by Cate Tiernan
Incy thought I was nuts, living there—he had the biggest room at the hotel right down the beach, where he could order room service and get drinks at his reserved lounge chair.
But I loved my hut. Living there was like a fantasy, like a dream.
Incy had already had enough. He’d only stayed this long because I wouldn’t leave. After the fifties and sixties, where I’d lived kind of big lives in the middle of society, I’d needed a break. I hadn’t even aged and killed off my Hope Rinaldi self of the sixties—just had her disappear.
“Miss me? I doubt it,” said Incy, pulling a big yellow hibiscus off a tree by the side of the road. He started shredding it with his fingers, leaving bright yellow shards of flower behind him like songbird feathers.
“Incy, of course I missed you.” I linked my free arm through his. “I just got lazy and preoccupied, that’s all. But now you’re back! What say we celebrate at the Blue Dolphin?” Which was a semifancy restaurant at one of the diving resorts. “Just let me dump this stuff and change. I want to hear all about London, everything you did, everyone you saw, every bit of gossip.” In truth, I would have loved to go back to my hut, sort my finds, light a lantern when it got dark, and maybe eat some fish and rice when I got hungry. But this was Incy, and I’d hurt his feelings, and it would be good for me to get out and mingle.
“Are you sure you’re not too busy?” A bit snidely.
“How could I be too busy for someone in a gorgeous suit like this?” I gestured to his blue linen. “You got that on Savile Row. I’m thinking… Josiah Underwood?” I named a bespoke tailor whom I remembered Incy liking.
Incy grinned at me, and I relaxed. “Good eye,” he said. “How long will it take you to get ready?”
“Two minutes,” I promised. And so we went to dinner at the Blue Dolphin, and Incy told me everything he had done, and how much he had missed me, and how I needed to come next time, and so on. It was just—the rest of the world seemed so bleak right then. Vietnam, and the recession, and petrol prices. After the joyous, shocking creativity and bursting life of the sixties, the seventies seemed like a cheap movie, grinding down. I wanted to be away from it.
On Moorea the only constraint I had was Incy, but he was also my only friend, the only person who really knew me, and for the most part he was fun and funny and my main source of excitement. While he occasionally needed extra tending, there was no suggestion, back then, that he would ever become the monster who had killed two people in front of me just months ago. Or that I would, on an otherwise ordinary day, open a box to find his head inside.
I came out of my reverie to find myself shivering on a bench in the barn. Moorea seemed so, so long ago. Sea Caraway had been calm and content, and tan—basically the opposite of me now. I breathed out heavily, wishing I could inhale wild salt air instead of this warm, horse- and hay-scented stillness.
Oh, Innocencio. He’d been so full of life. That’s such a cliché, but it was true. Somehow Incy had managed to pack lots of extra living into this one life. My chest ached. I got up, feeling every one of my 459 years, and mindlessly climbed the ladder into the hayloft.
It was dark up there and warmer than below. Bales of Timothy hay were stacked up neatly. The piles were getting low—soon the horses and cows would be eating regular grass, outside. In the meantime, there was enough loose hay to mound into a nest and flop down into.
Innocencio was dead. Every nerve I had was raw, and I cursed myself for not snagging a bottle of wine on my way out of the house. Something stronger would have been even better. Maybe I should go to town and—
I didn’t want to go to town. But I didn’t want to feel this, to know this. I wanted to be able to pretend that Incy was fine, not formerly a homicidal maniac and then dead. Actually dead. My brain kept shoving that information away, as if it was too big to get through the info ports.
We had gone through a lot together. And even after Boston, that horror, I’d still been able to look back and remember good times with him. Or at least better times.
When we were in Tahiti, he’d made me tie him to a big palm tree on the beach so he could experience a hurricane to the utmost. The wind and rain had lashed him for hours. He’d been scratched, bruised, and exhausted afterward. And exhilarated. Thrilled.
