She let her thoughts go, allowed her own energy to wander the same way she’d done so many nights since Drandar dragged her back to life. With slow, measured breaths, Solène released her conscious hold on the inanimate objects that surrounded her and reached out to Taran the only way she knew how. And there, among the ancestors in the Astral plane, she could sleep within his arms. In dreams, nothing could divide them. Take comfort in the only brief escape they could claim.
Only, when her spirit slipped beyond the walls that held her, and she drifted to Taran’s slumbering side, he tossed fitfully on the bed. The sheets tangled around his body. A fine sheen of perspiration shone on his brow. He murmured something unintelligible and rolled onto his side.
As he did each night.
Knowing he would not answer, she called to him with her mind. Taran. Take my hand. Come with me.
A groan issued from his lips, and he tossed his head side to side. Her heart twisted at his soul’s torment. For a split second she debated yanking him to her side just to ease whatever nightmares plagued him. But doing so defied the laws of nature and could disrupt her favor with the energies of life.
Instead, she pushed herself to the limits of her abilities and set her hand over his. I’m here, Taran. If you can hear me, I’m right here.
He hadn’t heard her in the year since she’d been back. Nor would he tonight.
Chapter Eight
Taran jerked awake, panting. His heart beat a frantic rhythm behind his ribs. Perspiration dampened the sheets that tangled around his legs. In his mind, though his wide-eyed stare remained locked on the sunlit ceiling, the faces from his nightmares flashed. Lives he had brought to an end over a century ago, souls who refused to let him go. Their pleas echoed in his ears.
Releasing a shuddering breath, he rolled onto his side and closed his eyes to the misery that festered in his soul. He hadn’t meant to kill a one of them. Would give all he owned, all he was, to undo those wrongs. But he’d been a slave to Drandar’s curse, and that vile fate combined with his already darker soul, possessed him. As the dreams of those innocents possessed his sleep.
He didn’t even know how many had suffered at his hands. Solène was the last conscious memory.
Gradually his heart rate eased. The vise around his chest loosened enough he could draw air, and he lay in the quiet, withdrawing from the clutches of a past he couldn’t change. Like each morning, Solène’s presence lingered the longest. Not just the image of life slowly seeping from her beautiful face, but the feel of her skin, the soft scent of cinnamon that clung to her hair. All the joy she’d created when he had begun to believe he would never know that emotion.
Yet something more, something richer filtered through his awareness. A tangible connection he had experienced on more than one morning in the last year. As if somehow, she had managed…
Taran’s breath caught as understanding locked into place. Solène hadn’t been a dream this last year. She’d been here, with him, bridged in spirit by her ability to traverse the Astral plane at will. And like her other magical skills, that talent had strengthened.
Comfort he had no right to experience lifted the corners of his mouth. But before his smile could fully take shape, the reality of their crossed circumstance wiped it away. He rolled onto his belly, folded the pillow beneath his arms, and stared at the scars across his knuckles. Nothing he could do would alter the only fate left to him. He had never believed the ancestors would grant her life again—they did such deeds so rarely, why would he?
If he had thought for an instant he might once again experience the treasure of her love, he would have spent the last century atoning for all the wrongs he had unconsciously committed. By the sacred spirits, he would have poured his vast amount of wealth into orphans, strays, and humane aid efforts. But he hadn’t. The only apology he had uttered came last night. All because he wanted nothing else but to join Solène in death.
Now, death was the only escape from the inevitable outcome his despicable sire had insured on the night Nyamah defied him.
Taran chewed on the inside of his cheek. Solène might welcome him to her bed, might speak words from her heart, but her parting words evidenced the damage that remained in her spirit. Her trust in him had broken completely. Not that he faulted her for that—he wasn’t to be trusted.
But the pain of that truth lanced through him like hot pokers driven into his flesh. He had failed her, and he was only guaranteed to do so again.
Unless he could convince her to turn over the scroll. Like the rest of his family, Solène probably assumed he intended to destroy it. If he explained, if he confided his only intent was to stop this cycle, and in turn save her, she’d understand. She alone knew the truth of what his sire’s curse created inside him.
