Coveted

by Tara K. Young

  Chapter 12

  The next day, the sun and the warmth called to all to leave responsibility behind and indulge in the not-winter. I could not. Bran picked me up early for our full day of rehearsals. He seemed much happier than when he had left the night before. He was more like himself, smiling and flirting with me as I grabbed my things and we walked out to the car. But I could not simply ignore what had happened, especially given what I had remembered, especially because he had had the dove even back then, and especially because he had killed a man right before me.

  "What did you remember last night?" I pressed as we pulled away from my house. Was it the same event I had witnessed?

  His smile faltered. "Do we really have to talk about it?" he asked. "It was bad enough the first time and even worse reliving it last night."

  "I suppose not. You just left so suddenly..."

  He flashed me a forced smile. "I needed to brood alone. That's all. And it's over now. You're with me so none of it matters."

  I looked down at my lap. I had no right to demand to know. I was being insensitive but I was feeling so lost, like I had gone blind. The only way to regain my sight was to know.

  "Bran, how did you get that dove?"

  He blinked at me before returning his attention to the road.

  "It isn't a tattoo, is it," I said.

  "More of a birth mark," he explained. "Not sure why I have it or how, just always have."

  I confessed, "I touched the stone again after you left. Now that I know I'm not crazy, I wanted to see more. I remembered you."

  He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. "You remembered me?"

  I chuckled. "Well, I guess it wasn't actually you but I think it was, in a past life. You looked different but you had the dove just as you do now. No raven though."

  He took his eyes off the road to stare at me. It was a good thing no one else wanted to be up and driving so early on a Sunday.

  "No raven and a different face?" He asked.

  I nodded.

  Then a smile spread slowly across his lips as he returned his attention to driving. "Wow," he said. "That's interesting. What was I doing?"

  "You cut off a guy's head."

  He burst into a full-bellied laugh. The confines of the car kept the sound too compact. It hurt my ears. "That sounds like me," he howled.

  I raised a brow and he reigned in his laughter. "I'm just saying I'm not surprised," he defended. "I'm not exactly the pacifist you are. Given a different time period, maybe in a place suffering from war, I could see myself taking up arms."

  We pulled into the school parking lot. The rising sun made the marble trim on the school glow golden, belying the dark misery that awaited us inside.

  "I'm not sure why you expect me to be ok with that," I grumbled.

  "You know your history, right?" He asked as he parked the car and shut it off.

  I nodded. "Yeah, I've always had a knack for it."

  "So you know how bloody human history has been."

  I nodded again.

  "Then why do you expect memories of a past life, those of a previous time in human history, not to involve bloodshed?"

  I stared at my feet. His floor mats were in need of a good clean. "I just wish it didn't."

  He shook his head. I guess he thought I was being silly. "Then I doubt you'll want to remember much from the past."

  Practice that day and Monday was worse than Saturday. Despite her frenzy, Mrs. Montgomery was yawning every few seconds. Her obvious exhaustion did not dampen her fervor in driving us like slaves. She let us have lunch only because several students pointed out the legalities of her refusing.

  The sun had set by the time we were allowed to go home on Monday night. The cool breeze of evening carried the scent of warm birch bark and the promise of apple blossoms. One night soon, I would actually be able to enjoy the outdoors again. I began fantasizing about this time next week. No more rehearsals. I could relax.

  "There's spaghetti and meatballs in the fridge," my mother called when I got home. The lingering smell of tomato sauce and meat filled the house.

  Eating seemed much less important than sleeping right now but I was sure she wouldn't accept that excuse and Bran looked far more awake than I felt. I led him to the kitchen.

  My mother was reading the newspaper. Riley was on top of her feet, snoring.

  "Wednesday is going to be great given how hard you've been working," she said as I fished the leftovers out of the fridge.

  I found them behind the jug of milk. "Don't get your hopes up, mom. We're still pretty bad."

