Jo watched in silence as the darkest sadness she'd ever beheld came over his features. She couldn't imagine what he'd been through.
It's not real, Jo. He's not real. This is just a dream.
What if it's not?
Yeah right, she sounded as crazy as the rest of her idiot family. Yet ... this felt real. It sounded real and there was no way to deny how he'd tasted.
No dream had ever felt like this. Solid and complex. She could even smell the ashes in the hearth.
Reaching out, she brushed her hand against the coarse wool of his monkish robe. The rough fibers scraped her skin and she felt the texture of the chain mail he wore beneath it.
This was reality.
Somehow.
But one thing made her leery of fully accepting it. "If you've been here for a thousand years, how do you understand me?"
He snorted as a glimmer of amusement returned to his eyes. "I don't, most of the time. Much of what you say is half soaked. But as to why I know this version of English, I can hear your world while I rustle about near the borders. Not to mention, I was born with an innate ability to pick up languages rapt fast."
"Really?"
He nodded as the hopeless sadness returned to his entire demeanor. "We need to be getting you on to yours, lass. Now, in a minute. But there's a fright bit of madness about. Best to wait till morning for it."
"Wow. It's like trying to decipher Shakespeare or Chaucer."
Tilting his head, he frowned at her. "Beg pardon?"
"You know? The famous writers?"
"You mean a scrivener?" He held his left hand up as if he was writing on something.
"Yeah. My bad. You totally predate them, don't you? And have no idea what I'm talking about. Jeez, what don't you predate?" Then she had another thought. Unlike her cousins, she wasn't a historian of any kind. Really didn't have much of a handle on any kind of historical timeline. "So were you a Crusader knight or something?"
"I'm not quite certain what you're asking me, lass."
"Your clothes and armor. Were you a monk? Knight? Sword boy?"
"I was a knight."
"To King Edward ... no, wait, you hate the English. King of Wales? Not that I know the names of any, but king of Wales?"
He shook his head as he went to pull out a chair and cushion for her. Now that she looked about, she realized it was the only chair he had. "Would you care to sit a bit?"
"Where are you sitting?"
"Floor be good enough for the sorry likes of me."
"Your ... hobbit hole. I feel bad taking the only chair."
Removing his sword and hanging it next to his cloak, Cadegan shrugged. "Suit yourself, then." He moved to sit on the floor with his back to the wall. He stretched one insanely long leg out and bent the other.
Since he wasn't using it, Jo took the chair after all. "So what do you do for fun here?"
"I don't understand your question."
"Fun. You know, that thing you enjoy doing?"
He frowned at her. "There is no fun here. Only survival."
"Yeah, but when you're holed up, like now. What do you do to pass the time?"
"Ah. Play tafl, cross, and disiau."
She loved listening to his speech and thick accent, but dang, it was giving her a migraine as she tried to make sense of it. "Really feel like we need a translator."
He laughed before he pushed himself up and moved to the small table where an old box was set. He pulled out a smaller box and a worn leather pouch. Jo peeked over his shoulder to see what else the larger box contained. It had hand-carved pieces similar to chessmen. And now that she was paying attention, she realized the entire table was grooved and gridded like a board for chess or checkers, with a beautiful Celtic design over it.
Without comment, Cadegan opened the small box that had wooden pieces marked with Roman numerals. The pouch contained a set of wooden dice that he handed to her.
She fingered them, amazed at their quality and age. "How long have you had these?"
"Brother Eurig made them for me when I was a nibbler ... a lad."
"Brother Eurig? Was he a priest?"
"Monk."
Gaping, she cradled the worn dice in her hand as she struggled with reality again. "These are almost a thousand years old?"
"Thirteen hundred, more like. I was born in the year of Our Lord a score and seven hundred."
"720?"
He nodded.
"How old were you when he gave these to you?"
"Eight or so."
No flippin' way. She stared at the dice in awe, until his age dawned on her. "Wait ... that means you were put here when you were what? Three hundred years old?"
