I was alive.

But that wasn’t my regret.

Barrons was bending over me.

That wasn’t my regret, either.

It was the look on his face that told me more frankly than a doctor’s prognosis that I wasn’t going to make it. I was alive, but not for long. My rescuer was here, my knight-errant had arrived to save the day, but I’d blown it.

It was too late for me.

I could have survived—if only I’d not given up hope.

I wept. I think. I couldn’t feel my face much.

What was it he’d said to me, that night we’d robbed Rocky O’Bannion? I’d listened. I’d even thought it had sounded terribly wise. I just hadn’t understood it. A sidhe-seer without hope, without an unshakable determination to survive, is a dead sidhe-seer. A sidhe-seer who believes herself outgunned, outmanned, may as well point that doubt straight at her temple, pull the trigger, and blow her own brains out with it. There are really only two positions one can take toward anything in life: hope or fear. Hope strengthens, fear kills.

I got it now.

“Are you…r-real?” My mouth had been badly lacerated by my teeth. My tongue was thick with blood and regret. I knew what I was trying to say. I wasn’t sure it was intelligible.

He nodded grimly.

“It was…Mallucé…not dead,” I told him.

Nostrils flared, eyes narrowed, he hissed, “I know, I smell him in here, everywhere. This place reeks of him. Don’t talk. Bloody hell, what did he do to you? What did you do? Did you piss him off on purpose?”

Barrons knew me too well. “He t-told me you…weren’t…coming.” I was cold, so cold. Other than that, there was oddly little pain. I wondered if that meant my spinal cord was damaged.

He glanced wildly about as if looking for something, and if he’d been any other man, I would have called his emotional state frantic. “And you believed him? No, don’t answer that. I said don’t talk. Just be still. Fuck. Mac. Fuck.”

He’d called me Mac. My face hurt too bad to smile, but I did inside. “B-Barrons?”

“I said don’t talk,” he snarled.

I put all my energy into getting this out. “D-Don’t let me…die…down here.” Die…down here, echoed weakly back at me. “Please. Take me…to the…sunshine.” Bury me in a bikini, I thought. Lay me next to my sister.

“Fuck,” he exploded again. “I need things!” He was standing, looking around the cavern again, with that frantic air. I wondered what things he thought he might find here. Splints wouldn’t help this time. I tried to tell him that but nothing came out. I also tried to tell him I was sorry. That didn’t come out either.

I must have blinked. His face was close to mine. His hand was in my hair. His breath was warm on my cheek. “There’s nothing here that I can use, Mac,” he said hollowly. “If we were somewhere else, if I had certain things, there are…spells I could do. But you won’t live long enough for me to get you there.”

A long silence ensued, or he was speaking and I just wasn’t hearing him. Time had no relevance. I was floating.

His face was over me again, a dark angel. Basque and Pict, he’d told me. Criminals and barbarians, I’d mocked. A beautiful face, for all that savagery. “You can’t die, Mac.” His voice was flat, implacable. “I won’t let you.”

“So…stop…me,” I managed, although I wasn’t sure the irony I meant carried through in my tone. My voice was weak, reedy. At least my sense of humor wasn’t gone. And at least Mallucé hadn’t gotten to turn me into a monster before I died. That was a silver lining. I hoped my dad would take good care of my mom. I hoped someone would take care of Dani. I’d wanted to get to know her better. Beneath all that bristle I’d sensed a kindred soul.

I hadn’t avenged Alina. Now who would?

“This isn’t what I wanted,” Barrons was saying. “This isn’t what I would have chosen. You must know that. It’s important you know that.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. There was a kernel of something gnawing at the back of my mind. Something I needed to think about. A choice to be made.

I felt his fingers on my eyelids. He eased them closed.

But I’m not dead yet, I wanted to tell him.

His hand was a warm pressure on my neck. My head lolled to the side.

D-Don’t let me…die…down here, was echoing back at me again in my head. I was astonished by how weak and stupid I sounded. How helpless. All fluff and no steel. I was pathetic with a capital P.

I tasted the second vile taste in my mouth. It drew tight the insides of my cheeks, and saliva pooled in my mouth. I examined the taste, rolling it on my tongue like spoiled wine. This time I recognized the poison before I drank it: cowardice.

I was still making the same mistake. Giving up hope before the fight was over.

My fight wasn’t over. I might not like my choices—in fact, I might despise my choices—but my fight wasn’t over.

It gave me power in the black arts, Mallucé had said of eating Unseelie, the strength of ten men, heightened my senses, healed mortal wounds as quickly as they were inflicted.

I could pass on the black arts. I’d take the strength and heightened senses. I was especially interested in the healing mortal wounds part. I may have blown one chance to live tonight. I would not blow another. Barrons was here now. The cell was open. He could get to the Fae on the slab, feed it to me.

“Barrons.” I forced my eyes open. They felt heavy, weighted by coins.

His face was in my neck and he was breathing hard. Was he grieving me? Already? Would he miss me? Had I, in some tiny way, come to matter to this enigmatic, hard, brilliant, obsessed man? I realized he’d come to matter to me. Good or evil, right or wrong, he mattered to me.

“Barrons,” I said again, this time more strongly, infusing it with everything I had left which wasn’t much, but enough to get his attention.

He raised his head. His face was all harsh planes and angles in the torchlight, his expression bleak. His dark eyes were windows on a bottomless abyss. “I’m sorry, Mac.”

“Not your…fault,” I managed to get out.

“My fault in more ways than you could possibly know, woman.”

Woman, he’d called me. I’d grown up in his eyes. I wondered what he’d think of me soon.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come for you. I shouldn’t have let you walk home alone.”

“L–Listen,” I said. I would have clutched urgently at his sleeve, but I couldn’t move either arm.

He bent nearer.

“Unseelie…slab?” I asked.

His brows drew together. He glanced over his shoulder, looked back at me. “It’s there, if that’s what you mean.”

My voice was terrible when I said, “Bring…it…me.”

He raised a brow and blinked. He glanced at the twitching Unseelie and I could see his mind working. “You—what—was Mallucé—” He broke off. “Exactly what are you saying, Mac? Are you telling me you want to eat that?”

I was beyond speaking. I parted my lips.

“Bloody hell, have you thought this through? Do you have any idea what it might do to you?”

I strove for one of our wordless conversations. I said, Pretty good one. Like make me live.

“I meant the downside. There’s always a downside.”

I told him a bigger one would be being dead.

“There are worse things than death.”

This isn’t one. I know what I’m doing.

“Even I don’t know what you’re doing, and I know everything,” he snapped.

I would have laughed if I’d been capable of it. His arrogance knew no bounds.

“It’s dark Fae, Mac. You’re planning to eat Unseelie. Do you get that?”

I’m dying, Barrons.

“I don’t like this idea.”

Got a better one?

He inhaled sharply. I didn’t understand the things that flashed across his face then—thoughts too complex, beyond my grasp—thoughts he discarded. But he hesitated a few seconds too long, before jerking his head in a single, violent negation, and I knew that he’d had some other idea, and had deemed it worse than this one. “No better ideas.”