Finn lifted his head from across the room and his eyes glinted with interest.
Sarah leaned forward. “Can you tell us what he looked like?” she asked. “Short or tall, dark or blond...”
“In fact,” Ella said, opening her wallet and drawing a picture of Dave, “how about looking at this photo and telling us if this is Bran Hoodvild?”
***
Ella watched Sarah get into her chic car and drive away. She leaned her head back, bone-tired and wishing she knew what to do next. “So what do you think?”
Finn gave a non-committal grunt, folding his long legs under the dashboard. He slammed the door closed.
“She said it looked like Bran,” she whispered. Only she hadn’t been sure. Bran had been... chubbier. Had dark eyes. A beard.
In fact, Mrs. Hoodvild had said, Bran hadn’t really looked like that.
No proof. And without a DNA sample, she had nothing.
Ella started the car. Damn you, Simon, how did you stumble upon all this? She missed her old partner. He would’ve known what to do next.
Shaking her head, she drove toward home, the whole car clinking with iron charms and trinkets. So far it seemed to be working; no Shade attack since she’d hung them.
Silence lay thick between them as they drove through the busy city center and approached their neighborhood. She glanced at Finn’s stern profile. Evening was falling and the lights from shops and restaurants painted his face and hair in red and yellow stripes.
“We’re back where we started,” Ella said as she drove into their street. “Even worse, Dave knows about you, the army are suspicious, and we don’t have one piece of evidence on what Dave is.”
Finn blinked, glancing her way. His eyes seemed bruised in the fading light, his cheekbones too sharp, his lips pale and cracked. When she stopped the car, it took him a moment to start moving.
“Just how many hours sleep did you catch last night?” Ella wanted to know, familiar worry tightening her chest. He’d come into her room at three in the morning. How many times had he woken during the night?
Finn shrugged and blinked again as if struggling to keep his eyes open. Not glaring. Exhausted.
She left him to make his own slow, limping way to the building and kept the elevator doors open for him. His lips tilted in a faint smile when he reached her, and they rode up together, his scent of burnt sugar and spice filling the cramped space.
Once inside the apartment, Finn didn’t even check the rooms as he normally did. He dropped onto the sofa and bent down to remove his boots.
Ella locked and did the checking herself. Satisfied they were alone in the apartment, she returned into the living room and found him slumped back against the cushions, boots still on, snoring softly.
She considered taking them off but he still had his knives and gun, and she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t get a bullet or a stab wound for her trouble.
It was still early — barely seven o’ clock. She stood in the middle of the room, feeling like a zombie. She hadn’t gotten much more sleep than Finn and her eyes burned. Shopping, cooking, cleaning... Later. She really had to cook something, even if just oatmeal again. Finn seemed to like it, and he couldn’t skip more meals or he’d turn into an x-ray.
She recalled the dinner he’d cooked and her stomach grumbled. He should cook more often; she’d have to ask him to, although what had happened after the meal... Finn sprawled among the pools of black ichor, his chest not rising, his face slack...
God, she’d been trying so hard not to remember the image; it flashed before her eyes at unsuspected moments, freezing her blood.
Better if Finn didn’t cook again. She’d probably associate stew with blood-curdling terror.
She looked at him, focusing on the way his chest rose and fell, on the small vein throbbing in his throat, the way his eyes moved rapidly behind his lids. Barely dropped into sleep and already dreaming. Fingers crossed it was a happy, sunny dream.
Yeah, and she was Santa Claus.
Grabbing John Grey’s epic, the Grarsaga, she sat on the armchair and leaned against the cushions, sighing. God, it felt good to stretch and rest, but she should at least read the book to the end, read John Grey’s whole story, and maybe... maybe Simon had left a note in a margin somewhere for her.
Elves and King Sirurd, his mysterious daughter the Stabilizer, and the Guardians... The letters swam in her eyes. Maybe if she rested them for five minutes. Only five, she told herself sternly. Then she’d... She’d...
