Hard Frost- Depths of Winter

by Thia Mackin

  He smiled. “December 21, 1904. He’ll be one hundred years old in three months.” My eyes widened before I could prevent it. His lips twitched, likely at my expression. “When’s your birthday, Kinan?”

  “Uh—June 1, 1980.”

  The Cheshire cat grin grew, white teeth suddenly reminding me of a predator. “I’ll let Ryn know so she can add it to her calendar.”

  Standing, I argued, “That’s not necessary, but I appreciate the thought.”

  He came to his feet, walking around his desk to escort me to the door. “It won’t be any trouble. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Thanking him again, I headed toward my bedroom. Hypnos rested on my pillow already, eyes closed. “I have a feeling you are avoiding helping your bonded more than visiting me right now.” He raised one eyelid, closed it, and didn’t even greet me. I sat down in the desk chair to take off my boots and realized I could get a little revenge on the bird.

  I grabbed a piece of paper and penned a quick note.

  Rankar,

  Your parents are psychic. You did not tell me. Not cool.

  Also, they are both going to be gone Sunday morning to Friday night at least. Company would be nice when you can.

  Kinan

  By the time I brushed my teeth, both Hypnos and Thanatos waited on the corner of the bed. Thanatos offered the letter, batting away Hypnos’s efforts to help. “Thank you,” I murmured, scratching him under the chin he offered before rubbing down his body.

  The scrap of paper was closed with green sealing wax stamped by Rankar’s signet ring. My finger caressed the image before I used my thumb nail to break the seal.

  Kinan,

  I’m sorry. There’s really no way to adequately warn about my parents. I’ll make it up to you on Sunday.

  Rankar

  Satisfied, I smoothed the paper and placed it at the bottom of my t-shirt drawer before crawling into bed. Two more days.

  Chapter 12

  I handed my ID to the man behind the counter as he went over the disclaimers, waivers, and rules of the range. Carefully, I signed my alias on the lines. When the clerk handed the IDs and change to Mycal, I hid a grin as Mycal glanced down a second longer than necessary to check the photo. Sara Nichols. Luckily, it was highly unlikely anyone would track us here. My alter ego wouldn’t be caught dead in my preferred clothing or without makeup.

  We’d arrived a few minutes before the clerk unlocked the door, and the customer parking lot had been completely empty except for the well-used Chevrolet extended cab we’d borrowed from the ranch. Soon after we entered, though, it became clear that the Simmons family frequented this gun range semi-regularly. Mycal’d been greeted as Senator Simmons, and he’d asked about the owner’s family.

  At the line, I unholstered my weapons, from smallest caliber to largest—the Glock 19 to the Glock 31 to the G30s. The magazines also lined up by associated gun. Uncle Dukon had lived—and died—by the Austrian engineering. These three served me well, and all could be concealed with my taller stature. I’d always prefer my bow and my Heckler & Koch PSG1 rifle, though. With its trigger job and good optic, it was nearly impossible to miss.

  The bow hung on the wall in the guest bedroom, its case somewhere on the Aclan Plane. My rifle stayed locked in Triswon’s safe unless I accepted a job that required it or needed to practice. If picking it up from Mystor while injured wouldn’t have likely gotten me killed, the rifle would absolutely have accompanied us. But… After a mental shrug, I rechecked every weapon as I sat waiting on my companion to finish priming his bow.

  “English bow?” I asked, knowing the answer but wondering why he hadn’t brought the gorgeous Welsh bow that hung in the house.

  Without hesitation, he answered the question I’d intended—resignation and mild disgust shading his response. “The other stands out quite a bit, might garner attention. This one will do in a pinch, though.”

  Realizing the H&K rifle would have done the same, I admitted to myself it was a good thing the expensive weapon remained at the Banded Traveler.

  “Are you ready?” At my nod, he said, “Range is going hot.” Then he lifted his bow to check his sights. “Where are you from, Sara?”

  “California,” I responded without hesitation; however, my intonation matched the role I typically played on-Terra. My hands loaded the three guns quickly. “I travel all over, though, for work. Truly, I’ve been looking for a place of my own in Italy. Gorgeous country, delicious food, and delightful culture.”

