Crowned by Fire (14 page)

“
You know how resilient her kind is,” he said. “They are very hard to kill.”

“
That isn't what I was asking,” his familiar said, though he already knew. “When are you—”

But he saw the question she was going to ask before it left her lips, and fury filled him. He lowered his mental shields and battered her with his most painful memories, knowing she would experience the agony as if it were her own. She flinched, but stolidly returned his gaze.

“It doesn't work on me anymore, Phineas. You've had horrible things happen to you, and you have done horrible things—but it's all part of who you are. Who I am. I've accepted the truth, even though it hurts. When are you going to do the same?”

“
Get out,” he said, in the tone he'd reserved for the concierge.

She left.

To the shape-shifter, he said, “Wake up.”

Her eyes remained closed.

Finn slapped her. Redness pooled in her cheek, but she didn't stir. Over the buzzing silence in his ears, he could hear only his own breathing. Hers was too faint.

“
You belong to me,” he said. “I had plans for you. By all rights, you are mine.”

He stared at her. Her wounds continued to heal, fighting a silent battle against time. The rag he had used to clean her wounds was now a muddy pink. He let it fall to the expensive rug, uncaring of whether or not it left a stain.

“The moment I saw you, I knew I had to have you; and I knew I would kill to keep you.” He glanced around the room to make sure Graymalkin was gone. Her consciousness had receded from his. She was nearby, but at the outer limits of their mutual sphere of awareness.

“
You saved my life. Why did you do that, shifter mine? Why salvage what's past redemption? If I killed you now, I would be doing myself a favor. I should kill you. I warned you I might.”

Finn pushed her hair out of her face, then knotted his fingers in the strands.

“I could have you,” he growled. “And you would not be able to tell me no.”

He felt the darkness inside him coil up in anticipation.
Take her
, it whispered.
Do it now.

Finn released her as if he'd been burned.

“I kissed you once, and the sky tore asunder. I kissed you twice, and you nearly died. My thoughts of you are tinged with darkness.” He paused, and the air shuddered with anticipation.
What happens if I kiss you thrice?

He cupped her face in his hands, and sealed their mouths together, kissing her as though trying to draw life itself from her lips.

He kissed her—and a pile of cold ash exploded into a black inferno.

He kissed her—and one of the damned suddenly veered towards the City of Angels.

He kissed her—and the veil between two disparate worlds tore in a shower of light and shadow.

“
Catherine,” he said, in a voice he did not recognize as his own, “Wake up. Please.”

The sky was a velvet mass of indigo studded with rhinestone starlight. They seemed to glitter too brightly, too aggressively, to be real. Flawless. Things that were real had flaws. That was a big part of what made them so endearing, because humanity was also flawed, in and of itself. Here—wherever
here
was—there were no clouds, no haze, no pollution; the air was as clear as crystal and tasted sweet.

Catherine was sitting on a grassy knoll that was just high enough to provide the perfect vantage point for stargazing. The hill broadened closer to the base, where it was engulfed by a dense labyrinth of pines and firs. There was something about this forest and the way the trees grew so densely together that not even light could pass through their interlocked boughs that made her think of the fairy stories she had read as a child. Stories about maidens locked in towers, cannibalistic witches, and humans-turned-animals that all seemed to take place in the same dark wood.

It's beautiful, isn't it?

Catherine wheeled around as well as she could while sitting down. But nobody was there. The words weren't spoken; they echoed like a memory, and were accompanied by the spicy-sweet scent of juniper berries.

Almost too beautiful. It's almost frightening, how alive it is.

“
Why? What's down there?” Catherine nodded at the woods. They were still now, serene under the starlight. She imagined that things might be a little different beneath the shadow of the canopy.

I wasn't talking about the forest.

Silence dusted the hilltop once more, as light as powdered snow. This place was beautiful, but she didn't belong here—what was she doing here?

“
You remind me of—” The image forming in her mind burst like a bubble, dissolving into a thousand shimmering fragments that vanished even as she grasped at them. “Someone,” she finished, frowning.

Perhaps.

Catherine stared hard at the sky. It seemed to change color several times as she watched, shifting from color to sepia, like two overlaying photographs, both old and new. “Have we met?”

Not as such, no
.

“
But you're just like—” Catherine ran into the same immutable wall as before.

Sometimes the thoughts just beneath the threshold of our consciousness are the hardest ones to recognize.

What the fuck was this? The Zen of Alice in Wonderland?

“
Where am I?”

A place most of us have forgotten to reach. It's deep inside all of us, locked away in a tangle of briars we create; thorn by thorn, branch by branch.

