Tony flushes at her rebuke. He gives a short sharp bow of his head. ‘Contain my outburst. Allow me to take my words back.’
Marianne squeezes my shoulder before leaving once more.
‘I wanted only blood, nothing more. Please believe me, Tony.’
He studies me, expression stony. Only a small table divides us but right now the distance feels like a yawning chasm. ‘Is there truly a distinction between hunger and desire?’
‘I hunger for blood, all blood, because I am vampire. Blood sustains me. I won’t deny some blood is tastier than others. But desire? That’s only for you. I don’t want to kiss anyone but you.’ I search his face for any signs of softening, of understanding, of forgiveness and find none. ‘The person I want tobed? Well that would be you. Except you won’t let yourself want me. As far as I can tell, you think desire, lust, sex, is something bad. Something wrong. That I should be ashamed of having these feelings for you. That... that you don’t have those feelings about me.’
Remorse flashes across his face, but he shutters his expression. ‘I’m sorry for making you feel that way. You shouldn’t be ashamed. And I do, I do feel those things for you.’ Abruptly, he stands. ‘I think I need some air,’ he says.
‘Of course.’ I hurry to his side and slip my hand in his, like I’ve done countless times before.
He flinches. My heart drops, thinking he’s still angry. But I meet his gaze and it sends an ominous prickle down my spine. He looks at me like I’m a stranger.
‘Tony?’
He stares back at me. Recognition slowly bleeds back into his gaze. His fingers close tight over my hand. ‘Sorry, I don’t feel well. Let’s go home.’
Thirty-One
Whispers
We are almost at the doors when angry shouting erupts to our right and my instincts tell me to leg it, so I keep walking. My detente with Tony is still fragile; we need time to soothe the hurts we inflicted on each other, and the last thing I want is for Tony to be caught in the middle of a vampire brawl.
But Tony, being Tony, slows, then stops. ‘Isn’t that Lord Aengus?’
I follow his gaze to where Lord Aengus, hands fisted at his sides, glowers at a couple tangled together on a chaise longue. When I realise who I’m looking at, my insides curdle. The tall blond man from before – now trouserless as well as shirtless – andMémère, who thank the Celestial Heavens is fully clothed, apart from one naked foot cradled in the man’s hand. From the deep pink flush of Mémère’s cheeks, and the puncture wounds freckling the man’s throat and chest and – I nearly choke in surprise – penis, it’s clear what they’ve been doing.
Mémère’s attention shifts from Lord Aengus to me. She frowns when she sees Tony. He’s even more haggard than he was only ten minutes ago. She keeps her gaze trained on me while the blond man rises, his green eyes narrowed in displeasure. He’s a head taller than Lord Aengus and twice his breadth. Earlier, I mistook this man for Lord Aengus; side by side I see why. The resemblance is uncanny. Almost like they’re...
. . . family.
‘Lord Aengus, who is that man?’ I ask.
‘Lady Jing,’ he says, without taking his gaze off the blond man. ‘Meet the Dagda, chief god of the Tuatha Dé.’
Father and son glower at each other.
Mémère murmurs something and a number of chevaliers appear around us. I worry for a moment they are here for Lord Aengus, but they don’t even look at him.
With a voice like crashing waves, the Dagda says, ‘Cómh neamhfhreagrach is atá tú! Breathnaigh ort féin. Seo é toradh na faillí a rinne tú i do chuid dualgais agus ní bhíonn an chiall agat a rá “ní dhéanfaidh mé”’
Lord Aengus reddens like he’s been slapped, his frown carving deeper into his face. ‘Dualgais? Freagrachtaí? An bhfuil tú dáiríre?’ He looks his father up and down. His lip curls into a sneer. ‘Ní mise an duine atá ag téaltú timpeall na háite le gasta liopasta a fháil.’
The Dagda doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but the air hums with an electric charge that makes the hairs on my arms stand to attention. His presence swells, surges, sucks the air from the room until he towers over us. From his hand unfurls a shadow in the shape of a long wooden staff. Fear finally finds Lord Aengus – he stumbles, face chalky – as another shadow, in the shape of a giant hand, lands on his shoulders.
Lord Aengus’s whole body shakes as he tries to stay upright, his blue eyes astorm with rage. Sweat drips from his face, mixing with tears. He’s gone a dark puce from the strain. But he’s not at his full strength, still recovering from his recent illness and no match for the Dagda whose power could snuff him out like a fly. It reminds me too much of my childhood, when Niang Niang or her hulijing courtiers tormented me for their own amusement. My gorge rises, hot and sour and indignant as one of his knees hits the floor.
‘Jing—’ Tony touches my arm, voice urgent. ‘Not right—’
‘I know,’ I say.
Interfering in a pantheon’s internal affairs is a breach of the International Treaty of Immortal Harmony, but technically Lord Aengus is still under the protection of Tian since he has not yet crossed the border into Inis Fáil. I carry the authority of a Minister of Hell and Liaison to the Hulijing Court. Focusing on my qi, I wrap it around myself as a buffer and step into the Dagda’s personal space.
Once, as a child in Turquoise Hills, I fell through the ice of a lake. The freezing water sent a jolt through my body, punching the air from my lungs. Tiny needles stabbed me all over, making my body slow to obey, limbs like dead weights. The same jolt lances through me, a burning cold that numbs my muscles almost to the point of paralysis.
Mémère’s eyes widen but I’m not worried. Horsey has trained me well. I lift my chin and meet the Dagda’s gaze. With a demure and softly delighted smile, I clasp my hands at my hip and dip into a delicate curtsy. ‘This unworthy one labours your procession and offers your fragrant glory ten thousand years of abundant gratitude for your borrowed light. The venerable Lord Aengus is currently still under the protection of the Ministry of Hell in accordance with Article 52 Section 3 of the International Treaty of Immortal Harmony, I humbly beseech the most noble and exalted Dagda of the Tuatha Dé to lift high his honourable hand.’
