hell am I going to do?
“Leave our land,” he growls. “Leave. Now.”
My breath comes out in a rush. At least I know what this is about. When times get tough, Annabelle hits the road. It’s what I’ve always done. I never stick around to suffer through the hard times. Hard times suck ass and make you want to off yourself and are best avoided at all costs. It was true after Caroline died, it was true when Hitch and I had the fight to endall fights, and a part of me must think it’s true now. That’s why my drug-addled mind created this freaky little man, to scare me into leaving Donaldsonville and all the hard stuff behind.
The mess with Cane, and Hitch popping back into my life are the least of my problems. Somehow I’ve fallen in with some very shady people. Invisible, magic people who could kill me before I even know they’re in the room. Being able to float a beer from my fridge out to my chair on the porch with my mind power isn’t going to protect me. Even being able to heal a gunshot wound won’t help if they hit me in the right spot. One bullet to the brain and my mind won’t be powering anything anymore. The smartest thing I could do is take a clue from my crazy and leave Donaldsonville before it’s too late.
“But what about the shots?” I stare the fairy straight in the eye, willing my subconscious to listen. “I have ten. I could go give myself one right now and hope you go away, but what about when they run out? And what about all the people in town? Fernando and Cane and Theresa and the guys from the bar and Bernadette and Deedee?”
God, poor Deedee. I haven’t been out to see her in days. Libby Beauchamp murdered her mom and now eight-year-old Deedee is one of the youngest orphans at Sweet Haven. She begs me to let her come stay with me every time we hang out. I know I’m not foster mommy material, but I can’t leave her with no one to visit her, no one to care that her entire life’s been ruined.
Not when I played my part in getting her mother killed.
“I can’t leave,” I say, voice stronger, ignoring the fairy’s increasingly pissed-off expression. “I can’t leave without knowing what the Big Man is doing, or why Tucker is in town. And what about the cave? Whatever’s going down there isn’t good. Someone’s already dead, and—”
“Die.” The fairy kicks the windshield. “ You’ll die.”
“No. I’m not going to die.” I point a finger at his prune face. “I’m going to stick around and figure things out and make my life work. I am not a clueless idiot! I am not a loser! I am not a child!”
And I don’t protest too much. At all.
“We would have killed child if someone hadn’t killed her first,” he spits, his yellow face flushing red. “We’ll suffer no more Gentry!”
It’s what he said in my dream, but he’s a hell of a lot more pissed off about it now, and I can’t even imagine what my subconscious is trying to tell me. The only Gentry I know of live in England, where it’s too cold to have to worry about fairy infestation or venom infection or invisible people or magic or iron-gated towns where people are always on the verge of losing their minds with fear.
England. That’s where I’ll go. Or maybe Ireland. The Lees are Irish. My grandfather traced our ancestry all the way back to medieval times. He even forced my father to name me Annabelle after some ancient relative. I could go there, buy a cottage in a quiet village by the sea, take up sheepherding, and learn to actlike I’m not crazy. Or drink enough that the townspeople blame the talking-to-things-that-aren’t-there on the alcohol.
“Leave.” The fairy points to the gate. “Leave.”
My hands squeeze the steering wheel even tighter. Maybe I should turn around. I could be back at the house and shooting up another dose of mystery medicine in fifteen minutes. But what if I’m wrong? What if more drug makes me worse instead of better? What if I end up rocking in a corner,
“Leave our land,” he growls. “Leave. Now.”
My breath comes out in a rush. At least I know what this is about. When times get tough, Annabelle hits the road. It’s what I’ve always done. I never stick around to suffer through the hard times. Hard times suck ass and make you want to off yourself and are best avoided at all costs. It was true after Caroline died, it was true when Hitch and I had the fight to endall fights, and a part of me must think it’s true now. That’s why my drug-addled mind created this freaky little man, to scare me into leaving Donaldsonville and all the hard stuff behind.
The mess with Cane, and Hitch popping back into my life are the least of my problems. Somehow I’ve fallen in with some very shady people. Invisible, magic people who could kill me before I even know they’re in the room. Being able to float a beer from my fridge out to my chair on the porch with my mind power isn’t going to protect me. Even being able to heal a gunshot wound won’t help if they hit me in the right spot. One bullet to the brain and my mind won’t be powering anything anymore. The smartest thing I could do is take a clue from my crazy and leave Donaldsonville before it’s too late.
“But what about the shots?” I stare the fairy straight in the eye, willing my subconscious to listen. “I have ten. I could go give myself one right now and hope you go away, but what about when they run out? And what about all the people in town? Fernando and Cane and Theresa and the guys from the bar and Bernadette and Deedee?”
God, poor Deedee. I haven’t been out to see her in days. Libby Beauchamp murdered her mom and now eight-year-old Deedee is one of the youngest orphans at Sweet Haven. She begs me to let her come stay with me every time we hang out. I know I’m not foster mommy material, but I can’t leave her with no one to visit her, no one to care that her entire life’s been ruined.
Not when I played my part in getting her mother killed.
“I can’t leave,” I say, voice stronger, ignoring the fairy’s increasingly pissed-off expression. “I can’t leave without knowing what the Big Man is doing, or why Tucker is in town. And what about the cave? Whatever’s going down there isn’t good. Someone’s already dead, and—”
“Die.” The fairy kicks the windshield. “ You’ll die.”
“No. I’m not going to die.” I point a finger at his prune face. “I’m going to stick around and figure things out and make my life work. I am not a clueless idiot! I am not a loser! I am not a child!”
And I don’t protest too much. At all.
“We would have killed child if someone hadn’t killed her first,” he spits, his yellow face flushing red. “We’ll suffer no more Gentry!”
It’s what he said in my dream, but he’s a hell of a lot more pissed off about it now, and I can’t even imagine what my subconscious is trying to tell me. The only Gentry I know of live in England, where it’s too cold to have to worry about fairy infestation or venom infection or invisible people or magic or iron-gated towns where people are always on the verge of losing their minds with fear.
England. That’s where I’ll go. Or maybe Ireland. The Lees are Irish. My grandfather traced our ancestry all the way back to medieval times. He even forced my father to name me Annabelle after some ancient relative. I could go there, buy a cottage in a quiet village by the sea, take up sheepherding, and learn to actlike I’m not crazy. Or drink enough that the townspeople blame the talking-to-things-that-aren’t-there on the alcohol.
“Leave.” The fairy points to the gate. “Leave.”
My hands squeeze the steering wheel even tighter. Maybe I should turn around. I could be back at the house and shooting up another dose of mystery medicine in fifteen minutes. But what if I’m wrong? What if more drug makes me worse instead of better? What if I end up rocking in a corner,
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