"Aye. Thereabouts."
Trepidation filled her at that newest disclosure. This can't be good. People didn't live that long.
Not naturally.
She scowled at him. "Are you a vampire?"
"You've baffled me again, lass."
"What are you?"
Cadegan stepped back at the sudden fear he saw in her dark brown eyes. A panicked expression that hit him like a blow to his gut. It was ever the same. Everyone feared him. They always had. Even when he'd been a mere lad, the monks and priests had known he wasn't quite human and had treated him accordingly--like excrement that was best buried before it tainted those around it. But it'd been so long since he was around another that he'd forgotten how much it hurt to be so rejected.
"You are an abomination to God! A cursed bastard! Unfit to be with your betters."
He winced mentally at the memory of his commander. He'd sworn to himself that he'd never again be so stupid. So desperate. That under no circumstance would he allow another into his world or heart.
It just wasn't worth the pain that invariably followed.
Though it wasn't in him while in a fight or battle, he knew it would be best to withdraw from this conflict before she attacked him. No good could come of it. Besides, he was used to solitude. There was no need in learning better now.
"Stay in safety, lass. I shall return come morning and show you the way home." He used his powers to pull his cloak and sword to him, and quickly left what little cwtch he had, taking only a brief pause to ensure she was secured inside so that nothing could reach her.
In the bleak darkness outside, he stood with his hand on the stone he used for a doorway, and sighed as old memories ripped through him. Only then, it'd been a petite blonde who'd stared up at him in terror as enemies had ransacked her home and conquered her people.
They would have slaughtered her and her family, too. But like a fool, he'd risked his own life to save theirs.
He rubbed at the scar on his chest and pushed the thought away. Like AEthla, the past was long gone.
There was nothing to be done about it, for sure. He'd made his thorny bed. And now he knew there would never be a reprieve for the useless likes of him. This was his eternal reality.
Bitter isolation and the harshest survival.
So be it.
But as he turned to walk through the twisted, gnarled forest where his enemies waited to battle him, he remembered the taste of a warm kiss from Jo, and the sensation of a soft hand in his.
You could keep her here.
There was no way for her to cross over without his assistance. She'd never make it back to the portal on her own.
But as he heard the shrill banshee cries and the sound of night predators searching for blood, he knew he couldn't do that to another.
He wasn't his brother.
And unlike him, she'd done nothing wrong. She'd said it herself. She didn't deserve to be sentenced to this hell.
Wishing himself mortal for the millionth time this day alone, Cadegan transformed to a small blackbird and flew to nest in a tree for the night.
*
With a heavy sigh, Jo returned the dice to the leather pouch and tucked them and the small box back into the larger one where Cadegan kept them stored. Her heart lurched at his paltry entertainment.
As she closed the lid, she scowled at the sight of a bright red spot on top of the wood. It was fresh blood. Glancing around, she saw more spattered drops and a few smears, and realized that Cadegan must have been injured in his fight while he protected her.
Why hadn't he said anything about it?
And as she stood there, she saw images in her mind of Cadegan alone at the table, playing against his own shadow, for hours on end, as he faced the sparse earthen wall.
Night after night.
How did he stand it? The solitude alone had to be excruciating. No music. No TV.
No conversation.
In fact, she was able to search his entire place completely in less than half an hour. It was the tiniest of homes.
His cupboard held some dried meat and fruit. A few onions, small bowls of dried leeks and barley. Flagon of wine and mead. His old-styled pots were as meager and bare as the furnishings. A few skins on the floor.
Damn.
After climbing the narrow wooden ladder, she stood in the small loft and stared at the twin-sized pallet that said he didn't entertain others in his bed. Ever. She was actually surprised the tiny thing fit him alone.
