The Darkest of Dreams

by Emigh Cannaday

  “There now…go on and have a good cry,” he hummed. “I know you don’t want to leave, but as I said, it’s for the best. And what with Stephan still on the loose, you’ll be a sitting target as long as you remain here. There are simply too many fingers that are willing to point you out to him, or someone like him, if not someone worse. Those fingers wouldn’t even require bribery with silver or gold…they’ll point you out simply because of how high emotions are running right now. It’s imperative that we leave as soon as possible. Can I count on you to be ready when I come to your door at dawn?”

  Annika swallowed hard as she took in the staggering amount of information Cyril had just given her. Then she nodded her heavy head in reluctant agreement.

  “Am I really in that much danger?”

  Cyril tapped his cigarette holder until the ashes fell off the end. He watched them fall down to the ripped up excuse of a floor, then raised an unusually concerned eyebrow at her.

  “Yes.”

  2

  Finn’s Ghost

  Wiping her eyes, Annika left Cyril to linger in the kitchen and headed down the hall, stopping only to grab a thick slice of Love and Sorrow cake. More than likely it would be the last thing she ate for the rest of the day. She was able to dodge the clusters of funeral guests who chatted quietly among themselves, but it was impossible for her to dodge their curious and judgmental stares. They were courteous enough to conceal their private thoughts, although Annika was still capable of reading their pained expressions. It seemed the rumors and gossip that Cyril had mentioned earlier appeared to be true, along with the fact that her presence was like salt to the Marinossian’s wounds. She didn’t know where she was headed—all she knew was that she needed to be alone. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe. Somewhere she could avoid feeling any worse than she did at this very moment. And of all the nooks and crannies she could’ve ended up within the confines of the Marinossian manor, it was the silent stillness of the libraries that beckoned to her the loudest.

  The ornately carved wooden doors to Ambrose’s library were slightly ajar as always, and she let herself tiptoe across the marble floor towards the section of the lower wing that belonged to Finn. Someone must’ve had exactly the same idea as she did, because a figure was sitting in Finn’s chair with a dirty pair of tall black riding boots propped up on Finn’s desk, cradling Finn’s pet raven against his broad chest. It was the same exact place where Finn had tutored her for the past month. The warm glow of the late afternoon sunshine tried its best to penetrate through the large open window, but it didn’t stand a chance against the amount of darkness that filled the entire library. The deep, rich woodwork and leather book bindings swallowed up the scarlet-tinted sunlight like a greedy black hole. The black granite wall with Sariel’s family tree etched into it—including Annika’s name—soaked up the light as well. Even the unnamed visitor was dressed head to toe in black, marinating in misery like all the other funeral guests, although his shirt sleeves were rolled up to reveal his deeply tanned forearms. His physique was toned and muscular; not quite as slender as Talvi or as sturdy as Finn, but something in between. He was built to be equally tall and athletic. His face was turned away from Annika as he stared at a newspaper held in his hands. His long black hair was tangled from blowing in the wind. The ends that fell over his shoulders were streaked with bronze from countless days spent in the sun and the salty sea.

  It had to be Heron—the only Marinossian she hadn’t met; the only one who refused to be in the same room as her. He’d kept himself constantly busy with the horses to avoid speaking to Annika or seeing her at the dinner table, let alone being introduced to her at all. She’d caught glimpses of him working in the fields with Asbjorn and Zaven and Hawk, but that was the most that she’d seen of him. Yes, it had to be him. Nobody else had hair like that—thick and shiny, black and gold…it was the only thing polished about him. Nobody else would have the audacity to rest their dirty boots on Finn’s exquisite, immaculate desk, and on the day of his funeral, no less. Nobody else would have the nerve or lack of respect to lay such claim to Finn’s personal space than this uncivilized cousin of his who couldn’t stand to be in the same room as Annika. And now the two of them were completely alone in that space.

  She placed one foot behind the other, hoping that her intrusion would go unnoticed.

