Gregori must have felt her tense up. “I apologize,” he said, starting to remove his arm. “I did not mean to be too familiar. My brothers and I have always been what I believe some call ‘touchy-feely.’ It is, perhaps, a Russian thing.”
Ciera reached up to touch his hand, tugging it gently back into place and then, hesitantly, leaned slightly into him. “It’s okay,” she said. “Kind of nice, really.” She took another deep breath, trying not to be obvious about it. “I always thought of the Russians as a cold people, somehow.”
He laughed, a low rumble she could feel in his strong chest. “The land is cold, the people warm. It is a common misconception.” He paused. “May I ask, is it me that makes you uncomfortable, or simply being touched? I have noticed that you do not share the easy camaraderie that others who work at the shelter seem to enjoy, despite having worked there for some time.”
“It’s me, not you,” Ciera said, smiling a little at the old cliché. “You have to understand . . . I’m not, that is to say, I don’t have much practice. My parents weren’t really demonstrative people. I don’t remember them hugging me, or even tucking me into bed. And my only real experience with men was Victor. You know how well that turned out. I suppose I’ve just learned never to let down my guard.”
“All men are not Victor,” Gregori said in a quiet voice. “For example, I am not Victor.”
And then he leaned forward and kissed her.
CHAPTER 14
GREGORI had a moment to think about how bad an idea this was, for a multitude of reasons. Ciera had had nothing but bad experiences with relationships, and he had every intention of becoming a monk. Not to mention that they both had goals and secrets they could not share. A very bad idea indeed.
Then her lips softened under his and she kissed him back, letting out a small sigh that captured his heart, and he was lost in the attraction to her he had been trying so hard to resist all this time. He had only meant to kiss her, in a foolish attempt to wipe out some of the bad memories and replace them with good ones, caught up in his sorrow over the waste of such a wonderful woman because of one bad—admittedly very bad—man.
Only one kiss. That was what he had intended. But Ciera’s lips were sweet like the juice of a pomegranate, and her skin under his hands felt like velvet. When she put her arms around him, he deepened the kiss, pulling the pins out of her hair until it cascaded over her shoulders. The tiny jingle of the bits of metal falling to the floor was almost lost in the moan she let out when he moved his lips down her neck, and then he was lost too. Lost in the sounds she made, and the smell of her, a heady mix of some kind of light, flowery soap and something innately Ciera.
As he slowly unbuttoned her blouse, he waited to see if she would tense or protest, ready to stop at the first sign of fear or hesitation. But her passion seemed to be as great as his, and before too long she was touching him in return, making the breath catch in his throat as she pulled off his shirt and trailed full lips down his chest.
With a low growl, he scooped her up off the couch and into the bedroom, laying her down on the bed and covering her body with his. Naked, she had abundant curves not revealed by the purposely plain clothing she usually wore, and Gregori spent long minutes savoring the heavy roundness of her breasts, which were only a slightly lighter tawny color than the rest of her skin and crowned with dark crimson nipples that begged to be sucked and nibbled.
Wide hips called to him, and he stroked his way down her flat belly until he could slide his fingers gently between her legs. She moaned into his mouth, speaking his name in a low, husky voice, and after that it all became a blur of hot kisses and sliding flesh, until they came together as one, crying out in mingled passion and ecstasy.
After, Gregori pulled her close, holding her as she shuddered with the tiny aftershocks, murmuring silly endearments in Russian, and eventually pulling the covers up over them as sleep crept over their pleasantly tired limbs. For a while, they slept.
• • •
THE dream slid into his sleep like a shadow creeping out of a half-closed closet door, slithering over joy and relaxation and turning them into dust. It began as it had before, with piles of white snow and oozing red blood. The same storm swirled, covering the city, leaving its trail of fear and destruction.
Then it changed, the fire rising higher and higher, the snow falling more and more heavily, and in the flickering lights of the flames he could see Ciera’s broken body lying on the ground. Snow and blood pooled beneath her as her sightless eyes gazed up at the burning sky.
In his dream, he could hear himself shouting her name, the only sound in the silent chaos. But he could not have been shouting, because he could see his own body, charred almost beyond recognition, lying only a few feet away from hers, one arm stretched out as if to reach for her. He had failed to save her. Failed to save himself. Failed to save anyone. Just as he had failed to save his brothers from Brenna, and was still failing to find his way in a new life.
Death. Fire. Snow. Failure.
He awoke in the dark in an unfamiliar room, his heart racing and heavy with grief. He struggled to pull in air through lungs that seemed too tight, as if filled with the smoke he could almost still smell behind the more pleasant scents that lingered from their passionate coupling.
Gregori swung his legs over the side of the bed and put his head in his hands. He was not sure if the dreams were getting worse or if this nightmare was just his guilt speaking through his subconscious. Or, an even more terrifying thought, if by being involved with him, Ciera was somehow being drawn into whatever grim future he was facing, put into danger by her very nearness.
