by Melissa Grey
There was no time for a dalliance in his life. Not even with someone who insisted, rather impudently, on looking like that.
Sunlight danced along Jasper’s hair-feathers, breaking into beautiful, prismatic light. The purple feathers weren’t merely purple, they were indigo and fuchsia and the deepest violet. The blues shimmered like ocean waves, and the shades of green fluctuated like the rustling leaves of a tree canopy in a soft breeze. Jasper’s bronze skin shone in the light. He was silent, as if allowing Dorian a moment to revel in his magnificence.
Dorian let himself revel, just for a little while. Self-flagellation might have been the order of the day, but he had never claimed to be a saint.
The corners of Jasper’s lips ticked upward, as if he were reading Dorian’s thoughts and found them most satisfactory. “Enjoying the view?”
Heat flooded Dorian’s cheeks and he turned around quickly, on the pretense of tidying up the savaged training dummies, but the widening smirk he caught on Jasper’s face before it was lost to view told him that he had hidden nothing. To gawk was one thing. To be caught gawking was something else entirely. His embarrassment scrolled in patchwork red across the back of his neck. He rubbed at the skin there, hoping—in vain—to mask it.
The sound of shoes crunching over gravel heralded Jasper’s approach. It was never wise to sneak up on a person wielding a wickedly sharp blade, and Dorian was strung as tightly as a bowstring. He was sure the tension in his shoulders and down his spine was painfully obvious to Jasper’s keen eyes.
“You know,” Jasper said, without waiting for Dorian to gather the courage to meet his gaze, “I’ve watched you come out here every day since Caius was taken and run yourself completely ragged.” The air by Dorian’s shoulder felt disturbed, as if a hand had reached for his arm only to pull back at the last minute. “I know this is hard for you. Hell, it’s hard for me to watch you punishing yourself like this. And I know I’m not always great when it comes to dealing with feelings and all that messy emotional nonsense, but I’d make an exception for you.” A soft sigh. “You can talk to me. I hope you know that.”
“There isn’t much to say.” Dorian went to retrieve the supplies—a rag, some oil, a whetstone to keep his blade sharp—he’d tucked away in a corner of the courtyard. “I was his guard, and I failed to guard him.”
Jasper wormed his way between Dorian and the wall he was stubbornly facing. Dorian took half a step back before he realized how cowardly that made him look. He held his ground, which put Jasper less than a foot from him. It was the closest they had been, physically, in weeks. Dorian had pulled away from the comfort he knew he would find with Jasper. Strange, to know that he would find such comfort in someone belonging to a race he had thought he’d hated. But he didn’t deserve it. Not until he’d made things right.
Their proximity was not lost on Jasper, who looked at him through half-lidded eyes. “Dorian.”
“Jasper.”
“Talk to me. You need to talk to someone.”
Dorian tossed the rag to the ground with a frustrated growl. “There’s nothing to say.”
With that, Dorian turned on his heel and made his way toward the castle. He didn’t know where he was going; he didn’t much care. He just needed to get away from Jasper. Away from the hurt in those golden eyes, from the powerful punch of longing that punctuated each beat of Dorian’s heart.
Rapid footsteps echoed behind him. “Dorian!” Jasper called out. “Wait.”
Dorian paused, squeezing his eyes shut. He had evaded Jasper’s direct attentions for weeks, but he knew it was only a matter of time before Jasper made their confrontation inescapable. Dorian was surprised it had taken him this long. Perhaps the delay had been Jasper’s attempt to respect Dorian’s obvious despair.
“You can’t run from me forever, you know.” Jasper stopped right in front of Dorian. Another evasion would require Dorian to step around him. He didn’t want to. Not really. Not even if the thought of enjoying the slightest warmth of Jasper’s nearness made the clawed monster inside him roll around in his guilt like a pig in slop.
Dorian raised his eye to meet Jasper’s. “I’m surprised you let me run this long.”
“You should be,” Jasper said. “I’m not known for my patience.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Dorian admitted, even though it was a lie. You rotten coward. He knew exactly what Jasper wanted him to say. He just wasn’t strong or good enough to say it.
