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Winter Rain, part 38

Keaira is running toward the house on the east trail, a hundred feet away, as I step out of the entrance way—a sleek, white and charcoal form I would recognize anywhere. Her long strides are fluid and graceful, two feet striking separately, then two together, as she bounds up the Hill towards the house. It seems an eternity since we’ve run together, since we’ve shared the wind in our faces, since we’ve raced through the forest on the Hill, or near Home; two forms, moving as one, running, jumping, weaving, playing. Together.

My god, how I would join her now—wipe away the last month, wipe away the things I’ve said, the things I’ve done, to push her away—if only I could.

She stops dead as she sees me. Her white tail, high in the air, dips. I imagine I can see her blue eyes, even from here, calm and steady, with just a hint of mischief. Just a tiny hint of its true measure.

But I know it’s just my imagination.

I hear her laughter in my ears. I feel her hand on mine, in mine; her soft breath on my face, in my ear. I feel her head on my side as we lie together—for warmth, for comfort, for each other.

Warmth and tightness—from the memory, and from her presence now. The feel of her soft skin under my hands, against my tongue; or the feel of her supple muscles and warm fur against me. Her presence beside me, under me, on top of me—with me . . . no fear, no shame.

I want to run to her now. If only I weren’t such a miserable coward.

She counts on me, too, I know. To listen, when no one else will. To hear her, to see her, when everyone else sees just a pawn, or a problem. To accept her, for exactly who she is. To want to be with her, and no one else.

She takes a hesitant step towards me. An opening, if I ever saw one. An invitation. A plea.

If only we could go back, if only we could be just friends again. But I don’t think I can. And I don’t think she can, either.

Her father’s right. She deserves better than me. She deserves someone who would choose her, regardless the cost.

And that is something I just can’t do.

I close my eyes, because I can’t watch, because I can’t bear to see her reaction as I mouth the words, the only ones I dare.

“I’m sorry.”

But they’re just words. In the end, they mean nothing. In the end, I’m no better than anyone else, making choices for her that are hers alone to make.

But what else am I supposed to do?

Eyes down, I turn, and walk down the drive to the car.

I hear no sign that she follows.

Winter Rain, part 37

The butler knocks on the door of the den, then leaves me to wait. It’s Keaira’s older brother, Cashel, who opens the door, a few moments later. “Come in”, he says, not even a hint of a smile. His six feet of solid muscle completely fill the doorway, and he steps back only a bit to let me by. I have to squeeze to get around him—which I’m sure is intentional. The door closes, and I can feel him looming behind me, but I don’t turn. It’s a game—it’s his job to intimidate me, to make sure I don’t think to try anything. And I’m intimidated, no doubt about it—he could snap me in half—but there’s no point letting on. Not right now, anyway.

Aiden sits at a low table across the room, lingering over the remains of a late breakfast or an early lunch. He looks up from his paper. “Mmmm, it’s Tiergan, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Sir,” I reply, but remain where I am. I know the drill.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” he says, after a moment.

“Yes, Sir,” I say again, and cross the room, winding my way through the furniture groupings that fill the large space. Cashel’s heavy footsteps follow behind.

As I near him, I realize why he is so universally respected. And feared. He’s barely smaller than his son, despite his extra years, and something about the way he sits, the way he holds his paper—he’s still nothing but muscle. He must have been enormous, in his youth.

He lays his paper down and takes a sip from his mug. Coffee, from the smell. I stop a few feet from him. He looks me up and down, once, then meets my eyes with a hard gaze. Not angry, just . . . unimpressed.

I decide to get the point. “Sir, I am here to—”

“Yes, yes,” he says, and cuts me off with a wave of his hand, “I already know why you’re here. Faolan requested passage for you on the phone this morning. I’d have waived protocol altogether, except that he mentioned it would be you passing through.”

“Sir?”

“You’re friends with my daughter, correct?”

Ah. Of course. I guess I should have realized it would come up. “Yes, Sir,” I answer carefully. I feel Cashel take a half step closer behind me.

A memory of Keaira’s voice surfaces in my mind. If she were here . . . she’d laugh, and tell me I should casually lean back against Cashel and hug him around the shoulders. Maybe look teasingly up into his eyes and call him “lover”.

I almost laugh out loud.

“Something funny?” Aiden asks, unamused.

I shake my head and force myself still. If she were here . . . . I guess that’s not something I need to worry about, any more.

