This must be the living room. To my left is the front door; to my right is what looks like a small kitchen nook and two other doors. I assume one of them leads to a bedroom.
I stand and wander over to the closest one, cracking it open. A bathroom. It’s old-fashioned in style, but the fixtures look new. I move to the other door and peek inside.
My breath catches in my throat. It’s like something out of a dream, where a princess would live. A large canopy bed sits in the center, draped with sheer yellow fabric and covered with a ton of pillows. There’s a large window rimmed by built-in bookshelves—look at all those books!—and a puffy yellow chair set off to the side just so. The floor is covered in more fur rugs. A desk and more bookshelves are set into the wall on the other side of the bed, and a hand-painted screen with knotted designs is to my left, in front of what looks like another door. I’m assuming that’s the closet.
I’d go look inside, but I don’t think I can take in any more lavish surprises right now. I feel so out of place, like my surroundings just highlight how lost I am. This can’t possibly be where I belong.
My gaze trails back to the bed. All those pillows. I think of the orange plastic chairs I slept in several nights last week, and I step closer. I reach out and run my palm over the puffy surface of the comforter. It feels like satin, but it looks like simple cotton. I marvel at the sensation of it against my skin, and before I know it I’m climbing up and crawling over the thing, falling into the mountain of pillows until I’m cradled by them.
I don’t think I’ve ever been this comfortable in my entire life.
This. This is heaven.
I close my eyes, and the weight of the last twelve hours lifts from my mind for a fleeting moment. Just long enough for me to fall asleep.
I try to hide my shivering as I wait before the altar, in my position as the Bonding begins. Around me, shadows dance over the cairn walls from the restless flames licking up the ram’s body—the sacrifice on the pyre behind me—and the smell of sweat and burnt flesh smother the smoky air.
The King of Ravens paints an alarming image, standing almost naked across from me on the other side of the blood circle. He wears the corona radiata, the golden laurel-leafed crown, on his head of onyx hair. His short beard is neatly trimmed, combed with lavender oil for the ceremony. His sharp silver eyes study me beneath a heavy brow.
I try not to think about the past. Or future. I try not to think about what those hard hands will feel like on my skin when he seals this Bond.
I study the stone floor rather than look in those metallic eyes. I feel them on me, though, the same way they have been for the fortnight I’ve been here preparing for the ceremony. He hasn’t touched me; he’s only brought me gifts and insisted I sit with him beside the greatfire in the evening before he goes out for his hunt. Sometimes I smell him in the hallway outside my rooms. But he never comes in, thank the goddess. The scent of blood is heavy on him in those moments. I’m not sure what I would’ve done if he’d attempted anything.
After this is done, it won’t matter. My bed will be his. As will my life.
A druid walks back and forth behind me, tossing rosemary and lavender onto the pyre after each stanza of his spell. He calls to the wind from the east, he calls to the waters in the west, and he pulls the spirit of flame and earth into the cairn with us, asking the Penta to approve the Bond set to be made between the two most powerful Houses, as he pleads for a blessing from our mothers, Brighid and Morrígan, and thanks the Cast for their permission to seal the Bond between the two very different powers.
A female druid comes to my side with bowl and brush, beginning to paint my skin in blue woad, tracing patterns of knots and runes across my back, then baring my chest and continuing.
The king’s gaze follows the woman’s strokes, and when she’s finished, he raises his chin at me in approval but says nothing. What does he see when he looks at me? My wild copper hair? My simple features? The awkward birthmark just above my heart? I’m round of cheek and hips and not much of a beauty. But however I look to him, I will belong to him.
Determination is set in hard lines on his face, and I wonder if the torque on his neck is working properly. I can see his dark energy lifting in silver and black curls over his shoulders now. It should be tight inside his skin, as mine is. The iron shackle should be holding it in place so that we don’t harm each other in the first merging, before we can get used to the feel of each other’s powers.
