by Jory Strong
She felt the impact of it shudder through her. He was both dangerous and desirable, an erotic combination that apparently enthralled rather than repelled her. It was more than just like to like, otherwise she’d feel drawn to Rhys or Liam or Myk.
Destiny. And she shivered again, this time at the clarity of a sibilant voice that was not hers, though only she heard it.
Myk reappeared on the boat’s deck, a signal he was satisfied no supernatural enemies waited below. They boarded, amusement obvious in Sean’s expression with the introduction of Eamon. To Cathal he said, “I’m glad to see you took my very expensive advice.”
“Don’t go there.”
Sean grinned. “Still working out kinks?”
He waved them toward the cabin doorway, the one Myk now lounged next to, reminding Etaín of Liam. She moved toward it, heart rabbiting in her chest at the phantom sensation of coils tightening around her, as if the ink at her wrists and up her arms had become living vines expanding into some kind of protective cocoon—or a strangling one.
The imagery changed when she entered the cabin and saw Quinn. The ink she wore became the hot burn of fire, the smooth feel of Dragon scales accompanied by a flare of magic and purring satisfaction. Of triumph.
Quinn stood, and though he wore a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the Dragon she’d inked onto his skin filled her vision. He took a step toward her and in that instant control deserted her.
Her throat locked, preventing her from issuing a warning or call for help. Her legs froze midstride. She pitched forward, unable to stop from reaching out.
Quinn grabbed her at the forearms and she watched helplessly as her hands clamped at his wrists, palms locked to his skin in what she knew would be an unbreakable grip.
It was her last flicker of awareness.
*
Eamon felt the surge of magic. If it had an analogy at all, he would liken it to a power line set free in a wild, whipping storm that smelled of primordial forests, of wind and water and fire that felt so old it could only be of Elfhome.
Cathal leapt forward, going immediately to his knees. And Eamon followed, fear like ice sliding through his veins at the violence of the seizure gripping Etaín. He’d seen changes marked this way, but not like this.
She lay on her back, her hands white against the human she grasped, her spine bowing to the point he imagined the sound of it cracking and splintering like a tree in a hurricane, as if she was caught in the eye of it, but rather than a calm center, magic poured into her, forcing its way into every cell with pounding fury.
He tried to counter it as he’d done with Farrell, by grabbing her arms and casting a spell that would insulate her, but he felt his own magic burn away as if having taken his measure the last time, the magic that was hers could now defend against him.
If he’d felt fear in that taste and pull in the aftermath of orgasm, he now felt something well beyond it, desperation bordering on the frantic, an unmitigated agony at the prospect he’d have to pass judgment this very day, and that judgment would be a death sentence.
He’d worried his use of magic at the shelter would draw the attention of any supernatural within miles, but this was like a continuous, jagged lightning strike, where each bolt of it landed in the same spot.
Close to so much water, he’d thought its origins lay there, but as her skin heated and grew slick beneath his hands, he recognized the pour of fire, his own element, though he found nothing of what burned in her that he could either grasp or cool.
“Do something,” Cathal said, his body now partially covering hers, his weight across her ribs and abdomen, though even then her back arched, pressing him upward.
In the presence of the unknown humans, Eamon did not bother to respond, but pulled one spell after another from his vast repertoire of them, trying to find a chink in the armor surrounding her, some way of cutting off the flow of magic.
He found none. Perhaps if he wore her ink as Cathal did…
Maybe that’s where his opening lay.
“She’s burning up,” Quinn said, drawing Eamon’s attention to the press of Etaín’s palms against Quinn’s skin. She didn’t seem to be doing him any obvious damage, to Cathal either for that matter.
It might have relieved some of Eamon’s worry except another seizure gripped her, a violent heaving and twisting that created enough of a distraction so the humans didn’t see him trace the glyphs of a sleep spell directed at Etaín over the tattoos on Cathal’s forearm.
She continued to seize, to burn, ratcheting up his fear until it became a wild clawing inside him, a primal reminder of his own transition, though his battle had been unlike this one.
Her shirt clung to her, but instead of sweat he smelled fire and water and the scent of ancient forests not of this world. She thrashed, finally breaking the silence of her internal torment with a sharp, harsh cry, and with it, a release from the magic gripping her, though she tumbled immediately into a spell-induced sleep.
“Christ,” Cathal said, gathering her up in his arms and holding her tightly to his body, his cheek touched to her forehead as he remained in a crouch, relief only barely winning out over continued fear. “She’s cooling down.”
“You need to get her to a hospital,” Sean said. “The paramedics would already be here if this asshole hadn’t stopped me from calling them. You want to explain what’s going on?”
Cathal noticed Myk then but had no idea of how long he’d been in the cabin. He also noticed Quinn, rubbing wrists reddened where Etaín had gripped them.
Worry penetrated relief. The guilt would tear her apart if she’d stripped Quinn’s mind of memories.
“You okay?” he asked, knowing the question was inadequate.
“Yeah. I feel fine. You need to get her to the hospital. Like now.”
“We should call 911 first,” Sean said. “See if we should try to revive her.”
Cathal stood with her cradled his arms. “I’ve got it under control.”