Crystal towers shot up into grey skies, rainbows and clouds reflected in their sheer surfaces. Snowflakes danced on the crisp air and on the bell towers of the temples lining the street, colorful banners flew, crimson, azure, yolk yellow, snapping in the wind that wailed in the mountains all around.
She stood in a small crowd, huddled in her fur coat, its softness caressing her neck. They left the road and took a winding path. She walked alongside the adults — tall, lithe figures dressed in elegant coats with high collars — toward the outskirts of the city, over crackling, frozen grass.
Something was wrong, she could feel it. Covert glances shot her way — no, not her way. They were directed at a boy walking quietly by her side, pale blond hair whipping in the wind, revealing slender, pointed ears. He stomped forward in his padded boots, hands clenched at his sides, his uptilted, blue eyes glaring ahead. He looked familiar; had they played together before?
The scene changed. They stood on a platform, frigid air currents wrapping around them like snakes. Ice sculptures of the gods, old as the city itself, stood on one side, looking on them reprovingly. The boy by her side shuddered, still glaring, though his mouth trembled. He was afraid, she realized, deathly afraid — but of what?
A group of tall adults approached, wearing pointed hats and long mantles of dark feathers. They wore masks — unless their faces were naturally so still. They didn’t seem to frighten the boy, though. He was staring at the other end of the platform, the side where you could see the mountains across the ravine and hear the wind howling. She wanted to take his hand and tell him everything would be okay, but she couldn’t because his fingers were curled into fists, and besides, two adults stepped forward and led the boy away from her. She knew their faces, too. A woman, beautiful with long silvery hair — modhir. Mother. And the man, his harsh face that brought with it ghost memories of pain and fear — fadhir. Father.
Terror gripped her chest again, constricting her breathing. Where are you taking him? she tried to shout, but couldn’t. She stepped back, fading in the snow.
The next thing she knew was a sensation of falling, heart pounding, the air rushing in her ears, her limbs flailing on nothingness, void and a promise of suffering — and then the crash, breaking her body, ripping her thoughts apart with blinding pain and she jerked and thrashed, groping for a thread of sanity in the howling terror—
— and fell off the armchair, landing on her knees on the cold floor. She fell back against the chair, shuddering and swallowing bile, phantom pain rippling up her leg, and she still felt the bone sticking out of her flesh, tearing it further with every movement.
She drew a long breath, let it out slowly. The mountains and snow faded, leaving only the room, quiet and... empty.
Where was Finn?
Then she heard the sounds of retching from the bathroom and struggled to her feet, remembering that the dream she’d had, and the pain she’d felt, were in fact his.
***
“I’ll make you some tea,” she said, tugging his damn boots off and helping him lie down in his bed. He was shivering violently, and she couldn’t help but recall the serious elf boy in her dream, shivering as he looked at the cliff down the mountain. She touched his cheek; his skin was clammy and cold. “Finn, can you hear me?”
His gaze flicked her way and he nodded.
She’d seen his younger self and maybe it wasn’t the first time. That fascination she’d felt the moment she’d first lain eyes on him, maybe it was recognitio
n. He’d known her face when he’d arrived; and she’d known his.
Why? What was the meaning of it all?
“I’ll go make that tea.” She fled his room, boiled the water and poured it into two mugs. Her hands shook. That man’s face. Fadhir. Finn’s father. She knew that face, too. The face that haunted her nightmares and memories since she could remember; a face that brought with it memories of pain.
Finn’s shivering had subsided somewhat by the time she returned. He sat on his bed, propped against the wooden headboard, head bowed, hands fisted in the covers. He glanced up. She passed him a mug and he took it, cradling it in his lap.
“I was there,” she said softly, the horror still too raw for her to speak loudly. “With you.”
He nodded.
“Why is this happening?” Ella muttered, warming her hands on the mug. “What’s the point?”
He shook his head and she remembered him asking the same that morning. His bandana had fallen off in the bathroom and his ears poked out, those intricate black patterns on them standing out against the pale silk of his hair. She wanted to touch them, feel their shape, memorize the symmetry of his face under her fingertips, under her lips...