She wouldn’t like it, but she’d understand.
Biting back frustrated oaths, he untangled his legs from the mess of sheets and quilts and pushed himself from the bed. Tomorrow would be the last day he had with Solène. Tomorrow night, at Samhain, the day he had been brought into this world, he would say goodbye.
Forever.
He ignored the painful twist of his heart and forced himself to shower and dress, though he longed to delay the inevitable. Excuse after excuse rose, taunting with the false hope that he might escape the horrific needs of his curse. She tempered him before, she could do so again…
No. He ground his teeth together and jerked open the front door. He wouldn’t be a fool again. Solène inspired goodness inside him, but she was still vulnerable. A risk he wouldn’t chance twice.
Sluggish steps took him to the broken sewer grate, where he fished a packet of cat treats out of his back pocket. He dumped it on the curb, stepped back and waited at a respectful distance. Mercury’s wide scarred head peeked out, followed by his lean muscular body. A matted brown streak in his tabby coat announced a fight had occurred last night. As his shoulders hunched and he gobbled up the food, Taran caught sight of a long red tear that ran down his foreleg.
“Better take care of yourself, old man. You’ll have to find your own food soon.”
True to form, Mercury lifted yellow-green eyes and let out a low warning growl. Taran chuckled despite himself. He watched as Mercury ate, stalled until the grouchy tom sat and licked a paw to groom his tattered whiskers. When he had quite thoroughly cleaned the cut on his leg, he stretched out in the morning sun. The tip of his broken tail twitched lazily.
Taran’s attention shifted to the rising roof of Solène’s home. Time to stop procrastinating. If he were lucky, he might have the afternoon with her. Perhaps a bit of the evening.
He stiffened his shoulders, steeled his resolve, and turned away from Mercury. If there was indeed anything worth hoping for from his mother, maybe she would look after the cat. Every now and then, despite his street-wise skill, he needed an intervening hand.
The trek to Solène’s seemed never-ending. Each step dragging him down a path he didn’t want to take. One step closer to finality, when he had once again discovered peace.
At her patio’s edge, a familiar voice from the front of the house pulled him to an abrupt halt. He cocked his head, listening.
“It’s so good to see you again, Solène. I’m so glad you called.”
Isolde!
Taran’s jaw clenched. Solène had contacted the sister he couldn’t stand. The one member of their family who had never known the call of their sire’s unspeakable desires. Why? Why her?
Like a match set to dried kindling, anger flared through his veins. Even as the questions rioted in his head, he knew the answers. They had been like sisters. Now that Solène had revealed herself, she would want to reconnect with Isolde. It was only natural.
But the vile half of his soul refused to embrace logic. Solène betrayed him by contacting the only sibling who could threaten him. More aptly, she’d summoned Isolde for that singular purpose—another attempt to keep him from obtaining the ancient ritual.
His hesitation vanished. He st
alked across Solène’s patio, around to the open iron gates and the front door. He slapped a hand against the smooth old wood that rested unlatched against the jamb. It flew open with his shove, banged into the wall behind. Still standing in the middle of the front foyer, a simple bag in her hand, Isolde whirled around in surprise. The man at her side moved to put himself between the two women and Taran.
“Taran!” Solène gasped.
Taran shot his sister a glare, then narrowed it on Solène. “Did you not damage me enough last night? Did you have to stoop to this”—he flung a hand at his sister—“to make me bleed?”
“Enough, Taran. She knows nothing of our rift,” Isolde instructed quietly. “She called out of concern.”
He scoffed. “Concern that I might disrupt your promise to our mother.” He shoved past both women on a course to the stairs. “Is the scroll up here, Solène? Did you lock it away after I left?”
Halfway across the room, he skidded to a stop. From the corner of his peripheral vision, sitting atop the table in the hall, laid a length of dilapidated hide. The sort of skin used in the Selgovae’s reign to protect important tribal belongings. From beneath the brittle corners, Nyamah’s magic pulsed in shades of blue, purple, and gold.
