“Morning sunshine. Apple-cranberry muffin?”
“Mmm.” Bri shuffled across the floor in Kean’s deerskin slippers and drizzled honey into her mug. Astrid passed her a muffin, and the two of them stood at the kitchen window, watching the dogs play in the snow after their breakfast.
“I brought your mail.”
Bri nodded and sipped her tea. “Thanks.”
“You should go over there, you know. All your stuff arrived from Sydney. I had three of my waiters help me move it off the front porch into the foyer.”
“Yeah, about that,” Bri said.
Astrid’s eyes narrowed, and only then did Bri notice she’d streaked her hair with four-leaf-clover green and cherry red. “You’re not backing out of this party.”
Bri scoffed. “What are you, the Christmas police?”
“Bri,” Astrid whined, “You said you would go. The Yule Festival is the largest gathering we have all year. Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t feel like it. I think I’m just gonna do like you suggested — go to Ce-Ce’s and unpack some of my stuff. I can’t keep wearing Kean’s clothes everywhere, people are starting to look at me funny.”
Worry pulled at Astrid’s brow. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” Bri answered with an automatic smile. She’d answered that question about a million times in exactly the same way. Now, at least, it was mostly true. In every sense of the word that mattered to Astrid, she was fine. She’d willed herself out of bed every morning the past three weeks. She’d done chores, and run errands, and accepted every invitation to socialize. She ate everything Astrid put in front of her — she’d gained ten pounds, at least — and she slept a solid nine hours every night. Nightmare free. The rest of her time she spent immersed in Zyne texts, learning the nuances of her magic. Some part of her was still broken, but it wasn’t a part that kept her from living. So, she was fine.
“Because it’s okay not to be.”
“Mmm.” Bri thumbed through the stack of mail on the counter. Astrid’s stare bored into her back. Another wax-sealed envelope from the Synod, a letter from her record company, and a smaller, personal one were the only items of interest among the monthly statements and condolence cards. Bri sighed and set the two letters aside. “You go. Have a good time.”
She opened the sliding glass door, and Max and Maggie charged in, dusted with crystal flakes.
“I can skip it and hang out here, if you want. We can roast marshmallows in our PJs.”
Bri smiled. “Thanks. But I really think I want to be alone.”
“Okay,” Astrid conceded. “You’ll tell me when you need me, right?”
“Yeah, of course.” Bri hugged her. Despite her outward resilience, she knew that Astrid needed her too. She would be there. She wasn’t going anywhere. Bri refused to make the same mistake twice — she wasn’t going to close herself off again. It was just going to take some time to dislodge the dam inside. “I have a feeling you’re going to meet someone special tonight,” she said as they broke apart. “Call me tomorrow and dish.”
“Yeah, right.” Astrid snorted and unpacked some more food from her sparkly silver Santa bag. She shooed the dogs ahead of her, and Bri followed them down the hall. Astrid pulled on her boots and made both of the dogs kiss her goodbye before she turned back to Bri. Her smile was sad. “I fixed you Shepherd’s Pie. It was Kean’s favorite. Half hour at three-fifty.”
“That sounds like you knew I was going to ditch.”
Astrid shrugged. “I miss him too, Bri. But Kean wouldn’t want us moping around.” She wrapped a candy-cane scarf twice around her head, hugged again, and left.
I’m not moping. She was engaging in life’s activities with gusto. So what if she was doing it on auto-pilot? She’d get in and drive when she was damn good and ready.
She ran on the treadmill, took a shower, and was on her third load of laundry when she returned to the mail. The smallest envelope had been addressed from a Vancouver P.O. Box, in a slanted script that was oddly old-fashioned. The seal broke easily, and the feather-light paper whispered open in her fingers. In the same elegant scrawl, it read:
Briana,
I am sorry for too many things to recount in a letter. I must see you. Please, may I call?
