A Battle of Blood and Stone

by Sawyer Bennett

  I laugh, squeezing in a little closer to him. I’m glad I was independent and strong in my first life.

  “Was I always like that?” I ask.

  “Always. Every single reincarnation.”

  My hand comes to his jaw, and I rub it along the bristles making their appearance. He could use a shave, but I like him like this, too. “And when was the last time you and I were together?”

  “1961 through 1964.” His voice is rough, and I imagine many of the memories are bittersweet.

  “How did I die that time?” It’s a horrible question for me to ask, but I want to know how I died every single time. And I want to know how we fell in love each time, and I want to know just… everything.

  “A brain aneurysm,” he replies softly, and I can see the pain fresh in his eyes. “At night while we slept. I found you dead the next morning.”

  Okay, that’s enough of the morose stuff. I need to hear it, but it’s going to have to be in doses, not for me, but for Carrick. This is very fresh to him—the sixties not being that far away for an immortal.

  I smile mischievously. “What was your favorite thing about our time together then?”

  A wide smile breaks out on his face. His eyes glittering, he snakes his hand around my lower back and pulls me in so my pelvis is up against his. “It was the sexual revolution, baby. It was easy to get you into bed.”

  I’m laughing even as I smack him on the chest, then he kisses me hard because it’s a good memory.

  It’s such a great kiss I think we might forget about talking for a while, but Carrick releases my mouth and looks at me with all seriousness. “Hit me up with some more questions.”

  “Did I have special abilities? Like the way I can see fae now?”

  Carrick shakes his head. “No. You were perfectly ordinary, and I loved you that way. Just as I love you this way.”

  I stiffen when I hear Carrick say he loves me for the first time since he returned. I know he does because I remember the emotion with which he said it three weeks ago.

  He doesn’t expect me to say it back, and I’m not going to say it just because I’m afraid he needs to hear it. But I am going to tell him exactly how I feel about loving him.

  I take a breath and let it out slowly, shifting slightly so our eyes can connect. “It bothers me that you have a deeper connection to me than I do to you. I love you, Carrick, but I don’t think it’s the same way I used to. It’s certainly not on the same level that you feel for me because you have the luxury of memories and time. I only have a gut instinct that I’m supposed to be yours.”

  “I know.” His hand moves to brush some hair off my forehead before his eyes come back to me. “I’m just grateful you love me. That you know the truth and that whatever time we have left, we can do it together, with nothing between us.”

  Smiling, I nod. It’s enough for him, but it’s not enough for me. “Zaid said there’s a place where our memories are held in crystals.”

  Carrick frowns. “The Hall of Histories. Would you like me to take you there?”

  “Would you?” I ask in excitement, leaning up on one elbow so I’m staring down at him. “Let me see some of our lives together?”

  “Of course I will,” he says, his tone indicating it would be a given that he’d give me anything I ask for. “We’ll go this evening.”

  “Why not now?” I ask, and I realize just how naive it was of me to do so.

  Because I only get a flash of a sly grin from Carrick before his mouth is back on mine. He shifts me under his body, pushes his legs in between mine, and forces them to spread. He then kisses his way down my body, and I sigh when he stops to focus on that most intimate spot on my body.

  This evening will be fine to visit the Hall of Histories.

  CHAPTER 7

  Finley

  The Hall of Histories isn’t easy to explain. I have no clue where it’s located, other than Carrick took my hand and bent distance. We arrive in a small room with a shiny black floor and white walls. There’s no furniture, no art on the walls, and no doors except one at the other side of the room like a bank vault made of thick steel with a giant wheel on the front that must be spun to open it.

  I’m jolted slightly when a man appears before us wearing clothing I don’t recognize as something humans would wear in any time period. Loose white pants and a white tunic that comes down past his hips with buttons up the middle. The collar has almost a Mandarin feel, but the entire ensemble looks futuristic.

  I lean in toward Carrick and whisper, “Are we on a spaceship?”

