Free Summer by Sarah Remy Page B

and spat, but then his angry stomach had grown used to the taste of metallic saliva and earthy root.
    “Sidhe or sluagh?” he asked, chewing, although he thought he already knew.
    Water-Bearer only grimaced in what Richard had come to think of as a shit-eating smile. Its single eye gleamed. Then the monster wandered off, intent on its duties.
    “That one is trouble,” the Prince said from behind Richard. “His influence is far-reaching as a poison in the water and if he’s taken notice of you, mortal, you’d best wonder why.”
    “‘Why’ is a mortal failing.” Richard didn’t bother look around. He chewed on the root and studied his wrists. His skin had stopped bleeding beneath the bronze circlets. His damaged hand was swollen inside Water-Bearer’s splints.
    The sun had sunk below the horizon. The Prince didn’t cast a visible shadow, but when it loomed, the warmth of its breath spread against the back of Richard’s neck.
    “I might have killed him long ago,” the Prince continued. “But that one had more influence at Court than any of us, and I mean to keep every weapon I have. Alas, his body is finally failing beneath the weight of this world, even if his wits are sharp as ever.”
    “Dying, you mean.” Richard looked past the resting tangle of the Host. He could see Water-Bearer still moving about, bending to offer the jug here and there amongst the pile of lazing sluagh .
    “Death is a mortal failing,” the Prince mocked. “But, aye, he’s no hope of continuing.”
    Richard finished chewing. When he shifted on the cold sand, his shackles rang.
    “Can I see Aine?” he asked, as he did every time they stopped.
    “Not yet,” the Prince responded, as it did every time Richard asked.
    Richard imagined leaping up and somehow strangling the Prince with the chains he wore.
    Useless , Bobby cautioned. And Winter said, Be patient .
    So he closed his eyes, the sluagh Prince’s breath warming his neck. He pretended to sleep.
     
    Richard discovered if he didn’t keep his mind busy, terror would creep in, filling the secret places in his head with hopeless, black thoughts. It had been the same when he’d first left Bobby; the fear lived permanently in his stomach until he couldn’t eat or sleep. He’d been half-dead with dehydration and malnutrition, more than half-high on the last of the pills he’d taken with him from home, when he’d fallen off the platform at Eastern Market.
    He’d been lucky enough not to hit the third rail, a miracle he didn’t really appreciate until months later. He’d stood up, brushing dirt and trash from the knees of his pants. No one had paid him any attention at all. The platform was now at shoulder height. Richard wasn’t sure he had the strength to pull himself back up.
    So he’d turned and walked into the tunnel.
    Three trains rushed past while he wandered. The first time he heard the rumble he’d pressed hard against the wall, closing his eyes as the cars screamed by. The second time he leaned an inch toward the train, just to feel the stale wind on his face.
    When he saw the lights rushing toward him for the third time, Richard thought about throwing himself on the tracks. He knew it was a quick end. Bobby had murdered one of his backlogged clients similarly, but on an above ground track in Alexandria. Richard had watched it happen. The junkie didn’t even have time to scream before the train passed over his head, popping his skull like a grape.
    He’d taken a step forward, screwing up determination, when out of the corner of his eye he noticed something interesting on the tunnel wall.
    It was a man-sized gate, rusting and secured with a padlock. Obviously old. Possibly antique.
    By the time the third train passed, forgotten, Richard had managed to jimmy the padlock with the penknife his mother had given him on his tenth birthday.
    The Money Line beyond, and its buried mysteries, was puzzle enough to keep Richard alive. He forgot terror in the enormous