by Kit Rocha
“Is that why you did it, Ana?”
God, she hated this question. She’d turned it over a thousand times by now, picking at the edges of it. Doubting herself. Wondering if her feelings had overshadowed her common sense, or her grasp of tactics, or her ability to see the risks clearly.
Because she loved Deacon. And they all assumed love made her weak.
“I brought Hunter and Zeke with me because I believed it was an acceptable risk. If it hadn’t been, I would have sent them out and gone back for him myself.”
“Why?”
“Because I love him.” She faced Gideon’s unblinking gaze defiantly. “That’s what you want me to say, right? I love him, and so I let my heart overrule my head and disobeyed orders. But it’s bullshit. I do love him. Risking my life for him was worth it. And it was the smart tactical call, one I would have made for any of the other Riders. It doesn’t have to be one or the other. You of all people should know that.”
Gideon watched her. His fingers tapped on the desk. Slow, even, from his pinky to his pointer and back until the soft rhythm hypnotized her.
“Do you know why I let you into the Riders?” he asked finally.
It was such an abrupt change of topic that Ana eyed him warily. “No.”
“It’s not because you’re good at fighting, though you are. It’s not even because you’re good at tactics.” His lips curved in a shadow of a smile. “Though you’ve certainly proven yourself your father’s worthy heir in that regard, too. But there’s nothing particularly unique about being good at tactics or fighting.”
“Then why?”
“Because I’m tired of watching my Riders die.” He turned to stare out the large windows, where the edge of the apple orchards was visible and in full and glorious bloom. “And I’m tired of watching you all settle for a shadow of a life while everyone else enjoys all the bright colors and joy.”
They were the last words she’d expected, and she still couldn’t see the connection. “I don’t understand. Why does that--?”
“Your heart, Ana. I chose you for your heart.” He glanced back at her. “In the field, when lives are on the line, we have to use our brains and our hearts. And that’s what you did when you went back for him. I, for one, am extremely grateful you did. You’re right. Love isn’t a liability. Your passion is your strength.”
A tiny kernel of warm relief unfurled inside her. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” His brief smile crinkled the corner of his eyes before his face grew serious again. “However, Deacon’s allowed to feel differently. And you crossed the line in the barracks when you defied him. There are ways to voice disagreement with your leader. Saying fuck no is a disrespect I won’t allow. Whatever your personal relationship with Deacon, when he stands at the head of that table, he is due the respect of his twenty years of service and experience.”
The reprimand, even delivered in a gentle voice, stung--because she knew he was right. “I understand. I made a mistake.”
“You did,” Gideon agreed. “And you’ll learn, just like they all learned. Do you think noble-born sons like Reyes and Hunter and Gabe came here knowing how to obey orders? I had to yell at Reyes three times in the first week. And Zeke...” He rolled his eyes skyward. “Maybe someday we can stop yelling at him. Which is to say that making a mistake isn’t the end of the world.”
Ana tightened her hands again, struggling against a renewed flood of words. They caught in her throat, burning until it hurt...and Gideon was smiling, because maybe this was the one thing he couldn’t understand.
Well, he’d told her that passion was her strength. Be careful what wishes you put out into the world, Gideon.
“That’s more bullshit.” The words exploded out of her with the force of all that pent-up repression, and once the dam burst, she couldn’t stop herself. “With all due respect, Gideon, I’m not Reyes or Hunter or Gabe. I’m not Zeke. I’m the first woman to ever stand where I’m standing. Everyone is watching me. People notice my mistakes. And you and Deacon can say all day long that it doesn’t matter, that you’re not going to hold it against the next woman--”
Her throat burned. Her eyes burned, as if saying the words out loud finally had brought the weight of their reality crashing down on her. But if she cried, her utter failure of self-control would be complete, so she clenched her nails into her wrists until the pain grounded her.
