Chapter 31

I lay on the floor gasping for several ragged breaths. Then I rolled onto my knees. My head spun, nausea sweeping over me. Actually, considering I’d just been force-fed an overdose, getting sick was probably a good idea.

I stoked the nauseated sensation, shoving my finger down my throat. The burn of bile crept up my esophagus, but as I doubled over, only dry heaves shook my body.

No. I couldn’t have absorbed the drug that quickly, could I? I didn’t know. I’d never used a recreational drug, and this one was a magical drug. Who knew how it behaved. That didn’t stop me from trying. But despite the growing sickness crawling through me, nothing left my body.

There was no help for it. I just had to get out of here. Get somewhere safe—which right now probably meant getting the hell out of Faerie. How long would it take for the drug to begin affecting my senses? I tried to remember anything useful from the victims I’d raised—but they’d all died. How helpful was that? Even the victims who hadn’t died from their hallucinations had died from some sort of magical burnout. I was fae, I had my own glamour, would that save me?

Three vials.

Shit.

I needed to get up. To get out. My head felt like it had been stuffed full of cotton, my thoughts sloughing through thick syrup to reach the front of my mind. I pushed upright and the world swam.

I swallowed hard, waiting for the dizziness clawing its way through my mind to clear. It took longer than I wanted, the moments passing with the pounding of my pulse in my temples.

My dagger was still several feet in front of me, and I crawled to it, picking it up. The familiar buzz against my hand, my mind, was reassuring. But what the hell could a dagger, even an enchanted, semicognizant one do to protect me from a drug?

Nothing. I had to get out of here. But I didn’t put the dagger away, instead I clutched it as I attempted to get my feet under me.

It took two attempts to climb to my feet, and as I finally reached them, a dry crackling sounded behind me. I stiffened, the skin along my spine going tight. I was alone in the room, I was sure of that. Which meant whatever made that sound, was probably created by the drugs.

I twisted, turning in slow motion, feeling like the extra in a horror movie. The stack of bones piled in the corner rustled, the entire pile shaking as if trying to dislodge the icy slush gathering on the bones. A skull tottered and then tumbled down the side of the stack. It rolled across the floor, stopping only a few feet from me, grinning its ghastly smile.

I stared at the skull for several panic-filled moments before my gaze darted back to the pile of bones. They rustled and cracked like dry reeds. Then a meaty hand burst from the center of the pile. A second hand followed, like a zombie clawing its way from a grave.

I backpedaled, trying to ignore the way the room lurched around me. I nearly fell twice, my feet tangling under me, my legs so very heavy.

I reached the far wall and glanced around. Ryese had gone this way, I knew he had. But now there was no threshold, no door.

Damn.

Had Faerie moved it? Or was I hallucinating it away?

My gaze jerked around the room, looking for where the door might have gone. There wasn’t a door. Not anywhere. The bone pile continued to shake as the creature in it pulled itself free.

I was so screwed.

I gripped my dagger tighter. It sang in my hand, but even its ever-ready bloodthirst did little to pierce the fog in my head.

“There is a door.” I told myself, trying to convince myself, Faerie, the drugged state of my mind—I wasn’t sure which—that it was the truth. Despite my words, no door appeared.

A head emerged from under the bones. Blood streamed down the thick, wide face, welling up from the skinned scalp. I recognized the flattened features immediately. Tommy Rawhead.

“You’re dead,” I told the hallucination.

The hobgoblin smiled at me, his long tongue darting out to lick chapped lips.

“You’re not real.”

Real or not, the bones tumbled down around him as he freed himself of the pile. He jumped clear, landing predator-soft on the icy floor. Then he turned, studied the pile of bones he’d emerged from and grabbed two thick leg bones, one in each hand. Lifting them, he swung them in front of him like a pair of bleached-white clubs.

He was a hallucination, conjured by my drug-addled brain. I knew he was. He had to be. I’d seen him die.

Then I’d cannibalized his soul.