Some manage to glimpse its horizon in dreams. Others, where the boundaries between mind and spirit are the thinnest. But the journey to and back grows more difficult with age—until, suddenly, it doesn't.

Catherine didn't like riddles. She never had. “You mean like a dream?”

There was a slight pause.
More like…a place of rest.

A place of rest…where boundaries between mind and spirit were thinnest. A spike of fear corkscrewed in her chest, close to her heart. It all came back—the gash in her throat, the blood loss, the darkness. “Does that mean I'm
dying
? That I'm…dead?”

Not necessarily
. A cool breeze tickled her cheek.
Fate has great plans in store for you.

“
That reminds me of a curse the Chinese have,” Catherine said flatly. “May you live in interesting times. Nothing good ever comes of being fucking
fated
.”

You still have a sense of humor. That's good. It means you haven't lost hope.

Catherine drew in a deep breath, even though part of her wanted to scream.

“
Even if this is a—what did you call it?—a place of rest, what's the point in me being here? If I'm dying, then the gods know I'm beyond the help of a little R&R. And if I'm not…then I don 't want to be a pawn in some dead Goddess's games.”

Dead?

Catherine quickly crossed herself. “Or sleeping.”

At least then you'd know that you tried. Forfeiting—that's the same as giving up
.

“
No, it's not,” Catherine said, too harshly. “It's knowing when you can't win.”

Even before you've started fighting?

“I wish I never found that damned book,” she muttered. “It's ruined my life.”

But there's so much more at stake here than that. Your Finn—he's beginning to understand that.

“He's not mine.”

No? Do you
want
him?

“
No,” Catherine said flatly. “I do not.”

But if you thought you had a chance, even one chance—even knowing that you would be risking everything, always, in a life defined by extremes—would you take it? Would you take him?

“I don't love him.”

That isn't what I asked.

A sardonic laugh escaped her. “Are you asking if I'd fuck him? If I've imagined fucking him? Then yes. I have. But he's more trouble than he's worth.”

We might not be able to move the stars, but we can rename them, organize them in different ways.

One of the luminescent spheres over Catherine's head glowed more brightly.

And in a way, that changes their properties almost as much as moving them would. You can't beat Fate, either. But it's possible to cheat her a bit if you're brave enough—and quick enough.

Catherine stared at the blue star that had been singled out, wondering if she was imagining that it had gotten larger. “What does that have to do with the witch?”

Maybe everything. Maybe nothing.

The star was definitely expanding, lighting the long tunnels her eyes had become with sapphire light.

Don't be afraid to name the stars, Catherine.

“Wait,” Catherine said, “one more thing—”

What?
The echo was fainter now, scarcely a whisper.

With effort, she said, “Who is the Shadow Thane? Is it Finn?”

Straining, she waited, listening, but if there was a response, she didn't hear it.

And then—light.

   Chapter Seven

Catherine shot up in bed, taking the sheets with her. Sheets. She lifted her head. She was in a massive fourposter she didn't recognize. With the curtains drawn, it created the impression of being walled in on all sides by shadow. Her breaths began to come easier once she had parted the curtains. No cosmos. No forests. No voices. She was safe—

Until she realized that, beneath the sheets, she was completely nude. Maybe not so safe after all.
What the fuck?
Catherine wrapped them around her body, kicking the bed curtains out of her way. Her rash gesture had revealed a room whose cost per night was probably tantamount to her sheets' thread count.

Unless she was still dreaming after all.

She felt like she was looking at the physical manifestation of fall. A burnt-orange rug covered the floor, patterned with mulberry and oak leaves. The images looked so real that when she slid her feet off the mattress to the floor she half-expected to hear them crunch. The workmanship was incredible, and wasn't limited to the rug, which felt solid enough beneath her feet and not at all dream-like.

The walls of the room were white until about halfway to the ceiling where there was a mottled design of red and gold, patterned in a way that was vaguely arboreal. Even the bed stayed true to the theme, with the wooden bed posts' elaborately carved ivy leaves. The exquisite detail was meticulously adhered to, right down to the veining of the leaves. Even the sheets were embroidered with little red flowers that had bright purple centers.
Scarlet pimpernels
, she thought they were called; they had grown in the garden of her parents' Victorian. Each crosshatch was so small and precise, the stitches might as well have been done by faeries.
Maybe they had been.

Catherine tried one of the doors; it opened into a hallway that crackled with purple static and wouldn't let her through. When she tried to force an entry, pain whipped at her skin. She slammed the door closed. She was trapped here, then—unless there was another way out. The next door was a walk-in closet and the final was a large bathroom.

