Immortal Beloved: Darkness Falls Part 6

She called something back to the man, and they both laughed. Then she turned and spoke to the auctioneer's a.s.sistant, who bowed and nodded. Her clear brown eyes scanned the crowd shrewdly-she was gauging her audience. She quickly counted the slaves yet to be sold this day and almost absently touched the brown leather pouch tied to her waist.

I turned to the River at my side. She was watching the scene calmly, but there was deep sadness in her eyes.

"We were very successful slave traders," she said. "My brothers and I. We operated as different branches of a large, mythical family and were able to stay in Genoa for almost three centuries before the witch rumors started."

"Who are those men?" I pointed to the tall, dark men at one side.

"My brothers," she said. "Two of them."

One of the men called, "Diavola!"

The River on the platform turned and raised her eyebrows, then called back an answer to his question.

"Was Diavola your first name?"

"My third," River said. "The name I was born under was Aulina."

It only sank in gradually: River, one of the few actually truly pretty good people in the world-certainly the most good person I'd ever met-had bought and sold human beings. For centuries.

On the platform, a sobbing woman slave was being torn from her squalling infant. Diavola watched dispa.s.sionately nearby. River turned away.

"I'm ready to go," she murmured, and again I was aware of her fingertips touching my temples. With the next breath, I drew in reality and the scene faded away.

I didn't open my eyes. I don't think they were ever closed. It was more like River came into focus in front of me.

She lowered her hands and began to dismantle the spell. As much as each spell was created layer upon layer, so it was taken apart, layer by layer. I got my usual panicky horror at the feeling of bliss fading, leaving my world washed out and grayer, leaving me incomplete and flawed. That's why people would kill other people to take their power. I saw it now. Of course people would want more of that feeling, want to have it more often, have it last longer, be stronger. If I were truly Terv, I would kill River right now and seize her power for myself.

I blinked and drew in a shocked breath, awed by my horrible thoughts. But you won't kill River, I thought quickly. You would never do that. Never. You're not all bad. You're not someone who would do such a thing. You know that.

I was barely aware of when River blew out the candle.

"Everyone is worth saving," she said softly, not looking at me. Her slim hands rested lightly on her knees.

I felt my b.u.t.t frozen to the floor, the ache in my back and along my legs. For future reference, I would prefer to do magick wearing sweatpants, on a water bed. Enough with cold floors.

"You told me once that you used to be dark. Was that what you were talking about? That your family used to be slave traders?" I asked.

River gave a short, sardonic laugh, making me blink. I'd never heard her do that. "Yes, that was part of it. But sadly that wasn't even the darkest part of my history. Slave-trading was bad, it was really bad, and it put my karma in the toilet. But my story goes deeper and gets much worse, I'm afraid."

I had trouble believing that, but in my mind I saw Diavola, young and beautiful and without feeling as she split families apart and consigned people to wretched futures with slave owners.

"My point is, everyone is worth saving," she said, more firmly. "If I didn't believe that, I couldn't go on. I'd have ended it all a long time ago."

I nodded as we got up, brus.h.i.+ng hay off my seat and wiggling to get some warmth going. "Yes, I mean slaving was not good. But slaves were everywhere back then. That society considered it normal. No one thought you were awful for being in that line of business, at that time."

Her eyes were thoughtful. "You think that makes it all right, not evil?"

"I think it makes it less evil," I said honestly. "You can only be formed by your society." I came up with a quote I had heard once: " 'Nothing is good or bad, but thinking makes it so.' "

"Hmm," said River. "That could make for some very interesting dinner conversation. So if you think that the nature of the society helps determine the relative evilness of a thing, would you say that Reyn's marauding and plundering was less bad, because it was so common back then? So many tribes did it?"

I stared at her. How neatly she had turned the tables on me. I looked for spite in her eyes but saw only warmth and compa.s.sion.

I couldn't craft a coherent, well-reasoned reply. Instead I stiffly hung the cleaned tack and saddles on their pegs and tried to squash my immediate urge to lash out at her.

"That was different," I said, knowing how ridiculous it sounded, and knowing that she had me. I couldn't make excuses for her without making excuses for Reyn, and I would never make excuses for Reyn.

