Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [31]
Somehow he pulled himself together. Saying the necessary words as he wrested the cursed breastplate from his torso, making the requisite excuses... somehow he managed to take up his bag again and get out of the shop without further catastrophe. He didn’t even check to see that the rolled-up painting was still in it, but took off at a run down the narrow street. Feet pounding on cobblestones, shame pounding in his temples. When he reached the Hotel Paradisio, the doorman wouldn’t let him in, so wild-eyed and disar rayed did he appear; he had to search through his bag with shaking hands to produce his key as proof of residency, and even then the doorman insisted on es corting him to the door of his suite. Taking care to steer him clear of the other guests. What did it matter? What did anything matter? He fell to his knees as the door slammed shut behind him, hot tears flowing down his cheeks. God in heaven, how long could he go on like this?
“What do you want?” he begged aloud. Willing Calesta to hear him, to answer. “What’s the point of this? Tell me!” But there was no response. At last he struggled to his feet and staggered over to his bureau, where a flask of Jaggonath brandy awaited him. Disdaining glasses, he upended it and drank directly from its narrow neck, feeling the powerful liquid burn its way down his throat. Not enough. Not enough. Stumbling over to the table at his bedside, he caught up a small glass vial; black pills winked at him from within, promising the ultimate forgetfulness. It was dangerous to drink and then take these, too, he knew that. But what did it matter? Did he really want to live another day? Did he dare to face her again?
Choking with shame, he spilled out a small handful of pills, enough for an evening’s oblivion. With a quick motion he tossed them all into his mouth and used the brandy to wash them down. Fast. Before he could have second thoughts. If it killed him, then it killed him. At least this torture would be over with.
“What’s the armor for?” he begged. The demon didn’t answer him, which raised new doubts. What if Calesta didn’t just hate Gerald Tarrant, after all, but all the Tarrant clan? Him included? What if this was just some complex game the demon had concocted to torture them all—
No, he didn’t dare think that, he didn’t dare—
Too much torture, too much too much!
“Calesta,” he gasped. “Please. Help me.”
But there was only darkness, and silence.
“That boy,” Gresham said, “has real problems.”
She wrung out the rag in the sink, not saying anything. She didn’t trust herself to speak.
“Nari.”
Slowly she turned to him, laying the rag aside. The floor was clean. The armor was clean. Her hands had finally stopped shaking.
“Nari. He’s trouble.”
She didn’t dare look at him. She knew how well he could read her.
“You’re stuck on him, aren’t you?” His voice was gentle but the disapproval was clear. “Couldn’t you have picked a sane one, this time? There are a few around, you know.
“Please, Gresh.” She leaned against the edge of the worktable; her blouse front brushed the coronet. “Not now.”
“Nari. Listen to me.” He came up behind her and took her by the shoulders, turning her to face him. “You’re like family to me, you know that? And when family gets hurt, it hurts me, too.”
She was looking away, refusing to face him; he caught up her chin in his and and gently turned her back to him. “He’s good-looking. He’s rich. He’s got charm that most men would kill for. And he’s got problems, Nari. Real problems. Did you see the look on his face when he saw his reflection? Did you?”
“I saw,” she whispered.
“I don’t know what’s going on with that boy, but I’d bet this shop