With its glass, crystal, and pristine white marble accents, the toilet, sink, and tub looked as if they had been chiseled from blocks of ice and half-thawed snow. The temperature was about five degrees cooler in here, too. She shivered as she studied her reflection in the mirror's etched surface. The gash on her throat was gone.

She lightly touched the healed skin, and tensed when she heard a soft, scratching noise coming from the other room. “Catherine?” It was only the witch's familiar, but meant that the witch was somewhere nearby. “Are you awake? Catherine?”

“I'm in here.” Her voice was sleep-roughened, and didn't do much to conceal her irritation. She had yet to forgive the witch's familiar for her betrayal.

As though sensing her ire, the kitten rubbed her head against Catherine's bare ankle in greeting when she stepped into the room. Catherine pretended she didn't notice, although her heart twisted a little in sympathy when she saw those small brown ears curl down.

“You must be hungry.” Catherine said nothing, though her stomach gave a loud, revealing rumble. “Breakfast is on the table.”

She sounded calm, which meant that this place was safe—safe enough—and that they weren't being held here against their will.
At least, Graymalkin isn't.
She had no illusions about whether the witch would falsely imprison her if he thought it would be worth his while. Which prompted her to ask, “What's wrong with the door?”

“
It's warded. Nothing comes in—or out. This place is a hotspot for Slayers.”

Catherine set her teeth. She wished Graymalkin's argument didn't make quite so much sense; she wanted to feel justified in her anger. “How long was I out?”

“Almost a full day.”

A full day? Healing never took that long. “What happened?”

“You passed out from blood loss.” Graymalkin looked at her reproachfully. “You almost died.”

Catherine stood up, intent on chasing her down to procure further answers, and was overcome by a sudden wave of dizziness.

“Not too fast,” Graymalkin suggested. “There is a change of clothes in the armoire. You've already found the bathroom. You might want to wash up before dressing.”

Before dressing for
what
?
“Why didn't I heal?” Catherine started to put her hands on her hips, but folded them over her breasts instead when the sheet began to slip. “Blood loss shouldn't have been an issue. The vampire didn't damage any vital organs.”

Just your throat
. She didn't think he'd actually severed the artery—what if he had?

“
The silver poisoned your body when it came into contact with the open wound,” said Graymalkin, breaking into her thoughts. “It kept you from healing properly. And the wound was very close to your jugular—it had been nicked. Alec nearly killed you.”

Catherine stared at her for a moment. She knew it had been bad, but not how bad; hearing how close she had come to putting her own mortality to the test was chilling. There were few things shape-shifters couldn't heal from: death was one of them.

“What tipped the balance?” she said at last.

“
Phineas.”

“
Him?” Catherine didn't even hide her scorn. “He seemed eager enough to get me out of the picture before. Why would he help me now?”

Graymalkin didn't give an answer. She just said, “He saved your life.”

“Not without reason, I bet. Did
he
take my clothes off?”

Graymalkin twitched her tail and walked away. The cat version of a rebuff. Catherine took that as an unequivocal “yes.” Her anger rose. His familiar might have been bound to the witch by magic, but that didn't mean she had to enable his cruel streak.

She stormed back into the bathroom and locked the door behind her, trying not to think what the witch might have done to her unconscious body on the pretense of saving her life. She couldn't smell him on her body, so he probably hadn't fucked her, but he could have touched her…. She shuddered.

Yes, she was glad to be alive—and saving her had been the first thing he'd done to her that hadn't been to his own benefit, and even that was dubious. He had told her himself that he'd wanted a shifter lover. Her face darkened. The little prince wouldn't want his toy of choice broken before he'd even had a chance to play with it. Possession was what it came down to, not affection, if that were the case.

Self-preservation, that's all this was.

Catherine ran the bath, until the water filled the large room with clouds of steam. She sank into the tub with a sigh. It was wonderful; the hot heat tingled against her skin in a way that was almost sensual—but that was a dangerous line of thinking, and she blinked away the images that came unbidden to her mind. The prince was a bastard.

Along the side of the huge tub were whole jars of bath crystals, little soaps, and bottles of shampoo. She didn't touch the crystals, which would be overpowering to her sensitive nose. The shampoo and soap weren't much better, but they proved to be a necessary evil. Her first soak left the water a murky brown.

Through her wounds had all been healed—with the witch's help, if his familiar was to be believed—there was still blood under her fingernails and the hair on her head had become thickly matted with it. Catherine went through a whole bar of soap before she finally deemed herself clean enough to come out of the tub.