“There’s plenty I’d like to hear you say,” Jasper said. “Sweet nothings, dirty limericks, raunchy confessions. The list goes on.”
“Jasper—”
“But the thing I most want is an explanation.” Jasper held up a hand before Dorian could argue. “I know things have been hard for you. Losing Caius was…rough.”
“Rough,” Dorian repeated, with a huff of humorless laughter. “That is a gross underestimation.”
Jasper plowed on as if Dorian hadn’t spoken. “But something happened between us, and even if it was just that one night and it’ll never be anything more”—his expression flickered as if he was fighting not to betray the intensity of his emotion—“I want to hear you say it. You can’t just ignore it. Please don’t ignore it.”
Please don’t ignore me was what Dorian heard. Something had happened between them. And no matter how desperately he tried, Dorian couldn’t ignore it. He replayed those stolen moments in his head every time he closed his eye. The feel of Jasper’s lips against his, moving with a tentativeness that had surprised Dorian. The softness of the feathers he’d run his fingers through as his hand cradled the back of Jasper’s neck. The tingle of Jasper’s breath against Dorian’s neck. Each and every moment, preserved with stunning clarity, as if not a single second had passed.
Dorian’s heart twisted in new and interesting and torturous ways.
“The last thing I want to do is hurt you,” Dorian said, and he meant it. He meant those words just as he’d meant the words he’d said to Caius so many times.
“Then talk to me.”
“And say what?” Dorian snapped. Jasper took a step back, and Dorian’s regret was instant. He was angry, but Jasper had done nothing to deserve being the target of that anger. Other than exist. Dorian sucked in a fortifying breath. “I’m sorry. I just—”
“I can’t understand if you don’t tell me what’s going on in that head of yours,” Jasper said, reclaiming his place in front of Dorian.
Dorian let a full minute tick by while he measured his words. “When I was with you, I didn’t think about anything else. I didn’t want to.”
“And that’s a bad thing?” Jasper asked.
Dorian shook his head. “No. Yes. I don’t know. All I know is that I was enjoying myself and Caius was suffering and I wasn’t there for him. I should have been. But I didn’t want to; I wanted to be with you.”
Jasper pulled his lower lip between his teeth. Dorian resisted the urge to close the space between them and pull that lip into his own mouth.
“And now you’re punishing yourself for that,” Jasper said.
Dorian sighed. “I suppose I am.” He didn’t like the way it sounded when phrased like that, but the truth of it was impossible to deny. “It’s just…I feel so powerless. I swore an oath to protect Caius, and now I don’t know where he is or how to get him back or if he’s even still alive. Every waking moment I think about him being held captive by a sadistic monster, and it’s killing me.”
“Did it make you feel better to say that?” Jasper asked.
“No.”
This time, Jasper didn’t stop himself from laying a hand on Dorian’s arm. His touch was electric. Dorian’s bicep twitched under the gentle pressure. But he didn’t move back. He didn’t push Jasper away. He didn’t want to. Gods, he was weak.
“You’ll find him,” Jasper said. “Echo told me she was working on a way to track him down, and that girl is as stubborn as an ox.”
“It isn’t Echo’s responsibilit
y,” Dorian said. “It’s mine.”
Jasper pinched the bridge of his nose. “You aren’t a one-man army, Dorian. You don’t have to bear this alone. That’s all I’m trying to say. Look, you said your contacts inside Wyvern’s Keep had spotted Caius, right?”
“Two weeks ago. Then Tanith left with him and there’s been no sign of him since.”
“Okay, well, say we get confirmation that he’s there,” Jasper said. “What are you going to do? Storm the keep? All by yourself?”
“If I have to.”
“Dorian—”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
Jasper narrowed his eyes, and a faint twinge of something like guilt prodded at Dorian’s conscience. “You think I don’t understand loyalty? I know I don’t have the most sterling reputation, but I thought we were past that.”
“No,” Dorian said. “I didn’t mean that. It’s…different. It’s more. I don’t know how to explain it.”
