by Dani Harper
She sighed and plunged in. “It might not be that simple. Messing with time is never simple. What did your friends and family do after you disappeared? Do you know?”
Aidan pondered that in silence until she wasn’t sure he would answer at all.
“No,” he finally said, and his voice was subdued. “I have no idea. I wasn’t called to go to Aberhonddu as a grim until almost two centuries of mortal time had passed. Everyone I ever knew there was long dead by then. I believe Celynnen planned it that way. She wanted me to forget everyone but her.”
Brooke felt for him so strongly that her eyes stung with tears. He’d been so terribly wronged. But nothing changed the fact that there were things he needed to think about, important things. Dear goddess, help me say it kindly. “People don’t stay static, Aidan. You were erased from their minds, and that was wrong. But they didn’t know and they all had lives to lead. Human beings move on, and so does time. And in this case, ten whole centuries have already unfolded in a certain way, to create a specific pattern.”
That fire was in his eyes again. “I’m very well aware of the years.”
“I’m sure you are. But look, we all affect each other’s lives in hundreds of little ways, every single day. You’ve been taken out of your life, and everyone you knew went on without you. Without your influence. And if you went back to your old life now, it would be like throwing an enormous rock into a pond. The ripples would be felt across the centuries all the way to right here where I’m standing, to this very moment, and beyond.”
“History would be set to rights.”
She shook her head. “History has already happened. We’re talking about a thousand years here, not a two-week vacation. How many families, how many descendants, have been created over ten centuries? That’s something like fifty generations! So how many lives will be changed if you go back?” Brooke pointed to the city around them. “Which one of these people will cease to exist if you return to your life, Aidan?”
“None of them. This isn’t Wales.”
“It’s a new world for you, Aidan, a bigger world, and you have to think bigger.” She felt like she was poking a wounded bear with a stick, but she had to make him understand. “Many people here in America have Welsh ancestors. Like my friend Morgan. Her grandmother was born in Wales. What if Morgan didn’t exist anymore because you went back and changed the past in some small way? Her new husband, Rhys, was born in Wales too. What if he didn’t exist anymore, because you chose to alter history?”
Aidan was a man, and a man in pain usually reacted with anger. That sharp-edged fury rushed back like a tsunami, as she fully expected it would. “Celynnen already altered history, damn it all!” he roared. His chair was knocked over as he stood up, ready to take on the entire world. “I can’t bring Annwyl back from the dead, but I could still live amongst my family and my friends. I don’t want to change the world I came from, I just want to have been part of it.”
Cursing in a variety of languages, he kicked his chair out of the way and stalked off. A moment later, she heard the metal door to the stairs slam behind him.
Crap. Brooke considered going after Aidan but thought better of it. Maybe he needed time to think. Maybe he needed time away from her—after all, didn’t she look like his fiancée? It couldn’t be much fun for him to be constantly reminded of the person he missed the most. Hell, maybe he just needed a break, period. How much rain on his parade could one man take in a single day? She was lucky. Only her roof was ruined. As for Aidan, his entire view of the world had been knocked sideways. Of the two, her problem was a helluva lot easier to fix.
Startled by the slamming door, Bouncer, Jade, and Rory rushed over and pawed at her for reassurance. She sat on the floor and cuddled all three into her lap, taking comfort from them as well. “It’s okay, guys, it’s just the usual. The client just wants what he wants.”
But somehow she had to prevent him from getting it.
It took a lot of walking before Aidan could think clearly again. He traveled miles of sidewalks, barely seeing the city streets, the people and vehicles that traveled them, the shops and businesses that lined them. He had surely managed to be rude again to Brooke, but it couldn’t be helped. While she knew he was angry, she had no idea just how much fury was threatening to break through his control. It was like holding back a volcano, and better for him to leave and leave quickly before she was caught in the explosion. Her pointed questions had lit a powder keg beneath his plans, not to mention ripped fresh wounds in his already-shredded heart. A thousand damnable years. He knew better than most that forgetfulness was the first and most powerful side effect for any mortal who spent time in the faery realm. But reality was the real casualty—every last thing that Brooke had said was likely true, and Aidan felt like a complete fool that he hadn’t considered one whit of it.
