Death's Courtship
Page 14
Atticus left her only long enough to retrieve a knife. He sliced through the tape tethering her to the pantry doors and pulled the chair forward so he could get to her hands and ankles.
“Hurry,” she said, and it was as if that single word conjured Mark from thin air.
Suddenly he was in the doorway, gun raised, his shouted “No! I need her with me!” punctuated with the pulling of the trigger, the sharp bark of a fired weapon.
No! screamed through Atticus, his reaction human, too slow to prevent the bullet from slamming into Bryn’s chest, too slow to take the bullet himself and prevent her death.
Grief, horror, shock. They ripped through Atticus, pierced his heart as the bullet had pierced Bryn’s chest.
He looked up in time to see Mark turning the gun on himself, to see his brothers shimmering into view, and then time was frozen, as with a flick of Sammael’s fingers a tiny golden hourglass tumbled to its side on his palm.
Atticus’ spirit parted from human flesh, a severing like that wrought by the scythe though no ghostway opened. He took form, spectral self and physical self standing side by side, twins caught in a frozen tableau.
His first thought was Bryn. She wasn’t dead, not yet. Her soul hung by a sliver, waiting only for a few more heartbeats, a few more breaths before being freed.
Neither was her assailant dead. The gun was pointed at the ceiling, caught in mid-arc on its way to Mark’s temple, his finger still on the trigger.
“We couldn’t interfere before now,” Sammael said, his voice holding regret, apology. He closed the distance between them, pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to Atticus.
Death stood in stark simplicity on the front, dark robed with a scythe in hand, surrounded by the gray of the ghostways. The back of the card held the Oracle of Amun’s symbol.
“You have a choice,” Sammael said. He took a deep breath. “You can claim Bryn now by unfreezing time, allowing this to play out without the additional burden of having been directly responsible for her death as you would have been at the end of your vacation. Or you may remain here with your bride, fully mortal, subject to the same trials and tribulations as they endure, the same frailties brought on by the aging of their bodies, the same pain of loss and loneliness if she dies before you do.”
Atticus glanced down at the card in his hand. Death. It was simple. Elegant. A name and a title he’d once taken refuge in. But now, because of Bryn, he was so much more. Through her he’d experienced humanity in a way that was deeper, more personal than what he’d found between the pages of any book.
I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted any other man, she’d told him as she’d hovered above him while he lay tethered to the bed. You make me glad to be alive.
“And him?” Atticus asked, indicating Mark.
“By the Oracle’s decree, to change what happens to your bride is to change what happens to her suitor,” Sammael said, a hint of amusement lightening his somber eyes. “But I believe you can rely on us to put the fear of Death in him, to scare him straight, so to speak.”
Atticus looked around him at his brothers and felt a swell of love for them. In the span of his brief vacation, his relationship with them had shifted, changed. He no longer saw himself as excluded from their circle by the weight of responsibility, by differences in age and perspective. The potential for companionship, for a friendship found in being equals shone bright on the horizon, and yet to reach for that star, to return to his own world meant Bryn’s mortal life would end.
Bryn. He tucked the oracle’s card into his shirt pocket, finding the choice easy. In the end, he would know mortal death personally, but for now the card would hold a different meaning.
“I’ll remain here,” Atticus said.
With a sudden flare, sunlight streamed into the kitchen and gathered, became an old woman clothed in folds of gold, though Atticus knew the image was an illusion. The Oracle of Amun could appear in an infinite number of forms.
The Oracle lifted her hand and pointed. A ray of sunlight struck Bryn, burned through just enough of the past so that her blouse was no longer saturated with blood, her chest no longer pierced by a bullet.
Then the Oracle turned her attention to Bryn’s suitor, bathed him in a shaft of light so he was no longer frozen into position, though time remained stopped for him. She picked up the small hourglass in Sammael’s hand and with a negligible wave sent him, as well as the other four, to Mark’s side.
“I’ll be monitoring the five of you,” she admonished. “This is the last bit of interference in your brother’s life I’ll tolerate. An occasional visit is acceptable, but there’ll be no flashy manifestations in front of witnesses.”
She turned to Atticus. “You courted your wife when all of your predecessors have simply taken their brides, and now you have given up your own world for hers. Such acts shouldn’t go unacknowledged or unrewarded. What would you have?”
The answer came to Atticus in an instant, along with memories of covering Bryn’s body with his as an ocean breeze scented the air and brought the call of seabirds. “There’s an estate that once belonged to a silent film star named Caroline. That’s what I’d have to start my life with Bryn.”
“So be it. Take her there and wake her with a kiss.”
Then with a flick of her thumb, the Oracle righted the golden hourglass and time resumed.
* * * * *
Bryn woke to the feel of masculine lips against hers and lost herself in the pleasure of Atticus.
His heat warmed her. His body was solid, deliciously heavy, his erection a hard presence at the juncture of her thighs.
Thoughts tried to crowd in, fears and memories, but the rub of his tongue against hers, the press of his cock against her clit kept them at bay.
She needed him, wanted him.
It seemed so natural to cant her hips, to welcome him inside her. Passion flared between them, hot, insistent, and yet his movements were slow, his touch so tender it brought tears to her eyes.
Bryn cried in the aftermath of orgasm, clung to him as her mind cleared only to fill with the fog of confusion.
She recognized her surroundings. Felt alive though her memories insisted she must be dead.
It hadn’t been a dream. She knew that with unshakable certainty.
The visit with Ava. Mark with his gun and his willingness to kill her and then himself.
“Why are we here?” Bryn asked, her heart racing with uncertainty rather than desire.
His smile made her sheath clench and her toes curl. “Because this is our new home.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, her confusion deepening.
Atticus reached for his shirt, retrieved a card from its pocket. Death, stark and unadorned graced it, making her shiver despite the heat of his body.
He kissed her deeply, settled more of his weight on her. “You have nothing to fear, Bryn. This was never your card. It was meant for me. “
“But you’re—”
He stopped her with the touch of his lips to hers.
“Only a man now, Bryn. The one who will love you in life and then afterward, in death.”
Questions crowded in, but they faded in importance against the vulnerability Bryn saw in his face. She brushed her thumb against his lips. “I have it on good authority that we’re already married. A woman does like to be asked, even if she believes the man is her soul mate.”
Joy flashed in his eyes. He leaned down so his mouth was only inches above hers. “Consent to being my wife?”
“I do.”
About the Author
Jory has been writing since childhood and has never outgrown being a daydreamer. When she’s not hunched over her computer, lost in the muse and conjuring up new heroes and heroines, she can usually be found reading, riding her horses, or hiking with her dogs.
Jory welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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