Death's Mistress by Karen Chance Page B

staring blankly at a cobweb on the underside of the porch’s ceiling. I was sprawled on the couch with Claire standing over me, a hand gripped around my wrist, her face pale and frightened. Her other hand was raised, but I caught it in time. My cheek already stung enough.
    “I’m all right.”
    “All right?” she demanded shrilly. “Your face went slack. You wouldn’t talk. You were barely breathing! For over a minute, Dory!”
    “I saw something—”
    “I’m sure you did! You’re lucky it wasn’t the last thing!” She held up her uncle’s little bottle. “How much of this did you have?”
    “Not that much.” I sat up, feeling too warm and vaguely nauseous. I could still smell the blood, hot on the air, hear the eerie silence of the crowd, feel the sharp bite of stripes I’d never taken. But that wasn’t what had me struggling to my feet.
    “Sit down!” she snapped, trying to press me back. “I’m going to get you some water, and you’re going to drink all of it!”
    “I sawsubrand being punished,” I told her, pushing past to the railing.
    “That stuff will make you see anything, if you drink enough of—”
    “You were wearing green. An apple green dress. It was hot and you were sweating. You looked like you wanted to be anywhere else.”
    She stared at me, her flame red hair glowing in the light from the hall. “How did you—”
    “I see memories, Claire.”
    “But you weren’t there! Dory, are you telling me you can see other people’s memories? That you can see mine?”
    “It wasn’t yours I saw,” I told her, scanning the yard. I concentrated on the distant rain, the metallic smell of it, its elusive, seductive whisper—and at the presence hovering just behind it.
    Claire frowned. “Whose, then? Because Aiden wasn’t—”
    “subrand?” It leapt out of me on a breath, curled at the end into a question.
    Claire clutched my arm. “Dory! He’s in prison in Faerie! He isn’t here!”
    “I didn’t see the beating from your perspective,” I told her harshly. “I saw it from his . And I only do that when someone is close.”
    “How close?”
    “Very.”
    It was hard to tell what might be out in the garden, or in the darkness just beyond. The storm was almost here, and the breeze was increasing. I watched it run a circuit of the yard, high in the trees, slipping under the green leaves and turning them over so that their lighter undersides caught the moonlight. More leaves turned as the wind raced along the fence, until the yard became a silver flag unfurling with a rustle against the dark green storm clouds.
    But if there was a person in all that, I couldn’t see him.
    Claire was shaking her head. “Nobody will be here for a couple of days at the earliest, I promise you. Even if he’d somehow escaped, he couldn’t be here.”
    “The fey timeline differs so much from ours that there’s no way to know how much time has passed there since you left. They could have had weeks to look for you.”
    “No, they couldn’t.”
    “Claire! I saw you a month ago and you weren’t even showing! And now you have a one-year-old—”
    “Nine months.”
    “Whatever. The point is—”
    “That time is running faster here right now, giving me a head start.”
    I turned from staring at the garden to look at her. “Come again?”
    “The fey have the timeline variations charted out. It’s one of their major advantages over us. They always know exactly when they’re going to arrive in our world, and we never do in theirs.”
    “How the hell can you chart something like time?”
    She pushed up her glasses, the old signal for nervousness. Or maybe it was just the heat. The air was thick with rain, muggy and hot like an encompassing blanket. Smothering. Like the daysubrand took two hundred lashes, and learned nothing but how to hate.
    Like he’d needed the lesson.
    “Caedmon has this room in the palace where they keep up with it,” she told me, sitting back down. “There’s this big