“You do talk to him, and the other horses. The way I can.”
“I do, yes.”
“And the hawks—your own, Connor’s, the others. Kathel, our hound. Even Bugs. All of them.”
Fin moved his shoulders, a kind of half shrug that managed to be elegant and a little sad. “They’re all mine, and none of them mine. There’s no guide for me, as there is for you. No connection that intimate. But, well, we understand each other. Go on now, say what you need to say to Boyle.”
“Tomorrow . . .”
“You’ll shine, brighter than you ever have.” He cupped her chin a moment, tapped a finger on her jaw. “I believe it. Go see Boyle. I’ll be around and about if you need me.”
She took two steps, turned. “She loves you.”
Fin just stroked a hand over Alastar’s neck. “I know it.”
“It’s harder, isn’t it, knowing someone loves you and can’t let it just be love?”
“It is. Harder than anything else.”
With a nod, she walked over, then climbed the steps to Boyle’s room. Straightened her shoulders, knocked.
When he answered the door, she had her smile ready. “Hi. Can I talk to you a minute?”
“Of course. Is something wrong?”
“No. Maybe. It depends. I need to . . .” She closed her eyes, held her hands out to the side, palms out.
He saw something shimmer, caught the faintest change of the light, of the air.
“He’s focused on me,” Iona said. “So he might find ways to hear, to listen, to see, even when we’re inside. I don’t want him to hear what we talk about.”
“All right. Ah, do you want tea. Or a beer?”
“Actually, I wouldn’t mind some whiskey.”
“That’s easily done.” He crossed over to take a bottle down from a cupboard, then two short glasses. “This is about tomorrow.”
“In a way. I meant what I said before. I believe we’ll win. I believe we have to, that we’re meant to. And I know what blood feels like on my hands. I know, or I believe, the good, the light, defeats evil, the dark. But not without cost. Not without price, and sometimes the price is very high.”
“If you weren’t afraid, you’d be stupid.”
She took the glass he offered. “I’m not stupid,” she said, and tossed the whiskey back. “We can’t know what will happen tomorrow, or what the price may be. I think it’s important, tonight, to grab what good we have, what light we have, and hold on to it. I want to be with you tonight.”
He took a careful step back. “Iona.”
“It’s a lot to ask, considering I asked you exactly the opposite not so very long ago. You gave your word, and you kept it. Now I’m asking you to give me tonight. I want to be touched, to be held. I want to feel before tomorrow comes. I need you tonight. I hope you need me.”
“I never stopped wanting to touch you.” He set his whiskey aside. “I never stopped wishing to be with you.”
“We’d both have tonight, whatever comes. I think we’d be stronger for it. It’s not breaking a promise if I ask you to throw it away. Will you take me to bed? Will you let me stay till morning?”
There were things he wanted to say, yearned to say. But would she believe them, even with her shining faith, if he said them here and now?
The words would wait, he told himself, until the dawn after the longest day. Then she’d believe what he’d come to know.
Instead of speaking he simply stepped to her. Though they felt big, clumsy, he cupped her face with his hands, then lowered his mouth to hers.
She leaned into him, her arms wrapping, her lips heating.
“Thank God! Thank God you didn’t send me away. I’ve—”
“Quiet,” he murmured, and kissed her—soft, soft, tender as a bud just opened.
They had till morning, he thought. All those long hours, only that finite time. He would do what he’d never thought to do. He would take each minute, make it precious. Show her, somehow, she was precious.
“Come with me now.” Taking her hand, he led her to the bedroom. Then crossed over to pull the blinds down on the windows. The light went dim and dusky.
“I’ll be a moment,” he told her, left her there.
He had candles. For emergencies rather than atmosphere, but a candle was a candle, wasn’t it?
He might not be a romantic sort of man, but he knew what romance was.
He unearthed three candles, brought them in, set them around. Then remembered matches. He patted his pockets. “I’ll just find the matches, then . . .”
She trailed a finger through the air, and the candles flamed.
“Or we could do that.”
“I’m not sure what we’re doing, but you’re making me nervous.”
“Good.” He went back to her, ran his hands down, shoulder to wrist and back again. “I wouldn’t mind that. I’d like feeling you tremble,” he murmured, opening the buttons of her shirt. “I’d like looking in your eyes and seeing you can’t help yourself. That nervous or not, you want me to go on touching you.”
“I do.” She reached up, managed to open a button on his shirt before he stopped her.
“I want you to take what I give you tonight. Just take, just let me give. I’ve missed seeing the shape of you,” he continued, and drew her shirt off her shoulders. “Missed the feel of your skin under my hands.”
He circled her n**ples with his thumbs, then gently brushed the pads over them, over them until the tremble came.