  "You shouldn't say that about yourselves," she scolded.

  I put the container in the microwave. The hum of our food becoming more edible filled the air around us along with the renewed scent of pasta sauce. I leaned against the counter as I looked at her. "So you're saying I shouldn't be realistic?"

  She rolled her eyes. "You shouldn't be melodramatic," she said, turning back to her newspaper. As an afterthought, she added, "You're not that bad, are you, Bran?"

  He chuckled. "I'm not but the group is pretty awful, yes." He slipped into the seat next to her. "But this is high school not Carnegie. I doubt we'll get booed."

  She shook her head. "Teenagers. Always so pessimistic."

  Bran laughed harder.

  "Well, I hope it isn't too bad. A friend of mine might be coming," she said with a sigh.

  My jaw went slack. "A friend?" I asked. My mother worked too hard to have friends.

  She looked up at me. "Yes, Lucina, a friend. I haven't seen him since you were a baby. He's the world travelling type. He phoned a few weeks ago. I was surprised to hear from him but we've been talking on the phone quite a bit since. His been interested in all we've been up to and he's going to be in town for a few weeks. If his flight lands in time, he's coming to the concert."

  "So you invited him because you don't want him to be your friend anymore?" I asked.

  "Ha, ha. Very funny," she muttered. "Be nice to Alistair, ok? He's the reason I was able to go to school."

  The microwave dinged its demands. I pulled out our dinner and began serving it onto plates when Bran pushed back from the table. "I just realized how late it is. I need to get going."

  I pointed at the spaghetti. "You sure you don't want any before you go?"

  He shook his head. "No, dad will be worried. I better not wait. I'll see you tomorrow."

  He thanked my mother for the spaghetti anyway and left. These sudden departures of his were becoming an annoying habit. Disgruntled, I ate the leftovers alone. He could have at least taken some of the food so I didn't have to finish it.

  After dinner, my mother got ready for work while I went to bed. I picked up the stone, with a washcloth wrapped around my hand, but did not touch it. Bran had been right. My odds of remembering good things were not very high. I didn't want to remember the bad. Why be retraumatized by something that happened long ago with people I don't know? I put it back in the drawer. Some things were best forgotten.

  With a bloated and gassy stomach, I rolled in bed, trying to sleep. My heartburn was too much to ignore. I would never sleep at this rate. I needed a distraction. I sifted through my nightstand for To the Ends of the Earth and flipped it open, deliberately skipping the many pages that described the protagonist's journeys to obtain the heads. My memory of the removal of one head in particular was too raw.

  "'Great Morrigan,' I called, 'I have done as you have asked. I have slain one hundred undefeated warriors and brought their heads to you. Honour me with your presence.'

  "She stood above me in all the splendor of our first meeting. Her ravens descended upon me and attacked the heads I had brought, pecking at the eyes and feasting upon the putrefied insides. 'Great Warrior,' she said with a bow of her head. 'You are my most skilled champion. If you pledge yourself as such for eternity, I will grant you anything you desire.'

  "'I do!' I shouted to her. 'I am your warrior forever. All I ask is the power to find my lov
e, my soul, my life, my dove again. She belongs with me forever.'

  "She said nothing but sent her ravens upon me. They left their grotesque feast with caws and shrieks to claw and peck at my body. I collapsed and screamed the same wretched panic I had exacted my from my enemies, but they had been blessed, for they had not been eaten alive as I was. I felt each chunk of my flesh being ripped from my body. They were not content with mere skin or muscle. They cracked my bones and tugged free my organs. I had no more voice to scream but the agony had not lessened. They rendered me into nothing.

  "But Morrigan had not chosen for me to die. She had chosen for me to win. When the ravens receded and I opened my eyes, I was whole. My body, even my scars, remained intact. Upon my left side, she had marked me as hers with her raven.