I was in love with him for a hundred years went unsaid.
Jasper was never one to give up without a fight. “Try.”
Dorian snorted. To explain his and Caius’s connection was far easier said than done. Caius had saved Dorian’s life and given him a purpose. He had given Dorian friendship, loyalty, unwavering faith. Each morning, Dorian had risen with a light heart, knowing that the path before him was clear: to be beside Caius, to protect him, to be his second. Love was the least of what Dorian had felt for Caius. There was no Dorian without Caius. Without Caius, Dorian would have bled out on that beach, another nameless casualty in a war that had already claimed so many before him, so many after. But he didn’t have the words to say that aloud. Verbalizing it made it seem paltry. Words would never be enough. So he told Jasper the only thing that made sense to him: “I owe him everything.”
Jasper held Dorian’s gaze for a long moment. The sun was setting behind him, its dying rays skittering over the gleaming ridges of his feathers. Jasper blinked his long-lashed yellow eyes slowly as he breathed in deeply, as if a great decision had just been made. “Fine.”
What? “Fine?”
Jasper heaved a dramatic sigh as though Dorian were being unbearably stupid on purpose. “I mean, fine. I will help you find Caius. We’ll save him and he’ll be fine and you can move past this unseemly self-flagellation phase and I can get back to living my life and not feeling guilty about every double entendre I throw your way.”
“Jasper, I’m not asking you to—”
“I don’t care,” Jasper said. “He matters to you, so no matter how much his smug, handsome face grates on my nerves, and it does”—he said this with a knowing look, as if the entire history of Dorian’s painful, one-sided love were written across his forehead—“then he matters to me. So I’ll help you however I can. We’ll find him and then we’ll bring his smug, handsome face back in one piece.”
Dorian didn’t know what to say to that other than “Thank you.” Two little words, but they contained multitudes. Wait. “You think Caius is handsome?”
“Of course I do,” Jasper said. “You have impeccable taste in men. I’d be insulted if he weren’t.”
Dorian couldn’t help but smile at that, at least a little. “You’re ridiculous. I hope you know that.”
Jasper’s shoulders rose in a nonchalant shrug. “Some may find me so. Besides, I owe him, too.”
“For what?”
The question was greeted with an enigmatic grin. “You.”
“Me?”
“No, the other Dorian. Yes, you.”
The Avicen at the other end of the courtyard had drifted off, but Dorian was keenly aware of the few who remained within earshot. He knew that every word, every gesture was being reported to Sage and the Ala and whoever else was in charge of ensuring the safety of the Avicen’s refuge. He wasn’t sure he wanted this conversation to go any further, but curiosity was a bright, burning thing. “What does that mean? A straight answer, please.”
“The day we first met, when you were bleeding all over my white carpet and Egyptian cotton sheets—”
“Yes, yes, I’ve heard this complaint a thousand times.” Dorian rolled his eye skyward. “My apologies for the inconvenience.”
“Well, you and Caius and Echo were in a tough spot and you needed my help. Caius and I made a deal.”
Dorian did not like the sound of that. Not one bit. “What kind of deal?”
For what was likely the first time in his life, Jasper had the grace to look marginally abashed. “Long story short, he agreed to stay out of my way while I courted you.”
The manner in which Jasper hedged his words made Dorian think that the deal, whatever it was, hadn’t been framed as innocently as that, but to complain about it now would have been the height of hypocrisy. He wasn’t distraught over how it had worked out. Not entirely. Not when Jasper had so deftly worked his way past Dorian’s defenses and made him feel things he’d long since given up hope of ever feeling.
“Is that what you call this?” Dorian said. “Courting?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want flowers? I’m sure I could scrounge up a nice bouquet.”
Jasper eyed a clump of stubborn weeds sprouting through the cracks in the flagstones. “Those would look lovely on your windowsill.”
They were the saddest little weeds Dorian had ever seen. “You wouldn’t.”