How could he be sure, when he did not even know what the nightmares signified? Were they real—a prediction of disasters to come? Or merely a symbolic representation of the war being fought within his own body and psyche?
Gregori was still convinced that his best chance to gain control over his new abilities was through study and dedication at the monastery. But now he had broken yet another one of the rules, plus been absent for another night, despite being warned against it. He would have to return and beg for another chance . . . even if that meant never being able to touch Ciera again.
It seemed a terrible price to pay, especially after having this one night to treasure her sweetness. Ciera was a wonderful, amazing, incredible woman; she deserved better than a broken Rider who had no idea who and what he was, or how to make his way in his strange new existence.
He had to cut this off before it went any further. It should never have gotten this far at all, and he was horrified with himself for allowing it to happen. What had he been thinking?
• • •
CIERA woke up in a blur of happiness so unusual, for a moment she couldn’t identify its origins. Then memories of the previous night came flooding back and she was pummeled by waves of remembered passion, feeling her body tingle in places that had never felt so alive before. She opened her eyes slowly, reluctant to let the realities of the day impinge on the warmth that had taken just the slightest edge off the permanent chill that had taken up residence in her heart.
That reluctance solidified into certainty as she spotted Gregori, gazing at her in the predawn light from across the room, an appalled expression written clearly on his usually serene visage. Dammit. She knew it had been a mistake, and yet she had done it anyway. When would she learn?
She could tell he was regretting being with her; why would she have expected anything else? Last night he felt sorry for her, and got carried away in the moment. Now he was waiting for her to wake up and wishing he was anywhere but there.
Ciera tried to tell herself she should be grateful he was at least enough of a gentleman to wait around to say good-bye. She knew he was committed to becoming a monk, and hoped that last night hadn’t screwed that up. It wasn’t as though she expected him to give up his spiritual goals in order to be with a mixed-race mess of a woman
with a tormented history and a suicidal, revenge-driven present.
So why did it feel like her heart was breaking anyway?
“Good morning,” he said softly, noticing that she was awake. “Did you sleep well?”
Ciera sat up, pulling the sheet around her as if it were armor. “Fine,” she said, as if she woke up every morning to a gorgeous man in her room. “And you?”
He shrugged. “As well as I ever do these days. It was . . . pleasant . . . to wake up next to you.” A shadow that might have been sadness or regret or any of a dozen other emotions slid over his eyes and, for a moment, she thought she saw an echo of her own pain. But when he looked up from the floor again, his face was carefully blank.
“I must be going,” he said. “I am sorry.” She noticed he was already fully dressed; one of the benefits of moving so silently, she supposed. She hadn’t heard a thing.
“No problem,” she said. “You have commitments. I get it. I have commitments of my own.”
“So you understand?” Gregori said. “That this can never happen again. For all that it was wonderful.”
“I understand,” Ciera said. And she did. They were not meant for each other. This had been a tiny gift from the universe. A fluke of the very best kind, one that she would treasure in the lonely days ahead. They had very different paths to walk. And neither of them could walk those paths with another.
Gregori paused, his hand on the doorknob. “I would still like to teach you those fighting moves. Now more than ever, after last night.”
“Sure,” she said, with a cheerfulness she didn’t feel. “And I’ll still help you search down odd and esoteric information at the library. Nothing has changed just because of one night.”
But she wasn’t sure either of them believed it.
CHAPTER 15
GREGORI was in the greenhouse tending to some of the seedlings there when the abbot wandered over and started watering the plants in the tray next to him. The Shira-in Shashin Monastery loosely followed Tibetan Buddhism, but borrowed bits and pieces from various other styles. Not all Buddhist monasteries even had any one person who was in charge, but at Shira-in Shashin, the abbot tended to have the final say on matters to do with the running of the order. Sun was fairly certain that the abbot’s appearance in the greenhouse at this particular moment was not a coincidence, alas.
“Good afternoon,” the abbot said, gently patting some loose soil into place with wrinkled hands. His red-and-gold robes seemed to stand out among the greens and browns.
“Good afternoon,” Gregori said. He waited in silence to see what came next, but for quite some time the two men simply worked side by side, occasionally handing each other tools. Gregori didn’t mind. He liked the labor, and he was in no hurry to hear whatever the abbot had to say.
“It is amazing how much tending it takes for a small seedling to grow into a mature plant, isn’t it?” the abbot finally said, not looking at Gregori.
“It is,” Gregori agreed.
The abbot waved one slightly grubby palm around to indicate the area inside the greenhouse. “Gardening is a delicate task,” he said. “All these plants, and so much time and energy invested in each one. Sometimes you can look at them and tell which plants will not thrive, and uproot them to make room for others that will. Other times it is impossible to tell until they are further along in the growth cycle if one seedling or another will go on to provide a bounty that will feed many.”
Gregori said nothing.
The abbot sighed. “You are one of our most promising novices, Gregori Sun. Yet you seem to be having difficulty adapting to our rules. The monastic life is not for everyone. Perhaps you would bloom more brightly in a different greenhouse.”