So much wasted water
, Catherine thought ruefully, as the bathtub drained.

She grabbed a robe hanging off the hook on the back of the bathroom door and belted it before stepping back into the bedroom. Her stomach rumbled again. Graymalkin had mentioned breakfast. It didn't take her long to find the repast Graymalkin had referred to; there was a metal tray on the desk, sweating beads of condensation.

Carefully, she removed the dome-shaped cover by the handle, revealing a shallow bowl filled with some kind of stew and a generous hunk of artisan bread that looked and smelled freshly-baked. She stared and then the meaty, savory smell of the meal reached her nose and she attacked with the desperation of an animal that hadn't eaten in several days. The stew turned out to be chicken pot pie with dumplings, cooked carrots, and thick chunks of potatoes and chicken. Oh, Goddess, the chicken.

It was the best thing she had ever tasted in her life.

Catherine swallowed the last chunk of b read, which she had used to mop the bowl clean, and sighed happily. Her stomach ached from wolfing down her food so fast, but she was too content to care. Changing burned up a lot of calories and she had done a lot of it back at the mall—and on a mostly empty stomach, too, which had forced her body to delve into her reserve stores of fat.

She sipped some half-melted ice water. “Where's the witch?”

“
Phineas
is delivering the
Grimoire
to the Council,” she said, with light emphasis.

So Alec hadn't gotten the book, after all. It hadn't been delivered to the Slayers. Nice to know all her effort hadn't been for naught.

“How did I get here?”

“
Phineas carried you.”

He
carried
her? A strange frisson shot through her at that. “By himself?”

Graymalkin rolled her eyes. Catherine supposed that it
was
a stupid question.

Catherine shoved the window curtains aside and was greeted by millions of glittering lights. Their brightness swallowed up the stars, giving the clouds a faint, orange cast. The night sky here was similar to the sky from her dream was in name only

“Where are we?” She knew it had to be a big city, because of the skyscrapers, but she wasn't well-traveled enough to even begin to guess which one.

“
Los Angeles.”

Ah. “
Where
in Los Angeles?”

“
A hotel owned by the Council. They own many of the buildings in this district.”

Did that mean that the witch intended to turn
her
into the Council, as well?

Catherine opened the window and yelped when the same purple sparks she had encountered in the door. “What's this?” she said angrily. “Another ward?”

“Yes,” said Graymalkin.

“
To keep me in?” she asked in a dangerous voice.

The hall door closed loudly enough to make her jump. “Partly,” said the witch's voice, the snick of the latch indicating that he'd locked the door behind him.

Not that he needs to.

Any lingering doubts of his providence were quickly erased. The witch was dressed in a forest green uniform and black slacks with a green stripe running up the inside of the leg. Gold cord trailed down from his shoulder to hang over his chest in a glittering braid.

On the left breast, beneath the high, stiff collar, was a pentacle embroidered in shimmering thread. Below that were three jeweled pins set in gold—a ruby, a sapphire, and a diamond.
For fire, water, and air
, she guessed.

He looked exactly like what he was: regal, ruthless, cold.

“Has she eaten?” he asked Graymalkin.

“
Yes,” Catherine snapped, “
she
has.”

“
Nice to see that you can be so flippant.” He let his white gloved hands fall to his sides. “I don't think you realize how close you were to death—or perhaps Graymalkin failed to enlighten you on that point,” he said, glancing at her sharply. “If Alec had taken mere spoonfuls more than he had, you would not be standing here before me.”

Catherine bit back a retort asking why he cared; she was afraid of the answer. “What was the other reason for the ward?”

“Hmm?”

“
You said keeping me in was only part of it.”

His lips twitched a little. “Yes. I also made it to keep others out.”

The green of his uniform was the precise shade of his eyes.

And then she realized how close he was standing for her to realize that.

“If I were going to kill you, shifter mine, I would have done it while you were unconscious.”

And then she realized how visibly she must be trembling for him to say that.

“I know why you're afraid,” said the witch. “'As Darkness spreads across the land he wields the oceans in his hand.' The Shadow Thane sounds a bit like a witch, doesn't he?”

It was as if he'd seen inside of her and glimpsed all her fears. “No,” she whispered.

“The witch fated to kill you.” He took a step closer and she shuddered away from him, but he gripped her by the forearms to keep her in place. “The one who is destined to end the world in dragon fire. I've seen it, you know. In my dreams.”

Me, too.
She also remembered that dream in the castle, the one where she and the witch had been dressed so strangely: the one where he had transformed into a monster.

But he was in the other dream. And he hadn't been trying to kill me, then. He was—