Veil of Thorns

by Gwen Mitchell

  A gift.

  He stretched his arms along the back of the sofa. “Is my form pleasing to you?”

  She made a face as if she tasted something sour and glanced away.

  He chuckled. No need to ask. Her body responded to him. He’d scented that the first time they met. Their bond drew them together magically and physically. Attraction would not be a problem.

  That does not mean this will be easy.

  Despite the clear differences, he did find tiny hints of his Ana in Bri. Her expressive brows, her obstinance. He wanted to learn all those faces. Like the colors of her eyes, he wanted to be able to read them and know what she was thinking and feeling. But he could be patient. He would have eternity to unlock the puzzle of her.

  When Bri had first crossed his path, he’d been irritated that she didn’t leap into his arms, that she appeared to not remember or care for him at all. After so long, the prospect that his mate was right there in front of him yet still somehow lost had put him in a desperate tumult.

  In the months since, he’d realized his expectations had been naive . He wasn’t upset with her, but with himself. He felt guilty because he had stopped actively searching for Vivianne, ashamed because he had let her begin to fade. His memories of her had withered over the centuries. Only those few he recalled regularly still endured. His longing had quieted. His heart had settled into a long, dark slumber.

  Until a haughty, clumsy redhead had fallen into his monotonous existence and lit it on fire.

  Perhaps it was supposed to happen just so.

  Maybe he needed to let Vivianne go in order to make room for Bri. Just in time to finish serving his sentence and earn his freedom from the Synod. Just in time to help save her from the Soul Eater. And just in time for him to console her through her loss, win her over, and solidify his place by her side.

  Fated.

  If she was anywhere near as headstrong as Vivianne, convincing Bri of this would take all of his well-honed determination, patience, and wiles.

  “I think I might prefer the wolf,” Bri grumbled, crossing her arms.

  “That could be arranged,” he teased back, then frowned when he noticed she was trembling. He lingered beside her as she watched the flames, seeming far away. He yearned to touch her again but didn’t trust himself to let her go. She’d been surprisingly open with him, and he didn’t want to fumble any progress he’d made. “Are you cold?”

  She blinked and came back slowly, her eyes wide and hollow. “You haven’t told me anything that will help.”

  He cocked his head. “Help with what?”

  “Before he died, my father told me that Skydancers are not bound by Fate, that I can make my own destiny. I can change it, bend it to my will.”

  His heart clenched with sympathy, and he gave up the fight not to touch her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “The Soul Eater told you this?”

  She stiffened, her words coming out a stuttering gasp. “I guess it was the demon, n-not my father. Are you saying he lied?”

  “They do that,” he said, gently rubbing her back.

  To his shock, Bri leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his waist. He hesitated, giving her a moment to change her mind, but she didn’t let go. Her shaking eased.

  “But I suppose that is true, in a sense. I know your soul continues to reincarnate after the binding, well beyond the normal thirteen lives. For however many it takes to complete the ritual. You may have lived twenty or more.”

  He didn’t know the limits of her power. In all his time on Gaia—even during the wars before the Rending—he had never encountered another Skydancer. He had heard tales of witches binding Kinde to them with magic, but he’d been told it was at the cost of the Kinde’s free will, that they were enslaved. Those rumors and seeing so many of his brethren killed or taken prisoner by the Synod had been enough to make him steer clear of witches for centuries. Until Vivianne.

  Since, he had encountered only one other like himself, searching for his destined witch. A Hawk. He’d been alone for a millennia and driven mad by it. The Synod’s execution was an act of mercy. Seeing that as his future had helped Lucas bury his longing and keep it separate from himself.

  The woman in his arms had saved him from such an end. Lucas turned his head to inhale the scent at Bri’s temple. Sweet honeysuckle and sea salt coated his palate, and a low rumble of contentment reverberated in his chest.

  Bri didn’t seem to notice. She turned her face him, her brows drawn together. “If it was all a lie, how am I going to save him?”

