Boreal and John Grey Season 1

by Chrystalla Thoma

  Stepping in, she buried her other knife into the junction of head and neck where the shiny scales glittered like mother-of-pearl. The wolf crashed to the floor, still.

  Finn.

  He’d lost his knife; it lay a few feet away. The wolf had him pinned to the floor, sharp beak hovering inches from his face. Bright lines flashed on his hands and face.

  Fear.

  She vaulted over the bed, blood running down in the crook of her elbow, warm and ticklish.

  Finn’s arms trembled as he pushed the wolf away — but not far enough, and that sharp beak snapped again, barely missing his throat.

  Jesus.

  Ella launched herself onto the wolf’s back, plunging her knives into its scaly hide, anchors to help her climb the massive beast. The wolf jerked and twisted — away from Finn, good — beak clicking at her face. She almost fell, her pulse roaring, but managed to hold onto the hilts of the knives and climbed up all the way, pulling a knife free and plunging it into the animal’s neck.

  Another twist of that glittering body and her grip slipped. Up and down blurred; she tumbled off, hitting the floor on her side, her arm going numb. Shit.

  Her vision cleared, focusing on Finn. He sat astride the wolf, stabbing repeatedly the animal’s neck and head, his lips peeled back in a snarl. His hair flew in sparkling ribbons as he rode the bucking wolf. Savagely, he stabbed again and turned the blade.

  The wolf dropped to its haunches, then rolled to the side, spilling Finn to the floor. He fell next to her, blinking up dazedly at the cracked plaster of the ceiling.

  Then his eyes narrowed at her and he sat up, wincing. “Your arm,” he breathed, a horrified whisper.

  Surely it wasn’t that bad, she’d have felt it — son of a bitch! The pain finally hit, burning and clawing at her. The ragged tear spilled blood. Her arm was bathed a deep red that dripped off her fingertips as she pushed up on her elbows, her whole body twitching.

  Fuck, she was going to pass out. Only Finn’s sudden lunge for her stopped her from hitting the floor again. He mumbled something that sounded like a curse, and then he was gone from her side.

  Off to check the apartment, no doubt, and it made sense. The ceiling spun lazily overhead, and she shut her eyes, dizzy. God, please don’t let me throw up.

  Then Finn was back, kneeling beside her.

  “All clear?” she slurred.

  Mouth in a thin line, he pressed something on her arm. Pain hit her like a truck and her mind went white. In degrees, the pain subsided, and she became aware of gentle hands patting the wound. She opened watering eyes and saw Finn apply butterfly bandages, a scowl on his face. He ripped a package of gauze open with his teeth —white teeth, bared in a savage sneer, his hand stabbing the wolf again and again — and started wrapping up her arm.

  “Finn?” she whispered, horrified at the tremble in her voice. Goddammit, everything was fine, the wolves were dead, Finn was okay, she was okay. What else could she ask for?

  Without a word, he snapped the medic-kit closed and scooped her in his arms. Oh Christ, the room swam and she buried her face in his shoulder, swallowing bile.

  “Put me down,” she demanded, her voice barely making it past her lips. “I don’t like... being carried...”

  Finn never broke stride. He kicked her bedroom door open and deposited her on her bed. “I’ll keep watch,” he said between clenched teeth. “You rest.”

  She struggled to keep her eyes open. There was something she should be doing. Asking him if he was hurt. Checking him.

  Finn left and returned presently, holding their knives. He closed the door and dragged the chair behind it, then sat with a cloth and started cleaning the blades. Up and down, strong, sure movements, and a glare that could melt steel.

  He looks all right, Ella thought before she passed out.

  ***

  “You should move to another apartment,” a familiar male voice was saying. The sound ripped the edge of blackness, waking Ella. “Not safe for you here anymore, not after this last attack.”

  Instead of a reply came a click and a pop.

  A nervous bark of laughter. “Hey, it was just an idea, no need to shoot— Oh, you’re cleaning the guns, are you?”

  “What do you want?” Finn asked, his tone neither hostile nor interested. Bland. Tired.

