Spade hadn’t heard yet about the cherry on the sundae of our evening. He only knew about the ghoul attack.
The door opened into a spacious bedroom with period pieces of furniture, a canopied bed Cinderella might have slept in, after the Prince carried her away, of course, and another large fireplace. A glance at the wall enclosing the bathroom showed it was made entirely of hand-painted stained glass. Once again I was struck with unease about touching anything. Even the silk-stitched blankets on the bed looked too beautiful to sleep under.
Bones had none of my qualms. He threw off his jacket to reveal the bullet-riddled shirt and pants he still wore, kicked off his shoes, and flopped into a nearby chair.
“You look like a piece of Swiss cheese,” Spade commented.
“I’m knackered, yet you need to be informed of something.”
Spade cocked his head. “What?”
In a few brief, succinct sentences, Bones outlined the revelation of those lost weeks when I was sixteen…and Gregor’s claims that I was his wife, not Bones’s.
Spade didn’t say anything for a minute. His brows drew together until, finally, he let out a low hiss.
“Blimey, Crispin.”
“I’m sorry.”
I mumbled it while I looked away from Bones in his bullet-pocked, ruined clothes. All because of you, my conscience mocked.
“Don’t you dare apologize,” Bones said at once. “You didn’t ask to be born the way you were, and you didn’t ask Gregor to pursue you so ruthlessly. You owe no one an apology.”
I didn’t believe that, but I didn’t argue. It would take up more energy than either one of us had.
Instead, I masked my thoughts behind a wall, something I’d perfected in the past year. “Spade’s right, more blood would be good for you. I’ll take a shower, and you can drink from whatever bar’s open.”
Spade gave a nod of approval. “Then it’s settled. Some items that should fit you have already been placed in here, Cat, and for you, Crispin. Mencheres, I’ll show you to your room, then we’ll sort out the rest of this kettle later.”
Death chased me. It kept tireless pursuit through the narrow streets and cramped alleys I ran along. With every panting breath, I screamed for help, but I knew with horrible certainty that there was no escape.
There was something familiar about these streets, even deserted as they were. Where had everyone gone? Why wouldn’t anyone help me? And the fog…damn that fog. It had me stumbling on concealed objects and seemed to cling to my feet when I dashed through it.
“Over here…”
I knew that voice. I turned in its direction, doubling my efforts to run toward the sound. Behind me, Death muttered curses, keeping pace. Every so often, claws would swipe into my back, making me scream from fear and pain.
“Just a little farther.”
The voice urged me toward a shadow-draped figure that appeared at the end of an alley. As soon as I saw him, Death fell behind, dropping back several paces. With every lengthened stride separating me from the evil that chased me, relief spread through me. Don’t worry, I’m almost there…
The shadows fell from the man. Features solidified, revealing thick brows over gray-green eyes, a crooked patrician nose, full lips, and ash-blond hair. A scar ran zigzag from his eyebrow to his temple, and shoulder-length hair blew in the breeze.
“Come to me, chérie.”
A warning clicked in my mind. All at once, the empty cityscape around us disappeared. There was nothing but the two of us and oblivion on all sides.
“Who are you?”
This didn’t feel right. Part of me wanted to fling myself forward, but another piece was cringing back.
“You know me, Catherine.”
That voice. Familiar, yet utterly unknown. Catherine. No one called me that anymore…
“Gregor.”
As soon as his name came out of my mouth, my confusion was broken. This must be him, and that meant I was dreaming. And if I was dreaming…
I stopped just short of his outstretched hands and backed up. Motherfucker, I’d almost run right into his arms.
His face twisted in frustration, then he took a step toward me. “Come to me, my wife.”
“No way. I know what you’re trying to do, Dreamsnatcher.”
My voice was my own again. Hard. With every word I retreated, mentally railing at myself to wake up. Open your eyes, Cat! Wakey, wakey!
“You know only what they’ve told you.”
His accent was French, no surprise there, and the words were resonating. Even dreaming, I had a sense of his power. Oh, shit, you’re not a weak little hallucination, are you? Stay back, Cat. This puppy bites.
“I know enough.”