Slowly, trying not to jostle or disturb, Wil sat up, and peeled himself from out of the wide grip. Eased himself from the tangled bedding, tangled limbs, and collected his clothes by the guttering light. Tried not to look down at the sleeping face, tried not to see too much.
Dallin. His name is Dallin.
He had the air of the lonely sort about him. Not in a morose kind of way, or sad-eyed and breathing soulful sighs. The sort who preferred his own company, the sort who chose partners who appealed to his intellect as well as his nethers, someone who didn’t seek out a recreational tumble.
The sort who needed a shared evening to Mean Something, who would be prudishly offended if offered an empty tryst… the sort who’d be hurt to realize he’d just had one.
If this evening was any hint, Wil judged somewhat bleakly that Dallin’s last encounter had likely been a while ago—he’d been so bloody intense. Dallin would likely be horrified to receive an offer of a tup in exchange for a warm spot to sleep. And then he’d give up his warm spot and hand it to the one who’d offered… and then sleep in the rain, if he had to, just to keep another from selling his soul.
Wil expected his cheeks to flame, but they remained cool.
Because you haven’t sold your soul, you bloody stupid idiot—you’ve gone and given it away. Don’t you know you need it?
He plunged into the trousers, and threw on the shirt. Still looking and trying not to, still planted to the spot and trying to walk away.
He should have run. He should have taken off that first day in the rain.
And now it was too late. Now he was caged in a way he’d never even imagined.
“Damn you,” Wil whispered unsteadily, trembling with things he didn’t understand, didn’t want to know about.
Damn you for making me glad your eyes will be the last thing I see. Damn you for making me so bloody sorry for it too. Damn you for making me wish there could be more. Damn you for being so sure there could be.
And damn you, damn you for showing me what hope is.
Wil scrubbed at his face, surprised and chagrined that his fingers came away wet.
“Sorry,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure exactly what for, then turned and made his blurry way out of the room.
HIS OWN little hovel in the makeshift cellar surgery wasn’t much of an improvement, though he was alone there, so there was that. Alone with his thoughts, such as they were. More like a centralized chaos, but still. Wil’s and Wil’s alone.
The bed was rumpled from when he’d more or less flung himself out of it, and arrowed down the damp stone passageway, aiming for what his brain had been shouting against but his body had been altogether too eager for. And bugger if he hadn’t got exactly what he’d thought he’d wanted.
He didn’t climb back in. The too-new remembrance of what had been tumbling through what passed for his mind when last he’d left it was just too… something. Raw. Instead Wil just sat in the dark, on the floor, back propped to the cold iron bar that supported the small cot—twin to… the other. Same damn sheets, same damn blanket, same damn hard pillow, except this one didn’t smell like—
“Just stop it.” He clenched his teeth. “It wasn’t anything. You’ve more important things to worry about.”
Dallin.
“Put it away, put it away, think about—”
Father.
He drew his knees up, propped his elbows atop them, and rubbed at his temples.
“Why would You tell him and not me? Why would She—?” He rubbed harder. “What is it about me?” he whispered, harsh and angry. “All my life, and… and somehow he sees and You don’t, and what am I supposed to do with…? Did You just assume I’d go to pieces, go insane like Calder thinks I…? I’d be no use to You then, I expect.”
Not that he was much use now.
There was this word people bandied about—love—talked about it sometimes as if it was the beginning and the end, the only reason to be or do, or not be or not do. Wil had seen what he assumed to be love in the eyes of Dallin’s mother as she’d dragged her cold fingers across his cheek and made her request. Had seen it in looks exchanged between parents and children, husbands and wives, friends and companions. He’d seen it but hadn’t ever held it, understood it, wanted it, because he’d seen its imitation in the eyes of too many, mere lust and greed trying to hide behind it but never quite succeeding.
He was pretty sure there was nothing he loved. He grasped life and freedom because he didn’t know how not to, but he’d never really had either, not yet, at least, so he couldn’t love them. Anyway, there wasn’t much to love about them, at least in his experience. Both were too costly, and the price just kept getting higher.