The thin mattress was made of straw and covered with a clean, worn linen bedsheet and furs. There was a larger old-fashioned trunk set next to it that contained another black robe like the one he'd worn, along with a leather-wrapped kit for mending his chain mail. A needle and thread. Two white linen tunics and three wool breeches. Three pairs of scratchy wool socks.
Dang, his life sucked. She'd never again complain about hers. It might have moments of supreme misery, but she always had her family around to make her laugh no matter how bad she felt.
Sitting on the bed, she heard a slight rattle. She glanced at the post and found an old wooden rosary, of all things, hung there.
"Guess you can't be a vampire and sleep with that."
As she leaned back against the headboard, she realized that it was an ancient shield of some sort. Celtic in design, yet she'd always assumed they used small round shields, like the ones hanging in his walls. This one reminded her more of a long Roman type. And it appeared to be made of solid gold.
"Shiny," she breathed, running her hand over the ornate engraving on its surface. In addition to the traditional Celtic scrollwork were harps and cauldrons. In the center circle was the image of an oak tree with what appeared to be ruby apples hanging from its branches.
It was the only thing of true value that he owned, and it seemed oddly out of place. And unlike the other weapons, this one didn't have a ding or scratch on it. It was as pristine as the day it'd been created.
Yeah, okay, in a hobbit hole of oddities, this was the strangest of all.
And none of it gave her the slightest hint as to what kind of creature Cadegan might be. Assuming this was real and not a coma or dream. What kind of creature lived for hundreds of years and didn't age? Carried a rosary, ate food, lacked fangs ...
None of it made sense.
For the first time in her life, she wished she'd paid more attention to her family's insanity and interests. Those loons could probably not only read the rune writing on his stuff, but they'd know exactly who and what he was. Someone in her family had probably even written a book on his breed.
She pulled the rosary from the bedpost and wove it around her fingers. On the back of the cross, worn Latin words were etched. Pax Vobiscum.... Peace be with you.
Yeah, that was strangely fitting for the quiet man who'd fought off her attackers with terrifying skill and ease. There was a peace to him that went against the violence she knew him capable of.
In that moment, she regretted chasing him away. But then that was what she did. Every man she'd ever been with had hit the door running. Some even screaming as they went.
Especially Barry.
In his defense, she'd been throwing flaming objects at him as she chased him out of her house. But that was another story.
Yet the saddest part? She didn't really miss her ex-husband. How could anyone be married for five years, after dating for two, and not cry over a divorce? She'd screamed plenty. Had even allowed Selena and Tabitha to make Voodoo dolls of him. And Karma to curse his penis.
But no tears. Not a single one.
What saddened her was the empty house. The vacant areas where his stuff had once been stored. She missed having a body around, especially at night.
I'm broken.
That was why she loved her dogs so much. They didn't judge her and find her lacking. They never criticized. Rather, they loved her, even when she wasn't worthy of it.
Of course, they'd love anyone with the opposable thumbs required to open and dispense Alpo and Kibbles.
Yeah. Not wanting to think about the truth in that, she moved back to the tiny washstand that stood beside his chest and washed her makeup off. With nothing else to do, she went to bed and hoped that in the morning, she'd wake up in her own world.
But sleep didn't come as she lay nestled in furs that held the rich, masculine scent of the most enigmatic creature she'd ever met. It made her wonder where he was sleeping tonight. Surely he wasn't out there with those creatures.
Was he?
Why do you care?
Jo glanced around the stark, torchlit room and wondered how many countless nights Cadegan had lain here. In solitary agony. And in that moment, she realized why she cared.
No one deserved this.
"Cadegan?" she whispered. "If you can hear me, I'm sorry if I hurt you. And if you can hear me, can you come back? I hate to be alone. Please, don't leave me like this."
A tear slid from the corner of her eye as the harshest reality of all bit her. Because she had such a humongous family, she'd never spent five minutes alone. It was the reason she had three dogs.
Her hell was isolation. She couldn't stand this feeling of being alone, with no one around.
