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Winter Rain, part 18

“What the fuck did you do?” Conlan’s voice yells into my ear.

Tara enters the intersection. I yank back the urge to turn, and watch her reflection in the glass. She doesn’t even glance at me. She jumps into a run to avoid a car. At least, that’s the convenient excuse.

“Conlan,” she says, “they haven’t turned yet. Cut over to Bryce and get out in front. Now! They’re sure to notice me as soon as they turn!

“Tiergan,” she growls as she steps onto the far curb, “how the fuck did they make you?”

I’m safe now. I spin to look, to protest my innocence, but she’s gone.

“Tara . . . the girl recognized me! I know her from somewhere.”

“What?” Two voices simultaneously.

“Yeah! And from the look on her face, I’d say she was expecting to see me.”

Silence. Even from Conlan.

It doesn’t make any sense. Why would I know a courier for someone doing business with Rian? His family and ours . . . we don’t have a lot of business interests in common. I don’t know . . . this delivery is being made in our territory . . . maybe whoever she works for knows who the local players are. Maybe I’ve seen her around before.

But why would she react like that? She was definitely expecting to see me. Waiting, even. She sped up, for fuck’s sake.

And if I’ve seen her around town, why can’t I place her. It’s not like she’d fade into the background.

“Who is she?” Conlan demands. He’s breathing heavily. Must be running to catch up. Not that it matters much, at this point.

“I don’t know! I can’t place her. But this is starting to feel really bad.”

A dark shape, low and blurry, darts across the street from an alley just to my right. Brennan, I think, though it’s too dark to be sure with these eyes.

“They’re crossing the street at Norman!”

Fuck! Away from Conlan.

And Brennan would have been the last one monitoring our conversation. He probably changed the second I said I’d been made.

Shit. He thinks it’s according to plan!

Think, damn it!

I can see her face. The pony tail. The grin. It’s from a distance. There’s something green around her. Trees, maybe? Could I have seen her in the greenbelt? No, that’s not right. I don’t often go there in human form, and I don’t see green distinctly otherwise.

Stop grasping at it. Just let it go. Come on. Breathe.

Motion. And her face. On green.

What?

I step into the street. A horn blares, brakes squeal—I dive out of the way.

Motion. Reddish-brown on grey. Hooves.

And I can almost taste his blood.

She was there. After.

Fuck!

“Guys,” I yell as I get up from the street and take off after Tara. “It’s a trap! She works for Rian!”

Winter Rain, part 17

Conlan’s objection is instantaneous. “Tiergan! No! What are you doing?”

I step into a restaurant entryway and pretend to study the menu, my back to intersection. It won’t be long. The reflection should give me a good look at them.

“Something’s up, Conlan,” I plead. “I don’t know what it is, but something’s not right.”

“That’s not your call!” It’s hard to yell through a phone while walking down a busy street, but he’s managing it. “Get back out in front, now!” He’s angry, but there’s more to it.

He’s also scared.

I don’t know what I’m expecting to find. I don’t even know that this isn’t just stupid, childish impatience. But I can’t help it. Something feels wrong. They’re too conspicious, too confident, too direct. Why are these people even on foot? If they really are going all the way to Old Town, why aren’t they in a car?

“Whatever you guys are going to do, do it now,” Tara growls.

Truth is, I’m probably screwing over a friend.

But at least he can blame me. If he weren’t saddled with the responsibility for the op, he’d be thinking the same thing as me. I wish Tara could weigh in, but she’s not in a position to have a conversation, presently.

And she’ll back my play, either way.

“Sorry, Conlan.”

“Approaching!” Tara’s voice is quiet, but urgent.

“Tiergan!” Conlan cries. But it’s too late, and he knows it. “Fuuuuck!

The lead bodyguard enters the intersection. He really is built like a house! Man. Good thing we aren’t trying to take him down.

He’s careful, too. Checking both directions. His eyes are on my back. I actually study the menu, now. Eye contact would be a dead giveaway.

And he’s past. I exhale slowly.

And she enters the intersection. Her ponytail bobs with her gait. She’s very confident, put together. The duffle swings heavily past her leg. But it’s crumpled. Like it’s mostly empty.

Her eyes scrape towards me and we meet in the glass.

Shit! I know her.

A smile tugs at her face, her eyes locked on mine—recognition, for sure. And a hint of glee.

She breaks contact and starts walking faster.