“I can’t be the only one,” she told him. “It’s too much pressure. And you can wave your hand and make a lot of things true, but you can’t make it okay for me to make mistakes. Not while it’s just me.”
Gideon stared at her, his expression utterly unreadable. The seconds ticked on, each one measured by the nervous beat of her heart, and the wild thought intruded that these were surely her last seconds as a Rider.
Had a Rider ever been excommunicated before? Would they remove her ink? Banish her from the sector? Maybe she’d have to track down Gideon’s cousin in Sector Four and try to talk her way into the O’Kanes--
“I’m sorry,” Gideon said softly. “I had no idea. You should have told me all of this before.”
Shock and relief escaped her on a choked laugh, and for a moment she felt lightheaded. “I just yelled at you. It’s basically blasphemy. My father would be smacking some manners into me.”
Gideon snorted. “If you think your father never yelled at me...”
Ana tried to envision loyal, implacable William Jordan growing angry enough to shout at the man he believed had one foot already in heaven--and suffered an abject failure of imagination.
It must have showed on her face, because Gideon laughed. “Your father understood the true spirit of the chain of command. He expressed his disagreement in private and never undermined me in public. So you’re here now, Ana. In private.” He waved a hand. “Don’t stop. Everything you’ve been holding in.”
It was permission. Freedom to kick restraint to the curb and say the things that had churned in her gut, every word she’d ever swallowed or bitten back or shoved down deep.
At first she didn’t know where to start. But when she stopped trying to not feel, the pain in her chest bloomed so fast and bright it nearly stole her breath.
“Deacon is broken,” she said, softly to hide the tremor in her voice. “For twenty years, he’s barely been living. He never let any of us get close. He never understood how much we cared about him. He doesn’t even know how to let us care. It’s not right that he lives like that. It’s not right for any of us to live like that. I know that letting us have families can make it harder when we die...”
She swallowed hard and repeated the words she’d said to her aunt. “But it’s so much worse when we keep living, alone. It’s a stupid tradition, and it should go away.”
“I agree.” Gideon met her surprise with a sad smile and lifted one shoulder. “Shocked? It’s not actually as simple as waving my hand, you know. Belief is like a forest fire. Once it really gets going, the person who started it doesn’t have much say in which direction it turns or how high it burns. I’ve tried this before, remember? The ravens?”
It took a moment for her to catch the edge of the memory. She’d been in her teens or early twenties, totally focused on her training and not much interested in politics. But everyone who lived on the Rios compound remembered those hectic, chaotic weeks.
The Riders might be known for their ravens, but all of the faithful in Sector One marked a life taken with a tiny black bird tattooed to their skin. And there was only one way to remove the stain from your soul, a method implemented by Gideon’s grandfather so many decades ago.
Seven years of service to the Rios family.
Penitents eager to wash the stain from their souls labored in the orchards and worked the gardens. They built new additions to the temples, cooked or washed or cleaned or crafted as their skills allowed. The unpaid labor had built the palace they stood in, had lovingly carved the chairs around the room and painstakingly woven the carpet beneath he
r feet.
The Rios family had gotten rich off repentance.
But when Gideon had tried to end the tradition by offering blanket absolution, the sector had nearly shredded itself apart at the seams. Day after day, people frantic for their souls had arrived on the estate, crowding the garden paths and pleading to be set a task or given a job. They’d cried in their fear of having been forsaken, convinced that any forgiveness that came without toil would endanger their souls.
In the end, Gideon had issued a proclamation, claiming the offer of absolution had been a test. He’d praised Sector One for holding firm in their beliefs and resisting temptation, and in return had offered them a reward--from that day forth, seven years of service would become one.
And the sector had embraced the change. Because Gideon had given it a cost and made them feel like they earned it.
“Yes,” he murmured, as if following the path of her thoughts. “It’s not a simple thing, changing traditions. They can settle into place in a matter of months, and disassembling them becomes the work of a lifetime. I may have started this one with the best of intentions...but it’s grown out of my control. I wanted to protect families like yours, Ana. But I never wanted my Riders to shut themselves off from living.”
