by Elisa Paige
His eyes were veiled and he looked…hurt.
Quickly looking away, I pulled back the ridiculously thick comforter. My efforts to sit on the bed got the robe tangled around my legs. Yanking the thing out of the way, I sat down, tucking my hands into the terry cloth to mask their shaking.
Had I hurt Koda? By questioning his reasons for kissing me?
“Sephti?” His voice was low, rough, as he moved into the room. “Everything okay?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. Afraid to meet his gaze, afraid of what I might see there, I violently fluffed the pillows as an excuse to hide my face. Judging by his expression, his tone…I had hurt him.
A pillow fell over and I snatched it up, violently punching it as I put it back on top of the stack behind me. All the while, I was thinking, Why the hell did hurting Koda feel like a hot blade in my chest?
A long moment passed as he watched me, then he turned away. I jerked my head up, his name on my lips, only to remain silent when he sat in a wingchair a few feet from the bed. He leaned back, his face in shadows, but I could still feel his dark-eyed regard.
I jumped when he broke the silence, proving just how strung tight my nerves were.
“What caused your scars?” His voice was soft.
Stirring, I glanced down at my legs, now bare from having shifted the robe out of the way. I looked like I was a demented artist’s living canvas. The countless raised, silvery marks were round, oval and square. Some were long, meandering lines and some were swirling spirals. Many bore jagged edges, while others were almost pretty—if the savage application of metal to flesh could be thought of that way. With terrible clarity, I remembered each and every mark. Even worse, the agonizing methods employed to ensure those marks remained. Given the way my kind heal, my skin should’ve been as perfectly smooth as a newly created bittern’s.
The only positive to the designs cut, sliced, stabbed and burned into me was the warning they’d given others in the stable: This one has endured much, survived much. Tangle with her at your own peril.
Realizing Koda was still waiting for me to answer him, I said the English words in my head first to make sure I got them right. “The usual. Training. Fighting.”
He made an impatient noise. “I’ve been a warrior for centuries and can recognize those marks. I meant the others.”
I breathed in and out a few times, not answering.
“Someone made those on purpose,” Koda pressed.
I tried not to flinch, but was only partially successful. Again rehearsing the words silently first, I clutched at the soft terry. “Bittern are wild creatures, right from the start. I was more difficult to tame than—”
He growled, “You were tortured.”
Pulling the comforter’s corner over my legs, I shrugged, still unable to meet his shadowed gaze. While I didn’t enjoy the subject, it was easier talking about this than about Koda and me, and the English came more easily. “Cian had the lord master’s permission to train bitterns as he wished.” I ran a hand across the covers, smoothing them unnecessarily, anything to keep my eyes cast down. “To discipline us.”
“You were tortured.” His tone had gone hard. Dangerous.
Swallowing thickly, I nodded. “My legs healed—”
“I saw you naked, after your shower. It’s not just your legs. Your entire body…” He swore, leaning forward into the light cast by the bedside lamp. Fury blazed in his eyes. “Who is this Cian person and where can he be found?”
I sucked in a breath. “Cian must be left alone.”
Profound rage crossed Koda’s face, and for a second I thought he was going to lose it. His nostrils flared and his knuckles went white as he gripped the wingchair’s arms. “You protect the bastard who—”
I hissed, “Given half a chance, I’d carve the flesh from his bones and choke him with his own entrails! But Cian is brother to Hakol Berand. The Huntsman. Kill Cian and Berand will set the Wild Hunt loose.”
Koda sat back into shadows. “And?”
“And?” I echoed, dumbfounded. “The Hunt is Reiden’s deadliest weapon. The riders are his most lethal black ops specialists—the cruelest and most violent killers ever to exist. They live for the agony they inflict. They feast on it. The Hunt is relentless and utterly without mercy. And being fae, they follow their prey across planes, so there is no place that is far enough to escape the Hunt once it’s on your trail.”
Koda’s eyes flashed mutinously. “Everything dies, Sephti.”