  “Save who?” He frowned as she eased away from his embrace and took up her pacing again.

  What had she gotten herself into now?

  She seemed to be having a debate in her head over what to tell him.

  “Have you been back to the tower since that night? Seen the…where it happened?” she asked, wringing her hands.

  Lucas sighed, choosing his words carefully. He’d hoped to avoid talking about that night. It had not been his best moment, and she had every reason to be upset about how he’d acted. Rash. Desperate. He wanted a fresh start.

  “After the first time you visited, I followed your scent trail there. I saw the statue.” He also knew she visited her lover’s tomb every week. He had paid a Hohlwen a fortune in gems for all the details of what went on when she was up in that tower alone for hours.

  Apparently decided, Bri sat and poured them both another drink. A tingle of wariness teased at his senses. He wasn’t going to like what she was about to tell him. Once he was sitting down, glass in hand, she swallowed hers in a single gulp and cleared her throat. “Kean’s not dead. He’s cursed. I just have to find a way to free him.”

  He’d been concerned that her vigils in the tower were a sign that she was resisting letting go. It seemed his worst fears were confirmed. He’d seen the statue of her lover, draped in a shroud of ever-blooming roses like some hero of legend. The back of his neck prickled with irritation. “What do you mean by cursed?”

  “The curse the demon threw at him trapped his body in stone, but it didn’t kill him.”

  “Curses can kill, especially one wrought by a Soul Eater in possession of a powerful mage. Even though it may seem as if—”

  “No,” she shook her head stubbornly. “He’s not gone. He’s trapped on another plane.”

  “What makes you so certain of this?”

  “I can talk to him, here, in the house. He’s a Lumere.” Her face twisted into a defensive scowl. “You think I’m crazy.”

  He wiped all emotion from his expression and voice. “Do you?”

  “No.” The answer came swift and firm.

  “Have you told anyone else?”

  “No,” she whispered, staring at her hands in her lap.

  Interesting.

  So, she trusted him enough to confess a secret. Hope bloomed in his chest. This was an opportunity to spend time with and discover more about his fated mate. He didn’t like that she was still so obsessed with the Ward, but a ghost was no more competition than a hero’s memory. Eventually, the spirit would move on, and he would still be there, flesh and blood. In the meantime, he could earn Briana’s trust and appreciation by being helpful.

  He held out his drink to toast. “I will assist you in unravelling the pieces of this mystery.”

  So you can have closure, he thought, as the whisky burned down his throat.

  “You…will?” She narrowed her eyes at him.

  “I don’t know much about Lumeres, but I know who to ask and am owed a few favors. You should be prepared, however. Breaking the curse may not mean what you think it does. It could mean simply releasing his spirit to move on. I have lived a long time, and I have never seen death reversed, at least not in a good way.” He shuddered at the memory of a battle against a necromancer long ago, cutting through a field of walking, rotting corpses. “It simply is not done.”

  Bri’s eyes sparkled with unshed tears, but that defiant chin jutted out. “That’s why
I’m counting on the fact that he’s not dead.”

  He was counting on the opposite.

  Chapter Four

  Bri’s hand shook as she lit the candles around the living room. Lucas had insisted on seeing Kean’s Lumere for himself before he would help her. He’d also insisted they eat something before the ritual. She’d been both too exhausted and too relieved to put up a fight. She needed his help. She could take a stand on who was the boss of whom some other time. Besides, communing with Kean always sapped her energy, so it was important to get her strength up first.

  Now her nerves were making the shepherd’s pie and red wine she’d gulped down feel like a knot of frozen dough in the pit of her stomach.

  She’d never done this magic in front of anyone. And this wasn’t a simple incantation recited from a book, but a ritual of her own making. It felt strangely intimate sharing it. What if she looked foolish, or her magic seemed juvenile? It worked, or at least it had the first four times. But for all she knew, the part that made it work wasn’t the candles, or the music, or what she had for dinner. She still did everything the same each time, just in case.

