The Darkness in Dreams (Enforcer's Legacy, #1)(104)
Both had retreated to the hidden compound out of necessity, arriving together in the middle of the night. Their world had grown dangerous and their refuge was a lodge, with eight separate cabins, set in the middle of twenty thousand acres of privately owned forest land, surrounded by the largest wilderness area in Oregon. It was private and very secure. Access was by plane or by foot and monitored by the kind of security no one mentioned in public.
From satellites, the compound appeared quite ordinary, in deference to Google Earth technology. If anyone looked carefully they would notice a few outbuildings. Further investigation would link to a professional website, where it would be revealed that the lodge was offered for private and very exclusive retreats aimed at executives struggling with team-building fatigue. Unfortunately, reservations were booked out two years in advance and the lodge didn’t operate in the winter.
What was known about the compound remained minimal. But what was known about the battle was more extensive. Details were revealed by the participants, each to their own supporters and with some bewilderment on the part of one.
It seemed the opening skirmish had been an observation, made quite innocently in the enforcer’s opinion. The girl had countered the attack—which she considered underhanded and betraying their earlier peace accords—and said something along the lines of “Do not call me stupid.” Her finger had been shaking in the air, the enforcer recalled, and she’d been dancing backward in a movement he recognized quite vividly as the opening shot in her traditional tactics.
He had battled those tactics before and rarely won. But on this occasion the enforcer fought back, his mouth dropping open before asking, “Did that word come out of my mouth?”
To which she had answered, rather archly, he thought, “You said I couldn’t boil water, Christan, and in this century, it means you think I’m stupid.”
That was the point when Christan had crossed his arms and widened his stance and the battle went off the rails. He told her rather emphatically that if she’d paid attention to his instruction she could have boiled the water by lighting the stove with her telekinetic abilities, which he was trying to teach her if she’d bother to listen to him once in a while. Plates were thrown. Tears were shed and doors slammed. The peace accords went downhill from there.
In fairness to the participants there were extenuating circumstances. The woman was newly immortal but still thought like a human. The enforcer understood she was vulnerable, wanting only to protect her. She still moved like a wild creature, with the lithe grace he remembered from the first life when they met, when she’d been Gaia of the earth.
There were other lifetimes, when the woman had been known by the immortal G names, which she now rejected. She loved to say it with fire in her eyes; “I am me now!” But who she was, and had always been, remained etched in the tattoos that curled across the enforcer’s chest and down his left arm. Some of them throbbed as he’d watched her, his body growing hard with need.
He had tipped his head and studied her, he recalled later. Noticed that she trembled. She’d always been fine-boned, but there were new shadows beneath her eyes, an expression of exhaustion. She hadn’t been sleeping because of the dreams. He knew, because she still let him share her bed. He knew when she cried. When he needed to wrap his arms around her slim body to keep her calm. Some dreams were of past life memories, working to the surface. Other dreams were torture, implanted by their enemy to force the memories. The worst dreams came from six months ago, when they’d traveled to Italy. Dreams of a moon-lit road where she faced a truth about herself in a past life that nearly destroyed them.
He’d told her many times that she didn’t deserve the guilt. They’d both been sinners. Through some miracle they’d found their way back and received absolution in each other’s arms. But she had trouble believing him and he understood why. There were still secrets between them. She made a choice out of fear and blind faith, thinking she was saving his life. She performed a blood bond, a bond with magic that was transformative. It had transformed him into a weapon he didn’t want to be, and it had transformed her, too. The enforcer knew what she wanted, to feel normal again. Mortal again. But her life would never be the same.
She’d been so fierce, his warrior girl, fighting by his side. Now that fierceness was not with him but against him, and the consequences to her could be severe.
“Are you even trying to teach me?” she had demanded halfway through the battle, the accuracy of her accusation nearly forcing his retreat. Frustration had roared through him then. He was Three’s master of war, the goddamned origin myth for the most feared creature in the ancient world. And he couldn’t make her understand.
He had frowned, thought about it, and recalled saying, “I’ve never had to teach someone before. It’s just something I know how to do.”
It was a weak explanation and they both knew it. There were tears in her eyes, causing a stabbing guilt. He could be a royal bastard when he wanted, and—apparently—even when he wasn’t trying.
Later, Christan had explained his confusion to Marge—the one woman who knew Lexi the best. She’d been both friend and therapist, and now extended that role to include Christan. So he told her how out of control he felt. How Lexi could be arguing about one thing and mean something different until every word he said felt like quicksand. It was the day Marge had been listening sympathetically to his side of the current battle. Then she heard the details and like any true diplomat, she switched sides. A battle against the Calata would have been preferable at that point.