Race the Darkness (Fatal Dreams, #1)(53)

He guided her across to the meadow of his yard to a path between two old trees. Green forest engulfed them the moment they entered. The sound of their feet treading on the moss-covered trail was the only noise. When had he ever heard things so quiet? He hadn’t. Ever. Cemetery Hill rose before them. “It’s only a bit farther, but it’s all up hill. You tell me if you get tired. Okay?” He waited for her to answer, but she didn’t, just kept walking beside him, her eyes straight forward.

Isleen’s breath quickened from the exertion of walking uphill so he wrapped his arm around her waist, holding her tight next to his body, hoping to take some of the effort from her steps. Part of him was tempted to carry her, but maybe the exertion would be good for her and allow her to actually sleep tonight.

The path ended abruptly at the bald hilltop. White slabs of stone jutted out of the earth at crazy angles. The men, women, children, and babies buried underneath those markers were the first settlers of the area. Dad stood at the head of an open grave, staring down into the pit as if he himself were about to be buried alive. Roweena and Matt were together on one side of the grave.

It was no surprise Dad wanted Gale buried on the property. The guy was probably going to erect a tent and live on top of her grave. Even as the thought crossed Xander’s mind, he realized he might do the same thing if the roles had been reversed and something had happened to Isleen.

He led Isleen to the open grave, stopping across from Row and Matt. If ever a coffin could be called beautiful, it was this one. The polished wood had been carved with flowing swirls of flowers and birds. It was ornate enough for royalty, but pretty enough for a princess.

Isleen’s breath caught, and Xander heard her heart banging around inside her chest like it wanted to escape and jump in the grave with Gale. She was seeing this. No more zoned out. He wrapped both arms around her, holding her tight, wishing he had words to make this easier on her, but she had to feel the grief. Needed to feel it in order to heal. She clung to him, twisting his shirt in her grip.

“I’m here,” he whispered against the top of her still-damp head. “I’m with you.”

Dad looked up at them, his face haggard from the destructive power of grief. Only this time, he didn’t look through Xander. For the first time in decades, his gaze remained. Flames of the old rejection and shame heated Xander’s skin and dampened his pits. He slammed a lid on those emotions, shifted his attention from Dad to Isleen, and refused to look at his father. This was about Isleen’s need for closure, not his dad randomly deciding Xander existed.

“I owe you an explanation.” Dad’s words were spoken more calmly than Xander had expected, but then silence followed. Only when it became as uncomfortable as a virulent case of jock itch did Xander finally look at Dad. His father’s eyes softened, his face crumpled, and moisture slicked his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I thought—”

“Dude.” No fucking way was he calling him Dad to his face. “This isn’t about me. It’s about saying good-bye to Gale. It’s about Isleen getting the closure she needs to heal and move on.”

His father’s eyes shifted to Isleen. She still clung to Xander, but her face was aimed at the open grave. He sensed her—the her that had been missing for the past few days—close to the surface, ready to break out of the protective shell she’d formed around herself.

Dad pulled a small leather book from his pocket. The binding was frayed, the leather worn and smudged. “The Legend of Fearless and Bear began three centuries ago. Gale and I both thought their story was our story. We were wrong. Gale left. I let her. Our bond broke. Our story doesn’t have a happy ending.” He held the book to his face and began reading aloud.

A man, different than all others, used to roam this land. A man who was more than man. He carried a bit of spirit inside him. But even that bit of spirit was too great to contain within. Some of it showed on his skin.

The People, suspicious of all things unknown, believed a Bad Spirit had marked him—cursed him—for all to see. For all to avoid. For all to fear. The People believed the Bad Spirit wanted their souls.

So the man lived a solitary, nomadic life, nearly driven mad by isolation. One day a desperate loneliness overtook him. He tried to fight it, but was drawn to a field of women harvesting corn.

The women ran from him screaming.

A maiden stayed behind. Unlike the others, she did not fear him, but walked directly to him. Her face and arms bore the remains of a hundred healing wounds. He held out his hand to her.

She didn’t hesitate, but settled her palm in his. A jolt of fire passed between them, but neither withdrew.

The maiden closed her eyes. “Take my life, and you may have my soul.”

He stared at her, mesmerized by her fearlessness. Why would she want to die?

When death did not claim her, she opened her eyes and pulled her hand from his.

He saw a pain inside her greater than what her body had endured. “Why do you wish to die?” he asked her.

“I possess dream sight. I’ve seen my fate and would rather die than submit. Death would be freedom.”

“Do you not fear me?”

“I fear this life more than you.”

The sounds of many feet running through the forest came to man and maiden.

“Kill me now. I do not wish to survive another sunrise in the village.”