“But not everything stays dead.” Just the thought of what Berand and his riders would do to Koda terrified me. It felt like my throat was caving in, strangling me from the inside. “Promise me you will not harm Cian,” I rasped. “You’ll give him no cause even to cry insult.”
Koda didn’t say anything for so long, I’d almost given up hope of him answering, when he asked, “Why?”
“Wh-what?”
His dark gaze bored into me. “Why do you want me to leave Cian alone?”
I started to brush my hair from my face when I caught sight of my trembling hand. Crossing my arms, I leaned back against the pillows. “I told you.”
Koda studied me with unnerving intensity and his voice turned soft as silk. “If I were to kill Cian and his brother came for me, would it bother you?”
“You make ridic…ridic…silly questions,” I huffed, squirming under his all-too-aware stare.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “What’s wrong with your English, Sephti?” When I didn’t deign to answer him, he snapped, “Would it bother you?”
“Ta!” I exploded. “Yes!”
No sooner was the admission between us than he whispered, “Why?”
The word brought my head up to—finally—meet Koda’s steady gaze. “Why did you kiss me?”
He rubbed his jaw, his expression unreadable.
I was the first to look away.
Chapter Seven
Koda withdrew into shadow. “It’s late, Sephti. Go to sleep.”
“I—”
“Please.”
Burrowing deeper into the pillows, I gnawed my lip and rethought all that I’d done and said tonight. Rolling over, I hauled the comforter up to my shoulders, only to shove it down a minute later. Rising to my elbow, I punched the pillows viciously before flipping the top one over and nailing it again. Flinging myself flat once more, I stared at the ceiling before pulling the comforter back up and clenching my fists in its thick folds. A second passed and I threw it off once more.
“Can’t sleep?” Koda asked with a faint trace of bitter amusement.
I made a rude noise, not trusting myself with words for fear of what might spill from my treacherous lips.
In a softer tone, he asked, “Would you like a lullaby?”
I sat up, surprised. “You’re teasing me.”
He barked a laugh and shook his head.
Hesitant, I asked, “You would sing for me?”
Koda blew out a breath of air. “It’s not like running into a burning building.” He made a rude noise. “Oh. Wait. I did that already.”
I flung myself flat on the bed, grinding my molars in pure frustration. “I would be liking a song.”
His pause made it clear he’d noticed my poor grammar and then he began to sing in a surprisingly sweet baritone. “Chante washte hokshila, ake ishtima-yo. Hanhepi ki washte—”
“What does that mean?”
“Good-hearted child, go to sleep. The night is good.” He began singing again, “Chante washte—”
“What’s the name of the song?”
He sighed with exasperation. “Lakota Lullaby.”
“Who taught it to you?”
He retorted, “Who do you think?”
I turned onto my side to look at him. “I don’t know.”
After a brief silence, he said softly, “My mother and her sister.”
“You were once a child?” Even I heard the wistful note in my voice.
“It was a long time
ago.” Koda smiled faintly. “But yes, I was once a child.”
I rolled onto my back so I wouldn’t have to see his expression when I answered the question in his eyes. “Bittern come into existence fully grown.”
Another long moment passed before he asked, “Any more interruptions or may I continue?”
Without lifting my head, I waved airily.
He snorted and I heard him shift in the armchair. “Chante washte hokshila, ake ishtima. Hanhepi ki washte, way oh hee ay. Ah hee-ay oh hee-ay, way oh hee-ay…”
As he sang the soothing melody, my eyelids grew heavy and I felt myself drifting off. In my mind, images flickered—a deerskin-clad Koda with six other warriors who looked enough like him to be brothers. The seven danced with a weathered man whose proud bearing and incredible presence told me he was a great leader. His hair was in two long braids and a sacred eagle feather adorned his head. His upper body was bare and every inch of visible skin was covered with yellow paint. Although his arms and chest were gouged and pouring blood, he seemed not to notice. I wondered both at his incredible control and why he’d allowed such injuries to be made—for surely, nothing occurred in this great man’s presence without his consent. The echo of his legendary name, Sitting Bull, drifted through my awareness, along with the knowledge he’d long ago passed on to wherever mortals’ souls go. Seeing the keen intellect shining from the man’s black eyes, my entire being balked at having done the dishonor of even thinking his name, given his people’s taboo about speaking of the dead—something I knew because of the dream.
