He didn’t seem to be aware of a single one. His watchful gaze was on Gwen.
Or maybe he was just watching the dancers.
She smiled at him, but he didn’t acknowledge her.
Cei ran his hand slowly up Gwen’s back. “There’s a group of kids who rented rooms upstairs.”
“Really?”
“Someone’s dad bought them a bunch of liquor. They’re going to have a party when the dance wraps up.”
“Did you want to go?”
Cei looked down at her as his hand found the bare patch of skin below her left shoulder blade. “I was thinking we could go have a late dinner somewhere.”
Gwen nodded. “That sounds nice.”
“Yeah, I thought so.” He ran his thumb over the bare piece of skin, making goose bumps rise on her arms. “We haven’t really had much of a chance to be alone in the past few weeks.”
“Not really.”
“And I’m sure you still have a lot of questions.”
Gwen gaze moved to Rhein again, almost involuntarily. He was still focused on her…or whatever he was looking at. She had questions—too many questions—but she wasn’t sure how to put them into words. Or maybe she did, but she was afraid of what the answers might be. She wasn’t sure, but she knew that what Rhein hadn’t said while they were waiting in line at the snack shack at the football game would bother her for a while.
Cei ran his hand slowly down her back again, a soft sigh slipping from his lips as he did.
She decided she wouldn’t think about it right now. She was just going to enjoy this moment and let the rest fall into place later.
Chapter 11
Gwen stood on the small porch that opened up onto the parking lot along one side of the hotel. Cei was retrieving their jackets while they waited for the taxi to arrive. The ballroom had gotten a little too stuffy for Gwen’s taste. There was only so much she could take of cramped, indoor spaces, especially when there were over a hundred bodies all moving and sweating beside her. The fresh breeze felt like nirvana on her burning cheeks as she stood by the short railing and lifted her face to the moonlight.
Something brushed her hand. She looked down and found a tiny, cinnamon-colored owl looking up at her. It looked almost exactly like the owl she’d found trapped in Theresa and Tony’s bedroom weeks ago—the same day she slipped into their bedroom to call Paul and ask him what he knew about her parents…nothing, he swore. But that turned out to be a lie.
“Hello, little one,” she said, offering her finger to the bird. It immediately hopped on and let Gwen lift it so that they were nearly eye to eye. “How are you?”
The bird inclined its head slightly. Gwen nearly laughed. Imagine, a bird that could understand what she was saying.
And then…a flash of something—memory? vision? premonition?—slipped through her mind. This same bird sitting at the feet of a tall, handsome man in a dark room. But was it this same bird? Gwen had had a vision of Blodeuwedd—her mother—being cursed by the son of Don, the god Gwydion. But was it the same bird, or just one that looked the same?
“You can’t—” she whispered.
The bird interrupted whatever she’d been about to say with a soft hoot. Gwen shook her head as she lowered her hand slower than her agitated emotions might have otherwise allowed, and set the bird back on the rail.
“You’re a bird. Nothing more.”
“Gwen?”
She jumped, almost expected the woman from her vision to be standing behind her. But it was Morgan, his soft, green eyes filled with curiosity.
“Talking to yourself?”
“Aren’t I always?” she asked.
He smiled softly. “With everything we’ve learned about ourselves these last few weeks, I don’t know why we aren’t both in the nut house right now.”
He came to stand beside her, his long, delicate fingers the only thing sitting on the railing. Gwen looked past him to the trees that shaded this corner of the hotel, but she couldn’t see anything. The bird had simply disappeared.
“You should be inside with your date.”
He didn’t even glance over his shoulder, didn’t seem to care that some young girl who’d come with him was sitting alone inside.
“Are you and Cei sneaking off?”
“We’re going to get a late dinner.”
“Sounds nice.”
Gwen turned to lean against the rail so that she could see his face. “You okay, Morgan?”
He nodded slowly. “It’s been a shock, all of this. To think that my mother would cheat on my dad—that’s just beyond crazy. And with some mythical god? How is that even possible?”
“I don’t know.”
“And Rhein lying to me all this time. Rhein and Cei…immortality is something that only exists in bad fiction, you know?”
“So are gods and magic powers and an ability to commune with nature.”
Morgan nodded again, a little more vigorously this time. “Before all of this, my biggest problem was you.”
“Me?”
“Getting you to go out with me.”
Gwen smiled. “I was never sure you were completely honest about all that.”
“Oh, I was.” He leaned toward her, a spark in his green eyes that she hadn’t seen in a while. “I was going to sweep you off your feet.”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not the sweeping kind.”
Morgan looked away, his gaze moving slowly over the overflowing parking lot. “Isn’t that what Cei did?”
“Cei was just honest with me.”
“Is that how a guy gets your attention?” He snapped his fingers. “Wish I had known that weeks ago.”
Gwen pushed against him with her shoulder. “You don’t really want to go out with me.”
