His friend stands on the other side of the table with his stance wide, leaning on the cue like a crutch. He’s extremely tall, wearing a thick wool beanie over his shaggy, dark brown hair. A week’s worth of scruff adorns his face, and his caramel gaze is happy as he laughs at his friend.
On the larger couch to my right are two men who seem to want to have nothing to do with one another if the blackened eyes and split lips are any indications. Their postures are both rigid, and they look as if they’ve been sent to the principal’s office. The one closest to John looks to be the worse off. His Romanesque nose is bloody and has dripped onto his white tee shirt. His dark hair looks as if he’s tried ripping it out in the last few minutes, and his pale blue eyes are ringed in purpling bruises.
His couch buddy is less worse for wear. He’s running a hand over his shorn light brown hair, his other hand rubbing the dark bruise at his jaw, his blue eyes hard with anger. His lip is split, slightly puffing on the one side where the flesh has ripped. His hands are bruised, and the skin is broken across his second and third knuckles.
West and the last guy are sharing a joke, and from the bits I gather from their conversation they were quietly discussing my kicking the King’s ass a few weeks ago. This guy is the biggest of them all, easily six-foot seven or eight, with a full-scale lumberjack beard. He’s built wide and sturdy, with thick arms and thighs, black hair, cut close to his nape and left shaggy on top. His laugh is deep and resonates throughout the room. His full lips, which are nearly obscured by his facial hair, hide straight white teeth.
I feel very alone in this room, even with my best friend here. Even in the throng of people surrounding me. The unfortunate realization dawns on me that with Rhys across the room, I feel more alone than I have in a very long time.
Ain’t this a kick in the teeth.
The conversation ebbs and flows around me. Evan has abandoned me in favor of a peacekeeping mission between the two fighters on the couch. I’m nursing the beer West slung my way when I sat down, contemplating how vile I think hops are, when the suit-wearing, Portuguese-speaking hot man comes to talk to me. His posture is friendly and unassuming, and while he’s smiling, I get no hint he’s trying to flirt.
“Hi, I’m Carver Lee,” he says as he thrusts out his hand to shake.
“Aurelia Constantine,” I say as I take his hand in a sure grip. Many years ago, I would turn my hand in his like the lady my mother wished I had been. But I’ve found people take you seriously when you give a good handshake; not too soft or people think you’re weak, not too hard or people think you’re an asshole. His grip is sure without being rude.
“Pleased to meet you. Have you been introduced to the rest of these bastards, or are you running blind?”
I’m never blind.
I fought hard for these eyes.
“Blind as a bat,” I say demurely. I’m trying very hard to say the bare minimum. I don’t know if these men are my friends or my enemies, and given my track record I have a right to be wary. I know the only person I can trust completely is myself. My gut says they are on my side, but any one of these gentlemen could be swayed. It doesn’t take much. My parents taught me that.
“Allow me. My friend here is Javier Cabal,” he gestures to his companion on the couch and Javier salutes with two fingers. “The two jolly bastards playing pool are Aidan Keenan and Ian Moran. Aidan is the one wearing the beanie like a twenty-year-old hipster.” This earns him the finger from the beanie-wearing man, himself. “The two crybabies pouting on the couch are Cameron O’Connor and Asher Crane. Asher won, by the way,” he says as an aside behind his hand, but Cameron seems to hear him, his battered face pulling in a distorted frown. “And last but not least, this big son of a bitch is Kyle Brennan,” he says as he slaps the giant man on the shoulder. Even though Carver is not small, maybe six one or two, he looks like a child next to the big man.
“You sure are being awfully nice to someone who kicked the crap out of your King, should I expect a sock party later?” I say more to myself than anything, but he answers me.
“You and I both know you only won because he let you. Games are afoot, my dear, and they don’t stop just because you call a time out. But war’s a funny thing, you gotta make friends where you can.”
“And I’m a friend?”
“No. But you’re not an enemy. Let’s call it an acquaintance with the option for friendship.”