She sipped her tea, scalding her tongue. “Your father,” she said.
Finn flinched hard, and tea sloshed over the rim of his mug. With a curse, she made a grab for it and put both mugs on the floor, then took Finn’s hands, turning them over. They were red. He looked up, wide-eyed.
“I’m fine,” he said, sounding uncertain for the first time.
“The hell you are. I’ll get you some ice.”
His hands convulsed in hers. “Stay.”
“But you’ve burned your—”
“Since I can remember,” he said, his eyes desperate, “you’ve been in my dreams, and you made me feel safe. Stay.”
His words hung in the ensuing silence like raindrops caught in the web of time.
Ella jerked back, snatching her hands away. Tiny alarms went off inside her head, but she couldn’t pinpoint the danger. After all, she remembered being in his dream, remembered the urge to protect him from all the pain — obviously an old instinct. He’d been hers to protect since they were little and she’d failed him every single time. How could he feel safe with her?
Finn’s reddened hands curled in his lap. He stared down at them, jaw working.
“I was never able to protect you,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “How did I ever make you feel safe? I let you fall.”
Her words echoed in the hush descending on the room like thick mist. Finn’s fists tightened. She had a feeling she kept saying the wrong things — like a fish on a hook twisting this way and that to avoid the truth.
“I’m going to train,” Finn said, a crack in his voice. He swung his legs off the other side, struggling to rise.
“Train? Now?” She reached out, grabbed his forearm. He was shaking.
“I know you don’t trust me,” he said, the words barely a breath. His hands clenched and unclenched. “I swore to you I’m on your side, and I am. I promised not to die, and I’m doing my best.”
Her heart thumped painfully against her breastbone. “God, Finn, it’s not that. I just...” She scrubbed a hand over her face. “I just don’t know what to do with...” Fuck. She was doing this all wrong. “I do trust you. I’ve always trusted you.”
Finn was looking at her now. Hope filled his eyes, so bright, tempered with dark confusion.
“Scoot over.” When he didn’t move, she nudged him until he shifted. He watched her as she took off her boots and climbed in next to him. When she lay down, he swallowed hard, his wide eyes reflecting the light of the lamp, then slid down to lie facing her.
“I’m staying,” she said, her heart racing. He was so close she could see every detail on his face, the greys and blues in his eyes, the fine grain of his skin, the strong line of his jaw. He was breathing fast, too, watching her as if she might vanish in a puff of smoke. Slowly he lifted his hand and placed it on her cheek, warm and rough against her skin. She covered it with her hand and smiled.
He smiled back, a faint lifting of the corners of his mouth, a shifting of color in his eyes. She put her hand on his chest; underneath it, his heart beat double time. She wanted to kiss his lips, his cheeks, his eyes — mine, mine to protect, mine to hold — but didn’t dare break the moment.
She shifted, closing the gap between them, and he turned onto his back, offering his shoulder for pillow. She snuggled against him, her wounded arm thrown over his middle, and she listened to his heartbeat, feeling his chest rise and fall, the rhythm reassuring — he was alive, he was breathing — his sweet and spicy scent swamping her senses.
A great sigh went through him. She felt his body relax beneath her, muscles going lax and pliant.
“Sleep now,” she whispered, amazed he let his guard down with her after all that had happened. “I’m here.”
He mumbled something unintelligible against her hair, curling his arm around her waist, and not a minute later his regular, deep breathing told her he was asleep.
Chapter Six
Family
Something was off.
A heavy arm lay over her waist, pinning her to the mattress, and a warm breath stirred the hair at her nape, sending shivers through her. She was held against a hard chest, a heart beating at her back, the cadence slow and measured.
Who’d have thought Finn liked cuddling. Ella’s lips twitched. Being held against him felt right, and wasn’t what had woken her up.
