by Cecy Robson
Ryker rubs his eyes. “To wake us from our heroine stupor,” he adds.
“Heroine, stupor?” I question. At Ryker’s nod, I take another sip. “We make quite the pair, don’t we?”
He fills his wine glass. “That we do.” He swirls the red liquid against the glass, watching the legs form. “You need to start listening better,” he says.
I quirk a brow. “What do you think I spent the day doing?”
He shakes his head. “I mean when it comes to your safety. The expectation is that you are the one who will save the Fae. That won’t happen if you die.”
All right. Now I’m annoyed. “Are you worried about the future of Fae, or are you more concerned with your own hide?” I lean forward. “That maybe I won’t last long enough to grant you that peace you so desperately seek?”
Rage sharpens the angles in Ryker’s face. I hit nerve. So, had he. I’m trying. Can’t he see how overwhelmed and terrified I am?
“Your existence is more valuable than mine,” he grinds out. “I’m just another form of Death. You are Life, and the only chance the Fae have to survive.”
“How can you think so little of yourself? Or tell me your existence doesn’t matter? It matters to me.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I’m ready to beat him over the head with a wine bottle. “All right. You know everything. What happens if what remains of your soul gets gobbled up by Cathasach? You think you have it bad now, what’s it going to be like trapped inside of him with all those miserable souls you, as the Ankou, are helpless to save?”
He points to himself. “If I fall at the hands of the Cù-Sìth, I’m one loss out of thousands. If you’re killed, especially by Cathasach, the consequences are catastrophic. Death becomes unstoppable.”
“Don’t you think I know that? The thought has raked through my mind a thousand times over. I’m not naïve, Ryker. Stop treating me as if I am.”
“Then why don’t your actions reflect the importance of your survival?” he demands.
I push away from the raised counter and stomp toward his bedroom. I’m not certain where I’m headed. I’m just too livid to keep still. When I’m almost to the hall, I whirl around and storm back to him. “I didn’t sign up for this. Any of it. You pretend to know what I’m going through, but you have no fucking idea!” My eyes sting with growing ire. “You may be lonely but being alone means having no one to answer to. I now answer to every last Fae, the living and the dead. I don’t need to be reminded of what happens if I fail.”
Ryker looms over me. “Until you start heeding my orders, I will remind you of it and more. I told you to call out to Jane, that she would protect you and stow you somewhere safe. Instead of obeying, you took out your anger on me. We thought Death was at my door and all you did was argue. Just as you’re doing now.”
I throw my hands in the air. “I don’t want to be stowed. Not if it means losing you!”
“Why?”
Is he really this thick? “Because I care about you. Why can’t you understand that? I’m not letting you die just to save my own ass.”
He lifts his chin. “You need to accept that it may come to that.”
I point at him, aiming for the dimple. “No. You need to stop whining about how expendable you are and shut the hell up.”
The air between us thickens enough to pound nails through. I just royally pissed off a guy who carries a scythe and knows how to use it. And I could give a fairy’s flat ass. Life can be hard. Suck it, Death.
Our gazes drill into each other for what feels like ages. My stomach roils, churning my dinner painfully. It had tasted so good. Except nothing tastes good now.
This was Day One of training. The results were adequate at best. How will Day Two, or Three go? Will I even see the following week?
Cathasach is gaming for me and nothing will distract him and his pack from the hunt. He wants to devour me and make me suffer. And here I stand at odds with the one being who can help me fight him.
Ryker’s seething glare eases away when a tear moistens my hot cheeks. He sighs. “I don’t want to fight with you, Olivia.”
“I don’t want to fight with you either.” More tears trickle to my chin. “I know what I have to do. Just as I know you’re the only one who can teach me the right way to do it.” My heart begs him to listen when all he does is look at me. “I’m not trying to be difficult and I promise to work on it. But you need to work on not being such a martyr. I don’t see you as expendable, so, stop acting like you are and we’ll both be better for it.”
