Sloane raised his gaze to meet hers. “What is it that you do?” He arched a brow. “Or used to do, as The Magician?”
“Does it matter?”
“I’m just curious.”
“I’m curious, too.” Sam leaned across the counter. “Do you really read these books for fun?”
Sloane grinned. “Living vicariously, I guess, more than fun. It’s a glimpse into another world, or maybe the path not taken.” He sobered and trailed a finger down the stem of a wine glass. Sam watched the gesture, remembering how it felt for him to drag that finger down her spine.
Why were they arguing?
“I don’t want to fight with you,” she said quickly.
“But you don’t want to confide in me either.” Sloane held her gaze, then shrugged. “You’re more than private, Sam. You want me here for sex, when you want it, and no more. I’m finding that less appealing than I might have expected.”
Her heart skipped. “You can’t be talking about marriage.”
He shook his head, yet oddly she wasn’t reassured. “That’s not in my near future and you said it’s not in yours. I’m talking about something in between. We can talk to each other, we can know things about each other, and we can enjoy each other’s company.” He grimaced. “If it’s just physical, I don’t see the point.”
Sam thought there was a lot to be said for the past few hours they’d spent, in terms of pleasure given and received. “I understand what you’re saying. It’s just not easy for me.”
“Now or ever?”
Sam looked up at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Sloane shrugged easily, but his gaze was bright. “Is privacy your habit, or a reaction to something?” He sipped his wine. “Something like a divorce?”
Sam nodded reluctant agreement. “Okay. Maybe I am more prickly than I used to be. And maybe I’m not used to talking to people about that. Especially not about my feelings.”
“To quote a friend of mine, fair enough.” Sloane said and touched his glass to hers.
Sam took a sip of wine.
“I have to wonder what it’s like to have a job like this Derek guy,” Sloane mused. “It would be a challenge, but I wonder if it would feel like a huge responsibility.”
“What do you mean?”
He pursed his lips as his finger moved up and down the stem of the glass. Sam found herself watching his gesture. “I mean that a virus hunter would have to have contact with people who had contracted illnesses that had no cure. I have to wonder that in his place, if I didn’t find a solution in time for any given person, whether I’d feel like a failure, or like that person’s death was my fault.” He met her gaze so steadily that once again Sam’s heart pounded so hard she thought it might burst.
She couldn’t talk about that, not yet.
Even if she was getting the feeling that when she did talk about Nathaniel, it would be with Sloane.
“I have no idea,” she said brightly. “Want to try that bread? It smells delicious.”
Chapter Twelve
Sam and Sloane were sitting at her kitchen table. They’d made a meal together, working in the same space and anticipating each other’s choices in a way that Sloane found both easy and hot.
Sam had lit candles and the light flickered warmly as they enjoyed the simple meal of pasta with grilled vegetables, wine and a green salad. Her hair had dried into loose curls around her face and glinted in the light, and Sloane liked how her eyes sparkled. Something in her had loosened up after their argument, and he appreciated that she was making an effort.
Maybe he wasn’t the only one who wanted this to continue.
They’d talked about the books they’d both read, comparing their reactions and discussing a subject thoroughly when they disagreed. The conversation had been one of the best he’d had in a while, ranging from antibiotics in food to clinical tests on medicinal herbs, to plagues, pandemics and pollution. It had flowed organically and effortlessly, but thrummed with sexual awareness. Sloane had lost track of the time. He’d carefully avoided any more personal references or any discussion of the Seattle virus, and had just enjoyed being in the company of a beautiful intelligent woman.
Maybe it was good that Sam had so many emotional barriers. If she had shared her personal stories and pain readily with him, Sloane suspected that he might fall in love with her. As she wasn’t his mate, that could lead to disaster in the future.
That was a sobering thought. He wondered if he was already in too deep.
“Tell me about your dad,” Sam invited suddenly. “The Apothecary who gave you his job and inspired you with creepy quotes.”