Damn it to hell. He felt cheated through and through, and the bitter pill seemed far too big to swallow.
He walked, until the borrowed shoes he was wearing rubbed blisters into his feet, until the strange clothing chafed his skin in odd places, and until weariness underscored just how human he really was. The sealed wound where the warth had slashed him throbbed as though poison lurked within it. Still he walked, until his pace finally slowed of its own accord and his anger ebbed somewhat from sheer exhaustion.
In that state, reason floated slowly to the surface of Aidan’s brain.
He hadn’t had enough time, that was all. He was known for being an astute man, and no one who had learned the intricacies of working with metals lacked in intelligence. Eventually, he would have asked the same questions that Brooke did, given more hours to think in the mortal world. After all, he had scarcely been a man again for a day and a night.
There was no blame, then, not for him and certainly not for Brooke—she had merely been the messenger, and a courageous one at that. Any and all blame sat squarely on the shoulders of the ice-blooded creature that had stolen Aidan’s life and love from him in the first place.
Celynnen.
Just thinking of the cruel fae princess was like applying a bellows to his forge; the flames of wrath immediately hissed and grew hot enough to melt metal. As a grim he’d been able to feel only two things—an aching empty hole where his heart had once lived and complete and utter rage at his captor. Now he felt everything and right now, disappointment was first and foremost.
If even Celynnen could not return him to his life without doing incalculable damage to everything and everyone around him, then somehow he must be man enough to let go of that dream. He would not become like his enemy by insisting on having his own way despite the cost that others would pay. In the meantime, had he not vowed to Gofannon to see Celynnen’s blue blood spilled upon the ground by an iron weapon of his own making? He still had a purpose, a goal. And by all that was holy, he would find a way. In the meantime, however, he needed to see Brooke.
Celynnen was much too busy to attend the Royal Court. Not because she was avoiding it, after Lurien had dared the outrageous and sent her there without her clothes. If he thought it would embarrass her, he was sorely mistaken. She had held her head high, and in the shocked silence of the Court commanded that clothing to be brought to her. And then she had her servants dress her as she stood in the very center of the throne room, before the eyes of all. It had given her an unprecedented opportunity to flaunt her utterly flawless body—and hadn’t that given the chattering ensemble something to talk about when they recovered their tongues? Some of the comments that had echoed back to her had been extremely admiring. Others hateful and jealous. Both were pleasing. There was no comment from her great-aunt, the queen, of course. Gwenhidw did not grace the Court with her presence unless there was particular business to attend to. Which left all of the gathering’s attention to revolve around Celynnen.
No, she had no desire to avoid the Court.
She also wasn’t too busy to attend because she was plotting revenge on the Lord of the Wild Hunt (although she would eve
n the score between them, he could be certain of that). Right now, her attention was wholly focused on magics, on seeking charms and location spells, anything that might help her find a certain missing grim. She even had servants scour the stone kennel for a few hairs, but the fur proved ineffective. None of her spells turned up any sign of her favorite pet. Which could only mean that the grim had managed to travel much farther than even Lurien suspected. Had the dog managed to cross the Deep Waters to the lands beyond?
What Celynnen needed, then, was a far-reaching spell, something that was effective over extremes of distance. To power such a spell, however, there was only one thing she could use—the bwgan stone she kept in her sleeve. They were exceedingly rare—only one out of ten thousand bwgans would ever grow one. Celynnen had viewed the broad heavy skull of the salamander-like beast that had borne hers. The stone she now held had been embedded in the bone like a third eye, and yet it was undetectable until the pale skin had been peeled back. Who would suspect such an ugly and savage creature of possessing a veritable lodestone of volatile magical energy?
