by Joey W. Hill
Had he given her pleasure? He frowned. He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember if he'd given her release. Perfect. He couldn't heal her, couldn't do anything for her like this, in this . . . mutation. That cursed seawitch.
Jonah found himself back out on the deck, staring out at a turbulent ocean. The day had become overcast, with a promise of more rain. In fact, a soft patter of drops had already started to speckle the sand rolling away to the beach from the front of the cottage. It drew his eye to a flash of red among the beach grass. One of the hardy wildflowers that could make it in a dune environment. Red petals, large brown center. The petals soft, the inside bristling.
Slowly, his fists unclenched. Why didn't you just let me die? The seawitch, Anna. Both of them were blamed in these irrational bursts of anger he couldn't seem to control, like a child.
The Lady had once said that flowers contained all the wisdom that She could ever offer, Her very favorite creation. Like many things, She hadn't elaborated on why, but the wisdom was there, waiting for him to push past his self-pity and see it.
He wasn't a child. If he'd reacted like one, the answer was not to continue doing so now. He fought back the feelings of anger, treating them as any other enemy. Repel; contain if you can't destroy. Then see to the wounded.
He removed the flower, scooping out the root ball. Finding a cup in her small kitchen, he put the flower in there and carried the mug back up the stairs. She didn't hear him come in. She was standing at her closet, clutching a dress of light fabric in her hands, her head tilted down as if thinking.
Though he winced anew at the sight of her back, he put down the mug and went to her. Her head lifted as she sensed his approach, but before she could turn, he laid his hands on an unmarked expanse of skin at the top of her shoulders, stilling her.
He used one hand to gather her hair, lift it away from her back where she'd hastily shaken it when she did note his presence. He twisted it into a tail, laid it over one shoulder. The froth of curls, like the unfurling of an ocean wave, tumbled over one breast, the tips tickling the soft vee of her mons.
"You won't hide your pain from me," he said. "Give me the dress."
It was a worn, soft cotton he knew would still feel like sandpaper. But he recognized easily enough that she was feeling vulnerable, flayed by his anger, and was seeking shielding.
"What happened?" She said the words almost as two separate sentences, as if the energy to form one was too much.
He laid the dress to the side, turned her. She was studying the center of his chest so hard he was sure she could drill a hole there. Was there anything that made a male feel so chastised as a female's refusal to look at him?
Tilting her chin up, he lightly, lightly brushed his lips over hers. Then her eyes. Her nose. The set of her chin. "I was being a complete bastard. How can I give you comfort? Tell me how I can ease your pain until nightfall, when I get my healing ability back."
"I'm fine. I--"
"Anna." His grip increased. "I didn't ask. I've been a commander for a very long time. My men will tell you my mouth does not open unless I am about to issue an order."
She pressed her lips together, revealing her own streak of stubbornness. "I am not part of your army, my lord."
He arched a brow. "I am bigger, stronger and determined to have my way. And I will spank you if you don't listen to me."
Her gaze flew up to him then. But he couldn't hold out against the emotions surging in her eyes. "By the Lady, let me help, Anna. I can't bear your pain any more than you can bear mine, though I hope by now you realize mine is far more deserved."
Amazingly, again without having done the slightest bit to earn it, he won a small curve of her lips, despite the tremor of her hands which told him the pain she was suffering.
"That's the second time you have threatened to spank me, my lord. Your threats are going to lack weight if you continue to issue them without following through."
"Very well, then." He made as if to turn her over his knee, gently, and she pulled away, emitting a short giggle. She put her hand over her mouth, shifted. He gave her a level look and she sighed.
"Cool fresh water, my lord. That is likely the best thing."
He nodded, squeezed her hand and went to her bathroom, which also had a large tub. Bending over, he turned the spigots, getting the water started. He turned, seeing her watching him with a bemused look on her face. She looked away, coloring, and he came back to her, took her hand. It made him curse himself anew, for close to her like this it was enhanced, how much bigger and stronger he really was. At least physically. As she tilted her head up, the clearness of her gaze so pure, he felt she could decimate him with nothing more than a tear or frown. "I can carry you," he said.