Deep breath. Take your lumps. Arrange passage. Leave quietly.

“No, Sir.”

He looks me up and down again while I stare over his head and through the window, out into the grounds. But there’s too many unhelpful memories there, too. I settle my eyes on a tree and wait.

“I knew your father well,” he says, and I find my eyes on his again. “I had a lot of respect for him. What he did with so little. Even fought me off his territory a few times.

“You don’t look like you could fight off a dog.”

Try me, asshole.

But he likely would. I keep it to myself.

“Pup, I don’t like you. You don’t know your place.”

“Yes, Sir,” I reply, as calmly as I can manage. But I lock eyes with him, and if it kills me, I, will, hold.

“I expect the best for my daughters, and, we both know you’re not it.”

Yeah, well, fuck you, too.

“You’ve been putting bad ideas in Keaira’s head.”

Now that’s off limits.

“Sir, nobody puts ideas in Keaira’s head except Keaira. Which you would know if you’d ever bothered to talk with her. You know, instead of at her.” The words are out of my mouth before I can pull them back. But then, I didn’t really want to pull them back.

He regards me impassively for a moment, but I know I’ve crossed a line. I don’t flinch. And I won’t. I tighten muscles and prepare to be hit.

But it doesn’t come.

“You’re braver than I’ve been told.”

Yeah, well, people underestimate me.

He continues to watch me calmly, but I refuse to relax. I’ve seen how fast Faolan or Cormac can move . . . and I suspect he can move even faster.

“Sir.”

“Forget about my daughter, Tiergan. She’s not for you. Not until you are strong enough to take her from me.”

Like that’s ever going to happen—his implication is clear. It’s time to end this conversation. Now.

“Sir, I don’t think that will be an issue. She ended our relationship yesterday.”

“She did?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Then it’s settled.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You’ll be heading to see Dugan, next. You know the way?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Fine. I’ll call him shortly to vouch for you. There’s two of you, correct?”

“Yes, Sir. Me and Brennan.”

“Faolan tells me you are in charge for this trip.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“From what I’ve heard about you, I would have thought Brennan would be in charge.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He smiles, but I’m beyond caring.

“Okay, Tiergan. Cashel will show you out.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

He nods. I turn and Cashel indicates I should lead. He follows me to the door, opens it for me, then pushes it shut behind.

I look around for something to hit, but there’s nothing convenient. At least, nothing that won’t make a lot of noise. I clench my fist, instead—hard—then release it, stalk to the front door of the house, nod to the guard, and let myself out.

Winter Rain, part 36

The gates are open as we pull up to Aiden’s mansion on The Hill. Brennan stops to let me out, then moves the car into a parking space to wait. I nod to the security guard as he steps out of the booth and approaches.

“Tiergan!” he exclaims and smiles. “Here to see Miss Keaira?”

A flicker of a sad smile crosses my face before I can do anything to stop it. It does seem strange, though—I would have expected the news to be out, already. I wonder why it isn’t.

I shake my head—as much to clear it as to signal my answer—and say, “No. I have business with Aiden, today. He’s expecting me.”

He runs his finger down his clipboard, then nods. “Oh, yes, here it is. You know the way?”

I nod.

“Go on up, then. I’ll let them know you are coming.”

The house is just visible from here, halfway up the Hill, all horizontal lines of stone and wood, nestled amongst casual gardens and mature trees. So many people with their kind of money would have built something to impress, to intimidate visitors. Theirs just ignores them, as if they don’t exist. It’s a private house, built for family. The only people who matter.

And I’m not family.

“Is she here today?” I ask, without looking back to him. I grind my heel into something I can’t be feeling.

“Miss Keaira? Yes, sir,” he replies.

Yeah, well, that was to be expected. Better just deal with it.

I glance over to him—“Thanks, Mick.”—and head up the drive.

Winter Rain, part 35

Chapter 4

“Morning, Faolan,” I say as I step into the den. He glances up from some papers on his desk and motions to a chair—our eyes barely meet before he is back to his work. Whatever happened between us last night seems to have been for one night only.

As expected.

I nod to Brennan by the fire as I sit down. He nods in response and salutes me casually, not even a hint of sarcasm. Wow. I guess he really was impressed. I smile, in spite of myself, but quickly suppress it and look away—back to Faolan.

“Cormac said you wanted to see me?” I ask. Any other day, I’d have waited for him to get around to me, but I’m feeling strangely brave, this morning. Or something.