Because of it, her spell could search far beyond the kingdom she would eventually rule. And the one thing that would stand out from all other things in the mortal world would be something she herself had bestowed upon her pet. Instead of looking for the dog, she would search for his collar. Because no grim could ever rid himself of the silver torc that bound him to the Fair Ones.
A thousand mortal years ago, she had placed the wide chain-mail band around his black-furred neck with her own hands and sealed it with her own magic. That meant it had a signature of power and therefore could be followed. All she needed was a single silver link, one left over from the time that the collar was first forged and crafted. The tiny link was in her personal treasury, somewhere among her vast collection of jewels and ornaments. She’d had her personal servant, the orange-eyed crymbil, searching for it ever since she thought of it.
Finally, the skittish creature had produced what her mistress wanted.
Celynnen held the tiny treasure cupped in her palm, high over the scrying bowl. The ancient silver dish was wider than she could reach her arms around, yet only the depth of a finger. It had been filled with the pure water of Syrthiedig, the lake that held the moon’s tears. Her other hand gripped the bwgan stone in the pocket of her sleeve. The fae princess murmured the elemental words, from a language older than mortal men, and let the link fall.
The silver oval tumbled end over end in slow motion—gravity held no sway here—until it sliced cleanly into the water and struck the bottom of the bowl with a loud bell-like chime that should have been impossible for such a tiny thing to produce.
The sound rippled. The water rippled. Vibrations spread outward along the stone floor from the pedestal that supported the bowl, just as swirling shadows spread out from beneath the tiny link and entwined to produce an image. By the time the water was still, its crystal surface gave the fae princess a clear and perfect view of her grim’s chain-mail torc.
But it wasn’t a dog that wore it. Nor was it Aidan ap Llanfor.
Normally, Celynnen would be consumed with fury. Had she dashed the treasured scrying bowl to the floor, it would not have been the first time. She should have been inconsolable that her plans had not borne the fruit she demanded. But novelty was not only rare in the faery realm; it was its most precious commodity. And so the tywysoges looked upon the unknown human who wore the heavy silver collar as an ornament.
And found him comely.
Perhaps I will pay him a visit…
Brooke fed the cats (before anything else of course—Rory wouldn’t permit any delay), drank coffee, showered and dressed, drank more coffee, but still felt fuzzy headed. It had been a restless night, filled with tossing and turning and occasionally getting up and pacing her apartment. It wasn’t El Guardia this time, but El Código—the Code—that had kept her from sleeping.
To hold the Gift is to protect the balance in all things and to restore harmony. That’s the line she’d focused on when she cautioned Aidan about his plans to reclaim a life lost a thousand years ago. His personal harmony might be restored to a large degree, but the balance of many, many lives would be permanently altered, if not destroyed.
There were other lines in the Code, however, and maybe they applied as well. To hold the Gift is to give hope to the innocent and to uphold the cause of the wronged. Aidan had been innocent, and he had definitely been wronged. If the tragedy had unfolded yesterday, last week, or last month, Brooke could see trying to encourage his hope of recovering his life. Or helping him achieve his goal. Or at least staying the hell out of his way while he attempted to do so. But a millennium had passed—wasn’t there some kind of statute of limitations on upholding the cause of the wronged? Because she could see no way of doing so without causing a hell of a lot more wrongs.
And then there was the line of the code she usually liked, the mission statement of her Handcastings business and her life in general: To hold the Gift is to comfort the mind and spirit, and to heal both heart and body.
How could Aidan be comforted or healed from what had been done to him? All that pain and anger needed to be lanced and drained like an infected wound. Not only did she not know how, but the subject also had to be willing. In her favor, she’d somehow snatched him from a possibly fatal battle with a faery lord, brought him here, and returned his human body to him—but was that enough to satisfy the Code?
