What would Draven and I be doing if we were finished with all of this? He’d follow me downstairs where maybe we’d cook breakfast together before going to work—or school. No, I want a lazy Sunday where we don’t have to go anywhere or do anything.
We’d curl up together on a couch—or maybe we’d have one of those closed-in porches with all the windows instead, the kind that we don’t have here because that would be tougher to protect. Maybe we’d have a couch on a goddamn open porch where we could sit under a blanket and read our books. Just touching and being together without having to be so hyper-focused on the real world and all the dangers in it.
Sounds like a little piece of heaven.
I head for the kitchen.
Ashria and Kaya are there with two people who must be the cooperative Fae soldiers. Ibor's sitting at the table, has black hair, blue eyes, and the same dusky skin Draven has. He's twenty-three with the haunted expression of one who's lived longer. Misty's wary green eyes are striking with her flawless ebony skin, and her gaze is on me as soon as I cross the threshold. She's perched on a stool, looking like she might fly into pieces at the first loud noise. Nineteen years old. What kind of childhood did they have?
Or rather, didn't they have.
Ashria stands. “We'd best prepare for our meeting with Brannon. Skortia?”
Skortia leaves with Ashria, and I see what she did there. Leaving the kids to get acquainted while the grown-ups are gone. Kaya’s wry expression shows me he knows the score.
I shrug and grab a mug from the cupboard. “Anyone need a refill?”
Misty looks at Ibor, who nods and stands. “Yes, thank you.” He brings me their cups.
“You sit. I'll get these.”
He does. Ibor's much smaller than he looked when sitting. His arms made him seem larger, but like Misty, on closer inspection, they're all muscle and no fat like pet wolves that have been kept hungry in someone’s backyard. Of course they have been.
Ibor’s story punches me in the heart again. Those bastards stole children, starved their bellies, and fed their minds lies.
“What do you take in your coffees?” I force a smile.
“Milk, please. And sugar, if you don’t mind,” he adds almost sheepishly.
I pour in generous amounts of sugar and cream. Screw milk, they need the fat.
“Kaya?” I swirl the coffee pot gently.
“I'm good, thanks.”
I set their coffees in front of them and rummage in the pantry looking for breakfast.
Someone's gone and left some pastries all by themselves. They'll get lonely sitting on the shelf like that. We'd better eat them. I place them on a plate and bring it to the table. Coffee and flaky pastries inspire trust, right? It's always worked for me—maybe I’ve got low standards.
I sit across from our visitors, mirroring Misty's body language: one heel on the seat, hand resting on my knee. My posture's more relaxed and open; mirroring someone's body language can put them at ease. Ibor appears to be the leader, but it's Misty's trust I've got to earn to get them on our side. She defers to Ibor, almost painfully uncertain in a way that makes it important to me to put her at ease.
Misty's hand twitches toward the plate when I push the pastries toward them, but she pauses and looks at Ibor.
Grabbing a pastry, I take a bite, showing by example that they are safe to eat and that we're eating together—something enemies don't typically do. Ibor nods and waits for Misty to grab the flaky goodness before taking one for himself. Working on my own breakfast, I wait until they've both finished eating and have made their way through half of their coffees, wanting to let the cream and raspberry filling work their magic. Hopefully the calories they’re not used to having will lull them partway into a food coma, rendering them open to my questions.
If only I had an idea what to ask. I want them to be comfortable around me. If someone started interrogating me right off the bat, I wouldn't be comfortable or want to confide in them. What would I want if I were them?
I'd want to talk to someone who knew how I felt. I'd want them to know the things I’d gone through and to know that it was intense and awful but it had been my life. I'd need them to take charge in a gentle way because everything I knew had been turned on its head and it would take some integrating—just like Tipper did for me. The truth is a lot to take in—even more so when you’ve grown up believing in a vastly different version.
We've got that in common. Maybe I'll start with that. “My name is Syxx. I want you to know that I’m glad you’re here and this is a safe place. You're protected.”
Ibor cups his hands around his mug. “We appreciate the kindness you've shown us.”