  "I looked up at her. She lifted her head proudly. 'Great Warrior,' she boomed, 'I have accepted your payment. Be warned that your desires will not come easily. There are others who lay claim to your dove. You will have to search for her through her lifetimes and fight for her and only when she has wholeheartedly accepted you and how you came to be, will you have truly won her and have her join you in immortality. Do not forget: you are mine for eternity. You are no longer the mortal that came to me. Forget the past and take the name I give to you now, Bran, Chosen One of Morrigan, warrior who will live forever. You are as my ravens and I have marked you as them. May you never forget your pledge to me, even when you have retrieved your greatest desire."

  The book fell from my fingers. The dove and the raven. Bran. An immortal warrior. Had the stone not shown me the dove upon his body, it all could have been explained away as the obsessive expressions of fandom. But I knew too much for it to explain away the markings. It could not explain away what I had seen in his eyes or the shrieking in my chest that demanded I be with him. Now I knew why it had meant so much to him that I read the book. He needed me to know who he was. He was a murderer.

  No. He couldn't be. He had been perfect. He treated me well. He never did anything to me or anyone else at school. There had been nothing. But then I remembered how he had laughed when I told him he had lobbed off a man's head.

  No. It couldn't be. Past lives were one thing but immortality and gods entirely another. It was absurd, absolutely absurd. Bran was crazy, confusing reality with some kind of fan fiction he had written. I picked up the book and turned it over. It looked too old and beaten up. He couldn't have written it. How old would he have been? Five?

  ...warrior who will live forever.

  I swallowed. Surely not. After all, hadn't I remembered him from a previous life just the night before? He had looked entirely different.

  I opened the cover to placate my skepticism by searching for a surely reasonable publication date. There was no publishing information at all; no date, no indication of the printer; no copyright. There was only a stained and ripped dedication page.

  -Never give up

  I was going to vomit. Even if he was the Bran of the story and even if all of it were true, he was so completely mistaken to think I of all people was his dove. I looked to my nightstand where the stone lay. But we had shared a life and in it he had called me his dove. The salted bile rose in my throat.

  The vision I had seen was not so much different than what I had read in the book no matter how much I wanted to deny it. In the vision, the warrior of the dove; in the book, the warrior of the raven; and both killers. And me, how could I, the pathetic teenager of nothing, be worthy of killing a hundred undefeated warriors?

  I shook my head. This was insane. It wasn't real. Gods did not actually intervene in the human world. That was just in myths. People couldn't be made immortal. And there was no way I could be who Bran wanted. Michael had thought I was being silly assuming I could not live up to Bran's expectations. If only he knew how drastically we had both underestimated that possibility. How was I going to make him see the truth of my mediocrity? How would he take such a disappointment and jarring return to reality? Would he become violent with me? Could I ever flee far enough away?

  I ran to the washroom and heaved into the toilet. Long after my dinner had been expelled, my body still convulsed. There was nothing left in me but my muscles tried anyway. Quivering and sore, I sat back against the wall and closed my eyes.

  I had known he was too perfect. I had sensed something weird about him and yet I had indulged in the unbelievable fortune of having someone so attractive love me. My desperation had blinded my sense.

  Riley sloped into the washroom. He flopped at my feet and sighed. His breathe tickled my toes. I didn't want that now. I pulled them back. Maybe I could just end everything. I doubted there would be a Samantha or Amanda in death or pretty much anything to worry about. I pushed the thought away. I was too chicken and being honest with myself, I knew it wasn't a real option. It was just nice to fantasize that somewhere, anywhere, there was a complete lack of sound, responsibility, or stress.

  The front door slammed shut. I opened my eyes to look at the archaic clock my mother had insisted was useful. I think this was the first time I had ever actually looked at it. It was 6:30. I hadn't been aware I had fallen asleep. I wasn't sure I had. My mind certainly hadn't let me escape to dreams but somehow the night was gone.

  "Hi, mom," I called.

