Лорел Гамильтон - A Kiss Of Shadows

Doyle met those accusing eyes with a tranquil face. "I think you will find that our queen is no longer so tolerant of the prince's… eccentricities."

Sholto laughed again, and it was a painful sound. "When I left the court only days ago, I'd say she was still very tolerant of Cel's… eccentricities."

Doyle's face was still peaceful, as if nothing the other man could do would upset him. I think that bothered Sholto more than any other reaction that Doyle could have given him. I think Doyle knew that. "One problem at a time, Sholto. For now I have the queen's promise, and her magic, to ensure that the princess will not be harmed at court."

"As you wish to believe, Doyle, but for now I would ask you to aid me in bringing death to one that I valued."

Doyle stood easily, as if he hadn't been nearly strangled to death moments ago. I wasn't even sure I could stand. There is more than just immortality that I miss by taking after my human blood.

They both reached out to me at the same time, and I took both hands. They nearly pulled me off my feet. "Easy does it, boys. I just need help standing, not flying."

Doyle looked at me. "You are pale. How badly are you hurt?"

I shook my head and pulled away from them both. "Not that badly. It's mostly shock, and… it hurt when I… did what I did to Nerys."

"What did you do?" he asked.

"Come see," Sholto said. "It is worth a look, or three." He looked at me then. "The news of what you have done will ride before you to the court, Meredith. Meredith, Princess of Flesh, no longer merely Essus's daughter."

"It is very rare for a child to receive the same gifts as the parent," Doyle said.

Sholto walked toward the door, tying the grey trench coat in place as he moved. Blood soaked into the cloth where the cut tentacle pressed against it. "Come, Doyle, Bearer of the Painful Flame, Baron Sweet-tongue, come and see what you think of Meredith's gifts."

I was familiar with the first title, but not the second. I asked, "Baron Sweet-tongue—I've never heard you called that."

"It is a very old nickname," he said.

"Come, Doyle, you are too modest. It was the queen's pet name for him, once."

The two men looked at each other, and again there was a weight of old grudge in the air. "The name is not for what you assume, Sholto," Doyle said.

"I assume nothing, but I think the sobriquet speaks for itself. Don't you, Meredith?"

"Baron Sweet-tongue does have a certain ambiance," I said.

"It is not for what you think," Doyle repeated.

"Well," Sholto said, "it is certainly not because of your honeyed words."

That was true. Doyle didn't go in for long speeches, and he was not an accomplished flatterer. "If you say it's not sexual, then I believe you," I said.

Doyle made a small bow to me. "Thank you."

"The queen doesn't give out pet names except for sex," Sholto said.

"Yes, she does," I said.

"When, and for what?"

"When she thinks the nickname will bother the person bearing it, and because she enjoys being irritating."

"Well, the last is certainly true," Sholto said. He had his hand on the door handle.

"I'm surprised no one barged in on us," I said.

"I put a small spell of aversion on the door. No mortal would want to pass it, and few fey." He started to open the door.

"Don't you want your… limb? They might be able to reattach it."

"It will grow back," he said.

I must have looked as disbelieving as I felt, because he smiled in a half-superior, half-apologetic way. "There are some benefits to being half nightflyer—not many, but a few. I can regenerate any lost body part." He seemed to think about that for a second, then added, "So far, anyway."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I didn't try.

"I think the princess needs to get some rest, so if we could see your friend… " Doyle said.

"Of course." Sholto held the door for us.

"What about the mess?" I asked. "We're just going to leave bits of tentacle and blood all over the floor?"

"The baron made the mess, let him clean it up," Sholto said.

"Neither the body parts nor the blood belong to me," Doyle said. "If you want it cleaned up, I suggest you do it yourself. Who knows what damage a talented witch could do with a body part left lying around?"

Sholto protested, but in the end he slipped the severed tentacle in his coat pocket. They left the body-sized one where it lay. If I were Sholto I would definitely be overtipping the cleaning staff, just to make up for whoever had to do the bathroom.

We rode back up in the elevator, and Doyle knelt on the floor studying what was left of Nerys the Grey. She was a ball of flesh about the size of a bushel basket. Nerves, tendons, muscles, internal organs all glistened wetly on the outside of that ball. They all seemed to be functioning normally. That lump of flesh even rose and fell with breath. The sound was the worst: a high, thin screaming, muffled because her mouth was now on the inside of her body, but still she screamed. She shrieked. The shivering that had been growing less, grew more. I was suddenly cold standing there in my bra and pants.

I got my shirt from the floor where I'd left it, and slipped it on, but knew that mere cloth wasn't going to take care of this particular kind of cold. It was more a shivering of the soul than the body. I could pile myself with blankets and it wouldn't help.

Doyle looked up at me, kneeling beside that pulsing, screaming ball. "Most impressive. Prince Essus himself could not have done better." The words were a compliment, but his face was so empty I couldn't tell if he was pleased or not.

I actually thought it was one of the most horrible things I'd ever seen, but I knew better than to share the observation. It was a powerful weapon, the hand of flesh. If people believed I'd use it easily, often, it was more of a deterrent. If they thought I feared it, then the threat would be less. "I don't know, Doyle, I saw my father turn a giant inside out once. Do you think I could do something that large?" My voice was dry, interested, but in an academic sort of way. It was the voice I'd cultivated at court. The voice I used when I was trying not to have hysterics or run screaming from a room. I had learned to watch the most awful things and make dry, urbane comments.

Doyle took the question at face value. "I don't know, Princess, but it will be interesting to discover the limits of your power."

I disagreed, but I let the comment stand, because I couldn't think of anything dry and urbane enough to cover the situation. The muffled shrieks continued as fast as the ball of flesh could draw breath. Nerys was immortal. My father had once done this to an enemy of the queen's. Andais kept that ball of flesh in a trunk in her room. Periodically, you'd find it sitting around her bedchamber. To my knowledge no one ever questioned what it was doing out of its trunk. You just picked it up, put it back, locked it away, and fought down any visuals that came to mind when you found it sitting in the queen's bed.

"Sholto asked that you grant Nerys death. Do it, so we can get out of here." I sounded disinterested, even bored. I thought if I had to stand there and hear that thing screaming for much longer, I'd join it.

Still on his knees, Doyle held the sword up to me, hilt first, the blade lying on his hands. "It is your magic—let it be your kill."

I stared at the bone hilt, the three ravens and their jeweled eyes. I didn't want to do it. I stared at the blade for a minute more, trying to think how to get out of this without appearing weak. Nothing came to mind. If I got squeamish now, then Nerys's torment was for nothing. I would have gained a new title but not the reputation that went with it.

I took the sword, and hated Doyle for offering it to me. It should have been easily done. Her heart was trapped and pulsing on the side of the ball. I thrust the blade into it. Blood poured black, and the heart stopped beating, but that thin screaming didn't stop.