He loved Father, though. Or at least he assumed the hurt and grief at hearing the things Dallin had told him were some form of love. Perhaps it was merely selfish fear. What was Wil supposed to do, after all, if He suddenly wasn’t there anymore? Would Wil wink out too? The world? Was all this running and agonizing and fear for nothing? Was any of it going to matter in the end?
“Stupid question. You know it doesn’t matter, at least not to you, and your end is coming a lot quicker than you’d like to believe. And it only gets closer, the faster you run.” A growl and a quick jerk of his head. “Why am I even bothering?”
And what of Her? Shouldn’t She be doing… something? The Father’s warrior-goddess, patron to shamans and healers—shouldn’t She be using Her own magic? Was that why Father couldn’t help Wil?—because She wouldn’t help Him?
…Couldn’t?
“She’s a bloody goddess.” It scraped upward from the anger simmering in Wil’s chest and ground out through his teeth. “Couldn’t. Right.”
He scrubbed at his face.
Maybe He hadn’t told Wil because there was nothing Wil could do. Maybe He’d told Dallin because there was something Dallin could. Maybe… maybe….
“There’s always got to be a sacrifice, hasn’t there?” The whisper was harsh but not as bleak as Wil would’ve thought—more cold and detached, resigned. “Is that what I am? Is that why he’s here? Some sort of reciprocity for the blood of that first Watcher? Balance out the scale?”
“Devon” came from the door, quiet and steady.
Wil wasn’t even startled. He peered up, marked the broad silhouette leaning in the doorway, the failing torch just barely limning features set frank and measuring.
“His name was Devon—your first Guardian.” Dallin flipped his hand out, waved it, then crossed his arms over his chest. “It means ‘defender.’ In case you wanted to know.”
Wil hadn’t. He let his head drop to his arms, folded across the tops of his knees. “I want to be alone.” He winced at the coldness of the dismissal. “I want…. You need your sleep.”
“When you’re alone,” Dallin told him, the barest hint of a smile in his voice, “there’s no one about to poke holes in your conspiracy theories. You talk yourself into all manner of dire scenarios, every one of them some evil plan to bring about your end.” He paused. Wil could almost feel the piercing gaze cutting through the darkness, flaring into his chest. “So, what was that before?” Dallin’s tone was mild this time. “Hedging your bets?”
It made Wil’s head snap up and his eyes narrow, strangely indignant despite… everything. “I didn’t hear you complaining. Or protesting.”
Dallin shrugged. “What man would?”
You would, Wil thought but didn’t say. Because he knew, he knew Dallin wasn’t nearly so unaffected as he was pretending. Trying to make it easy for Wil, maybe, because that was just too… Dallin. Trying to make Wil believe that everything he did didn’t hurt everyone around him in some way. That when Wil chose himself for the last time, it wouldn’t live behind Dallin’s eyes for the rest of his life.
Wil’s hands fisted.
Why couldn’t Dallin have been a selfish bastard like everyone else? Why couldn’t he have been a monster?
Why did he have to make Wil give a fuck?
“I wanted to know why you were apologizing.”
“You were awake.” Wil didn’t know why he was so surprised—the only time he’d ever seen Dallin sleep deeply enough not to jerk awake at the slightest noise was when he’d been drugged enough to make his teeth swim. “How long have you been standing there?” And why was this great lummox of a man the only one in the world who seemed able to sneak up on Wil? And how much had Wil said aloud?
“Too long.” Dallin was staring at the floor, his tone distant. “Not long enough. Something in the middle.” His head came up, gaze once again slicing the darkness. “All of this….” He waved a hand between them, then raised it to encompass… well, the universe, for all Wil knew. “It would be so much easier if you’d just be straight with me.”
Wil almost laughed. Straight. Was there such a thing? Everything had its little hidden passageways and trapdoors—even straight lines had their crooked little flaws, if one looked closely enough.
“Is there something you want?” Wil couldn’t help the impatience, overfaced and starting to quiver just a little.
Dallin didn’t answer right away. “What do I want?” He shook his head slowly. “You do ask big questions.” He shifted against the doorframe, scratching at that stupid beard. “I want you to know that I understand.”