  "Lucina? What are you doing awake so early?"

  Only the need to keep her from worrying pulled me to my feet. I tried to smile just to remove the stress from my face. Looking in the mirror, I saw it had done little to remove the dark circles under my eyes. "I couldn't sleep," I called back. "How is everything at the clinic?"

  She sighed as I heard the thunk of shoes on the mat. "Two more abuse cases in one night. I feel like this year is cursed."

  I left the bathroom and followed her as she walked into the kitchen. "This year hasn't been all bad," I insisted even as my own problems seemed to confirm her hypothesis.

  She slammed the bag of coffee down on the counter. "Wanna bet? I've been dealing with this crap since January. It's almost April!"

  My blood pooled in my stomach, threatening me. Another need to run to the washroom would be in my near future. This had started around the same time Bran showed up. I thought over every time my mother had mentioned a case. I didn't get very far before I stumbled upon the memory of Bran with a trickle of blood on his arm. Was the timing the same? "When were they brought in?" I asked.

  She slammed several scoops of coffee into the filter. "Does it matter? They're happening all the time. Some complete wack job is out there and the police won't tell us anything. They keep telling us to report any new cases but say absolutely nothing about the investigation. I don't think they care. It doesn't matter how many come in. They're just cats to those jerks."

  She had no knowledge of the importance and how could I tell her? I walked up and wrapped my arms around her. "Maybe they don't have any information or aren't allowed to tell. I bet they do care."

  She leaned into me. Her body was quivering much like mine had been. She rested her forehead against mine and closed her eyes. "I'm just tired of it all," she said. "Charlie gave me another day off but given that I just got back, I don't know how much more I can take."

  I gave her shoulders a squeeze. "You need sleep."

  "I need a good scream, a cup of coffee, and a life without horrors surrounding me," she said with a sigh. She patted my arm and pulled away. "You should probably get ready for school. Your morning breath is awful."

  "Gee, thanks," I said, still thankful she had not identified why. That would be a whole other scream for her.

  I headed down to the washroom and brushed my teeth. My mother's troubles had banished mine temporarily but by the time I was in the shower, all the decisions I would have to make loomed ahead of me. The warm spray tried its best to banish them again but could not succeed.

  The closest I had come to answers was thinking like Michael. It was ridiculous to think mythical gods or immortal warriors were real. Both defied science completely. The most logical
explanation was that Bran was not mentally sound. He had become infatuated with a story and was trying to live as if it were real. As for the stone, I was becoming overly stressed with all the practicing and imagining things that weren't real. Past lives were almost as absurd as gods and immortality.

  While easier to accept, these conclusions would be no easier to handle when the time came to banish Bran. The gnawing violently disagreed with my plan but it hadn't done anything to help me and I feared a violent Bran much more than I feared the fire.

  I dressed as the buttery-sweet smell of French toast wafted down to my room. My already volatile stomach flipped.

  "Smells great, mom," I called. Why had I bothered to lie?

  "And you've got a breakfast guest this morning too!" She called back as if I were being told of a wonderful surprise. If it had been the day before, it would have been. I would have been giddy. Today, I froze in the middle of putting on my socks. What was I going to say to Bran? Was it even safe to confront him?

  "Hurry up, honey," mom called. "It's getting cold."

  I pulled on my second sock. After several deep breaths, I walked down the hall and stopped in the kitchen doorway. Bran beamed back at me. I tried to return a convincing smile. His confidence faltered. Yup, I had failed.

  My mother set a plate of French toast in front of him and another at the open seat beside him.

  "Eat up, both of you." She deliberately stressed the both. "Don't ever believe my girl if she says she isn't hungry," she scolded. "She's lying."

  His brow furrowed. "She's always eaten very well with me," he said.

  My mother looked at me and back at him. Her shoulders straightened. "You must be a good influence on her." Pointing her spatula at me, she added, "Keep hanging out with him. I like him."