  “I told you.” Mike cleared his throat. “Here it’s dangerous, so maybe moving—”

  Another pop and click. “Location doesn’t matter.”

  “And how do you know— will you leave that gun alone for a second?”

  A beat of silence. Ella struggled to lift heavy lids. She heard the sound of something soft hitting the floor, a quiet curse.

  “You look bad, man,” Mike muttered. “That cut looks nasty, let me have a look — okay, okay, hands off, I get it.”

  Cut? Nasty? The words jolted Ella into complete awareness. She forced her eyes open, needles of light stabbing them. She groaned.

  “She’s awake.” Mike started toward her, a blurry shape. He sat on her bed, hands twisting nervously in his lap. “Hey, girl, how’re you doing?”

  “Been better.” She tried to smile. Mike’s face was drawn and worried, and she tried to see past him. “How’s Finn?”

  “Stubborn bastard won’t let me look at his injuries — what are you doing?”

  Ella sat up and bent over, waiting for the black splotches to fade from her vision. Ignoring the hot stabs of pain in her arm, she swung her legs off the bed. Fully dressed, clothes wrinkled and covered in dried blood. Ugh.

  The light from the windows entered slanted. Early afternoon. The rays caught Finn’s hair, turning them into silver flame, as he struggled to get up from the chair he’d apparently occupied since dawn. Alarm darkened his eyes when she stumbled before regaining her balance — damn, just how much blood had she lost? — and he took a step toward her, arms outstretched as if to catch her.

  She walked right up to him, caught his face in her hands. “Where are you hurt?”

  “I’m not...” Eyes wide, lips parted — god, she wanted to kiss him so badly.

  Instead, she tore her eyes from his face and checked him over. Found the deep cuts on his forearms by the stickiness of blood.

  “You should be resting—”

  She put a hand over his mouth, and his eyes widened more. “Shut up, Finn.” She glanced back at Mike. “Medic-kit.”

  Mike scurried off and returned with the green box. “I was trying to convince him to move out—”

  “I know, I heard. It won’t help, he’s right.”

  Mike sighed. “Damn.”

  “Yeah.” Distractedly, Ella wrestled Finn back into the chair. It was like pushing against a wall until he relented and sank down. “It doesn’t look so bad.”

  “And your arm?” Mike asked.

  “Fine.” Burning pain flared every time she moved it, but a glance at the bandage told her the steri-strips had held. She knelt at Finn’s feet. “Finn took care of it this morning.”

  “You’re okay?” Finn whispered as if he still wasn’t sure. He lifted a bloody hand to her chin, gripped it gently.

  Now why did it make her eyes sting so?

  “Hey, I called your boss,” Mike said. “He’s sending his people over to take care of the dead animals in Finn’s room.”

  The wolves. A shiver wracked her. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll leave you two then to patch yourselves up,” Mike said briskly. “I don’t think I’m of any help here.”

  Ella turned to apologize for ignoring him, but Mike flashed her a thumbs-up and a quick smile before ducking out of the room.

  She bent back to Finn’s arms where the wolf had clawed him. “These could fester. You should have cleaned them.”

  He grunted as she sprayed antiseptic, following her movements with hooded eyes as she turned his arms over to see if any of the wounds needed more than just a bandage. She fished into the medic-kit, pulling out more. She really had to go bandage shopping soon, dammit.
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br />   Letting Finn’s hands fall in his lap, she wound the bandages around his arms. Glancing up, she noted a cut on his throat that had bled but was now scabbed over. Probably didn’t need any attention.

  Done with his arms, she lifted the hem of his bloodied shirt to check on the bandage there, hoping those gashes hadn’t torn open again. The gauze looked clean.

  Finn made a small noise in the back of his throat and reached for his shirt, catching her hands. Color was rising to his cheeks.

  Had she hurt him somehow?

  With a deep breath, he shot to his feet, and she scrambled backward. “You need to talk to your mother,” he said, and she stared at him, mouth hanging open.

  Talk about payback. “What? What for?”

  “About your family,” Finn said, bandaged arms crossed over his chest. He turned his back to her, his spine stiff, and walked out of the room.

  “What about my family?”

  But Finn didn’t reply.

