Lost In You

by Alix Rickloff

  He decided to break the silence. She hadn’t hunted him down without a purpose. Maybe she just needed some nudging to open up. “You needed to speak with me? What is it? Not getting cold feet, are you?” He offered her a game smile.

  She returned it with a tepid curve of her lips, but her gaze now was razor-edged and battle-ready. Whatever inner war she’d been waging, she’d won. Hands down. “Put off this battle with Asher. At least until you’ve spent more time researching the archives. There has to be a less costly way to end this.”

  This was an order. Plain and simple. And despite what Ellery thought, he’d never been good at taking orders. He bristled. “No.” Stepping up his pace, he left her behind.

  “But why not?” She jogged to catch up. “You can’t just dismiss me with a no and think I’ll let it go.”

  “We’ve gone over this a thousand times, Ellery. I’ve explained it to you. Asher cannot be allowed to continue unchecked.” He plucked a broken branch from the ground, swung it at the trees as he walked. “He must be dealt with. Otherwise, he’s always a threat. And the Triad’s return will hang over both mortal and fey like Damocles’ sword.”

  “I’m not saying ignore his threat. But you have the reliquary. You’ve said you wait for the turn of the seasons. But the seasons turn every three months. Midsummer. Autumn. The winter solstice.” Her breath grew heavy as she held to his speed. “You can delay, and perhaps you and your mother will have found the answers by then.”

  “It must end now. I can’t—” They broke from the trees out into a wide rocky field. The sun had pierced the haze of morning, and he paused, squinting against the blaze of light that met him.

  Ellery took that moment to grab him by the arm. Spin him around to face her. She shot a glance at his pocket, knowing what lay there. “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Ysbel has naught to do with why I face Asher.”

  “She has everything to do with it.” She stopped. Took a deep breath and reined herself in. When she spoke again, her voice was calm. Deliberate. “We have the reliquary. We can use it. A tool to force Asher to our terms.”

  An image of the jeweled casket entered his mind. The evil power that lay within it. The insidious mage energy that pulsed around it, through it. Tempting him. Luring him into believing that it was all true. The Jevan Triad would bring peace and light to the two worlds. Not the tragic suffering he’d been taught. That swirl of darkness was the reason he’d placed it with the fey for its protection. They could withstand the reliquary’s influence. They knew the promises were false. They remembered what had happened last time.

  “No, Ellery. We do this my way. There are things you can’t understand. To let Asher near the reliquary would be disaster.”

  “But hear me out.” She struggled to argue.

  “Enough,” he said, his own mounting fury combined with the influence of the leveryas startling her to a standstill. “I know what I’m doing.” He gave her a pointed look. “Don’t make me regret my choice.”

  She dropped his arm, stepping back as if he’d slapped her. Her face went pale, her mouth pinched and white. “You arrogant, hard-headed, shatter-brained…” She stamped her foot, her hands curling into fists he wasn’t sure whether she was preparing to use.

  He took his own step back.

  He’d gone too far, but she’d pushed him—goaded him beyond sense. He’d meet the devil and be done. Break him as he’d broken others. Send him to hell even if he had to follow him down to the deepest fires to do it. He put out a conciliatory hand. “I didn’t mean it. Not the way it sounded.”

  She threw it off, her eyes freezing him with blue ice. “Mayhap not, but if you keep to this path, you’ll be dead by Monday and your regrets won’t matter, will they?”

  Ellery stood outside Conor’s bedchamber, scanning the hall up and down. No one. She almost wished someone would stop her. Call out. Question her right to be there. Though no doubt at this point, her entrance into Conor’s room merited little comment. That thought alone made her grimace. Marriage prettied up their relationship, but it didn’t change it. Conor had only asked her out of duty. A sense of misguided responsibility. And she had accepted out of…well, she wouldn’t look too closely at her reasons.

  She rubbed her damp hands down her skirt, took a deep breath, and entered.

  Conor’s ambiguity aside, she knew where her heart lay. In pieces around her with Asher’s threats dealing the hammer blows. She’d lain awake all night, running the conversation with the dark fey over and over in her mind. But nothing changed. In the end, Conor died.

