by Sadie Moss
“Thank you,” I murmur.
His hand stays where it is, and now his chest does brush against my back as he takes a half-step closer. “Of course. We… care about your existence here. I do not want it to be one of struggle and pain. You’ve had enough of that.”
There’s pity in his voice, but it’s not the kind that makes me squirm uncomfortably. It’s the kind that eases some of the pressure in my chest and makes me relax into his touch, leaning against him.
We’re so very close, and he smells so good. Whatever he’s been chopping for the sauce clings to his hands, the aroma of fresh-cut herbs mixing with his own heady, masculine scent.
What would happen if I turned around? It would take less than a step to bring us face-to-face, chest to chest. I want that. I want to see his eyes, to read the emotions dancing through his bright blue irises.
But before I can do something wild and reckless, Paris steps back, leaving my skin feeling cold and bereft without the warmth of his pressed against it.
“Dinner first, little soul. We’ll start your training tomorrow.”
He crosses back over to his saucepan, and after a moment, I resume rolling and shaping the pasta. We work in silence for a while, and I find myself humming along as Paris whistles a sweet tune while he cooks. By the time I finish making noodles, he’s tossed together a salad and finished his sauce. As the noodles cook, he tasks me with smothering slices of thick, crusty bread in butter and garlic, which I then pop into the oven to bake.
He lifts his wooden spoon from the sauce. “Here. Taste.”
I do, and the explosion of cheese, butter, and delicious spices is enough to make me groan. “That’s delicious.”
He grins, seeming pleased by my compliment. He watches me lick the corners of my lips with a hungry expression on his face, then he samples the sauce himself, nodding in satisfaction.
“Go fetch my brothers for dinner, will you?” he asks. “They’re outside.”
I dust off my hands and remove my apron before leaving the kitchen and heading toward the back of the house. I’m sad to step out of the little bubble we created as we cooked. I felt like myself in the kitchen, and it’s the first time that’s happened since I arrived here.
The sun is dipping over the horizon as I pause at the threshold to the backyard. A slant of golden light falls into the courtyard just over the edge of the high stone fence that surrounds the space, casting a surreal glow over the yard’s occupants.
Callum has his arm around Echo’s neck, muscles bulging. They’re both shirtless, sweat glistening on their bodies. Echo rocks forward, throwing the other man over his shoulders, then stands back, fists at the ready. Where Callum is thick and muscular, Echo is lithe and strong, his torso perfectly defined and his skin tinted with olive.
I stare, fascinated as Callum counterattacks. His every move is calculated and measured, as if he’s one step ahead of Echo.
They’re both powerful.
And beautiful.
So inhumanly beautiful that my soul aches at the sight of them.
Callum blocks a punch effortlessly and raises his fist to retaliate. Then he suddenly stiffens. He turns and glares at me, even though I didn’t make a move or sound to interrupt their sparring session.
Echo uses Callum’s distraction to his advantage. He sweeps a leg behind his friend’s calves and the bigger man drops like a rock, dirt billowing up beneath him as he hits the ground.
The victor of the match wipes his hands dramatically and grins at me. The look is so infectious that I can’t help but smile back.
“Dinner’s ready,” I tell him, and he gives me a nod before leaning down to help Callum to his feet.
Paris has already brought out the food by the time we return, and before long, we’re all settled in at the table with plates of delicious food and goblets of wine.
In a startling contrast to the lavishness of our surroundings, Callum and Echo are still shirtless and dirty from the yard. They almost seem to glow from within, as if sparring in the sunshine recharged them. But I’m pretty sure it’s just in my head, something to do with the pieces of my soul that rest inside them picking up on their emotions. They’re both content. Callum isn’t even glowering.
Or… they could actually be glowing because they aren’t human.
“If I may ask—what are you?” I glance around the table tentatively. “I’m guessing you’re not human.”
Callum sets his goblet down with a thud, his expression hardening again. “That’s none of your concern.”
“Be easy, brother,” Echo says, rolling his eyes. “It’s not as if she asked for all our most depraved secrets.”
“Though we do have plenty of those,” Paris teases with a sly wink.
I blush furiously, holding up both hands in protest. “No depraved secrets, please. I don’t think I could handle it.”
“We’re messengers for Kaius.” Echo grabs the bottle and refills my wine glass as he speaks. “We exist to serve him, and we do whatever he asks of us. We are warriors and emissaries, guards and attendants. We aren’t human, nor were we ever human. Somewhere in between, really.”
I blink, my gaze flitting around the table. That’s the most information any of them has ever given me at one time, and although I always suspected as much, given the incredible amount of power that radiates from these men, it’s still a bit of a shock to hear it.
They’re not human.
But then again, I realize with a start… I’m no longer human either.
Several hours after the house has quieted down for the night, when I’m certain all the other occupants are sleeping, I sit cross legged on the bed in my room and close my eyes, searching for the hum of the weave the way Callum had me doing in the back courtyard earlier.