Lucas
Bri started to crumple it in her fist, but paused. Sorry was the right place to begin, if she and Lucas were going to have any sort of beginning. Four hundred years hadn’t kept him away. Her animosity would only hold him at bay for so long. She couldn’t give him what he wanted — whatever that was — but maybe she could give him a chance to become her friend. Maybe. She tucked the note into the stationary drawer.
The rule was not to close off, right? As easy as it would be to hate Lucas Moncrieffe and lock him tightly away with everything else that had happened, she would only be living in denial. He was her Familiar — she had figured that much out. Their destinies were intertwined. She could at least consider hearing him out.
The letter from the Synod was the same as the last — a request for an audience. Bri had learned in her study of Zyne laws that the Council could request her presence, but unless she broke one of the Threefold Laws or put others in danger with magic, they couldn’t retrieve her. Or at least they wouldn’t…for now.
Everyone seemed to be waiting to see what she would do with her new status as a Skydancer. Most of the Zyne she ran into seemed to think she was some sort of power-hungry sorceress. The other half were in awe, but still kept their distance. The Synod, she suspected, just wanted to use her for their own purposes. She had yet to decide what being a Skydancer meant for her…and Lucas. For now, she was keeping their connection a secret while she learned what she could, though she’d run out of resources. Most of the books referencing Skydancers and their Familiars were probably in the library at the Arcanum. She frowned and tucked the Synod’s invite behind the flour jar with the others of its kind.
The notice from her record company was a final offer on a compromise to her expired deal. They were willing to let her record in Vancouver, as long as she booked it by the end of the month. She threw that one away and filled the rest of the afternoon reorganizing Kean’s bookshelves by subject-matter, and then alphabetically by author, wondering when he’d gotten into legal thrillers. Maybe she would try one out.
When the sun was firmly in the western realm of the sky and she couldn’t put it off any longer, she fed the dogs and climbed into Kean’s creaky old truck. The snow was falling again.
Ce-Ce’s house was always drafty in the winter. The furnace took a long time to catch up when starting cold, so Bri lit a fire first thing, and put Astrid’s Shepherd’s pie in the oven. She opened a bottle of Cabernet, and committed herself to sorting the stacks of boxes filling the foyer.
As she catalogued the remnants of her other life, merging them into the home she’d grown up in, she thought about the record deal. What was holding her back? There was no rule against it. She could have both — her new Zyne life in Evergreen Cove and her success. But she was afraid the label’s willingness to compromise, along with the three other recording offers she’d received, had more to do with the media circus surrounding Eric’s “plane accident” than it did her own talent. It wasn’t that she didn’t want her career anymore. She just didn’t want it for that reason. That, and she hadn’t played since that night.
It wasn’t because of Kean. He would have wanted her to reach for everything within her grasp. He would want her to live her life to its fullest, to honor his sacrifice. She wanted to do that. She wanted to record. She just didn’t want to record her boring recital tour anymore. The classics were always new, and sales were a safe bet, especially with her name still popping up in the tabloids. But she had so much more to give.
Whenever she’d tried to sell any of her own compositions in the past, there’d always been some excuse to pass them over. Some critics were trite and underwhelmed, others were blunt and brutal. She lac
ked originality. She played flawlessly, but there was just something missing. Her work was too static, not organic enough. Not enough emotion. No intensity.
She had plenty of intensity now.
She could feel her power building each day as the moon marched on its cycle. Now all that energy coalesced just below her skin, waiting to slide forth. Her carrying capacity was only limited by her ability to wield the magic, something she would increase with time and practice. She needed to find a channel for it. Why not her music? What if her debut could be something truly original? Something born of her soul. Something born of her pain. A phoenix to rise from the ashes, re-forged. That would be something worth sharing with the world.
Her heart skipped a beat when she reached the bottom of a box full of coats and scarves. She pulled a brown paper-wrapped package out of the heap and stared at it. At the back-slant of Kean’s writing on the address label. The birthday gift he’d given her that last summer, before she left for Australia. She’d never opened it. How had she forgotten?
