All he wanted was to return to the great ether, just disappear into a flush of energy that had no consciousness whatsoever. And the only reason he hadn’t followed through on the immolation?
He thought of the Black Dagger Brotherhood, the King… their families and doggen. The civilians. The Chosen who had been liberated.
His Rahvyn.
For the species’ benefit, he needed to rally. He needed to get in gear. He needed to pull up his bootstraps, get motivated, get back into the game, address the ball, find his stance, assume the position.
The pep talk didn’t work. It hadn’t worked.
He was beginning to worry it wasn’t going to.
Crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes refocused on the sliver of glow at the horizon. There was almost none of the sunset’s illumination left, and he found the parallel apt. There was not much of him left, either.
On that note, he looked down at the satchel he’d brought out with him. Opening the neck, he poured some of the contents into his palm. The tangle of golden links glowed, even in the gathering darkness, and he moved the weight around. He’d worn the necklaces, bracelets, and earrings for years because there was something of the sun in gold, and when he hadn’t been able to get outside to bathe in the solar stuff directly, he’d liked to have the warmth against his skin. Plus, given that his wedding jesses had been stolen some time ago, maybe there had been a little making up for that on his part.
More than a little.
He’d taken all his gold off before he’d turned his body over to the demon. Now? He wasn’t putting it back on. Ever. The shit would probably turn black.
Funneling the links back into the little bag and cinching the tie, he wound up a pitch and sent the satchel flying into the view’s anonymity. Just as it was silhouetted against that faint hearth of a sunset, he blew it to hell and gone with a burst of energy, the sparkling explosion like a fall of stars.
Enough, he thought. No one was coming to save him. Saviors did not get rescued.
He needed to go back to the Brotherhood, to Caldwell, to the species that he had agreed to oversee. Enough of this self-imposed purgatory—
That image of Rahvyn’s enchanting face intruded once again, sandblasting his best intentions away.
He’d only held her once. When he’d told her goodbye.
Something hit his hand, and he glanced down. The silver droplet glistened and the heat that registered was the first sensation he had felt since…
Well, since he’d come here to this mountain, at any rate.
Shaking the tear off, he pulled a swipe under his eyes and then regarded the pads of his fingers. What came out of him when he was in pain was like mercury, the reflective liquid smooth and clingy, preferring to find a stasis point that was perfectly round if it could gather enough of itself.
Turning away, he walked back to the entrance of the cave.
He had known true love when he’d seen it, when he’d scented it in his nose, when he’d felt it in his body. Then he’d done a terrible thing to himself for the right reason, and there was no going back.
Better to have loved and lost?
“Bullshit,” he muttered as he ducked his head and disappeared once more into the hideout.
CHAPTER THREE
Non-temporal Plane of Existence
Somewhere in Time and Space
Of course I like you.”
As Rahvyn lowered herself to the hot-pink grass, she crossed her legs under her seat and put her elbows on her knees. Overhead, the psychedelic sky was a brilliant orange, clouds of red and yellow drifting by, the pseudo-sun a brilliant, glowing blue. Fluffy trees of ostrich plumes and golden branches undulated in a soft breeze that smelled of lilies, and birds made of heat waves and shimmers flittered by. Off to the side, a lavender lake was still, its surface a mirror that reflected back the world that had been created as both a sanctuary… and a vault.
When there was a ruffle, she shook her head. “No, it is not your fault. And I am very sorry I am not terribly good company.”
The Book was open before her, its ancient parchment folios undulating gently in their spine as if it were breathing. Bound in human flesh—or perhaps vampire?—the entity was no more about words and pages than this metaphysical plane she was hiding them in was about reality. The Book was a conduit for energy in the universe, neither bad nor good, its possessors and their inner worlds determining the course of the spells and incantations held between its covers.
Which meant the thing was capable of great goodness… and unfathomable evil.
There was another ruffle.
“Oh, thank you,” she murmured. “I appreciate your concern. But I shall endure.”
The dismissive sound that came back at her could have meant the Book was doubting her endurance or mayhap her course, but either way, there was no unkindness. With her, it had only ever been full of grace. Then again, unlike so many others, she had never had any interest in harnessing its power—and further, she believed it felt as though a debt was owed because she had rescued it from an untenable, abusive situation: Safety had been requested, and safety had been provided, without questions or expectation of recourse.
Knowing how the poor thing had been used, she could understand why removal from the demon Devina’s sphere of influence had been sought—
Fast flipping now, as if the pages were a spinning wheel that went round and round, no beginning, no end.
“Please don’t,” she whispered in defeat.
Yet it would not listen to her.
Closing her eyes, tension taloned up her spine and dug into the nape of her neck, and on reflex, she tugged at the sweater that clothed her and switched the arrangement of her legs in the jeans she wore. Neither eased the tension.
And when things stilled, she did not want to look because she knew what she would see.
She opened her lids anyway.
And there he was. As if the Book had become a window, she saw through the interior of its contours a male who was never far from her thoughts: Lassiter, the fallen angel, was iridescent-eyed and blond-and-black-haired, his face constructed of powerful angles and balanced by an intelligence that, having watched him in a crowd once, she believed he kept well hidden under a drape of humor.
“Oh, Lassiter…” Then she cleared her throat. “Whyever do you keep showing him unto me?”
The pages fluttered, as if it were attempting to point at something.
“Yes, I know he’s the one. Therein lies my sadness.”
More fluttering and then a couple of slaps.
“I wish I spoke folio, I truly do.” There was a heave of pages, a sigh of paper—as if she were being deliberately obtuse. “And if your commiseration with my mourning is the way you’re trying to repay me—”
Much flipping the now, the sound like it was applauding.
“It is? Well, that is very sweet.” She brushed its pages with a soft touch. “And I understand that you are grateful for this respite here, but I am happy to be of service to you. I know what it is like to be used for one’s gifts and in ways that harm. My own commiseration with your situation is the purpose for the security I offer.”
A wedge of pages puckered up and blew a kiss.
Rahvyn smiled. “Yes, we are kin, are we not.”
Looking out over the landscape, she toyed with changing it once again, shifting the colors and the arrangement of flora, mayhap turning the lake into a waterfall, perhaps creating an unnecessary, but attractive, shelter.