“I am not joking.” Tiernan Guaire was a kinslayer, the source of the curse on the Cursed House—which was itself not so much a curse as a simple recognition of the grim truth carried by Guaire blood, the inability to love. If scair-anaim loved, as it surely seemed they did, no Guaire could be a scair-anam. Simple logic.
Impossible.
And yet I want Terry to let me in… I need…
If his line could love…
“You really believe you can’t love. That you can’t be a SoulShare. That you can’t be Terry’s SoulShare.”
The only truthful and complete answer stuck in Maelduin’s throat and refused to come out. “Do you understand what it means to a Fae, to be a kinslayer?”
“As much as a human can. It’s a taboo. Tiernan was exiled for breaking it.”
Maelduin couldn’t resist arching a brow. “I suppose you might call it a taboo. Most Fae would call it impossible, the murder of blood kin.”
“Yet you’re sworn to do the same thing. Aren’t you?”
The corner of Maelduin’s mouth twitched, all the outward sign of annoyance he would allow himself. “I am of his House and line, and under the same curse.”
Josh’s expression was much like that of a large and interested cat crouched in front of a mouse-hole. “But if Tiernan can love—which he does—then he’s not cursed.” The human crossed his arms, one beautifully patterned, the other not, setting a chain of what looked like truesilver jingling on his wrist. “And if you’re cursed through him, then you’re not cursed either.”
Maelduin’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Josh seemed not to notice. “You owe it to Terry to at least consider the possibility that you might be scair-anaim. Even an incomplete SoulShare bond ought to be enough for you to connect with him, help get him back—it was enough for me and Conall, before we had a chance to finish Sharing.”
Reality was beginning to bear a striking resemblance to some of Maelduin’s more chaotic dreams. “You think our bond is incomplete?”
“Just guessing, but yes. You said you ‘thought’ you and Terry might share a soul. If you were fully Shared, believe me, you’d know.”
The truth of Josh’s words echoed in an abruptly hollow place in Maelduin’s chest, He didn’t need to close his eyes to summon up the memory of his failure; in a way, he had never stopped seeing his magick withering, blackening, falling away from Terry’s refusal to accept it.
He had thought it was a failure of his magick.
Maybe it had been a failure of love.
He would not fail twice.
No doubt he looked like a netted fish as he rolled and lurched to his knees; his flailing startled the hawk into flight and earned another hiss from the insolent dragonet. No matter. “I can do nothing for Terry like this. You broke the channeling that blinded me. Can you release me?”
The only sound in the empty, skeletal space was the faint hiss of the dragonet’s regenerating fire. No one else could hear the whisper of the wind, the creaking of branches in Maelduin’s memory.
Josh sighed. “Conall is probably going to kick my ass for this.”
“I will help,” Rhoann put in.
“Who? Me, or him?”
Not waiting for an answer, Josh rested his hand briefly on Maelduin’s shoulder, until the magickal constriction gave way, then extended this hand to Maelduin, palm up.
Why does he feel the need to tell me he is unarmed? Maelduin covered his momentary confusion by flexing his arms, testing the movement in his fingers.
“Need a hand up?”
Oh. He wants to help me. “Brace yourself. I am… clumsier than I am used to being.”
Getting to his feet actually went better than Maelduin had any right to hope—neither he nor the human ended up back on the floor, and the sword hanging from his belt tangled in no legs and tripped no one. Still, he staggered, and it took him a moment to steady himself and shake off vertigo.
“Josh. Maelduin.”
Rhoann inclined his head toward the far corner of the unfinished space, as far from the column of light as it was possible to get. Two figures were taking form, color and solidity filling into ghostly images; one slight and red-haired, the other tall, with long blond hair.
Maelduin’s sword, though undrawn, was like a living thing in his hand, an extension of himself. Even with his grace in Terry’s keeping, it could not be otherwise.
I cannot die. Not yet.