  If she only knew the truth... If only I knew the truth...

  "How'd you sleep?" he asked as I sat down next to him.

  I cut off a small piece of toast and put it in my mouth. I chewed it slowly. My mother's French toast was normally amazing. To anyone else, it was likely amazing now, but to me it was rubber in my mouth. I forced the mulched piece down my throat. I answered. "I didn't. I ended up staying up all night... reading."

  Perhaps he had gathered what I meant from my demeanor. His jaw tightened. "That bad?" he asked.

  I could still pretend I had loved it. I could find some other way to get out. Too chicken to decide, I responded instead by taking another mouthful of toast. I set my fork down and pushed my plate away. My mother scowled as she looked at my meagre effort. I did not look back at her.

  We said bye and headed out to Bran's car. I could think of no believable excuse to get out of going with him. If I feigned sick, I suspected Mrs. Montgomery would track me down at home and given that he already knew why I was acting funny, it might only make the situation worse.

  "So you know?" he asked.

  I got into the car without saying anything. When he got in, he stayed quiet too but didn't start the car.

  "What's wrong?" He pressed. "Whether it was that stone or the book, you know the truth now. Why won't you say anything?"

  I couldn't help it. Despite all my survival instincts, I blurted it out. "You're crazy Bran. You think you're some fictional warrior in a book you read and that I'm the woman you have been seeking for over a thousand years! That's insane. It isn't possible. You've even given yourself tattoos to look like the character. You've lost touch with reality."

  His hand gripped the steering wheel. I stopped talking. When he spoke, he did so to his lap. His voice was calm. "I had hoped you would be more open minded, especially given what you had remembered, but I understand if this all seems a little unbelievable. I didn't just read that book. I wrote it."

  I gasped. "Is this some weird plot to trick women into sleeping with you? You write up this story and give it to them pretending its romantic?"

  His grip on the wheel tightened. "I didn't write it for you. I wrote it for me. As time dulls my memories, I read it to remember what I have done and why I have done it. When I found you, I wanted to tell you everything but no matter what I am forced to be, I am just a coward. I couldn't do it. Giving you the book was my coward's way out but I swear to you that it is the truth. I didn't get some tattoos to be a like a stupid character that doesn't exist. You know that. I was born with the dove and Morrigan branded me as hers when I pledged myself. These are marks made by gods not just ink. These scars, the same scars you ran your hands over on your couch were made when I worked so hard to get the payment demanded of me; the payment I made all so that I could find you."

  There had been doubt in my 'logical' theory that had been bolstered by the gnawing. I had still believed just a little in the fantastical possibility that actually fit all the facts. But when he said it out loud, it was so much more absurd. I couldn't believe it. What was reality if it was true? "You've lost your mind. You're stalking me, killing cats and you've lost your mind," I whispered without intending to.

  A crease formed between his eyebrows. "Why would I be killing cats? I'm not killing any cats," he said.

  I gave a delirious snort. "As if the rest of it sounds so sane."

  He lunged and I screamed. But he was not lunging at me. He was reaching across to the glove compartment. "You must also know I am immortal," he said as he pulled out a large dagger. "There is only one blade that can kill an immortal and this is not it." He pressed the handle into my palm and forced my fingers to close around it by keeping his hand over mine. The leather of the handle was rough and cracked with age. He pressed the tip of the blade against his chest. "So if you need more proof, do it. Try to cut out my heart to see if it beats like yours. Try to kill me, Lucina. Prove my mortality. Do it!"

  I shook my head and it felt like the gesture spread to the rest of my body. I could not stop trembling. He really was insane. "No," I whispered. I did not want to believe any of it. We had been so happy. I tried to pull my hand away but he held it firm. "I can't hurt you," I pleaded.

  "You won't hurt me," he insisted, keeping his eyes on mine. "I cannot die and trust me that this blade is real. I have killed enough men with it to know that."

