High Voltage (Fever #10)(36)
I dreamed of the night, years ago, when Mac came to the abbey, insisting she hadn’t meant to stab the sidhe-seer who’d attacked her but the spear was in her hand, and the woman lunged and they’d met in lethal fashion. When she moved through the cluster of women and hugged me, I could feel her, smell the scent of shampoo on her hair. Life is an unavoidable accumulation of transgressions. None of us are exempt. Let them go and work harder to make miracles, she whispered against my ear, kissed my hair and vanished.
I dreamed my left forearm sprouted darkly beautiful obsidian thorns, so many it became a black-studded opera glove, lethal to the touch. Then it spread, consuming me, and I became lethal to touch. Isolated by my own skin, never again to be held or hugged or permitted any physical contact at all.
I dreamed the beast in my bed licked my shoulder, the nape of my neck. That might have been real. I didn’t feel teeth so I didn’t worry about it.
I dreamed Ryodan was bending over me, etching symbols on my forehead, my cheeks, my chest, murmuring, Ground zero, woman. Let it go, let it go. See only beauty. Know only joy.
Then I dreamed the infinite, dazzling nightscape I’d traveled when I embraced the power inside me.
Nebula-stained, nova-kissed, I drifted, eyes wide with awe and wonder, among the stars.
A dark divine intervention, you are a shining light
KAT SIPPED HER TEA as she waited for the others to join her in the parlor.
The Pheasant Room was one of her favorites at the abbey, furnished with lovely century-old black and cream velvet sofas, white ottomans embroidered with black Celtic knot patterns, gleaming black side tables, and curio cabinets of zebra ebony. Faded gray and ivory Persian rugs covered the floors. Burgundy pillows and throws dotted the chairs.
But it was the south wall of floor-to-ceiling windows opening onto the meditation garden that made the expansive room one of her favorites.
The room had drawn its name from the silk wall covering of tan and gray pheasants on an ivory background that stretched from wainscoting to acanthus-embellished crown molding. In Rowena’s day the heavy, dark, dusty drapes had been eternally drawn, protecting (or hiding as she’d hidden everything of value) their cherished heritage from the sun and prying eyes.
No more. Both the sun and the lovely, illuminating rays of the moon would, by God, shine in this abbey, if Kat herself had to shred every bloody drape in the place. There would be no darkness, no secrets within these walls.
Well, perhaps a few.
Sean had found a man who could do a paternity test once the child was born. How he’d located him, she had no idea. Those with medical training of any kind were in high demand and short supply.
Kat had been heavy with child at the time. You think I’ve been unfaithful, she’d said. She had. Not willingly, but she had.
Have you? he countered. We were taking precautions.
Indeed, they were, unready to bring a child into an uncertain world.
Do you love me? she asked quietly.
Och, and you know I do. Whatever, wherever, I am, it’s you, always and only.
Then how could it matter, if I pledge my fidelity to you for the rest of our lives?
Are you willing to, Kat?
Aye.
He’d been an Unseelie prince by then, wings forming on that dark, beautiful back she so adored running her hands down.
He’d been half mad at times, from pain, tortured by fear that the twisted magic of the Unseelie had selected him because he, like all the Black Irish O’Bannions, was deeply, irrevocably flawed.
Still, she’d have chosen him. Her childhood confidant, her lover, her soul mate.
Jealousy, a twisted emotion she’d never felt in her sweet Sean, had thundered so violently in his heart, it terrified her. This wasn’t her best friend, the man she knew nearly as well as she knew herself.
He’d said, I can’t accept that. I need to know.
What difference could it make? she’d said wearily. Would you be asking me to give up the child if it’s not yours? Do you think we can just send it back? Is that what you want of me? It’s my child, too. Either he could love them both or he couldn’t. By then a mother’s love had awakened, fierce and protective. She could feel the life within her, tiny and lovely. She’d already resolved her struggle. If the child were Cruce’s there were two options: kill it—which was no option at all; or give it away—which was no option at all. It was half of her, and if the worst were true, the child could have no mother better than Kat. Another woman would have no idea what she was raising. Her only choice was to trust in the power of love.
A love Sean clearly didn’t feel. She hadn’t seen him for over two years. She ached to see him. She struggled to not think about him, to not think about many things.
“Evening, Kat,” Enyo said, dropping down in a tufted chair next to her. Kicking her legs over the side, the tawny-skinned soldier nudged the butt of her gun, tucked in a hip holster, to keep it from digging into her ribs, and slid her automatic, suspended by a band across her chest, over the arm of the chair. Dagger hilts gleamed, tucked into her boots. Enyo was a crack shot, sniper or close-range, responsible for training all the women at the abbey that wanted to learn. None were pressured. Still, all eventually came.
“Good evening, Enyo,” Kat replied with a smile that wasn’t returned, but Enyo rarely smiled. Energy thrummed beneath her skin, intelligence flashed in her dark eyes. Though Kat would never voice them—it wasn’t her place—she knew some of the woman’s secrets. They were painful and had made her the hardened warrior she was. Born inside a military tank under heavy fire, war was where Enyo Luna thrived.