by VK Fox
“No way. The universe can’t work like that, with books granting powers like the Lady in the Lake handing out swords.”
Dahl’s smirk widened into a warm, pleasant grin. For a moment, he had a striking resemblance to Ian. “You’re having fun with me.”
“I could say the same thing. What book did you read?”
“The Once and Future King.”
“That’s crazy! There have to be millions of copies of that book. You just happened to find the right one? And now you’re bonded to who? Arthur? Merlin? Guinevere?”
“Arthur, and no, I didn’t happen across the right copy. The right copies are pretty much all in the same place at this point. That’s why a connection like yours is so rare. Most of us have to be chosen, trained, and then wait for an appropriate link to be free before we can even attempt a bond. Not every book contains words of power, and the ones that do are kept secure.” Dahl tossed a few pebbles into the river. “Now, blindness sounds familiar. Saint Lucy or Saint Cecilia? Ringing any bells?”
“A ton of saints were blind, or blinded, or stopped being blind. Disabilities were pretty common.”
“It’s usually a significant trait.” Dahl paused for a moment, fiddling with the plastic lid of his coffee cup. “There’s also the healing, the wolf, and whatever the fuck you did with the electricity.”
Jane stared at the cloud’s reflections. “I enjoyed the accounts of the early saints the most. Some of them are more like fairy tales: Saint George slaying the dragon, Saint Patrick casting out snakes from Ireland. I’m not sure if I should take them seriously or as metaphors for something else. Maybe they’re just legends invented over time. I liked Saint Barbara—the patron saint of fireworks, which is awesome. Her evil father tried to force her to marry a pagan man. She hid in a cave to escape discovery—safeguarded by two secret keepers. One of them betrayed her and was turned to stone. Except the story ended with her father beheading her, so no happily ever after. Anyway, she seemed pretty cool. Not that the others weren’t.” Jane’s voice trailed off. A secret keeper turned to stone. A stone shepherd.
Dahl said, “Sounds like a research project. I don’t remember any of the saints well. We have hundreds of books on them at the library at home, but saints were never my area—”
“Wait!” Jane cut him off. “Saint Barbara! I called down lightning when I was attacked in the parking lot. After her father beheaded her, he was struck by a bolt of lightning. That’s why she’s the patroness of fireworks.”
Dahl’s eyes sparkled. “Incredibly morbid, but it fits.”
Jane took a minute to enjoy the mental high of figuring out a puzzle. Maybe she was getting the hang of this. Dahl tried to skip another pebble, his eyes unfocused, lips mouthing silently for a few seconds before speaking again.
“Did she have a wolf? Take an arrow or a lance to the shoulder? Cure the sick?”
Jane blew out a breath. “No. Maybe she has more stories I don’t know. I’m not going to get out of research, am I?”
“I thought you liked reading.”
“Yeah, for fun. Not when it’s assigned.” Jane sipped her coffee. The change from tongue-scorching to tepid had been far too fast. “What about Ian?”
“He might know. He enjoys Christianity.”
“I mean, who is he? Where does his magic come from?”
“Not my story to tell.” Dahl hid a sly smile behind his cup. “But he’s old. A lot older than King Arthur or Saint Barbara.”
“Really?” Jane’s curiosity was piqued. She was sure Dahl was trying to do just that so it annoyed her, but she couldn’t help it. “How much?”
“Well, you know Jesus Christ?”
“Oh, good grief, Dahl. He is not bonded to Christ.”
“Of course not.” Dahl rolled his eyes. “I’m using him as a measuring stick. He lived a long time ago, yes? Things were different.”
“What, two thousand years ago? Yes. Things were different.”
“Take that time and double it.”
How could she even grasp a span of time so immense? Four thousand years ago, the Bible had not been written. The Great Wall of China had not been built. Fuck, woolly mammoths were still roaming in remote areas. What would it feel like to have a connection to a time in the distant past?
The light flashed on the walkie-talkie, and Ian’s voice came through. “All clear if you want to come by.”
“Roger that.” Dahl glanced at Jane. “Ready?”