The female druid moves to the king next and begins painting the woad in circles over his torso. The druid chanting behind me recites the final section of his spell, walking the ram’s-blood circle painted on the floor. He holds a rowan stick aloft, flicking rosewater over the king and then me as he passes by, mumbling, “A price paid, a covenant sealed, in earth and blood and ash, in spirit and flesh and fire.”
The price is my will, my soul, in payment for the life of the human prince that I took.
In the center of the circle, between the king and me, is an altar with two bowls set atop, one full of salt, one full of rye.
The iron union dagger rests between them.
I stare at it, imagining the blade cutting into my flesh. And I can’t help when my gaze moves to the king. I want to blink and make this moment a dream, perhaps find myself in the thicket with Lailoken, among the bluebells in the Caledonian wood.
I should run from this son of Morrígan, deny him, deny our mothers, and let the world burn. But my heart twists at the thought. I was running from duty when fate took my heart from me, when the prince succumbed to my fire’s will. It was the childish notion of freedom that tore him from me.
Now it’s time to accept my punishment for allowing the humans to glimpse our world. Time to atone.
The druid’s voice fills the room again. “When moon gives birth to stars,” he says, in a droning hum, flicking more rosewater over us with the rowan stick, “let this Bond be sealed in blood.”
My skin prickles with fear as the king takes the cue, reaching out to pick up the ceremonial dagger by the leather-wrapped hilt. I focus on not moving, not making a sound, as I watch him bring the blade to his chest, tip pricking his left breast. A drop of crimson pearls up at the spot.
With a slow hiss of breath, he cuts across.
Dark blood slides down his abdomen in a thick swath of red. “My blood with yours,” he says. And he turns the knife, holding out the hilt for me.
My hands clench into fists at my side, and I force my shaking limbs to still.
I breathe in slowly again. Then I reach out, taking the ceremonial dagger from him, careful not to touch his fingers.
I pretend not to care about the cage I’m about to be locked in. About the pain in my soul from loss, from the goddess Brighid abandoning me to this darkness, pain from the reality of everything in front of me.
I press the tip of the blade to the center of my chest, the point breaking the skin. I look into the silver eyes of the king in front of me. And consider my fate.
One deep plunge to the heart and the pain will end.
One plunge.
One.
NINE
FAELAN
I rise from sleep quickly, my new task weighing heavily on my mind. I climb down from the nest in the center of my new room. The dirt floor of the bungalow is cool under my feet. My arm brushes against one of the ropes of ivy hanging from the ceiling, and a few leaves wilt as I unintentionally take in a thread of life. My head is still a mess from earlier. I need to shed this if I’m going to do what Marius wants and assist this new demi with her transition. I need to focus.
Once I got settled in here this morning, I managed to fall into a light sleep for a few hours, but the stillness was fleeting. I kept seeing the fear in the demi’s eyes, kept smelling her shock. The cloud of her misery seemed to follow me after we parted ways, and it’s still sticking to my skin.
I’m not sure how to cleanse myself of it. I consider feeding more, but I already took some energy fro
m the growth around me as I slept, and it hasn’t done any good.
Instead, I make my way into the attached greenhouse and splash water on my face from the small fountain near the entrance. I need to clear my head. Ready myself for the task ahead of me.
I told the demi I’d wake her in four hours, and it’s been five, so I should probably make sure she’s all right with her new living space. We need to get started with this transition.
Damn, I can’t believe I’m the one with my neck in the noose. Marius is a bastard. He’s obviously known all of this time that he would tap me for the task, if this cottage is any indication. It was clearly created in preparation for my arrival. It’s almost an exact replica of my house in upstate New York.
The main room has been converted into a makeshift thicket, with a huge raised nest at the center—a weaving of young, flexible branches, coated in live moss and grasses and vines, and covered in pillows, blankets, and more pillows. As I sleep, I can feed slowly off the life around me. I’ll be awake long enough that the life should be able to rejuvenate itself before my next rest.
