“Because, little sister,” Gideon slipped an arm around the back of her chair. “Life isn’t easy.”
She faced him. “What are you going to do?”
Gideon shrugged. “Same thing I’ve been doing for the better part of three centuries—nothing.”
“Does she know?” Riley asked.
He shook his head.
“Why not?” Something akin to hope sparkled in the crimson pools. “Maybe if you tell her she’ll—”
“What?” He gave her a sardonic grin. “Get beaten, humiliated, and tortured for me? Get killed for me? No. It’s better she doesn’t know.”
“But—”
“It won’t do anyone any good, Riley,” he said firmly. “Let it go.”
No one said anything, not even Riley. She rose from her seat and walked over to the bar. Octavian glanced up when she reached him and, without a word, slipped her arms around his middle. Something akin to calm passed over his brother’s face as he engulfed the tiny woman into his chest and pressed quiet words into the top of her head. Gideon had never been the jealous sort, especially never of his brothers, but damn if he didn’t want the ability to hold the woman he loved without risk, without worry.
Anxiety kept him awake that night long after the bar had closed and everyone else had gone to bed. He stayed downstairs, drowning his thoughts in bourbon and stale chips. His gaze wore a restless path to the doors, willing her to walk through.
She didn’t.
“Have you been here all night?” His mother, coffee mug in hand, joined him at the table.
“No,” he lied.
She didn’t look like she believed him, but he was relieved when she didn’t call his bluff.
“Did Valkyrie return?”
He shook his head, gazing intently at the amber liquid in his glass.
“I am sure she is fine.”
While Gideon told himself that he would feel it if her father decided that death was the only satisfying punishment, he couldn’t shake the coiling tension sitting rigid in the pit of his stomach. He hated not knowing what to do and being unable to do what he wanted. As much as he craved it, plunging a dagger deep into Arild Devereaux’s chest cavity and watching as life faded from his eyes, would never be more than a happy fantasy.
It was probably unhealthy, this obsession he carried around. Wanting his mate’s father dead in the most horrific manner would undoubtedly not earn him any sort of brownie points, but he just didn’t care. He wanted the man dead. He wanted to be the one to do it.
1783, New found launde, Canada
It was a task reminding himself they weren’t doing anything wrong, that hunting together was normal and social etiquette had nothing to do with it. It didn’t matter that it was improper for a young lady to be seen wandering aimlessly through back allies with a man that wasn’t a relative. She was a Caster first and, since the treaty, his hunting partner.
Yet despite all that, he couldn’t help feeling like they were doing something fundamentally immoral. It didn’t help that it was taking all his willpower not to give in to temptation and touch her. God help him, but he wanted to touch her. Kiss her. But a gentleman didn’t take such liberties with a lady.
“Gideon!”
Her urgency struck him first, even before he spun around to search for her in the dark. Oil lamps spilled dull fingers of yellow over her pale face as she sprinted out from between two buildings. Her dark hair was unbound, bouncing like wild springs around her shoulders. She held tight to the heavy fabric of her black skirt, holding it aloft to show ankles and calves strapped in soft, leather boots.
Something was wrong.
Angelic blade drawn, he shot a glance behind her, expecting something horrible to be hot on her trail. But the streets remained empty and silent save for them. Still, she ran as though the devil himself were at her heels.
“What is it?” he demanded, running to her, his blade held firmly in his grasp.
She was breathing hard. Up close, the end of her nose and the apples of her cheeks were a blotchy pink from exertions. Her eyes were too big for her face, round and glossy with unmistakable fear.
“Kyrie?”
He reached for her when she swayed. She was so white he was afraid she would faint.
“I was chosen,” she blurted, her voice trembling.
“What?”
Panting, she doubled over, but he knew it wasn’t from running. He had seen her run miles without breaking a sweat.
“Father says I must prove myself,” she said. “He says it is my time.” She straightened. Her blue eyes met his, glassy with terror. “He wishes for me to get my first mark.”