Fuck!

Conlan’s going to kill me.

Her second guard passes. Still trying to be casual, he barely looks around at all.

I force myself to breathe while he crosses the street. But it won’t save me for long.

“Guys,” I say, at last, “we’ve got a problem.

“And I’ve been made.”

Winter Rain, part 16

We’re halfway down Longsberg already, and they haven’t turned yet.

What’s with these people?

“They must be heading for Old Town,” I say loud enough for the mic to pick it up.

“Yeah. Looks that way,” replies Conlan’s voice.

Longsberg is littered with restaurants and clubs, and for all it’s cold, it’s actually a pretty nice night. The nightlife crowd are out, and the job’s been really easy, so far. Enough foot traffic for cover, not enough to get in the way. And the street lights are bright enough that I can even occasionally spot the lead bodyguard’s reflection in a facing window.

We have them loosely contained between us. Tara’s closest—just behind—to ensure we don’t lose them. I’m well in front: close enough to take over from her; far enough ahead that they won’t recognize me when I do so. Conlan is well back, coordinating everything, ready to sub in, if needed.

Nice and neat.

Why is it I hate it when things are this easy?

Conlan’s voice is in my ear again. “How are they going to lose us if they walk in a straight line the whole way there?”

Exactly.

I thought these people were supposed to be professionals. They sure aren’t acting like it. Still . . .  “Maybe they think they’ve already lost us. You did say Rian’s team were pretty sloppy.”

“Shit . . . . Think we should be more obvious?”

A young couple steps out of a restaurant doorway ahead of me, arm and arm, laughing to each other. The air from the restaurant smells strongly of fresh bread and charred meat. My stomach growls loudly. I shake my head to clear it.

“Problem is, if they already think they’ve lost us, and we suddenly appear . . .  they’re likely to get a lot more cautious the rest of the way.”

I don’t know. Maybe that’s the plan. But I can’t help it. Something is off about these people.

“Tara, any sign they’ve noticed you?”

“No,” she replies, barely audibly.

I need more information. I need to see these people for myself. I really should leave this up to Conlan—he’s a good guy and he doesn’t deserve this . . . . But, as much as he’s “in charge” . . . making decisions is just not one of his strong points.

There’s a side street up ahead. Time to choose.

Sorry, Conlan. “Tara,” I say as I turn the corner and stop, “I need to see them.

“Switch out.”

Dajoën

Random Dreams

Sleep had not come easily, that night, and I woke early—well before sunrise. The air was thick with a cold, grey mist, and in the dim light of dawn, even the trees around us seemed only dark smudges in the grey. My legs and back ached from the cold.

The small clearing felt dead, and heavy. There was almost no sound, but for the occasional drip of water from needle to branch, and even that seemed oddly muted, as if my ears were packed with wool. The smell of the cedars, normally so rich and pungent, seemed flat—like spice gone stale with age; and in its place, the air had taken on a marshy rot.

A few feet away, under in a thin blanket, Dajoën still slept. It was unusual for me to wake before him, but then we’d talked well into the night. Aradnae was nearly due East when we’d finally run out of things to say. He’d drifted off quickly enough, but I’d lain awake for some time after, just listening to him breathe . . . trying to get used to the idea of my life without him.

The fire had gone out during the night. I reached for a stick and tried to stir it back to life, but it was cold. I briefly considered trying to build a new one, but decided I’d probably wake him, and that he could use the sleep.

As quietly as I could manage, I got up, pulled my blanket around me, and crept off toward the river. The cedar litter and soft earth gave no sound as I walked, and, a little out of the clearing, I stopped trying to be quiet.

Free of trees, the river was noticeably brighter than the clearing had been, but I couldn’t see the far shore. Mist rose from the water in dense plumes, and breathing became a little harder. But the air smelled better—less marshy, more like herbs. I tried to enjoy it.

We had camped near a bend in the river, where sand piled up along the shore, making the water easy to reach. I knelt down among a bed of low, flowering plants, and drank. The water felt warm, and I let my fingers trail in it. A little ways off—though it seemed more distant—a bird burst into song; I listened quietly for a few moments, then headed back.

When I arrived in the clearing, a few minutes later, I found Dajoën up and a small fire burning. The mist hadn’t thinned, but the light had gotten a little better, and he seemed his usual alert self.