“Of course.”
Misty crosses her arms. “We were told that you would torture and kill us after getting all the information you could out of us. I still have trouble believing you won't.”
“Misty.” Ibor frowns.
“It's true. You know it.”
“I understand.” I cut their disagreement off before it grows into something more volatile.
“How can you?” Misty’s eyes flash at me. “You were raised with family, with love, knowing the truth about who you are. And you expect us to just, what? Celebrate our freedom? Everything about our lives has changed, you can’t understand that.”
I keep my voice gentle. “I can't for a moment pretend that I understand what it was like for you growing up the way you did. My upbringing was laughably easier than yours, though it probably wasn't much warmer when it came to maternal love.”
“Your mother is with you still.”
“Ashria is my mother, yes, but I only met her a few weeks ago and didn't even know I was Fae. I had no idea what was happening. I thought I was human and then all of a sudden I could fly and will things into being and grant wishes. The woman I'd thought was my mother...wasn't. There's still so much I don't know about my world. I'm completely new at this, learning new things every day. Things that if I'd been raised Fae, I'd have known about. My life, my whole life was revealed to be a lie, razed to the ground. I thought I was having some kind of hallucination or breakdown and I didn't know what to do.” Misty and Ibor don't speak, but the guarded expressions have left their faces, replaced by interest. “Luckily I came across a friendly Fae, a Leprechaun named Tipper.” For a moment I’m lost in the memory of Tipper's twinkling blue eyes and gravelly laugh.
Misty clears her throat. “Where is he now? I haven't met him.”
“He died at The Sowing, saving us from a Warlock's spell.”
Kaya’s hand rests on my shoulder, and I place a hand on top of it, giving and getting support. Even as new a friend as he is, I’m grateful for his sensitivity and compassion. A band of sorrow compresses my lungs at the thought of my Leprechaun friend.
“Why would someone try to kill you?” Misty frowns. “You're Fae. And a powerful one, too. Moondreamers aren't common or weak. You are very valuable.”
“She was a huge target,” Kaya says. “As a Moondreamer, never mind being Ashria's daughter, that would have been bad enough. But she was there to free everyone.”
“From what?” Ibor asks.
“The Sowing.” I fiddle with my cup, still thinking about Tipper. “And The Reaping ceremonies. Were you there, Kaya?”
He shakes his head. “One of the perks of being in my family—though now I know why. I’ve made it a sort of mission to learn as much about our people as I can. Besides, my parents had a huge library, and I didn’t get out much as a kid. I’m a bit of an historian.”
“The Sowings are for our good, looked upon with much joy and celebration. There is honor in...” Ibor's voice trails off. “Though I suppose that was a lie as well.”
“There was no joy in it.” I grimace. “They were all glamoured, wills bent under powerful spells so they complied with the Council's will. I was one of the few able to block it, but even feeling it for a moment was indescribably awful.”
“Why would they have to glamour you, if
it...oh.” Misty’s eyes brighten with unshed tears. She blinks them back and savagely bites into a fresh pastry, making it look like an act of defiance.
“I had to come to terms with not just my own life being nothing like I'd thought it was, but the entire world. Magic had always been a story. Wishful thinking, if you'll pardon the expression. My mother—Ashria's told you more about The Sowing and Reaping and your role in that?” Ibor nods and I continue. “No one has all the answers, and things are still up in the air. I think the idea of encouraging Fae numbers to increase is a good thing, but it has to be consensual. That’s not the point—while I had it easier than you, I understand having absolutely everything change on you in the blink of an eye. I'm still dealing with it. Then again, it’s only been a few weeks. It’s still fresh for me too.”
“And what do you do? How do you deal with it all?” Ibor glances subtly at Misty.
“I have something to fight for. Fae and humans. The world isn't either one's alone. Both are amazing and both have their faults. And I have Draven. My pair-bonded mate.”
Ibor’s rigid on his chair. “What does pair-bonded mean?”