  She should’ve known better.

  Heron stopped reading his newspaper long enough to cast a reluctant and weary glance in Annika’s direction. When their eyes met, she felt her heart stop and her blood ran ice cold.

  “Oh my god!” she gasped, once she was able to breathe. Then her pulse returned full force, thumping so fast that she began to grow lightheaded. “You look so much like—”

  “I know who I look like,” he coolly snapped. “After being compared to them throughout my entire life, I certainly don’t need you to point out the obvious.” His voice was foreign to her, although he was studying her with an all-too-familiar pair of blue and green eyes. They burned with emotion just like Talvi’s did, hypnotizing her with two glassy orbs of blue fire encircled by a border of deep emerald. His nose was as straight and elegant as that of each of his cousins, and his mouth held the same sensual shape, although it was currently wearing a scowl of displeasure.

  “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—I mean, I only meant…” she stammered, choking back a sob. Still holding onto her slice of cake, she wiped her eyes against her wrists. She took a step towards the doorway, yet it was impossible for her to turn her back or look away from this vision, this phantom standing before her. “I’ll leave you alone.”

  He broke his hard stare with a roll of his eyes and a flutter of his long black lashes, then tossed his head in frustration. His boots returned to the floor and he slowly rose to his feet with a tired sigh of annoyance.

  “You don’t have to go, Annika.” Carrying Cazadora in his left arm, he walked a few steps closer to her. A wave of calm fell over him and the frown left his beautiful face, although he remained watchful and cautious. One of his black brows had furrowed in curiosity just like Talvi’s often did, yet his eyes held a stoic wisdom that was more often seen in Finn’s expression. He was careful to keep his distance, behaving as though she might have a hidden set of claws or fangs. “I can go elsewhere if you’d like to use the library.”

  “Thanks, but I didn’t come down here to find a book,” she admitted, unable to stop her heart from thundering against her ribcage, and unable to stop staring at him. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right to be faced with this right now. That gaze was too hypnotic and spellbinding. It was so disarming and disconcerting that she allowed it to pierce right through her most private thoughts like a hot knife through soft butter. She’d seen that face when Finn had lifted her from his bed and carried her onto his balcony…and she’d seen that face when Talvi had pulled her close and brought her into his bed for the last time. During each encounter, that same luscious Marinossian mouth had whispered to her…soothed her…comforted her. Now that mouth was doing it again.

  “If you didn’t come to the library in search of a book, then what, pray tell, did you hope to find?”

  The tall, dark, beautiful creature stared at her intently, waiting for an answer as if he had all the time in the world to extract it from her. All the while, Annika was busy with the laborious task of remembering how to breathe.

  “I was only—I was just…” she faltered in a strained whisper. Her mouth was suddenly extremely dry. Was he real? Or was he a ghost? Even worse, was he a demon whose familiar face was only meant to bring out the riptide of raw emotions that now constantly churned inside of her? Love and hate fought it out every minute of every hour, and every hour of every day. They were the torrent of feelings that she harbored for Talvi and Finn, doomed to be at odds and at war inside her soul as long as she lived. Whatever this creature was, whether he be a ghost or a demon, he brought it all out in her. She wanted to tear him apart and yet hold him close. She wanted to scream in his face
while somehow kissing his unmistakable mouth. She longed to feel the weight of his body against her, feel the comfort of his muscles moving around her and underneath her and inside of her while she looked into those blue and green eyes, and then she would…

  “You said you were looking for something?” he gently prompted, which reminded Annika that she hadn’t answered his question. Still holding the raven carefully in his arms, the mysterious elven man nodded as he continued to study her.

  “I was…um, just looking for a place to hide.”

  Apparently, he liked what he heard because he tilted his head and gave her what could only be described as a faint smile.

  “So was I. You’re welcome to hide in here with Cazadora and I if you like.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re Heron, aren’t you? I thought you were avoiding me.”