Gideon knew all about the Harvesters and their marks. Unlike the ones selkies received when they imprinted, a mark of unity and love, Harvesters marked themselves through violence and pain. Since his partnership with Valkyrie he had learned a lot about her people, about their traditions and customs. He had yet to learn a single thing that he agreed on, but he never told her as much. It wasn’t his place.
“When?” was all he could think to ask.
Her chin wobbled once before she stilled it. “I start preparations tomorrow.”
Preparations. Torture. They were one and the same.
“When is the ceremony?”
She swallowed audibly. “In five days.”
It was on the end of his tongue to beg her not to go through with it. To turn the honor down. But he knew she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Not without severe repercussions. Yet the thought of what she would face in the next five days tore at his insides. Even that was nothing compared to the fifth day. The day of the ceremony.
“Do you want me there?” It was all he could do for her.
She searched his face. Then shook her head. “I do not want you to see me like that.”
Against his better judgment, Gideon shifted closer to her, needing to be closer. “I want to be there for you.”
She was visibly trembling and it was all he could do to keep from pulling her into his arms.
Very slowly, she nodded. “All right, but you must swear you will not interfere.”
He wanted not to make any such promise, but she was pleading with him with her eyes and he was unable to deny her.
“I will not need to.” He offered her his best crooked smile. “You are fast and strong, and fight better than any man I know. I have absolute faith in you.”
Her eyes glinted with tears, but she grinned back at him. “You always were a superb liar, Gideon.”
He gasped in feigned horror. “You wound me.”
She laughed and some of the tension left her shoulders. “Another lie.” She straightened. “Nothing can hurt you.”
He didn’t say it as she slipped past him, but the next five days wouldn’t be just a torture for her. He would suffer with her. Possibly more, because seeing her and being unable to protect her was undoubtedly going to kill him.
The Romans were nothing compared to Arild Devereaux. Their gladiator wars were kitten play in comparison to what the Harvesters considered entertainment.
Gideon walked into the stadium and had to pause a minute to let his eyes adjust to the dimness of the enormous chamber. People shoved their way past him, scrambling down steep steps to find a seat close to the arena below.
It was like any other stadium. Great stands were erected around an oval ring. The only lights in the place shone directly on the pitch of sand making up the ground. The walls were built high around to keep the competitors from attempting to climb out. On the opposite end, a podium was built higher than the rest, overlooking the action. That’s where Arild Devereaux sat, a king on his throne with his wife on his left and four of his five daughters standing mutely over his shoulders.
Gideon studied them a moment, trying to see some sign of distress in their faces, fear or panic over what was about to take place, but the only one looking on with concern was Cressida. Valkyrie’s mother was wringing her handkerchief to the point of fraying and rocking e
ver so slightly. Arild seemed to notice this as well. His perfectly polished expression darkened into one of impatience. He mumbled something to Serinda and she, with an inclination of her head, gathered her mother up and led her from the arena.
Wishing he could have a moment with Arild in the arena, Gideon gritted his teeth, willing his patience to keep its head. His father would kill him if he started a fight in the house of a fellow keeper.
As if reading Gideon’s thoughts, Arild took that moment to glance in his direction. His eyes glinted with something Gideon couldn’t put a finger on.
Without taking his attention off Gideon, Arild said something to the next daughter, Alva, if Gideon wasn’t mistaken; he had never officially met the sisters. Not in fifteen years. It wasn’t in their nature. Unless they were discussing a battle strategy, they saw no reason to socialize. The friendship he and Valkyrie had was unusual and one they didn’t openly share.
“Caster?” The girl was at his elbow. How she had gotten down from the podium that quickly was beyond him. “Father wishes for you to join him in the top box.”
Gideon shot a glance to where Arild sat watching him, waiting. That strange glimmer was still in his eyes, like he expected Gideon to refuse.
“I would love to,” Gideon muttered, and was led along the edges of the room to the steps leading up onto the platform.
From that angle, there was no missing a single moment of Valkyrie’s fight. It sickened him.
