’s the face she makes.
“Don’t get so excited. I’m only going to kill you a little bit. It’ll be more like a ritual bloodletting.”
She frowns. “Will that work?”
“With all of the extra summoning spells going on in that kitchen, I think so. He should be like a cartoon dog floating after the scent of a hot-dog truck.”
“It will weaken me.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
Dammit. The truth is, I don’t know either. I don’t want to hurt her. But the blood is the key. The flow of energy moving through my blade to where-the-heck-ever should draw him like an alpha wolf’s howl. I close my eyes. A million things could go wrong, but it’s too late to think of anything else.
The pain between my eyes is making me blink a lot. It’s sapping my focus. I don’t even know if I’ll be well enough to make the cuts if the preparation takes much longer.
“Cassio. I’m afraid for you.”
I chuckle. “That’s probably wise.” I squeeze my eyes shut. It isn’t even a stabbing pain. That would be better, something with ebbs and flows so I could recover in between. This is constant and maddening. There’s no relief.
Something cool touches my cheek. Soft fingers slide into the hair at my temples, pushing it back. Then I feel her brush against my mouth, so carefully, and when I open my eyes I’m staring into her eyes. I close them again and kiss her.
When it’s over—and it isn’t over for a while—we rest against the house with our foreheads together. My hands are on the small of her back. She’s still stroking my temples.
“I never thought I’d get to do that,” she whispers.
“Me neither. I thought I was going to kill you.”
A
I’m not afraid. Despite the searing between my eyes and the knowledge that something is coming for me, something that could easily rip out my spleen and pop it like a water balloon, I am not afraid. She’s with me. She’s my purpose and we’re going to save each other. We’re going to save everyone. And then I’m going to convince her that she’s supposed to stay here. With me.
Inside, there’s a small clatter. I think my mom must’ve dropped something in the kitchen. No big deal, but it makes A
“Cas,” A
“Don’t go,” I say.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Don’t go, ever,” I tease, and she makes a face like she thinks I need a throttling. She kisses me again, and I don’t let go of her mouth; I make her squirm and start to laugh and try to stay serious.
“Let’s just focus on tonight,” she says.
Focus on tonight. But the fact that she kissed me again speaks much more loudly.
* * *
Preparations have been made. I’m lying on my back on the dust-sheeted sofa, pressing a lukewarm bottle of Dasani against my forehead. My eyes are shut. The world feels a whole lot nicer in the dark.
Morfran tried to do another clearing or counteracting or whatever, but it didn’t work nearly as well as the first. He muttered chants and struck flint, sending up nice little pyrotechnics, then smudged my face and chest with something black and ashy that smelled like sulfur. The pain in my side lessened and stopped trying to reach up into my ribcage. The pain in my head was reduced to a moderate throb, but it still sucks. Morfran seemed worried, and disappointed with the results. He said it would’ve worked better if he’d had fresh chicken’s blood. Even though I hurt, I’m still glad he didn’t have access to a live chicken. What a spectacle that would have been.
I’m remembering the words of the Obeahman: that my mind would bleed out my ears or something. I hope that wasn’t literal.
My mom sits on the couch near my feet. Her hand is on my shin and she’s rubbing it absently. She still wants to run. Every one of her mom-instincts says to swaddle me up and take off. But she’s not just any mom. She’s my mom. So she sits, and gets ready to fight alongside.
“I’m sorry about your cat,” I say.
“He was our cat,” she replies. “I’m sorry too.”
“He tried to warn us,” I say. “I should have listened to the little hairball.” I put down the water bottle. “I really am sorry, Mom. I’m going to miss him.”
She nods.
“I want you to go upstairs before anything starts,” I say. She nods again. She knows I can’t focus if I’m worried about her.