His expression was more serious than she could ever remember seeing it when he focused on her this time. “You have no idea,” he said.
Gwen was suddenly overcome with a sense of compassion. She touched his cheek lightly, her fingers just brushing the smooth, freshly shaved skin. He leaned into her, taking hold of her hand and pressing it tighter against his face. And then…he was just there, his baby soft lips brushing against hers.
She stepped back immediately, yanking her hand away from his touch.
“Morgan, you can’t do that.”
“Why not? Because of Cei?”
“Because I don’t think of you that way.”
“Why not?” He stepped toward her, but not in a threatening way. There was more confusion in his expression than anger. “Don’t you get it, Gwen? You and I are the last of a dead race. There are no others like us.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know that.” He shook his head, and she thought for a moment she could see tears in his eyes. “It doesn’t take a whole lot to understand why Cei and Rhein and Tony and lord knows who else have come to watch over us. If there were others, do you really think we would warrant this many guardians? Do you really think that woman—Branwen?—would be trying so hard to kill you if there were others who could do what they think you can do?” He shook his head again, a sense of desperation in the movement. “We are it. And if don’t stick together, then what hope is there?”
“We can stick together without dating.”
He cocked his head slightly. “What if this balance they want you to restore by releasing that curse, what if it hinges on a union between the two of us?”
“No one has said—”
“What if even they don’t know? They don’t know which ritual is required to break the curse. Who says that there isn’t more they don’t know?”
“And you came up with this idea all on your own?”
Morgan turned toward the building, leaning back against the rail and running both his hands over the front of his slacks as though they had suddenly become slick with sweat. Something about his movements, about the way he suddenly refused to look at he
r, caused a trickle of fear to run down Gwen’s spine.
“Morgan—”
Sound seemed to be sucked away in that moment. It was like they had suddenly stepped into a vacuum.
“Hello, Gwenydd.”
That tickle of fear turned into a block of ice in the pit of Gwen’s stomach. She turned slowly and found herself face to face with the familiar face of Branwen. But she wasn’t alone. Behind her stood two very tall, very handsome young men with blond hair, green eyes, and the biggest, heaviest swords Gwen had ever seen outside of a museum.
Oh, hell.
She stepped back, instinctively moving in front of Morgan. But there was a barrier between him and her. It was like what Gwen had done to Melanie at the Langley house, a barrier made of nothing but the wind.
“Don’t worry about your little friend,” Branwen said with a cheeky smile. “He’s protected. You’re the only one we want.”
“Why?”
“I’d think by now they would have explained it to you.”
Gwen shrugged. “Maybe. But I’d like to hear it from your lips.”
Branwen—whose lips were sculpted as though the best plastic surgeon in LA had designed them himself—tilted her head in acknowledgement of Gwen’s request.
“I suppose that’s fair.” She lifted the sword she carried, one that was similar to those of her companions, but thinner, the decorations on the hilt a little more feminine. She ran her thumb along the sharp edge, her expression not changing as a thin line of blood formed on the silver blade. “My brother is an idiot,” she began, eliciting a grunt from the man behind her. “He just had to curse the sons of Don, but he couldn’t do it in a smart way. He couldn’t make sure the curse was foolproof.”
“Why?”
“Why?” She looked up, surprise turning to amusement in her blue eyes. “Because the children of Don and the children of Llyr have always been at odds with one another. When you have one family that practices light magic and another that practices dark, there are bound to be problems between them.”
“But why Bran? Why then?”
Branwen shrugged. “Bran is a bit of a hothead. And Gwydion became a little too superior.”
“The Battle of the Trees—”
“Cad Goddeu?” Branwen waved her delicate fingers. “That was nothing. Just a game. It was Gwydion’s decision to curse Blodeuwedd that really upset my dear brother.”
“Blodeuwedd?” Gwen asked, her heart suddenly pounding. “What business was that of Bran’s?”
Branwen’s eyebrows rose. “You really have studied your Welsh mythology, haven’t you?” She shook her head. “My brother met her at a party just after she married Lleu, thought she was really something special. I think he got it into his head that Blodeuwedd would be the perfect match for one of his sons, a way of bringing the light and the dark together in a way that would unite the two sides indefinitely. But, of course, she got mixed up with Gronw and tried to kill her husband. That didn’t sit well with Gwydion.”
“So he cursed her to always live in the darkness.”
Branwen smiled. “Quite literally. He turned her into an owl.” She chuckled quietly. “I always thought it was kind of poetic, but Bran didn’t quite see it that way.”
“That’s why he cursed Gwydion and the others?”
“Partly. That and the fact that the curse would rid the world of the light and make Bran and the rest of us more powerful.”
“He just didn’t do it right.”
“He left a loophole.” Branwen raised her sword across her body—not in a threatening way, but in a way that made her intentions clear. “I can’t let anyone invoke that loophole.”
“You like the power.”