  At his half-glance, I shrugged.

  “What about you?” he tried again, obviously not worried about sounding insane in the empty room.

  Just in case… “Do you speak Raspea?” He nodded, so I switched to the language. Even if the cameras had audio, any word borrowed from English wouldn’t stand out as too unusual. “Dad was Army, so a bit of everywhere. My most prominent memories with my parents happened during our two years in Germany. When they passed, Uncle Dukon moved us all over. We spent most of our time off-Terra. After he died, I rented an apartment in California and got my real estate license to build on the identity he’d started for me. I tend to spend a month or two a year there, when I’m between off-Terran jobs. Recently, Mystor on Elysii operates as my home base. I’m considering making it permanent.” He appeared to be ready, but it would be rude to put on my hearing protection before he did. “What about your family?”

  “We originally hail from the Sirach Sithen near Cwmystwyth, Wales. However, we’ve been in New Mexico for a long time.” He picked up his head gear and nodded to me. “Rankar was the first Sirach born outside the Sithen.” Putting his protection on, he nocked an arrow and pulled back. “Commence firing.”

  A deep inhalation helped me center, and I raised my weapon. The gentle kick of the weapon steadied something inside me, letting me relax my stance on the stool to something reminiscent of sitting on Romtal’s back. After fifteen shots, I ejected the first magazine and reloaded with a ten-bullet capacity.

  The ache in my arms belied the feeling that only minutes had passed since we sat down. All three guns, fifteen total magazines, sat empty. Shells covered the floor. Beside me, Mycal studied my target, completely at ease. When I rolled my shoulder, he took his hearing protection off, so I did too.

  The zipper of his duffel bag sounded loud in the quiet of the room. Gratefully, I accepted the bottled water he offered and examined his target. Once he’d hit the obvious bullseyes, he’d changed his aim to the silhouette. The head was outlined in fletching. By the looks of it, he’d been waiting for a bit for me to finish so he could collect his arrows.

  “Sorry! I didn’t mean to hold you up.” I opened the action on each weapon and pushed the stool back, grabbing the crutches to stand and work the circulation back into my limbs.

  “Who taught you to shoot, Kinan?” His back to me, the words sounded slightly muffled as he moved downrange.

  I answered in Raspea also. “Uncle Dukon. He had a Gift for projectiles. Mom sometimes joked that I inherited it, though we had no blood relation. In actuality, my Gift is pretty useless. A weak version of Prophecy.” Mycal headed back to the line, three quivers of arrows hanging over his shoulder. “Did you teach your kids how to shoot?”

  “I did.”

  Once he declared the range hot, I reloaded the magazines from the ammunition in the bag. At his fire when ready, we both replaced our hearing protection. This time, I paid closer attention to his stack of arrows and cleared my weapon when he fired his final one. Removing my gear, I stood and stretched with a wince. My leg felt stiff; tonight would be a soak kind of night. A glance over my shoulder revealed why. Hours had passed, and we’d missed lunch.

  “How you feeling?” half of the mind reader duo asked.

  Looking around, I saw a broom and dustpan in the corner and crutched that way. “Like I should stand out the next round.”

  By the time I made it back to my seat, he’d already packed up his bow and reached for the broom. I didn’t argue, n
o matter how much I wanted to.

  “Sit. Reload and we’ll head out. Grab a bite to eat before heading home.” He swept up the shells, and I took his advice. “The diner’s cook isn’t as good as Ryn, but you’ll have a choice in what to eat for the first time in ages.” The surprise must have shown on my face, because he paused and cocked his head. “What was that thought?”

  “Nothing important,” I tried, but he didn’t look away. “I realized that I haven’t chosen what to eat for a meal in so long that I don’t remember. On a job, I have whatever the caravan cook made. Even in Mystor, the tavern usually has a preplanned menu.”

  He finished straightening up the area and zipped up the duffel. “That tells me you aren’t picky.”

  My laughter startled us both. “Not about food, no. I’ve eaten my own cooking, so most things are an improvement over that.”