"Hmm," she said again, and looked at her watch. "It's late. And I think you're on the dinner team."

She managed a slight smile at my unenthusiastic look, but she seemed tired or withdrawn, as if visiting that past had drained her.

I felt a little less bad.

CHAPTER 9.

During my centuries of debauchery and wastedness, I had lost most of my practical skills. Now I found a quiet, surprising satisfaction in my ability to do things somewhat competently. Even if I had to do them side by side with Jess and the unsmiling Butcher of Winter.

As long as I didn't have to stand too close to Reyn, I was okay. We hadn't spoken since our Winter Wonderland experience. Perhaps if I didn't get a whiff of the fresh-laundry scent of his s.h.i.+rt, I might possibly be able to not throw myself at him and make out right on top of the kitchen table.

"Here." Jess set a basket of already (thank G.o.d) scrubbed turnips, carrots, and potatoes on the kitchen table. He'd put a big roast in the oven hours earlier, and the room was filled with delicious-smelling steam.

"You want 'em cubed or in big chunks or what?" I asked.

"Big chunks. I'll add them to the pot," he replied, and turned to open a bottle of wine. Without asking, he filled a winegla.s.s halfway and put it at my elbow. No one here drank much at all, and I knew that some of us, like Jess for example, had had huge substance-abuse problems at some point.

But I wasn't going to look a gift gla.s.s in the mouth. I picked it up quickly and inhaled its sweet, rich tang. Then I took a sip and let it linger in my mouth. So, so lovely. I tried not to think about times when I'd chugged half a bottle in one gulp.

Jess put most of the bottle into the great big pan in the oven. A wave of roasting meat filled the room, and my stomach growled.

I chopped at one end of the table and Mr. Golden Suns.h.i.+ne set up shop at the other end. He dusted the table with flour, took out a plastic bin of rising dough, and set about forming a pile of dinner rolls as if I wasn't there.

Seeing some of River's past had been weird and kind of disturbing. I guess I hadn't really believed her when she'd said she'd been dark, before-she was so patently amazing now. I frowned, cutting the tops off the turnips. If she was just as flawed and awful as me, why would I believe anything she said? Could someone really get past all that and be a better, completely different person?

And then, Lorenz's startling admission about the million Lorenz Juniors running around. That was messed up. And Jess here was obviously a train wreck of a person. Reyn was the personification of someone tortured by his past and never really getting over it. Why were any of us even trying? I kept hoping I was done with all the past-reliving, and then something happened that brought it all up again, like a cat eating gra.s.s. My past was standing in the middle of the road, waving its arms, screaming Look at me! But why? Why did any of it matter anymore?

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Reyn's taut, strong forearms as he kneaded dough and shaped rolls expertly. I tried not to think about him kneading or shaping me.

"Hi hi," said Anne, pus.h.i.+ng through the kitchen door. Her fine black hair swung around her cheeks, and she shoved the sleeves of her green sweater up to her elbows. "I'm setting the table-there will be thirteen at dinner because..."

The door pushed open again, and Anne made a ta-da gesture. "My sister is here! Everyone, this is Amy. Amy, this is Jess, Reyn, and Nastasya."

"Hi," said Amy with a smile. She was Anne Lite, with slightly younger features, longer, unstyled mink brown hair falling around her shoulders, and a less polished look altogether. Anne was a teacher; Amy seemed like a student still, if that makes sense.

I realized she was really, really pretty, in a fresh, unmade-up way. Why could some women skip makeup and look "fresh and unmade-up," but when I skipped it, which I did every day, I looked like I'd been embalmed?

"Wow, it smells great in here!" said Amy, taking the stack of plates that Anne handed her.

"Yeah, we rock," I said, and took a sip of my wine. It left a warm trail all the way down my throat, and I suppressed the urge to gulp it.

Amy smiled, and then I watched as she caught sight of Reyn, and everything went into slow motion.

