Burned - Moning Karen Marie (книги без регистрации бесплатно полностью .TXT) 📗

In the meantime, the Sinsar Dubh has decided to keep me as cloaked as a Klingon Bird of Prey.

“Works for me,” I say cheerfully as I bang out the front door of Barrons Books & Baubles. It’s two in the afternoon, the time of day the erstwhile ex-owner of my shop and man who dominates the top of my lengthy shit-list never comes around. I just finished showering (carefully wiping down the tile before hiding the damp towels in the back of a closet) and changed clothes (into the first outfit I’ve liked in a long time, pity that no one can see it, including myself, topped off with a lovely skull-bedecked pink scarf that I no longer have to worry about getting stained and smelly), pulled on soft-soled boots, and grabbed a few protein bars from my stash. I was actually stupid enough to look in the mirror, prelude to putting makeup on. Ha. That’s not going to happen. No need to style my hair either. Eating was a special challenge, since I can’t see myself or the food and you don’t realize how heavily you rely on a peripheral visual awareness of your body to eat until you no longer have it, but after stabbing myself in the nose and chin a few times (I decide against washing my face again, if I have chocolate smudges, no one can see them), I managed.

It’s time to find out what’s going on in the world, all those details I’ve been missing. Time to do some long overdue investigating.

MacKayla Lane: unstoppable supersleuth.

For the first time in months, it’s fun to be me.

Unfortunately, being corporeal means I’m as subject to the elements as everyone else, and it’s once again raining in Dublin; a torrential spring downpour, good for the newly planted flowers and trees but bad for me.

Once I grabbed it, my umbrella became invisible, too, but that just makes me a larger, unseen obstacle, and foliage isn’t the only new addition to Dublin’s streets, there are people out walking, just like old times, hurrying to and fro, chins chucked down beneath hats and umbrellas.

Twice passersby collided with me when I didn’t sidestep fast enough, and both times I nearly lost my parasol and took a brief but thorough drenching. This being invisible is tricky stuff. It may take me a while to get the hang of it. I make a mental note that once I reach my destination, I’m going to have to dry off so I don’t leak a trail of water everywhere I go.

I’m halfway to Chester’s when I turn the corner and run smack into the Dreamy-Eyed Guy who’s standing outside an old brownstone converted to condos, looking up.

I flail for balance, taking a third soaking which I hardly even notice.

My savior is here, standing before me in the flesh! He’ll take back his Book and I’ll be visible again and go saunter around in front of Green Camo girl and prove I’m no longer a threat!

“There you are,” I exclaim excitedly.

“Not quite,” the Dreamy-Eyed Guy says. “But then you aren’t quite either. Quite the couple we make. You’ve chocolate on your face.”

Freaking figures. I scrub irritably at my chin, my cheek. “We need to talk.” I snatch the human form of the Unseelie King by his arm before he vanishes on me again. Like other large objects I touch, he remains visible.

He locks surreally beautiful eyes with mine, staring right through my invisibility cloak, but why wouldn’t he? It’s an illusion perpetrated by a part of him.

“What have you done now, Beautiful Girl?”

“Not me. You. It’s your fault.”

“Fault schmault. Lies in the stars.”

Not about to get sucked into an existential debate, I get to the point. “Get your Book out of me.”

“Talking to it?”

“No,” I deny instantly. “It talks to me. I almost never answer.”

“Cold fire. Jumbo shrimp.”

“Huh?” I don’t want the half-mad king. I want the sane one.

“Almost never: oxymoron. Risky couplings. Gray lies.” He removes my hand from his arm. “Not my book.”

“Bullshit. You made it.” I latch onto his arm again. No way he’s leaving without fixing me this time.

“So you say.”

“It’s a fact.”

“Nasty little buggers. Sport Halloween masks. Trust none of them.”

“Get. It. Out. Of. Me,” I grit.

“How many times must your king say it? Can’t eviscerate essential self.”

“Oh! I knew you were going to say that! It’s not my self. It’s yours. And you’re not my flipping king.”

“Didn’t say I was. Certainly not flipping. Although occasionally I do a cartwheel.”

He’s making little sense. But he rarely does. I suspect it’s even more difficult for the virtually omnipotent being to communicate when he’s functioning than it is for one of his multiple human parts. The only way the Unseelie King can walk among humans is by parceling out his vast sentience and power among a dozen or so human bodies. “I can’t live with your monster inside me. I shouldn’t have to.”

“Ah,” he clucks with mock sympathy, “because it’s not fair. And life always is. There is that whole ‘sins of the father’ thing.”

“You’re not my father. And no, it’s not fair.”

“In a manner of speaking, you are unequivocally the king’s and always will be. Caveat: what you fear most will destroy you.”

“Exactly. So, get it out of me.”

“Stop fearing it.”

“You dumped it. Why shouldn’t I?”

“And we’re back to square one. BG wake the fuck up, can’t eviscerate essential self.”

I stare at him. “What are you saying? You never got rid of it? Are you trying to tell me you dumped all your evil into a book and it infected me and made me evil — and it didn’t even work for you?”

“Try to behave with it.”

Then the Dreamy-Eyed Guy was gone, just gone, leaving a final cryptic comment floating on air.

“ ’Ware the Sweeper, BG. Don’t talk to its minions either. It’s not about eating the candy. It’s about giving away words.” Soft, enormous laughter rolls through the rainy streets like thunder. “Even that broody ass poet’s.”

Try to behave with it? That was his useless advice? Sweeper? Minions? Candy? What the hell is he talking about?

I stomp my foot on the sidewalk, slip and fall on my ass into the overflowing gutter. “Fucking fairies,” I yell, shoving wet hair from my face. “I hate you. All of you. Fuck you, Dreamy-Eyed Guy!”

A sudden breeze snatches the umbrella from my hand, turning it visible again and sends it whirling down the street, chute over handle, before smashing it into a brick wall. Metal spokes snap and it collapses on itself. Lightning crashes and thunder rolls.

I’m not sure but I think the Unseelie King just said “Fuck you, tiny insignificant very wet human” back.

After a moment I drag myself up, collect my battered umbrella, and begin slogging through the rain toward Chester’s.

After drying myself off thoroughly in one of the restrooms, I make every effort to stride purposefully across the crowded dance floors of Chester’s, but were I visible, someone watching would see an erratic zig followed by a stumbling zag that vaguely resembles a drunken bumblebee. It’s impossible to avoid people who have no idea I’m there.

I take two pops to my rib cage from flailing elbows, a backhand to my jaw (they call this dancing?), and a fist to my thigh (really, who gyrates like that?) before I even clear the first subclub.

I pause in an unoccupied space between clubs, assessing my surroundings, seeking the clearest path.

It’s easy to find. Behind a tall dark mountain of a man for whom the crowd parts with the same mystical obedience as the Red Sea opening for Moses.

“Barrons,” I growl.

Thanks to the challenges of my recent transformation, coupled with the Sinsar Dubh’s endless harangue about why I should leave Earth this very second, quadrupled by how pissed I am the king didn’t even seriously consider my request — perhaps the king’s parts are all different, some more sane and logical than others, and I should start hunting McCabe — I’ve not had time to brood about what Barrons did to me.