“You’re a doctor these days?” There was censure in Sean’s tone, anger that provided a glimpse into what his future held—chasms created because he was part of a world those around him didn’t know existed—and he didn’t like the look of it.
“Trust me to do what’s right for her. You know how important she is to me.” Important enough he’d been willing to risk dying for her if his father and uncle thought he’d betrayed the family.
Sean nodded. “You’ll be in touch?”
“I’ll be in touch.”
When they were away from their audience, Cathal asked, “That had to do with her being a changeling?”
“Yes.”
“It was normal then?”
“No.”
“You put the sleeping spell on her?”
With Eamon’s nod, Cathal’s arms tightened on her involuntarily. It had taken all his strength to minimize her movement, and the entire time he’d been terrified it wouldn’t be enough and she’d break her own bones as she seized.
“My heart stopped when hers did at the hospital. This time nothing happened. Why?”
“I don’t know. The bond you have with her is unique to the seidic. And the seidic themselves are shrouded in mystery and secrecy. There have been so few of them born into this world, and all have been turned over as law requires to the royal family.”
Eamon opened the car door, allowing Cathal to slide inside with Etaín, then he joined them in the back seat. “The seizure was magic related. It was not a small manifestation of it. This is why she needs to stay at my home, or if you prefer, Aesirs. You may choose our destination.”
Big of you. But he understood the anger came from feeling helpless. “Can you guarantee she won’t seizure again if she’s at either place?”
A muscle spasmed in Eamon’s cheek. “No.”
“Then we go to my house.” It was a concession of a different type. Though when they arrived, he carried her into the TV room rather than the bedroom, placing her on the couch because he was
n’t yet ready for the three of them to be together in his bed.
Straightening, he noticed his hands shaking now that he was finally in the safety of his own home. Fuck, what a day. “Get you a drink?” He sure as hell needed one.
Cathal’s question barely registered as Eamon stared at the drawing on the coffee table. A green Dragon breathed fire as it formed and climbed onto shore, emerging from an emerald lake, the center of it cloudy with magic not yet gathered into symbolic form.
There was no question as to origin. He’d seen similar drawings done by other changelings. In this visual representation, he recognized what he’d experienced through scent and touch in those last moments before she was free of magic—fire and water and ancient forests not of this world.
“Etaín did this?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
At the bar Cathal poured himself a drink. “Last night, I think.”
“I’ll take one, whatever you’re having.” Not because he desired a drink but because he recognized the relationship between the two of them had shifted favorably and he wished to sustain it.
At the fund-raiser Etaín had made him laugh by suggesting he go bond with Cathal over some tunes. Apparently they were to do so over much more serious matters.
Eamon accepted the glass, pulling a chair close and allowing Cathal to claim the spot on the couch next to Etaín. An ache formed at watching Cathal’s hand brush across her cheek, eliciting a murmur from her. Would his relationship with her ever be so uncomplicated? So natural?
“How long do you intend to keep her under?” Cathal asked.
“She sleeps naturally now.”
“Meaning I could wake her.”
“Yes.” But he made no move to.
“Does she hear voices?” Eamon asked, and saw Cathal’s fingers whiten on the glass he held.
Fuck! Cathal hated everything Eamon’s question implied. He considered not even bothering to answer it, but…
Jesus. If his hands were free he’d scrub them over his face in case this entire day—or at least the part of it beginning after they left the house—was a nightmare he just needed to wake from.
Ignorance is deadly. Reluctantly he’d come to understand just how true those words were with respect to Etaín.
“As far as I know, she doesn’t hear voices.” He took a long drink. “Why?”
“Elves wield magic, and that magic has at its roots, the elements. Sometimes the wielding is more in line with a human knack or talent. An Elf with a tie to water, for instance, might become a fisherman, though gifts vary in strength as well as focus. One of us might be able to reliably navigate through violent storms while another is always able to locate sought after schools of fish.”
“Handy talents to have.”
“Yes.”
“But…”
“We wield magic because we are also its vessel. In this world it is not a seamless joining of will and power—especially in the changeling years. Our young can become a destructive force, acting out the will of the elements where the elements themselves can’t easily do so given the constraints of natural law. Most often these are spontaneous acts but not always.”
“As in? Give me an example. I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around this.” Fucking truth, it was making his head pound.
“If not monitored closely, and prevented from acting, they might come to be what the news calls eco-terrorists.”
Cathal pressed the cold glass against his forehead. He doubted the things he’d seen Eamon do barely scratched the surface of what was possible. Hell, what Etaín could already do was pretty damn scary. “Are we talking all…Elves…being at risk of going off the rails at any given time, or just changelings?”
“The battle to maintain control is lifelong but very few slip after the physical change takes place. It is during that transition period we are most vulnerable. For us this can start at twelve or thirteen and last a dozen or more years.”
Cathal’s chest felt tight as they came full circle, back to the very word and idea he hated, but he forced himself to ask, “Changelings hear voices, like a schizophrenic does?”
“Yes. Sometimes magic has a voice.” An elegant, lord-like wave of Eamon’s hand indicated the drawing. “And sometimes it even appears in the mind as something best described as an avatar. Did she say anything about the Dragon?”