  We said goodbye to the clerk, and I white-knuckled it to the diner a few miles away. Spending most of my life off-Terra and often using my ability to Gate when no one could see, I avoided vehicles as a matter of course. The death traps held large quantities of iron in the steel frames, making me wary. However, Mycal showed none of my hesitation. He shifted the gears confidently and backed into a parking spot closer to the door than he probably would have if not for my crutches.

  I’d never been in a diner, but the booth was comfortable and clean. My companion handled the interaction with the waitress, giving me time to decide to try their fresh-squeezed lemonade. We ordered drinks, and I glanced around at the late lunch crowd.

  “What looks good?” he asked, prompting me to check the menu again as our drinks arrived. Seeing that I wasn’t ready, the waitress offered to come back in a couple minutes.

  “Honestly? I keep coming back to the homemade strawberry pie.”

  He grinned at me, the mischief in his eyes one hundred percent Rankar. “Pie for lunch then. We just won’t tell my wife.”

  I snorted. “Your wife is psychic. I didn’t have to tell her about Rankar and…” The sentence trailed off as embarrassment caught up with me.

  His smile only grew. “So, Kinan, what are your intentions in regard to my son anyway?” The tone was light, joking to match the rapscallion gleam I’d noticed earlier.

  Thank the Goddess, the waitress returned to take our orders. With Mycal’s approval, I also chose the pie. Alone again, we sat in silence for a moment.

  “I—I intend to learn more about him. Once Karyn clears me, if we aren’t tired of one another, I can go back to working on Mystor. Less dangerous work, and I’ll have free time each day—instead of twenty-four-hour shifts five or more days a week.”

  Mycal nodded, somewhat more serious. “You have quite a bit of healing to go, if Ryn is right—and she always is—so the time will be there for you to know one another better.”

  Luckily, the pie arrived. The fresh, fluffy whipped cream piled high on top of the finely diced strawberries. A spoonful of just that left me speechless. Mycal, however, appeared less affected by his apple pie. “Was it just you, your parents, and your uncle?” he asked in Raspea.

  Chewing slowly, I studied a piece of fruit trying to escape off the side of the plate. “Yeah. Dad was Uncle Dukon’s commanding officer, and they recognized each other for paranormals right off. Served together for seven years. Sometimes Mom mentioned other family, but no clue who, what, when, or where.” With gusto, my fork stabbed the escaping strawberry, and I popped it into my mouth.

  “What happened to them?” he asked softly.

  “Campbell Barracks took artillery fire, but don’t bother checking the history books. Five people were killed, but they covered it up. Four months after the World Trade Center truck bomb and less than a month before the Turkish Riots.” I finished off my lemonade, suddenly parched. Some of the words I wanted to use didn’t exist in Raspea, so I picked around them. “Dad was killed when the roof came down. Mom had me under the table when the house collapsed on us. She drained herself, killed herself holding a shield to protect me. Luckily, Dad had sent Uncle Dukon to headquarters because the phone lines were down. Uncle Dukon helped dig us out then accepted early retirement as a bribe for his silence, and we disappeared to Elysii. He died a few years ago on an op with me. I was too far away to save him.”

  The waitress brought me a refill, and I thanked her before taking a long drink. The pie had turned to ash in my mouth with only a few bites left. Mycal’s expression looked grim. Perhaps his slice tasted bad, too.

  “I’m sorry, Kinan. Knowing the military because of my boys and the government through my own work, I can’t say I’m surprised, but I wish I were.”

  I nodded, picking up my fork before setting it back down. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Tell me about Mystor? I haven’t made it there in a while.” His earnest expression warned me that he needed a new topic as much as I did.

  In my head, I visualized everything I loved about it—a lot of which revolved around my home away from home. “Just stepping foot in the city is dangerous, a mixed blessing. On one hand, my blood pumps simply entering the Gate. On the other, it prevents me from making it to a safe place when I’m too injured to watch my own back until I reach the healer—like when I fell on your doorstep. However, of everywhere I’ve traveled, the smell of foods cooking and horses working assures me I’m home more than any other.” Oddly, the scents of the Sirach ranch reminded me more and more of safety and security. “Between long-term jobs, I keep a room at the Banded Traveler and work the stables.”

  Mycal paused in raising his glass. “You know Triswon?”

  I blinked, surprised. “How do you know him?”