  Tears soaked my cheeks. My hand was shaking within his. He was unashamed of the violence he had committed. How close was he to committing it against me? "You're scaring me."

  He reached up to caress my cheek with his free hand. I flinched and he paused. "Lucina, you are my dove. You are the reason I sold my soul to Morrigan. If I have finally found you after all this time and you reject me, my sacrifice will have been for nothing. My existence will have been for nothing. You at least owe me the chance to prove the truth to you. Now do it. Cut out my heart and prove it." His voice remained surprisingly gentle and encouraging despite the words.

  My tears were a downpour. I shook my head. "I can't," I whimpered.

  "Even if I were mortal, if you could not accept me as I am, then I would not want to live anyway. Save me, Lucina. Please, for me. Please do this for me."

  I was still shaking my head but Bran had had enough of talking. His grip around my hand tightened and he used both of us to thrust the dagger deep inside his chest. I screamed and sobbed as I felt the resistance of his flesh against it and watched as it sunk into him. He forced it to the hilt. A dark red circle was forming around it.

  I cried and whimpered my hysteria. I clawed at the door with my free hand but he held my other too tightly. I couldn't have gotten away.

  His eyes were intensely on mine. His life did not fade from them. I blinked. The red mass on his shirt stopped growing. Surely a wound that severe would have killed him instantly. Surely he would be bleeding out, right there in his car, but his eyes were unwavering. He was watching me. He was waiting for me to realize the dark stain lacked anything more than surficial drops. His body was not going to crumple and the life was not going to leave his eyes.

  He slowly pulled the blade from his chest, his hand still wrapped around mine around the handle. The withdrawal was delibera
te, so that I could see the blood that dripped onto the gearshift between us so that I could see there was no trick. It truly had been inside him. My sobbing worsened and my trembling had devolved into uncontrollable shaking.

  I couldn't comprehend it. He had been telling the truth. The story was real. There were gods, immortal warriors... and magic stones. The vision, the memory, it had shown me... I was his long lost love.

  Bran took the dagger from me and set it on the floor by his feet. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. Stroking my hair, he whispered kinds words. "Dove, I'm so sorry. I never wanted to scare you. I love you. I just can't take this torment anymore. It's been hard enough to find you. I've never managed coming this close before and I couldn't risk losing you now over something so stupid as a misunderstanding."

  I sunk into him as my emotions continued to ravage my body.

  "It will be alright," he cooed. "You know now. You know everything."

  I did and it explained how drawn to him I felt. It explained it all and now that I could not deny it was true, I wrapped my arms around him and held him tightly. It changed everything but it changed nothing. He was my Bran and I was his dove.

  I could not say anything. The words were not ready to come but I could keep holding him.

  "Dove..." he whispered.

  I pressed my face into his body. I was not ready to speak or face the world yet.

  "Dove..." he repeated, this time using his finger to lift my chin. He said nothing as he looked into my eyes. His face softened. "I love you to the end of my life."

  I swallowed hard, for the first time understanding all that was meant by his words. The gnawing demanded I respond. I was still in shock. Speaking was still beyond me. I wanted to say I loved him. I did love him. I just wasn't sure, given the stakes, that I should. This was not some brief teen fling.

  His pained smile spread across his lips. "In time," he said before brushing his mouth against mine. It was a tickled promise.

  I ignored the shrieks in my chest as he pulled away. He looked down at his chest and then at the clock on the dashboard. It was 7:56. "Can't be helped," he said. "I can't exactly go to school like this. We'll have to swing by my house."

  I blinked. He was over a thousand years old and worrying about school. "Why are you even going to bother going?" I asked.

  His smile spread in all its glory as he put the car into gear. "Isn't it obvious?" He asked, shooting a glance at me.

  He lived in a high end neighbourhood. Compared to the other houses on the street, his was small, though it was still double the size of my bungalow. It was modern and square with few visible windows in the front.