Ryker closes in. He watches my tears slide like tiny rivers before cupping my face in his hands. His thumbs swipe my cheeks, the gentle contact soothing me and my misery. “I don’t mean to act as a martyr. My objective is to find peace, not substitute if for a different form of hell. I can only accomplish my task with your help. But even if you couldn’t grant me eternal rest, I would sacrifice myself to keep you safe.”
That’s not what I want to hear. “Why?”
“Because I care for you as well, Olivia. More than you realize or desire.”
Time stops as if slammed into a wall. My mind insists that Ryker is only attracted to me because he’s another form of Death, that what he feels isn’t what I think it is. Even if it is, it’s not right. Never have two beings been more opposite or fated to end so disastrously. “You shouldn’t,” I tell him, my voice thick with sadness.
His deep gaze searches mine for an eternity. Finally, he lowers his hands from my face. “Very well,” he says.
Ryker gives me his back and walks toward the spiraling metal staircase that leads to the Bat Cave. “Come. There is one more thing I need to teach you before we end our day.”
I hurry to catch up to him, slowing only when I begin my descent down the tricky steps. “Are you angry with me?” I ask.
“No.” He walks to the center of the room and turns to face me, his expression weary. “I know you prefer to not entertain thoughts of my death―”
“You’ve got that right,” I mutter.
I expect him to grow irate for cutting him off. Instead, the side of his mouth curves into a smirk. “You can’t deny the possibility exists.”
For either of us, I don’t add.
He frowns as if my thoughts had reached his. Slowly, he relaxes his eyebrows. “I want to leave Dugan and Phillip in your care should I fail you.”
“Um,” I look around, whispering low if they can hear us. “Isn’t that against the rules?”
“I don’t see how. They are in my charge.”
I blink back him. “I’m not the Ankou,” I remind him.
“True, but you’re forgetting there won’t be another Ankou to take my place.”
“Why?” I ask.
There he goes again, giving thought to what he should tell me and what he should leave out. “One of two things will happen should Cathasach claim my soul, either they will enter their eternal peace, which I doubt. Or they will be trapped along with me which is more likely.”
“Why won’t Doogie and Phil―”
“Dugan and Phillip,” he interrupts, his smirk returning.
“Yeah, Yeah,” I say, batting my hands. “What I’m trying to say is, why wouldn’t they be allowed into the afterlife?”
“The penance for their sins they committed is servitude to the Ankou.”
“They’ve served every Ankou that ever was?” I ask. Ryker nods. “Wow. They must’ve been quite the bad boys.” His edgy posture makes it clear I shouldn’t delve into the nature of their sins.
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” I add. “But I don’t want to be responsible for your buddies.”
Ryker takes several steps back and shoots out his arm, his scythe appearing almost instantly. I don’t even flinch which troubles me. It seems I’m getting a little too use to his neck slicing weapon of choice.
Ryker holds his scythe at his side, parallel to the floor. It’s the first time I realize that the battered handle has runes etched
in varying patterns. I recognize some, protection, wrath, strength. Obviously, I don’t have time to analyze more, not with the seriousness Ryker pegs me with.
“My warriors may not be pure of heart, but they are my charge and have been loyal to me for more than a century. I prefer to leave them to aid and protect you rather than risk their imprisonment within the Cù-Sìth.” He passes me his scythe. “Take it.”
“Um, why?”
He shakes his head as if annoyed. Still, I recognize a hint of humor. “Must you question everything I ask?”
I grin. “It seems to me you don’t like being questioned. In fact, you kind of strike me as a do as I command, or I’ll kill you kind of guy.” I hold out my hand. “Then again, it’s just a guess.”
Granite carries more warmth than this guy. “I know, I know,” I tell him. “I’m insufferable.”
Ryker ignores me and drops his scythe into my outstretched hands. My outstretch hands drop it, point down, into his already abused floor.
Ryker pinches the bridge of his nose. Hands down, I’m like, his bestest student, ever. “This thing is heavier than I thought,” I offer apologetically.
