hadn’t lost.
Rhiannon had cheated.
“Take this to Rylie,” Deirdre said. “Take this to Friederling.”
Brother Marshall’s mouth pressed into a grim line. “I did. They said it would just create more violence. It’d undermine everything that they’d been fighting for by creating the election in the first place.”
The truth of it settled into Deirdre.
He’d shown this same thing to them, and they’d done nothing.
Fury choked her. “Letting Rhiannon cheat to win undermines everything we’ve been fighting for!”
“Preacher, meet the choir.” Brother Marshall waved his staff. The runes collapsed, splashing into nothingness. Darkness settled over the cathedral. Only the mural behind him still seemed to glow faintly. “Figured you’d want to know. Figured you’d want to do something about it.”
Brother Marshall was right.
She did.
IV
Green screen. Hot lights. Video camera.
Action.
Deirdre stared unblinkingly into the lens of a handheld camcorder. It wasn’t intended for shooting this kind of video, but it had been cheap, and that was Deirdre’s priority. Stark’s old equipment had been lost in the asylum when the unseelie attacked. Brother Marshall might have been able to make his cathedral appear out of nowhere, but she couldn’t make money do the same trick.
She was struggling to remember the words she wanted to say. The face behind the camcorder—Niamh’s face—had blanked everything from her mind.
Deirdre had grabbed more lethe out of the storage closet before trying to shoot the video. She needed nerves of steel to pull off this feat of Stark-like propaganda. But she couldn’t seem to plug enough lethe into her veins to find the euphoria it used to give her. Not anymore.
At least she didn’t have to worry about hunger. That was something.
“A rally,” Deirdre finally said. “Tomorrow. Thursday. In Times Square. I want you to be there with me.” She licked her lips, swallowed hard. “Everything you thought you knew about the election—our worst fears—it’s all true. No.” Shit. That’s not right.
She dropped her head into her hands, massaging her eyes.
“I can make cue cards,” Niamh suggested.
“Shut up,” Deirdre said. “Don’t talk.”
The harpy obeyed. It didn’t take any compulsion. This was the first time that Niamh had been away from the vampires since escaping Rhiannon, and she seemed eager to give Deirdre no excuses to send her back.
If the video took a thousand takes to shoot, Niamh would probably be thrilled.
Deirdre grabbed the napkin off of her side table, which rested beside a token that Brother Marshall had given her. It was a flat disc the size of her palm. It would get her in touch with him instantly if she needed to talk about the election, or so Brother Marshall had claimed.
She didn’t need him right now. She needed to gather her senses.
She’d jotted a few notes down on the napkin while her anger at Brother Marshall’s news was still fresh, but they weren’t significantly more coherent than her current thoughts. Rally, Thursday, Times Square. Election. She balled the napkin in her fist and dropped it to the water-stained floor.
Gods, but her head hurt.
“Five minutes,” Deirdre said. “Check the lights. I don’t think they’re angled right. They’re hurting my eyes.”
They were fine. Niamh set the camcorder down to mess with them anyway. They’d been crammed into the tiny apartment Deirdre was occupying, taking up the narrow space around the bare bed. The apartment was too small for such bright, hot lights. Deirdre liked heat, but even this was too hot.
Where had she put that intake bracelet?
Deirdre found it under the lumpy, sweat-stained pillow. Her hands shook as she clamped it over her wrist.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Niamh asked.
“I told you not to talk.” Deirdre wiped away a trickle of blood that escaped the edge of the intake bracelet. “Besides, you’re one to talk. You used to use
Rhiannon had cheated.
“Take this to Rylie,” Deirdre said. “Take this to Friederling.”
Brother Marshall’s mouth pressed into a grim line. “I did. They said it would just create more violence. It’d undermine everything that they’d been fighting for by creating the election in the first place.”
The truth of it settled into Deirdre.
He’d shown this same thing to them, and they’d done nothing.
Fury choked her. “Letting Rhiannon cheat to win undermines everything we’ve been fighting for!”
“Preacher, meet the choir.” Brother Marshall waved his staff. The runes collapsed, splashing into nothingness. Darkness settled over the cathedral. Only the mural behind him still seemed to glow faintly. “Figured you’d want to know. Figured you’d want to do something about it.”
Brother Marshall was right.
She did.
IV
Green screen. Hot lights. Video camera.
Action.
Deirdre stared unblinkingly into the lens of a handheld camcorder. It wasn’t intended for shooting this kind of video, but it had been cheap, and that was Deirdre’s priority. Stark’s old equipment had been lost in the asylum when the unseelie attacked. Brother Marshall might have been able to make his cathedral appear out of nowhere, but she couldn’t make money do the same trick.
She was struggling to remember the words she wanted to say. The face behind the camcorder—Niamh’s face—had blanked everything from her mind.
Deirdre had grabbed more lethe out of the storage closet before trying to shoot the video. She needed nerves of steel to pull off this feat of Stark-like propaganda. But she couldn’t seem to plug enough lethe into her veins to find the euphoria it used to give her. Not anymore.
At least she didn’t have to worry about hunger. That was something.
“A rally,” Deirdre finally said. “Tomorrow. Thursday. In Times Square. I want you to be there with me.” She licked her lips, swallowed hard. “Everything you thought you knew about the election—our worst fears—it’s all true. No.” Shit. That’s not right.
She dropped her head into her hands, massaging her eyes.
“I can make cue cards,” Niamh suggested.
“Shut up,” Deirdre said. “Don’t talk.”
The harpy obeyed. It didn’t take any compulsion. This was the first time that Niamh had been away from the vampires since escaping Rhiannon, and she seemed eager to give Deirdre no excuses to send her back.
If the video took a thousand takes to shoot, Niamh would probably be thrilled.
Deirdre grabbed the napkin off of her side table, which rested beside a token that Brother Marshall had given her. It was a flat disc the size of her palm. It would get her in touch with him instantly if she needed to talk about the election, or so Brother Marshall had claimed.
She didn’t need him right now. She needed to gather her senses.
She’d jotted a few notes down on the napkin while her anger at Brother Marshall’s news was still fresh, but they weren’t significantly more coherent than her current thoughts. Rally, Thursday, Times Square. Election. She balled the napkin in her fist and dropped it to the water-stained floor.
Gods, but her head hurt.
“Five minutes,” Deirdre said. “Check the lights. I don’t think they’re angled right. They’re hurting my eyes.”
They were fine. Niamh set the camcorder down to mess with them anyway. They’d been crammed into the tiny apartment Deirdre was occupying, taking up the narrow space around the bare bed. The apartment was too small for such bright, hot lights. Deirdre liked heat, but even this was too hot.
Where had she put that intake bracelet?
Deirdre found it under the lumpy, sweat-stained pillow. Her hands shook as she clamped it over her wrist.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Niamh asked.
“I told you not to talk.” Deirdre wiped away a trickle of blood that escaped the edge of the intake bracelet. “Besides, you’re one to talk. You used to use
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