Jane took one more glance at the stream and stood. Time to go comb the ashes of her former life.
Chapter Ten
Nothing was left. Ian and Dahl were not experts on fires or explosions, but Jane wasn’t sure what more she could have learned if they were. Her section of the building was reduced to ashes and unrecognizable lumps of things that used to be a stove, a microwave, a toilet—the kind of items that melted or shattered instead of being consumed. The fire must have burned hot and fast to transform everything. Fire walls on either side of her apartment had stopped the blaze from spreading to the neighbors, thank God. Police tape indicated the scene had been visited by an official force earlier in the day. In many places the ashes were still hot. Ian didn’t let them stay long, reminding her she was, technically, an escaped mental patient, and while Dahl didn’t legally exist, she did and had to worry about pesky facts like police.
Afterward, they grabbed lunch at a drive-through: seven baked potatoes for Ian and burgers and Frosties for her and Dahl. Jane mentally replayed the details of the wreckage. She was empty. Like skidding across the asphalt and hitting her head during her parking lot brawl, the destruction of her apartment was an emotional concussion. She knew it would hurt any second—and then it would swell and grow, becoming unbearable—but it hadn’t started yet. It would, but not yet.
The rest of the day was spent training, which Dahl insisted she start immediately. Phase one was assessment. She spent boring, frustrating hours trying to follow instructions like, “reach for the power inside you” and “search your mind and recognize the link,”—half the time she suspected he was making fun of her, and the other half the time she was angry with herself for failing to do any of it. Ian, unfortunately, mostly stayed out of the way. Who was the commanding officer, or whatever, between the two of them, and why was Dahl acting as her teacher and mentor? Thank God Ian insisted they stop by the library before closing: they called it a day at five thirty. Mental, social, and emotional exhaustion weighed on her heavily as she climbed into the back seat of the Land Rover.
Jane stayed in the car while the boys went into the library. They emerged twenty minutes later carrying armfuls of books. The titles were mostly phrases like Lives of the Saints and Early Christian Martyrs, but a few seemed more lighthearted such as Seven Stubborn Saints and Their Bossy Parents. Jane confirmed the exact book she’d read was not in their selection and agreed to go through it with them and see if she recognized any of the stories.
After returning to the hotel, Jane went to her room to lay down for just a minute. One minute turned into a few more as the sun faded behind the blackout curtains and the stars came out.
Night was full of horrors, but at least the content was new. Instead of scenes from her life—every stupid and embarrassing thing she’d done, every unkind word she’d said, every relationship she couldn’t mend, and every problem she couldn’t solve—these dreams belonged to someone else.
Her father was searching for her, and he was angry—anger that was shocking in its raw ugliness. Rage was seeping through the darkness. Someone had betrayed her. Someone had told him where she was. An image of a stone shepherd appeared in her mind, an expression of disgust and fear mingled on his immortalized features. She was trapped. The cave ended abruptly less than ten feet back, the wall rough and unyielding. She could hear her father shouting. She should go out and face him.
Jane’s whole body spasmed as she jolted to consciousness. Traffic sounds warbled outside the curtains and green, shallow light from the alarm clock
bathed the room. “I’m okay,” she whispered to herself. “Nothing bad is happening to me right now. I’m safe.”
But it did happen, a tiny voice inside her asserted. Is it any less horrible because it isn’t happening to you? Jane sat up in bed, terror and absurdity warring inside her. She breathed deeply several times, leaned against her pillows, and relaxed every muscle, starting with her toes and working up to the top of her head. She repeated the Hail Marys until the words lost meaning. Every time her mind relaxed, letting go of consciousness, the anger was waiting. Her dad loved her. How could he be so angry he was willing to kill her? How worthless did he think she was? How had she gone from his baby, the little girl he’d bounced on his knee, to an enemy—someone he could beat, starve, and behead?