He ignores me for a few moments more, scrawls a note on one of the papers and looks up.

“Sleep okay?” he asks. His apparent sincerity surprises me, almost enough to tell him the truth, but some deeper instinct jumps up to stop me. He wants strength from me. Anything less will piss him off.

“Yeah,” I say and nod. He watches me closely for a few moments, but I remain impassive. Like I kill people five times a day, and whenever I’m hungry.

“Feeling better about things?” he asks, again, oddly sincere. But that deeper instinct warns me again.

“It’s all good,” I add with a bit of a smirk. “Fucker got what he deserved.”

He watches me for a moment longer, then nods. “I’ve got a job for you,” he says, “you and Brennan.” I glance over to him, but he seems unsurprised. At least some things haven’t changed.

“Do you remember Aunt Aisling?” he asks.

Father’s sister. Carrigan’s mate. I nod.

“I need you to go talk to her, get an audience with Carrigan. He owed Father some favours. Tell him I’m calling them in.”

I blink at him a few times, unsure of what to say. “What specifically do you want me to ask him?” I reply.

He growls. “We’re going to wipe Rian out.

“We get his estate. Our allies can divide up everything else. Business included.”

Fuck. Trust Faolan to go for the throat. Even when he can’t make it.

“You’re aware Carrigan shares borders and a non-aggression treaty with Rian?” I ask. But I keep my opinion to myself.

“He’ll break it for us. He’ll break it for Father’s sake.

“Be sure to tell him about the girl.”

I nod. Because I know it’s a lost cause. Besides, I don’t know for how long my apparent new status will last. Maybe I can come up with something Carrigan will agree to, on the way.

Faolan eyes me for a moment, then glances over to Brennan and says, “Brennan’s your Second.”

“What?!” I hear myself cough. So much for staying cool. I look over to Brennan, but, again, he seems to have expected this. In fact, from his smile, I’d say he’s amused by the idea.

I look back—but Faolan isn’t grinning.

“But why?” I ask, and I know it’s a stupid thing to say, even as I say it.

His voice is low and quiet when he replies: “You’re an adult now, Tiergan. Don’t disappoint me.”

I look over to Brennan again. He’s still smiling. And both of us know that if it comes to it, I can’t take him.

I guess I’m screwed.

“When do we leave?” I ask, and try to smile. This time, it doesn’t work.

“Now,” he replies.

I get up. Brennan follows me out.

Winter Rain, part 34

I feel raw. Empty. Like a fire has raged within, and left nothing but a dead, smoldering husk.

My arm has begun to ache in earnest now: the pain of deep swelling; the promise of more to come. My back, too, where Conlan scraped me. And where I rolled through broken glass. It’s always like this—nothing hurts when I do it. At least, nothing seems to.

Later, it’s a different matter.

I pause on the upper landing. Muffled sounds of Faolan and Cormac talking in the den echo up the stairs from below, but the rest of the house is quiet.

Conlan’s door is ajar; dim yellow light spills out around and under the door. But I’m not up to any more hard conversations tonight. I step as softly as I can into the hall, carefully avoiding the creaky floorboard just to the left of the stairs, and head for my room.

I just want to put this day behind me.

“I would never have called you a coward. Until today.” The growl is quiet, but unmistakable, and Tara steps forward, out of the shadows at the end of the hall. She must have been waiting there a long time.

I fight to keep my eyes open, but it’s a battle I know I can’t win.

“Can we talk about this tomorrow?” I ask. Even I can hear the exhaustion in my voice.

But she doesn’t seem to notice. Or simply doesn’t care.

“How could you do that to him? All he’s ever done is look up to you. And you’re supposed to look out for him!”

Her voice is angry, but hushed. Like she doesn’t want Conlan to hear us.

Probably because he told her to leave it alone.

I glance to the door of my room, but she steps closer, blocking the way. Her tone and posture needle me fiercely, and anger rises like a fire. It seems strange . . . that I still have the energy for it. But maybe, when you wear me down to nothing, anger’s all that’s left.

Best I can do is hold it, just short of my mouth.

“You know nothing about it, Tara. And I’m too worn out to explain it to you tonight.

“Can you please let me by.”

She steps closer and pokes me in the chest. “No. Go talk to him. Now.” She punctuates her final order with another jab.