Chapter Twenty-Two
There was no sense in pacing, Terry decided, not when confined in a six-by-six space with a handsome naked man—or close enough—and surrounded by a barrier it seemed like a very good idea not to touch. Which was unfortunate, because as much as he normally loved to be on stage, at the moment Terry wanted nothing so much as to be alone with his thoughts, or at least not to feel quite so stared at.
I don’t know what you’re talking about, he offered at last. Maelduin hasn’t taken anything from me. Hell, he didn’t even ask me for a bed for the night.
Did he not? One straight black brow quirked up. That would be most unusual behavior, for a slaidar confronted with a handsome human male.
No, he… Terry frowned. Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t remember exactly what Maelduin had said to him in the beginning. I don’t know what he said. I couldn’t understand him.
There is a Fae magick that lets them understand those words that are spoken in their presence, and use them again. Coinneach shrugged. He did not need to speak. If a Fae wants something from you, he will have it, words or no.
Terry’s nails dug into his palms as his fists clenched. He didn’t believe what the Gille Dubh was hinting. Or didn’t want to believe him. He just wasn’t sure why. And until he was sure, he needed to watch his thoughts. Coinneach had probably never heard of Miranda warnings, and it was a cinch he wasn’t going to give Terry any. So, find something else to ‘talk’ about. Is that how you’re understanding me? And I’m understanding you?
Slaidar magick? The Gille Dubh laughed, moonlight and a chill wind. No. Your blood, shared with me, lets us understand one another.
But I could understand you before you took my blood. A little, anyway.
Coinneach’s eyes half-closed; Terry could almost feel his narrowed gaze on his skin, like a physical touch. Yes. Your slaidar left his blood on this piece of wood, and that was enough.
His blood let you read my thoughts? Terry hoped he didn’t sound as confused as he felt.
The wind went still; when it resumed, it was the faintest of breezes, barely enough to stir the leaves Terry couldn’t see. He has not yet told you what you are to one another. Even that, he has kept from you.
Damn, it would be wonderful if I could just stop thinking. Terry ground the heels of his hands against his closed eyelids, until the darkness started to sparkle. Look, is there some way you can give me a little privacy, at least in my own head?
It took a few seconds for the Gille Dubh to reply. It is not as simple a thing to do as you might think. But I will try to ignore anything you do not direct at me. The green of Coinneach’s eyes was suddenly more intense. You will need to trust me. More than you trust your slaidar.
My Fae. The Gille Dubh’s insistence on what it obviously considered an insult was beginning to grate on Terry. Still, under the circumstances, keeping his temper was probably a good idea; instead of turning away, he closed his eyes.
He thinks—he assumes—I don’t trust Maelduin. The temptation to crack open an eyelid, see if Coinneach was reacting to his thoughts, was almost too much. But if he gave in to that temptation, he had a feeling the Gille Dubh would consider his point proven.
And that would be bad. Terry wasn’t sure why, but he knew. He had to keep Coinneach from concluding that he didn’t trust Maelduin.
Unless he ultimately decided he didn’t. But fuck if he was going to let anyone push him to a conclusion he wasn’t ready to come to on his own.
Terry cleared his throat. What did you mean, when y
ou said Maelduin hadn’t told me what we are to one another?
If he had told you, you would not need to be asking me that question.
Obviously. He shrugged. But if you can’t answer it, just say so.
Terry thought the sigh he heard was an actual sigh, not the wind-language. A slaidar pays a price to cross from their Realm to yours. Half his soul is torn from him, and reborn in a human. In order to regain what he lost, he has to find the human who received it.
The temptation to shut down—just for a minute, just to process—was strong. Terry resisted. And you think I’m his human.
They call their humans SoulShares. Yes.
You think I have half his soul.
Yes.
And you think he’s lying to me.
A nod. Yes.
Being—or even seeming—rude to a supernatural being with whom one was trapped in a space that was feeling smaller by the second was probably not a good idea. However, Terry really needed space at the moment. Excuse me.
