“But—”
“But a good secret. A surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises good or bad or in between.”
“You only need wait another five minutes … The Sindaco told me … It’s in your room.” He singsongs the last part.
I sigh, roll my eyes, but I’m smiling on the verge of laughing at how completely ridiculous he can be. “Fine.”
When we enter my cave, unchanged from how I left it, he lingers at the door, fingering the rough stones that line it like a frame.
“It’s there, underneath the mural. A welcome-home gift from us to you.”
“Us?”
“The Night, the Sindaco, me.”
I glance over my shoulder, catch his eyes. He’s watching me, waiting for my reaction I suppose.
I walk farther into my room and quickly realize Dorian’s still lingering at the doorway. “Are you coming in?” I call without looking back.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
He can’t see it, but I roll my eyes. Not out of annoyance, but because I knew he was going to say that.
I immediately notice a package wrapped in brown paper leaning against the wall beneath the mural. I walk up to it. Stare down at it. My name is scrawled messily on it in black ink.
“Did you write that?” I eye Dorian.
“I did.” Which I can assume means he wrapped the oddly shaped gift. I can’t deny the thought of him sitting Sun knows where, trying to figure out how to cover this awkward, pointy thing, is equal parts funny and hopelessly endearing.
“Did you swear a lot while trying to wrap all that?”
He laughs. “Definitely.” When I glance over at him his face is the slightest pink.
I sit down on the mat and he joins me. I pick up the package. It’s heavier than I expect, and something inside clinks together like wood. I quirk an eyebrow at Dorian.
“My Moon, V, open it already!”
I laugh. “I take my time with gifts.”
He breathes in through his nose. “It’s torture to watch, just so you know. But I’m coming to you if we ever need an explosive removed.”
“Noted.” I grin, continuing to take my time. Even more so now.
I untie the string and remove it. Then, strip by strip, I unwrap the brown paper.
What I find beneath the double layer of wrapping is unexpected.
Exhilarating and terrifying at once.
A worn leather quiver of spears and a hooked throwing device, the handle adorned with a glass five-pointed star the colors of the Sun and moon combined. Sparkling flecks of gold and silver swim within the star, a length of black leather wrapped around the handle as grip.
An atlatl. My mother’s atlatl. Instantly, my eyes prickle because I can’t believe it. I grew up thinking this weapon was a thing of legends. Lost to the past, forever gone just like her. It’s the one item I ever linked solely with my mother. This atlatl is to her like my fishing pole is to me. It’s everything. A tool. A weapon.
I blink a few times. Stare at it on the floor before me when I realize I’ve not given off any reaction good or bad. I look over at Dorian, who’s eyeing me right back, unsure.
“It’s…,” I start, then stop to take a breath. “I’ve only ever seen one photograph of my mother. She was holding this weapon. I used to sneak into Poppy’s room after he went to work and gaze at it for hours. I’d make up stories about going hunting with her. I’d fish and she’d catch game and then we’d come home and make stew and bake bread.” I smile. “Long after dark, I’d often awaken to sounds outside. I’d lie frozen in my bed, terrified of the Night sneaking into my room and snatching me. But then I’d imagine my mother with her atlatl standing watch, and it would always calm me.” I gaze back at it. Run my fingers over the smooth wood. “Poppy always told me she’d used it to hunt for food.” I turn and face Dorian. “I’m assuming that wasn’t true.”
He shakes his head, slightly humored. “No.” Still, he’s watching me. “So, you like it?”
“My Sun, Dorian, I love it. It’s almost too special to actually use.”
“What?” He must think I’m serious the way his jaw hangs lax.
“I said, almost. This weapon was meant to be used. It would be a disservice not to use it.”
“Right.” Satisfied with my answer, he looks deeply into my eyes, which sends a buzzing from my chest to my stomach and back up again. “You’ll get your chance tomorrow. First thing.”
I move closer to get a better view of the weapon, and when I do, not only is my leg pressed against Dorian’s, but my hand is now resting on his knee. I hear him take a breath in like he’s about to speak, and I glance over. He’s staring down at the place where my outer thigh is against his, then, when he realizes I’m watching, moves his gaze to the atlatl.
“Have you ever used one?” He motions to the weapon.
“No,” I whisper, my voice suddenly hoarse. My heart is pounding in my ears because the heat from his body radiating into mine, even at the slightest touch, sends goose bumps down my arms. I’m shivery and too warm and my cheeks are burning and my stomach is fluttering all over the touch of his leg.
Instantly, I scoot away. “I should get some rest.”
“Of—of course. Long day,” he stutters, perhaps just as confounded and intrigued by all the sensations as I am. He stands up, starts for the door. “Sleep well, Veda.”
“You too,” I say, not looking back, still sitting in the exact same spot and position, working to regain my breath.
A moment later, when I glance over my shoulder at the doorway, he’s vanished.
Without thinking, I run after him. “Dorian?”
He’s only a few steps down the tunnel and pivots to face me.
“I never thanked you for being there for me … after Poppy. I’m glad I wasn’t alone and I’m glad it’s you who was there.”
Something that looks a lot like adoration passes over his face, and my butterflies begin to stir. He steps closer. “You’re welcome. I’m glad I was there too.” His expression is soft, intense. The yellow glow of his lantern beaming up, casts him in a golden warmth.
If this were a fairy tale, it’d probably be the moment we’d kiss.
But this isn’t a fairy tale.
I bite the inside of my cheek, swallow really hard. “Sleep well,” I say.
He smiles shyly, like he knows what I’ve been thinking. “You too.”
I force myself to walk away.
And like that first day we met, I glance back. He hasn’t moved, eyes still intense, slight grin on his lips.
I return his look with a small smile, then walk straight back to my cave.
If I were at home, I’d throw myself onto my bed and think about how embarrassing and exciting that exchange just was.
Except I’m not at home, I’m in a cold, damp cave.
Instead, my thoughts busily consumed with the past few moments, I unpack the bag I brought along and place my things from home on the rock ledge next to the glass pantera and sun figures, the little girl’s embroidery. Poppy’s pipe, the photo of us, and the scrap of pillowcase all now line the shelf. An altar in its own right.