And I almost hear, more than feel, my hand moving upwards, as if of its own accord, as if I’m watching someone else—someone who looks like me, but isn’t me. Someone who would do that sort of thing.

Someone who would enjoy it.

And I wonder, if maybe it’s okay. If maybe, just this once, it would be okay.

Faolan would do it.

Yeah. He would.

But I’m not him.

Right?

And it is my arm swinging. And it’s not okay. And with the last of my will, I pull it back, just in time.

She steps back and her eyes blaze. “What, me next?” she growls, her voice defiant.

But there’s just a hint of fear, too. It sickens me.

I focus hard on the words. As inadequate as they’ll ever be. “I’m sorry, Tara. I didn’t mean it. I’m just . . . in a lot of pain, right now. And I’m so tired.

“Can we talk about it tomorrow. Please?”

I take a deep breath and wait for her response.

I could just tell her. Get it over with. Deep down, I probably do want to.

Because, deep down, I want her to hate me, too.

Maybe I’ve already seen to that.

“What, you think because you were right about the trap you get a free pass on any bullshit you want to try tonight? Is that it?”

And the decision’s made.

Because, deep down, I want her to forgive me, too.

I meet her eyes in the dim light, then look past her to some spot in the shadows. My voice sounds lifeless in my ears as I speak.

“I killed a man tonight. Tore his throat out. Because I wanted to. Faolan’s proud of me for it. And I don’t know how to feel about that. Because I want him to be. And I hate him for it. Or me.

“I beat the shit outta Conlan. Because he insisted. And because I wanted to. At least, I probably did. Faolan’s proud of me for that, too. And I know how to feel about that. But I want him to be, anyway. And I hate him for it. And me.

“So, tell me, Tara? What’s there to say? To Conlan. To you. To me? That will ever make any of this right? Ever again?”

I stare at the floor. What would I find in her eyes if I met them? Fear? Loathing? Disgust? Pity? Or just sadness. Now that it comes to it, I can’t bear to look.

She says nothing.

I step past her and she lets me go. I enter my room, and quietly push the door shut behind me.

Because she’s right. There really isn’t anything more to say.

Winter Rain, part 33

The question hangs in the air between us while he grins.

I can’t imagine how he knows. Or maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe he’s just guessing. Maybe he’s hoping I’ll confirm something for him.

I try to stay impassive, but I’m sure I’m giving away panic on my face.

He laughs. “Tara’s a bad liar, Tiergan. She had blood on her clothes, and I couldn’t get a straight answer out of her about it. So I sent Brennan out to have a look.”

He chuckles again and says, “Relax, Tiergan. I told you, I’m proud of you! I was starting to doubt you had it in you.”

He beams at me, and, in the name of self-preservation, I force a smile. But I just can’t feel it. I want him to be proud of me. I’ve always wanted that. And now he is . . . I should be happy.

Why can’t I be happy about this?

I force some words to my mouth. “I think I left a bit of a mess,” I say. A practical concern. Safe middle ground.

He smiles and shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. The cops had already gone. Didn’t even find the body—not surprising, where you left it.

“Brennan says you tore his throat clean out! Fuck, I wish I’d been there to see it. My pup brother—grown up at last!”

He beams at me again, waiting expectantly for me to respond, to fill in all the dirty details, to revel in my brilliant kill.

And for an instant, I’m on that roof again, his hot, metallic blood rushing into my mouth again, into my nose, down my throat; his rasping gurgle in my ears; his desperate clawing at the ground before my eyes.

While I watch.

My stomach turns and I pull away from Faolan. I jump to my feet. “I’m sorry, Faolan. I can’t do this. I just . . . can’t.”

I turn to run away, but he grabs my hand and pulls down sharply. I crumple to the ground in a heap. I can’t keep the tears from my eyes, and I turn away from the punishment I know will follow. For my cowardice. For my weakness.

I cringe at the touch of his hand on my neck. But the punishment doesn’t come. Instead, he pulls me to him. He holds my head against his chest while I cry.

“I’m sorry Tiergan,” he says, after some minutes. “I’d forgotten how hard it is . . . the first time.”

He holds me up with his embrace as I sag against him.

“It will get easier, I promise.”

Mother fucker. Of all the wrong things to say.

I push away from him, suddenly furious, and yell, “What if I don’t want it to get easier? What if I don’t want you to be proud of me for this? What if I want you to have been right about me, all along?”