Solène lunged for the artifact at the same time Taran pivoted. His shoulder connected with hers. She stumbled sideways with a squeak.
“Taran, stop!”
He ignored her frantic exclamation and closed his fingers around his mother’s ritual. Power zinged through his arm, strength that was so pure in its composition, it felt like molten fire rolled through his veins. For a moment, he could do nothing more than gasp in shock and will his fingers not to let go.
Solène’s hands closed around his. Her nails pried at his knuckles in a vain effort to loosen his grasp. “Let go. You don’t understand.”
“I don’t understand…” As sense overcame the stun of his mother’s significant might, Taran shook his head. A laugh rasped free. “I understand this belongs to me.” With a fierce jerk of his arm, he dislodged her hold.
“Taran.” Low and threatening, Isolde’s voice cut through the tall foyer. “Turn it loose.”
“Or what, dear sister?” He chuckled as he moved toward the door. “You will turn that pathetic light on me?” Stepping onto the front porch, he avoided looking at Solène. She alone held the power to bend him. But she’d erred in reaching out to the sibling who had become his enemy. He would never give Solène that power over him again.
“Without me, you have no ritual, Isolde. And I am not inviting you to attend my Samhain rite.”
Before Isolde could unleash the bright light of power that gathered in the palm of her hand, Taran jumped off the front steps to the sidewalk. He didn’t bother with running. There was no need. Isolde would never display her strength in public. To do so would defy her precious mother’s teachings.
Instead, he struck a swift determined pace. Anger driving him onward. Regret urging him to turn around and yield.
Chapter Nine
Solène darted for the door on Taran’s heels, unmindful of Isolde’s protests. She’d waited too long in offering any sort of explanation for why she refused to give him the means of peace he believed Nyamah’s scroll to be. Worse, in Taran’s eyes, she’d betrayed him. But by the sacred energies, she hadn’t expected him to return before she could explain to Isolde and hopefully discover the means of correcting Drandar’s adjustments to Nyamah’s ritual.
The stone-faced homes and shop fronts passed in a blur. Ahead, the sidewalk spanned before her, empty save for the baker who retrieved a rolled up paper from his stoop. He jumped aside as Solène barreled past.
Damn it—where was Taran? He hadn’t had a lengthy head start. Yet he’d disappeared like she gave him thirty minutes lead.
Unless…
Her frantic pace slowed as she approached a narrow, shadowed alley. Unless he’d turned off somewhere.
She peered down the damp cobblestones that had been forgotten with time. At the rear corner of the bakery, another even dingier street intersected the dirty alley. The squatter reclining against a broken streetlamp and the trash that gathered in the gutters made it plain no respectable traffic frequented the hidden cross-street.
Following impulse, she turned the corner and picked up a jog again. The nearer she came to the intersection, the stronger the aroma of dirty humans and urine became. She wrinkled her nose and made a left at the bum’s mismatched boots.
Still no sign of Taran. But this place held a familiarity she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Solène glanced behind her, trying to connect the pieces. Her gaze skidded to a halt on a red trash dumpster. She’d seen it before—more than once. That colorful fixture caught her attention each night she spirit-walked to Taran. Under magical influence, she merely drifted toward his comforting presence, never giving her surroundings much heed. Now, the routine markers stood out in bas-relief against an otherwise flat canvas.
Thank the ancestors for small miracles. This street led to Taran’s residence—she’d stake her soul on that gut instinct.
Unable to run for fear she’d disrupt her concentration or miss an important landmark, she slowed her pace to a swift stroll. All around her shadows watched, silent presences that marked the living and the unfortunate who’d risked this path at an inopportune time. She sensed the hidden malice, smelled the foul intent. Let the criminals approach—she’d be more than happy to illustrate the damage true darkness could inflict.
But strangely, the only vanguard who intercepted her path was a beat-up old tomcat, that darted in front of her and ducked into a broken sewer grate. Solène kept going, following the subconscious knowledge of her mind.