A small amount of smoke curled listlessly outward from the flames, rising only slightly before spreading into the mist. But the air smelled noticeably more of cedar than it had. It was a welcome change.

“I had hoped not to wake you,” I said, and sat down close to the fire. I pulled my blanket tighter around my shoulders, then put my hands up to warm near the flames. Dajoën’s blanket was already rolled and tied to his pack.

“I slept enough,” he said, and smiled. Even in the dim light, the green of his eyes sparkled, and almost shone. “You look tired, though.”

“A bit,” I said, and nodded. “Too many thoughts, I guess.”

His smile faltered, ever so slightly. “I know,” he said softly, and quickly turned away. He pulled a skin from his pack, stepped around the fire, and walked off toward the river.

I stared into the flames, and must have lost track of time, because when I looked up again, he was stepping back around the fire, the skin full.

My hands were feeling warmer, so I forced myself up. I decided that the blanket would be too much of a hassle, and I dropped it near my pack; it slouched down into a damp, little heap, and I stared at it on the ground for a some time, shivering for both of us.

When I turned back to the fire, Dajoën had a small copper pot filled with water arranged over the flame.

“Tea?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Maybe later, if you want it. I was thinking of adding the leftover grouse to a stew of kanth and dried fruit.” He shrugged—one shoulder. “It is a special occasion, after all.”

My stomach growled loudly in response, and we both laughed. It felt good. Like old times.

“Anything I can do?”

“Sure,” he said, and motioned to the leather bag suspended up a nearby tree. “Why don’t you pull the meat off the birds while I get the kanth in the pot.”

I recovered the bag from the tree, and sat down near him. The birds weren’t small, but we’d eaten later than usual, and there wasn’t much of them left. I pulled out my knife and began tearing the remaining meat and skin from the bones.

We worked in silence, as we had many times in the past. The thickness of the air drained what little noise we made. But it was comfortable—as it had long been—and I was able to enjoy the moment, just being there with him. Occasionally, I would look up from my work to watch him. I was sure he noticed—he always seemed to know when people were looking at him—but he gave no indication, and I was grateful to him for it.

Finally, my work done and my knife and fingers carefully licked clean, I placed the small square of leather and its minced bird on the ground beside him, then moved a little closer to both him and the fire. I wiped my knife on some moss, then pulled a whetstone from inside my cloak and began sharpening it.

“Dajoën?” I said, a few minutes later.

“Yes?”

I looked up from my work, and found him looking at me. Our eyes met, and we held there, for some time. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember what I’d been going to say. But it didn’t seem to matter.

The scar on his cheek was just visible in the growing light, a fine white line from jaw to temple. The cut had healed cleanly, but there was a tightness around the eye that never quite went away, and it was prone to catch when he smiled. I felt the urge to reach over and touch it. He had received it the day we met. He had received it saving me.

I let the urge pass.

“I’m going to miss you,” I said, and my eyes stung. I squeezed them shut and turned away.

Then his hand was on my mine, and I turned back to look at him. The corners of my eyes felt wet, but I didn’t care.

“You will always be in my thoughts,” he said, and squeezed my hand.

I nodded.

A lock of his hair fell forward across his face, and he released my hand to brush it away. He went back to cooking, and I stared into the fire, searching in its flames for something I don’t remember finding.


We ate in silence. I spoke only once—to tell him how good the stew tasted. It was only the truth, but I felt it important to say. He smiled and said, “Thank you.”

After eating, I took the pot down to the river to clean it. It must have been shortly after sunrise, by then, for the world was bright; but the mist had only thickened, and I heard not even the call of a bird. I skipped a stone across the water, but I lost sight of it after the first bounce, and the sound after the second.

When I got back to the clearing, Dajoën was waiting for me.

“You’re going, then . . .” I said, and handed him the pot.

“It’s time,” he replied, nodding his head to one side.

“I thought . . . maybe . . . . “

He looked at me and shook his head. “I have to go . . . . You know this . . . . ” I couldn’t hold his gaze.

“No,” I said, at last, to the ground between my feet, “it’s okay.” I’d promised both him and myself that I wouldn’t make it harder than it had to be. I owed him that much.

But it was so hard.

“I’m sorry . . .” I said, and managed to face him again.

He proceeded to pull on his pack, then slip his bow up and over his head, and down across his chest.

We stood there, facing one another. Finally, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a small round pendant of black wood, intricately carved, and hanging from a thin silver chain.