  Despite his infuriating high-handedness, she would not let that happen.

  She started in the obvious places. Under the bed. In a trunk that sat beneath the window. At the back of the clothespress. Nothing.

  My family thinks you’ll save me from myself. Conor had told her that just days ago. Well, she would. She’d save him from the grand and senseless gesture of meeting Asher in battle. Sacrificing himself in a futile bid to stop the demon. She’d formed a plan.

  Not a perfect plan by any stretch, but it would have to do. She didn’t have time for perfect. And that was the point, wasn’t it? They needed time. Time to search the archives. Time to convince the true fey to help. Time for Conor to come up with some way to end Asher’s threat without killing himself.

  The reliquary could give them that time if they used it to their advantage. They had what Asher wanted. Would do anything to get hold of. So, exploit it. There was nothing that said Conor had to make his stand on the first of May. It was only his determination for final revenge that held him to the spring festival. So she’d force the issue. She’d take the reliquary for herself. Tell Conor what she’d done after. She couldn’t risk the chance he’d hide the reliquary even more completely. And she’d found it was always better to ask forgiveness than permission.

  She wasn’t foolish enough to believe Asher had meant any of the promises he’d made. But he was clever. He’d bargain if she could get him to believe she might actually give it up to him.

  She straightened, hands on hips, gazing around the room, trying to imagine she was Conor. Where would he hide such a treasure? Where would he feel was secure enough to protect it from Asher, Simon, or anyone else bent on discovering it? Inspired, she began along the walls by the hearth, feeling for invisible seams, hidden catches. The going was slow. Desperation chewed at her, making her breath come quicker, her hands fumble. Lunch would be over soon. Should Conor discover her like this, the sparks that had flown this morning would be nothing compared to the all-out conflagration that would come. The chiming of the mantel clock sent her heart skipping into her throat.

  She sat up. Shook off her fright. He was Other. Perhaps he’d transformed the reliquary into something else, hidden it in plain view as—she scanned the room—the clock. A table…

  Ruan.

  She swallowed, her eyes locked on the man standing arms crossed, feet apart, watching her with open curiosity.

  “Mice?” The twinkle in his eye didn’t completely negate the suspicious narrowed gaze focused on her.

  She cleared her throat. “I lost something. I thought it might be here.”

  This time there was no mistaking his amusement. He covered his bark of laughter behind a spate of coughing. “Down there, was it?”

  She cringed, realizing the smarmier meaning behind her words. Leave it to Ruan to leap to that conclusion. “Men.” She shot him a look of disgust.

  “You said it. Not me. If you’re looking for Conor, he’s having lunch with Aunt Niamh and Gram.” His expression grew considering. “Or maybe you knew that. Which is why you’re here,” he arched a curious brow, “looking for something.”

  She rose, shaking out her rumpled skirts. Did she dare ask Ruan? Of all the Blighs, he seemed the least affected by the magical trappings. Completely—she thought back to his earlier comments with distaste—predictably normal among a family of super-normal. Would he understand her better than Conor because of it,
and should she risk finding out?

  She chose to be reckless. Her head came up, her shoulders back. “I need the reliquary.” She spoke with what she hoped was firm resolve. “Do you know where it is?”

  She could swear the room dropped to freezing as soon as she opened her mouth.

  Ruan speared her with a gaze cold as steel, his body pulled taut as a cocked bow. “Why?”

  So much for a sympathetic ear. “To save Conor.”

  His expression remained as opaque and inscrutable as ever. “Go on.”

  “Asher wants it. If he thinks we might give it up, we can buy space to seek another way. A way that doesn’t risk Conor’s death.”

  He rubbed a thoughtful hand over his chin. “Conor would never agree.”

  “I know.” She prowled the room, exasperation and worry making her restless and impatient. “He’s already told me so.”

  Ruan just watched. Silent. Studying.

  Finally, she stopped at the mantel, took up a bone figurine of a leopard or a tiger, the carving crude and unschooled, yet still carrying a rough beauty. She fingered the warm, smooth face of the snarling animal. “He wants this battle with Asher. I doubt he’d choose a different path, even if one were found. Vengeance overpowers all else, even…” Her shoulders slumped.