“How very lawyerly of you. I can agree to that. I take it that’s your Jag outside.”
“Well, it’s no fair playing guessing games with a Seer. Did my impeccable fashion sense give me away?”
“Absolutely.”
“You don’t talk much, do you?”
I answer with a smile. “The line between intelligence and stupidity is easily crossed with an open mouth,” I shrug.
“Too right. Take these poor bastards over here,” he gestures to the pouty men sitting on the couch like scolded children. “Filled with piss and vinegar over a mere difference of opinion.”
“And that would be?”
“You know, it’s so trivial, I have already forgotten. Probably over a girl,” he smiles, his hard lips softening in the gentle pull of his mouth.
My head tilts to the side without thought, and my eyes glow without anger, I see their reflected light shining off his cufflinks. I know he is evading my question to the point of lying.
I hate being lied to. The whole room tenses at the glow and Rhys is already crossing the room. He’s in front of me before I can blink, a vicious growl bubbling from his throat, tensed and ready to strike.
I lay my hand on Rhys’ back, doing my best to calm him because a Soldier vs. Wraith cage-match is not what we need right now. He startles as if being touched by a gentle hand is a foreign concept. As if he’s never felt a soft hand in his whole life.
Maybe he hasn’t.
“I think it’s time for bed. Rhys, walk me to the room, will you?” Rhys grabs my hand and tugs me toward the staircase.
“Oh, Carver,” I call to him over my shoulder sweetly as we reach the third step.
“Yes?” his voice is wary. He knows he’s screwed up.
“That’s strike one. You lose your options for friendship when you lie to me.”
“So noted, dear,” he breathes a relieved sigh, “Have a good night’s rest.”
“You too.”
6
Where’s a Straightjacket When You Need One?
AURELIA
I cannot bear the agony.
My screams have quieted now; I lost my voice what seems like hours ago. The tears have yet to dry, but as long as there is blood in my veins, there will be tears in my eyes.
In my throat.
On my skin.
Lucien is cold in my arms, long since dead. I adjust my grip on him, wrapping my arms tighter around his shoulders, grasping his body to me, trying to hold his soul to me a little longer. Our blood has mixed and mingled, soaked into the threads of my dress.
I tried wiping the blood from his lips, but it just smeared. It won’t come off. His skin won’t come clean. It’s getting harder to hold him now. Harder to think. Even harder to breathe.
My body aches down to my bones. I’m so tired. I need a healer, but the more I think about it, the more I wish no one would come to my rescue. My whole family is dead on this forest floor. The ones who used to call themselves blood, turned their backs on us. Lucien and our child were all I had left after my parent’s betrayal. They were the only family I had left. I have nothing now.
I may as well die too. The thought keeps running through my mind.
Rhys left hours ago. Looking for help for himself maybe. Maybe he’ll die in the forest like I wish I would.
I wish I would just die already, and then maybe, maybe we’d see each other on the other side. Maybe we’d be together there. But I know Lucien would hate me for giving up on life so soon. My beautiful, strong husband. He would hate me for being so weak – even if I earned that weakne
ss. Even if dying would be a relief.
The leaves beneath us are as dry as kindling, and before the thought can finish its path in my mind, my fingers have already ignited them. I watch the leaves curl in upon themselves, wishing the flames harmed me instead of making me feel better.
I carefully slide Lucien from my lap to the ground again, brushing his golden hair from his bloodstained face. The face that once held so much laughter, so much love. Another soundless sob breaks from my chest. I lay my fiery hand upon his chest. I wish I had enough knowledge of the funeral rites to do this the proper way. I know enough. Enough to send him on.
I caress his face, his shirt, his trousers, his body igniting as I go, turning the forest floor into his funeral pyre. I still cannot stand, the wound at my belly continues to ooze blood, so I sit next to his burning body, my tears drying in the heat of the flames before they can fall to my cheeks.
This is where they find me. One hand on the knife that took my husband and child from me, and the other buried in Lucien’s ashes.