“I made this for you,” he said, and reached out to offer it to me. He smiled, and added, “Not the chain.”

I took it from him and stared at it for several seconds. It was beautiful, and of a level of skill I had never seen before. My hands trembled, and I couldn’t make them stop. Finally, I lifted the chain up over my head and let the pendant drop to my chest. I felt some little thrill in my belly, and I wondered what the knotwork meant. But I didn’t ask.

He looked at it for a few seconds, and seemed pleased with his work. I grabbed his arm and pulled him to me. We embraced tightly, and I held longer than perhaps I should have.

When I released him, he studied me again.

“You’ll be okay,” he said.

I laughed. “Who’re you trying to convince? Me? Or you?”

He smiled.

We left the clearing, holding to the right of the path to the river. About ten minutes out, we reached the ford, and the vast stretch of marshland on the other side.

I stopped and he turned to me. “Just head East,” he said, pointing behind me, “along the river, back the way we came. Ormston is twenty miles.”

“I know,” I said, and nodded.

He smiled that lopsided grin of his. Then, with conviction, “I know you’ll be fine.”

“Yeah. I will,” I replied. I thought he needed to hear me say it. “Thanks to you.”

I wiped my arm across my eyes, then looked straight into his. “Farewell.” The word almost caught in my throat.

He looked at me for a few seconds, like he was trying to memorize my face. I’d been doing that with him for days. Then, “Fare well, my friend.”

He turned and headed into the river. The mists had thinned, a little, under the sun that must have been burning down from above; it drifted in thick clumps on a fresh wind.

Squeezing the pendant in my hand, I mouthed the words, the words I had never quite found the nerve to say . . . and that I would never get the chance to say again. But they changed nothing.

The mists drifted back into his wake, swirling gently in the soft morning light. He faded, bit by bit, as he shrank into the distance. The last I saw of him was a vague shadow, moving ever farther into a world of white.

Winter Rain, part 15

Faolan’s never understood things that don’t interest him. Of course he’d rather run as wolf than walk as human! That’s the real reason he sent us to be the decoys. Well, he doesn’t trust us near the mark, either. But ours is the harder task. By far. In the dark, if you stick to the shadows, it’s easy enough to be mistaken for a dog. And, when watching for a tail, nobody pays attention to dogs.

But we have to be human, and to make a good show of not being seen.

What a pain in the ass.

The bud in my ear crackles to life. It’s Tara. “Any sign of them?”

“Nothing here,” Conlan replies.

Poor guy. He’s probably shitting himself at the prospect of being “in charge”.

“Nothing here, either,” I add into my mic.

The others have gone—disappeared down streets and alleyways. Some already wolf, others wearing clothes they can ditch easily, listening for us to pick up the mark. A few of them are nearby, watching, I know. But they’re doing a damned good job at staying hidden.

Tara looks cold. Probably the metal seat in the bus shelter isn’t doing her any favours. Hopefully, nobody’s noticed she’s skipped the last two busses.

I can’t see Conlan any more—he’s well down the street.

“Wait, wait,” Conlan’s voice crackles again. “Got ‘em. Damn! Rian’s team is being really sloppy. I saw them first. What a bunch of dimwits.

“Okay, the primary is female, brunette, medium height, late 20s, wearing a leather jacket. Hair in a ponytail. Carrying a duffle bag. One guard in front. Built like a house. Packing, from the bulge in his jacket. Second guard a bit behind. Smaller, wearing glasses, grey jacket. Trying to look like he’s not with them. Can’t tell if he is carrying.”

Time to get moving. I jog across the street, entering foot traffic ahead of them. “I’m on the move,” I say as I reach up to scratch my neck. I can just make out the front guard in the plate glass window ahead. “Got him.”

Tara nods almost imperceptibly as I pass.

“Okay, I’ve got the rear,” Conlan adds. Needlessly. “Tara, you’re up.”

And the hunt is on.

If only we weren’t the prey.

Winter Rain, part 14

Chapter 2

Everyone is already seated around the den when I arrive, but it still looks empty. It’s strange seeing it this way. When I was a pup, we couldn’t fit everybody in. Not by half. But things have changed.

I’m not late—no need for that drama—but I’ve shaved it as close as I can. Less chance Faolan will want words with me. I slip over and sit down beside Tara, who smiles at me. I snuggle into her, careful to avoid bumping my sore arm into anything.