Oh crap. Could the drug have found whatever was left of him inside of me? Could it have given it form, life?

No. No, that wasn’t possible. I’d taken his energy until his will alone wasn’t enough to hold him together. But I couldn’t actually absorb his being, just the life force. This was a hallucination. A living nightmare.

That didn’t stop a very real-looking Rawhead from stalking forward, lifting the bone clubs.

My grip on the dagger felt slick, but I didn’t dare switch hands long enough to wipe my palm as the hobgoblin stalked toward me. He was a hallucination given form by the drug and glamour. I knew that. And glamours could be disbelieved.

I dropped my shields.

The pile of bones glowed with the tortured souls still stuck inside. The hobgoblin, on the other hand, had no inner glow, no soul, nothing that should have given him life. He should have vanished with the confirmation that he was nothing but a hallucination, but Rawhead remained just as solid. Just as real. Glamour couldn’t create life, but Faerie had accepted this hallucination as solid, if nothing else. And since it was from my own drug-addled brain, I provided the live feed for his actions and personality.

Which meant I could change it right? Instead of a super-creepy bogeyman determined to rip me apart and suck the marrow from my bones, maybe I could redirect him into something nice. Something harmless. Something fuzzy and cute with a propensity for flower arrangement.

Tommy Rawhead lifted one of the bone clubs over his head.

I scuttled sideways, my concentration shifting to not falling over my own weak legs. The bone whistled through air inches from my shoulder. A miss. But barely. I had to keep moving. To put distance between myself and the glamoured bogeyman.

Rawhead spun, giving chase. And he was faster. A lot faster. Not surprising considering my head still felt a little too heavy.

I couldn’t outrun him—not that I had anywhere to go. Where the hell is that damn door?

I didn’t know. Couldn’t remember. The bones had been in the corner, but now I couldn’t remember which corner in comparison to the door.

There was no way out. I’d have to fight. I’d often heard that the best defense is a good offense. Unfortunately, I wasn’t exactly trained in fighting. With my recent history, I might have to change that.

Of course, first I had to survive now and not end up getting killed by my own imagination.

Crouching, I shifted my grip on the dagger and waited. Rawhead rushed forward, his bone clubs lifted. I didn’t know much about fighting, but the move looked more crazed barbarian than anything skilled. I guess that was the only good thing about not having a great imagination. Rawhead was limited to what my waking nightmare could conjure.

I waited for the charging figure to draw close. Then I lunged to the side, slashing out with the dagger as I moved. Unlike my hallucination, I had an enchanted dagger that liked to draw blood and was very good at it. So I let the dagger’s mental prodding push me.

The blade sank into flesh, catching momentarily, and then slid free. A hot gush of blood spilled over my hand, and the blade sang in triumph.

But, while the blade guided my arm, it wasn’t watching out for the rest of me. The lunge scored a wound in my opponent, but the impact with his body killed my forward momentum. Instead of sailing straight past him, I came down short, slightly to his side. One of the bone clubs slammed against my calf. It was only a grazing hit—not full impact—but pain exploded along my leg.

I rolled aside, a move that was not good for my spinning head, but the next swing of the club missed. When my roll ended, I tried to climb to my feet, but the room lurched, throwing me sideways. Or maybe I just fell.

Rawhead charged. Shit. I scooted backward, my butt and boots leaving streaks in the sleet-covered floor like a demented snow angel.

Rawhead was moving too fast, or I was too slow. Whichever way, if I stayed on the defensive, I’d lose. My own damn hallucination would kill me.

No, damn it. I couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t.

I gripped the dagger tight. It sung in my hand. It didn’t care if Rawhead was glamour or real, it just wanted a fight. I hope you know what you’re doing, I thought at it. The dagger, of course, didn’t respond. Though, with as much of the drug as Ryese had introduced to my system, I wouldn’t have been shocked if it had.