  “It’s difficult to stray from a course you’ve charted. Especially when you’ve followed it for as long as Conor has.”

  She glanced over. To the door. Back again. Surely Conor was finished eating by now. He’d be here any moment. She had to get Ruan to agree or get out. She fiddled with the figurine, impatient. Nervous. “So you see why I have to do this my way.” Her eyes strayed back to the door. “Please, Ruan. Help me.”

  “I understand your dilemma. But I don’t countenance deceit. You should be honest with him.”

  “Are you going to tell him?”

  “No, but only because there’s no reason to. The reliquary isn’t here. Conor’s taken it to the barrows. He’s given it to the fey for safekeeping.”

  “Then it’s safe. Asher can’t get it.”

  Wild hope boiled through her until Ruan’s grim face dashed her down again.

  “If Asher defeats us, nothing is safe. The Keun Marow feed off the magic of fey and Other. Conor’s death alone would give them a strength unseen by any in our time.”

  She held out a hand. “Stop!” She didn’t want the words spoken. To give her deepest fears voice was to give them control.

  Conor dead. Conor as feast for those horrible, nightmarish creatures. She covered her face. Let the anguish come. Burn through her. Pass on, leaving an echo of grief she’d loose when she must. But not before she had to. Now was the time for action.

  She straightened to face Ruan. “Surely, you can’t want Conor to face Asher any more than I do. Please. We have to find a better way.”

  She met his eyes and saw his thought pass like a shadow over his features. She was the way. That’s what he was thinking. Her death at the quoit was the one way this could all be avoided. And yet Conor had refused. She would live on, and Conor would die to make it so.

  But if he died without defeating the demon, would she have gained anything but hours—days at the most?

  Her hands curled to fists. Impotent rage churned her insides. She wanted to scream.

  The reliquary was the key to everything. Only how to use it to gain the greatest advantage?

  A snap and a sudden sting across her palm caused her to open her fist. The bone figure lay in pieces, its head crushed from its body, pearls of blood lining her hand.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, knowing he would understand.

  Ruan flushed, his jaw clenched, frustration darkening his eyes to slate. “So am I.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Ellery did what she always did when in doubt; she worked. Lowenna had seen this need to keep hands and mind busy and offered space in her own sprouting herb garden.

  “I’ve warned away the gardeners. You shouldn’t be interrupted. I tend this plot myself.”

  When Ellery drew in a sharp, heady breath, Conor’s grandmother smiled. “Tending the earth will bring you solace. It always has for me.” She glanced up at the house, still caught in long, morning shadows. “Conor wrestles with himself. He longs for a life he sees slipping away. You can bring him back. You can hold him among us.”

  “But for what? If Asher wins, there’s no life for anyone.” Ellery pushed her hair off her face with the back of one gloved hand. “And Conor’s made it clear he doesn’t want anything to do with me. I think you’ve overestimated my appeal. Or Conor’s interest.”

  Lowenna offered a serene smile before departing. “Perhaps,” was all she said.

  Gardening wasn’t one of Ellery’s strengths. Left alone, she dug into the earth with more enthusiasm than skill. But the solitude and the heat on her back, the spring birdsong and the gritty dirt between her fingers did more for her spinning, twisted thoughts than all the words of comfort that came before.

  The sun moved higher before being swallowed by fast-moving clouds that flattened out across the sky, dull as gun-metal, their edges licked black. They crowded in, turning a bright morning into an oppressive, humid afternoon.

  She stabbed at the soil, plunging her spade into the soft loam with wicked relish. It was Conor. Cousin Molly. Her father. It was everyone who’d ever underestimated her. Under-valued her. Used her for their own purposes and called it love.

  She missed lunch. Hunger gnawed, but she’d prepared. Unwrapping a napkin, she laid out her cheese, her bread, two brown, wrinkled apples, leftovers from the fall. She reached an arm above her head, working the knots out. It felt good to be sore. It had been too long since the exertion of physical labor. A lifetime since she tended her own home, her own garden.