And was it enough to satisfy her? Brooke couldn’t escape the fact that she cared. She cared a lot, and she couldn’t pretend it was just because she felt sorry for the guy, or because he was not just hot but “hawt,” as some of her girlfriends would put it. And it wasn’t because he had kissed her senseless either. Although that was pretty unforgettable in and of itself, there was more to it than just two bodies responding to some (amazing) stimuli.
No, there had been connection where none should exist at all. She’d never seen this guy in her whole life, yet there had been recognition at some level so deep she couldn’t even name it. Then there was the magic thing. She felt it in him every time they came in contact with each other, yet he seemed completely unaware of it. He certainly didn’t use it.
None of it made a single lick of sense.
She hoped he was okay. Aidan was out there in an unfamiliar world without a single dollar in his pocket, a piece of ID, or even the jacket that Olivia had loaned him. Had he slept on a park bench? Been mugged on a street corner? Gotten picked up for vagrancy? No, scratch that, she thought. Given his current temper, he was much more likely to be arrested for getting into a fight. She’d even thought about following him last night, making sure he was all right. Considered at least scrying in her mirror to check on him, but common sense prevented her. Aidan was a grown man, an intelligent and independent one. Even in the modern world, he didn’t need or want a babysitter. Maybe there were no cars when he was a blacksmith, but if he’d operated as Death’s messenger over the past thousand years, he’d certainly seen them. And hopefully knew enough not to walk in front of one…
Besides, Aidan was unlikely to welcome her concern, especially after the things she’d just said to him. And if he slept outside? Got cold and hungry? Well, those were just the natural consequences of staying out all night. Welcome back to mortality.
All things considered, there was probably a good chance she’d never see Aidan again and wouldn’t have to fret about him any further…but it was far from being a relief. Dear goddess, she was going to worry about this man for a very long time to come.
Brooke opened the door to her apartment and groaned aloud as she was immediately assaulted by the high-voltage color of her once-calming spell room. She’d deliberately avoided looking up while in her open-ceilinged living quarters, but there was no hiding from the taxicab yellow of the enormous room now. And the morning sun reflecting off the vivid walls did not improve them in the least. Cupping her hands around her eyes like binoculars, she looked straight ahead until she an
d the cats made it through the oak door that led to the stairwell.
Whew. Feeling like her nerves had just been run through a blender, she gripped the handrail and trudged down the wooden stairs as the cats galloped noisily ahead of her. She definitely didn’t have their energy today, but she would order in a breakfast sandwich from the café down the street, and that would help. Olivia would likely stop by for coffee sometime this morning too, and Brooke was hoping George would follow his usual routine—spend three hours at the gym and then take over one of the booths to work on his sketches. She wanted to thank them both again for yesterday. Because of their hard work, today would be a normal day.
Speaking of normal, four appointments were on her calendar, including Mrs. McCardie (and her Chihuahua, Mr. Socks, of course). Brooke would have to remember to keep an eye on Rory, in case he got carried away again and started stalking the little old dog. And there was still a box of tarot decks to be unpacked and added to her display, plus a shipment of new books should be arriving today.
All normal, all good, she told herself. Brooke raised the blind on the glass door of Handcastings, removed the CLOSED FOR REPAIRS sign she’d taped there yesterday, turned the knob of the lock—
And Aidan was there.
FIFTEEN
Mouthing the words to the song on his MP3 player, George slammed the door of his locker at White Wolf Mixed Martial Arts and snapped the combo lock. He’d worked out for two hours until he felt the pump, the blood rushing into his muscles, then he’d gone a few rounds in the octagon with his buddies in the same weight class. He’d won all his bouts, as he usually did, and he was feeling damn good. Maybe he hadn’t been able to take down Aidan, but George was still king of the cage here on his own turf. Which just went to prove his personal theory that some kind of magic had been protecting the big guy from the full effects of the Santiago-Callahan treatment.