Disenchanted (28 page)

Tears flow freely as my big toe connects with an unseen protrusion. Flailing limbs take the brunt of the impact hitting the ground with a snap. That can’t be good, I hear the inner voice of reason mutter, followed by a flash of pain so intense my stomach heaves.

Laying there on my face, sobbing, I see my left hand at an odd angle, something protruding from the wrist. The light—what little there is—nearly goes out as I realize it’s not a foreign object. That pale thing sticking out is bone, the streaks of dark running down my hand onto the ground, blood. Stomach muscles twist and squeeze, but there’s nothing left to give.

I want to curl into the fetal position and cry. I want to pass out. I need to hide, because I don’t want to die. Half crawling, half dragging myself behind an outcropping of stone, I sit, willing myself to fade into the rock. Cradling my broken wrist, silent sobs wrack my body, a never–ending cycle of quaking pain.

“Hiding won’t do you any good, especially when you’ve left me such convenient clues.”

His garbled words find their way through the maddening static in my ears. Who knew pain had sound? Salty–sweet copper dribbles over my tongue as teeth gnaw their way through my lower lip. At this rate, maybe I’ll bleed out before he has a chance to slice and dice me.

If the smell of rotting meat was the first clue he’d found me, my head connecting with rock is the last. He grabs what little hair I have left and drags me into the open. My body screams in protest as knife–like objects rake across abraded skin and so do I when my hand smacks the ground. Flesh feeling like hamburger, a Kaleidoscope of color flashing, my empty stomach convulses. Had there been anything left inside I would have choked.

“Look what you’ve done to yourself, Keely. Had I let your little game of hide and seek continue there’s no telling what other damage you would have inflicted. As I was telling you before you so rudely kicked me, I need your Talents to fix my mistake.”

Fix his mistake? The words cut through the pain long enough for me to put two and two together.

“Sometimes we punish the ones we love. When I bring her back, I can explain everything,”

“You really think she’ll believe you love her after you killed her?” My voice sounds like my throat feels, dry and damaged. Like acid was poured down it, or in my case up, as in stomach acid.

“I’ll make her,” he says then shrugs. “If she doesn’t, I can always just kill her again.”

What does he think this is? A video game? You can’t just reboot a person after you kill them. Take that back, vamps, zombies and other undead types count, but the thought of Jenny forcibly reanimated. A shiver races through me and I groan. Someone has to stop this insanity and considering I’m all alone, I guess that would be me. The idea of me stopping him brings my own sanity into question. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing, a little crazy might go a long way.

Reaching up with my good hand, I tangle my fingers in the chain dangling over my face and give it a tug. He loses his balance, ending up on his hands and knees.

“Listen, asshole,” I manage to croak. “It isn’t going to happen. You’re not using me to bring Jenny back.”

He lets out a slow, long breath, closing his eyes. “Keely, Keely, Keely, you really are dense, aren’t you?”

I twist my fingers tighter in the chain. “Maybe, but then again, maybe not,” I say, giving it a swift yank. Damn. I try again, using the weight of my body and roll. In a perfect world, that chain would have snapped, just like in the movies. If you want to get technical, in a perfect world, there wouldn’t be any need for that chain to snap. In this world, I succeed in screaming in pain as he lands on top of me.

Righting himself, he clicks his tongue and untangles my fingers from the chain. A little tremor of fear tickles the base of my spine as his thumb gently wipes my tears.

“It’s a pity I can’t keep you as a pet. You really do amuse me, but that’s just not in the cards.”

Twice tonight I thought, this is the end, I’m a goner, but I’d been wrong. Guess three times is a charm because I’m pretty sure this is it and it makes me sad. It’s so unfair. I don’t get the whole life flashing before your eyes experience. Instead, my last sight will be his raw, oozing face.

Sadness flitters away, leaving fear and with fear comes what? Laughter, starting out as muffled giggles and building as pain screams through my body. For some sick reason nature has given me the most useless of defense mechanisms. The more pain, or fear I feel, the more I laugh.

The creases between his brows tighten and his jaw flops like a fish. My head swings to one side as his hand connects with my cheek. I laugh all the harder, tears streaming down my cheeks.

“Stop it.”

“Stop it,” I repeat.

“I said stop it.”

“I said stop it,” I say, continuing the childish game.

He grasps my shoulders, giving me a bone–jarring shake, my head bobbing.

“Stop it right this minute.”

“Stop it right this minute,” I reply between hiccuping laughter. I know I’m pushing my luck, but caring has flown the coop.

He shakes me again, this time hard enough for my head to bounce against the floor. The laughter stops as bursts of light flare, but the tears continue to flow. It’s bad enough he’s going to kill me, but does he have to give me the mother of all headaches? Apparently, that’s the plan, or he intends on shoving me through the earth. Funny in a warped sort of way, considering that’s what I was trying to do earlier.

Bright light flashes when my damaged hand slams against the ground. All my pain condensed into one small place. The howl of an injured animal shatters the silence. Brightness fades to red as all that concentrated pain reaches my brain, the receptors all too receptive. My surroundings disappear, there’s nothing, but color, white noise and pain. The noise intensifies and blackness squeezes around the color, every nerve screaming as my body shifts against the serrated earth.

Why not give into the darkness, let it swallow me? There’s no use fighting, he’s going to kill me anyway. No one’s body is meant to take this much pain. Nor is the mind capable of processing it. It shuts down, but not before I feel the ground give away below me.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

The world spins as millions, no zillions of whispers thrum in my ears. Unseen fingers caress my skin, cold like a winter breeze. Exhausted, terrified and hurting, to the point of not caring, I ride along the silken darkness.