Branwen stepped forward slightly, the sword moving just that much closer to Gwen. “If you had lived when I did, and put up with the crap I put up with, you would probably like it, too.”
“You’ve had a hard life?”
“I had to watch my infant son burned to death.” She touched the sharp edge of her sword again. “That sort of thing tends to turn a person’s soul dark.”
“I’m sorry.”
Branwen looked up, surprise registering in her eyes for a brief moment. But then she must have decided there had been enough small talk. She lunged toward Gwen, swinging her sword with quick, deliberate movements.
“I will not go back to being weak!”
Gwen twisted, wishing she was wearing tennis shoes instead of these unsteady pumps. Branwen followed her with another lunge, but this one missed too as Gwen ducked and slipped under Branwen’s arm. She heard the metal on metal clash of the sword bouncing off the wrought iron railing along the outside edge of the porch. She whispered a few quick words under her breath, and a slender short sword with a copper hilt appeared in her hand. She turned quickly, meeting Branwen’s next blow with her upraised blade, the vibration of the blow moving through her wrist until she thought it might break.
“Cei has taught you a few things, has he?” she asked with a breathless laugh. “Wasting his time.”
It was odd to hear Cei’s name on her lips. Not that she hadn’t realized that they probably knew one another—they did come from the same time period, after all, as odd as that was to imagine—she just hadn’t expected it.
Gwen lunged forward, taking a stab—quite literally—at Branwen. But Branwen was better trained and more experienced. She easily dodged Gwen’s play at the same moment one of the heels of Gwen’s shoes gave way. She twisted her ankle and would have gone down if Branwen hadn’t moved into her instead of away. Ironically, she caught herself on Branwen’s shoulder, the momentum of her fall knocking Branwen off balance.
Branwen fell into Gwen even as Gwen managed to pull herself to her feet by levering against Branwen. Gwen stepped back and watched as Branwen went sprawling across the concrete floor of the porch.
She stepped back, hobbling on her sore ankle, and turned toward the two men who had accompanied Branwen. One of them stepped forward, his massive, long sword outstretched, as the other went to help Branwen. Gwen kicked off her shoes and stepped back, an image of a great wind slipping through her mind. A second later, the man was pushed back by invisible hands, stumbling as he tried to catch himself as the breeze that blew his hair back off his forehead continued to push him. Gwen waved her free hand and the man was literally lifted off his feet, smashing against the edge of the barrier Branwen had put around them just a hair’s breadth before he would have slammed into the brick wall of the hotel.
“You’ve learned how to control the wind,” Branwen said, her voice thick with anger. “Let’s see how well you can control fire.”
A flame burst from the palm of Branwen’s hand. It danced there, like the tiny ballerina in those tacky jewelry boxes one of her foster mothers had collected. Branwen lifted it to her mouth and whispered something. The flame looked over at Gwen—she swore it actually turned to her and looked—before it burst through the air toward her.
Gwen waved a hand and whispered a few words. A dark cloud appeared out of nowhere and released a deluge of water on the flame just a hundredth of a second before it landed on the front of Gwen’s new dress.
The second man, the one that had stopped to help Branwen, let loose a battle cry as he raised his sword and began to charge toward Gwen. Branwen simply held up her hand and the man stopped.
“This one is mine,” she said quietly.
Branwen stepped toward Gwen, her short sword dangling by its copper hilt from her fingertips. “You are incredibly talented,” she said quietly, a touch of awe in her words. “You would have been one of the strong ones, a real asset to our side of the equation.”
“Too bad I’m not on your side.”
Branwen inclined her head, acknowledging the truth of Gwen’s words. “You could have been. If you had taken the bait…”
“What bait?”
Branwen shook her head. “Too late now.”
She lifted her blade high over her head, her own version of
a battle cry slipping from her lips. Gwen stumbled backward, but her ankle would no longer hold her weight. She cried herself as she lifted her sword to take the impact even as her ankle turned and she began to fall. Branwen’s blade smashed into Gwen’s, the impact moving not only down through her wrist, but into her elbow and up to her shoulder. She cried out again, the pain almost unbearable. And then she hit the concrete with her hip just as Branwen lifted her sword for the fatal blow.
“You were a worthy opponent,” she said as the sword began to make its downward swing.
It all seemed to happen in slow motion. Gwen saw her short life pass before her eyes—the face of her one good friend in elementary school, the faces of her many foster parents, both good and bad, the faces of the few foster children who had gotten through her walls despite her determination to avoid emotional attachments—she saw Cei, Tony, and Paul. Theresa and the twins, as annoying as they tended to be. And she saw Morgan…
Morgan.
His fingers were alive with sparks as he pushed through the barrier and charged Branwen, reaching for her blade with his bare hand. No. Gwen wanted to scream it, that single word. She knew how sharp that blade was. It would go through his hand like a scalpel through soft tissue. But, somehow, it didn’t. She wasn’t even sure if the blade ever touched his hand.
SONS of DON Page 24