  ***

  In an age of prosthetics that moved with the power of thought and the recording of images in dreams, you’d think they’d manage to make serums that were palatable, or at least that didn’t taste like shredded plastic with added sugar.

  Wrong.

  Remembering the taste, Ella made a face as she walked into the warmth of the dimly-lit restaurant, a chill evening breeze chasing at her heels. At least after two serum bottles she felt better; less shaky, though the wound still burned like fire with her movements.

  The restaurant was full of sussurating whispers and her hand inched toward her gun. She let out a shuddering breath. These last encounters with the Shades and wolves had shaken her badly. Open spaces, noise, crowds — they made her heart race.

  Finn reached her side and her pulse stuttered, caught between relief and yearning. The kiss they’d shared seemed like a million years ago.

  She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He’d cleaned up nicely — whoa, her inner voice moaned, nicely? That’s all you got to say? — okay, he looked jaw-dropping gorgeous in his new pair of black pants and blue jacket, his white shirt stretched tight across his chest and wide shoulders.

  There, I admit it. Happy? she snarled inwardly and the little voice cringed and went into hiding.

  Her mother waved from a table at the far end, and Ella sucked in a deep breath before setting her feet in that direction. Candles flickered on the white tablecloths, and red roses in small glass containers gave off their heavy scent. Didn’t manage to mask Finn’s smell, though, and it teased her senses as she strode between round tables where customers in tailored suits and haute couture dresses sat primly, sipping white wine from shining crystal.

  Feeling underdressed in her button-down blouse and dark pants, she took a seat across from her mother who was dressed up in black satin and pearls. Finn sat stiffly next to her, adjusting his shoulder holster discreetly beneath his jacket, his gun bulging at his side.

  Oblivious, her mother gave him a wide smile and her undivided attention. “Finn, right?” she cooed. “How are you, darling?” Her eyes slid to the bandages visible at his wrists and drew back, mouth pursing. “What happened?”

  “Work, you know.” Ella decided not to care her mother hadn’t noticed the stiff way she held her left arm.

  “Told you a thousand times that line of work isn’t for you,” her mother said, rearranging the silverware by her plate, looking annoyed.

  Ella swallowed the automatic retort — you think you know what’s best for me, huh? — and placed her hands on the table, fingers splayed, so they wouldn’t form fists. “Mom, we don’t have much time.” Shades and wolves waiting for us at every corner, whad’ya know? “Finn was telling me he’s interested in our family tree.”

  Finn arched a brow at her. She shrugged.

  “You insisted on seeing me tonight,” her mother drawled, “to ask me about our family tree?”

  “Uh, Finn was looking at the photos you brought and thought...” Ella swallowed.

  “I thought you look Norwegian,” Finn supplied, deadpan.

  Strained silence followed in the wake of his words.

  “You did?” Ella said, unable to stop the question from leaving her mouth. Her mother was a dyed blond, the roots showing, and her eyes were dark chocolate, like Ella’s. Raven-black brows framed her gaze.

  To all appearances unperturbed, Finn leaned back in his chair and fixed his million-watt stare on her mother.

  Who froze like a deer in headlights. She recovered with remarkable speed, though, raising a hand to her mouth and laughing lightly.

  “Goodness,” she said breathlessly. “Very clever.”

  Finn and Ella exchanged a glance.

  “Clever?” Ella repeated.

  “If you wanted to see me, you just had to ask, darling boy,” Ella’s mother told Finn warmly and waved a hand at the waiter who scuttled toward them. “More wine. What are you having?”

  Ella swallowed a sigh. “I’d like some wine, too. Finn as well.”

  Finn didn’t dispute her comment, only settled deeper in his chair — as much as one could in those damn high-backed, hard things.

  He hadn’t told her what his theory was and she itched to know, but he seemed content to bide his time in this high-class restaurant with her flirty and inebriated mother.

  The wine arrived in tall crystal glasses. Ella sipped hers. Finn swallowed his down in one long gulp. Christ, she’d have to carry him home and wasn’t sure he’d let her.

  Her mother giggled and raised her glass. “To our family.”