  Carrick smirks. “Let go of the alien thing, Finley. I promise you that they don’t play a part in your life.”

  “Welcome to the Hall of Histories, Nuesh,” the man says with a slight bow. “What may I do for you today?”

  I frown because I don’t understand why he’d call Carrick that, and then it hits me… that was his original name in Sumer when he was created. Perhaps he doesn’t know Carrick by any other name, or perhaps demi-gods are most often referred to by their original names.

  Regardless, Carrick is recognized. Because the man before us is not a human, fae, or daemon, I have to conclude he’s also a demi-god.

  Which is interesting.

  He doesn’t look anything like what a demi-god should look like, but, then again, I only have Carrick, Maddox, and Lucien to compare to.

  While he’s very handsome with pale blond hair cut short, denim-blue eyes, an aquiline nose, and near-perfect bone structure, he doesn’t have the brawn Carrick and his brothers have. He also doesn’t have the same vibe that sort of radiates off them—the type that says I’ll seriously hurt you if you get in my way.

  No, this demi-god is mild-mannered to the core, and I’m starting to understand the gods didn’t create their progeny to all be warriors.

  “We’d like to peruse some memory crystals,” Carrick replies.

  The demi-god nods, his eyes cutting to me. “For you or for your friend as well?”

  “Both,” Carrick replies, then introduces me. “This is Finley Porter.”

  “Hello, Finley Porter,” he says, holding his hand out to me to shake, which, in my experience, is an anti-demi-god kind of thing. I take it, though, and he says, “I am Temen, the overseer of the Hall of Histories.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I reply formally. “Do you record the memories here?”

  “Oh my, no,” he exclaims with an amused smile. “The gods have created a legion of demi-gods who are responsible for memorializing events and histories. I just manage the crystals that are the medium by which they are stored.”

  “And every event that’s ever occurred in any human’s lifetime is recorded?” I ask curiously.

  “Not just human,” Temen corrects me as he turns and starts for the vault door. He walks with the most perfect posture I’ve ever seen, with his hands clasped behind his back. “It includes fae, daemons, demi-gods, angels, and the like.”

  “I can’t even fathom the amount of information that encompasses,” I murmur.

  “It’s more than the human mind can conceptually perceive,” Temen says, not in an unkind way.

  “I’m curious,” I say hesitantly, not wanting this to come off rude. “But to what purpose?”

  “Why does anyone memorialize anything?” Temen counters, but he doesn’t expect me to answer because he provides it for me. “We write in journals to record our experiences so we can remember; we write for others so they can learn; and, just as importantly, we write for entertainment. It’s why we keep our favorite movies so we can watch them over again for enjoyment.”

  An image of the gods sitting on couches, popcorn bowls in hand, watching their most favorite crystal memories flashes before me. It seems ludicrous.

  But I can also envision Rune coming here to watch the crystal where he killed me—most likely from Carrick’s point of view—so he can relish the pain he caused over and over again. The thought is awful, and I banish it at once.

  Focusing
on why we are here, I pry, “And anyone can access these memories?”

  As Temen reaches the vault, he shakes his head and grabs hold of the wheel. “Only demi-gods and the gods themselves are allowed to access these histories. You’re here as a guest of Nuesh, so you are allowed in with him.”

  Whoa. I hadn’t realized the club was so exclusive. But then again, what human would ever know about this place? Or have the ability to travel here?

  “Other immortals aren’t allowed here?” I ask just to make sure I understand.

  “Correct,” Temen replies, then releases the wheel. He doesn’t pull on the door, merely steps back to let it slowly swing open with a slight rasping noise. A tiny breeze hits me, several degrees cooler than the room we’re in, and I shiver.

  Carrick notices, and his arm comes around me. I wonder if the vault we’re about to enter has to remain cold for the crystals?