  “I’ve not been avoiding you specifically. I’ve been avoiding everyone,” he clarified with a nonchalant shrug and returned to the desk. “That is, everyone aside from the horses and the barn cats and Cazadora. I much prefer their company as of late.” He reached for the newspaper he’d abandoned earlier and busied himself with the unnecessary task of folding it up crisp and neat. He slowly sank back into the chair and then abruptly leaped back onto his feet. At first, Annika thought he’d sat on a sharp tack. Either way, Cazadora was less than amused by the jarring motion, and she fluttered out of Heron’s hands and onto the desktop. If a bird could be capable of casting a dirty look, she was doing a damn good job of it. “I’m sorry,” he apologized to the raven and then turned to Annika. He outstretched a dark tan arm gracefully toward the chair, yet his words fell out in an awkward, unpracticed staccato rhythm from his lips. “I’ve forgotten my manners. Would you care to sit down?”

  “No thanks. I’ve been sitting around for the past week,” she said, wandering over to the wall of books. Her fingertips ran along the bindings, searching for a title she might recognize. But unlike the shelf of novels in Talvi’s bedroom or the private library in Finn’s bedroom, this collection of books in his main library appeared to be mostly academic in nature. “So, um…why are you avoiding everyone? Besides the animals, I mean? Do you not like big groups of people?”

  Heron was thoughtful for a moment. He reached into his left pocket and took out a dried apricot, offering it to Cazadora as an apology. She gobbled it up immediately, accepting his bribe.

  “No, I don’t much care for crowds. Nor do I care for the way everyone is looking at me now…as if they’ve seen a ghost,” he softly replied and sat on the edge of the desk. He sat on it just like Finn used to, stretching out one long leg before tucking the other one behind it. The similarity of his mannerisms made the hair stand up on the back of Annika’s neck. “Isn’t that the first thought that entered your mind when you saw me? Isn’t that what you’re thinking right this very moment? Isn’t that why you’re hiding as well? Because they look at you in a similar fashion?” Annika swallowed hard, although her eyes began to sting from the piercing accuracy of his remark. She found herself nodding in agreement, and then he was nodding along with her. “At least your looks won’t be working against you for the rest of your life. They certainly will be for the rest of mine.”

  Heron sighed and invited Cazadora back into his arms. “And the rest of Hawk’s life, I expect, depending on what fate has in store for Talvi. We’re only twenty years older than him, you know…and fifty years younger than Finn. We have their eyes and nearly the same faces. We’ll tarnish every wedding and every name day celebration that we turn up at as long as we live. Our family will forever compare us to them. They’ll wonder if Finn would’ve gone grey in the same places as me, or if his wrinkles would’ve followed the same patterns as mine. They’ll wonder the same about Talvi unless he somehow manages to…” He pressed his lips together and frowned as he continued to stroke the raven’s soft black feathers. Then he glanced up at Annika so suddenly that she gasped again. It really was like having both Finn and Talvi staring right back at her. Heron instantly recognized her tortured expression and returned his gaze to Cazadora. Unlike Annika, the raven was now so content that her feathers were puffed out and her eyes were squeezed shut.

  “Forgive my rambling. I never spent much time studying the art of making polite conversation.”

  “It’s okay…I don’t mind,” said Annika with a sigh of relief. “I’m not the best at schmoozing and making small talk. In fact, I’m kind of surprised I haven’t dropped an F-bomb yet. I usually do by now.”

  Heron narrowed his eyes, which were growing more curious by the second.

  “What sort of bomb is that? Hopefully one of low impact, since you speak of it so casually?”

  Annika held back a grin.

  “It’s not an actual bomb. It’s the F-word. It’s a nicer way of saying fuck.”

  Heron raised both eyebrows at her choice of words as though he were shocked or offended. Annika groaned under her breath as she felt herself turning red underneath her black dress.

