Soul of Flame (Imdalind Series #4)(72)

“Wyn, don’t…” I begged, but she only smiled wider and sang louder, her horribly off-pitch voice echoing off the stone and rippling back to us, bringing the laugh out whether I wanted it to or not.

“The best of times!” She stepped away from me to dance through the hallway, her movements crazed and wild. “Our memories of yesterday will last a lifetime. We'll take the best, forget the rest. And someday we'll find…”

She spun and danced before making one last spin and ending up in front of me, her hand extended like a microphone, obviously expecting me to provide the last word.

I restrained the last of my laugh as I stared at the microphone, knowing there was no way she would let me off the hook.

“Paradise,” I said, knowing I had totally rained on her parade.

She, however, only smiled wider before grabbing my hand and dragging me into her room.

“Close enough.”





Eighteen



I could tell that, at some point, Wyn’s room at Rioseco had looked closer to the room I had seen at the motel. One wall was painted neon green, and the bed had been pushed up against another wall where several large rectangles of stone appeared to be cleaner than the rest. Shelves were emptied, carpets rolled up and put aside, and the garbage overflowed with band t-shirts and the posters that had once graced the walls. The bed had been stripped bare, the old, stuffed mattress instead covered with a single woven blanket that looked oddly similar to the one that had hung over Thom’s bunk in the cave in Italy.

Her room was a window into the heartbreak she was feeling, and looking at it made me feel filthy and somehow unworthy to be here. Not ten minutes before, we had walked down the hall, her suffering showing as she spoke of not knowing who she was. I should have pressed her, found a way to help her, but instead of sharing with her one thing, I had shut her down.

It made me feel sick to my stomach.

“I would ask you if you wanted something to eat, but I just cleaned the floors,” Wyn’s voice floated to me from somewhere within the depth of the room. I turned toward it, expecting her to emerge, but I faced nothing other than more destroyed remains of her life. I stood still, waiting for her to return while I tried not to let the fear that standing in the open, unfamiliar space was giving me.

“Funny,” I said into the empty room, knowing my voice wasn’t loud enough for her to hear.

Wyn appeared a minute later from what I could only assume was a kitchenette, her hands full of tall, clear glasses and an archaic looking bottle. She smiled brightly as she bounded over to me before setting her bounty on the low coffee table I stood next to.

“I can’t drink that, either,” I said matter-of-factly.

“You wouldn’t want to,” she said as she carefully organized the glasses. “It’s a two thousand year old whiskey. It’ll make your hair fall out.”

My eyes widened at her words, and although I wanted to say she was joking, one look at that bottle had me wondering. The bottle was brown and so dust covered that it looked like Wyn had dragged it out of some long forgotten attic, rather than a prized collection. Most of the label had long since disintegrated and what little was left was written in what I was sure was Czech.

“Lovely,” I said, suddenly glad I had a reason to casually decline. I wasn’t sure what was in there, and it kind of worried me that she would even trust it enough to try. At least my body would rebel against anything I put in it.

“Did you raid some ancient catacombs to get this?” I asked as I grabbed it from off the table, the bottle heavier than I had assumed. The glass was strangely gritty, not like dust, but more like dried fungus.

I was just turning the bottle to see the label when Wyn snatched it away, her eyes narrowed at me as she set it back down.

“No,” she practically snapped, her face hard and frightening.

My eyes widened in confusion at the expression on her face, at the way her eyes dimmed within seconds of the word escaping her lips. My muscles rippled at the darkness behind her eyes, part of me screaming to attack while the other pleaded with me to cry, to scream.

I begged my mind not to view Wyn as a threat, to stop seeing enemies where only friends remained, however, my agitation wasn’t sure it wanted to listen. I exhaled shakily as I tried to take control of the fear, hoping that Wyn wouldn’t notice any immediate change in me.

“This is the last of the abbey’s stock of Slivovica. For the last night.”

“The last night?” I asked, my voice trembling before the remainder of my foolish anxieties melted away.

“It’s what we call the toast before battle, Jos.” Her face was hooded and tensed, a million thoughts and memories weighing her down as she casually touched the ancient cork that had plugged the bottle for longer than I cared to think about.

The cork popped out easily at her touch, leaving the top of the bottle smoking slightly. A heavy smell of fermentation filled the room, rotten fruit and cat vomit mixing together as it hit my nose. The stuff smelled terrible, worse than any of the wine that my mother had served to Edmund for all those years—and I thought that stuff had been foul. I scrunched my face up in a foolish attempt to block the smell while trying to be polite and not run gasping out of the room.

Add another reason why I would never put that stuff in my mouth.

If only I had brought a mug with me, then at least I could drink of the Black Water and drown out the smell with my water’s strong aroma.