The greenhouse will make a good training room for the demi. It has an open grassy area in the center surrounded by heavily packed-in life, all growing from the dirt floor, up the walls, tendrils of plants spilling from the ceiling like leafy stalactites. No cement, no metal, just wood walls around me and mossy river rocks and soil beneath my feet.
Not bad for being so close to the city. One of the reasons I rarely come to LA is because it’s too tough to find places to sleep, the forests are thinned and dry, and the beaches don’t have enough rich life. Looks like Marius has been listening to my complaints over the years.
Yes, he definitely knew that I’d be the one given this job.
Why didn’t he tell me when he called me up for the hunt?
Because he knew I’d figure out a way to free myself from the task. Instead, he sprang it on me, and I gave in. Now I’m stuck.
If he wasn’t the master, I’d gut him and enjoy it.
I find the closet and pull out a change of clothes, then head into the bathroom to clean up. After a shower and shave I feel a little clearer.
But then I step out into the sunlight and hear a familiar giggle. And my stomach clenches.
Aelia.
I’d hoped to avoid her while I was in LA. But now that I’m staying here, in her father’s house . . . feckin’ shite.
I consider going back into the cottage and staying inside all day, hiding like a bloody coward. I don’t need one more thing to make me nuts. But getting the transition started with the new demi is vital, since she was brought in just under the wire. If I’m responsible for this process, I’m going to be sure it’s swift.
So I shore up my sanity and step out of the shadows.
“Well, well,” Aelia says as I emerge onto the walkway. Her voice is silk against the air.
And nails against my skin.
“There you are,” she says. “I was wondering if you’d hide from us all day.” She cuts a lithe figure of perfection, sitting in a lounge chair under a small aspen growing at the edge of the pool, her chestnut hair spilling free over her shoulders, skin a shimmering bronze in the sunlight, long legs delicately bent to show the curves off just right. She slides her sunglasses down her nose and smirks at me. Her ocean eyes glow just a little, showing me she likes what she sees. One of her lemmings is beside her in another chair—Niamh is her name, I think. A pixie with very little intelligence or will of her own. A perfect companion for the witch.
I ignore my boss’s daughter and pull a leather strap from around my wrist, then tie back my hair as I walk the path to the opposite cottage.
“I heard a rumor you were living with us again,” Aelia says. “I thought Daddy was teasing me. Aren’t you going to come give me a kiss before you run off? Has your affection faded since last spring at Beltane?”
Her companion giggles.
I pretend not to hear the gibe and knock on the demi’s door with a little more force than I mean to. I swallow the curse I want to throw at Aelia. Me telling the offspring of one of the most powerful demigods in western America to fuck right off probably wouldn’t be the best way to begin this new task.
I’ve made enough mistakes with the witch already.
“Oh, Faelan,” Aelia says, “you’re always such a cold bastard.”
The pixie, Niamh, adds in a dreamy voice, “And it’s so hot.”
I knock again, even harder this time. Why isn’t the demi coming to the door? She better not be ignoring me.
“He won’t escape us forever, Niamh,” Aelia says. “The truth of his nature will find him eventually.”
“Mmm,” Niamh says, “I can’t wait. The son of sin itself.”
My jaw clenches hard enough to crack my teeth. Where the hell is this godsdamn demi?
I try the handle, but it’s locked. I’m pissed enough, though, that the metal bends and the doorjamb cracks with a loud snap. I curse under my breath as the door swings open.
Then the smell of smoke hits me, stopping every other thought.
Fire.
I rush inside, looking around, but all I see are gray plumes. I reach out with my energy, feeling for power, for death, for anything that could be connected to the demi. Could she have turned herself to ash already? Why the hell did I leave her alone? I’m meant to be her mentor, her protector. Marius will be sure her death means my own.
I find the couch, but it’s vacant. The smoke is coming from under the bedroom door.
The handle is glowing orange, the edges of the door singed.