And something that should stop me doesn’t.

“What if I don’t ever want to be like you?”

I lash out at him with the hardest fist I can clench.

He lunges forward—faster than anyone has a right to move—and catches me around the chest. My punch hits only air behind him. I scream.

Come on Faolan, get angry! For fuck’s sake, hate me!

Hit me!

But he never gives when it is asked for.

“It’s okay, Tiergan,” he whispers in my ear. “I understand.”

I collapse in his arms.

Winter Rain, part 32

“Fuck, it’s cold down here.” The words are out of my mouth before I can even think about their effect, but he just chuckles.

I roll over and pull myself upright, and wrap my arms around my legs. With the bright light now behind me, I can see his face more clearly, but I can’t read anything I see there. He seems calm, but I don’t trust it. But, then, I never trust it, with him. Not anymore.

“You left my cloak near the stairs,” he says quietly, as if to confirm my fears—but then just adds, “You want me to get it for you?”

I watch him carefully, replaying the words in my head, scanning for tone or subtext I didn’t hear the first time. But I find none. “My cloak”—there was a time that one little thing would have been excuse enough, regardless of what kind of mood he was in.

Something’s definitely up, tonight. Maybe I’d better save the credits for later.

“Nah, it’s okay,” I reply, as casually as I can manage. “Thanks, though,” I add. “How’s your shoulder?”

A scowl flickers across his face, but he covers it with a smile. “Just a scratch,” he says. “Could have been worse.

“Brennan and Tara tell me I have you to thank for that.”

He watches me intently, and I look away. Panic scurries around the edges of my mind, but I resist it. Brennan and Tara don’t know much about it, so he can’t either. He’s just talking about the warning. And I’m willing to take credit for that.

“Yeah, I guess we’re lucky I recognized, her, eh?” I try to laugh, but I don’t pull it off.

“Where have you seen her before? Tara said something about Rian?”

“Yeah.

“Remember that hunting trip you took me on, a couple of years ago? To Rian’s estate?”

He nods.

“She was there.” I take a deep breath and meet his eyes: “She works for him.”

“You’re sure?” he asks, dead serious. “I need you to be sure about this, Tiergan. We’re talking about war, here.”

I nod. My stomach sinks, but it can’t be helped. We didn’t start this. At least, not at this level.

“I’m sure.”

He releases me from his gaze and stares off into the darkness. The muscle of his jaw tightens, but he says nothing.

I can guess what he’s feeling. Hell, I probably know the situation as well as he does. Rian is powerful—he’s wealthy and he runs a big family. A number of other, smaller families work for him, too. Faolan’s many things, but he’s not stupid about his odds in a fight. This is one we can’t win, and he knows it.

Not without help, anyway.

“Remember when we used to play down here?” he says, without looking up.

The question is an odd one, and it shakes me out of my train of though. I smile, almost involuntarily, but he doesn’t look at me to notice.

“Things were a lot simpler then. When Dad was . . . . “

He trails off, but the words fill in the space between us all by themselves—Running things? Alive? But he’s right—they don’t need to be said.

“Sometimes, I really miss him, Tiergan . . . . He was always so strong. So in control. When trouble came along, he’d just laugh. No doubts. No hesitation.

“Do you remember, Tiergan? Do you remember what he was like?”

Again, I try to catch his eye, but he doesn’t look over. I nod anyway.

“I try to be him, Tiergan. But I’m not. You all never say it to me, but I can see it in your eyes, sometimes. I got his build, his strength, his power. But you got his brains. And I don’t know that it’s enough, without them.

“He’d know what to do about Rian.

“He’d never have let things get this bad.”

I start to reach over to put my arm around him, but then think better of it. I know him too well. This mood he’s in, it will pass, and he’ll resent it all the more if he thinks I’ve felt sorry for him. Very soon, he’ll be himself again, and he’ll mow down anyone who remembers his weakness.

Better for me if I pretend I never saw it.

A half-truth bubbles up. I can see the danger in it, but a leader who is doubting himself, especially right now . . . Cormac might decide to take his chances. And then Rian wins, regardless. I take the smaller risk.

“Faolan,” I say, and turn to face him. His gaze stays fixed in the shadows. “You are the scariest, most brutal killer I’ve ever known. Rian tried to have you shot because he’s afraid of you. He doesn’t want to face you in fight because he doesn’t want to die.”