“I can see as much,” he mutters. “Remind me to begin our weight training regimen tomorrow. Now, trace a line into the floor with the point―”
He cringes at the horrid scratching noise the blade makes as I create my line. Well, it’s not exactly a line, more like a zig-zag with the occasional swerve.
“I said trace. Not dig a hole en route to China.”
“Sorry. This thing weighs a ton.”
Ryker clenches his jaw, muttering through his teeth. I notice he does that a lot in my presence. “Force your power through the tip of the base and command them to rise,” he says. “Ardú”"
“In the future, that would be great info to start with.” I examine my pathetic line that resembles more of a beak than anything I recall in geometry. “Should I go back and try again?”
Ryker squeezes his eyes shut. This guy is all sorts of crazy about me. “Please don’t,” he snaps. “The floor is not your enemy. Keep going and for once, do as I ask.”
“I do the stuff you ask.” He looks at me. “Mostly,” I mumble, thinking back.
I take a breath and will my power through the scythe and into the line. This time, it’s not as hard to call it forward, but it is more draining. “Ardú,” I call out.
My scratch flares pink and not much more.
“Louder,” Ryker insists.
“Ardú!”
“It’s a command. Not a request,” Ryker instructs. “Compel them to rise.”
My shoulders droop. “I don’t like ordering people around. It’s rude and just not in me.”
The big bad smirk returns. “Pretend it’s me, on a Monday, lying across your desk, requesting you massage my feet.”
“Ardú, damn it!”
The semi line ignites with pink light. Doogie and Phil rise, swords out, their scowls trained on me. Ryker walks around them to stand by my side. “Dugan, Phillip, this is Olivia. You’re aware we will help her face the Cù-Sìth. Should I perish, your loyalty will pass to her.”
Doogie’s scowl deepens. Phil flips me off. My guess is Phil is the bigger sinner of the two. Well, isn’t dealing with dead Scottish warriors just a laugh a minute?
Ryker’s lethal glare shifts to Phil. “Phillip, this is not appropriate behavior in the presence of a lady.” Phil tucks his sword into the sheath at his side and adds a second finger. Ryker takes a step forward. “This isn’t a request, Phillip. Either pledge your loyalty to Olivia in my absence or spend damnation swimming in the bowels of the Cù-Sìth.”
Ryker has a gift for painting quite the visual. Doogie, although his ghostly form darkens with annoyance, he places his hand over his heart and bows.
For now, this appears good enough for Ryker. “Good. Tell them to sleep.”
“Codladh,” I say, demonstrating what I hope is respect in my voice.
Doogie disappears into my fading pink line. Phil places his hand over his heart and bows. It’s not as deep and more curt than Doogie. Still, I try to smile, thinking he’s on board . . . until he gives me his back, bends over, and lifts his kilt as he vanishes into the floor.
The theory that Scots don’t wear anything beneath that kilt? It’s true, folks.
Ryker rubs his chin. “They were . . . hesitant.”
“And hairy,” I add. “Especially Phil. The ghoul needs a serious ass-wax.”
“The added hair had its benefits in the Scottish Highlands during the winter months,” Ryker reasons.
I bark out a laugh, noting Death does have a sense of humor.
~ * ~
My smile remains on my return home. “What else do you have planned, besides my obvious need to bulk up?” I ask Ryker.
His lips twitch. “Bulk isn’t necessary. You just need enough strength to wield any weapon at your disposal and feed it with your power.”
“If you’re expecting me to swing that scythe of yours, I’ll need some toning.”
He pokes me in the arm. “If this is the extent of your strength, you’re right.”
I rub my arm defensively, not that it’d hurt. “Believe it or not, I’m tougher than I look.”
His blue eyes tame. “I know,” he says.
Ryker walks me to my door. I punch the keypad and wait for the wards to allow me in. I grip the handle only to hesitate. “Thank you, for today. I know it wasn’t easy, and that we fought more than once, but I appreciate your help.”
“You’re welcome, Olivia.”