  “I forget exactly where we met; I traveled a lot more when I was younger. I’ve known him a long time, though. We’re soulsiblings.” He finished his sip and set the glass back on the table as the waitress brought the check, leaving it face down on the table.

  I realigned my dropped jaw. While soulmates were a common concept—a romantic relationship linking two beings through eternity, not even death severing the bond—soulsiblings related closer to the idea of blood brothers or sisters of the heart. The souls bonded, also transcending lifetimes. A grin tugged at my lips as I tried to imagine a young Triswon and Mycal raising hell across the Planes. Had Karyn and Eliecha been complicit in their ne’er-do-welling, or had their influence come later in the men’s lives?

  “I’ve only known him a few years. He and his wife, Elie, are good people, though. I’d do anything in the world for them.”

  Mycal smiled back at me, and he tilted his head toward me in acknowledgement. “Yes, they are. Have you spoken to either of them since you were injured? Elie will know that you were injured and that you’re safe now, but I’m sure it would ease their minds to hear from you.”

  I frowned. “I haven’t. When I see Rankar again, I’ll see if Hypnos can deliver a message for me.”

  He nodded and left cash on the table for the bill. Neither of us spoke again until we arrived back at the ranch. Moving toward the bathroom to run a hot bath as soon as we entered the house, I paused without using the energy to turn. “Mycal, thank you for taking me. It really helped.”

  He waved me on. “We’ll do it again sometime soon.”

  I rather hoped someone else accompanied us so I didn’t have to do all of the talking next time. By my calculations, I hadn’t spoken so many words in a single day since I was a teenager—especially about myself or my family. My nerves felt raw, and my emotions ran the gamut. Nothing that a hug from Elie wouldn’t help, but as I’d told Mycal, Mystor wasn’t somewhere I could go while weak.

  In the bathroom, steam rose from the tub with the scent of lavender that indicated my healer had already doctored it with herbs. Psychic. Hypnos rested on the back of the toilet, looking disgruntled. Ignoring him to rest the crutches beside the tub so I could use them to push up, I balanced with the sink and stripped. The perfect temperature, just this side of too hot.

  ::Gone forever.::

  Oh
yeah. I had forgotten the little guy couldn’t drop in and visit us out in the unEnlightened world. Most humans didn’t know drakyn existed. Honestly, they didn’t know I existed or that a good percentage of the population wasn’t even human. What a terrible way to live.

  Leaning my head back against the wall, I closed my eyes. “Sorry, buddy. You can hang with me for the rest of the night, though.”

  His huff advised exactly what he thought of that. ::Bonded work. Help patrol.:: He must have felt my surprise, because he crawled down to the bathtub ledge. ::You tomorrow. Work twice today.::

  “Rankar’s working a double shift today so he can take tomorrow off?” I interpreted.

  The blue nodded enthusiastically, stretching his neck toward my hand. My fingers rubbed under his chin, giving his skin a hint of lavender Epsom salt. I relaxed, occasionally wiggling my foot to test the tenderness in my leg.

  Hypnos raised his head, listening to something I couldn’t hear. ::Bonded call. Bye bye.:: Then he was gone, and I realized the water had cooled considerably. Perhaps, it was time to read a little before an early bed. Standing, I dried off using the delightfully soft bath sheet and limped across the hall to grab my book.

  I smiled. Tomorrow, Rankar would visit.

  “C’mon, Sarki! Take the bastard down! You can do it. He’s tiring!” First Sergeant Derek Dukon shouted from the sidelines. An instant later, Uncle Derek “oomphed” as my mother punched his arm for his foul language. I recognized the byplay without turning to watch, as Mom and Uncle Derek had acted out the scene thousands of times in our years at Campbell Barracks in Heidelberg, Germany. In the seven years that Uncle Derek had served with my dad, the count was endless.

  Even though it was my thirteenth birthday, my mother refused to acknowledge that I had heard every swear word the soldiers in my father’s company knew. And if someone added up the different curses in the vocabulary of the one-hundred-plus soldiers, there were heck of a lot of bad words. Once, I had even learned the painful lesson that some phrases didn’t have to have a four-letter word in them to earn a spoonful of dish liquid.