Phased and flaming, broken and tattered.
Gunning for vengeance and ready for death.
But death…
Death is not what I got.
* * *
For the first time in forever, I wake up screaming. My shield went up but flickered out as soon as I realized I was awake. With the electrical pulse I sent out, I’ve blown out the lamps and bedside clock and the television mounted over the fireplace looks to be smoking. The bed curtains are singed, but not on fire, and the bed linens look to be unharmed. The only light comes through the open bathroom and hallway doors.
I am alone until Rhys runs in from the bathroom with a small red cylinder in his hands, squirting white foam on the TV.
A fire extinguisher.
I set something on fire. How many years has it been since I’ve done that in my sleep? Fifty? One hundred? My vision is wobbly, and I can’t stop shaking. Rhys drops the extinguisher on the floor by the edge of the bed, and his warm hands reach for me slowly cupping my shoulders in an attempt to comfort me, I think. He doesn’t say anything, but I can’t blame him. I wouldn’t know what to say either.
“Don’t. Don’t touch me,” I whisper. I feel my eyes rolling in my head like a spooked horse. I can’t concentrate.
His hands not only don’t go away, but they wrap around me and pull me into a hug. It is soft and warm and comforting and for a few seconds I relax in his arms. But after all I remember, after all the guilt weighing down my soul, the feeling of the warmth of his chest against my cheek is enough to make me lose my mind. Instead of the warmth I should feel, now I feel the cold, hard hands that tore at my flesh. The ones who filleted the skin from my arms. The ones who tortured me for what seems like an eternity, but from what I learned later was only three days. And that’s when I start clawing and screeching like a feral cat.
“Let me go. Let me go! LET ME GO!” I scream at him as I scratch, punch and kick my way free, many of the blows unnecessary since he let me go almost instantly. I scramble, crab-walking backward across the bed and half step, half fall off the other side of the bed.
I know that time is over.
I know it was a long time ago.
But I still feel those fucking hands. Focus! Focus, damn it! I’m clutching my head now, my fingers digging into the flesh at my scalp, and while I can’t feel the bite of my nails breaking the skin, Rhys can because he hisses in response. He crosses the room, grabbing my wrists when he reaches me, gently pulling them down and away from my skin.
“Baby, stop. You have to stop, Aurelia,” he says as I try to get my mind back to the here and now. I must not have been very successful because he’s roaring for Evan.
Soon, our room is full of one pissed off baby Wraith, her hands black as coal smoke and curled into talons. The iris and sclera of her usually ice blue eyes have bled to an almost demonic black, and she’s hissing like a snake through some pretty impressive fangs.
Holy shit balls.
That’s enough to scare anyone straight, or at least shock me enough to get my shit together.
“Put the fangs away, baby doll. It’s just a flashback,” I croak out. Just as the words leave my mouth, a very relieved Rhys pulls me into a bone-crushing hug tight enough to steal my breath and warm enough to calm me back down to almost normal. Or as normal as I’m ever going to get.
“Sorry, guys. Where’s a straightjacket when you need one, huh?” I say on a self-deprecating chuckle as I gently push away from Rhys. He lets me go this time, and I realize I’m wearing next to nothing by way of a loose tee shirt and panties. That and the door is open to all and motherfucking sundry, and there are nine warriors peering in the room.
Fuck. My. Life.
I run like my ass is on fire to the bathroom and shut the door with a hearty slam. And amen for forethought, because my duffle is on the vanity. I shower, removing the stale stink of spent adrenaline and fear from my skin. I dress in a black racer-back tank top with a built-in bra and black Capri compression workout pants. It takes time to rub the blood from my scalp, but the small crescent wounds from my nails are nearly healed already.