He took his hands over her, took her mouth with his—everything slow, everything dreamy, even the thick thud of her heart against him.
“Take what I give.” He backed her to the bed, brushing, stroking, eased her onto it. Watched her in the candlelight as he drew off her boots, set them down.
“Come lie with me.”
“Oh, I will. In time.”
He unbuttoned her jeans, drew the zipper down. Slow. Followed its path with his lips.
What was he doing to her? She found herself clutching at the bed covers one minute, going limp as water the next. He undressed her so slowly, inch-by-inch torture. And yet the pleasure was sumptuous, a banquet of exotic delicacies. The heat of it enervated. The weight of it left her arms too heavy to lift.
She knew nothing but the feel of his hands, his lips, the sound of his voice, his scent. Him. Him. Him.
Once, twice, a third time he guided her to the shuddering edge, held her there, poised, desperate for the leap, only to ease her back again until her breath sobbed with need, with the speechless desire for the next.
Then with lips, tongue, ruthlessly patient hands he slid her over that edge.
Not a leap, but a fall—breathless, endless, a tumble of senses and sensations. And the world revolved.
“Oh God. God. Please.”
“What do you please?”
“Don’t stop.”
His mouth, on her breast, her belly, her thigh. Then his tongue, sliding over her, into her until she fell yet again, then mindlessly craved the next climb.
He hadn’t known he’d wanted her helpless, or what it would do to him to know he’d made her so. But to see her alight—she couldn’t know she glimmered like one of the candles—to feel her body rise up to take what he offered, to feel it fall again as she grasped that pleasure. It was more than he’d known, more than he’d imagined.
And the wanting of her filled every part of him—mind, body, spirit.
“Look at me now, Iona. Would you look at me now?”
She opened her eyes, saw his in the candle glow. Saw nothing else.
“I’m with you,” he said as he slipped into her. “I’m with you.”
They climbed again, eyes and bodies locked. Climbed until she swore the air thinned. And when her eyes gleamed with tears, they fell together.
21
TODAY, BOYLE THOUGHT AS HE DRANK BRUTALLY STRONG COFFEE AT HIS KITCHEN WINDOW.
He couldn’t stop it, or her. And in some part of himself he knew, even accepted that he, that she, that all of them had prepared for this day all of their lives.
Hard enough, it had always been hard enough to understand what his closest friends in the world might face one day—today—but with Iona it was only harder.
Whatever he could do he would to see her safely through it, to help her and the rest end it.
And then?
Once this day was done there would be a great deal more to do, if only he could figure out the hows of it all.
Sure how could he figure out anything when the day was to be filled with magick and violence, struggle and destinies? And very likely life and death.
His life, he thought, would’ve been easier by far if she’d never come into it.
Then he sensed her, turned, saw her standing outside his bedroom door, that short halo of hair still damp from her shower, her eyes deep and a bit sleepy yet before her coffee.
And he knew without a shadow, easier wasn’t what he wanted.
“Should we talk?” she asked him.
“Probably so, but it’s a strange day for all that.”
“It is, yeah. Later’s better.”
He nodded. “After, yes. There’s a lot to be said after this day.” Get busy, he told himself. Get moving. “You’ll have coffee, won’t you?”
“Absolutely.” But she didn’t move to pour it for herself as she’d done before.
He’d done that, he knew, made her feel a guest again. Words wanted to be said, but he held them back, and would until this long, strange day was done.
So he got down a mug, poured it for her.
“Thanks. I’m going to go down, spend some time with Alastar. Do you have any problem with me riding him home today, keeping him there until it’s time?”
“I don’t, no. He’s yours after all. I’ll ride with you.”
“Actually, I think Fin will. He and Branna need to refine any details of the magicks with Connor and me.”
“All right, but you don’t ride alone.” Carefully, he touched a hand to her shoulder. “Are you afraid?”
“No. Not afraid. I thought I’d be revved, pumped, with some good, healthy fear mixed in. I’m just not, and not sure why. I feel almost unreasonably calm. Today’s what I’ve been working for, training for, learning for. And that was ordained, I guess is the word for it, on the night Sorcha sacrificed herself.
“We finish what she started. And then . . .”
When he said nothing, she sipped at her coffee. “And then,” she continued, “we do good work, we lead good lives. That’s enough for anyone.”
“Your work and your life are here.”
“Yes.” On that, at least, she had no doubts. “My place is here.”
“I’ll fix us up some breakfast.”
“Thanks, but I feel like I ought to be a little hungry, and . . . light for now. I’ll be down with Alastar until it’s time to go back home.” She set her coffee, barely touched, aside. “I needed you last night, and you were there. I won’t forget it.” She walked quickly to the door. “I’ll see you, an hour before moonrise.”