Jane sat up again, flustered. What the shit? She breathed deeply again. This was a whole new level of morbid fantasizing, even though she considered herself a seasoned expert. This must be a side effect of her connection, one hundred percent her least favorite part. Did she have to relive experiences of torture and martyrdom? She stood and shook herself. 2:34 a.m. If she didn’t get back to sleep soon, the night was shot. No TV to distract her—the programming was already shut off for the night. Her books, her magical doors to escape from her own mind, were gone. Ian knew about dreams. Maybe he was still awake.
She knocked at the volume of “I don’t want to wake you, but if you’re up, I hope you hear me.” Immediately, someone stirred inside the boys’ room. For a split second, Jane considered ducking back into her room, but that was stupid. She’d committed. The door swung open, and Ian filled it. He was wearing drawstring pajama pants and a T-shirt with “Fight Like a Girl” scrawled across his chest in loopy cursive. His dark eyes were heavy with sleep and his curly hair rumpled. So much for not waking him.
“Hi,” Jane began lamely. “I couldn’t sleep.” Fuck. This wasn’t going well. “I mean, I was sleeping and I had a bad dream.” She tugged the hem of her shirt. Her palms grew sweaty.
Jane had always wondered if it was possible to die from embarrassment. She was pretty sure she’d have an answer shortly. Without a way to backpedal, she pressed forward. “So, you know about dreams, right? That’s part of your magic?”
A slow glow lit Ian’s sleepy face. “Yeah. It is. You were hoping I could help?”
“If it’s not too much trouble. I didn’t think I’d wake you if you were already asleep. Sorry.”
“It’s no trouble. Lead the way.” Ian gestured toward Jane’s room. Jane shifted from foot to foot. She hadn’t thought this through. Oh well, he was acting like this was normal dream-magic procedure. Big guy in her hotel room at two in the morning? Normal. Act normal, poised. Nothing could throw her off her game. She opened the door and made an “after you” gesture. Ian strolled over to her bed.
“Are you okay?” He pulled back the comforter and arranged the pillows. Jane died a little inside as she watched. She swallowed hard.
“Um, yeah. Just a dream, right?”
“Dreams are important. You spend half your life dreaming. It’s a kind of reality. People brush it off, but it has value and meaning. I’m glad you thought to come to get me when you were troubled.”
The scene was bizarre. He was so tall. She was the size of a child gazing up at him. Had she really woken him because of a bad dream? He was focused on the bed, arranging everything just so. The adrenaline dump from the nightmare and sudden waking was wearing off, and Jane’s hands shook. As Ian’s enormous, muscular frame moved fluidly around her bed in the low light, an entirely different brand of nervousness took over.
“I haven’t done this in a long time.” Ian’s voice was thick with memory. “Dahl used to have nightmares when he was little. For a few years, I used my magic every night until they stopped.” He paused for a minute, fiddling with the edge of the sheet. “Or until he stopped telling me, anyhow.” The shadows in the room shifted, and his antlers materialized. They were clearer and more solid than before, branching gracefully until they brushed the ceiling. The points were bone-white and shining, fading into a soft gray velvet closer to Ian’s head where they were mounted on an elaborate band. An ephemeral, tined crown. They disappeared in a few heartbeats.
He turned to Jane. The bed luminesced. Shifting, silvery light—like heat waves from asphalt—rose into the darkness. Ian’s brows drew together, and he stepped toward her. “You’re shaking. It must have been some dream.”
Jane nodded. The dream was only part of it, though. She was in a dark room with a man standing over her who smelled like sandalwood and spices. The scent was intoxicating. He was peering into her with kind, deep eyes. In the silver light of his magic, his huge hands delicately prepared the pillows and covers.
Ian leaned forward slightly. He held his arms at his sides. His voice was encouraging, if a little unsure. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Jane shook her head.
“Would you like me to leave?”
She shook her head more emphatically.
Ian paused for a moment. When he spoke, his voice dropped from conversational to low and silky. “Do you want me to hold you?”
Jane had been holding her breath, and when she exhaled, tears started flowing. She threw her arms around his waist and buried her face in his shirt. Sobs shook her body. Ian held her in his strong arms and stroked her hair.
“You’re safe,” he murmured to the top of her head. “I’m here.”