During Prohibition we’d been in a speakeasy in Chicago. I was wearing a gorgeous bias-cut gown by Vionnet. The place got raided, not by cops, but by gangsters stealing the already stolen liquor. There was shooting, bullets piercing wooden benches, making plaster chips fly. Incy and I had to duck under a table and crawl beneath an acre of benches and tables to reach the hidden trapdoor that not many people knew about. I’d been so furious about ruining my dress, but Innocencio had been laughing, excited. “This will be such a good story!” he whispered. I cut my knee on broken glass and swore.
We’d had lovely meals together, been in jail together, and went through the worst storm ever on a cruise ship off the coast of Australia. I was with him on safari when he accidentally shot himself in the foot. He’d been on crutches for a month. I teased him about it for twenty years.
He’d been with me in India when the train we were on crashed. Almost everyone in the first three cars had died. And yes, I took rings off fingers, wallets from jackets. I don’t know what I was thinking—that person, Britta, seems foreign to me now. But at the time it was like, Oh, I can have more. More jewels, more gold, more whatever. Incy had made fun of me, poor little rich girl. But he hadn’t stopped me. He accepted just about everything I did.
The hay tickled my neck as I blinked away tears. I didn’t want to cry about this. I’d cried so much here in the last five months. When would I be cried out?
But it was, like, poor Incy. He’d laughed, partied, done more than anyone I knew. Grabbed every situation and wrung the life out of it. Had he ever been happy? Had anything ever been enough?
Since I got back from Boston, I’d been looking over my shoulder. I’d been saying ward-evil spells all day long. I was scared of him. Especially after he’d disappeared from Louisette’s and we thought he’d killed her. Which maybe he had, still. I’d been so afraid that he was going to come for me again, that he would truly never let me go. Now he was dead, and I never had to fear him again. He existed nowhere, not on another continent, in another country, town. He existed no more, forever.
The tears began running then, leaking out of my eyes and trailing down the sides of my face. I turned onto my side and curled up, wishing I had brought a pillow.
Incy was dead, and I would never, ever see him again, see him smile, laugh. I would never feel his arms around me, smell the distinctive Italian cologne he always wore. I cried, feeling disloyal because I was relieved—not only because I no longer had to fear Evil Incy, but also because I would never again have to endure the weight of Lovely Incy, always there, always in my life, always by my side. It had been exhausting and stifling at the same time as fun and exciting. My whole life felt lighter with the sure knowledge that he would never be back, never need me again. That felt terrible; despite the unforgivable crimes he’d committed in Boston, my relief still felt like a betrayal.
This wasn’t one of those gasping, almost barfing, wretched sobbings that feels like it’s being ripped up from your stomach. This was quieter, a deep sadness that colored my soul blue. And unlike other crying jags, when it feels like time has stopped, I was aware of each passing minute, and every minute took me further away from him. Both good and bad.
Something cold and wet touched my forehead, and I gasped, my eyes flying open. A white face, broader now across the cheekbones, lacking the snub nose of a very young puppy, leaned over me.
“You’ve got to quit climbing ladders, girl,” I told Dúfa brokenly. “It’s just so weird.”
She bent down and licked the tears off my cheeks. My first thought was, Ew, and then I realized her soft tongue felt comforting, and then I thought, Ew that I’d even thought that.
Reyn’s tall figure blocked the faint light fr
om the bare bulb at the end of the barn.
“I just heard,” Reyn said. “Figured you’d be here.” He nudged Dúfa closer. She licked my face one last time, then settled down next to me, her narrow spine pressing against my stomach. It felt comforting, like a furry hot-water bottle. I patted her tummy, and she squirmed closer to me. Then Reyn lay down in back of me, draping one arm over me. We were like a nautilus, with larger curves moving down to smallest.
It felt so good. My eyes were wide open—this felt so good, which meant it would feel so bad when I didn’t have it. Which meant I should ditch it now, before I get used to it, so I can avoid the whole pain thing.
I lay there stiffly, imagining a future with no Reyn. I knew the day would come when we no longer had Dúfa, and that thought alone was awful. But no Reyn? Would there ever really not be a Reyn? Like there was no Incy now?
