Song for the Dead: An Ada Palomino Novel, стр. 37
I pause in front of the bathroom. “Where did you learn how to wield a sword by the way? Because you handle that thing like it’s second nature.” I pause. “And don’t you dare tell me it was because you were around way back when people were using swords to settle arguments.”
He runs his fingers over his lips like a zipper. “Won’t say a word.”
Figures. For a moment I picture him sword fighting alongside William Shakespeare, but I’m not sure that image makes any sense.
I get changed into my pajamas, take off my makeup, do my business, and then head to my bed, crawling under the sheets while Max is already snoring lightly on his bed, lying in his clothes on top of the covers. Don’t tell me he’s passed out again.
“Go to sleep, Ada,” he says, not moving.
I flinch. “You reading my mind?”
“Don’t have to.”
I’m about to tell him he’s the one who needs to go to sleep but before I can my thoughts are turning to mush and I slip into sleep.
My last wish is to not have any dreams.
“Ada.”
I wake up slowly, my hair standing straight up, my gut swirling with white lightning energy.
I don’t even have to open my eyes to know that something is happening and it’s bad.
“Ada,” Max’s voice comes through, hard as steel. “Don’t you fucking move.”
But I do move. I sit straight up in bed, open my eyes, and I’m face to face with a woman, stringy dirty blonde hair, a gaunt face, eyes black as holes, mouth stretched in a snapping shark-toothed grin.
FUCK.
I open my own mouth to scream just as the demon lunges to take a bite out of my face.
Then there’s a whoosh of air passing inches in front of me and I watch as the tip of Max’s sword swipes across my vision. The woman’s eyes turn from black to white, her face shattering and crumbling into ash until all of her disintegrates, covering every inch of me in burning demon dust.
“I said don’t move,” Max grumbles.
I pinch my eyes shut and try to scream but I hear Max’s voice in my head telling me to keep my eyes and mouth closed. I can feel the ashes burning through my pajamas, the smell like burned hair, and then Max is picking me up in his arms and carrying me.
Oh my god, what the fuck is happening?
“We need to wash this off you now,” he says, his voice rock solid, though it doesn’t do much to ease my anxiety because I’m totally screaming on the inside, because what the fuck, what the fuck!?
He places me in the bathtub on my feet and my hands are fluttering beside me and I don’t know what to do, I can’t see, I can’t open my mouth to speak, or to cry, or to scream.
Water sprays me as he turns the shower on. “Might be a bit cold, sorry.” He grabs my shoulders and pulls me into the stream, the water cold but quickly turning warm.
“Get your clothes off,” he says.
What? I say in my head. In front of you?
“Give me a break, Ada,” he scoffs.
Then he turns me around so my back is to him, thank god, and grabs the hem of my pajama top, pulling it up. I raise my arms and he takes it off of me, then tugs down at my pants until I’m wiggling out of them.
Yeah, and of course I’m wearing a tiny pair of white lacey underwear that shows off most of my ass. I mean, at least they aren’t granny panties.
I start rubbing at my eyes and my face, trying to wash the ashes away, opening my eyes just to see Max’s wet arm reaching for the hotel soap in front of me.
Then he gathers my hair at the base of my neck and lifts it up, then starts running the soap over my shoulders, down my spine, stopping just at my ass. It would feel nice if the circumstances weren’t so batshit.
Then his hand with soap in it appears in front of my face.
“Here,” he says from behind me. “You can take care of the rest.”
I take the soap from him and then I hear the bathroom door close.
I whirl around to find myself alone.
Stare down at the ashes in the water.
Meanwhile my favorite pajamas are in the corner of the tub, the top disintegrating before my eyes. What the fuck? When I got the demon dust on me yesterday it didn’t happen quite like that. I guess I’m lucky that only my upper half got covered in that shit.
And at that I wash my hair four times and condition it five with the shitty hotel toiletries to make sure all the dust is gone. The last thing I want is for my hair to fall out. Losing my favorite PJs is one thing, but I swear to god if my hair is ruined, I’m going straight back home.
Eventually, when I think I’ve rubbed my skin raw, I step out and towel off, then wrap it around me and step out into the hotel room.
Max is standing there, leaning back against the dresser, ankles crossed, beer dangling from his fingertips, wearing a white t-shirt and green plaid pajama pants. He’s staring at my bed which is completely covered in ash and black goo.
He pulls his eyes away from the scene and looks at me, expression grim. “That was lucky,” he says, his voice low.
I nod quickly. “Can I tell you how much I approve of that sword?” I walk over to him, keeping my towel on tightly while I swipe the beer from his hand, knocking back a sip. “What happened? And where did this beer come from?”
“Got your priorities straight, don’t you?” He moves, bending over to open the mini bar, taking out another beer, plus two tiny