Pale morning light filtered through the shutters. She shifted and the arm around her tightened, tendons like steel cables digging into her ribs. The heartbeat at her back accelerated, the puffs of air at her neck quicker. Was he having a nightmare?
She was about to twist around to see his face, when something hard poked her leg. She stilled her movements, blinking. Oh.
Looked like Finn didn’t just feel safe with her. His body was very happy to be pressed against her.
And hers didn’t mind, either. At all. Tingles went from her belly to her toes, tiny wisps of lightning. Just the thought of getting Finn naked and sweaty between the sheets, skin to skin, the hot press of lips... the sounds he’d make...
God, yeah.
And still... that wasn’t what had woken her, was it? She frowned in the pre-dawn gloom. Something nudged at the edge of her consciousness, trying to break through the heaviness of sleep and the contentment of being in Finn’s arms.
A sound.
Someone was moving inside the apartment.
Breath hitching, she tried to think. Her weapons. She’d stripped them at some point, when she realized she was spending the night in Finn’s bed. Left them on the floor. She strained against Finn’s hold but he only pulled her closer to him, whispering something against her skin — her name, she realized — sending delicious shivers through her.
Dammit. How was a girl to concentrate?
The sound came again, nearer, right outside the closed door of the bedroom. Shit. “Finn, wake up.”
Not fair, dammit. He was finally resting, he’d slept through the night — and so have you, a smug little voice piped up helpfully — and she had to wake him because something was outside.
Right outside.
A scratch on the door, and for a moment she thought it might be Missy — the kitten may have wandered in the previous night from Mike’s apartment. Damn, if Missy had pissed on the furniture—
A screech raised all the hairs on her body. She jerked up and out of bed, scrabbling for her gun, as Finn uncoiled in a single movement, drawing his knives from his belt — hell, had he slept with them? Maybe that was what she’d felt, and not Finn being happy to be in bed with her after all—
A crash and the door cracked, splintering down the middle. Swallowing down her racing pulse, Ella cocked her gun, throwing Finn a quick glance.
He stood by the bed, ash-blond hair tousled, dark-tipped ears poking out, both knives held
ready at his sides. His gaze was sharp and wide-awake, drilling a hole into the splintered door. “Frekar,” he whispered.
Wolves. Plural.
Damn.
A wolf threw itself at the door again, breaking it in two, and lunged into the room, beak open and teeth glinting. The animal slowed, white scales shimmering and rattling on its flanks. A clawed foot clicked on the floor as it moved sinuously.
Ella aimed down the barrel of her gun at the wolf’s head, held her breath.
A screech and another wolf burst through the broken door, jumping on Finn. Her shout of fear was cut short as the first wolf turned to her and screeched.
“Damn you,” she hissed and shot it, hitting it in the neck. Crimson bloomed and the animal jerked back, then fixed a malevolent grey eye on her, claws scraping the floor. Of course, it’s not a Shade, iron bullets won’t make it disappear, she had the time to think before it pounced.
Her head hit the floor with a thunk, and everything went silent and dark for a moment. The respite was over too soon — a blaze of white-hot pain in her arm jolted her back. Holy fuck, that hurt. The wolf opened its beak and raised a claw — to slice her again, she thought distantly — and she fumbled at her belt for her knives.
Something hit the wolf and it staggered sideways. Drawing her daggers, she got up, ready for a throw. The wolf whined, trying to reach the hilt of a knife jutting from its flank — Finn’s blade. A quick glance showed her he was on his feet, swiping at the wolf with his one remaining knife.
Her wolf was recovering from the hit, turning back to her. She left it no time to take the initiative. Flinging herself to the side, she took aim and let one knife fly. It hit the animal in the side of its beaked head, burying itself deep.
The wolf staggered forward, blinking, croaking like a crow. Take that, you bastard. Ella lunged and grabbing the hilt of Finn’s Bowie knife, jerked it out. Dark blood fountained, and the wolf wobbled, then went down on its forelegs.
Boreal and John Grey Season 1 Page 28