I swallowed, feeling how stuffed up my nose was. “At least now I don’t have to worry about my sword skills.”
“There will always be someone else,” Reyn said quietly against my hair. “You will continue your sword lessons.”
Yes, my life would continue even with no Incy anywhere in the world. It was bizarre.
“I’m so glad he’s dead, that son of a bitch, after what he did,” I said, tears leaking down onto Dúfa’s white fur. “Bastard!”
“I know.” Reyn’s hand rubbed my stomach the way I had rubbed Dúfa’s.
“I’m going to miss him so much.” My voice broke, and I started crying in earnest. “I loved him so much.”
“I know, sweetie. I know.” He held me while I cried, rubbing my arm, my side, smoothing my hair. His gentle fingers picked hay off my sweater and then trailed lightly along my cheekbone. Every once in a while he reached farther and petted Dúfa, too, who sighed in her sleep, her little side moving up and down. Reyn was so solid, so warm, his arms protecting the two of us.
Eventually I was achy all over from crying. Reyn hadn’t said anything in a long time. Carefully I sat up and looked over at him. He was dozing, still and silent even in sleep, the way raiders were. I’d never seen him asleep before, and I could take my time examining him without feeling the laser-sharp gaze of those golden eyes looking back at me.
God, he was beautiful. In a completely different way than Innocencio. He was colored like wheat and sun and mead, his skin a light tan like smooth deer hide. With his eyes shut, his cheekbones were more obvious, the symmetry of their planes ending at his strong nose. It had been broken enough times to have a bit of a bump on one side. His hair, thick and sun-shot, with the slightest wave to it, had fallen over his forehead.
The hand I held was wide and big, with calluses arcing across his palm right below his fingers. I wished I knew so much more about him. I would have liked to have seen him in other eras, other clothes, other occupations.
Or maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe he’d been awful. I had been.
I sighed and raked my fingers through my hair, combing out bits of hay. This man had seen me at my worst, lookswise, clotheswise. Did he care? Would he like it if I got all spiffed up? He probably wouldn’t care.
I nudged off my clogs and lay down again, draping his arm over me as I faced him. Resting my head on his shoulder, I felt drained. Again and again I had a quick flash of Incy’s face, and I flinched every time. I was so tired. I closed my eyes.
When I woke up it was raining, a brisk spring rain hitting the roof directly over my head.
Reyn was looking down at me; we were tangled together warmly, snuggled into the hay. Dúfa had moved and was now sleeping right where the roof met the loft a few feet away.
Incy. It all came back to me. Oh my God. I put my hand over my mouth, feeling an aching throb in my chest: the knowledge that Incy was dead.
Reyn looked at me solemnly. “You sure do like haylofts.”
“I do seem to be strongly drawn to haylofts.” My chest was still tight with pain, but I was distracted by Reyn pushing one knee between mine. “Maybe because I lived on so many farms? Did you have a house like that, the barn animals downstairs and the people upstairs?”
“I was never a farmer.” He started kissing my hair, my forehead. “I lived in tents, like yurts. I never stayed in one place long enough to have a house.”
Wiggling closer to him, I pushed one hand under his sweater, feeling the smooth softness of the worn flannel shirt against his back.
“I’m practicing staying in one place.” His voice was a murmur against my cheek, a vibration against my chest. When he finally kissed my mouth, it was a relief and a refuge from the terrible images burned into my mind.
Our kisses ignited, as always, like lightning striking a tree: suddenly explosive and white-hot and charged with electricity. His fingers ran over me, creating trails of heat and skimming the scarf around my neck. Without a word he started to unwind it, and reflexively I grabbed it with both hands.
“I’ve seen the scar.” His voice was very quiet. “I have one just like it.”
Slowly I brought my hands down. Keeping his eyes on mine, he took my scarf off and set it close by.
I unbuttoned his shirt, spreading it open and sliding it off his shoulders. When I saw the scar burned into his chest, I kissed it as if I could make it disappear. A little sound from deep in his throat sent a shiver through me, and I smiled. I felt powerful, strong, able to make Reyn tremble and breathe fast. Those high cheekbones were flushed and his amber eyes glittered with intent as he pushed my shirt up, and my plain men’s wifebeater beneath it. Then we were skin on skin, burning hot, holding each other and kissing. The rain drummed on the roof over our heads, and it felt private and safe.
