message in his words.
She was mortal.
And Robin was not. A flighty, faithless, treacherous sidhe bitch, capable of coldly plotting against even those who aided her, a poison spreading to all who breathed near her.
Perhaps, Robin considered, wearily, she should simply become such a thing. Would it hurt less?
He flicked the light switch, plunging the bedroom into darkness. A thin thread of yellow, mortal glow outlined the door, which he swept almost closed. He left the light in the hall on, and she heard him moving around his trailer while her eyes burned fiercely.
He would be gone when she awoke, even if Robin secretly, in some dark, small corner of herself, hoped to be proven wrong. Everything now depended on the Gallow Queensglass, the former Armormaster, betraying one ragged little bird.
A BOON
40
She finally slept, curled on her side and breathing deeply as the bruises faded on her shoulder. He could almost see them retreating.
I never will be.
The bag in his hands was black and silken, chantment in the gold-threaded stitches to guard its precious cargo. Inside, stitchery divided the pouch around slender glass tubes, sealed around a liquid that sparkled faintly. Tucked in her left skirt pocket along with a crumpled piece of paper—one of his own pay stubs, she’d probably thought to search for him with it—and a cheap blue plastic ring, a kid’s gimcrack prize her fingers were probably still slender enough to wear. It was exactly the shade of her dress, and he could see her finding it in the gutter, or on the sidewalk, picking it up like a magpie steals anything shiny.
And one more thing. If he hadn’t been looking for the ampoules he’d never have gone digging in her pocket and found it. A metal barrette, the kind that snapped closed when you bent it. Caught in it, wrapped tightly around, golden-red hairs that were not sidhe. Too pale, especially when compared to the glory of Robin’s mane.
Mortal hair.
Had Daisy been wearing it the day she died? You could do things with hair; a Realmaker’s chantment could be turned to dark uses indeed. Hell, you didn’t need Realmaking. Even a pixie could distract a driver, lead a car to jump a ditch and ram a lone tree.
Poor Robin; her mortal shadow earned all the affection, with barely a scrap left over.
It was a hell of a thing to think.
Balanced against it, everything he’d seen. I have the cure, Unwinter! Waving herself before the Unseelie to draw their chase. You fool! Her expression when he appeared, her obvious efforts to keep him from coming to harm… but she had led him into the Tangle, just like a faithless sidhe. She remembered names, too. Mortal names. A thin ancient dime tossed into a street busker’s case, a gift with no price and no sharp teeth.
What to believe? He was already halfway to somewhere he never thought he’d visit again, something he thought had died with Daisy.
Halfway? Oh, Gallow, do not start lying to yourself. Or at least, do not continue.
She sighed, shapelessly. Curled more tightly into the covers, clutching the pillow like a life raft. Daisy had sometimes done that, as if she could make herself small enough to be ignored. When she was ill, or upset, that was how she slept.
Beat me if you got to, Jer. Just don’t leave me.
The boy—Sean—was as good as dead in Summer’s clutches. Robin was as good as dead once the Queen had what she wanted; when the ampoules were handed over Summer would be just as dangerous as Unwinter’s pursuit. He could trade the Horn to Unwinter in return for Robin’s life—she wouldn’t like his ashen country, but it was better than death. He might even manage to win some other concession from the Unseelie King.
Worry about that later. You know what you have to do now.
Funny, but even in the uncertain light from the hallway, she didn’t look a thing like Daisy. There were similarities, of course, but they weren’t twins. Looking at her now, her face serene with sleep, her forehead painted with iodine—the wound had been shallow, thank God—you could see the sharper features, the original beauty.
Her mortal shadow.
Small consolation that he found he remembered Daisy’s face just fine, and Robin’s couldn’t take its place. Instead, the Ragged burned through him, a still, secret heat at his core, where the ash and gall of grief had rested. His own personal Unwinter, now broken.
Was it so easy?
It was tempting to think he could take his shirt and