by S. Young
He was too perceptive for his own good.
Niamh looked away and continued onward more slowly toward the lounge. All she knew was that the game had changed because the players had changed.
Astra was alive.
How she’d tricked Eirik, Niamh didn’t know.
But the fae-borne was alive.
And if she was still alive … the future was more uncertain than ever.
Niamh was quietly panicked that she’d endured one vision after another. Something wasn’t right. She could feel the wrongness of it. And she didn’t understand why, which was worrying in its own right.
Never mind that when her emotions were particularly high, she seemed to be unwittingly transferring these visions to Kiyo when he was holding her.
She knew he was frustrated and angry with her about not explaining the vision, but she might have eventually done so if he hadn’t pushed. Part of her wondered if she’d hurt his feelings by not trusting him after he’d taken that iron blade for her.
Guilt niggled at Niamh.
But then she couldn’t think of Kiyo having feelings that could be hurt. She had to remind herself that Fionn was paying Kiyo to protect her. These warm, fuzzy feelings she had toward him ever since he’d taken a dagger to the heart for her had to be quelled immediately. It was bad enough she had a crush on the wolf. Letting those feelings develop into anything deeper for a man who had inexplicably been alive for nearly one hundred and fifty years and had few bonds of friendship to show for it would be a gigantic mistake.
As a bit of an expert brooder, Kiyo seemed only too happy to let the silence fall between them. They ate quietly in the airport lounge as Niamh stewed over her concerns. The latest vision hadn’t shown her anything new from the last one. She still only had Tokyo to go on.
And Kiyo.
Somehow he was a part of this new future. She didn’t understand why.
But running away from him again wasn’t an option. She shouldn’t have in the first place.
The thought of Ronan and Meghan made her nauseated, so she threw it from her mind for now to focus on the present. By the time they boarded the plane, Niamh was mentally exhausted. Gratitude toward Bran filled her as a flight attendant led them to the first-class cabin at the front of the plane. They each had a suite in the middle aisle with a connecting window between them. Niamh was surprised Kiyo didn’t press the button to close the window to shut her out.
Once they were settled in, a man stopped by her suite to personally introduce himself as the senior flight attendant and welcome her on board. She tried not to blush or flinch when he called her “Ms. Wainwright,” the name from the passport Bran had supplied.
She waited until the flight attendant made his way around the cabin, stunned when one man impatiently waved the attendant off and bit out, “Go. Away.” That burn in her chest flared as the flight attendant quickly stood and apologized for bothering him.
Knowing how impatient and brooding Kiyo was right now, Niamh tensed when the attendant finally crouched down at Kiyo’s side, referring to him as “Mr. Kaneshiro” as he gave him the same speech he’d given her. While not friendly, Kiyo was polite and gave the man his attention. He even thanked him.
She relaxed and decided she really must stop assuming horrible things about him.
Not long later, another attendant appeared to offer them a choice of champagne, orange juice, water, or a mimosa. Niamh gladly accepted a mimosa, ignoring Kiyo’s inquiring gaze.
Of course, he took water.
She wondered if he ever indulged in anything ever. Other than sarcasm and fighting.
Determined not to spend the entire flight overly aware of the werewolf, her attention moved to the man who had been rude to the senior flight attendant. Who the bloody hell did he think he was?
Watching him sip his champagne, Niamh gave a flick of her fingers and stifled her laughter as the glass jerked sharply in his hand, causing the champagne to splash all over his face.
A prickling sensation shivered down her neck as she felt a warm breath at her ear. “I saw that,” Kiyo’s voice rumbled.
She turned her head slightly to find him leaning into her suite.
He was rude to the flight attendant, she answered in his mind.
His lips twitched with amusement, making her stomach flutter. “I know.” He gave her a slight shake of his head and settled back into his suite. “Just be careful.”
She nodded, not at all chastened, and frowned as he picked up the Stephen King book.