Answering her question was the antithesis of what Sloane felt he should do, but he couldn’t shut her out. Maybe sharing some of his own history would help to heal Sam’s wounds. Maybe that was the point of their relationship.
He found himself smiling in recollection of his father. “He was a romantic and an idealist,” he admitted.
“Even though the quote reminded you of him?”
Sloane avoided her eyes. “He meant it as a warning, I think.” To his relief, Sam seemed to accept that at face value. “About dabbling where you shouldn’t.”
“Was his romanticism why he didn’t want you to go to medical school?”
“Partly.” Sloane saw no reason to confide his father’s conviction that a Pyr had no business in a place of learning run by humans, or his certainty that Sloane’s true nature would be revealed. He didn’t want to think about the arguments they’d had, or his thirst for knowledge, his own conviction that the traditional healing processes of the Pyr practiced by his father were in need of updating. “Partly he wanted help.”
“Growing the herbs for his practice?”
“It’s a lot of work. It was harder there because of the climate. Many of the herbs I grow outside had to be cultivated in the greenhouse in Ireland, which made them susceptible to germs and disease. Greenhouse plants just aren’t as vigorous.”
Particularly centuries in the past, when there weren’t the same climate controls as the ones installed in Sloane’s greenhouses.
“He could have moved here, like you did.”
Sloane smiled and went with the simpler answer. “My father was determined to live and die in Ireland. He said it was bred in his bones.”
“Is he gone, then?”
Sloane nodded once. He didn’t want to think of the shadow dragon that Magnus had raised of his father, or of the brutal way that he and Donovan had been required to ensure that Tynan Forbes died and stayed dead. He didn’t want to think about his father’s warning, the tattoo he’d gotten to ensure he remembered it, or his awareness that his task to guide the living to their final rest might never be done.
Sam was studying him closely. “You miss him.”
Sloane exhaled. “Every day.”
“What about your Mom?”
“I never knew her. She died in childbirth.”
“How medieval!” Sam said with surprise. “That’s pretty rare now.”
It hadn’t been rare in the seventeenth century. Sloane shrugged.
“Brothers? Sisters?”
Sloane shook his head. “I was first and last. My father never married again. He raised me, but otherwise buried himself in his work, and his research into the properties of the healing plants.”
Sam was studying Sloane. “Sounds like a lonely childhood.”
“I didn’t know any different. He was interesting when he’d get talking about plants.” Sloane leaned forward, intent on removing the sympathy from Sam’s eyes. “He used to say that if you listened to a plant long enough, it would confess all of its secrets to you. It would tell you what it could heal and how and when.”
Sam’s eyes were dancing. “I’ve never had a plant tell me anything.”
“Maybe you don’t listen long enough.” Sloane winked and gestured to the cactus in the library, the one she’d clearly forgotten. “That one was screaming for a drink of water. I heard it clear acros
s the room.”
Sam blushed. “Okay, so I’m not very good at domestic details.”
He gave her a look.
“Or at listening to tarot cards or plants,” she admitted. “You make me feel lucky, even though my sister makes me crazy sometimes. At least there’s some family in my life.”
“Why does she make you crazy?”
“Oh, she’s an artist. At least that’s what my father used to say. She’s not supposed to live within her means, or make sensible choices. She somehow escaped his expectations and, as infuriating as I find her, I’ve been jealous of her sometimes, too.”
“How’s that?”
Sam put down her fork and shoved a hand through her hair. “I’m the oldest. I was the bearer of the dream, the one who had to fulfill every ambition. My father had wanted to go to medical school, but his family was poor, so he went to work. I had good marks, and he pushed me to make them better.”
“You were supposed to go to medical school instead of him.”
Sam shrugged. “Do people really think of it that way? I’m not sure. I know my dad had tons of aspirations for me, more than I had for myself, and in a way, his clear sense of purpose made it easy for me to decide what to do. I went to medical school. I went into research. I hunted viruses, but mostly I hunted cures and antidotes.” She swallowed, frowned and gestured to the bookshelf. “That egomaniac was my first boss.” She swallowed. “Then my husband, for a while.”