Her eyes sparkled, a quick trace of humor. "I am sure my legs are functioning properly, my lord. Let's test them out."
Helping her to the tub, he let her sit on the edge until it finished filling. He leaned in the doorway and watched her bend forward now, the ends of her hair dipping in. Her hand drifted on the water's surface. He could imagine her sitting on a rock in the sun, sailors happily dashing themselves on that rock to get close to her.
When she was ready, he held her hand as she stepped into the tub, steadied her as she sat down. Before she could reach for the sponge, he took it, saturated it in the water and then began to squeeze it over the top of her back, watching her shiver as the water made first contact, the skin sensitive enough to feel the drops as a much heavier impact. He brought the sponge closer so the drops fell more gently and then started to do that in a continuous motion to make it more of a flow than a rainfall. The slight flinching ceased, and she closed her eyes.
Smooth curve of spine, her bottom a heart, the curves flattened where they pressed into the porcelain. It reminded him of the give of the flesh under his fingers when he squeezed them. Pale, soft. As opposed to the red, blistered skin above, his doing.
"I'm sorry, Anna. For all of it."
He had his other hand on the edge of the tub and she covered it without even opening her eyes. "Already forgiven, my lord." Her fingers tightened as her mouth firmed and he could tell she needed to say more. Things he didn't want to hear.
"The Joining Magic, my lord. You need--"
His stomach made that terrible gurgling noise again, only far more pronounced this time. Her eyes opened, going to the affected area, then up to his face. "You're . . . hungry."
"Apparently. Though I've no idea what exactly a human eats. I've never paid much attention."
Her eyes were dancing with that irrepressible amusement again. She really wasn't angry with him, wasn't holding a grudge at all. It was amazing, how it diluted some of the heaviness in his own chest, made him want to smile with her.
"I know just the place. It's on our way."
"On our way to what?"
The humor banked somewhat, but she continued on in a light note, as if she didn't realize he could read every slight shift, every nuance of her expressions. "To begin our journey, my lord."
Ten
DESPITE his attempt to delay the inevitable, citing the pain in her back, Anna wouldn't let herself be dissuaded. Fortunately, he chose not to be too stubborn about it. She put two changes of clothes for each of them and a few other essentials in a backpack, while he prowled around.
It would be too easy to give in, stay in the protective comfort of her cottage, where she didn't know for a fact that every step they took toward Nevada and the shaman was a step closer to Jonah healing, leaving. If she was successful.
He wasn't hers. Not remotely, not ever. And if she hadn't known something was terribly wrong earlier, she'd have known it after his violent rejection of the Joining Magic that morning. When it had happened, she had felt something more than Jonah shove her offering away. Something dark and frightening, which disturbed her to consider even now.
So instead she watched him out of the corner of her gaze as she got them ready to go. The way he moved around her cottage, picki
ng up things and examining them. Interested in her life but seemingly so detached from his own. While his distaste of his human form and its physical limitations had been clear, he didn't seem to embrace himself as an angel except in terms of what was essential. The ready ability to block her attempt to heal him, for example.
But he was a creature of the sky--that much was obvious. After coming in from the rain, he'd left the glass doors open, and even now he returned to them every few minutes, stepping out under the now clear sky as if to confirm it was still there.
She had traveled before, but always where salt water was in reach. Physically, in human form, she didn't have to have the proximity every day, but some part of her needed the reassurance of it, often. So she understood what he was doing. Empathized. And tried once again not to worry about how far they would be leaving the ocean behind, or the promise Mina had tried to extract from her.
Despite the weight, she put a gallon of seawater and a few of her shells in the pack. She might need all of it before it was done, even rationing carefully. After making sure the stray cat who'd attached himself to her was left enough food and water to supplement his own hunts while she was gone, she felt ready to go.