Someone will notice it, eventually, but the lower key we play it, the less likely anyone will ask about it.

“Good,” Faolan says. I can feel his evil eye on me before I look up. “Now that everyone has arrived, we can get started.” But he doesn’t seem particularly pissed off. Maybe things are back to normal.

For now.

He doesn’t linger on me long. I’m not presently important enough. One of perks of being bottom of the pack: people mostly ignore you. Means you can watch them, see what’s really going on. Beneath the words.

“Tonight it’s to be a reconnaissance op,” Faolan says as he gets up from his desk.

“For that rat bastard, Rian.” He grinds the “R”. Cormac’s lip curls at the name.

“Now listen up! We’ll be following three humans, one carrying a package, the other two his bodyguards. We’re to follow them to where they deliver the package, somewhere near Britannia and the river. Then report that location back to Rian.

“Nice and simple.”

He steps over the city map and points to a spot at the edge of our territory—Grant and Longsberg, from the look of it. “We’ll be picking them up here,” he says and taps the map. “We’ll be taking over from one of Rian’s teams as they cross into our territory.

“They’ll be expecting a tail, so we’re going to give ‘em one. One they will eventually lose.” He gives me a warning look. “Conlan, Tiergan, Tara: that will be you. I trust you’ll have no problem with the assignment.”

Cormac and Brendan both snicker at the insult. But Faolan’s just being a dick. Per usual. I glance over at Conlan. He rolls his eyes.

“The rest of us will be the real tail,” he concludes, shifting his attention back to the group.

“Now, this is very important. If they make us too close to the target, we lose the drop. Period. And that’s not acceptable. That rat bastard is turning the screws on this one. Understand?” His voice drops to a growl. “If anyone on the real team gets made, you let them lose you. And you stay lost. Am I clear?”

He scans the room, and every one nods in turn.

He stops on me last. “Conlan!” he barks, still looking at me. “You’re in charge of your team.”

Fucker. This is the thanks I get.

Whatever.

“Everybody, you know what to do. Keep in contact. Let’s get it done.”

Winter Rain, part 13

She glances at the display before answering. She mouths the word “Faolan” as she lifts the phone to her ear, and turns away from me.

I suck in a deep breath and hold it. The shaking gets immediately worse, but I clench my teeth and force things to still. The last thing I need, right now, is to talk to Faolan, and with my luck, he’ll insist if he knows I’m here.

“Hi Faolan,” Tara says into the receiver. “Tonight? Yeah, no problem. Eight? I’ll be there.

“Tiergan?” She glances at me. I shake my head vigorously. Her eyes narrow, but she nods. “Ahhh, no, I haven’t seen him, sorry. Okay, yeah, if I see him I’ll tell him. Okay, bye.”

I wait for her to close the phone before releasing my breath.

“Work tonight?” I ask. My voice isn’t steady, and my breathing’s uneven. Deal with it! I yell silently at myself.

I’ve had enough of this bullshit!

I’m tempted to drive my nails into my palms again, to try and gain control, but I’m not sure where it will lead. I go without.

“Rian wants somebody followed,” she replies. She raises her eyebrows. “Your presence is requested, too.”

“Requested?” I ask. I’m quite certain Faolan wasn’t making a “request”.

She ignores the comment and sizes me up. “Now, how are we going to get you home?”

I follow her gaze down to see the damage for myself. I can move my arm, although it feels like it is starting to swell. It’s not bleeding much, but there’s a sheen of clear liquid on it. It’s not going to heal quickly, that’s for sure. Fortunately, it doesn’t seem to hurt too much when I’m not touching it.

The cuts on my hands are of more immediate concern. They’re deep, and still bleeding. But it’s slowing, and seems to be starting to clot. It’s going make running hard, for a while, though.

Still, I’ve done worse. I’ll probably do worse again. I’ll deal.

“I’ll just wait until it’s a bit darker, then run home.”

“With that arm?” Her tone implies she thinks I’m crazy.

“I’ll be okay,” I reply. To prove it, I start to push off the ground. With my good arm.

“No!” she barks and jumps at to me. She pushes me back down. “You’ve beaten the hell out of the soft tissue. It’s going to take weeks to heal, and you might not be feeling it much now, but you will soon.

“And if you change too soon, you could make it a lot worse.”