  Yet, when we step inside, I realize it’s the same temperature as the room we left. The vault is no different than the outer space with the same black flooring and white walls. It’s positively sterile looking, and the only thing of note is a square door in the far wall that has a simple knob on it. It sits in the middle of the wall, no more than a foot-by-foot square, and reminds me of the dumbwaiters that could be used to send meals upstairs in large homes.

  I’m beyond perplexed as to where the crystals are or how we’ll access them through such a tiny portal.

  Perhaps a potion to drink that will make us smaller ala Alice in Wonderland?

  Temen moves to the small door, and I sneak a glance at Carrick. He merely smiles and nods toward Temen, indicating I should watch.

  So I do.

  The demi-god raises his hands about shoulder high, facing the door. He chants something so low I cannot make out the words. A distinct whirring noise starts all around us, but then seems to focalize on the wall that holds the small door as if something behind the door might be moving on tracks or via a cable. It’s distinctly mechanized sounding, yet I’d bet One Bean that nothing is mechanized about this.

  It’s purely magic, I’m sure.

  The noise stops, Temen’s chant ceases, and he reaches out to grasp the knob. It doesn’t pull open. Instead, he slides it up. The interior is white like the walls and is brightened by a light I can’t see. Set horizontally on a white rounded base is a crystal.

  I’m startled to see it’s the same type of crystal I’d seen in Arwen’s hut, which were cylindrical, about an inch in diameter, and while the column was smooth, the ends were rough-cut points. While the crystals in Arwen’s home were multi-colored, the one on the base is opaque white and about six inches long.

  Temen reaches out and grabs it. He turns to Carrick and opens his palm with the crystal lying across it, but not in a way meant to offer it to Carrick. Not just yet.

  “What exactly would you like to see?” Temen asks.

  Carrick tips his head toward me. “I’d actually like to see her memories of our time together in Ireland when she was Eireann and I was Banan.”

  “Of course,” Temen says, then starts to wave his other hand over the crystal.

  “Wait,” I exclaim, and Temen stops, looking at me curiously. “Carrick just tells you that limited information—Ireland and our names then—and you know what to pull up?”

  “I know what every crystal holds,” Temen replies mildly.

  “You know what’s in every crystal that holds every memory, event, and history since the dawn of time?” I ask skeptically.

  Because that’s impossible.

  “No,” he replies with a shake of his head and an understanding smile. “That would make my head explode. But when I hold a crystal and you give me the basics of what you need, I just know how to access it.”

  My head whips toward Carrick. “Sort of how Sarvel just knows when to intervene in my life.”

  He shrugs in response. “The gods work in mysterious ways.”

  “Well, it’s convenient if nothing else,” I quip before turning back to Temen with an apologetic look. “I’m sorry to interrupt. Please go on.”

  Temen’s blue eyes crinkle at the corners, indicating his amusement, then he waves his hand over the crystal again. When it starts to glow in a yellowish-white hue, he slowly holds it out for me to take.

  I look to Carrick for guidance.

  “Go ahead. Pick it up.”

  I’m overwhelmed with excitement but terrified as well. I’m like an amnesiac getting ready to learn what my life was all about, and I’m scared there are portions I might not like.

  With resolve, I reach out and grab the crystal.

  The minute I do, my entire body locks as if I’m completely frozen in place. My brain tells my arm to move, but it refuses.

  But then I have no opportunity to worry about my lack of mobility because I’m suddenly assaulted with flashes of memories that are flickering so fast before my eyes that I can’t keep up with them. They’re moving laterally across my vision, left to right, but I’m lucky if I have even a second to focus on a scene before another appears.

  I hear voices, conversations, and music.

  I feel the sun warming my skin and snow on my tongue.

  I’m laughing and crying and moaning with passion.

  I’m helpless to move or turn it off, so I give up trying to make heads or tails of it. I just stare ahead, watching the flickering scenes of my life go by until it suddenly ends and my body is released.