  Finn nodded solemnly, while Ella almost crushed the stem of the glass in her twitching fingers.

  Patience. She’d have to look the word up in a dictionary.

  “Despite my blond locks,” her mother said coquettishly, “I’m not of northern origin. I have French roots, from the southern part. I still have family there. Descendants of knights, I’ll have you know.”

  Southern France. That explained Ella’s dark hair and eyes. She’d heard her mother talk of her aunts, living near Marseille, on the Mediterranean. They’d always seemed as fantastical as the elves in the tales.

  Now both were real.

  Finn glanced at his empty glass and her mother waved again at the waiter. “More wine for this young man.”

  Whoa. “Finn...”

  He merely glanced her way, accepted the refill of his glass, and swallowed that down in one go — again.

  Holy shit.

  “And your husband?” he inquired, his voice polite and even, his hand steady as he placed the empty glass back on the table.

  “Ah, Robert, well, he...” Her mother sipped her wine, her gaze going distant. “He does have family from the north of Europe. Can’t tell you exactly where, but he often said his grandfather was a Viking.” She snorted. “The valor and bravery was too diluted to hold, I’d guess.”

  Ella realized she was again about to break her glass, and decided to drink the wine instead. Maybe Finn was wise to down two glasses before entering this conversation.

  “He is of Scandinavian origin,” Finn said, his voice less steady than before. “Are you sure?”

  “Oh yeah, it’s all coming back to me now.” Ella’s mother played with the condensation on her glass. “The Bensons. Came from Denmark, if I recall. Some Jewish blood in there, too, which is why Robert doesn’t look like a Viking, though he’s tall and...” Her mouth turned down at the corners. “I do think he mentioned a family name, some famous ancestor of his or other.”

  Ella leaned forward, wine forgotten. “What name?”

  “A very odd one. Wait, what was it?” Her mother snapped her fingers. “Srour. Srourson.”

  It was as if a fist hit Ella in the chest, robbing her of air. “No,” she said.

  Finn gave an encouraging nod. “Any other—”

  “You’re wrong,” Ella nearly shouted and stood, her chair screeching across the polished floor. “This can’t be.”

  The whispers from the nearby tables ce
ased, and an expectant hush fell over the restaurant. A waiter was hurrying toward them.

  “Ella, sit down,” her mother hissed, “you’re making a spectacle—”

  “Sirurdsson?” Ella asked, barely able to breathe. “Is that the name?”

  “Ah yes, that’s right! Always thought it a weird one. Now will you sit?”

  Ella turned on her heel and walked out of the restaurant, her blood rushing in her ears.

  No, impossible. Ridiculous. Absurd.

  So awful it was almost funny.

  Because if it were true... Well, that would make her a descendant of King Sirurd. Of Sirurd’s odd daughter.

  And her husband, John Grey.

  Chapter Seven

  Stars

  “Was that your theory? That I’m a descendant of John Grey and Sirurd’s daughter?” Ella started the car. “The book doesn’t say if they had children, but I guess...”

  Finn flicked her a bewildered glance. “The book from the library?”

  Oh. Right. Sheepish, she avoided his gaze as she pulled out of the parking lot and into the street. It was Mike she’d shared this with. “The Grarsaga, yes. King Sirurd’s daughter was apparently wed to the mysterious John Grey, at the insistence of the Light elves. And the name my mother mentioned...”

  “Sirurdsson,” Finn whispered. “You think you’re his descendant.”

  Well, now she thought about it more calmly, it sounded like six kinds of crazy. Just because the name fit, that didn’t mean it was true. “Nah, probably a coincidence. I got stressed. My mom does that to me.”

  He nodded. Heavy silence settled over them as they approached their neighborhood.

  “So what was your theory, then?” she wanted to know.

  Finn glowered at the road ahead. “Changeling.”

  “You thought I was changed at birth.”

  He shrugged. “No, I thought your mother might know of any such stories in your family.”

  “You thought I was a descendant of changelings. Dave said the elves experimented on children.” Nightmares, snatchers. Returning the children mad and sickly. “Why?”

  “To give them magic.” Finn spoke the words as if it was self evident. Well, not to her.