Sloane decided to push her just a little bit. “And the boy in the picture?” he murmured.
Sam caught her breath, but her gaze didn’t swerve from his.
Sloane nodded, finding his throat tight at the sight of her dismay. “The cactus told me that you loved him,” he said with a shrug. She swallowed and her gaze trailed to the photograph.
“You know,” he said, leaning across the table. “I thought I’d die when I lost my father. I couldn’t imagine the world without him. In a way, I didn’t want to go on, and I didn’t want to try to fill his shoes.”
“That’s why you came to America,” Sam guessed and Sloane nodded.
“I had to do something different. I wanted to forget. I needed to start fresh in a new place.”
“I can understand that.”
“But the funny thing is that I couldn’t forget, and I ended up doing pretty much the same thing as he did. Ireland was bred in his bones, but I guess his love of the helpful plants was bred in mine.”
“Is that why you said you’re the Apothecary now?” Sam asked softly. “Because it keeps his memory alive, or what he instilled in you?”
Sloane found himself smiling. “Maybe. I never thought of it that way. I do like continuity and tradition. I remember so many good times with him, and I guess I don’t want all of that to be gone.” He shrugged even as his mind filled with memories, though they probably weren’t the ones Sam might have expected. He recalled the first time he’d watched his father shift shape, the way his father’s scales had gleamed in sunlight, the way his father’s smile had been so similar in either form. Tynan had had a puckish sense of humor and a love of practical jokes.
Sloane smiled even as his voice dropped low. “And I know now that no matter how much it hurts to lose someone I love, it’ll never be enough to make me believe that loving isn’t worthwhile.”
“Will you ever go back to Ireland?”
“I don’t need to.” Sloane tapped his chest. “I have him right in my heart, all the time.”
Her eyes filled with sudden tears and she bit her lip. It was disconcerting to Sloane to see Sam overwhelmed by emotion, because she seemed to always be in control.
Or always to have a barrier between herself and the world.
Sloane lifted his glass to hers. “To love, to loss, and to what we learn from both.”
Sam swallowed hastily and lifted her glass to his, her hand shaking slightly. They sipped the wine, then she abruptly put down her glass and leaned over the table, catching his face in her hands.
“Thank you for that,” she whispered. “You make it easy to tell you things.”
And when she leaned forward to kiss him, Sloane tasted the wine upon her lips mixed with the salt of her tears. Her strength and vulnerability was irresistible and he eased around the table, catching her up in his arms. He deepened his kiss and when she drew him closer, he carried her to the bedroom once again.
It would be a slow loving this time. Sloane had a sudden understanding of the reason behind this relationship. He was right that he was the one who could heal Sam’s wounds, because he was the one who could persuade her to talk about her pain. Once Sam had told him her secrets, once she’d bared her soul and healed, he knew she’d be gone from his life for good.
He wanted to savor every moment of their time together. Theirs would be a good relationship, a powerful one, but not one destined to last.
Sloane was glad to be having it at all.
* * *
Marco trusted the darkfire.
He’d learned from Pwyll to follow the darkfire’s lead and his connection with it ensured that he knew its will better than he knew his own. It had brought Jac to him, and their lovemaking left him feeling replete as he hadn’t in a long time.
They drove to the site where the dragons had been hatched, parked the 4x4, and walked closer, hands locked together. Even after their night of passion, he tingled with desire for her. He was keenly aware of the curve of her cheek, the fragility of her fingers in his, the treasure of her smile. He wanted her again and again and realized that he wouldn’t be easily sated this time.
She cast him a smile of anticipation and Marco liked that their minds were as one in this.
To his surprise, when he and Jac approached the site where the eggs had hatched, a television crew was set up to film there.