Jasper came even closer to Dorian, daring him to step back. He didn’t. A tentative hand reached up to touch the edge of Dorian’s jaw. There was a scar there, barely visible. It had the same white tint as the other scars on his face. There were so many. He didn’t even remember how he had acquired that one. A cool fingertip traced the line of the scar. Dorian flushed. It was the most he had allowed himself to be touched in weeks.
“Don’t shut me out,” Jasper said, his voice a hairsbreadth above a whisper.
Dorian swallowed thickly. He was both intensely aware of the Avicen still watching them and wholly unconcerned by their presence. Let them run to Sage and tell her all they saw. Let her know that he was wrapped around the finger of one of her people.
Weak, weak, weak.
It would be so easy to lean in, to slide his cheek against Jasper’s open palm, to let himself rest his burdens at Jasper’s feet just so he wouldn’t have to carry them for a short while. But he had sworn an oath, and he would let nothing get in the way of that. Not even the face of temptation itself.
Dorian stepped away. Hurt flashed in Jasper’s eyes. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared as he schooled his achingly perfect features into something almost nonchalant. Almost.
“I’m sorry,” Dorian said.
Jasper turned away. “Don’t be.”
His steps were light as he made his way out of the courtyard. Anyone who didn’t know him would have mistaken his posture for one of ease. But Dorian knew. Disappointment was written in the way Jasper moved, the set of his shoulders, the tightness in his hands. The refusal to look back, to see the regret written just as clearly on Dorian’s face.
Weak, he told himself. Weak, weak, weak.
CHAPTER FIVE
The boat ride had not been long enough for Echo to pull herself together. Rowan had called again to let her know he was okay, and the sound of his voice had been a balm to her nerves. She’d sat in the little boathouse on the eastern side of the island, soothed by the sound of birds chirping and water sloshing against the wooden beams of the dock, for what felt like an hour before she’d calmed down enough to make her way upstairs. The second she opened the door, the sweet aroma that greeted her made her feel almost normal again.
Scent, it is said, is the sense tied most closely to memory. Echo couldn’t remember where or when she had read that, but it rang true. The candles distributed throughout her bedroom, crowded on every level surface, were testament to that. Each one had a unique scent that reminded her of someone she had lost. She wasn’t much for funerals, but she had found a way to remember the dead in her own fashion.
There was
a balsam fir candle for Holly, the Avicen woman who had sold Christmas ornaments in the Agora year-round. Christmas was a Christian holiday, and the Avicen did not celebrate it, but Holly loved bright, shiny things, and the decorations most associated with Christmas—poinsettias, icicles, pinecones, and, most important, glitter—were not out of place during the winter solstice festivals the Avicen celebrated. She had even taken to stocking candy canes once she learned how much Echo loved them. Holly had been at the Nest when it was attacked, and she had not made it out alive.
She had not been the only one. Far from it. Over the past few weeks, Echo had collected a modest trove of treasures, one for each person she held dear. Most were candles, but when she couldn’t find a suitable candle, she substituted another item.
There was a vanilla-scented candle for Ainslie, the apothecary. A cinnamon one for Hazel, the baker who’d always slipped Echo a few truffles whenever she stopped by.
A small eagle, carved out of wood, for Altair, a man Echo had only begun to know, a man she’d thought she despised and who she’d thought despised her in turn. But he had been, like most people, far more substantial than she’d realized. Echo mourned that she had only begun to see how much love he’d had in his heart before Tanith had torn it out of his chest. He’d loved his people. He’d wanted them safe, protected. He’d died for that love, and Echo would carry that memory with her until she met her own end.
A fat yellow, citrusy candle for Garland, the young Avicen who’d joined the ranks of apprentice healers the same week Ivy had. Echo hadn’t procured that candle—she had come back to her room one day to find that Ivy had added it to the collection without a word. Echo hadn’t told anyone what she was doing with the candles or why; it was no one else’s business how she mourned. But Ivy knew. They’d been sharing a room since the Ala had ordered everyone to double up to make space for more refugees. Tales of Echo’s defeat of Tanith—however temporary—and her subsequent warding of the island had spread far and wide, and each day brought with it a new face, desperate for the safety Avalon provided.