She carried the package into the kitchen and set it on the table. Did she really want to open it? Whatever was inside would only serve as a reminder that she should have opened it seven years ago. Seven years she’d lost with him. With Ce-Ce and Tara. They might all be here with her, trimming the tree, if she hadn’t been such a coward. The package stared back at her as she ate dinner standing up. She rinsed her dishes and polished off her third glass of wine.
“What the hell.” She finally swept the box under her arm and carried it into the sitting room. She sat Indian-style in front of the fire, ripped through the craft paper, flipped the lid off, and dug through the tissue paper filling the top. It was a photo album. She opened the cover, and read the inscription inside:
Bri- I’ll always be there. Promise. -Kean
The book was full of pictures of her and Astrid and Kean from before kindergarten, to the summer after senior year.
“Dammit, Kean.” Bri sipped at her wine, her hands shaking. The grief swirled up, a rising tide rushing through the empty caverns inside of her. She couldn’t hold it in forever. She had to find a way to breach the invisible barrier. She didn’t want to be frozen behind glass anymore. She was ready to break through, and just drunk enough to sit down at the piano and see what happened. She lit three candles on the top, using her newly acquired fire-conjuring incantation, and set the open photo album between them. Then, she heated up the spiced cider and cornbread Astrid had left with the Shepherd’s Pie, and poured another glass of wine.
The greedy little music monster inside of her wouldn’t be able to resist the keys being stroked and not played. She would have to play something.
Play anything.
The notes fell from stiff, clumsy fingers, first at random, quickly picking up a natural rhythm. Soon she recognized a phrase. A melody.
Bring back that lovin’ feelin’…
Silly, but a part of her wished all would be restored as that song filled the air. She would turn around and see Kean leaning in her doorway. In tight jeans, a bomber jacket, and aviator sunglasses. She snorted, and slipped right past laughter into crying, banging the keys with her elbows.
Why?
Why did he always have to be the hero? Why hadn’t he understood that her life would be worth nothing without him? He should have known. She should have told him. She should have never left. She should have loved him the way he deserved.
This is supposed to be helping.
It was Yule. Solstice night. The rebirth of the sun. A night for introspection and forward motion. Time to step out of the shadows.
Her fingers hovered over the keys. She took three deep breaths, eyes closed, and thought therapeutic thoughts. Misty meadows, Astrid’s kitten Zeek snuggling on her chest, kayaking at dawn.
When she felt more clear-headed, she focused on Kean. She recalled every memory stirred to the surface by the photographs he’d hand-selected to represent their youth. She composed a mental slideshow of all the things she loved about him. His loyalty. His courage. The fierce purity of his love. His eyes, his lips, his hands…
Her body ached with need for him, for his arms around her. Anger and grief waged a war of fire and ice in her chest. Still, she breathed. And played. She played for Kean. She poured all the unspent love she had for him into the notes until they became music.
Magic surged through her, and a song emerged. Kean’s song. And then she played with great joy, because she knew wherever he was, on some level, Kean had to feel the power she was raising for him. All for him. Only for him. When she finished the song a third time, Bri blinked open lashes sticky with tears. Her blouse was wet, her throat hollow and dry. She felt…peaceful. Drained, but renewed.
The candles blew out.
I liked that one, came a whisper from behind her.
She gasped and whirled around. The room was empty. Of course. She smeared her sleeve across her face and peered into the dimmest corner again. No shadows but the outlined lumps of furniture. She turned on a lamp and checked the hallway.
The grandfather clock tick-tocked. The pendulum swung.
Bri.
There was no mistaking the feel of Kean’s breath. She turned around slowly with her eyes closed. It couldn’t be. Kean had turned to stone while she watched. He was dead. Gone. Her head understood that, but her heart didn’t. It was battering at the inside of her chest like a caged wild thing, about to break loose.
She exhaled and opened her eyes.
Kean stood between the piano and the window seat, halfway between light and shadow.