The diner was in walking distance. Though he took the backpack from her to carry, she noticed he was having to focus on his gait, clumsily compensating for the unfamiliar absence of his wings, the different weight distribution when he turned to look at this or that feature of the landscape. It made her heart hurt, but she knew what was done was done.
He wore the jeans she'd given him yesterday and the T-shirt. They should probably stop and get him one that fit his broad shoulders better, but of course she knew the clothes were spelled to fit the wearer. Or perhaps they simply reflected the pleasure of the daughter of Arianne who offered them. A flutter of humor moved through her mind at the thought, and she wished she could share the observation with Mina. Which sobered her again.
"How long will it take to get to the shaman?" Jonah asked.
"I'm not sure. I suspect no more than a week under the worst circumstances; otherwise, Mina would have cast her transformation spell for a longer duration." Actually, Anna didn't know that for sure, but she was hoping that Mina's mind had been working far more quickly than her own during their narrow escape. "She said we can only travel by Fate, and only during the day. The daylight travel is so we don't attract the notice of people, or Dark Ones, when you return to your actual appearance at night. She warned us to stay on guard even during daylight hours, however."
"I think she just wanted me to experience blisters." As he glanced down at his feet, she could imagine his toes curling resentfully in the confinement of the athletic shoes. "There's a spiteful streak in her. You cannot deny that, for all your championing of her."
Anna smiled. "I won't deny that any more than she would, my lord."
Jonah snorted. "I'm sure the Dark Ones will be looking for a human in ill-fitting clothes, walking along a roadside carrying a backpack embroidered with flowers and . . ." He turned it, peered at the design. "What is this?"
Anna cleared her throat and focused on the pack instead of his expression. "It's Prince Eric. From the Disney movie The Little Mermaid ? And Flounder and Sebastian. Ariel's friends."
She added hastily, "A little girl gave it to me on the beach one day. I don't know why, but she was very earnest about wanting me to have it. Have you ever been to the Magic Kingdom, my lord? It's somewhat irresistible."
"I think your seawitch isn't the only one with a tormenting streak. It pervades the female species, starting from the highest upon high." He shouldered the pack and relented. "Ronin once did a flyby over the castle before the nightly fireworks show, just to make the children think they'd seen the real Tinkerbell. Of course it startled the acrobat set to slide down the wire from the castle spire half to death. The actual Tinkerbell performer. He made it his business to find her later that night and . . . soothe her feelings."
Anna suppressed a chuckle. At Jonah's narrow sidelong glance, she changed topics. "According to Mina's vision, the shaman lives in a place called Red Rock Schism, a magical fault line of sorts, in the Nevada desert. She has spelled the map into my head, so I can keep us on the right course."
"So he lives 'somewhere' in the desert," he echoed.
She nodded, studying the wildflower array as they followed the roadside. This section of road was built on a causeway, so the water of the ocean stretched off to one side, the marsh on the other. A great egret watched them pass with stately elegance, his gaze trained on Jonah. She noted flocks of seagulls that altered their courses just enough so they did not pass directly over his trajectory. He might think no one would recognize him in a human form, but she only had to watch the natural world around them to know differently. She resolved to follow Mina's instruction to the letter, despite the derision in his tone.
She didn't think even humans could mistake him for anything but an extraordinary being. Keeping things in terms they could understand, they might wonder if he was a well-known figure in a gladiator sport like football or wrestling. But each time those dark eyes settled on her, she was hit by the power behind them, just waiting for sunset. As distractions went, he was a perfect one to help keep her mind off her throbbing back, which in turn would hopefully ease the concern in the gaze he kept passing over her. She could get lost in those eyes and forget just about anything . . .
Until he knocked into her, tumbling them both down the embankment. They rolled and stopped just short of the marsh, thankfully, as the eighteen-wheeler semi roared past them. It had apparently emerged when she was in thought. Perhaps he'd been as deep in thought as she had been, but she knew the movement of ocean waters and wind tended to swallow human noise until it was right upon the unsuspecting person.