The best he could do was turn around, which left him staring at the shifting, whirling, glowing distortion that was apparently the border between now and five minutes ago. Not exactly calming, but it would do. It had to.
I only found Maelduin yesterday. Hard to believe—not so much that he’d brought an attractive man home with him, but that he’d felt a connection, right off the bat. He’d rejected it, of course, but—
Wait a minute. Why ‘of course’?
Because Bryce. Because Josh. Because he made bad choices. Because he sucked at love.
Last night, he’d fallen asleep with a stranger’s arm snugged up around him, a stranger’s body spooning his. A stranger’s lips brushing the back of his neck. He’d fallen asleep smiling.
He’d awakened wrapped around that same stranger.
And yet tonight he’d resolved to put that stranger… his maybe soulmate… out on the street.
Am I really going to let Bryce Newhouse, and the ghost of a dead relationship with Josh, order me around? Tell me I can’t even try with Maelduin?
It wasn’t just Bryce and Josh who were trying to weigh in, either. Terry could practically feel Coinneach’s uncanny gaze boring into the back of his head, turning him against his Fae SoulShare. Or trying to. Reminding him of every bad choice he’d ever made, and telling him that Maelduin was nothing more than the latest entry in his personal hit parade.
Coinneach might be right. He certainly had the numbers on his side.
But… last night. If only Terry could let himself believe—for once—in the warmth of those arms. If he could somehow imagine himself in a relationship that had a fucking chance.
Jesus. When was the last time I really listened to the way I talk to myself?
The story he told himself, about himself, hurt. Soul-deep. But it was at least familiar. It made sense.
I’d rather be right than take a chance on being happy.
When had he decided to live like that?
He hadn’t. He’d never made that decision. He’d simply let one acceptance of ‘the way things were,’ one way of coping with a hurt, slide into another, until the acceptance had become his reality.
Maelduin offered him magick, maybe more.
If he could take the chance. If it wasn’t already too late. If Coinneach was wrong.
Terry turned on his heel to face Coinneach. Why should I believe you, more than I believe Maelduin?
Terry could hear Coinneach’s breath catch. Because… I have known slaidarin for thousands of your years. You have not.
Something wasn’t making sense. Actually, nothing was making sense, but one inconsistency was jumping up and down and begging for Terry’s attention at the moment. You think I have half Maelduin’s soul, you just told me that we’re already connected somehow right down to our blood, but you’re also trying to convince me he brought me here to betray me and cut us off from one another.
We… The wind died to nothing; Coinneach stared at the floor, arms crossed.
Why do you want me to tell you Maelduin’s lying to me?
An actual wind blew up from the floor, a wind carrying words. Words not directed at Terry.
RELENT. THE SLAIDARIN ARE NOT WHAT THEY WERE. THE TRUCE HOLDS. AND WE NEED THE HUMAN’S WILLING AID.
* * *
So what do we do next?
Nobody answered the male, which was okay with Janek. His ear was still ringing from the bitch’s shrieking after they’d all hit the whatever the fuck it was, so he had problems hearing her speak when she tried, and nobody with half a brain—or, like him, a little less—wanted to hear anything the abomination had to say. He was sure no one was expecting him to answer, and even if someone was, he knew better than to open his mouth when the male was in the kind of mood he was in. Especially when Janek was the one who had put him there.
Janek could still think, though, in his own way. And he was thinking harder and faster than he’d thought since… probably since some time before he’d thought it was a good idea to try to shake down Kevin Almstead at knifepoint in front of his Fae fuckbuddy.
Whatever had been pulling their shared body toward the bottom of the pit had stopped pulling as soon as the shield went up. Like someone had been playing their body the way a fisherman played one of those big-ass tuna. Or a shark. Janek preferred the shark. And then someone else had cut the line.
Janek could still feel the first connection the bitch had made, though. It felt different—he wasn’t sure how he knew, but he could tell that the other end of that connection was one hell of a long way away. Probably in D.C., though they had enough of a connection with New York or Cape Fear to make them possible, too.
