The tip of the cattle prod wavered as he brought it up. She smiled at him, waiting. He turned the stick, groping for his own head, and a crescent kick flickered past his nose and sent the tube flying to clatter into a corner of the cell. His hand stung, but she'd been careful to only hit the stick.
She could kick over his head, flat-footed. Could have taken his nose off, could have killed him. Dierdre was always precise and in control.
"Naughty, naughty." She stood still in front of him as if she'd never moved. "Mother Church doesn't approve of suicide, you know. Not even under questioning."
"Told . . . you . . . truth."
She shook her head. "I taught you better than that."
She had, too. Even if it doesn't matter, never tell them the truth first time off. They'll only respect it if they have to dig for it. If you want to sell a lie, bury it six or seven layers deep. Give it up in bits and pieces, always backing away from it. Lose a tooth for each word of it, make each sentence worth a pint of blood.
And he'd told them the truth. Or most of it. After all, they were his friends and allies.
Bad mistake. Never think you're safe, even in your own bedroom, even in the bloody loo. Tried to teach Maureen that, made her carry that damned kukri everywhere even though it made her remember what she did to Dougal. Forgot the rule yourself.
Pain exploded under his ribs, and he fought for breath. More blows followed -- slow, calculated, with the precision of decades of practice. Fire in his head, electric nerves flowing lava down his right arm, a late afterthought to the balls that made the rest seem like love-taps. He curled around his pain, helpless on the stone floor. The blows stopped, but the pain went on and on. The slate floor stank of old vomit and urine, as if it had been through this a hundred times before. He wondered who the others had been.
Her face hung inches from his own, blurred through sweat and tears. "Don't lie to me. 'Desperation.' 'Weak spot between the worlds.' Tell me true, tell mother how you got here."
"Take . . . poly . . . graph."
She sat back on her haunches and looked for a moment as if she was considering his offer. "Now there's a thought, my lovey. It's a bleedin' shame I'm the one who taught you how to beat the machine."
She grabbed his shirt and heaved him up, aiming for the chair. Careless. He went with the flow and then overbalanced, flopping down and then adding a roll and kick that flung her hard against one wall. She bounced to her feet before he could follow up, retreating to the farthest corner and shaking dazzle out of her head.
"Good on you, ducks. Guess I didn't waste all that training time."
And if he had killed her, he would have had to sit and wake the corpse and wait for her replacement. Door locked from the outside. Surveillance camera in the corner, watching every move. And he couldn't walk between the worlds to escape. She'd let him try, right at the start of their dance, just to add to his despair. He didn't even know what world this was.
But killing her would have felt good, nonetheless.
His vision blurred. Her feet scalloped closer, always balanced, always ready. "Let's try another round. Let's dance the night away." He couldn't raise his eyes above her knees.
"Not up for that? Too bad. This could have been the start of a beautiful relationship." Pain flashed from his kneecap.
Dierdre touched the prod to her own forearm and triggered it, watching with a detached air as her muscles jerked. "Still works." She jammed it into his aching crotch and then pulled it back without discharging the capacitor through his balls. He almost pissed himself with relief.
She jabbed him again, still not triggering the shock. "Why'd you kill Liam, dearie?"
The question came out of the fog like a ten-ton lorry with no lights. She'd been on about his access to the bleeding Circle, whatever the bloody hell that was, and about Maureen. The Pendragons discouraged relationships that stepped outside the ranks. He'd never realized how far that "discouraging" could go.
"Attacked . . . girl."
"Did he, now?" She rocked back on her heels. "Count number one on the indictment: No proof of attack, no weapon and no threat ever demonstrated. Last seen, he was talking politely to the subject. Count number two: Subject of alleged attack was herself an Old One, capable of defending herself with high-level Powers since demonstrated to the satisfaction of the jury. Count number three: Defendant had received specific orders to stay away from Liam. Verdict: Defendant stands guilty on all counts. Take him down."
They'd been watching him watching the bastard. "Liam . . . murderer. Tortured . . . Mulvaney."
"None of your business, ducks. Policy. Policy is set by the home office, not by field ops. Tell me, what's the penalty for direct disobedience of a lawful order, under time of war?"
Shit. Dierdre was talking death.
He felt the prongs of the cattle prod jamming into the inside of his thigh. She glanced up at the camera again, and nodded. "Now tell me true, Arthur Brian Albion Pendragon: How did you get here? Don't expect me to believe you 'felt' a rabbit-hole and jumped down it to escape your sister. If that fairy tale were true, we'd have been up to our bums in leprechauns for the past thousand years. You're the first, which gives me cause to doubt."
He'd managed to keep the real secret in their training session, proving it by the sealed envelope he'd deposited before they took him from his room at 3:00 AM. He'd managed to sell the cover, sell the lie. But he'd told the truth here, first time off. Except for Claire.