“Gideon, is it not?”
He tore his eyes away from the arena below to meet Arild’s pale, cool eyes. “Yes, sir.”
Arild motioned to the empty seat on his left, the one previously occupied by his wife. “Join me. My wife is unable to attend tonight.”
Gideon inclined his head, said nothing and moved to the seat. He sat.
“Will your father be joining us?”
Gideon shook his head. “No, sir.”
Arild nodded slowly like that made sense. “And what brings you?”
Did he really need to ask?
“I came to watch Valkyrie win.”
A pale brow arched. “How presumptuous of you.”
Gideon met the other man’s gaze squarely. “Are you saying she won’t?”
Arild faced forward. “I would not dare make assumptions based on what you think you might know. Valkyrie has not been applying herself in her training of late. She has become absentminded and easily distracted. I cannot fathom how she will change that now.”
Gideon glanced at the arena below. “Have you ever seen her fight, sir?” He twisted his neck to capture the other man at the corner of his eye. “Out there. Not in a training arena.”
Arild narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.
Gideon looked down at the arena once more. “She is incredible.”
“Do you watch her often, Caster?”
Gideon straightened. “It is my duty as her partner to watch her back, sir.”
Arild made a humming sound that was swallowed by the loud murmur of voices as more spectators pushed their way into the stadium. The seats were all nearly filled.
“Well, I daresay, failure at this point will not be pleasant for her,” he ventured calmly. “No man will want a loser and her matching ceremony will be quite disgraceful.”
Gideon started. “Matching ceremony, sir?”
He knew of the matching ceremony. Valkyrie had told him all about it, but she never mentioned she would be matched, although, he really should have known.
A ghost of a smile twisted Arild’s mouth. “Of course. It is a true honor for a Harvester to make a good match. Her victory today will determine where she will stand when it comes to her future.”
Gideon had known that failing a marking ceremony came with a severe punishment, everything from exile to death, but he hadn’t considered what would happen if she won.
“Did Valkyrie not tell you she has already been spoken for?” There was an arrogance in the question, a sort of satisfaction that irked Gideon.
“It would not have mattered if she had,” he said. He looked at the other man. “A Harvester cannot marry outside her people.”
Something glinted in Arild’s eyes. “You seem well informed of my people, Caster. But you are correct, relationship outside our community is frowned upon. However, if we were to speak of my daughters, I would have her beaten and then make her watch as I behead the boy and his entire family before I have her chopped into tiny bits.” He paused to search Gideon’s eyes. “I will not allow filth to mar my bloodline. My daughters are descendants of angels. They are warriors. They deserve nothing less than the best, do you not agree?”
Gideon said nothing. But Arild didn’t seem to need a response.
“Valkyrie has always been a free spirit. She is very much like her mother, gentle ... tame. It is unbecoming of a warrior.” He took a deep breath, glanced at the arena below. “But there is still time to break her. I will not tolerate weakness.”
“Valkyrie is not weak,” Gideon said before he could stop himself. “She is brave and loyal. I would trust her with my life.”
“And your heart?”
Gideon stiffened.
Arild smirked. “Do you think me blind, boy? Do you think I do not see what is right in front of me? You are the thing foremost in my daughter’s mind and that will not do.”
“We only hunt—”
Arild shifted closer, too close. His eyes were pits of fire in the semi darkness. “She will never be yours, boy,” he hissed. “I will never allow it. I would rather see her dead and fed to the dogs before I let her leave these walls. And she will never leave her family. Not for you. She is my daughter, first and foremost, and you are nothing.”
It was brewing inside Gideon to snap the man’s neck and toss his body into the ring below, but the thirst was shortened when a set of doors along the side of the arena groaned open and everyone in the stadium instantly fell silent as the beast emerged.
Chapter Eight
“Gideon?” His mother’s unsuspecting intrusion into his thoughts jolted him, bringing him crashing back to reality and the worried glint in his mother’s eyes. “Are you all right, darling?”