He closed his eyes, torn because he’d noticed her hesitation and nonanswer when he’d asked her about the picture as they’d grabbed a bite before heading out to visit Vontae’s family. He wanted to deny the uneasiness he’d felt then, the fear he felt now, the icy cold of it having crept back in, deeper than it had been because of the seizure.
Could he trust her?
The question brought instant, gut-level protest. He refused to think he couldn’t. But…
Fuck. Considering she’d slept through this conversation, she knew even less than he did now about what it meant to be Elf and changeling.
And as far as trusting Eamon went…
He understood that when it came to Etaín, Eamon was capable of the same level of ruthlessness his father and uncle were. Hell, he was too. He could still feel the weight of the gun he’d held and his intention to use it.
Opening his eyes, Cathal looked at the drawing, an earlier conversation playing out, Eamon saying, “Many would slaughter any human who wore your ink, with or without cause.” And Etaín’s response, “You say that as if there could be cause.” Followed by Eamon’s remaining silent, which was an answer in itself.
Would she forgive him if he turned that page over, revealing the next one and the ones after it, the horrifying scenes to the dream they shared, some part of their consciousness tied to a murderer wearing her ink? Would she forgive him if he told Eamon the reason for the stops they’d made today, so she could reconnect with her past? The why of their going to Sean’s boat? Her hopes of identifying a killer, possibly even getting close enough to touch him?
Cathal shifted his attention to the woman who’d become not just important, but essential to him. He traced her eyebrows, followed the ridge of her nose down to her lips, smiling when she smiled.
He couldn’t lose her. But he couldn’t keep her safe by himself. He couldn’t stop her from pursuing this, and didn’t want to. The guilt over Vontae’s death was too strong, the pain over Kelvin’s too sharp. If she did nothing, it would destroy something inside her.
Maybe, probably, Eamon had answers that would help her. If he knew what was going on with her, if she would share it with him. If she could share it.
The thought gave Cathal pause. At least once she’d been unable to speak, to control her limbs.
Eamon leaned forward, tipping the balance, his voice that of a worried lover instead of an Elf lord making a demand when he asked, “Did she talk about the Dragon?”
“No. But there’s something you need to know.”
Cathal swallowed the last of his drink then set the glass down on the coffee table. He flipped the page, to an opening scene that soon became self-explanatory though he told Eamon everything.
Twelve
Etaín woke to the sound of pages being flipped, her reality sharpening as slowly Cathal’s words came into focus. She opened her eyes and everything stopped. Then a rush of horror came as she remembered. “Is Quinn okay?”
“No harm, no foul,” Cathal said.
She sat, the movement and the surroundings making her feel a little dizzy and disoriented. “You’re sure?”
Cathal took her hands in his, turning them upward to reveal the eyes on her palms. “You held on to him for a long time, Etaín. A long, long time. There wasn’t anything obvious, but I only met him the one time, in Derrick’s apartment the other morning. He seemed normal.” A glance at Eamon, unity instead of its opposite. “Eamon thought the damage would be very obvious.”
Eamon moved from his chair to join them on the couch. He slid his hand beneath her hair to cup her neck. “What do you remember?”
The question alone was enough to have phantom coils tighten around her throat as if ready to choke off a revealing answer. “I went into the cabin. Quinn was there. I pitched forward. He reached out to catch me. I grabbed him. Then nothing.”
She could count on one hand the number of times she willingly tried to breach the barrier between her reality and the alternate realities created by stolen memories. “I need to remember,” she whispered. “I need to be sure. If I hurt him…”
She’d hate herself for not going back to Eamon’s estate, maybe for ever having left it in the first place. Maybe she’d come to hate Cathal and Eamon too.
Eamon stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “Access the memories if you can, but be warned, Etaín, you will sleep again if I perceive there is a problem.”
A smile came and went. “Lord Eamon speaks.” Gentle tease this time instead of a battle’s opening salvo. “Any suggestions?”
“How well do you know Quinn?”
“Not well. I—”
Her throat closed, preventing her from saying she’d done cover-up work on him only days earlier. At the narrowing of Eamon’s eyes in suspicion, she felt a flutter of panic and substituted a different truth. “I set him up with Derrick.”
“So if you took nothing from him at the boat, there is no reason you would have Quinn’s memories?”
She felt the prickle of sweat on her skin, remembered too well the visceral feel of a knife pushed through flesh and the image of a face in close proximity when she’d asked Quinn about the three red lightning bolts on his neck. “Only casual transfer,” she answered, as close as she felt she could get to mentioning Quinn wore her ink, though Cathal knew it.
Eamon’s expression became thoughtful. “I believe your best approach in trying to determine if you caused him harm would be to use your will as you do your gift, with razor sharp intention. Only instead of piercing flesh, imagine yourself slicing through the mental barrier you’ve erected against what you’ve taken, a precision cut with Quinn your sole focus.”
“Makes sense.” Though that didn’t keep her heartbeat from fluttering and skipping wildly at the prospect of pushing through the barrier protecting her from the horror-filled realities she’d made her own.
