Bloodfever Read Free Page B

the Deep South which—while it’s great—doesn’t do a thing to prepare you for life beyond that.
    Barrons gave the inspector a wolfish smile. “Certainly.” He removed a wallet from the inner pocket of his suit. He held it out but didn’t let go. “And yours, Inspector.”
    O’Duffy’s jaw tightened but he complied.
    As the men swapped identifications, I sidled closer to O’Duffy so I could peer into Barrons’ wallet.
    Would wonders never cease? Just like a real person, he had a driver’s license. Hair: black. Eyes: brown. Height: 6' 3". Weight: 245. His birthday—was he kidding?—Halloween. He was thirty-one years old and his middle initial was
Z
. I doubted he was an organ donor.
    â€œYou’ve a box in Galway as your address, Mr. Barrons. Is that where you were born?”
    I’d once asked Barrons about his lineage, he’d told me Pict and Basque. Galway was in Ireland, a few hours west of Dublin.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œScotland.”
    â€œYou don’t sound Scottish.”
    â€œYou don’t sound Irish. Yet here you are, policing Ireland. But then the English have been trying to cram their laws down their neighbors’ throats for centuries, haven’t they, Inspector?”
    O’Duffy had an eye tic. I hadn’t noticed it before. “How long have you been in Dublin?”
    â€œA few years. You?”
    â€œI’m the one asking the questions.”
    â€œOnly because I’m standing here letting you.”
    â€œI can take you down to the station. Would you prefer that?”
    â€œTry.” The one word dared the Garda to try, by fair means or foul. The accompanying smile guaranteed failure. I wondered what he’d do if the inspector attempted it. My inscrutable host seems to possess a bottomless bag of tricks.
    O’Duffy held Barrons’ gaze longer than I expected him to. I wanted to tell him there was no shame in looking away. Barrons has something the rest of us don’t have. I don’t know what it is, but I feel it all the time, especially when we’re standing close. Beneath the expensive clothes, unplaceable accent, and cultured veneer, there’s something that never crawled all the way out of the swamp. It didn’t want to. It likes it there.
    The inspector apparently deemed an exchange of information the wisest, or maybe just the easiest course. “I’ve been in Dublin since I was twelve. When my father died, my mother remarried an Irishman. There’s a man over at Chester’s says he knows you, Mr. Barrons. Name’s Ryodan. Ring a bell?”
    â€œMs. Lane, go upstairs,” Barrons said, instantly, softly.
    â€œI’m perfectly fine here.” Who was Ryodan and what didn’t Barrons want me to know?
    â€œUp. Stairs. Now.”
    I scowled. I didn’t have to look at O’Duffy to know he was regarding me with acute interest—and pity. He was thinking Barrons was the name of the flight of stairs I’d fallen down. I hate pity. Sympathy isn’t quite as bad. Sympathy says, I know how it feels, doesn’t it just suck? Pity means they think you’re defeated.
    â€œHe doesn’t beat me,” I said irritably. “I’d kill him if he did.”
    â€œShe would. She has a temper. Stubborn, too. But we’re working on that, aren’t we, Ms. Lane?” Barrons turned his wolf smile on me, and jerked his head up toward the ceiling.
    Someday I’m going to push Jericho Barrons as far as I can and see what happens. But I’m going to wait a while, until I’m stronger. Until I’m pretty sure I’ve got a trump card.
    I may have been forced into this war, but I’m learning to choose my battles.
    Â 
    I didn’t see Barrons for the rest of the day.
    A dutiful soldier, I retreated to the ditches as ordered and hunkered down there. In those ditches, I had an epiphany. People treat you