He looks up, and I continue, with the most dangerous lie of all. “When the time comes, I’m going to be there to watch you rip his throat out. And I’m going to cheer when you do it.”

A smile spreads slowly across his face, and I meet it with one of my own. Either he doesn’t see the truth, or, like me, is just ignoring it for now.

He chuckles and I know I’ve made the right choice. For the short term, at least.

“Thanks, Tiergan,” he says.

“You saved my life today, brother. I won’t forget it.”

He reaches over and pulls us together. “I’m proud of you,” he says.

Four little words. That I’ve been waiting for most of my life.

I hold his gaze and smile.

A few moments pass, and he breaks the silence. “Now,” he says, and a grin tugs at the side of his mouth. “Tell me about the guy on the roof.”

Winter Rain, part 31

I cover my teeth and drop to the ground as quickly as gravity can move me. But he just laughs.

“Bad dream?” he asks, turning, and sits down beside me. The fluorescent I’d turned off is now back on, properly. It casts a harsh white light and dark shadow around boxes and through cobwebs into my corner. His face looks sharp and angular in the contrast.

“You were whimpering,” he says. Calmly. Remarkably so. “That’s how I found you,” he adds.

He places his hand between my ears and begins to rub my head.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a white bandage on his left shoulder. His chest is bare, and I can smell blood. But it’s already drying. His arm seems okay—he isn’t moving it much, but it isn’t hanging limply either. I can’t smell any bone or marrow.

Just a flesh wound, after all. We got lucky.

“I was waiting for you upstairs,” he says, still rubbing my head. His hand doesn’t tense, but I can’t help wondering if I’m missing a sign. He works his fingers gently into the muscles on my skull, behind my ears.

“Why didn’t you come see me?”

It’s not a question I want to answer. I’m not even sure if I can. But I can’t seem to muster too much care. His fingers work carefully into the skin beside my ears, all gentle, restrained strength. Back and forth. Back and forth. He knows exactly where to touch, how hard to push. Tension fades from my muscles in a soft tingling glow, and, against my better judgement, my fear drains away with it. With every stroke he tells me the very thing he hasn’t told me in so long. That he’s happy with me. That I’m his, and he’ll take care of me.

He’s my brother, and I have nothing to fear.

And I can’t resist him. I let out a long breath, wishing he would never take his hand way, wishing he would never stop. We’re here, together, against the world. And that’s all we need. I think I see him smile, though I can’t be sure without turning; but he strokes a little more firmly.

And then he stops. He removes his hand and says, “Come on, Tiergan. I want to talk to you.” I want to beg him for more, to let me stay in his care a little longer.

But as the glow fades, my better sense pushes itself back up from ecstasy. He’s in a good mood. He’s happy with me.

Keep it that way.

I stretch out and change.

Winter Rain, part 30

The dream begins as it always does. I know it’s a dream. I’m not sure how, exactly, but I always know.

I’m running. Not away from, or to, just . . . running. Along a white road through rolling green meadows. Stacked walls of blackened limestone and granite divide the land into oddly shaped, verdant fields. Sheep country. Farm country. There’s the smell of bog in the air, too—but faintly, not unpleasant.

And I’m running. Now wolf, now human. Now both at once. Maybe that’s how I know this is a dream.

The sun is shining brightly, amidst large, clumpy white clouds. The wind drives them hurriedly across the sky. The light flickers from bright to dark and back again, as each cloud passes.

There’s a large hill in the distance. A mountain, almost. But that’s not where I’m heading.

But where am I heading, then?

Just run.

Small birds flit from copse to bramble, across the road, or along it, as they please. Two keep pace with me while I run. But it’s not a competition. It’s a game. And we all win. As long as we move.

The air is cool in my nose, and on my tongue. It has an edge of dampness, but only enough to be pleasant.

But, somehow, things start to change.

The clouds grow thicker. They pile together in rafts, and the wind seems less able to push them along. White dulls to grey in places. The dark moments grow slowly longer, and yet I run on. I have to be somewhere.

Don’t I?

I thought I was just running.

I look around, but the birds are gone. Weren’t they here just a minute ago?

Strange.

The air grows damper, colder, in my nose. It chills my skin, despite my fur. And I have fur now. I’m no longer both. I’m no longer human. Just wolf. Just running.

Towards now. And maybe away. No, definitely towards. But towards what?

I don’t know, but I need to get there. I need to get there soon.

