Read Stone Song for Free Online Page B

she didn’t want that.
    She picked up.
    Tommy’s voice on the other end sounded high and hoarse. “You need to come, Sorcha,” he said. Then he began sobbing.
    “Come where, Tommy?”
    “Back to the Black Rose, now.”
    She looked at the clock beside the bed. It was one in the morning. The bar would be closing. “I’m all the way home, Tommy. The T stopped running an hour ago.”
    “ He doesn’t care, Sorcha.”
    Her stomach lurched.
    “You need to come back,” he said. “Or he’s going to kill me.”
    There was a click on the other end.
    Sick fear washed over Sorcha. She was safe here in her citadel against the Fae. The creatures couldn’t enter unless she allowed them, unless she lifted the latches and held open the ironbound doors. She could stay here and the bastard wouldn’t be able to touch her. She could run now, while he was expecting her at the Black Rose, and it would be hours before he realized she wasn’t coming. A head start, enough to disappear into the backwoods of New England. A haircut and a dime-store bottle of bleach would change her appearance enough that no one would recognize Sorcha Kavanaugh.
    She could disappear, and be safe.
    She couldn’t do that to Tommy. She had seen how the Fae behaved when they were thwarted. They were like children. When their toys disappointed them, they smashed them to bits. Tommy would be hurt. Maimed or killed. If this Fae was particularly cunning, he might only cripple Tommy and hang on to him to use against Sorcha when he caught up with her. Or if he was particularly fickle and cruel, he might just keep Tommy to torment, for petty vengeance against Sorcha for defying him.
    She had misread that Fae completely. Or perhaps he had really intended to help her, had really been, at that moment, as . . . gentle  . . . as he seemed. And Sorcha had pushed him too far. Using the harp had been a desperate act. She didn’t understand exactly what it did to them, but she could tell that it hurt like hell. And it would hardly help if he knew that she’d only used the harp to avoid using the voice. . . .
    Because of her, the Fae might snap Tommy’s neck tonight.
    She thought of herself as tough and resourceful, but she’d never been called upon to perform heroics, only to persevere in the face of discouragement and discomfort, to play another set, walk another mile, when she was tired and footsore.
    She’d never really understood people who put themselves in harm’s way when they had an easy out, but Sorcha considered how she would feel about herself tomorrow, sitting on a Peter Pan bus, speeding north into New Hampshire, the autumn leaves turning red and gold, if she left Tommy in the hands of this Fae. She knew she would never be able to enjoy the riot of color in the trees, woodsmoke in the air, or the taste of beer, ever again.
    She wouldn’t be able to live with herself.
    Sorcha left her suitcase where she had placed it beside the door. She called for a taxi and then found the spare cover for her harp and slung the carrying strap over her shoulder. She locked Gran’s house and went outside to wait for the cab.
    There was no traffic at this time of night, and the trip was shockingly fast. She reached the Black Rose and paid the cabbie with no real plan for what to do once she got inside. But she had her cláirseach , and she knew it worked on this Fae.
    She wasn’t surprised to find the back door unlocked and a light on in the hall. She followed the corridor, heart in her throat, to the taproom, and stopped dead when she saw Tommy sitting in a chair at the center of the space.
    Behind him, holding a knife to Tommy’s throat, stood a Fae she had never seen before. He was dressed like the one she’d killed in New York, in the finery of half a dozen centuries and several continents, but his beauty outshone Keiran’s in every way. His hair was long, black, and swept all the way to the floor, threaded with silver leaves. Long legs were cased in