  "Won't your dad wonder about the blood?" I asked as he parked in the driveway.

  He snorted. "Dove, you are usually so smart."

  I closed my eyes at my own stupidity. "There is no dad or mom stuck back in Scotland."

  He shook his head. "I hardly knew my parents. I was young, even for a mortal, when they died. Morrigan is the closest thing I have to a mother."

  I didn't want to be alone. I was still trembling from what had happened only minutes before, so I followed him inside.

  His jalopy had belied the grandeur of his home, which I never would have guessed was so large and rich inside based on the exterior. The entryway opened into a large kitchen and living room with a fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a forested ravine behind the house.

  Bran continued through to a hallway on the far side of the kitchen. I remained in the foyer while I waited for Bran. I looked around at the vases and paintings on the walls. None of them looked very interesting, like generic liquidation store findings a realtor might pick up.

  Bran hadn't returned yet so I sauntered down the hall, passing an open door. It looked like some kind of library. There was a closed laptop on the desk and books on the shelves, but nothing much else in the room. I continued on to look at a painting at the end of the hall. Abstract splotches of dark purples, browns and reds streaked across the canvas.

  Adjacent to the painting was a closed door. Out of mild curiosity, I opened it. There was darkness. I groped the walls on either side looking for a light switch. While I found it, the dim light that now illuminated the bottom of the stairs didn't help much.

  I walked down the steps. There was no railing and they were steep. They turned a corner at the bottom and opened into a room much smaller than I had been expecting. It felt like an old root cellar more than a modern basement.

  The light still felt too dim but it was enough to reflect off the blades of the swords and daggers, many looking very old and each one appearing to have come from a different culture. From my history classes, I recognized a Spanish rapier. There was a Japanese katana on a rack on the table near the back of the room. It was sheathed and so did not sparkle like the enormous sword lying flat on the table cloth in front of it.

  I walked up and looked down at the mammoth sword. It could easily have been as long as Bran was tall. It was well polished. The worn leather handle was unadorned with the exception of a diamond-cut black stone in the middle of the guard.

  I reached out to touch it. My fingers hesitated over the stone. How many people had been killed with this blade? Was this the sword Bran had used for his hundred? An image of him crazed in battle shot through me, refusing to release its icy hold as it skipped down my spine. I did not want to think of all that, but I did. I thought of it all as I touched the cold stone. I felt every facet as I slid the tips of my fingers across it and down the length of the blade.

  "I see you've found my claymore," Bran said from behind me. His voice was quiet and gentle.

  I turned around. He was leaning leisurely against the doorframe with his arms folded in front of his chest. With a jut of his chin, he gestured the room. "My travels," he said. "A weapon from every place in every era I have lived."

  "No guns," I noted.

  He smiled his crooked smile and shook his head. "No guns. I am a warrior of Morrigan, such toys are beneath me."

  I looked back at the claymore. My fingers were still resting upon the steel. "Was this..."

  He nodded slowly. "And more," he said.

  It was as if the souls of the fallen vibrated off the blade, through my arm, and into me. My fingers were touching tangible evidence of the payment he had made.

  I looked back at him, my eyes falling to his chest. He was now wearing a clean, white, button-up shirt. There remained no evidence of his brand of proof from the car.

  He straightened and left the doorway to approach me. "I am as much Morrigan's warrior as I am a part of your soul. I know this scares you."

  I shook my head. "Not scared..."

  He reached out to caress my cheek. "Don't pretend to be ok with it for my sake. You never were fond of these things. It is why Morrigan was the last Goddess I ever expected to respond to my call. You are my dove, after all, the bird of peace, not death like my raven." He cupped my jaw in his hands. "I never want to lose my peace again."

  His lips tickled mine as he teased me with the promise of a kiss. The gnawing erupted into the taloned shrieks. I leaned in as a plea for more but he pulled away.

  "We're going to be very late," he said.