  “Then it appears you have more knowledge of polite conversation than I do,” he noted while continuing to watch her intently. “I frequently use some variation of fuck in my conversation, although Hawk is worse. He says fuck all the time, even in front of the fucking children.”

  Annika bit down on her lip, trying not to laugh. She wasn’t sure if Heron was joking or being serious. She wanted to like him, although she had a feeling that a moody Marinossian named after this particular bird might be more likely than not to have his feathers ruffled. Herons didn’t waddle like penguins or pigeons. They were tall, elegant birds known for moving with dignity and grace. Herons didn’t have blunt, small beaks like little songbirds did. They had long, menacing ones like a sword attached to their face. They didn’t flit among the treetops and sing cheerful songs and eat bugs and worms. They stood watch so perfectly still that you didn’t know they were hunting anything at all until their target had been impaled. She recalled seeing a video in her high school biology class and watching in horror while a stately heron stood patiently at the edge of a pond. As a family of ducks swam past him, the tall bird stabbed one of the ducklings without warning or mercy and swallowed it whole…right in front of the frantic mother duck. Then he walked up to another one of her fuzzy babies and did it again. It was a horrendous thing to watch, and he’d done it with style.

  Annika shuddered at the memory and focused on the bookshelves that stretched up to the ceiling instead, where breathtaking murals had been painstakingly painted. A number of cracks had splintered across the plaster, yet they weren’t enough to distract her from the beauty of the images hovering above her head. The background color varied between countless shades of blue and purple, and off to one side was an elegant star that radiated slivers of prismatic light. A large circle had been drawn around the perimeter of the ceiling, formed by a string of smaller milky white spheres that reduced in size at one end of the room. Within that large circle was a much smaller one created with pink spheres arranged in a similar pattern, although they remained whole circles for the most part.

  “It looks like two different strands of pearls, but I don’t think that’s what they’re supposed to be,” she said while continuing to crane her neck upwards. Heron set Cazadora down on the desk, and then the sound of his boots came closer across the polished stone floor. Just like the winged hunter he’d been named after, his steps were soft and careful and light.

  “Those aren’t pearls. They’re the different phases of the moons,” he said, stopping a few feet away from her. She thought she could smell fairy brandy on his breath. There was also the sweet scent of fresh-cut hay and clean sweat emanating from his clothes, no doubt a result of the barn chores he was so eager to stay on top of. “That’s why they’ve become crescents down at the end.” He pointed to the place where the larger ring of moons grew narrower and narrower until it was nothing but a black circle. “There’s the new moon, and then it becomes full again. They aren’t
usually both full at the same time, although the small pink one is quite often. That’s Badra, and the large one—”

  “Is Vega,” Annika chimed in and took a bite of the Love and Sorrow cake she’d brought with her. It must’ve been sitting out for a long time, because it was so dried out that it soaked up every bit of moisture left in her mouth. “I know the story about them,” she mumbled while trying to peel the sticky cake from the roof of her mouth with her tongue. “It’s usually just a big crescent moon because she’s on another orbit.” Instead of appearing irritated at being interrupted or annoyed that she was talking with her mouth full of food, Heron only seemed mildly amused with her response. His familiarity was too much to ignore any longer. She found herself opening her mind to him and inviting him to wade into the shallow end. He eyed her intently once more, still trying to figure her out. And then he was there…inside her head, standing at the edge of those restless waters, and within dangerous proximity of her soul. She suddenly felt small, like one of the little ducklings from that high school video. A sense of foreboding fell over her as if she’d underestimated him; as if he could strike at any moment and reveal his latent power. And what would that power be? She knew his face, but she didn’t know him. She needed to redirect his focus onto something else before he saw her deepest, darkest secrets. Her arm outstretched towards the ceiling. “What’s that big star over there?”

  He looked up to where she was pointing at the celestial body shooting out thin beams of multi-colored lights.

  “That’s the Brightest of Stars, unless you’re an academic or one of those posh bastards from the north. They call it the eye of the goddess Marillia, the Mother of Dreams.”