It poured out of her. Jane couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried freely. She must have been young. Years before, she’d wept in front of her mother—tried to let out all of the things clawing inside her, but her mother had slapped her. Later, she’d explained, Jane had been hysterical, and that was what one does with hysterical people. Now she was clinging to a man she’d met a few days ago, crying into his pajama shirt in the middle of the night. This was normal. Normal new friend stuff.
As the last few sobs shuddered out and her body quieted, awkwardness crept in to fill the void left by her torrent of emotion. Her muscles tensed as the silence stretched on. Ian was still cradling her and stroking her hair. Jane waited for him to pull away and say something dismissive or start asking questions, both of which sounded equally horrible at the moment. Jane’s throat was tight. She’d wanted to find magic, someone with power, and oh boy had she. Ian was powerful in every way. Huge, strong, older, gorgeous, experienced in magic, established, well connected, and knowledgeable. Jane knew she was showing him how weak she was, how she couldn’t handle the bumps in the road, how she couldn’t cope with the side effects. Some hero she was, and now she was crying like a little girl because of a bad dream.
Jane was not a child who needed protection and care. Ian seemed like a nice guy. He’d probably offer friendly guidance and ruffle her hair and give her grief about smoking like he did with Dahl. Was that the way he already saw her? But his awkwardness in the toy store, his nervousness over breakfast, the way he blushed a little when he gazed at her too long all pointed to something else. Jane pressed closer, reading his body. Ian tensed ever so slightly as his pulse quickened under his skin with a sharp intake of breath.
“You should sleep.” Ian’s deep voice had a slightly strained undertone. Was he doing the nice guy thing, or was he honestly trying to exit stage left? He seemed nervous. Was that a good thing? Jane was exhausted, but she didn’t pull away.
“Do you want me to help you to bed?” Jane nodded into his shirt as a few stray tears leaked down her cheeks. She swallowed hard, her mouth dry and salty. Ian shifted and put an arm around her shoulders, guiding her to the bed. The air around it shone like a moonstone with soft, shifting colors. Jane wiped her eyes on her sleeve and sat, sliding under the blanket. She inhaled the light and it settled inside her, warm and floaty. Ian stood beside her bed, his face etched with kindness. It looked like the nice guy routine. The cautious, steady part of Jane’s mind informed her it was for the best. Ian leaving was the sensible option. She wasn’t ready to wrap her legs arou
nd him or anything, so going any farther in the middle of the night was asking for trouble. He could have a girlfriend or a professional policy or a vow of celibacy for all she knew. Celibacy aside, his appearance wouldn’t result in a shortage of fawning admirers. But he was still gazing at her, playfulness written across his face, eyes twinkling. He was still lingering by her bedside and holding her hand, his palm a little sweaty.
“Stay with me.” The unbelievable words came out of her mouth. She forced her hands to stay still and not cover her face as she fumbled for an explanation. “Not, like, as your girlfriend or anything. As a friend? I don’t want to be alone.” Yep. Friends slept together in the same hotel bed all the time. Totally normal. No need to put herself out there too much.
Ian beamed. Those dimples were something. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Jane pulled him closer.
“Jane, thinking of you as a friend and holding you in bed while you sleep are not things that exist together in my mind.” He searched her face. “I can do either, but not both.”
Jane bit her lip. She’d had relationships. They hadn’t gone well. Her last one had ended badly a few years ago. Every time she got close to someone and dropped her social persona to be herself, it turned out they didn’t actually like her as much as they used to. Disappointment became synonymous with romance. Fresh hope and enthusiasm for a new, exciting relationship always guttered out over time and ended in a whimper. This seemed like a less-than-ideal time to try again.
But this man was special. He’d already seen behind the curtain, and most people would never understand the parts of their lives they shared. But more importantly, he was kind, sincere, and respectful. And she liked him. Wasn’t that what relationships were supposed to be about? She genuinely liked him. His easy smile, his thoughtfulness, and, if she was being honest, his incredible height and build. She pulled on his hand again.
“Please, hold me.” Her voice was small and afraid. A lump rose in her throat. What if, after everything, he said no?