  When I sag just a little, Carrick’s arm comes around my waist and he takes the crystal gently from me, handing it back to Temen.

  “That was too much… too fast,” I mutter in dismay. “I couldn’t comprehend it.”

  “Just give it a moment,” Carrick urges, squeezing my waist.

  “No, it was—”

  And like a curtain is lifted before my eyes, I suddenly remember every single thing from the time Carrick rescued me from the Viking raider until the moment when I somehow appeared before a strange man with a brilliant blue mohawk, his hand wrapped around my throat.

  I know that last memory was the moment right before he broke my neck and killed me.

  I shake that thought away, taking a moment to sift, and oh… the memories.

  They’re lovely.

  So beautiful, my time with Carrick.

  All the times he came to our farm and sat at our table for a meal. He had charmed my father, who was more than glad to let us marry. Of course, he died before that happened. I feel the aching loss of that man in the same way I felt the loss of my father when he killed himself.

  I smile as I recall the romantic things Carrick did for me time after time, but I focus on the rose garden he had built me behind the manor house where I moved after we were wed.

  It was stunning. I know how much I loved to spend time out there, tenderly hand pruning each plant, of which there were hundreds.

  Oh… and the first time we made love. Although I distinctly remembered ways in which Carrick made me feel good before he took my virginity, it was our wedding night when I finally gave it to him. He was a gentleman, but he also wasn’t I’m happy to say.

  Memories flood me, each one as clear and robust as if it had happened just yesterday. And the feelings… so strong and vibrant.

  My heart feels like it’s swelling to epic proportions at how much I loved Carrick back then. More than my own life.

  More than anything.

  Wow. I can feel the times when he angered me. We’d have heated arguments that involved shouting sometimes, but it always ended with Carrick kissing me because we could never stay mad at each other for long.

  Year after year, I note the highlights, knowing I can go back now that I have them and pick up the low lights one day.

  They continue all the way up to appearing in Rune’s clutches and the look of horror on Carrick’s face just before my world went black.

  When I died for the first time.

  Carrick’s hands come to my face, and I blink out of the memories. His head d
ips, eyes slightly concerned. “Are you okay?”

  I nod and try to make light of it because the onslaught of such deep emotion shook me. I cough to clear my throat. “Apparently, I really loved the hell out of you back then.”

  Carrick’s head tips back and he laughs deeply, delighted by my response, and then he kisses me, bending me backward.

  When he lets me up for air, I glance at Temen, who is smiling broadly, his cheeks a little pink at witnessing such affection between us.

  “What would you like to see next?” Temen inquires.

  I have no clue, so I turn to Carrick for the answer. He ponders before saying, “Our time together in New Zealand, late 1800s. She was Hattie then, and I was Carrick.”

  My nose wrinkles inadvertently at the old-fashioned name of Hattie, but I suspect it wasn’t old-fashioned then.

  Temen waves his hand over the crystal. While he does, I ask Carrick, “Did you ever bring me here during my other past lives?”

  He shakes his head. “You never asked to, but I don’t think you ever needed it. We always had time to fall in love the right way, creating new memories each time. We always had time where I could tell you all about your past lives.”

  “Would you have brought me here had I asked?”

  Leaning in, Carrick kisses me softly. “I wouldn’t deny you anything, Finley.”

  I know, without a doubt, I wouldn’t deny him anything either.

  Temen holds out the crystal, which is glowing again. I take it, smile up at Carrick, and say, “Let’s go to New Zealand.”

  I don’t know how long Temen patiently stands there with us as I gather my memories to me like long-lost family members. Each past life doesn’t confuse my current existence, but rather makes me more complete. In some of my lives, I was a pioneering force of a woman. In the late 1800s in New Zealand, I was a female cattle herder.

  Other times, my life wasn’t overly exciting—like when I was a laundress in fifteenth-century France. Carrick coming into my ordinary life was exhilarating to me. It made me feel like I was destined for so much more, and look at me now.