  But not this time.

  What if it doesn’t work?

  What if Lucas somehow threw off her magic? Every full moon, when she reached out for Kean, she faced the inevitable fear that for some reason she would fail, that she would truly lose him forever. If it happened this time, when the only changed variable was the half-demon in the room, she would never forgive herself.

  Kean would never forgive you either.

  “Ow!” She burned herself with a match and shook out her hand, hissing in pain.

  Lucas lunged from the couch to come to her aid, but she pinned him in place with a hard look. She’d had conditions if he was going to stay. He could not interfere in any way, could not even speak. He was supposed to be invisible.

  As if it were possible to pretend he wasn’t there.

  The entire side of the room where he sat pulsed with power, tendrils of magic tickling her senses like a million sea anemones, beckoning. The scent of spice and sun-warmed leather had overtaken her living room, and his eyes glowed from the shadows. She could feel them tracking her every move.

  She focused on gathering her magic and tried to block Lucas’s presence from her thoughts. Her circle snapped into place as she lit the final candle, and it was easier to concentrate. The howl of the wind outside and the crackle of the fire sounded muffled, while the creaking bones of the house as it shifted rang clearer. She still sensed Lucas’s magic on the outskirts of her awareness, but it was muted.

  Bri sat on the piano bench and caressed the keys as she released a long, centering breath. She closed her eyes and thought of Kean as she began playing his song. She’d never written it down, but it had been forged out of her love and grief and was imprinted permanently on her heart.

  It started with a light, playful melody. Childhood innocence and joy. Sliding into a flirtatious dance tune, building into a crescendo of youthful passion and idealistic romance. Then there was the fear, the betrayal, the fury, and the sorrow. The bittersweet reunion. Tears tracked down her cheeks as she summoned every memory of Kean and conjured all her feelings for him into a tempest of notes and emotions and magic.

  Finally, the song of her broken heart. The longing for her lover to return. She poured everything she had into her silent call through the ether, so loud in her head it was a wonder it didn’t bring down the sky.

  She played it again.

  By the third time, her energy was waning, her fingers lethargic and stumbling on the final few notes. Her eyes were swollen and scratchy from tears as she blinked them open and tried to focus on the silvery silhouette leaning against the piano.

  “Kean,” she whispered, and stopped playing.

  His face and more of his body shimmered into place, and he gave her his customary lopsided smile, making her heart leap. His gaze tracked behind her, his expression morphing into a scowl.

  Bri glanced over her shoulder as a large, firm grip encircled her arm, searing like hot iron. Lucas stood beside her at the piano. Though the image was wavy, as if behind water-slicked glass, his mask of fury was unmistakable. A glowing tendril of magic coiled around her upper arm and tightened like a tourniquet.

  She cried out at the pain, instinctively reaching for Kean.

  Their hands connected.

  They stared at each other in shock across their interlocked fingers.

  “Pull!” she yelled, yanking herself from Lucas’s vice-tight grip.

  Kean’s brow locked down in determination as he grabbed her with both hands and gave a hard tug.

  The burning on her arm grew more intense for a blaring second, and then something popped, the pain disappeared, and she went flying over the edge of the piano into Kean’s chest.

  Kean’s solid chest.

  His solid arms locked around her.

  She smelled evergreen and mint.

  “This is a dream,” she said, even as she nuzzled into his neck.

  He squeezed her closer and nuzzled into her hair, “Is this real?”

  She studied his face, his multi-faceted hazel eyes. She could never replicate the color in her imagination, and the grey shade of his Lumere form didn’t do them justice. “How are you real?”

  Kean stared at her lips like a starved man for a charged moment that made her stomach jitter, but he blinked and frowned at the empty space behind her. “What is that wolf from the Synod doing here? What’s happened? Are you in danger?”

  Bri shook her head as cold water splashed over the desire heating her blood. “Everything is fine. He’s going to help me. Help us.”

