Rising Darkness (Game of Shadows #1)(36)

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She waited again, but he fell back into silence. “That’s it—you’re sorry?” she said after a while. Bitter anger scalded her words. “Thank you, everything has become crystal clear, and I feel so much better now.”

“I’m thinking,” he said. The trace of a whip was in his voice.

She shrank closer to her door, her temper chilling. Great, Mary. Release all your stress on the guy with the gun. You know, he really might kill you just because he’s got indigestion. How much more of an idiot can you be?

It was time to force some conciliatory words out of her mouth, whether she actually felt them or not. She said, “I shouldn’t have said all those things. It’s just that I’ve—”

“You’ve had a rough day, I know,” he said. “I should never have said anything about killing you. It was a cruel and useless thing to say, and I’m sorry. Let’s just say I’ve had a rough day too and try to get past it, all right?”

She mulled on that and found it unsatisfactory. She said, “Is it true?”

The fleeting smile was gone. In its place was something darker, much more savage. “Yes,” he said. “But you didn’t need to know it.”

“But why?” The thin-voiced plaintive question hung between them.

“All I can do is repeat myself,” he said. “There are some things that are worse than death. Someone is hunting you. If he captured you, what he would do to you would be far worse than death.”

She rubbed her face and forced herself to focus. “There were two men who tried to kidnap me.”

“They were dangerous in their own way and destructive enough, but ultimately they’re unimportant. They’re just tools for the person you need to worry about. If he had gotten hold of you, you wouldn’t have escaped, hawks or no hawks.”

She shuddered at the thought of someone worse. “Who’s that?”

“I don’t know what name he goes by these days. But he is quite old, powerful, inventive and wicked. I’ve dedicated my life to his destruction. So has Astra, the woman that I’m taking you to see.”

“The Grandmother.”

“Some call her that.” His voice had turned measured and expressionless, giving away no hint of his own thoughts or opinions.

She remembered that she was thirsty, opened the bottle of water and drank. After she’d had enough she hesitated then held the bottle out to him. He took it. “Why do I feel that you and the—wind spirit, as you called it—are right and I’m dying?” she asked. “Aside from some scrapes and bruises, there’s nothing physically wrong with me. And what did you do to me, back there by my car?”

“As far as the difference between you dying, and me killing you goes . . .” He blew out a short sharp gust of air, an exhalation of frustration, and she tensed in dread. “If I killed you, I would only be killing your body. What you’re suffering from is much more serious than a wound of the flesh. Somehow you’ve taken a wound of the spirit. If you expire from the spirit wound, you will be destroyed. Gone. You won’t exist any longer, so you could never be reborn.”

Spirit and body. Death and rebirth. Her lips felt numb. She rubbed her mouth. Gretchen had talked of spirits. “Are you talking about reincarnation?”

“Yes, or at least some form of it.” He glanced at her. “We don’t exactly lead typical lives.”

“We.” Her hand migrated upward. She rubbed at her dry eyes. He was grouping her with himself, and with this woman named Astra. Who were these people? Who did he think she was? Did he believe they were some kind of soul group that chose to reincarnate and live their lives together? Disorientation yanked at her. She felt unmoored and drifting, like she was coming apart at the seams.

He continued, “If your energy is dispersed, you—the spirit essence of you—will be gone forever. There would be no rebirth for you, no chance at another life. So you see, there is the physical death. Then there is the real death, the permanent one, from which there is no coming back.” He took a deep harsh breath. “What I was doing to you when you woke up . . . picture an arterial wound, only it’s a spiritual one and you’re bleeding to death. I gave you an infusion of my blood, or my energy, in the real sense. It’s strengthened you and we’ve gained some time, but it hasn’t closed the wound or stopped the bleeding. For that, we need the woman we’re going to see. She understands far better what has happened to you. She has the skills to heal you.”

The physician in her took over. “Wait, to use your analogy, if you killed me,” she said, “wouldn’t my spirit still bleed to death, so to speak?”

“Actually,” he said in a tired voice, “in some ways your spirit would be easier to heal if you were dead. You could make the journey north to Astra in a matter of moments. She could heal you. You could rest and then you could be reborn. But there are . . . other reasons why that isn’t an attractive option.”

Outrage held her frozen for a moment. Attractive option. How about like I don’t want to die, you son of a bitch? Is that one of your reasons? Struggling with her unruly emotions, she wrapped her fingers around the edges of the jacket he’d lent to her.

Finally she managed to say, “I’m pretty tired of being scared.”