He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised to recognize that the reporter was Melissa Smith. It was true that she had done the other television reports on the Pyr that had aired in recent years. Melissa was the mate of Rafferty Powell, the Pyr who really was the grandson of Pwyll, the Pyr who had been Marco’s guardian for centuries and had kept the darkfire crystal in trust for him.
Marco marveled that he hadn’t anticipated Melissa’s presence, but then he’d been distracted by his desire for Jac. Such distraction could be dangerous, though, and his awareness of how careless he’d been made him doubt the wisdom of the darkfire.
Still, he couldn’t question it. It had to be attuned to the greater good.
“Oh, it’s Melissa Smith,” Jac said when they got out of the truck and walked closer. “She’s the one who does those specials about the Pyr.” Jac wrinkled her nose. “The ones where she says they’re good dragons. As if there’s any such thing.”
Marco didn’t reply, though his sense of unease grew. He could feel the darkfire crackling in the stone he had shoved deep into his pocket. It cast a heat into his palm that felt like stabbing ice and he shivered.
“Do you think we can still get a look at the nest?” Jac asked.
Marco shook his head. “They have it barricaded off. Maybe we should come back tomorrow.”
“Are you kidding? There’s the woman who took the pictures. Wow. Maybe Maeve O’Neill is even here!”
Marco didn’t want to see that reporter, ever.
But Jac was excited. “The Pyr might show up, because Melissa is filming this. They have in her other shows.” She scanned the sky with obvious anticipation. “It could be the opportunity we’re waiting for.”
Before Marco could protest, Jac ducked into the crowd, making her way to the front with smiles and apologies.
His sense of foreboding redoubled, and he tried to catch up with her. Marco kept his hand locked around the crystal deep in his pocket. When he caught Jac’s elbow with his free hand, he felt the heat of the darkfire redouble.
Jac turned in time to see him wince in pain. “What’s wrong?” Her gaze fell to his pocket, where he obviously held something, and her eyes went wrong. “It
’s the stone, isn’t it?” Her excitement was tangible and Marco nodded, sparing a glance for the people surrounding them. “It’s ready to take them out. Maybe it knows they’re coming!”
“I can’t show you here,” he whispered, feeling that the situation was spiraling out of his control. It was a strange sensation for Marco and he didn’t like it. He was relieved when Jac nodded agreement.
She tugged him out of the crowd and a little further down the coast. They hunkered down behind the rocks along the shore, out of view of the people gathered to watch the broadcast. He felt better when they were alone together and when Jac was away from whatever was happening.
At her urging, Marco removed his hand from his pocket, and they blinked in unison, shielding their eyes against the brilliant fire in the stone. The darkfire burned so brightly that it was almost white and impossible to look at.
“Wow,” Jac whispered. “Something is going to happen.”
“Stay close and stay down,” Marco advised, then he heard the rumble of old-speak.
“Thunder!” Jac said, scanning the sky. “No, it’s old-speak. They are coming!” Her eyes lit and Marco was afraid.
“Stay here,” he commanded, but Jac seized the crystal from his hand and leapt over the rocky barrier.
To his dismay, she ran directly toward Melissa Smith and her crew, her gaze fixed on the dragon regally descending from the sky.
It was Rafferty, come to his mate.
“This is for Nathaniel!” Jac roared.
No. She couldn’t.
She wouldn’t.
But she did.
Marco watched in shock and horror as Jac shot Rafferty with the darkfire crystal. She hit Rafferty in the lower gut and the darkfire exploded into blinding light on impact. Then it crackled all around the wounded Pyr, like an electrical shock finding a hundred answering sparks. Rafferty lost the rhythm of flight and fell toward the earth, his massive opal and gold dragon form emitting a shimmering blue light.
Marco knew what would happen next. Rafferty would shift shape involuntarily, and the camera crew would broadcast it. Rafferty’s human identity could be revealed, and the Covenant would be broken.
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