  She smoothed a hand across Kean’s chest, in awe of the contours, the warmth. So perfect. So real. She took in their surroundings with a small gasp of wonder. It was her house, sort of. The walls were the same, the furniture in the right place. But the evidence of day-to-day living was missing. There was no sign of the dogs. No bucket in the corner of the window-seat where the roof had leaked this past winter. No tray of tea and whiskey on the table, and no sign of Lucas. Outside the windows was grey. Not swirling clouds or smoke or anything tangible, just unending, impenetrable grey.

  How is this possible?

  She wrapped her arms around Kean’s waist and laid her head against his chest. It took a moment to realize that only silence greeted her. No heartbeat. He was solid, but not alive.

  “You shouldn’t be talking to him.”

  She grimaced and met his seething gaze. “I need help, Kean. I can’t do this alone. I’m… I’m…”

  She couldn’t bring herself to tell him she was out of her depth, had found nothing to help break the curse. Not even a hint to cling to, some sliver of hope.

  “Astrid should be helping you. I told you, Bri, you can’t trust immortals.” He sounded so angry.

  Why was he angry? For the first time since he had died they were mere inches apart, able to see each other, feel each other, and he was chastising her? She clung to him, but Kean pulled away, bracing her shoulders. Misery bracketed his mouth, which normally carried a gentle rolling smile. “You shouldn’t be here. Something isn’t right.”

  “But–” She reached for him.

  He held her away for a beat, an arrow through her heart. The hurt must have shown on her face. His resolve crumpled and he whirled her back, kissing all over her head and neck as he muttered apologies and nonsensical things.

  She made muffled noises of joy as she tried to kiss him back. This was more like the reunion she’d dreamt of. His hands stroking her, his lips on her skin…now trailing across her chest.

  Kean tucked his head in her neck, his arms coiled around her fiercely, fingers gripping in desperation.

  She held him just as tight.

  “I love you, Bri. So much.”

  Tears built in her throat as she ruffled her fingers through his silky hair. “I love you too. I’ve missed you so much.”

  He tilted his head back and ga
zed down at her, his eyes darkening with sorrow, like the shadow of clouds passing over the shimmering sea. “You shouldn’t be here. You have to go back. I’m sorry.”

  Before she could piece together a response, the front door to the house clanged open, and a silent wind tore her out of Kean’s hands. She screamed, reaching out for him as it swept her into the hall, across the foyer, through the door, and out into the empty grey beyond.

  He watched her go, looking so defeated she wondered if that had been his final farewell.

  There was no air in the grey. No light or dark. No cold wind to ruffle her clothes as she watched the green door of her grandmother’s house slam shut. The house itself winnowed away until it was barely a speck in her vision.

  Bri couldn’t budge a muscle. Her heart did not beat, frozen, as if time held no sway there.

  It could have been fractions of a second or eons that she floated, lost in the milky nothingness.

  The band of magic around her arm pulsed with warmth, slithering like a living thing along her skin. She felt a disturbing tug low in her belly, like being caught in turbulence.

  Slowly, the grey was breaking up into shades of swirling monochrome. Lightning flashed, blinding her, and when her vision adjusted, she was falling through clouds. Still no wind on her face, but her descent was speeding up.

  The clouds cleared, and she blinked at the dazzling sparkle of a million stars fixed in a blanket of impalpable black. Galaxies swirled lazily around her, and stars shot by in blazes of impetuous fire. And then she was racing those stars, streaking through ages in a single thought as the band around her arm throbbed with urgency, drawing her closer and closer to whatever collision awaited at the end of the fall.

  Bri’s first halting gasp raked her lungs like jagged ice. The second was hardly better, but she wheezed in tiny sips of air, survival instincts returning to her frozen flesh, as she shivered uncontrollably.

  There were large hands grasping her back, rough fingers brushing her cheeks, a warm body holding her. Not warm—hot. It burned. She tried to shove away with muscles that would not do anything but quake.