She’s probably right. But it doesn’t change much. “Yeah, well, staying in this form isn’t really an option, is it. Faolan’s already pissed at me. I have to show up, and I have to work.”

She shakes her head slowly. “Tiergan, for one of the smartest people I know, you sure know how to be stupid.”

Yeah.

“I know . . . . I’m sorry.”

She smiles at me. A worried smile. “Look, stay here. I’ll go get your clothes.”

“No, no, it’s okay, I’ll just—”

She cuts me off. “Promise me you won’t change.” For emphasis, she grabs my bad arm and squeezes. The joint explodes in agony.

“Okay, okay, okay!” I gasp. She releases me and I jerk my good hand over it for cover. “Okay, I’ll stay put.” The pain starts to fade, slowly, but she’s definitely made her point.

She gets up to go. I want to ask her if she’s okay. If we’re okay.

But I guess I know the answer already.

She pauses at the door and turns. “And Tiergan?” she says, very serious. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure out something to do about Keaira.”

She doesn’t wait for a reply. And I’m alone.

Winter Rain, part 12

I can’t look at her.

My elbow is on fire. I reach over and gingerly take it in my left hand. The sleeve of her sweater clings to it, wet and cold. It pulls at the wound as I move. The pain makes me wince.

The intensity of it makes me want to giggle, too. But I don’t.

She’s beside me. “Tiergan . . . ” she says. Her voice is soft, caring.

But her hands are shaking.

“I’ve, ruined . . . your, sweater,” I say, in two ragged breaths. I look down to avoid her eyes. There’s a smear of blood on the left sleeve, too, where my hand rests.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says. She touches my arm but I jerk away. I don’t want her to touch it. I don’t want her to see what I’ve done to it.

“Your hands are shaking,” I say. But I’m not telling her anything she doesn’t know.

She is undeterred. “Come on, let me see it.” Her voice is a little more steady—a little more confident—than it had been.

I’m afraid to ask. But I need to.

“I’m sorry, Tara. I’m so sorry.

“Can you forgive me?”

“For what?” she says. She doesn’t hesitate. But she knows exactly what I’m talking about.

She reaches in and grabs the bottom of the sweater. “Come on. I need to take this off.” She doesn’t wait for my approval.

The air is frigid against my back, but I’m already shaking. She slowly peels the fabric off the wound. I clench my teeth to keep from crying out.

“You’ve taken off a lot of skin,” she announces. The tremble is gone from her voice. “But it doesn’t look too bad.

“I’m going to see if you’ve broken anything, okay?”

I flinch from the thought of it, but then stop. I nod my approval. She carefully bends and turns the arm. The pain is loud and deep. But not sharp.

“I don’t think you’ve broken it.”

I nod.

And her fingers are in the wound. The fire leaps up my arm and screams into my skull. Everything goes dark and heavy. I grind my teeth, but that only makes the pain worse. And now, the romance is gone. It’s sharp, angry, hateful pain.

But I take it. I deserve anything she does to me.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I can’t stop saying it. She has to believe me. She has to.

I force my eyes up to meet hers.

She looks at me, but says nothing. In her eyes, there’s concern. And pity. But behind it, I see fear.

She looks away. “It’ll be okay, Tiergan.”

Her cell rings. I startle at the sound of it.

She releases my arm to answer it.

Winter Rain, part 11

“Oh Tiergan,” she breathes as she pulls away from me. Her hand jumps to her mouth. “What have you done?”

I had expected her to be angry with me. But it’s not anger in her eyes, in her voice. Anger I could handle. It’s disappointment. Deep, wounded disappointment. In me.

Keaira had looked at me the exact same way.

I turn away from it. “I did what I had to do,” I reply to a bright line between two wall boards. “And I’m not apologizing for it, either.”

My back is cold where her arm had been. I pull my legs up and wrap my arms around them. To hold in the warmth.

“You’re an idiot, Tiergan,” she says. Her voice is soft. A steel gauntlet in a velvet glove. I study my feet.

“What did you do? Tell her you didn’t want to see her again? No—no, that’s not it—you wouldn’t have needed to avoid me for weeks for that.” She pauses, then inhales sharply. The sound of a light going on. “You pretended you didn’t have feelings for her any more, didn’t you? So she’d break it off. So you wouldn’t have to. That’s it, isn’t it.”

I really am transparent to her. Most days, it’s one of the things I like about her.