Niamh would never have guessed Kiyo was much of a bookworm, but clearly it was a form of entertainment he favored over the movies or music supplied on the flight. Niamh preferred a good book, too, but right now, she could barely focus on anything. She decided to watch a movie—a new sci-fi flick—hoping it might distract her.
Since they were on an evening flight, they were served a meal early on. It was surprisingly delicious and when the flight attendant returned not long after she’d eaten to ask if she’d like the turndown service (transforming the suite into a sleeping pod), Niamh worried she’d never be able to return to economy travel ever again.
She did like a little luxury in life and flying international first class was bloody nice so far. Using the bathroom to change into the brand-new pajamas supplied by the airline, Niamh thought of Ronan. He’d liked nice things too. They’d traveled first class a lot, but they’d never taken a long enough flight to travel first class like this. Ronan would have loved it.
Tears burned in her eyes and Niamh forced them back. Ignoring her reflection in the mirror, she left the bathroom and returned to her suite to find it was now a bed. She glanced over at Kiyo who had refused turndown.
“You’re not going to sleep?”
He glanced up from his book, his gaze moving down her body now clad in soft jersey pajamas that hung too big on her torso but clung to her hips. “Maybe later.” He returned to his book.
Summarily dismissed, Niamh tried to ignore the conflicting emotions rioting inside her. She slipped into the bed just as the cabin lights dimmed. Noting Kiyo hadn’t turned on his overhead light, she whispered through the window, “You can turn on your light if you want. I can wear the sleep mask.” She’d found a bag in her suite with a sleep mask, a pair of socks, lip balm, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a comb, and a mini deodorant in it.
Kiyo didn’t look at her. He just whispered back, “Night vision.”
Of course. He was a werewolf.
Sighing at his monosyllabic responses, Niamh pulled up the duvet and closed her eyes. Now and then, the plane would bob against the airstream, and the sensation lulled her to sleep.
Ronan’s face gleamed through the dark of her subconsciousness until she was falling and falling toward him.
Her feet landed on the ground.
She was back in Munich.
Back in that apartment.
Back where she couldn’t save him.
14
Kiyo was aware of every move Niamh made.
To his frustration, he’d had to go back and reread passages in his book because he kept getting lost. It was her fault. He was pissed at her. Really, truly pissed at her. It was better for him to stay silent so he didn’t say shit he couldn’t take back.
The problem was that he liked her.
Kiyo could admit that.
Niamh had a good heart. She was funny and determined. And he liked her.
Considering he didn’t like many people, it was frustrating that she wouldn’t confide in him. And it was even more frustrating that even experiencing her vision, he couldn’t work out what it meant for himself. There were a few images of Niamh and Rose with a man and a woman who felt similar to them. He couldn’t explain that feeling, but his common sense told him these two people were fae-borne. Niamh hadn’t been lying. This vision was about the bigger picture, about the gate … so why the hell was Kiyo mixed in with it?
It didn’t surprise him that Niamh found sleep so quickly on the plane. Sh
e must have been mentally drained. Kiyo heard her breathing relax, telling him she’d found sleep. This allowed him to concentrate fully on his book, and he found himself distracted by the story.
Not long later, however, in the dark, quiet cabin, Kiyo noticed the muted lighting flicker. He didn’t think anything of it. Sometimes that happened on flights.
But it happened again.
And again.
Niamh began to whimper.
He leaned over the window between their suites and saw she was shifting restlessly, her lashes fluttering. Small moans escaped between her parted lips.
Then the seat-belt sign pinged above his head, even though there was no turbulence. The senior flight attendant hurried down the aisle past him and disappeared into the cockpit. Kiyo frowned, his sixth sense telling him something was wrong.
He got up out of his seat and casually strolled down the aisle, pricking his wolf ears to hear beyond the cockpit door.
“… no idea. There’s no turbulence, no storm, but the instruments are going haywire.”