Blood still poured down Rawhead’s side, turning his brown pants a sticky crimson color. The wound was deep, maybe mortal for a human. I wasn’t so sure for a fae, especially one who was already dead and only a figment of my imagination. Still, it was a lot of blood. If I could keep him occupied long enough to bleed out . . .

He charged again, the clubs swinging. I got my feet under me enough to skitter aside. We’d circled enough that I was now near the bone pile, and I dove around it for cover as a club crashed into the space I’d been a moment before.

Rawhead followed.

I grabbed a long bone from the massive pile and gripped it between both hands, using it to block his next swing. The bones crashed together with a splintering crunch. My arms vibrated with the hit. His club and my makeshift shield both snapped, the top half of his flying off to my side and me left holding two splintered ends. I kept one, dropping the one in the same hand as my dagger.

Having blocked his first blow, I was unprepared for the swing of his off-hand club. It crashed into my stomach, slamming me backward. The air rushed out of me in a loud whoosh, and my back crashed into the bone pile.

Rawhead stalked forward, a short, jagged bone in one hand, a long club in the other, but he was moving slower now, his movements jerkier. Blood still poured from his side, the wound clearly hurting.

If he could be hurt, he could be stopped.

I tried to push out of the pile, but my feet dislodged an avalanche of bones that tumbled down the side, onto the floor. Rawhead kicked them out of his way, never stopping. I grabbed a skull, cupping the forehead with my palm, my fingers in the eye sockets, and then hurled it at Rawhead. He batted it aside with his club, but it slowed him, marginally.

I threw another bone, followed by a third, a fourth. I wasn’t doing any damage, just annoying him and buying time, but I kept hurling skulls, arm bones, a whole foot—whatever my hand landed on. Then he was right on top of me, and I was out of time.

He lifted his arm to swing and I pitched myself forward. It was a desperate, almost blind, move, but I had no other options.

The dagger slammed into his chest, sliding through clothing and flesh with no resistance. Rawhead went rigid. Then the rest of my body weight hit him, knocking him off his feet, and I rode him down. My hands were wet, slick with blood, but I didn’t let go of the dagger. By the time Rawhead’s back hit the floor, he’d stopped moving.

I sat there, straddling his body, panting from exertion. Dizziness swam through my head, leaving black dots across my vision in its wake. When I could see again, I looked down. The dagger was hilt deep in Rawhead’s chest, just left of his sternum. I’d hit his heart.

I pulled the blade free, and it slid out with a sickening slurping sound I knew I’d be hearing in my nightmares for months to come—if I lived that long. Rawhead was dead—again—but I was still full of the drug. I tried not to think as I wiped the blade clean on the dead hallucination’s shirt. Then I clambered to my feet.

I didn’t put the dagger away.

Think happy thoughts, Alex, I told myself. Rainbows. Bunnies. Unicorns.

Ever notice how when you try to make yourself think one thing, your brain rebels and circles back to something else?

The image of Rawhead standing back up, coming at me again, kept trying to claw its way to the front of my mind. I kept banishing it, but my gaze moved to the prone figure, half expecting it to jump to its feet and start swinging at me again. I had to get farther away from the body.

I crossed to the other side of the room. The door hadn’t reappeared. Damn. I sank into the corner, burying my head in my arms and trying to think happy things. Puppies. Fast cars. Ice cream.

“Alex.”

I knew that voice. I knew that deep, masculine voice very, very well.

My head snapped up and I found myself staring into the brilliant hazel eyes of Death.

“Hey,” he said, flashing his perfect teeth in a smile.

I returned the smile. “Hey back at you,” I said, and then stopped. “Wait. I’m in Faerie. You can’t be here. Your plane doesn’t exist here.”

“Are you sure?” He reached out, cupping my face with his hand.

His palm was warm against my skin, gentle. I wanted to sink into the comfort he offered. I was so cold. My clothes were soaked and the sleet kept falling. It was so tempting to embrace the warmth he offered. To let him keep the darkness threatening to spill out of my mind away. To trust he’d guard me from the effects of the drug.