She kicks my hip and I look up. Anger bubbles up, but I let it pass, unheeded.

“Is, that, it?” she demands.

I meet her eyes. I try to stay impassive, but some of the hurt gets through. Her expression softens, just a bit.

I nod, and break contact.

“Tiergan!” she cries, and moves in close. She lifts my head with her hand. “Why would you do that? You love her!”

I smile sadly, and try to avoid her eyes. “Because it’s not enough, Tara,” I say with a shrug. “Her parents are insisting on a First, and we both know I’m never going to be that. They’re old school. She won’t be welcome home again if she disobeys them. And that’s the best case scenario.”

I shouldn’t say the rest.

But it won’t stay in. “I thought maybe we could make it work, anyway, so I asked Faolan if she could Pair with me.”

My eyes start to burn.

“And that’s when he told me he wanted her for himself.”

“He what?”

The anger rises again. Much stronger this time. I dig my nails into my palms, and struggle to hold it. “He says it’s because we need an alliance with her family. And we do . . . . Things are getting really precarious with Rian.”

I can feel it getting ahead of me, slipping from my grasp. I look straight ahead and squeeze harder. “But I’ve seen the way he looks at her, Tara. And I hate him for it.”

She grabs my hand and pulls at my fingers. “Tiergan! Stop!”

I know what she’s reacting to. I can smell the blood. I can feel it starting to run down my leg.

And I like it.

“Can you believe he actually acted like he was doing me a favour?”

I jerk my hand out of hers and ram my arm back into the wall. The pain blooms in my elbow, round and shiny. I ram it back again, on the same spot. The pain races up my arm and and spreads into my head. I ram it back again. And again.

Something. Again. Anything. Again. Break!

“Tiergan!” someone yells in my ear.

I drive my fist up and towards. Hard.

I want it to connect. Want it go through.

Cormac.

Faolan.

Not Tara!

I pull it back just in time.

And I’m in the pumphouse again, and my arm hurts like it’s on fire, and I’m dripping blood over everything, and Tara is looking at me with a fear I’ve never seen from her before . . . and for all of those reasons—or none of them—I can’t stop sobbing.

Winter Rain, part 10

Her sweater is a bit small for me, but I pull it on and settle down beside her. She puts her arm around me for warmth. Hers and mine. She rests her head against my shoulder.

The darkness is comforting—despite the cold, still air. The smell of damp earth, the hint of must—it’s not at all like the den at home, but it’s deeply, instinctively familiar, nonetheless. And there are old memories here, too. Of childhood. And simpler times.

I look down at her out of the corner of my eye. She smiles. “I’m glad you called,” she says. “I’ve missed you.” She says it without reproach, but it makes my heart sink anyway. I hadn’t wanted to hurt her. Though I guess I knew I would. It’s just . . . I couldn’t be around her while . . . . She knows me too well. She’d have found out what I was up to, and then she’d have talked me out of it.

But it’s safe now. The deed is done.

“I’m glad you came.” I lean into her a little. “To be honest, I didn’t think you would.”

“And why would you think that?“

“No reason,” I lie. I grin and try to cover: “Just, you know, clothes, shoes, running in heels . . . .”

She punches me in the ribs with her free hand. “You try running on gravel in heels!”

I laugh. “See, that’s exactly my point!”

She snuggles back into me and I put my arm around her and pull her close.

“I was a little worried . . . that you’d be angry with me.”

She looks up at me and smirks. “Why, because you’ve been avoiding me?”

Hah! “I’m that transparent, am I?”

She sighs. “You are to me.”

Hmmm. And I always have been, haven’t I.

“You aren’t angry?”

“Eh,” she says, and shrugs. “Not any more. Maybe at first. But I know how you get.

“I try not to take it personally.”

I don’t know how she can be so easy-going. So forgiving. But I’ve always envied that about her. And I hate it that I’ve relied on it so much.

“You know,” I say, and meet her eyes, “I’ve really missed you.”

“I know,” she says, without hesitation—like it’s the most obvious thing I could have said. “But maybe you could remember, next time, that I like having you around, too, okay?”

Skewered, I look away.

“I’m sorry.”

“Uh huh. So, can I assume whatever stupid idea you’ve been avoiding me to do is done?”

Transparent indeed.

But I guess I’ve avoided the topic long enough.

“She’s gone, Tara. And she won’t be back.”