Her eyes visibly focused on him. Her smile faltered for just a second, then became wider. It occurred to me that even though I didn't want him, it had been annoying when Nell had, and now Amy seemed to be falling into the vortex of Viking fabulosity. It burned me. No one but me should see how intensely appealing he was, how beautiful, how deadly. Clearly, Amy could.

"Any hopes for dessert?" she asked Reyn, doing everything but batting her eyelashes.

And Reyn, who was taciturn and tortured with me, gave her an easy smile back. I blinked, practically hearing angels sing. Amy was hypnotized and thrilled, staring into his eyes like a stunned rabbit.

"Yes," he said, throwing a dish towel over one broad shoulder. "Something chocolate."

"Excellent." Amy gave us all another smile and pushed through the doorway after Anne. The kitchen seemed smaller without her.

Many dismaying thoughts whirled through my head like trash on an empty street, but what I came up with was: "Chocolate?"

"I'll think of something," he said, and I started to feel totally irrationally furious that he would make something chocolate for her.

I turned my back to him and finished chopping the vegetables, pretending that each one was Reyn's self-confidence and I was whacking it into bits. I gave them all to Jess, ripped off my ap.r.o.n, then stalked out.

I was 459 years old and full of schoolgirl jealousy over someone I didn't even want.

c.r.a.p.

You'll be interested to hear that the previous scene was the highlight of my week. Yes. It all slid downhill from there, like a Popsicle off a hot car hood.

I headed to work the next morning, knowing that Meriwether was back at school-it was just me and the charm of Old Mac until that afternoon. Mr. MacIntyre was even angrier and more hostile than usual. I wondered if the holiday had pushed him over the edge.

I did my usual worker-elf routine: putting away stock, tidying, sweeping, sorting out the day's receipts, and keeping a log of checks to go to the bank. MacIntyre's Drugs: the store that technology forgot.

Mostly I kept well out of Old Mac's way, and he spoke hardly two words to me all day. At four, Meriwether came in, her pale hair wind-tossed. She smiled, looking genuinely happy to see me, then headed into the back to clock in and drop off her schoolbag. Her own father made her clock in and keep a time card.

I'd saved some restocking so that she and I could work together without Mr. MacIntyre yelling at us. Soon we were settled down in aisle four, unpacking medicated foot powder and arch supports.

"So how was the New Year's dance?" I whispered. Old Mac was behind his pharmacy counter, and I didn't want to waken the beast.

"Both good and icky," said Meriwether, keeping her voice down. "I had a good time, at first. Lowell was there-he's really nice, and the DJ was good. And I really liked my dress. I couldn't believe my dad even let me go. So those were all good."

"What was bad?" I slid packages onto their little metal supports.

Meriwether made a face. "A bunch of kids crashed the dance. And they were drunk, wasted. They made a big scene, and Mr. Daly tried to kick them out, and then they broke up stuff."

"Oh, b.u.mmer," I said. "They actually broke things?"

"Yeah. Like one of the DJ's big speakers, and they fell against the food table and the whole thing collapsed, so all the food was ruined. We were all so p.i.s.sed."

"That's awful," I said, as images of myself doing similar things to similar nice, undeserving people rolled through my head. "Did you know them?"

"A couple of them. They used to go to my school, but they dropped out. A girl named Dray and some guy named Taylor. Some others I didn't know."

My hand paused in midair. Dray? The Dray I was trying to fix? I hadn't seen her in several weeks, but we'd had a really good talk the last time we'd run into each other. She reminded me uncomfortably of me, and if I saved her before she totally self-destructed, I was adding more points to my side of the board, so to speak.

"That's too bad," I said. "They used to go to your school?"

"Yeah. Taylor was a senior last year, but he got kicked out for smoking pot, like, two months before graduation. Dray was in my grade. She was such a b.i.t.c.h. But I always thought maybe she had it bad at home, you know? My dad wouldn't let her mom shop here anymore, because her checks always bounced." Meriwether looked unhappy. "But still. That doesn't mean she can come wreck the only dance my dad ever let me go to."

"Yeah, I know. What a b.u.mmer. Do you think you'll actually go out with Lowell?" What kind of modern kid is named Lowell?