  Meals. Mending. She couldn’t say she liked the chores, but they gave a sense of satisfaction she’d never realized she missed. It also made her bloody tired. A bonus. It meant she wouldn’t brood over might-have-beens and what-ifs. Wouldn’t dream of kisses that burned away the world around her, leaving her body a white-hot shell of searing heat. Wouldn’t yearn for a love that wasn’t meant to be.

  Rain speckled the walk. Her apron. She raised her face to it, letting the cool drops splash over her cheeks, ease the flush of her thoughts. She shook the crumbs out, stuffed the napkin into a pocket and tossed the apple cores beneath a bush. The drizzle became steadier. The sky darker.

  She’d worked most of the anger and resentment out of her system. And managed to clear a good portion of Lowenna’s garden for planting. But she wasn’t ready to go in. Wasn’t ready to face the compassion mingled with disappointment. She was too new at navigating the crosscurrents of familial feelings. Self-conscious. Awkward. And they were Conor’s family, after all. Not hers. No matter how hard they tried to include her. Make her feel as if she belonged.

  Ignoring the rain, she walked away from the house. Away from the terraced gardens and then the manicured lawn. Past the rows of tall slender poplars, the heavier stands of ash and elm. Over the footbridge and beyond the ivory columned folly, abandoned slick and dripping until summer.

  This track ran uphill. She’d purposefully avoided the low-lying, wooded paths Conor had led her through. This track was different. Nothing sheltered the meandering curves, only scrubby brush that huddled against the stone walls as if for protection against the wind. It blew steadily, driving the rain into her face. Taking her breath away with it when it pushed on.

  Sky and ground mingled, making the top of the hill indistinguishable until she crested the rise, surprised by the suddenness of her ascent. Behind her, the roof of the house poked above the crown of trees. Before her, the track dipped steeply down. Ending at a long wide stretch of beach. The Channel beyond. All of it gray. Misted with rain. Except for the man who stood alone with his back to the water, one hand resting on a boulder, jutting from the sand. A sharp, black shape amid a swirl of fog and foam and wave.

  She felt the tensing of h
is body from here, the way his head came up, his gaze diamond-hard and focused on her. He never moved. Never shifted from his lonely spot until even the gulls settled back among the rock-strewn beach.

  She’d turn away. Pretend she hadn’t seen him.

  Childish? Yes. Cowardly? Most definitely.

  Still, he waited. Rain sliced across the long, elegant bones of his face, over his chest. Puddled under his boots.

  What the hell. She flung up her arms in exasperation and walked down the hill to him.

  Conor leaned against the rocks, arms crossed, watching the fog rolling toward shore. Trying not to watch Ellery. Gods, she was beautiful. And more amazing to him was that she knew it and didn’t care. Took it for granted.

  Not in a bad way. Not in a way that made her vain or conceited. But just as if it wasn’t anything to be especially proud of. A trick of birth that she could have done without and been just as satisfied.

  She stood at the water’s edge, tossing stones into the surf. The rain had passed, leaving her damp hair in ringlets, her gown clinging to every amazing curve. “The month is almost over,” she said. “Only a few days left.” She skipped a pebble twice across the wave tops before it sank.

  “I know.” He tried to keep the worry from his voice. The expression on her face when she turned around showed him how badly he’d failed. “I’d hoped you wouldn’t notice.”

  She grimaced, flinging the last of the stones into the sea. Wiped her hands on her apron. “Small chance of that.” Leaving the water, she joined him at the edge of the dunes. Plucked a stalk of tufted grass. Eyes downcast.

  The light dimmed as the sun sank behind the clouds. It was late. They should head home. Out of the rain. But neither one made a move in that direction. Too much remained unsaid. The peace too fragile.

  She hugged her arms to her body as if she were cold. “I keep thinking about how far I’ve come. Everything seems like a dream. A nightmare at times.” She paused. “I haven’t forgotten, you know.” Her words were barely more than a whisper. “I keep trying to reason myself back into hating you. Into running as far and as fast as I can.”