Gregori put down the small trowel he had been using and turned to face the abbot, bowing deeper this time. For a moment, he flashed on the way Ciera had looked in the early-morning light, but then he shook his head, as if to dislodge the errant thought.
“I believe I am where I am supposed to be, Abbot,” he said. “I am committed to doing whatever is necessary to stay.”
The abbot bowed back. “I am happy to hear it, but I must confess that I am not convinced. We may not have a protocol as strict as those at some other monasteries, and not all of our rules apply to the laypeople who choose to stay here as novices. But some boundaries cannot be crossed, and I fear that you are skating very close to the edge. Be careful you do not fall off and break your own tender branches before they can grow.”
Gregori watched him walk away, and wondered how on earth he was going to track down the tenuous lead Ciera had given him without taking any time away from the monastery. He had been thinking of asking for a few days’ leave to take a trip to Manitoba, but clearly now would not be the time to do that.
He pondered the question while he finished up his work, letting it float at the back of his mind while he tried to achieve the meditative state that such tasks were intended to produce. The crisp, clean smell of the greenery and the deep, musty aroma of the soil made him think of his early years as a boy, wandering the steppes with his mother.
Iduyan had been a tireless teacher, surprisingly patient with the small boy who followed at her heels, although half the time it seemed as though she forgot he was there.
Gregori had always gotten the impression he had been an unintended and not altogether welcome consequence of his mother’s brief affair with the Russian god Jarilo. As he grew older, he wondered if she had truly loved Jarilo, or if she had simply been trying to remind herself of her own humanity as her mystical path took her deeper and deeper into realms where most Humans never learned to tread. As to Jarilo’s reasons for the relationship, well, there was never any point in trying to figure out the motives of the gods. He might have had six different reasons or none at all.
In the end, Iduyan had simply made a tiny space for her son in her life, as one might tuck a small stone into a pocket already crammed with bits of moss and shiny glass and the crumbs left over from lunch, and went on much as she had done before his unexpected arrival. It was not so much that she did not care—Gregori believed she loved him in her own way, as much as she was able—but simply that her mind and spirit were often elsewhere, in places that a little boy could not exist.
Thankfully, there was always someone else from the community of her followers who was willing to make sure that Gregori got fed if Iduyan forgot, and for the most part, it was not a bad life. As he grew older, she would often take him with her as she roamed through the forests and grasslands, pointing out various herbs and explaining their uses. Sometimes they would sit on a rock by a river and catch fish, or watch a hawk circle up above as Iduyan explained how to become one with the bird, a trick Gregori never quite mastered, although he suspected his mother had.
He supposed, in retrospect, it must have seemed a strange life for a young boy, surrounded by mystics and seekers, raised by a mother who was both deeply grounded in reality and often far removed from it. But it was the only life he knew, and it had suited him well enough.
It had never occurred to him that all children did not sit for hours in meditation to attune themselves with the energies of a particular plant, or coax a tiny fox cub back to health after it had stumbled into a huntsman’s trap. In fact, he had never spent any time with other children at all until he was in his early teens and on one of his visits to his father in the land of the gods was introduced to a stocky boy named Alexei with long brown hair and wide brown eyes and a pronounced attitude. His half brother, in fact.
From then on, Jarilo had insisted Gregori spend part of the year with him, although in truth, Gregori saw even less of his father than he did of his mother. By necessity, much of his time was spent chasing after Alexei, who even at a young age had never met a challenge he would not take on, or trouble he could walk away from. Eventually, the two were joined by a towheaded toddler named Mikhail, whose mother was some
paranormal creature from the depths of the mysterious northern woods.
The three boys could not have been more different, but their time together in the realms of the gods was mostly pleasant, and Gregori missed his half siblings during the months he spent back with Iduyan, who grew more and more distant as he got older. It was almost a relief—for both of them, no doubt—when Jarilo announced that it was time for his children to take up the roles for which he had created them. And so Gregori became a Rider, and dedicated his existence to aiding the Baba Yagas whenever they called, and lived his own life when he was not needed.
For a while, he would return a few times a year to visit his mother, spending a week or two traveling with Iduyan if she was on one of her spiritual journeys, or passing the days with her and her followers in their enclave if she was at home. Somewhere along the line, his visits had grown further and further apart, until one day he had returned to the hidden valley in Mongolia where he had last seen her, only to find a deserted village with no signs that anyone had lived there in years.
A summons from a Baba Yaga with an ogre problem had distracted him from his intention to try and discover his mother’s current whereabouts, and somehow he had never gotten around to returning to the search. There had never seemed to be any urgency about it, and there was plenty of time to get around to looking for a woman who very probably did not want to be found.
Now time was running out, and when he’d counted the years up in his head, he had been shocked to realize how many had passed. Days and weeks and months all flowed together when you were immortal, and you forgot how transient the world could be. His mother, who had been born a typical Human, had already lived many times the normal span allotted to her kind. Gregori had no way of knowing if she had truly learned to transcend the limitations of the Human body, or if she was long dead, and he had simply never known of his loss.
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