It feels less daunting now to just reach up and pluck at the strings, and I think I’m unconsciously coming to recognize the feel of the magic. But just like with the apple, I’m not entirely certain how to make the weave do what I want it to do. Even after Echo instructed me to wrap the thread around the apple, I wasn’t able to pick the fruit up.
But Violet said it’s possible for messengers to use magic to contact the human realm, and I’m determined to find out if I can achieve the same result.
I’m not really sure what makes me think I can make the weave do my bidding now when I couldn’t before, except for the fact that I’m more motivated to see my family than I was to play with apples.
Blowing a strand of hair out of my face, I consider what I know about the afterworld. It’s another world that exists alongside the human realm, so in theory, I should be able to reach through the veil that separates the two realms using magic. If I can just get through the barrier, I can see my family.
Grasping the first thread I encounter, I try to use it like a dagger to slice the barrier open. I feel the magic respond, a burst of energy rushing through me as if I’ve been struck by a bolt of lightning.
For a brief moment, I think I’ve got it. The spell is going to work, and I’ll be able to see my village, to check on my family—
But then I’m unceremoniously thrown from the bed, and all the blankets rush past me going the other way.
My head hits the floor with a solid thunk. I grunt in pain as breath whooshes from my lungs. The blankets from the bed have risen to the ceiling and are plastered there, edges flapping like some kind of strange birds.
Echo appears in the doorway like a ghost. It’s just him this time, thank Zelus. “Sage! Are you all right?”
I look up at him, very aware that I’m sprawled on the floor, my feet still on the bed and my nightdress revealing my bare legs—but luckily nothing higher. Even still, as he rushes to help me up, I see the way his dark brown eyes travel the length of my bare skin, pupils dilating. It raises an answering fire in me, heating my entire body.
I find my balance with Echo’s help, and he motions to the mass of bedclothes on the ceiling. “Nightmares again?”
I glance up—the blanke
ts make no move to fall back to earth. “Yes. It was an accident, like last night,” I agree, thankful he’s given me an excuse so I don’t have to come up with a plausible lie through the fuzziness my fall left me in.
Echo reaches up and gently begins pulling the sheets down with his own magic, then helps me put the blankets back on my bed where they belong.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” I say as he joins me at the foot of the bed.
Shirtless but clean now, and with his black hair mussed from sleep, Echo is ruggedly handsome. My fingertips ache to trace the lines and contours of his muscled frame, and I curl my hands into loose fists to keep my body from acting of its own accord. It would be so easy to place my hands on his chest and guide him back to my bed. His skin would feel satiny and warm beneath my palm, his body hard against mine. From the soft look on his face, I think he would even let me.
But I won’t.
I can’t.
Some primal instinct toward self-preservation warns me to keep a wall around my heart. These men already each carry a piece of my soul. If I give more of myself to them, I could risk losing everything.
“It’s all right. I’m just glad you weren’t hurt.” Echo touches my chin, his thumb lingering on my skin as he catches my eye. “Don’t worry. It will get easier. My brothers and I will help you learn how to control your magic and function in our world. You’ll figure it out.”
I’m enthralled by him, by the way the dim light in the room falls across his face and the way his smile transforms him from something broody and dark into a sweet, playful man. His touch amplifies the tie between us, sparking whatever magic exists in the place where he holds a piece of my soul.
I want to throw my arms around him and feel his lips against mine, as if the only way to reunite with my soul is to be with Echo.
When he releases me and disappears into the dark hallway, he takes some of my heartbeat with him.
14
The next morning, I’m barely given time to eat breakfast before Echo drags me to the back courtyard to begin our promised training sessions.
“You realize I’m not awake enough for this?” I ask him, rubbing my eyes to emphasize my point. The sun seems entirely too bright after the blessedly dark dining room, and I have to squint against its piercing rays. “This is going to be a disaster.”
Echo laughs and takes both of my shoulders, forcing me to look into his eyes. “It isn’t going to be a disaster, little soul. And if it is? Well, I’ll fix it.”
A groan falls from me. “I don’t want to be a disaster you have to ‘fix.’”
I expect him to laugh, but instead, his usually lighthearted expression grows grave. He walks me backward, gently guiding me over the sparse grass to the center of the courtyard.
“You aren’t the disaster, Sage. Stop thinking like that.” He stops my momentum, but leaves his hands on my shoulders, his thumbs rubbing small circles over my skin. It’s a tiny motion, but it makes my breath catch. “You accidentally ended up in this realm as a lost soul. We found you. Kaius bound you to us. Perhaps something about the way you were bonded to us opened the weave to you. Or perhaps you connected to the weave when you landed in the Unclaimed Expanse after death. Regardless, none of that was within your control. Do you understand?”
I nod.
One corner of his mouth twitches. “But do you believe me?”
That’s a harder question to answer. It’s one thing to know I’ve been thrust into circumstances beyond my control, but something entirely different to accept that I can’t control everything. That there’s no reason to feel ashamed of my lack of magical prowess.
But with this striking man gazing into my eyes, his expression warm and open, I feel seen for the first time since coming here. And I do believe him.
I dip my head in another nod, and the smile that’s been threatening blooms across Echo’s face.
