I stared down at my hands, willing them to stop shaking. But of course my body wouldn’t obey that command. The ball of fear tightened in my chest, pushing out the fire so it simmered under my skin. This time it wasn’t rage that fanned the flames, but horror.
Everyone else was in such a jovial mood, laughing and fooling around, looking forward to the trip to London. It was as though they’d all just forgotten what happened two days ago.
Twenty-two people disappeared beneath the floor of that church. Twenty-two people had their bodies broken and their blood drained in the torture chamber of the underworld. Twenty-two families would have to live with the horrible crushing grief of losing a loved one, of not even knowing what happened to them, and we were fucking laughing?
I couldn’t save them.
I’d fought against those fae with everything I had. I stabbed four of them through the guts with my sword and stomped on another’s face until it stopped moving. I drenched myself in their blood, and still it wasn’t enough.
I had human blood on my hands.
I couldn’t get excited about this trip to London. I didn’t think I’d ever be excited about anything again. Not when I saw bodies toppling into the void whenever I closed my eyes or heard their screams everywhere I went.
Not even heavy metal could drown out those screams.
Flynn dropped down beside me. “Looks like you’re stuck with me as a seat buddy. I hope you like house music because I intend to turn my headphones right up until one of these polite toffs snaps and goes on a murderous rampage?—”
“Actually, mate.” My stomach lurched. “Can you scoot a sec? I need to take a slash.”
Flynn ducked out with a dramatic sweep of his arm, narrowly avoiding swatting a passenger in the face. I left him to explain himself to a huffy-looking woman (maybe he’d get his murderous rampage sooner than he expected) and locked myself in the loo.
I sat on the lid of the toilet and studied my face in the mirror. Huge black circles ringed my eyes. Even my beard looked weirdly limp and lifeless.
You’re useless. You’ve got one job in this coven. You’re the warrior, the muscle, the guy who swings the sword and slays the enemies and keeps the innocents safe. And you can’t even do that.
I rolled up my sleeve. My fingers brushed the long cut I’d made when I was frustrated about the group sex thing, wanting Maeve and wishing I didn’t. Staring at that deep cut made my eyes burn with shame.
Now everything with Maeve and the guys was…well, notsortedexactly. We hadn’t had a chance to even talk about the group since Maeve and I got back from Arizona. But after everything Maeve and I went through in Arizona, I knew she was close to me in exactly the way I wanted. I had her and she had me and it actually didn’t matter what she did with the others.
But all that was overshadowed by what happened at the church. The horror of everything I saw and the helplessness I felt to stop it ate away at me.Twenty-two people died, and if you don’t find a way to stop the fae soon, there are going to be a lot more names on that list. This is only the beginning.
I closed my eyes, but that was worse. From the darkness behind my eyelids, twenty-two pairs of eyes stared back at me in silent accusation.
You killed us.
I was going insane.
How can I lift my sword again, knowing this is the result? I can’t go on seeing them every time I close my eyes. What if Maeve or one of the guys gets killed and it’s all my fault?
Beside me, the toilet paper roll burst into flame. Cursing, I yanked the holder off the wall and knocked the flaming roll into the loo, where it sizzled and went out, thankfully before the smoke detector started beeping.
“Shit.” I slumped against the wall, the tile cool against my cheek. I was a danger to everyone around me.
You’re the warrior. You can’t lose it now. You have to get this under control.
I dug around in my pocket for my knife. Corbin said I couldn’t bring my sword down to London, but I wasn’t going to walk around unarmed. I carried a small dagger Flynn made for me. The blade was inlaid with the same runic message I wore on my skin. A verse from theHávamál– an old Norse poem – part of a section dealing with Odin’s teachings on living well as a man, translated for me by Corbin.
Cattle die,
kindred die,
we ourselves also die;
but the fair fame
never dies
of him who has earned it.