Bri’s vision blackened as all her blood sank into her legs, making them heavy and wobbly. She hovered in a moment of stillness, afraid to believe. Her sight opened like the mouth of a tunnel, and she looked again, just to be sure she hadn’t hallucinated. It wouldn’t be the first time her mind went on walkabout without her. She had consumed an entire bottle of wine this evening.
But there he was. Kean wasn’t standing, but floating, in a partially opaque form. He looked like a painting that had been washed out, faded and aged.
He smiled. “Hullo, Bri.”
Bri fell to her knees. Her eyes itched with tears she didn’t have to shed. Her voice came out a panicked croak. “How?”
“The demon’s curse was strong, but so are my ties to this plane, to my destiny.”
She shook her head. “What?”
Kean’s form moved and thinned out, like smoke. For a second he disappeared, but then he spoke, and the outline of his features became more pronounced. He knelt beside her and reached out as if to touch her.
Bri closed her eyes, willing herself to feel his fingertips. All she felt was a creep of chill that made her hair stand on end. More tears bubbled in the back her throat.
“You, Bri. You’re my destiny. I love you too damn much to let go.”
She shook her head again, gulped, and forced some strength into her voice. “No, Kean. You can’t be a ghost.”
A Lumere…
She’d read about them. A Zyne soul stuck in between lives, in limbo. Usually cursed. In this case, cursed by a demon that had meant to kill her. She could barely live with costing Kean his life. Now she had cost him his soul as well?
Is this real? She’d had plenty of dreams of him the past few weeks.
The ghost laughed, a sound like crackling ice. It froze Bri’s chest solid. “I woulda thought you’d be happier to see me, Miss Spurrier. I am skipping a turn on the Wheel for you, ya know.”
“You did this on purpose?” She gaped through him out the window. The snow was still falling, the sky quickly darkening, making Kean seem more solid. She couldn’t help but drink in the mirage, stash it away.
“Don’t look so surprised. You know I keep my promises. My wards go deep in this house, my memories too. It was the perfect anchor point. And you were my lighthouse, my beacon.”
She was speechless. Numb from shock. From too much wine.
“I wasn’t expecting the beautiful music, th
ough. Did you write that for me, baby?”
She nodded, words slowly thawing loose in her brain.
His misty visage cast her one of his lopsided grins. It still had the same effect, regardless of being just an apparition. He ruffled his silken shadow hair. “I wish you’d done that while I was alive, so I could kiss you proper for it.”
Bri smiled. He started to reach out for her again, but stopped himself. He rubbed his hand on his thigh, and the shadows there sparkled. “Listen, Bri. I don’t know how long I can keep this up.”
“What?” This could be her last conversation with Kean, and all she’d managed to choke out was a few inane questions.
Say something, dammit!
She had to tell him how much she loved him.
“I’ll be back, but it may take some time for me to gather up the power. I think your music helped. Keep doing that. Either way, I want you to know I’m always with you, even if you can’t see or hear me. I love you.”
“Kean?” she gasped when his image wavered. She reached out to the air where he’d just been, arms flailing when they found nothing but cold air. She scrambled to her feet. “Kean!” She hugged her arms around herself and turned a slow circle, searching for any flicker in the shadows.
“I’m here, baby,” his voice answered. “I’m not going anywhere. But what you need now is rest, Bri.”
“I’m so tired.” Exhaustion hit her like a MAC truck, and she swayed on her feet. But she had to stay awake, to talk to Kean. She had to tell him something important…
“Come up to bed,” he said.
Without another thought, she obeyed. It took no effort to follow the sound of his voice up the stairs. He guided her into her old bedroom. “Get undressed, baby.”
She pulled her shirt over her head and shimmied out of her jeans, each motion making her limbs feel like they weighed a hundred pounds. She bent over to take off her socks.
Kean’s voice said, “I wish I could help you do that.”
Bri conjured some semblance of a smile, then climbed under the covers and rubbed her legs against the cold sheets. A sound that was half-whimper, half-sigh echoed into the dark.
Rain of Ash: Skydancer Book 1 (The Zyne Legacy) Page 30