Holy goddess.
I kick below the latch and break the jamb, then hold my breath as I slip inside. The air singes my skin instantly. My vision blurs, but not before I catch a glimpse of the demi’s naked form curled in a cocoon of flames in the center of the embers of the bed. Glowing cracks have formed over her charred skin, her clothes burned completely away. Her power isn’t awake enough to let her feel what she’s doing to herself and the room.
I flick my own energy to life, trying to cool the air around me, to get a better look, but I don’t have enough in me to protect myself so that I can reach her. The flames roar as they consume the fluttering curtains, lick up the bedposts and up the wall, then begin rolling across the ceiling toward me. She’s burning the building down around her as she immolates herself. She’ll have us all writhing in flames within minutes. When it’s done, she’ll be fine, but she’ll also have burned down the entire Santa Monica mountain range.
I close my eyes and focus, searching my surroundings for something that I can siphon power from. There’s a stirring beneath my feet, a pace or so away. The earth under the structure sighs and begins to vibrate at my prodding. I won’t be able to get my skin on it for the initial surge, but I can pull it toward me, I think. If I don’t give a shit about being useful for the next few days, that is.
I can’t weave a spell because that would mean breathing and burning my lungs to a crisp. So I release an answering groan of my own and call to the life under me.
The concrete foundation moans in response, fissures popping open in the wood floor. My chest aches with the effort of tugging the life closer, my skin beginning to blister as my energy fades and the air I cooled heats again. An avalanche of thoughts tumbles through my head. I consider running, consider my own demise, consider how little my existence has meant to this world, and how little my death will change anything. It’s always this way when the next world calls. But something powerful is swirling deep in my gut, and even as I realize that stopping this is likely a lost cause and I need to run, I can’t make my feet move. I can’t manage to work up the will to leave the girl’s side.
It’s a shock to my system, wholly unfamiliar. And it sends a renewed surge of my energy through the air. The pain in my skin blinks out for a flash as the air cools a little.
The floor bursts open. A thick tree root surges up, reaching for my foot, sprouting several saplings as it slides up my
leg. I grab hold of it like a lifeline, my body weakening. And before the darkness can claim me, I focus everything I have left on the root, on tugging out the thin threads of life in a steady stream, collecting the energy into my skin as quickly as I can, pleading with it to coat me. Then I push out every ounce I have, every spark I can manage, praying it’ll be enough to douse the flames, praying it’s not already too late.
But before I can be sure we’re all safe, blackness replaces the glow of the hungry flames, and I fall.
TEN
SAGE
Who turned up the heat? It’s so warm. Like, really warm.
A vague memory of fire and the smell of rosewater drift away as I become more aware of my surroundings. Sweat pearls on my temples. My lungs ache like they’ve been singed from the inside. As I open my eyes, they sting like mad, my vision blurring. What’s with all the fog in the room?
No, not fog. Smoke.
My nerves spark, and I sit up in a rush, every muscle in my body screaming. I feel like I raced an Ironman or something. What the hell?
A cough rips from my chest, raspy and thick with phlegm. And then another. I wipe the tears from my eyes and wave a hand in front of my face to attempt to move the smoke. But when my surroundings become a little clearer, the heat against my skin dulls.
And icy threads of fear weave through me.
Everything around me is black, burned, charred into rubble. The bed I’m sitting on is only coal and sticks now, the ceiling above my head full of smoldering holes. And the cushy chair near the window is glowing embers, the shelves of books framing it . . . the books are all completely destroyed.
What the hell happened?
I was dreaming of fire, wasn’t I? No. It was . . . I don’t remember. And I’m . . . I’m naked?
My God, did I do this? Panic fills me; new tears spring to my eyes. I scrape them from my cheeks, though, anger instantly following the panic and confusion. Anger at myself, at my situation. At my helplessness. How did this suddenly become my life?
Then I see a form on the floor.
Fire and Bone Page 9