Kaya smiles. “Pair-bonding happens when you meet your perfect complement in another body. Your soulmate. The person who doesn't complete you, yet makes you a stronger, better version of yourself.”
Misty and Ibor reach for one another's hands at the same time.
I smile. “Pair-bonds are strengthened, forged through body, mind, soul, and phrase. If Draven and I said our phrase, to you we’d be speaking gibberish, but to us the words mean something. They are in another language, humans know it as—”
“Esperanto,” Ibor breathes.
“I looked it up when the words came to us.” Misty shines a look of love at Ibor so intensely it's a wonder she doesn't glow in the dark when he's around. “It took trial and error with the spelling, but...” She speaks meaningless gibberish. He kisses her hand and replies with the same nonsense.
“You've pair-bonded?” A grin slides over my face. I’ve never met another pair-bonded couple. Tipper and Aine were, though she was cruelly murdered long before I met Tipper.
Misty nods. “It wasn't encouraged within our ranks, and it was rare, but they told us it meant that we weren't working hard enough. That it was a bad thing, evil. We were taught not to ever put anything above the High Council and our orders. We, all of us, were given a pet one time. They asked us what we'd want most in the world. Dogs, cats, birds. I chose a cat, Ibor chose a dog. We raised our pets for two years. And then,” she chokes on her words as a sob bursts from her throat with the intensity of a bullet.
I want to go to her, take her in my arms and shield her from the pain, even though that won't help. She needs to let it out. If she doesn't get it out, it would be like putting a clean bandage on a festering sore. She needs to clear it out before we dress her wounds and start the healing process.
Ibor takes her hand. “And then, we had to kill our pets.”
I grit my teeth. “That's so fucked up.”
“They told us to remember the pain. To understand that we were never to put anything above the High Fae Council or to ever care about anything more than we cared about our mission.” Misty's silent sobs make her body convulse with the force of them. Ibor pulls her to his chest and continues. “But they couldn't kill us. They took everything else from us, but they never killed the way we feel for each other.” Misty heaves in deep breaths, body starting to relax as Ibor strokes her back. “This pair-bonding. We didn't know what it was, we only knew it wasn't the way they said it was. It was good, and right, and pure and made us better. We had nothing, but we had each other, which meant we had everything.”
I hand Misty a tissue and she blows her nose. “We went along with it because it was all we knew, all we'd known. We'd longed to escape. All we wanted was to be together and the freedom to be able to be alone to live our lives without interference.”
“Guess we can move you two into the same bedroom then?” Kaya quips.
I can't help it—I laugh. “Maybe soundproof the walls.”
Ibor blushes to the tips of his ears and laughs just as loudly as Misty does. The sadness and tension go from an eleven to a four. The smiles look good on them.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The front door slams shut and heavy steps come toward the kitchen. Misty and Ibor get quiet again, and Misty’s gaze flies to the sword by the door, finding potential weapons without making a move for them until she knows what’s going on—or maybe she’s reluctant to leave Ibor’s side.
Sakarias lumbers into the kitchen with a triumphant grin on his face.
I know he wants me to ask, so I should make him prance around until he gets impatient. Unfortunately, I have to know. “What?”
Draven comes in next and grabs me in a tight hug, swinging me around. “Vi Tiri kaj mi tenas.”
“La fajra danco subtenas nin.” A rush of power and love surge through me. “How did it go?”
He smiles at Sakarias, who grabs a bottle of orange juice from the fridge and gulps it down, raising his eyebrows, milking the moment.
I’d stamp my foot if it didn’t undermine my maturity. “What did you do?”
“Ashria!” Sakarias thunders at the ceiling. “You'll want to hear this!”
She steps into the room a moment later. “What is it?”
He splays his hands on the table, dramatically leaning forward. “Mission. Accomplished.”
Ashria's eyes widen. “Completely?”
Draven releases me, takes something shiny from his pocket and tosses it in the air, letting it land on the table with a sharp thunk. When it stops spinning around, I realize it's a platinum or silver ring. The split band has a large, stylized J held at the top, bottom, and middle by the three bands. It's large but delicate.
