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“Culsans. They are the keeper of doorways, of gates and passages, of the underworld itself, standing bastion at all that is liminal. When they can be stirred to bother themselves. Culsu may be with him. If so, beware her blades.”
“What blades?”
“The ones I just mentioned.”
“Why is Culsans a they?”
“You’ll see.”
“Are they hideous?” Christian braced himself for the worst.
Barrons cut him a mocking look. “No more so than they may find you.”
“Well, where are they from? How do you find these old gods?”
“For fuck’s sake, shut up.”
“What the bloody hell is wrong with trying to understand my situation? Were you this much of a pain when Mac was trying to figure things out? How did she stand you?”
“She prefers me lying down. On top of her. Frequently, behind her. You want to keep talking, Highlander?”
They made their way down the long white corridor in silence.
DELETED CHRISTIAN MACKELTAR SCENE FROM FEVERSONG
I stole a bit of Mac’s hair a while back and carry it in my wallet. Yes, Death carries a wallet. Funny the things you do to try to normalize yourself. It’s not as if anything in that wallet is worth a damn the way the world is now, but when I slip it into my jeans, I get a vague sensation of being Christian MacKeltar of the clan Keltar, who has a driver’s license and credit cards and a picture of my mother and one of me and my childhood sweetheart, Tara, building a fort down by the loch. I don’t carry Mac’s hair from sentimentality or interest in her but because with it I can sift to her location whenever, wherever, I feel like it, and keeping an eye on that woman is on my list of priorities.
I didn’t mention this to Barrons. He’s not the kind of man you tell you carry a lock of his woman’s hair, and there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that’s what she is.
Sifting to her location inside Malluce’s is simple. I touch her hair and let my mind go to that strange, cool place I now have that seems to connect to something deeper within the earth than I ever reached with my druid arts, draws upon it, becomes one with it, and I can suddenly step…sideways, in a way, because space and time no longer function the same for me once I’ve tapped into whatever it is I’m connected to now. One of these days I really want to be able to sit down and talk to a born-not-made Fae and pick its brain about what I can and can’t do. Maybe when this is all over and we get a sliver of peace.
She’s a fright, standing in the middle of an overblown, gothic nightmare of a room. Not because of what she looks like, but because I can feel some kind of dark wind inside her, and for a moment I wonder if Barrons lied to me. There’s Mac, then there’s a shadow within, crouching, so damned hungry, dark, velvety, and utterly seductive. I get a vague impression of enormous charm and charisma. Whatever lurks within her can be beguiling if it wishes. I expand my senses, trying to assess the emotional content of whatever it is, and get nothing.
Abso-fucking-lutely nothing. The thing that abides inside Barrons’s Rainbow Girl does not feel. At all. Not one ounce, not one flicker. I can’t penetrate past that. If I’d known earlier, when she approached me at the abbey, that she was inhabited by the Sinsar Dubh, I might have picked this up. But my expectations colored what I’d perceived. When you don’t expect a monster, it’s hard to see one. When you know it’s there, it becomes so visible you wonder how the bloody hell you ever missed it.
“Christian!” she exclaims, then explodes in a staccato-fast rush: “What are you doing here? Where is Barrons? Is he okay? Did I hurt anyone? What about my parents? Is Jada wearing the cuff? She has to wear the cuff! The ZEWs will get her again otherwise. She’s okay, right? I didn’t hurt her? Did I kill anyone? Who did I kill?”
I narrow my eyes, assaulted by a veritable barrage of emotion. Genuine, unless the Sinsar Dubh can fake it to perfection. I relax only slightly, unwilling to make mistakes. I proceed with extreme caution. Not getting one inch closer yet.
“Jada is fine, she’s wearing the cuff, and no, Mac, you didn’t hurt anyone. You just bloody cocooned us all.”
“But I had blood and black feathers and—”
“Tell me you’re not currently the Sinsar Dubh,” I cut her off impatiently. This is the only other test I can perform. And it may or may not be valid, depending on the power of the malevolent Book.
She stops abruptly, blinks then says, “I’m not currently the Sinsar Dubh. I think it fell asleep but you have to contain me with the stones. Now, Christian, while it’s not aware. Sift me to wherever the stones are and lock my ass down. Do it!”
It’s my turn to blink. Okay, either the Sinsar Dubh is playing a deep game because it wants the stones or it’s really Mac and she’s finally wised up.
She locks eyes with me. Tiny little dots of crimson appear in the corners then vanish. “I know I killed,” she says in a low voice. “And I get that you don’t want to tell me. I scrubbed before you came. I know what I must have done to end up that way. Please, Christian, you have to neutralize me.”
“It’s what I came for, lass.” I extend my hand. When she rushes toward me, I flinch, because I also feel a dark wind rushing at me, a chilling, icy, voracious dark wind that then slices into me even more savagely than the biting wind in the Unseelie prison, chilling my already too cool heart. But she takes my hand and hers is war
m, and she doesn’t slap any runes on me so I focus on Chester’s and blink us off into that strangely malleable liminal place the Fae can access and we’re gone.
* * *
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