But I wasn’t wrong. He couldn’t be here. As real as my eyes told me he was, as my skin swore he was, he wasn’t real. He was another hallucination. A glamour pulled from my Glitter-addled mind.

Which made him dangerous.

I squeezed my eyes closed. Tried to ignore him.

He made it difficult.

He leaned in, and I could feel his presence along my skin. His breath moved my damp curls. I could even smell the clean fresh-turned earth and dew scent that always clung to him.

“You’re not real.” I told him.

His lips pressed against my forehead. “I love you.”

“No, you don’t. The real Death does. You’re an illusion.”

“I’ll break every natural law to be with you. It will put us both in danger, and I don’t care.”

“You’re a bit of glamour.”

“I love you. And you don’t even know my name.”

My head snapped up. The fake Death was inches from me, those hazel eyes so close. But while the real Death’s eyes typically held a secret smile that couldn’t seem to help but shine through, this one had mocking eyes. Eyes that bore into me.

“It doesn’t matter,” I told him. “I know Death. I don’t need to know his name.”

“Do you?” He asked, scooting back slightly so I could see that the haughty, mocking expression covered his whole face, not just his eyes. “Do you know my favorite color? How about the names of my friends? Or how old I am?”

“None of that matters.”

“Why have I hung around all these years? Are you anything more than a novelty to me? A reminder of what I lost when I ceased being mortal?”

“Shut up. You aren’t real.”

The fake Death stood, dragging me to my feet with him. “When your mother was dying, why did I allow you to decide that her soul shouldn’t be collected? Why did I allow such a young child to watch her mother’s body continue to decay from a disease that should have long since killed her? Collecting her would have been a mercy. Why did I make a five-year-old have to finally ask me to release her soul from the dying prison of her body? Why did I feel that was a lesson that had to be taught just because the same frightened five-year-old had begged me not to take away her mother?”

My blood turned cold, an icy sweat breaking out on my body. “Stop it. Shut up.”

“What is my name, Alex Craft?”

“I don’t know.”

“What is my name?”

“I don’t know!” I shoved the fake Death, and he stepped back, laughing. I wanted to scream. I’d thought maybe my brain had spit out a good hallucination this time, but no. This fake Death may not have been attacking me with clubs, but his words pierced me deeper than a sword. They cut into my fears, my doubts.

He laughed again. “What is my name?”

“Alex?” a new voice asked as hands closed on my upper arms.

I twisted away, wrenching my body from the touch, and spun to face the newcomer.

Falin stood behind me, just inside a door that was now visible. Or at least, it looked like it was visible.

“Are you real?” I asked.

He raised one eyebrow in question, the other dropping and bunching in confusion. Then his gaze moved to the fake Death, a frown cutting across his face. “What is going on?”

I backed up another step. He could be an illusion. Just another glamour inspired by the drug. The door could too. Hell, everything in the room was suspect. I had no idea what was real. What wasn’t. Death kept thrusting questions at me. Questions I had no answer to but had wondered about.

Falin held up his hands, moving slowly as if approaching a wild animal. “What happened?”

I might be going mad. It was wholly possible Falin was just another hallucination created by the Glitter Ryese had force-fed me. But what if he wasn’t?

Ryese was setting a trap for Falin. He’d said as much. For the trap to spring, the real Falin had to show up, right? Was I more or less crazy if I tried to warn a fake Falin on the off chance he was real? I’d already fought a hallucination, and argued with one. Why not try to work with one?

“I’ve been drugged.” I told him everything. Well, almost everything. I told him about the struggle with Ryese and what he’d said, and I summed up the fight with Tommy Rawhead. I didn’t explain Death’s presence. “He’s not real,” I said, nodding to the fake collector. “Ignore him.”

That statement didn’t make the fake Death very happy. He began bellowing his questions, pacing around me as he jabbed at my insecurities.

“Let’s get you out of here,” Falin said, taking me by the arm and guiding me toward the door. “We need to find the queen. And Ryese.”