Oh, yes. Yes, at last, after so long.
I reached for him, my fingers clutching his arms as if he could save me from a flood. He grabbed my jeans at the waist and pulled, and I felt the warm, scratchy hay against my legs.
Impatiently he shrugged his shirt off, and I sat up and pulled him down on top of me, my hands sliding over his smooth skin as if he were polished stone heated from the sun. Our mouths were so hungry—I’d never wanted to kiss anyone like this, never wanted to be as close as possible, never held anyone so tightly.
When he moved down to kiss my stomach, my breasts, the skin at the edge of my boring underwear—that was when I felt the first icicle of alarm forming in my chest. Had I really thought this through?
What was I doing? What would he expect of me after this? Would he think he owned me? Expect me to be all lovey-dovey, all wrapped up in him? I had no idea. I mean, I wanted him. But for good? I didn’t know, and right now didn’t much care—it felt too wonderful.
It took only a few seconds for him to realize something had changed, to stop what he was doing and look up at my face.
“What’s wrong?” His voice was raspy; he was breathing hard.
“What? Nothing. Come here.” I closed my eyes and reached for him, trying to shut down all thought. When he resisted, I looked up at him.
“Lilja, what’s wrong?” His voice was a bit sharper.
“Nothing! Come on, it was just getting interesting.” I gave a flirty smile, one from an arsenal I hadn’t opened in a century.
He moved back, sitting on his heels in the hay, looking at me. Awkwardly I pulled my shirt down with a couple of hard yanks.
“What’s your problem?” I was starting to feel embarrassed.
He shook his head slowly, thinking. “I thought we were on the same page. But… Lilja—” He pushed his hair off his forehead with an abrupt gesture. He was still breathing hard. Still looked magnificent. “Do you want me?”
My head came up. “Yes,” I said with complete sincerity.
“Do you love me?”
My mouth dropped open. We had never, ever talked about love. He was changing the rules on me, right here. “What are you talking about?”
“I love you.” He looked very calm, considering the terrifying words he was recklessly flinging around.
I gasped. With no warning, Incy’s voice
was in my head: No one will ever love you the way I do.
“What?” I asked Reyn, appalled.
His face shut down, and he reached for his shirt, thrown over a bale of hay. He pulled it on with quick, efficient movements, and it was painful to not be able to see his chest anymore.
“What do you want from me?” I demanded, winding my scarf around my neck. “I mean, I’m offering to go to bed with you here! Not to brag, but a lot of guys would be happy with that and not ask for more.”
Anger lit his eyes as he did up his pants. “I’m not a lot of guys.” The words were ground out between clenched teeth.
“Look,” I said, getting to my feet and pulling on my pants. “Why do you have to bring love into it? You know I… trust you. I want you. Why do you have to push the other thing?”
He sneered at me. “Because two out of three ain’t bad?”
My hand raked more hay out of my hair. “Look—I’m just not good at the girlfriend thing. I’m sorry, but I’m not. I wish I was. Wish I could give you what you want. But I know me. I will betray you. I will leave you. I will screw you over. I always do.”
“Well, now I feel special.” His voice had a particular bleakness, a coldness that made me want to cry again.
It hurt to glance at him, just for a split second. “You are special. You’ve gotten this far, which is a lot further than anyone else has gotten in more than a hundred years. And I do care about you.”
When Reyn stood, he seemed to loom over me. His face was tight, his fists clenched, but I would never be afraid of him again. I knew he would never hurt me.
“You are so full of shit.” He was trying to control his voice. “You are such a fucking coward.”
“How am I a coward? I’m willing to go to bed with a northern raider!”
He gave me a furious look.
“Why can’t we just have sex and be done with it?” I demanded. “Why does it have to be anything more? You know how much it hurts to lose something! You know how devastating it is to lose someone you lo—”