Wil puffed a jaded chuckle. Sure he did. Maybe he wouldn’t mind explaining it to Wil, then.
“Terrific. Thanks. Good night, Constable.”
“It’s got to be a difficult thing,” Dallin went on quietly, “to ask of someone what you’ve asked of me, and then come to understand that….” For the first time, he faltered. “You don’t think so, but it’s better that I… care.” His voice was hushed and somewhat uneven.
Wil closed his eyes and dipped his head back down to his knees.
All right. So Dallin did understand. Which made this… really fucking hard. Why did he have to keep making it so hard?
“I’ll choose me.” Wil lifted his gaze, found the low glimmer of Dallin’s, and held it. “Right up ’til the end. And I won’t care if it’s a betrayal. Someone with a gun to your head, or you with a gun to mine—it’s all the same. Someone’s going to end up with a bullet through the brain, even if I have to pull the trigger myself.”
“You say that like you think I didn’t already know it.” Dallin didn’t give Wil time to respond. “I need to know—was… before… was it merely to… seal the deal?”
Seal the deal. Wil would’ve laughed if he didn’t think it would come out a watery sob. A pact made not in blood, but in something Wil hadn’t even known he was giving, hadn’t even known he’d had. And oh, save him, he hadn’t wanted to know.
Dallin had been wrong—a lie would be so much easier than being straight. Somehow, Wil couldn’t make himself speak it.
“No.” He nearly choked on it. “I….” He wanted to bow his head, look away, but he couldn’t. “I wanted it. And I knew you’d let me have it, because… because that’s what you keep doing, you keep… caring, and I don’t understand it, but I took it anyway, because that’s what I keep doing. I didn’t mean for it to be… wrong.”
“And was it?”
Again, lies wouldn’t come. “No. Not for me.”
Wil left the probably for you unspoken—Dallin was sharp, surely he’d pick up on it.
“Then might I suggest,” Dallin said, “that we don’t waste whatever time we have?”
Wil shook his head. Damn it, was Dallin really going to make him say it?
“I’m using you. I’ll keep on using you, as long as you’ll let me. And then I’ll use you some more. It’s what I do.”
Inexplicably, Dallin snorted. “I know you believe that. But you also believed once that I’d find great pleasure in killing you.” He paused for a moment—not nearly long enough for Wil to process the implications. “You forget that… that I see you.”
Wil finally allowed himself to look away. He slid his fingers into his hair. “And yet you keep looking.” It stung, and he didn’t know why.
“Wil.” Louder, with a touch of command. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly Wil peered up from beneath his fringe.
“You’re borrowing trouble. It won’t come to it. I won’t let it.”
If anyone could make that statement truth, Wil reflected bleakly, it would be this man. And yet, no one and nothing could. Wil could argue the point, use some of that reason and logic Dallin was so fond of, but the interesting thing about Dallin was that, for all his quickmud, once he believed in something, the belief became a fundamental part of his being, unshakable.
No… that wasn’t right. The belief was there, but buried, held hostage by the sentinels of reason and logic; one merely needed to stymie the sentries to let the belief loose.
And right now, for whatever reason, it seemed Dallin had chosen to believe in Wil.
“I’m going to get you killed,” Wil whispered, small and strangled. “I may even end up doing it myself.”
And he wanted to hate Dallin for making him give a damn. Except he couldn’t.
There’s your betrayal, Constable. And it appears I’m not strong enough to gentle the coming blow.
“I don’t believe in fate.” Dallin’s gaze was hard, stubborn. “I don’t believe in prophecies. You don’t need to believe in anything but yourself. And me. I know what I’m doing now, Wil. I know what this is about.”
It made Wil’s eyes grow hot. He meant to demand explanations, answers to questions he’d never dared ask, but when he opened his mouth, “All right” was all that came out of it. Resigned. Defeated. Simply and profoundly unable to take another second of misery and all the other tangled emotions twisting in his chest.
Like he’d been waiting for permission, Dallin finally pulled away from the door and took two cautious steps into the room. Stopped. Held out his hand. Waited.