It was so much to take in. A subtle but earth-shattering shift in perspective, like a flare of light in a shadowed room, illuminating alcoves and corners she’d never imagined were there.
Her box was bigger than she’d realized. And she could take a full breath, a deep breath, and not feel crushed by it.
So she did. Then she took another one. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you for your honesty.” Gideon’s wry little smile was back. “I have to prod a lot harder to push it out of most people. That’s another reason I chose you, Ana. You have passion, and convictions. Your skills in combat are matched by your compassion. You’re the future I want to see for the Riders. And you’ll keep me honest.”
“I could do that,” she agreed, answering his smile with one of her own. “In private.”
“See?” He leaned back in his chair. “You learn fast.”
Yes, that was one thing she’d always had going for her. That, and the fact that Ana never hesitated to push an advantage. “Then, in the spirit of keeping you honest, you should recruit Laurel.”
One dark eyebrow lifted. “Six’s girl?”
“Yes. She’s dubious about the idea. But she’s smart, and she’s talented, and she worked well with us. The guys like her. I like her.” Ana offered him her most wistful smile. “It’d be nice, having her around. I wouldn’t feel like everything was riding on me.”
“I imagine so.” Gideon sat forward. “I’ll look into it. Poaching a valued asset from Six might be almost as dangerous as mercenary assassins, though, so I hope you’ll understand if I look into it delicately.”
Ana had met the new leader of Sector Three only once--but her trips into Sector Three with her father had taught her what sort of hellscape the place had been before its change in leadership. Anyone who’d grown up on the streets of that sector could be a strong ally--or a terrifying enemy.
Which was why Laurel would be perfect. “Of course. I have faith in you.”
“So good to hear.” Gideon flicked his fingers at her. “Go on. Get out of here. Let me figure out how I’m going to steal a sniper from Sector Three.”
Feeling lighter than she had in...ever, maybe, Ana grinned. “Yes, sir.”
Euphoria carried her out the door and down the hall, but she was crashing hard by the time she’d slipped through the kitchens and out the door to the little side garden. She took the shortcut through the cherry trees and made it to the fire pit in time to collapse on one of the benches.
Her hands were shaking. Her chest was tight. The itch in her throat turned to a lump, turned to familiar shards of glass that burned as badly as her eyes did.
For as long as she could remember, she’d choked down that feeling. Swallowed tears, blinked them away, stuffed them down into that box that felt like a black hole in her soul. She’d done it because she had to, because being a Rider meant calm and poise and sacrifice--
Or maybe that was just another wall she’d built around herself. Just like Deacon.
God, she was a damn hypocrite.
The first fracture hurt. The tears ripped out of her, jagged, cutting their way free. She covered her mouth and bent over herself, trying to stop the avalanche. But she couldn’t. Tears spilled over her cheeks and down, each sob purging a hurt.
Her mother’s loss. Her father’s grief. Her aunt’s worry.
Fighting for acceptance. Fighting to be better and faster. Fighting just to fight, because it hurt so much to know she was good but still never feel she was good enough.
The war. The pain. Her father’s death.
Every step she’d taken since then, dragging the enormous weight behind her--everyone’s expectations but no one’s as much as her own.
She cried until it hurt, until warm arms enclosed her and a gentle, familiar voice murmured, “Oh, my darling.”
Soft silk enveloped her, along with the scent of the temple--spices and incense and the lavender Del distilled personally from the flowers that grew around the temple. Shuddering, Ana leaned into the embrace and gave into grief.
Deacon’s willingness to die. Their fight. Facing the choice to leave him for dead. Seeing him bruised and bleeding, broken inside and out, and knowing she couldn’t fix him. Couldn’t fix any of it.
“You’re all right,” Del whispered, her hands stroking gently over Ana’s braids. “Let it out. Let this go.”