“Good. So now, as a result of all that, we just have to help you get a handle on your power. Humans generally don’t have access to the weave, so I think it’s safe for me to assume you’ve never used magic before?”
“You assume correctly.”
“Then don’t be so hard on yourself.” Echo finally releases my shoulders and shrugs lightly. “How are you supposed to know how to use something you’ve never before had access to?”
“I’ve been saying that for the past two days,” I point out. “Yet all three of you seem to think I should have miraculously known how to lift that farsing apple.”
He blinks at me for a moment, seeming taken aback by my words. Then he tilts his head back and laughs. The sound is joyful and masculine, and it falls into my ears like the sweetest music. I don’t even know why he’s so amused, but I find myself smiling along with him anyway.
Still chuckling, he shakes his head. “You’ll have to bear with my brothers and me, Sage. We’ve been together for so long that we’re unused to having someone in our midst who is new to all of this. We will forget from time to time that you’re still finding your way.”
He reaches out to take my hand this time, and the feel of his fingers against mine draws me a step closer to him. I can’t help it.
“When we forget, remind us,” he murmurs. Then he grins again. “You can remind Callum with a swift kick to the backside if you like.”
I laugh. “Gladly.”
In all truth, Callum is so much bigger and stronger than I am that it would be nearly impossible. But the visual brings me a great deal of satisfaction.
Echo must read the expression on my face, or else he can sense my emotions through the bond, because he cocks an eyebrow. “You’re a vicious little thing. I like that.” Then he dips his chin. “All right, do me a favor and close your eyes.”
I take a deep breath and obey, staring intently at the swirling dark behind my eyelids. I’m highly aware of Echo’s presence only inches away. I can feel the warmth emanating from his tanned skin, his fingers threaded through mine, his breath ghosting over my face. His sweet plum and clove scent seeps into my nostrils with every breath, delectable enough to make my mouth water.
“First of all,” he says quietly, “I want you to stop thinking of the weave as an entity separate from you. It’s time to start seeing the weave as an extension of your own body.”
I open my eyes and frown at him. “But it is separate from me.”
Echo taps my nose with the pointer finger of his free hand. “Wrong, little soul. It’s not. I think perhaps that’s where your struggle is coming from. You think you’re using a tool from some kind of universal toolbox, but you aren’t. You’re a part of the weave now. In using it, you’re using you.”
My brows scrunch together. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
Echo glances around the yard, then snaps his fingers as he finds what he’s looking for. He tightens his hold on my hand and tugs me over to a small garden near the wall that borders the courtyard, then dramatically indicates a flowering bush, as if it holds the secrets of the universe.
I blow a lock of hair out of my eyes and cross my arms, although I instantly regret pulling my hand from his. “What does a rhododendron bush have to do with the weave?”
“Oh. Is that what this is? Huh.” Echo rubs his chin as he regards the plant, then his face lights up again. “The bush has roots.”
“All plants have roots. It’s what makes them plants,” I say dryly.
The ebony-haired messenger ignores my sarcasm. He must be getting used to it by now. “The roots connect to a trunk, and the trunk connects to branches, and the branches grow leaves and flowers. Follow me?”
“I’m following your botany lesson,” I say, amused by his earnestness even though I have no idea where he’s going with this.
“You are the trunk.” He puts both hands on my waist, and I jump at the familiarity of his grip. “The weave is the leaves and flowers. They grow from your fingertips. You just have to see them there as part of you.”
He keeps his grip on my waist and walks me backward
a little until we’ve returned to the center of the courtyard. The fabric of my dress separates us, but I can still feel the pressure of each finger as he holds me steady, and I’m torn between wishing he would let go and wishing he would move his hands higher—touch more of me. I’ll never be able to focus on the weave with my blood slowly heating in my veins like this.
But Echo does release me, stepping back and crossing his arms to watch me intently as I try to do as he instructed.
A rhododendron bush. I’m a rhododendron bush.
I try to imagine it, giving myself leaves and branches and roots in my mind’s eye, grinning slightly at the image. Granted, there are worse things I could be, but Echo’s analogy still tickles me.
“Close your eyes,” the messenger says firmly. “Remember, don’t see the threads as separate from you. You’re reaching for yourself.”
I listen for the now-familiar hum and zero in on it, then tentatively reach above me. The threads are there, just as they have been every time I’ve tried to work with them, but nothing is different. They still feel separate from me.
Taking a step back, I move my arm to another area. For the few seconds I’m moving, the threads begin to disappear—not because they’re not there anymore, but because I’m moving.
Huh. Interesting.
I whirl around, eyes still closed and hands in the air. The weave is everywhere, all around me, and when I turn quickly, I can almost blur the lines until they feel like they’re a part of me. In that instant, I understand exactly what Echo’s trying to teach me.
“I need to move!” I tell him, my eyes popping open with my excitement.
“What do you mean?”
“Your analogy was almost perfect. But I’m not like a plant—not rooted in the ground. I’m like a cloud, or a gust of wind. When I move, I can see myself as part of the weave.”