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A Kiss Of Shadows :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 77 из 338"
I pressed my hands to thedoor, stopped him from opening it. "This is important, Jeremy. If you've been in thrall to one of them, then that sidhe will have… power over you. I need to know what was done."
Then he did something I hadn't expected. He started unbuttoning his shirt.
I raised eyebrows. "You're not still being affected by Branwyn's Tears, are you?"
He smiled, then, not his usual smile, but still an improvement. "I was befriended once before by a member of the Host." He left the tie and collar tight, but unbuttoned the rest, slipped his jacket off, folded it over one arm, and gave me his back. "Lift the shirt."
I didn't want to lift the shirt. I'd seen what my relatives could do when they got creative. There were so many awful possibilities, none of which I wanted to see carved into Jeremy's flesh. But I lifted the crisp, grey cloth because I had to know. I didn't gasp because I was prepared. Screaming was overkill.
His back was covered in burn scars, as if someone had pressed a red-hot brand into his flesh again and again. Except this brand was in the shape of a hand. I touched his scars, as he had mine, lightly, fingers tracing them. I started to put my hand over one of the hand marks, then hesitated, and warned him. "I want to place my hand over one of the scars to see the size."
He nodded.
The hand was much bigger than mine, bigger than the mark on my own body. A man's hand, the fingers thicker than most of the sidhe. "Do you know the name of the one who did this?"
"Tamlyn," he said. He sounded embarrassed, and he should have.
Tamlyn was the John Smith of faerie aliases. Tamlyn along with Robin Goodfellow and a handful of others were favorite false identities when true names were to be hidden.
"You must have been very young not to suspect something when he gave that name," I said.
He nodded. "I was that."
"May I check your aura?"
He smiled back at me over his shoulder. The movement wrinkled the skin on his back, making the scars form shapes. "Aura is a New Age word. The fey don't use it."
"Personal power then," I said, but I was staring at his back. I pushed the cloth of his shirt over his shoulders. "Were you tied while this was done?"
"Yes, why?"
"Can you put your hands in the position they were tied in?"
He took a breath as if he'd ask why, but he finally just raised his hands above his head, and moved into the door so that his body was flush against it.
I pressed my hands to thedoor, stopped him from opening it. "This is important, Jeremy. If you've been in thrall to one of them, then that sidhe will have… power over you. I need to know what was done."
Then he did something I hadn't expected. He started unbuttoning his shirt.
I raised eyebrows. "You're not still being affected by Branwyn's Tears, are you?"
He smiled, then, not his usual smile, but still an improvement. "I was befriended once before by a member of the Host." He left the tie and collar tight, but unbuttoned the rest, slipped his jacket off, folded it over one arm, and gave me his back. "Lift the shirt."
I didn't want to lift the shirt. I'd seen what my relatives could do when they got creative. There were so many awful possibilities, none of which I wanted to see carved into Jeremy's flesh. But I lifted the crisp, grey cloth because I had to know. I didn't gasp because I was prepared. Screaming was overkill.
His back was covered in burn scars, as if someone had pressed a red-hot brand into his flesh again and again. Except this brand was in the shape of a hand. I touched his scars, as he had mine, lightly, fingers tracing them. I started to put my hand over one of the hand marks, then hesitated, and warned him. "I want to place my hand over one of the scars to see the size."
He nodded.
The hand was much bigger than mine, bigger than the mark on my own body. A man's hand, the fingers thicker than most of the sidhe. "Do you know the name of the one who did this?"
"Tamlyn," he said. He sounded embarrassed, and he should have.
Tamlyn was the John Smith of faerie aliases. Tamlyn along with Robin Goodfellow and a handful of others were favorite false identities when true names were to be hidden.
"You must have been very young not to suspect something when he gave that name," I said.
He nodded. "I was that."
"May I check your aura?"
He smiled back at me over his shoulder. The movement wrinkled the skin on his back, making the scars form shapes. "Aura is a New Age word. The fey don't use it."
"Personal power then," I said, but I was staring at his back. I pushed the cloth of his shirt over his shoulders. "Were you tied while this was done?"
"Yes, why?"
"Can you put your hands in the position they were tied in?"
He took a breath as if he'd ask why, but he finally just raised his hands above his head, and moved into the door so that his body was flush against it.