The sun is gone, and the clouds descend. There is mist in the air—little tiny drops of rain, so tiny they don’t fall. They just scurry in the air, before my eyes. And into my fur.

The stone walls have fallen into disrepair. There are big gaps in them, now; places where the rocks lie sprawled across the ground. And the green is now tinged with yellow—a sickly yellow. A deathly yellow. The white of the road has turned to blackened dirt. And the mist smells of bog—of wet, rotting vegetation, rotting for an eternity, rotting without any hope of turning to dust.

I’m cold now. I shiver, even as I run. And the world is grey.

There’s a crossroad ahead.

And suddenly I know I’m running the wrong way. I shouldn’t have come here. I should be running the other way!

But I can’t seem to turn.

And there she is—off to the side, kneeling beside a tiny trickle of water. My feet slow, and stop, even though I’m ordering them to move. Away.

And I’m beside her. Only a few feet away. Within arms reach. And she is ancient, from the look of her skin. It sags from her face, and neck, and arms in deep folds. Her hair is white and thin, unkempt. Stiff, even, like wire. It doesn’t move in the wind.

In her hands she holds a white shirt, dripping wet. She thrusts it back into the stream and turns to look at me. Her face cracks into a wide grin, full of missing teeth, and my skin crawls.

Her eyes are black as night, two holes of infinite depth, waiting. Always waiting.

“You are Tiergan,” she says. But her voice is inside my head. And it grates at me, at my entire being. I want to flee. I need to flee. But my feet won’t move.

She releases one hand from the shirt and reaches out to pat my head.

She growls, “It’s so nice of you to come.”


And I’m awake, instantly—a very human scream unable to form through my very canine mouth. And my body is way ahead of me—I’m already pushing off the ground, ready to attack. Ready to run.

But the dream leaves my vision as quickly as it came, and I know where I am. And it was just a dream. Like always.

I look up. Faolan is standing over me.

Winter Rain, part 29

The air is cold, damp. Musty, too. I suppose, after all this time, I should expect that.

I flip on the light, but the fluorescent at the bottom of the stairs doesn’t seem to like the cold, either. It flickers dully, with a faint buzz, and provides almost no help against the dark. I debate my choice for a moment, but, I still don’t have any good options, and I don’t want to just sit here at the top of the stairs all night. At least down there, I can find a nice, quiet place to curl up. And nobody’s likely to come down to look for me, either.

I pull the thin cloak tighter around me and start down the stairs. Slowly. The first stair creaks loudly under my weight, and I cringe at the noise—the walls aren’t that thick, and Sheridan isn’t deaf—but it holds, and I hear nothing from the hallway. I continue down, avoiding the middle of the steps, where the creak will be worst. The noise softens.

It doesn’t always seem like it upstairs, but down here . . . this house is old. Very old. It’s there, in the stone foundations—the work of generations of this family, altering, extending, rebuilding. Sometimes, it feels like this place has been here forever. And we’ve been here, too, all along. In a way, this place is us, and we are this place.

I guess that’s what I’ve always loved about it—it’s the solidity, the permanence. The continuity. This house has a weird way of making all of my problems seem somehow temporary. As if it is quietly telling me with its very presence that everything will work out, because it always has before. And I need that continuity, that permanence. The need is so deep, so basic, so deeply ingrained within me—within all of us—that there just can’t be anything else.

But days like today . . . fuck. It seems like such a simple solution—just take Keaira and run away some place new, some place we can start again, some place we can be free, together.

But leaving this place, leaving Tara, and Conlan, and Elish and . . . and yes, even Faolan and Cormac . . . . Being alone, just the two of us, adrift in the world, with no family, with no place, with no history . . . the idea terrifies me in a way nothing else can. It feels like death.

No, it has to be this way. There’s just no other alternative.

My feet touch bare earth at last: packed sand—hard, and a bit damp. Cool to the touch, too, but right. And now I know why I came down here. It’s the dark, the coolness, the smell of damp earth and stones. A den. Away from lights, away from everything that can hurt me.

And tonight, I won’t find it anywhere else. I’ll deal with them all tomorrow. It’ll be easier, tomorrow.

I reach up and twist the flickering bulb a quarter turn out of it’s socket. It winks out and stays that way. I drop the cloak and change. Light returns with my better eyes, but now it’s comfortable, real light, not something generated from electricity.

I set out amongst the old boxes and furniture to find a place to rest.