At a nondescript brick apartment building, her pulse quickened. Familiar, tarnished brass numbers above the doorframes marked each individual flat. Her gaze locked on 224. Beyond that simple wooden barrier lay a parlor that was every bit as plain. Down the hall she’d find a modest iron bed tucked against a barren bedroom wall.
Taran’s flat—thank the ancestors.
Determined, she knocked.
Footsteps sounded from within. The deadbolt shifted. Hinges creaked as Taran opened the door and stuck his head out. His gaze narrowed on her.
“Taran, hear me out.”
He retreated, but before he could close the door in her face, Solène stuffed the toe of her boot inside. “Do you always have to be so stubborn?”
“Go back to Isolde, Solène. I have nothing to say to you.”
“Oh, for the love of the ancients—knock this nonsense off. Let me in, or I’ll make a scene on the doorstep.”
Three seconds passed. Three never-ending moments of time where Taran scrutinized her through the narrow opening, and she defiantly stared him down. Then, with a harassed sigh, Taran swung the door open wide. Solène wasted no time in ducking inside. “Much better. Thank you.”
“What do you want?”
The cold unfeeling tone of his voice sent a chill shimmying down her spine. They’d argued before, disagreed on many things. But even at their most divided times, he still retained his passion. Had she overstepped too far by reaching out to Isolde?
No. She couldn’t become wrapped up in self-doubt. Tomorrow night Samhain would be upon them. She hadn’t had a choice.
“Taran, I suspect I know what’s caused this rift between you and Isolde. But I didn’t betray you.” She took a step closer to him and rested her open palm on the center of his chest. “I’m trying to help you. She—”
“Help?” With a bitter laugh, he twisted away. “You’ve kept the scroll from me, Solène. You know what it means to me.”
“I do,” she answered quietly.
“Then what game of my mother’s are you playing? I have the scroll. I will enact the ritual. Drandar will die, and Nyamah will have what she desires. It is exactly what she and Isolde want.”
Solène shook her head, and her voice dropped to a low murmur. “Nyamah didn’t bring me back, Taran.�
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“Then who?”
She held his gaze steadily, grasping at words within her mind. The last thing she wanted to do was cause Taran more pain. But confessing what Drandar had done would inevitably damage Taran further. To be betrayed not once, but twice by the sire he despised. To face an end that was eternal, or an existence of never-ending escape would cut Taran to the quick.
“Who, Solène?” he demanded more harshly. “Who, other than my mother, has the power…”
Understanding widened Taran’s eyes. He blinked once. Twice. Then fury blackened his expression. His bellow ricocheted through the barren room. “What does Drandar gain from this?”
Jarred out of her momentary stupor by his thunderous explosion, Solène grabbed him by the hand. “Come back with me. Let me explain to both you and Isolde.”
Taran remained immobile, his posture as rigid as stone, his expression a tight line of barely controlled anger.
She tugged on his hand again and cast a pleading gaze over her shoulder. “Taran, please. We have to work together. We used to—all of us. I’ve always trusted you, now I’m asking you to do the same and believe me when I say Isolde is here to help.”
With a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumped. “Things have changed, Solène,” he argued quietly. “I’m not part of the family anymore. They loved you. I took you from them.”
A soft, tender smile tugged at her mouth as she turned around and settled a palm against the side of his face. Whiskers he’d neglected to shave scraped pleasantly. “And I love you, Taran. They accepted that before. They will again.”
Letting her smile break fully free, she pulled on him once more, and he took a begrudging step forward. But at the door, he stopped short. She queried him with furrowed brows.
Taran gathered both her hands in his. “Whatever Isolde might say…” He paused, his frown returning to shadow his mesmerizing green eyes. “Last night…a little while ago…” His mouth pinched as if the thoughts clanged together nonsensically. Then, with a short shake of his head, he expelled a hard breath. “I can’t control my darker half like I used to be able to, Solène. I’m sorry.”
Marked for Death Page 5