None of which did any of them the slightest fucking good, sitting here freezing their shared ass to an iceberg in Antarctica.
“If you are interested in an actual conversation, instead of a shouting match, I might have an idea.” The female’s voice was even colder than the ice, which was pretty fucking funny considering she’d been the one doing most of the screaming.
Oh, by all means, do share. The male’s voice was as sour as old vomit. Janek was pretty sure he could still remember what old vomit had tasted like.
“We have to—”
The female shrieked as the iceberg rocked under them. It had done that a couple of times since the rotten magick tunneled a hole into the ice. It freaked the female out every time it happened, but Janek thought she was screaming less. Lucky for her—he’d been ready to try to rip her throat out and fuck the consequences.
We have to grow a pair. Janek could feel the male urging the bitch’s hand down, to scratch balls she didn’t have. Keep talking.
“Vile.” Their body shuddered, and the female kept her arms wrapped even more tightly around herself.
This was new. The shuddering was new. However much the three-faced parasite had bitched before, it had been obvious as hell that they got off on one another’s disgusting quirks. Janek tried not to seem too interested in the change. But hell, yes, he was interested—if the monster riding him was starting to come apart at the seams, that could be very good for him. Or very bad, depending on when everything fell apart.
“We have to Fade.”
Fuck no! Janek blurted.
Bad idea. He could feel all three of the monster’s faces turning to look at him.
Seems like a decent idea to me, Meat. The only thing guaranteed to shrivel Janek’s balls more than the male being pissed was the male being too fucking reasonable. We have to get off this chunk of ice before it dumps us into the ocean—Janek could feel the male choke at the thought of all that water, but it didn’t slow him down much—and I don’t notice a whole lot of raw material around here to build a raft with.
Raw material. Right. Janek would have nodded, but the bitch was keeping tight control of their body. I’m your raw material. Your meat. He was proud of not gagging on the word. Your meat is human. Fading me again will kill me, you said so yourself the last time you did it to me. And if you k
ill me, you kill all of us. Which wouldn’t be a bad endgame, actually, except for the detail of him not getting to off Guaire if shit went down that way, which was all he’d been staying alive for, the last couple of years.
“Perhaps. And perhaps not. But your delay cost us the only other choice we had.” The female was back to smug. Shit.
Whatever this is, it’s magick, right? Maybe you can eat it. He sure as hell didn’t want the monster any stronger than it was, but if it could get rid of the weird glowing cap over the hole in the ice, then Janek could get back to the happy place where the only thing he had to worry about was whether it would keep its promise to do nothing but feed from the fucking wellspring.
Don’t be even more of an—
“Wait.” The bitch raised a red-nailed hand. “Meat may be right.”
Brain death would seem to be contagious. Janek could feel the male trying to sneer. This isn’t any kind of magick we’ve ever seen before.
“Then how do you know it cannot sustain us?” The female’s lips curled back from her teeth. “Are you so eager to risk our life?”
You call this—
ENOUGH.
Everyone, Janek included, stopped moving, stopped breathing, stopped thinking, when the abomination uncurled from whatever part of their shared brain it was curled up in. For Janek at least, the not thinking part wasn’t hard.
WE WILL ATTEMPT TO USE THE NEW MAGICK.
The sound of the scorpion-thing’s bone-grating voice made Janek want to clamp his hands over his ears. Ear. Or hit himself in the head till he passed out.
AND IF WE CANNOT USE IT, WE WILL TAKE OUR CHANCES WITH THE MEAT.
Shit.
The female knelt beside the hole in the ice. The cap was a few inches below the level of the ice. Janek didn’t want to look at the magick—their body’s eyes were the female’s, but he was seeing with his own senses, somehow, the way he always did. And either there was something seriously fucked up about his eyesight, or humans weren’t supposed to be able to see whatever this was, and he’d just been sharing head space for so long with a monster that his brain didn’t realize it and kept trying to fill in the blanks. Either way, it made his eye hurt.
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