As I watched the dancers’ regal movements keep time with the insistent beat of a hide drum, I also knew that the men were performing the sacred Sun Dance. That they’d been dancing nonstop for days, their movements slowed by exhaustion and hunger.
It was all so real, profoundly engaging each of my senses as if I was actually present. The sun’s searing heat burned my skin. The dry scent of scorched earth and the tang of hot sage filled my head. I even shared the dancers’ extreme exhaustion as if it were my own. And I realized wonderingly that I was experiencing one of Koda’s memories—a revered memory he would surely prefer to keep private.
The great man’s collapse shook me from my sun-stunned reverie. Head hanging, breaths coming in long, hungry pulls, he began speaking in Lakota. My understanding his words felt like a great gift, a sacred gift. He prophesied an attack against the people, but said his vision showed that they would be victorious.
Even as the great man’s message hung on the summer air, my heart soared as more warriors joined Koda and the others, dancing and singing with the hope of an increasingly desperate people. The image faded with their jubilation and I felt my lips stretch in a sleepy smile, confident in the belief that the prophecy would come true.
Koda’s song fell silent and a kiss brushed my forehead, butterfly-light. The last thing I heard was his soft voice. “Sleep now, Coyote.”
As if he’d given a command, I drifted, my awareness leaving the fluffy hotel bed behind as the images continued.
Standing on top of a small hill, the staccato crack of gunfire made me jump. Spinning around, my heart leapt to my throat as a stream of mounted Sioux decimated the last few blue-coated cavalry still alive. Bodies were everywhere, some in deerskin and wearing warpaint, but most were soldiers.
As if I weren’t there, Koda and the six men galloped their lathered horses past me to the foot of the hill. The triumphant warriors made their painted mounts prance as the people came into view, singing a song of thanks. Just as the great man had prophesied, the Sioux were victorious and I gave a joyful whoop.
Then it was as if time sped up and the images flashing through my dreams became heartbreaking. Women and children lying dead in the snow. Elderly men shot in the back as they tried vainly to escape. Hundreds of thousands of skinned buffalo corpses littering the cold winter prairie while the people died of starvation. I watched helplessly as a Gatling gun’s hellish torrent of bullets ripped through an unarmed camp, slaughtering young and old alike. Saw an entire village sicken and die after the government to which they’d surrendered intentionally gave them small pox-laden blankets, then withheld all medical care.
I saw the men who looked so much like Koda fall until only he and one other were left. I saw Koda’s face, haggard with pain and loss and staggering grief as he cut his long hair in mourning, unshed tears flooding his eyes.
And, always, every ghastly, agonizing image was saturated with the stench of fae jasmine—so thick, it made me nauseous, even asleep.
Normally, waking up for me is a quick, easy transition to fresh-minded alertness. But the brutal dreams lingered, leaving me unbalanced and dry-mouthed. Grief pounded in my temples to the same emotionally jagged rhythm as my rapid pulse, shaking me with its intensity and making me wonder how Koda endured such desolation.
Scrubbing my face with my hands in a vain attempt to clear my thoughts, I stumbled into the bathroom with the hope a hot shower would do what wishful thinking had not. And although I wasn’t my usual self untold gallons of steaming water later, it was still an improvement.
Selecting another robe from the closet, I finger-combed my damp hair and found Koda sitting at a glass-topped table on the terrace. He put down his newspaper and gave me a faint smile as I sank onto the cushioned chaise next to his woven bamboo chair. The morning sun felt so good, I tilted my face skyward to bask in its golden warmth. “I don’t normally dream, but the strangest thing happened—”
“Coffee?” He poured two cups and offered one to me. Everything about him was relaxed, comfortable, as if last night had never happened. I wasn’t sure if I should be relieved or royally pissed. As I debated, he waved the offered cup at me. “Have you given up caffeine?”
