My blood chills. I am still invisible, right? The Book would have no reason to expose me now. I glance up at my gloved hand then down at my body. Yup, still invisible. Then what? I brace myself on the rock and turn to look at the Hag’s nest.
My heart sinks. She’s stirring, standing, bloody dress dripping over the side of the spire, black holes where her eyes should be trained in our direction.
She’s tense, preparing for flight.
Son of a bitch.
She’s coming.
35
“Off into the sunset, living like there’s nothing left to lose”
MAC
I glance up but don’t see anyone at the cliff’s edge. Only a thin black cable snaking over the side.
Good. That means they warned me and sought cover, as was our contingency plan.
I glance down. If the Hag comes for Christian now, I’m perched on the side of the cliff a mere twenty feet above where she plans to hunker down and flay the Highlander. I’ll have to hang here, wait for her to finish, then climb back up and wait until Christian heals a little to try again.
Unless she’s going somewhere else. Could I be so lucky?
I glance back over my shoulder, peering through the moonlit night. She’s still standing in her nest, macabre gown of guts dripping over the edge, swaying from side to side in an eerily reptilian manner, nose in the air, head tilted as if listening intently.
Surely she didn’t hear the sound of my boots hitting the side of the cliff over all this wind and from a quarter of a mile away.
Did she? I have no idea the acuteness of her echolocation skills.
I hang there, debating options. I don’t need to kick out anymore. I can inch down another ten feet, whisper to Christian, give him the spear, kick out to draw her near him. Then pull myself up out of the way really fast.
Or … I could hang here while she kills him again, wait and inch back up.
Only to inch back down later.
I so don’t want to do this again. The way I see it, the odds of failing are directly proportionate to the number of attempts, increasing each time.
What would Jada do?
That’s a no-brainer.
I steal another glance at the Hag.
She’s still standing in her nest. Not hearing any vibrations. As long as she doesn’t, we should be fine.
I begin to inch slowly downward.
When I’m ten feet from Christian’s head, I say softly, “Christian, it’s me, Mac. Don’t talk loud. Keep it low.”
I have to repeat it several times before I hear a guttural groan.
My head instantly whips to the Hag but she’s still standing, unmoving.
“We’re here to save you. I’m bringing you the spear. I’m going to pry one of your hands free,” I say in a low voice. No way I can try to drive a spike in now. She’d hear it for sure. It’s going to be risky enough prying one of the rivets out. “You’ll have to hold on until she comes for you again. Hide the spear.” As soon as I say that, I think, Where exactly do I expect him to hide it? The man is naked.
I’m beginning to realize we overlooked a few critical details in our plan.
I hang there, boots carefully braced on a tiny, narrow ledge on the sheer cliff face, being buffeted by a stiff, cutting wind, suspended by nothing but my frightfully thin cable (yes, I read the weight rating; it doesn’t make me feel any better), and force myself to take one hand off it to rummage around in the pocket of my jacket for a bottle of Unseelie flesh, neatly sliced and diced months ago. I keep them hidden all over the bookstore. I’ll take every advantage I can get right now. I half expect the Sinsar Dubh to either prevent me from using it or try to amp it up in some nasty way. Biting back revulsion, I gingerly work the lid free and ease the wriggling contents into my mouth.
My body stiffens as it hits me like a thunderbolt.
Energy, sexuality, vitality, and strength burn in my veins. No wonder so many people are so addicted to it. I feel strong. I feel alive. I feel invincible. I remember eating it once before and taunting Barrons to hit me, punch me, fight with me.
I ease down a few more inches. So far no malevolent commentary from the Book and no apparent negative side effects. If you exclude a ferocious desire to eat it again once it wears off.
“Christian, can you hear me?” I whisper.
“I … hear you,” he says weakly. “Mac … I smell … Unseelie flesh. You … eating it? Ken you what … vile stuff … does … to you.”
Despite the agony in his voice, I swear I hear a faint note of teasing.
“Are you strong enough to hold yourself up for a little while if I free one of your hands?”
“Aye,” he whispers. “Give me … the bloody spear … kill the … bloody bitch. Can’t see … you. Naught but … black and moonlight. Am I … blind?”
“I’m invisible.”
“Och, and … why wouldn’t you … be.” He sort of laughs but it turns into a blood-chilling moan of pain.
“How long do you think you can hold yourself if I get your hand on an outcropping of rock?”
He’s silent and I get the sense he’s resisting the urge to snarl Forever, trying to gauge what he believes he can actually do. Finally he says faintly, “A few minutes … no more. I’m gutted … nigh dead. Keep … blacking out.”
“Shit,” I mutter. From this angle I can’t see past his head.
I feel another sharp pull on the cable, twice, three times, and my blood runs cold with dread. Three times means she’s taken flight.