I don't understand the significance.
Ibor shudders. “Jecka's ring?”
“You've got Jecka's ring?” Misty’s voice shakes.
“Yes.” Draven smirks. “I took it from her when I killed her.”
Ibor swallows hard. “You killed Jecka?”
“With a little help from my friend.” He nods at Sakarias and turns back to Ibor. “And who might you be?”
“Ibor and Misty.” I make the introductions. “Members of the Fae army, or former members I guess would be more accurate.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
Sakarias finishes the juice. “Good to meet you. I am Sakarias.”
Ibor’s eyes widen. “Leader of the Selkies?”
“One and the same.” Sakarias holds his hands up as though to halt them. “No need to bow.”
“We learned about all of the most powerful Fae. But to actually meet you.” Ibor shakes his head, seeming a bit star-struck.
Looks like somebody's got a fan.
Sometimes I forget who Sakarias really is. He's a leader, a real king, and one of the best warriors I've ever known. But beneath the gentle teasing and our easy banter, I forget how grand he is to other people. To me he's just one of my best friends. Maybe he finds my irreverence endearing and refreshing. I’m certainly never going to bow to anyone.
Misty's gaze hasn't left the ring. High-pitched giggles sound from her throat as she slams her fist to the table, laughter turned to anger. The ring bounces in the air, and she starts cackling again.
Is she losing it? I look at Draven and shrug. His head shake is barely perceptible.
“Ibor?” I flick my gaze to Misty.
Ibor looks to Draven. “I...you can't even imagine the relief. She's really dead?”
Draven inclines his head. “Her sheer arrogance was her downfall. Sakarias’ team has been following her for weeks. Skortia’s team got you here while they stayed on Jecka. I joined them last night, we got her alone, she and I fought. I won.”
Sakarias smiles. “She didn't think she could die, right up until Draven’s blade cut through her last breath.”
Relief that they did it and are actually okay
makes me want to sink to my knees and thank every deity out there, but the fight’s not over yet and something’s up with Misty and Ibor. Jecka was evil, but we’re missing something. This is excruciatingly personal to Misty. “Misty? What's—I mean it's a great victory for us in the Resistance, but you've only just joined our side.” It might be too soon to make that assumption. “What did Jecka do to you?”
She rises gracefully from her chair. “Stand up, Ibor.” His face falls and shame transforms his features so he looks like a little boy, insecure and small. “It's okay. They need to know. They need to understand.”
He gets up and she strips off his t-shirt. When his hands reflexively move to cover himself, she gently guides them back down to his sides so we can see what he wants to hide. His gaze never leaves the floor.
Strange markings, puffy scars, most old and faded to white—some angry red still—decorate his torso. There are a few crusty scabs, fresh marks. Misty turns him around. The marks cover his back as well as his ribs, nestled on his hips and up into the sensitive skin of his sides and armpits. The scars are all the same shape and there must be hundreds, maybe thousands of them.
I shake my head. What battle caused marks like this?
Misty picks up Jecka’s ring and places it against one of the marks. It fits perfectly and Ibor flinches. Misty’s face is tight with rage. “You see, Jecka took a liking to Ibor when he was a little boy. She liked to play with him—from the time he was about seven years old. He was told it was a great honor for one of the High Council to single him out for attention. That he didn't deserve it. That he should be grateful for it.”
Disgust at Jecka curdles the pastry into a hard ball in my stomach. All of those backwards J's and ropey bands of her ring. Thousands of atrocities committed against him.
Ibor finds his voice. “After she would...after we'd...after, she would heat her ring and brand me and forbade anyone to treat the wounds. She said no one would ever want me; that I was ugly on the inside and she was just making my outside match my inside. That I belonged to her, she'd marked me as her own, and that through her attention, maybe one day I’d be made worthy of being a soldier. These were the marks of her love. It was a test to see if I was worthy of her love. No one was allowed to heal the burns, so they scarred.”
The Reaping (The Moondreamer Chronicles Book 2) Page 12