He scrambled to his feet even as the truck was passing, assuming a protective stance over her, which he held in rigid confusion as he registered what it was, what it wasn't. The utter stillness and battle readiness that existed in every line of his body, his concentrated expression, made her decide he didn't need Mina or her to warn him to be on guard. She suspected she was with a being who'd done nothing but be on guard, perhaps for centuries.
Biting her lip against her own discomfort, Anna slid from beneath his planted feet, touched his thigh, glancing up at the tense line to hip, to chest, to his face and all the things chasing across it.
"It's all right, my lord. It was just a truck."
It was an inane thing to say, of course, reflected in the irritation on his face, the clench of his jaw. "I know that." Shaking his head, he lifted her to her feet with a gentle and strong hand, but there was something wild in his eyes, like a stallion about to bolt. "I let my mind drift and it . . . startled me."
She placed a hand on his taut forearm. "We're almost there. We can walk along this bank here; it's fairly flat. All right?"
"I hate this," he said.
Jonah hated everything right now. Huge waves of red anger seemed capable of swamping him in unexpected moments, with no form or reason, no purpose. Like the angry red of her back he'd caused. "You should let me do this journey on my own," he said abruptly. "Stay here near the water. Just draw the map out for me."
She began picking her way along the bank. She tried to shoulder the backpack he'd dropped, seemed to think better of it and carried it in her hand, though it gave her an awkward gait. "They make fresh bread at this diner every morning, my lord. You can smell it, if the wind favors us and turns this way."
He stared after her. "Anna," he said in measured tones. "It's not a wise idea to patronize me."
"You'll feel better after you've eaten something," she said, her voice drifting over her shoulder like birdsong. "Most men do."
Whether she meant human males, or the male gender in general, he didn't know, but his mermaid had a clever tongue. He was finding that out. Which gave him thoughts of other uses for it. Those images made it impossible to retain his irritation with her, particularly with her up ah
ead, her hips moving with a graceful pendulum swing beneath the skirt, the movement unconscious physical evidence of her true form.
"Mothers say that kind of thing to cranky babies," he observed, stalking after her.
"Do they, my lord?" She glanced over her shoulder at him, her hair whispering across kissable lips. "It has the sound of wisdom, doesn't it? The simplest things make you feel on firm ground again. A good night's sleep, a good meal. A flower offered at just the right moment."
She'd not remarked on it at the time, but now he knew she'd noticed his earlier gesture, given it more credit than it deserved. Than he deserved. Again.
She was humming, and the sound of her voice reminded him of how she had sung him to sleep during the rainstorm. He'd drifted off remembering Ronin's laughter, the way it could transform Alexander's dry sarcasm into wit and make Diego smile that slow smile as he tested his sword blade on the edge of one of his crimson and gold feathers. In between the ghosts, he'd remembered the first time he taught David how to recover his balance if he was knocked a hard blow in the air, how to pull up before he crashed to earth . . . Why had it been so long since he'd remembered that stunt of Ronin's at Disney? He'd taken him to task over it, even as he'd done his best not to laugh. Why could he only dream of his laughter now, and only with the help of a mermaid's sweet voice?
THE diner was full of noise, but the kind that was like the rushing of surf, with a rhythm to it that could be anticipated. Clinking silver-ware, murmuring voices, occasional snips of laughter or a raised word to call out to the waitress. The aroma of cooking food was a warm blanket over it all, making it a good space. Wrapped in windows, the building provided a view of the ocean and marsh for the locals and early rising vacationers, so there was no sense of being closed in. And those smells . . . His stomach responded vociferously, so that when they slid into a booth, he eyed the platters of food on neighboring tables.
He'd taken the backpack from her again of course, but set it next to her on her side of the booth, having somewhat of a male distaste of being associated with the pretty pink and purple flowered carrying case. Anna ordered the "Hungry Man Platter" for him, which apparently would come stocked with enough food to maintain him for the rest of the day. When he got his wings back at nightfall, he suspected he wouldn't be able to get off the ground even if his newly mended wing did cooperate.