When the spinning stops, I play rabbit. If I don’t move, he can’t see me. Not that it should matter, I’m dead right?

“What do you want, little Schattenkind?”

Crap, there’s that name again
. The voice is torn and ragged, mingled with an enticingly seductive quality. Like two in one, similar to The Sisters with their surround sound.

Turning my head toward the voice, hesitantly I open my eyes. Posed in profile, sits a woman on a dark throne. If she hadn’t spoken I would have thought it was a statue. A rendition of perfection meticulously carved in luminous stone. Her profile is so stunning I’d have to vote her top of the beauty food chain. Okay, so Royd’s sister ranks up there if you like the
Malibu Barbie
type. I guess you could call it a tie. What can I say? In my profession, you notice these things.

“Your lack of answer is yet another rudeness, I must tolerate, Schattenkind.” Her tone brings the mask of calm she wears into question.

“What did you call—I’m sorry.” My hashed throat barely manages a whisper that sounds almost as ragged as half her stereophonic voice.

“I called you Schattenkind for it is what you are and shall accept your pathetic apology if you tell me why you are in my domain.”

Somehow, I manage to roll over and push myself up onto all threes. Sweat breaks across my forehead and upper lip, intense pounding in my head and ears nearly knocking me flat. My hand and wrist throb with a life of their own as I attempt to keep the arm tucked against my body. Swallowing, I raise my upper body, cradling one arm in the other, hissing as my hand flops to one side. This is going to make my job near impossible if it doesn’t heal correctly. What am I saying? I highly doubt I’ll be doing hair in the afterlife. Wait a minute.

I’m dead, right? That would make her... That elegant profile turns toward me before I can even think her name. Like a freakish Halloween costume splitting a person down the center, the other half of that perfect alabaster profile wavers between a mirror in onyx and cadaverous remains. The Mistress of the Dead. The goddess, Hel.

After nodding in respect, I fix my attention on the attractive side. Not trusting my reaction to the other, the last thing I want to do is insult her. Seems I’ve already pushed the boundaries of politeness.

“Um...I’m dead, aren’t I?”

Her laughter is like crystal drug over gravel. “Now, if you were I would not be asking why you are here.” Eyes, one frost–colored, the other empty darkness, rove over my broken form. “From the look of you, it is a distinct possibility, if you do not see a healer.”

Advice I don’t really need, I know I’m in a bad way. Battered, bloody and severely dehydrated.

“I don’t suppose you have one of those down here?” Stupid question, but it gets her to laugh. Laughter is better than the alternative, whatever that might be.

“If I did you this favor what would you give in return?”

Damn, there’s always a catch when it comes to dealing with gods. Scratch that, it doesn’t matter who you’re dealing with, there’s always a catch. What could I offer that is comparable? Free haircut, manicure, how about a facial? I shiver at the thought of touching her and it reminds me how important it is I find a healer ASAP.

Clearing my tortured throat, I end up coughing, finally managing to spit out, “What do you want?”

Her smile is downright nasty. “A boon of my choosing, at a time of my choosing.”

“Like what?”

“As I said, of my choice, when I choose it to be so.”

Not a good idea to bargain with the ruler of hel, especially when I don’t know what I’m bargaining with, but what choice do I have?

“Well? Do we have an agreement?”

Pain and the fear of what awaits me on the other side push me to a decision, and I nod.

“I will instruct my personal healer to do what he can.”

“One small problem with that.”

“You do not agree to the terms?”

“It’s not that I don’t agree. If I’m bargaining with the unknown, I’d like to add a term of my own. I need help getting back home.”

I can feel the exasperation in her sigh. I’m not pushing my luck on purpose I really don’t know how to get back. I don’t remember how I got here. Something about wishing the earth would swallow me. It’s all static and fuzzy pictures.

“I will assign someone to take you to the edge of my kingdom and from there you will be on your own.”

The giant lump of fear in my throat grates as I swallow. I’m not going to get a better deal. I’m lucky she’s offering this much and probably luckier that she hasn’t squashed me like a bug.

“Thank you.”

“Do not thank me, just honor the agreement. At a time of my choosing, you shall deliver what I ask.”

***

I figured the healing would hurt, but I’d forgotten one little hitch. My Talents and the whole dead thing. Duh, her healer would be a dead guy, it only makes sense.

The minute he enters the room the situation begins to spiral and by the time he touches me it’s out of control.

Unlike in the mortal realm, shadows don’t slink in, they bum rush me. Piles of bricks restraining my Talent quiver and rock before shattering, leaving a cloud of dust and me open to death’s influence.

Pain in my throat tells me I’m screaming, but I can’t hear it over the choir echoing around me. Being in hel is a bad, bad thing for someone like me when it comes to control. The slender grip I had on my control slips through my fingers and I’m too weak and tired to get it back.

Cold hands grip the sides of my head, muffling the voices. I hear Hel tell her healer to work faster and me to shut up. Then blissful darkness.

***

“Since I cannot trust you near my subjects, I am forced to escort you.”

The Queen of the Dead has a soft spot no matter how she tries to hide it, one that gives warm cloaks and shoes. I don’t think she hates me as much as fears what would happen if someone with my Talents were to stay. Can’t say I blame her. I’d be a bit peeved if a stylist that could do what I do moved into my salon.

Try as I might, I can’t keep up. Even in peak condition, it would be near impossible. My healing didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. My wrist and hand bound in a crude splint, bruises and scrapes faded, pain factor dulled to somewhere between five and six on a scale of ten. I still look and feel like crap.

Surprise, surprise the dead can’t
heal
the living, but I’m able to move and my head is clearer. If anything, the healer looked better when he was done. I have a feeling the total adoration in his eyes when he looked at me is going to be a problem later.