19. Roc
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ROC
The blood is wearing off faster and faster.
He watches them discuss the plan.
He watches them slip into the clothing. The dresses. The tux.
He lights a cigarette to take the edge off. Downs a shot of expensive rum. Then another. He can’t sit still. If he sits still, he slips.
He needs more of Vane’s blood, but he can’t keep chugging it back. Where they’re from, there is a cost to everything and eventually there will be a cost to this too.
The light at the end of the tunnel fades.
Don’t worry, the witch says. I’ll take care of you.
He can hear Wendy’s voice, the rising lilt of it.
It reminds him of wind rushing through leaves.
A lull.
A lull.
The light is just a pinprick now, the world muffled around him.
The cigarette is burning down to the end, caught between his knuckles.
Go on, the witch says. I’ll take care of you. Just let me ? —
“Drink.”
I blink up at my brother.
Vane is lined in the silver moonlight pouring through the loft windows. He’s in the tux, his hair combed over.
The witch’s voice goes silent. She doesn’t like Vane. He’s a man that is hard to like.
The moonlight catches the blood in the bottom of a shot glass held firmly in Vane’s grip.
“We’re almost there,” he says. “Go on.”
What choice do I have? They’re leaving me alone with the Captain and Wendy. If I can’t keep it together?—
I take the glass and swig it back.
“You were beginning to shift again,” he tells me and when I look past him to the others, I can see their apprehension, confirming it.
“It’s not lasting as long, is it?” he asks. Not really a question.
“We’re almost there,” I say, echoing him, and he nods.
“I’ll take care of the Myth. It won’t be hard. I’ll get the hat and you will be well.”
“I know.” The words don’t sound confident though and Vane catches on.
“Do you have the blade?” I ask him and he winces. “It’s in the bedroom in the place where we leave our blades.”
“It hasn’t come to that.”
“Hasn’t it?”
“I’m not willing to risk the blade, not at the manor. It stays here.”
He has a good point.
“We’re ready.” Asha’s at the door. The dress she selected is just a different version of her soldier’s uniform—material dark as night, so easy to hide in shadows. Material made to move so she can fight her way out of a tight spot.
Between Vane, Winnie, and Asha, I almost pity the Myth.
“Thank you for doing this.” I set the glass aside, the bottom still coated thick with red.
Vane nods. “Thank me once I bring you the hat. And do not leave. Promise me.”
“Pinkie promise.” I hold out my little finger for him. He snorts and turns away.
Firecracker jumps in my lap and turns a circle, then kneads at my thigh. The little devil digs his claws into my flesh, but the pain helps drive away some of the fuzziness still permeating my awareness.
The witch may have been driven back by the new dose of blood, but she’s no longer quiet. I should be worried. I am worried.
“We won’t be long.”
And then they’re gone.