I made a face and took the mug. “Such heresy so early in the morn…morn…day.” Still grumbling internally, I dipped my head for a taste of the strong black brew when Koda made a noise, stilling me.
His expression told me he’d read my reaction and the uncomfortable awareness of it in my eyes. But all he said was, “You need sugar.”
Nonplussed, I peered into the little bowl he held toward me. “Sugar isn’t brown.”
“It is when it’s raw.”
Great. Something else I’d not learned from the History Channel. Holding onto my pride like armor, I added sugar to my coffee and stirred. “Thank you,” I said stiffly.
“I interrupted you before.” He put down the bowl and leaned back, watching me.
I sipped my coffee before answering. “I don’t normally dream. But last night was different…” My voice trailed off as the images flooded my thoughts, bringing with them the unbearable sorrow I’d awakened with.
Koda tensed. It was almost imperceptible, but the predator in me sensed it. “Oh?” he responded.
Watching him carefully, I nodded. “I don’t know how it’s possible, but I’m pretty sure I saw some of your memories.”
He seemed to stop breathing. “Which ones?”
I had no doubt that, as heartbreaking as what I’d seen was, he’d endured a lot worse. I described my dreams, and all the while Koda kept his face a mask. A long silence built between us and it seemed a shadow crossed the sun, although the sky was cloudless.
“What is it?” I asked, alarmed.
Stirring, he rubbed a hand across his jaw. He opened his mouth twice to speak, only to reach instead for the carafe and refill his cup. “It was not my intent for that to happen, Sephti.” His voice was low and soft. “I am sorry you saw those things.”
“I’m sorry you had to live them.” I thought for a second. “Is it possible the bindings had something to do with my dreaming your memories? They formed some kind of connection?”
“Maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced. “Have you ever experienced someone else’s memories before?”
I sipped from my cup and made a face. Adding more sugar, I said, “This was a first. Has it ever happened to you?”
“No and I cannot explain it.
I didn’t even know it was possible.” His gaze sharpened. “Unless they were not my memories but your own?”
I was already shaking my head. “The first time I set foot on the mortal plane was when I hitched a ride with the aughisky.”
He looked away, like he didn’t want to see my expression. “What about before?”
“Before what?”
Koda’s increasing discomfort made me edgy. “Before you became self-aware.”
My mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “While I was still a mindless, enslaved killing machine, you mean.”
He gave a reluctant nod and flicked a glance at me. “Is it possible you did come here before, that you saw those things, but the memories reside now only in your subconscious?” At my vehement no, he growled, “How can you be so sure you weren’t there?”
“How can you be so determined I was?” I snapped back. “The things I saw in that dream were new to me, Koda. As for my ‘before’ time? Before I began to think for myself? It’s all in my head. Every awful detail.”
“You’ve said you don’t remember the periods when you’re lost to the frenzy.”
I hadn’t thought it was possible to be more tense. With Koda’s words, I realized I’d been wrong and it felt like I could snap a muscle, I held myself so stiffly. “True. But the moments up to and following the blackouts are crystal clear. I recall my surroundings before each frenzy. I recall every order that triggered them.” Glaring daggers at him, I gritted, “I damn sure would remember being pointed at innocents.”
Koda breathed in and out a few times. “I’m sorry. I had to ask.” He looked like he was debating with himself, like he knew whatever else he had to say would not be taken well.
Then it hit me like a vicious kick to the stomach. In a strangled voice, I said, “You had to know if I butchered not just unarmed civilians, but young children, pregnant women, crippled old men—”
Koda’s voice was raw. “I am one of two guardians left to my people, Sephti. It is my responsibility, my duty, to understand any potential danger—”
I interrupted harshly, “I’m genetically designed to scan constantly for threats and react accordingly. So if I had been present, operating purely on instincts as I did back then, the only humans I might have noticed would’ve been the soldiers with their Gatling guns. Y’know—the ones who slaughtered your people.”