I look down at my arms, and through the ink I can see the slight ridges of scars covered by beautiful pictures. Koi-like mermaids swimming towards a lotus flower cover some. Beautiful dark-haired women in Dia de Los Muertos makeup cover others. There are flowers and sea creatures and quotes from some of my favorite novels and songs. An intricate butterfly covers a jagged scar on my ribs. No matter how I treated it, it never healed properly. A cherry blossom tree conceals the thin scar on my abdomen Rhys and I most likely share.
I remember every single second of my time in that hell. I remember every single cut Iva and her Soldiers sliced into my skin making them permanent with those stupid knives.
And Morganite is supposed to mean true love. True love my ass.
I took those horrible scars and turned them into something better. My tattoos made something ugly and twisted pretty again. Just like my soul, every prick of the needle healed my flesh, took what was dirty and made it new again. I am better than I was before. I am stronger. And I won’t be defeated by some fucking flashback. I will not fucking falter.
I will not.
I pull my hair in a messy knot on top of my head, grab my phone and earbuds (lovingly retrieved from the gallery and placed in my room by Evan last night, the angel), and set my shoulders. I pray no one is in the room when I head out.
I should have known I wasn’t that lucky.
Rhys is sitting on the bed, much like he did last night. Nervous and riled, trying to figure out what to say and failing miserably. He opens his mouth only to close it with a snap. He runs his hand through his hair, tugging it when he reaches the ends.
“Out with it,” I say because I’ve been standing here for five full minutes waiting for him to get his shit together enough to say whatever it is he is going to say.
“What was your dream about, Aurelia? Was it a vision? What did you see that made you scream as if you were being tortured?” he asks in a whisper.
I want to feel sorry for him, I want to comfort him a little, but a bigger, harder part of me wants him to pay for the pain he caused.
Why did he have to kill Lucien?
We were leaving the Legion. We were almost gone. Others got to leave. We weren’t the first to choose something different. We were choosing exile.
I wish he felt the same pain as me. I wish he knew what I endured. The cruelest part of me, the part I try my hardest to stomp down, rears her ugly head.
“It wasn’t a dream or a vision. It was a flashback. And I was being tortured. I was reliving scattering the ashes of my dead husband. The husband you killed. The husband I was putting to rest when Iva’s Soldiers caught me. And before that I got to relive the death of my unborn child. So, you see the flashback itself was torture. And those screams were warranted,” I say sneering through my tears, but my satisfaction doesn’t last.
The look
on his face wounds me more than anything. Because I know that look has been on my face more times than I can count. It’s the look of misery. Of guilt. Of remorse. And to give that look to someone else, it tears me up inside. I’d give anything to take my words back. I’d give anything to just have shut my mouth and never said anything at all. I open my mouth to tell him I didn’t mean it, but he’s already up from the bed and out the door, my eyes closing at the slam.
I grit my teeth to hold in the sob that wants to break free from my throat. I’m getting so fucking sick of how much the guilt of hurting him burns. I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t ruin his life.
He ruined mine.
I sniff back my tears and rub the wetness off my face as the anger builds. I want to hit something, but the person I want to hit the most is unavailable to me. As pissed as I am, I quickly realize I haven’t eaten in at least twelve hours, and I could eat a moose if my palatal inclinations swung that way. I open the door and make sure the coast is clear before heading downstairs to raid the fridge. I know Wraiths have some wonky eating habits, but there’s bound to be food somewhere in this place.
I crack open the stainless steel monster of a refrigerator and reach the motherload. Leftover steak and potatoes, a huge bowl of salad, and a small vat of mixed fruit all get pulled out and devoured before I can stop myself. I’m still angry, but at least I’m marginally sated. I rinse my dishes and load them into the dishwasher in an attempt to be a somewhat decent houseguest. I turn to head back to my room but before I can make it a step, Evan appears right before me in a swirl of black smoke.
“Dick move, dude. Quit popping up all over the place. It’s a house, not a continent. You can fucking walk.”
“Don’t sass me, Ari. What the fuck is wrong with you?” I know what she means. She’s mad because of what I said to Rhys. No doubt the fucking tattletale told on me.
Scattered Ashes Page 6