Ana cried until she was empty. Until she was hollow and curiously light, and her eyes ached. She didn’t even have the energy to protest as Del coaxed her to her feet and turned her toward the path that led to the temple.
The priestess didn’t speak until they reached a big grassy clearing. Instead of going to the main entrance, Del led her around the back to a door framed by an old wooden trellis and climbing ivy. “I want to show you something.”
“Okay.” Ana’s voice was raspy, and her throat hurt. But she followed Del inside the darkened room and waited while the woman moved gracefully from lamp to lamp, lighting each one in turn.
The colorful glass shades illuminated the room in warm, calming light, revealing walls covered in saints murals and stacks of canvases, some covered in paint, some still empty.
A table in the middle held an array of paints. And on the massive easel next to it...
Ana’s breath caught.
Her father stared back at her. Del had captured him perfectly--from the curl of his short black hair to the deep, rich brown of his skin. His cheekbones, his chin--Ana’s chin--his stern brows and his warm, protective gaze. Shadowy wings formed behind him, black and gold, half of the feathers still sketched in outline. And in one hand he held a fiery sword thrust toward the sky, the flames licking their way up the blade toward the heavens.
His official saint’s painting.
“I’ve been working on it for a few months now,” Del told her, coming to stand next to her. “I don’t usually let people see them before they’re done. Sometimes I throw out an entire concept and start from the beginning. But...I’ve known for a long time what your father would be.”
Ana reached out, afraid to touch, but unable to keep from letting her fingers hover over the wings spread out behind him. “An angel?”
“A guardian angel.” Del wrapped an arm around Ana’s shoulders. “Deacon might be the longest surviving Rider, but your father served the Rios family from the time Gideon was just a child. No one in the history of Sector One has protected us longer, or better.”
The tangle of feelings curling around her were messy. Loss and love. Fierce pride and a hint of jealousy. Ana had always been stuck sharing her father with Sector One--a tiny, childish part of her wanted to wrap this painting up and steal it away, so he could be hers in death as he’d never been in life.
Then at least s
omething would be.
Instead of squashing down the jealousy, she let it breathe. Let it expand. Examined its sharp edges and acknowledged that many of them belonged to her fear and loss over Deacon. Yes, she’d had to share her father--but even with a hundred other duties, he’d always found time to put her first. To teach her and love her.
To build her this reality, where she got to be exactly who she was meant to be.
Ana could share William Jordan with the world. His heart had been big enough, and so was hers.
The tears that pricked her eyes this time didn’t hurt. Maybe because she wasn’t trying to choke them back. “It’s perfect,” she whispered. “I love it, Del. Thank you for showing me.”
Del turned her and cupped her face, her soft thumbs swiping gently across Ana’s cheeks to wipe away the tears. Deep-brown eyes stared down into hers, and Gideon had nothing on Del’s ability to make you feel like she was staring into the depths of your soul.
“It’s time for a tattoo,” she said abruptly. “I’ll do your new ravens first. But if you’re open to it...”
An offer of an original tattoo from Del was an honor few Riders turned down. Del had a knack of diving deep to pull up what you needed to see--whether you were ready to face it or not.
Right now, Ana could use a little guidance. “Whatever you think I need.”
“Good.” Del set her hands on Ana’s shoulders and turned her toward the door. “I know just the thing.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
When Kora finally released Deacon from the infirmary, it was with a bright smile--and the warning that, at this rate, he’d never be sainted, because he was obviously too stubborn to die.
He’d take it.
After days of intravenous fluids and soup, he was starving. But the idea of heading to the temple to be fussed and fawned over made him want to puke, so he went to the kitchen in the barracks instead in search of leftovers.
Gabe was already there, digging into a huge bowl of jambalaya. He greeted Deacon with a genuine smile of welcome and tilted his head toward the pot keeping warm on the stove. “Del brought it over an hour ago. We must have really scared her if she’s cooking for us personally.”