"I don't know if my dad will let me. But I can see him at school. We could sit together at lunch sometimes." Her face brightened, and we finished unloading that crate. The sun had gone down outside, and the dark sky looked gray and sullen because of the clouds hanging low over the town.

"What are you doing?" Mr. MacIntyre's gruff voice almost made me jump. Since his jar-throwing incident, he had been more subdued, as if that had shocked him into trying to repress his anger a little bit. Meriwether didn't seem to be holding it against him. I wished I could do more to help her situation. I gestured to the empty plastic crates.

"Taking these out back," I said, doing just that.

When I returned, Meriwether was dusting the shelves. As Meriwether stuffed the feather duster back under the counter, we heard something drop. Frowning, she leaned down and picked it up. It was a small frame, and her face fell when she looked at the picture in it. I was dying to see what it was but pretended not to notice, in case she wanted to stuff it out of sight again. Instead she came over and held it out to me.

"This was my mom," she said in a tiny voice.

In the photo, Meriwether was sitting on a green corduroy sofa, smiling at the camera. She seemed about twelve or thirteen, so it must have been right before her mom died. Her mother looked a lot like Meriwether, but older. I mean, a lot like her. As in, Meriwether would be her twin when she was that age. No wonder Old Mac could hardly stand to be around her. Speaking of Old Mac, my jaw almost dropped. I'd never seen him so normal, so healthy. He was smiling hugely, gazing at his wife, his arm across the back of the sofa. I couldn't believe how happy he seemed-a completely different person.

"This must be your little brother," I murmured. He, too, looked happy, sitting securely between his father and Meriwether. Where Meriwether was pale and fair, like her mom, her brother had dark hair and eyes, like Old Mac.

"Yeah. That's Ben," she barely whispered, her face tragic.

"What the h.e.l.l is this?!" The roar surprised us both, and I almost dropped the frame. Mr. MacIntyre stood there, all temporary restraint gone, almost shaking with rage. He shot out a hand and yanked the picture from me, sc.r.a.ping my palm. "How dare you! How dare you take this-" He made the mistake of glancing at the picture, and in a cartoon, he would be the figure that someone had punctured, letting his air out with a hiss. Then he recovered, clutching the picture to his chest and slamming his other hand down on the counter.

"Don't you ever mention his name again!" His voice, huge and incensed, filled the small store. Meriwether, already stretched thin by his tirade, burst into tears. I wanted to snap my hand out, hiss something strong and dark, make him crumple to his knees. Of course I wouldn't, shouldn't, but I was taut, vibrating like a string, ready to leap into action. But I was so mad, so mad that he got to yell at her like this, with no one stopping him. So mad that he blamed Meriwether for being alive. My palms tingled with the urge to just-Taser him with magick.

"You quit yelling at her!" I shouted. "It's not her fault she didn't die!" It wasn't what I meant to say, and of the three of us, I'm not sure who was the most shocked. Meriwether abruptly stopped crying and stared at me, and Old Mac went pale. Then his eyes almost bugged out of his head.

Of course I trundled on. Why would I develop discretion now? "She's all you have left! You guys have each other! Should she have died, too, so that you'd have no one?"

Meriwether hiccuped in the unnatural silence.

"You shut up!" Mr. MacIntyre screamed, and I took a step back at the look on his face. He was winning the Who's Madder? contest, hands down. Did that stop me? Nope.

"You're ruining what life you have left!" I yelled back. "Your business is in the toilet because no one wants to deal with you! Your daughter is afraid of you! You seem like a crazy old man! Is that what you want?" This may have been pus.h.i.+ng it. A vein throbbed in his temple, and I wondered if he was going to have a stroke. He seemed speechless, so enraged that he literally couldn't spew hate fast enough.

Finally his mouth opened, and I braced myself.

"You're fired!" he bellowed. "Fired! Get the h.e.l.l out of here! I never want to see your face again! And you stay away from my daughter!"

I blinked. Naively, I had not actually expected to get fired. I thought we would all yell for a while, then fume silently for several days, followed by a month of pa.s.sive-aggression. But fired? c.r.a.p. I was supposed to have a job. For my personal growth.

"Fired?" I tried to sound brave.