Bookshelves, this time without glass doors. Another glass case, showcasing trinkets and instruments. From the look of them, they were from past generations.
“Blake,” Rose said. A whisper.
Rose looked at me from a mirror over the fireplace.
“Dangerous here,” I responded, my voice matching hers in quiet. “Demesnes.”
“Only the front of the ground floor, I think. Just like it was only the ground floor of Laird’s house. They section them off, so different family members can have different areas for their demesnes. I can’t enter the mirrors there.”
“Okay,” I said. “Right.”
“You look fucking terrible,” she told me.
“Feel worse than fucking terrible.”
“Just leave, Blake.”
“They attacked us,” I said. “They attacked our home.”
“I know. But you can’t fight. The woman who owns this house, you know she’s strong.”
“She’s Laird’s sister,” I said. “I guess each member of the family gets a little trove like this.”
“I guess. Why are we even discussing this? Get out of here.”
“They attacked us,” I said, again. “Tell me, do you think any of these books are originals, or are they all copies?”
“I… some look old.”
“Some look old,” I agreed.
I drew the whistle from my pants pocket.
I blew.
Rather than a high pitched noise, there was only a low wet sputter, and Dickswizzle was spat out onto the floor.
“Destroy the books,” I said. “Destroy the treasures. Do it quietly, and you’ll manage more destruction. Start with the oldest things, you’ll hurt them more. Run if she takes notice. Under no circumstances are you to harm anyone before returning to the flute,” I said.
Dickswizzle eyed me warily.
“Blake. If you’re inside her house, because of hospitality-“
“I’m repaying their hospitality by sparing them. They were… not unkind,” I said. “But their family attacked our house and possessions. We can attack theirs. Eye for an eye.”
“If we took some of it, we could ransom it back?”
“It’s not quite an eye for an eye, and I don’t want them using it to track me.”
“This feels wrong.”
“But it’s fucking right. Two very different things,” I said, my voice a harsh whisper.
I let Rose deliberate while I headed for the side door. There was a boot rack, complete with a set of rubber boots. I managed to squeeze them on.
I heard a tearing sound behind me as I unlocked the door. I could see Rose’s reflection, faint, in the glass.
I walked out, dragging the tattered skin behind me.
3.05
The rubber boots weren’t well insulated against the cold. It was fine at first, but the cold gradually seeped in. Or, perhaps, the warmth gradually seeped out. Unjustly snatched up from where they belonged, in the wrong environment, while I tried to figure out the fastest, tidiest way of getting rid of them.
They were a good metaphor for me, really. Or for me and Rose.
It said a lot that I was thinking in crazy, abstract metaphors like this. I was tired, wrung-out, and emotionally drained. Just as the warmth had seeped out of the boots, something had been leeched out of me, leaving me… not cold, but whatever was left behind when personality, identity and one’s position in the world were taken away.
I was a little cold, too. I’d weathered worse temperatures, sleeping outdoors at this time of year, or in the late fall, I knew I was better than some when it came to enduring the cold. But even then, I’d been bundled up. Keep the heat in your hands, feet, and keep a hat on, and a little warmth could be stretched a long way.
As I made my way across the city, my footsteps a little clunky in the inflexible, ill-fitting boots, I had a hood, but no hat, no gloves, and only the boots. The torso was the least important part of the body to keep warm, really, but even there, I had only the sweatshirt.
Parts of me ached, alternately from the cold and the recent transition back to becoming Blake Thorburn. I felt stiff, and I didn’t have much confidence that I’d be able to handle myself in a more serious situation. Couldn’t run that fast, wasn’t sure I could throw a punch, and I’d suffer more than any opponent would if I tried to buy time.
When a short, shadowy figure got in my way, all of that meant I was a little more concerned than I might usually be. Given that it was an Other, the usual added up to ‘pretty damn concerned’.
Fuck.
I tensed as it drew closer.
“Dickswizzle,” I said, as I realized what it was.
It unceremoniously dumped a pile of stuff onto the sidewalk.
“Carefully!” I heard Rose. “Ugh, Too late.”
Dickswizzle stepped back and scratched at its dangling genitals, looking very unconcerned with Rose’s frustration.
I rummaged through the things. A scarf, a hat that passed for unisex, two pairs of gloves, June’s hatchet, Leonard’s bottle, one of the bike mirror pendants, and a pair of socks.