As she wept silently, the shield began to glow and hum. Jo lifted her head to frown at it.
What the...?
Deep in the gold, a blurry male face glimmered.
4
Terrified, Jo pushed herself away from the shield as the face became more defined and clear.
"Jo?"
She froze as she saw Cadegan's image there, staring at her. "What the hell? Cade, we really need to chat about the size of your iPhone, buddy. Are you overcompensating for something? Hmmm?"
The baffled expression on his face said that he was completely clueless.
She smiled at him. "Sorry. We use iPhones to chat with images like this. But they're only this big." She held her hand up to illustrate the size of it.
"Oh. I'd pondered that word before." He paused. "Have you a need, lass?"
She nodded before she could stop herself. "Can you come back here?"
Adorably sheepish, he materialized beside the bed. With a stern scowl, he brushed a knuckle against her wet cheek. "Are you injured?"
Jo took his hand in hers and held on tight as she pressed it against her cheek. "I don't like to be alone. I know it's weird at my age, but there you have it."
He offered her a kind smile. "It's not off. I more than ken your sadness at it."
Of course he did. He knew the misery much better than she did.
Dropping her gaze to his other hand, she finally saw the blood that was drying there. "You're hurt?"
Nonchalant about it, he shrugged. "A grayling got in a nip earlier."
"Grayling?"
"The knobby creatures what attacked you on your arrival. They be fast. Sometimes even faster than I."
Jo got up and went to the washstand to wet another cloth. "Let me see the wound."
He didn't move. "No worries. It'll heal, now, in a minute."
She wrinkled her nose. "You keep saying that phrase, but it doesn't make any logical sense. Now, in a minute is a serious oxymoron."
He snorted. "Fancy that, will you? Being criticized for me sentence by a woman I only understand every third word of."
Laughing, she tugged at his robe. "Off with it, bunky. I want to check that wound."
Cadegan hesitated before he obeyed. He pulled the robe over his head and folded it, then placed it on top of his holding chest.
She gave him an irritated smirk as she pinched at his mail tunic. "That was rather pointless, huh?"
With a half laugh, he untied then removed his chain mail and padded gambeson before he unlaced and rolled back the sleeve of his undertunic.
"Oh my God, you're like a Russian nesting doll. How many layers are you wearing?"
He shrugged at her shocked, teasing tone. "Just what I've always worn."
Rolling her eyes, she pushed the sleeve back until she had the raw, jagged wound exposed. She cringed at the sight of it. It had to hurt like the dickens. Yet he didn't react to it at all. That more than anything told her how miserable an existence he lived.
Jo hesitated as she saw the true depth of the bite, as well as the number of other scars on his forearm. Claw marks, bites, and other things she couldn't even begin to guess at. His flesh was riddled with them. The strangest, though, were the ones wrapped around his right forearm and fingers that appeared to be row after row of diamond-shaped scars. It reminded her of a press of some sort that had waffled his arm. Had he caught it in a wringer or some such?
She ran her fingers over the odd scarred pattern. "What's this from?"
His cheeks mottled with color before he glanced away. "'Tis naught."
"'Tis something. Why do they embarrass you?"
A tic started in his jaw. "They don't matter." He started to pull away.
Jo held him by her side. "Then why not tell me?"
He fisted his right hand and sighed before he finally gave in. "When I was a lad, Brother Owain used to pinch at the coffers for his gambling. When Father Bryce noticed the missing coin, he blamed me for it, as I was the one Brother Owain said was the last in the room with it all. The scars are left from me hazard over it."
Jo struggled to follow his words and understand the story. "Your brother did this to you?"
"Nay, I was an oblate."
She held his arm as she washed at the clotting blood. "I don't know that word."
"Me mother tossed me to the monks as soon as I was whelped. I was raised in the monastery, destined to take me vows."
Well, that explained the Benedictine robe he wore. "Did you?"
He shook his head. "Right before I was to make them, the king came and took me to battle."
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