The hair on his neck stood on end and he looked toward Niamh. Glad most of the other passengers were asleep, Kiyo darted around the aisle and toward his companion. The energy radiating from her swarmed him like he’d just hit a cloud of hot air.
It was her.
She was causing the problem with the plane.
Shit.
Leaning into her suite, he gently shook her. “Niamh. Wake up.”
An agonized moan fell from her lips.
She was having a nightmare.
Without thought, Kiyo climbed onto the bed, stretching out beside her so he could pull her into his body. He pressed his lips to her ear. “Niamh, wake up. Come on, wake up. Everything’s okay.”
She shuddered against him and her eyes flew open.
The leaking energy seemed to whoosh back into her like a vacuum.
Turning her head, her eyes widened in confusion to find him lying beside her. “What happened?”
“You were dreaming,” he murmured, his grip on her tightening. “You were causing some electrical issues with the plane.”
“Oh hell. Is everyone okay?”
Kiyo nodded and settled more comfortably beside her as she turned to face him. Niamh rested her cheek on the pillow, her hands curled up by her chin. She looked young and so very lost, staring into his face with those big, wounded eyes.
“Do you want to tell me what you were dreaming about?”
“Ronan. I dream about the day he died. It gets all muddled up with other stuff. Things that happened in the past.”
“What happened to him?”
She released a shaky exhale. “I haven’t spoken about it.”
“I think that’s the problem.”
Kiyo thought she wasn’t going to respond, but her hushed voice carried between them. “I made us leave Rome because I just had this feeling we needed to be in Munich. And when we got there, I had a vision of Rose. I knew she needed me. Sure enough, we found her running away from Fionn and being chased by The Garm. We took her back to an unoccupied apartment we’d broken into. Unbeknownst to us, Rose’s coven was also chasing her and they found us there. I had a vision …” She broke off, one of her hands curling into a fist beneath her chin. “I saw him die before he did. But it was too late. I told him to run … but it was too late.”
Kiyo released a pained huff. How damn awful to see that and not be able to prevent it. Her vigilante efforts via the visions made a lot more sense.
“The coven did what Meghan tried to do to Conall. They stole Ronan’s life force, his energy, to make them more powerful so they could take Rose down.” Rage flared gold in her eyes. “They had to know he wasn’t enough. That killing him was pointless. I tried … I tried to give him my blood, but my wound kept closing because I heal so fast and he was too far gone. He just …”
Kiyo reached out, wrapped his hand around her tight fist. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Wasn’t it? My very existence is the reason my brother is dead.”
“Your brother loved you. He wouldn’t have stayed by your side otherwise.”
Tears filled her eyes. “That’s the worst part. Just hours before he died, I had a thought that I had been having more and more as time went on. Did my brother love me or what my powers could do for him? That’s what I thought. That was my ungrateful pondering. And he was killed because of what I am.”
A frown puckered Kiyo’s brow as he considered this. “You must have thought that for a reason.” He caressed her fist with his thumb. “What made you think that?”
She shrugged wearily. “Ronan was the one who talked me into using the gifts to make our lives easy. Stealing. Manipulating people. We were always on the move, but we lived well. He loved the life. He loved what my gifts could give us. And he was overprotective of me. In a way that felt stifling sometimes. Like … he was afraid if he lost me, he’d lose the life he loved.” Guilt filled her expression. “How could I think that of him when he died because of me?”
“Niamh,” Kiyo said and moved his head closer to hers, “people are complicated. Nothing is straightforward. We’re not all good and we’re not all bad. And let me save you from torturing yourself: Your brother wasn’t perfect. His death doesn’t negate any bad feelings between you, and you’re not responsible for those bad feelings. You loved him. He loved you. You both knew that, and that’s all that matters.”
She lowered her eyes, shaking her head. “You don’t understand. You don’t understand what I owed him. Or what it’s like to not be able to protect the one you love the most and not even be able to take vengeance for him. I’m weak.”
His grip on her turned bruising. “No, you’re not.”
Her eyes flew to his, surprise there, perhaps at his vehemence.