I expect him to go all Obi-Wan Kenobi on me and say something meaningful and somewhat riddled. In the end, Ryker remains Ryker, allowing his quiet disposition to ooze mystery for him. “Goodnight, Olivia.”
“Goodnight, Ryker. I’ll see you in the morning”
I step into the foyer. No, the day wasn’t perfect, but we ended on a good note. My smile fades as the door quietly shuts behind me and the protective wards close me in.
Once more I’m alone. Or so I believe until I see further in.
The lamp in our tiny living room is the only light on, shadowing the dark, unmoving forms waiting for me.
My muscles twitch painfully. I know who’s here despite their hidden faces and silence. I should have sensed the familiarity of their presence. Mostly, I should have sensed their grief.
Ryker’s company had dulled my mourning. Perhaps that’s why I was able to function. Now that he’s gone, my sadness returns with an unfathomable charge.
Each step I take intensifies the harsh pangs to my chest. I’m not ready to see them. Not yet. Not when guilt still reigns within me and beats me with blow after blow.
The short walk past the kitchen is the longest I’ve ever taken. I anticipated they’d come. It shouldn’t surprise me like it does. Maybe I expected them later. No. That’s not true. Maybe I secretly wished I didn’t have to face them at all. Except here they are and I won’t run.
Dahlia’s parents, her brother, and sister wait in our small living room, their willowy frames taking up the dimly lit and cramped area when they stand.
I’m not sure what to say, especially when they don’t seem up to speaking. Dahlia’s brother and sister nod to me, tears streaking their faces as they lead their mother past me.
Dahlia’s mother stares blindly ahead, her elegant frame curled inward and her perfect face a phantom of what was once so wonderfully animated.
I’ve lost parents and siblings. She lost her child. I don’t have to be a mother to know there’s no worse pain. “We came for her things,” her younger brother croaks. He might have said more, but those few words are enough to break the sobs loose from him and his sister. Their mother doesn’t flinch, maintaining her vacant expression.
I reach out to Dahlia’s mother, my throat constricting. Her children lead her quickly away when she sways, and her thin form threatens to buckle. They disappear before they reach the door in a wave of somber magic that exposes their pain.<
br />
That pain drives into my heart like a stake. They were so kind to me when my brother left. They invited me to every holiday, every family gathering, everything that meant anything to them. Now, it seems goodbye has come. They lost their Dahlia. Maybe they blame me or perhaps I remind them too much of her. Whatever the reason doesn’t matter. I won’t see them again. I’m sure of it.
“They say you’re the one who can save us.”
I whip around. In my grief and need to comfort her family, I forgot the one member who remains.
Dahlia’s father towers over me, his heartbroken expression begging me to answer. “Is it true?” he asks.
“I’m told that I am.” My response is lame and lacks the confidence I think he yearns for. While I’m starting to accept what I am, I still don’t believe I’m the best or strongest for the task.
“That’s not good enough,” he says, his normal tenor unusually hollow. “You have to know who and what you are. For us, and for our Dahlia.”
He brushes past me without another word, his form disintegrating until it vanishes in the hall.
For a long time, my body refuses to move and barely breathes. When I finally push myself forward, I find myself wandering around my apartment.
Dahlia’s family left the drapes and communal furnishings. I knew what to expect before I opened her bedroom door, yet it still didn’t lessen the blow. Gone was the canopy white bed, the lavender and sea foam bedding, and pretty curtains tucked just so. The teal chairs that pointed toward her window were absent as well as her desk, chair, and laptop.
The room, while clean, lay empty of anything that made it Dahlia, another harsh reminder my friend will never return. I shut the door. As soon as I can, I’ll move out. While I can afford the apartment alone, it’s just not the same without her. Her room can never be an office, or a spare bedroom. It will always be Dahlia’s space, the place we munched on popcorn while mulling over where to shop, what to cook, or what movie to see. The teal chairs . . . that’s where she first told me she loved Frankie, and that one day they would have a family of their own.
