Spectacle (Menagerie #2)(25)

The police had taken his hat, and the fear dearg could not be separated from their traditional red caps for long. The hat would return to Gallagher, no matter how many locks and boxes and doors separated it from its owner. The fear dearg’s cap was a part of him, like his limbs and his organs, yet though Gallagher could survive the loss of a foot or a spleen, he could not survive the loss of his traditional cap.

And he would not have to, because nothing made by man could destroy it.

His head felt oddly bare, exposed as it was to the world. He could feel the pull of his cap like a magnet drawn to metal, and when that pull became too strong, he would have to call for its return, or die.

Gallagher waited while all the other men handcuffed to a bench in the waiting area were removed one at a time, and he knew that he would be last. Every gaze that fell on him slid away an instant later. Every cop who picked up his file put it down again with a frown. Subconsciously, the police feared him.

While he waited, sweat began to build on his skin. A cramp flared deep in his gut, and in less than an hour, it became a raging headache, of the battle-ax-to-the-brain variety. By the time the pain reached his chest, he was alone on the bench, and he could no longer clearly remember why he was there at all.

Gallagher called for his cap, a silent tug on an invisible thread.

The cap appeared on his head, and out of habit, he used glamour to suggest to everyone around him that they were actually seeing a red baseball hat. Glamour was the reason so few fae had been caught after the reaping, but it couldn’t disguise the sudden appearance of a cap on a prisoner handcuffed to a bench.

“Hey!” The cop behind the desk frowned at Gallagher, then stood. “Where’d you get that hat? I logged it with your personal items hours ago.”

Gallagher merely blinked.

“Perez, did you give that back to him?” the cop behind the desk demanded of the officer who’d taken the hat in the first place.

“No. What the hell?” Perez reached for the hat.

Gallagher gave his wrists a good tug, and wood creaked. The arm of the bench broke, and his cuffed hands slid free.

“What the...?” Perez backpedaled, drawing his gun, and Gallagher snapped the cop’s right wrist. Perez howled in pain. His gun clattered to the floor. The redcap stood over him, pondering his next move as the pain in his head slowly receded.

He’d vowed never to take a life that didn’t deserve to be taken, but short of catching a man in a dishonorable act, he could never be sure when that was the case. Because humans lied.

“Don’t move!”

Gallagher turned to find another cop aiming a pistol at him. Behind that man, two more pulled their guns. The redcap towered over all three. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.” He held his cuffed hands out in front of his chest. “So I suggest you put down your weapons.”

“He’s not human,” Perez said from the floor, where he cradled his broken wrist.

The first cop’s trigger finger twitched, and Gallagher dived to the left. The bullet thunked into the wall at his back.

Gallagher lifted the bench he’d been sitting on to shield his head and torso. Three bullets thunked into the wood. He grunted as he heaved the heavy bench at them, and all three of the cops went down like pins in the path of a bowling ball.

He turned, heading for the double glass doors beyond a half-height swinging gate into the lobby, but pain stabbed into his massive left thigh. Gallagher pulled a familiar dart from his leg. A second hit his arm, and a third lodged in his back.

The massive redcap made it three steps toward the gate, then fell face-first onto a cheap desk.

The wood splintered beneath him, and the last thing Gallagher heard before he passed out on the ruined desk was the small-town sheriff’s order.

“Call that Vandekamp fella back and tell him he missed one.”





Delilah

The day passed in a blur of sleeping mats, food trays and community showers. In the morning, handlers came in to select several ladies to perform chores. In the afternoon, more handlers showed up to escort those who’d been requested for “engagements,” including Simra, two of the long-term resident shifters and Finola, the younger of our beloved sirens.

They missed dinner, then lights-out, and while I waited for them to return, I could only stare up at the ceiling, listening to the soft breathing all around me, trying not to imagine what Finola’s “engagement” might be like.

Finally, hours after lights-out, the dormitory door opened and three slight female silhouettes plodded inside, each carrying a familiar bundle of folded clothing. They headed straight for the bathroom, and when the automatic light came on, I saw that their skin seemed to sparkle.

Finola was shaking all over.

I stood and picked my way through the maze of sleeping mats into the bathroom, where I froze in revulsion.

All three ladies were covered from head to toe in glittery gold body paint and little else. It took several seconds of horrified staring for me to distinguish the straps of a skimpy bikini disguised by the paint on Finola’s back, but the smeared handprints all over her were more than obvious. And they came in several different sizes.

The moment Finola saw me in the mirror, she burst into tears, and for the first time in my life, I had no idea how to help. I couldn’t ask her what had happened, because I couldn’t speak. I tried to hug her, but she dodged my touch and gestured at the messy body paint.