“Niamh, I do know what it’s like. More than you can imagine.” Kiyo studied her tormented expression, and he knew he’d never be able to protect her if she couldn’t let this guilt over her brother go. Fear welled in him as the words he knew she needed to hear climbed toward his tongue. He was about to confide something he’d never told anyone. But Conall was right. This was about the big picture, and to save everyone, Niamh needed to be saved. And apparently that was his job now.
He let out a breath that was annoyingly shaky. “My mother was the only person in this world I cared about.”
Niamh’s body stiffened with alertness and her eyes focused. He had her entire attention.
“She was called Kume Fujiwara. The Fujiwara family had money and status. My Japanese grandfather was a powerful rice broker in the mid-nineteenth century. Even though Japan was changing rapidly at the time with industrialization, my mother’s family still had great influence in their class of society. Kume was seventeen years old, it was 1872, and my grandfather had hopes of a great match for her because she was very beautiful.” His voice trailed off as he remembered her.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Niamh replied, their eyes locking. “You must look like her.”
The compliment caused him to swallow hard. He had his mother’s eyes and coloring, but the rest of him was his father.
“That year an American doctor came to Osaka,” he continued, carefully keeping the emotion out of his voice. “William Morris. He was the second son of a wealthy East Coast industrialist who had enough money to doctor wherever he wanted to. He was fascinated by Japan. All things Japan. Including my mother. He fell in love with her. They fell in love with each other and she fell pregnant. My father wanted to marry her. That’s what my mother told me.” He remembered his time in the States and all he’d learned there. “And I found out enough to know that she wasn’t lying. William would have married her if he was a stronger man. But not only did my mother’s father refuse the suit, the Morris family threatened to cut William off if he didn’t return, alone, to America immediately. My mother wanted to elope, but William was weak and he returned to his family.” Bitterness he couldn’t contain leaked into his words, and his breat
h caught as Niamh pressed a comforting hand to his chest.
Right over his heart.
There was no pity in her eyes. Just understanding. And compassion.
His heart already beat too hard, too fast. Sweat beaded on his temple but he forced himself to continue. “I grew up very close to my mother. We were each other’s only friend. It was the two of us against a harsh society. Although she wasn’t sent away, the Fujiwara blamed her for bringing shame to the entire family. My grandfather was cold and indifferent toward us. I called him Sofu. I wouldn’t dare call him anything less formal. The same for my grandmother who I referred to as Sobo. Sobo was worse than Sofu. She was physically abusive to both me and my mother.”
Niamh’s fingers curled into his T-shirt.
He lowered his gaze. He wouldn’t be able to continue if he kept looking into her eyes. “One afternoon”—his voice grew rough with the memory—“my mother returned home from an errand and she’d been beaten. I thought perhaps Sobo had lost her temper over something and attacked her. She walked with a cane and had no problem swiping my mother with it. Mother wouldn’t talk to me about it. For weeks after, she was melancholy. Not even I could comfort her.” He stalled, trying to gather the calm to confide the next part. “One morning, I went to her and I found her dead in her room. She’d cut her wrists.”
“Oh, Kiyo,” Niamh whimpered.
He couldn’t look at her.
He could hear the tears in her voice, and if he looked at her and found tears in her eyes, he’d lose his calm.
“Sobo told me the truth then. A group of men who knew of my mother’s reputation had beaten her and gang-raped her.”
“Oh my God.”
Rage still filled him. Rage that would never leave no matter how much time passed. “Sobo said Mother had brought it on herself by acting the whore for the American.”
“That old bitch.”
The rage receded somewhat and Kiyo finally looked at Niamh. Her anger was exactly what he needed. It calmed him more than her tears could. “Yeah, she was. And with my mother dead, Sofu felt no obligation toward me anymore. He lied and told me he was taking me with him on a business trip to Tokyo. I’d lost my mother. I was desperate to believe that perhaps her death had changed Sofu for the better.