It must have been exhaustion, concern, and too much alcohol, but it didn’t even hit him that she had spoken in Gaelic until he was responding in their native language.
“Just thinking about the attacks.”
His mother wasn’t stupid. She knew her sons better than they knew themselves and Gideon knew that. Despite that, she didn’t call him on his lie.
“Why don’t you get some rest?”
Gideon considered it. He could take a shower and crawl naked into bed. It certainly sounded better than sitting there, watching the door, and drinking the bar dry. Nevertheless, he remained. Sleep wouldn’t be kind to him anyway.
“I should find Magnus,” he decided instead.
“Magnus left.”
Gideon blinked, surprised by the news. “Left? Where...”
Her lips pursed and she brushed absently at invisible crumbs off the table. “He’s gone to that awful place.”
“The market?”
She visibly squared her shoulders and stubbornly met his gaze. “He didn’t tell me as much, but he wore that face.” She brushed at her lap, her movement stiff. “The one he wore during the war, like...” She trailed off and looked away.
Gideon didn’t say as much, because those days during the Great War had been hard on all of them, but only her family knew the affect it had had on her. Only they knew the nights she spent pacing the floors, praying to gods, angels, and demons alike that her family come back to her alive. Only they ever saw her fall apart when they did. None of them ever mentioned those days and had, until Riley’s arrival, tucked it away from the present, away from touching their mother ever again. That was why neither he nor Magnus ever told her that that was exactly what the market was ... war. Only the very brave, or very stupid, ever dared pass through those doors. Magnus had learned from experience to never go i
n without his game face on.
“You know he will be fine,” Gideon tried to assure her.
“Yes,” she agreed slowly. “My boys can take care of themselves. Lord knows your father tells me enough. That doesn’t mean I like it.”
None of us like it, Gideon thought, but never got the chance to voice his thoughts when the kitchen door squeaked open and Imogen shuffled through, rubbing her eyes and yawning.
“Not thinking of making another run for it, are you?”
Imogen blinked the sleep rapidly from her eyes and squinted at the pair across the room. “Sorry?”
“How are you?” his mother asked before Gideon could respond.
“All right. Thank you,” Imogen replied, moving a couple of steps closer.
“Are you hungry?” his mother asked.
Imogen shook her head. There were dark circles beneath her eyes and a paleness to her complexion that made the rings appear darker and deeper. But it was the glint in her eyes that Gideon noticed most.
It was defeat. Plain and simple. It was the look of someone who no longer had a reason to continue. It held the gleam of someone on the verge of giving up. Gideon, who had witnessed and been part of more wars than anyone, had seen that haunted pain far too many times.
“You know, no one will think unkindly of you if you decided to rest.”
Moving stiffly to one of the seats at the table, Imogen sat. “Resting won’t bring back my family. It won’t wash their blood from my hands.”
Even his mother who always had words of comfort seemed incapable.
Gideon gave the only comfort available to him; he poured Imogen two fingers of whiskey and slid the thumb-sized glass over to her.
“Gideon!” his mother reprimanded sharply.
Gideon opened his mouth to respond, only Imogen beat him to it. She plucked up the glass and downed it in a single, fluid sweep. That surprised him nearly as much as the fact that she didn’t cough. His mother snapped her mouth shut, but glowered disapprovingly at him.
“Father never allowed us to drink,” Imogen mumbled, staring at the now empty glass. “He believed that alcohol tainted our soul and we, as those selected to guide the dead with our song, needed to remain pure.” The muscles around her mouth flexed as if she were fighting the urge to cry. “I hated him ... for so many years. I couldn’t wait to get out and away from ... from ... them.” She took a gulping breath, choked. “I never understood why we were hiding, or why we couldn’t have friends at school. I kept telling him that the war was over. No one was hunting veil creatures anymore. We were safe. We were supposed to be safe! Instead, I ... they’re gone and the last thing I said to them was that I was leaving first chance I got.”
Gideon's Promise (Sons of Judgment Book 2) Page 13