Wil only stared for a long moment, wound tight and vibrating. Some part of him knew exactly what was being offered, and… wanted it. Another part was dubious as to how to take it, backing away, afraid to take it, sure it wouldn’t be there when he reached for it. Sure he wouldn’t even recognize it or know what to do with it if he did manage to take hold. Sure it would only make everything hurt more.
But oh… he’d already sipped the sweetness of that pain. A crueler addiction than the leaf, and it had only taken the one taste.
He stood very slowly, almost hoping Dallin would grow impatient, withdraw his outstretched hand with a thwarted scowl, and stalk away. Dallin didn’t—he had no end of patience, it seemed—still waiting there when Wil finally gained his feet, staring at the wide hand that had only a little while ago dragged strained cries and hungry whimpers from him… gentled him and held him while he flew apart from the inside out.
Wil took Dallin’s hand. And then he stepped in close, took the embrace. Took the comfort inside it.
This was his cage, right here, and he’d gone and walked willingly into it after all. Dallin had said Wil would never get himself out, and Father had said Wil held his own key. Both couldn’t be true, and damn it, Wil didn’t want to care. He wasn’t even sure he knew how.
“The hearts of mountains, remember?” Dallin whispered into Wil’s hair. “I’m not done impressing you yet.”
Wil juddered out something that was trying very hard to be a sob, but he forced it into a weak laugh instead. “Stop giving me hope. It just isn’t funny anymore.”
“Hm. Someone once accused me of having no sense of humor.” Dallin gave Wil’s shoulders a squeeze and pushed him back. “Oh, right, that was you.”
The chuckle that rippled out of Wil this time was real, though still a bit watery and rather subdued.
“We’re getting out of here.” There was more directive in Dallin’s tone than before. “I wish I’d thought of all this a few hours ago—we’d already be gone. Now we’ll have to wait out the day and leave once it’s dark again.”
Wil
frowned. “Thought of all what?”
“Ah.” Dallin dipped a nod and stepped away with a quick scrub at his hair. “About that.” He turned back to Wil. “I should apologize. It should have dawned on me before, but….” He waved his hand. “Distractions and blind alleys, and every other diversion meant to throw a hunter off track. I’ve taken so damned long to come around to it that now I’m…. Well, I’ve decided to blame it on the tree to the head. Or the lack of sleep, come to it. Getting stabbed didn’t help.” He peered at Wil with sincere contrition. “Something’s coming.” If it weren’t for the fact that Dallin’s voice was so calm, Wil might’ve given a little start. “I can feel it, and it’s close. I mean to be gone before it gets here, but in the meantime, there are some things we should talk about, and I want to do it without Calder hovering.” He paused. “Now, or after you’ve had some sleep?”
Wil rubbed at the back of his neck. “That’s kind of a stupid question.”
Dallin nodded as though he’d expected exactly that answer and was entirely satisfied that he’d got it. “Right.” He made to turn for the door and stopped. “I’m going to put on a shirt. Light some lamps, will you?”
“THE THING is….” Dallin’s fingers absently traced a crease in the sheet. He hesitated for a moment, thoughtful, before he went on, “The… shape of this thing is a lot simpler than I’ve been thinking. I kept coming at it as though I needed to… well, to use an apt metaphor, needed to find dozens of threads and figure out where they wove into the greater pattern of the mess, then untangle them. Except it’s not really a mess.”
They’d pushed the little cot against the wall, both of them now using the cold stone for a backrest, the blanket and the more or less useless pillow stuffed behind them as buffers. Wil wondered if the relaxed posture of Dallin’s extended form—long legs spilling over the side of the small bed and stretching halfway across the floor—was something new, or if Dallin had looked like this before and Wil just hadn’t allowed himself to see it. Rumpled trousers, beltless and so slung a bit low, shirt loose and mostly open; Wil could just see the top of the linen still wrapped around Dallin’s muscled torso above the stretched V of the opening, a light thatch of curly gold fanning above it. Wil remembered slipping his fingers through that little bit of a ruff, remembered how that wide hand had rested warm on his hip, setting a rhythm that—
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