“So Ian’s behavior wasn’t a demon being evil,” I say, finally catching on. “It was an Earthbound rebelling. Trying to get out.”
Gawan nods again. “Exactly.”
I eye him, and even though I already know the answer after seeing into his memories, I want to hear him say it. “You know all that because you are an Earthbound?”
“Was,” Gawan corrects. “For centuries. I’m a mere mortal now, like Dreadmoor.”
I’m finally catching on to this twelfth and thirteenth century jive. Not only do both warriors have their given names, but they’re also referred to by their home. Dreadmoor. Grimm. Confusing as hell, but I get it.
“I was dead, though,” Tristan adds. “A bloody spirit, as were my men, for centuries on and on. Only did my fate change when a young Colonist happened upon my land.”
I blink. “You were a ghost for centuries, yes?”
Tristan nods. “Aye.”
“Like see-through, mists and orbs, or something different?” I ask.
Tristan laughs. “I appeared just as you see me now, with the exception of my garb. I looked very much alive.” He rubs his chin. “I do miss walking straight through walls, and just thinking of a spot I wished to occupy and then just . . . occupying it.”
“Do you miss it?” Ginger asks. She’s sitting next to Lucian on a long, brown leather sofa.
“Nay,” Tristan clarifies. “I wouldn’t trade my Andrea for any of it.”
Gawan looks at me. “His wife.”
I look at Gawan.
I decide my powers are all too useful all of a sudden.
And take a lot less time than verbal explanations.
Slowly, I reach over and brush Gawan’s hand with mine.
Now I’m Gawan of Conwyk . . .
Gawan walked close beside her, his arm not too tightly around her, and guided her across the glowing, glittery winter wonderland of Castle Grimm. With the tall, gray Grimm towers, and that giant mouth of a portcullis, it truly did look like something out of a fairy tale. On they walked to the courtyard, where in the spring dozens of flowers bloomed, Gawan said, and the border bumped straight up to the edge of the cliff. The moon hung over the choppy North Sea, and a light sprinkling of snow fell steadily. Gawan had told her how uncanny it was to get snow—and this much of it—at this time of year. Uncanny, he’d said.
For Gawan of Conwyk to find anything uncanny was, well, uncanny.
“Are you sure you want to see this?” he asked.
Ellie stopped and cocked her head. “Are you kidding? Of course I want to.”
Gawan guided her to a stone bench set amidst the rose bushes overlooking the sea. “You sit here. I’ll need to stand back a ways.” He unbuttoned his coat. “Promise me you won’t scream. ’Tis overwhelming, the sight of them.”
“I won’t scream.”
He gave a nod, dropped his coat and shirt, and looked at her, just before he walked off. Standing there, the moonlight painting his broad, muscular, tattooed chest in a pale glow, his shoulder-length curls tossing about him in the wind, Ellie appeared taken.
Only she hadn’t yet seen Gawan’s magnificent yet useless reminders that he’d done something worthy once, several lifetimes ago.
And there, with the tumultuous North Sea roaring behind him and snowflakes falling about, stood Gawan of Conwyk. Born in “a.d.” 1115 A.D., died in A.D. “A.D.” 1145. Honor bound by his knightly vows; awarded in death a pair of guardian’s wings to symbolize his selfless deeds. And as he closed his eyes and said the strange words that carried to Ellie’s ears only because of the fierce midwinter’s wind blowing directly at her, his wings unfolded from their hiding place within his shoulder blades and spanned nearly twelve feet, tip to tip. They—he—was the most astounding and glorious sight she’d ever beheld.
Not for the first time since meeting the man, Ellie was speechless.
And within the blink of an eye, he’d retracted those wings and was striding closer to her, silently, and when he got to her, she helped him into his shirt and coat, and he embraced her, his mouth buried into her neck.
“I didn’t frighten you, did I?” he asked against her skin.
Ellie held on tight. “I’m never scared with you.” And wished she could stay there, enclosed within his arms, forever.
“Even that wouldn’t be long enough for me,” Gawan whispered in her ear.
“Stay out of my head, Conwyk,” she said, and he chuckled.
And she cried.
When I focus on Gawan of Conwyk’s eyes, they soften. And, he smiles. “Did you find what you seek?” he asks softly.
I nod. “For now.” I do know there’s a helluva lot more to Gawan and Tristan than what meets the curious eye.
It was a lot to think about. Angels. Earthbounds. Demons. Jodís. Fallen. Vampires. Werewolves. Immortal druids.
And me. Whatever I am.
Weariness is starting to hit me. I’m one of the only souls in the room who require sleep, except for the lupines. Not too sure about the druids. Even I require just a small amount these days.
“Ri, you need to rest for a bit,” Eli says. He rubs my head, then explains. “One of the several side effects of her mortal DNA mixing with that of four vampires. She just falls out sometimes. Like a bad case of narcolepsy.”
“Go rest,” Jake says. “We’ll be here when you wake up. We’ve a lot to go over before Tristan and Gawan leave.”
“Why are they leaving?” I ask. “Wouldn’t their skills with the sword be helpful?”
“That’s what I keep telling him,” Tristan says, grumbling.
“Whilst they are the verra best swordsman alive, in my opinion, they are mere mortals. They can be killed. And we’re obviously dealing with a lot more than we at first assumed. Not just simply lopping off the heads of a Fallen or a Jodís. I’ll not make their families suffer. The both of them have done enough of that in their lifetimes,” Jake says.
“Aye,” Gawan says. “Dreadmoor already has six children.”
“Soon to be seven,” Jake corrects. “And you’re one to talk, Conwyk. Your bride has been pregnant more oft than not. Five babes now?”
“There is that,” Gawan replies, and he nods. “Aye, there is that, indeed.”
“I want them out of here before the Fallen rejuvenate. We’ve one more day left, at best,” Jakes says, then inclines his head toward the desk. “Sydney is pouring through the Celtae’s old tomes. Only she can read them. Clues are hidden amongst the pages regarding the relics. Then we’ll be hitting the streets.”
I nod. “I’ll only rest for a bit.” I push off the floor, grab my empty container and Coke bottle, and start toward the kitchen. Eli rises and follows me.
I catch the light switch with my elbow as I walk in, Eli behind me. The kitchen is a decent size, with a long wooden block top in the center, a pair of deep white porcelain sinks at the back, and a huge mahogany dining table. It looks old. Modern appliances fill the spaces, a double-sized stainless-steel, side-by-side fridge with a freezer drawer on the bottom, a dishwasher, and a stove. Above it, a mega microwave. In the far corner, the “red” fridge for the vamps. Some smart-ass has placed a magnet of a pair of long, white fangs on the front of the door. Funny.
“Immortals eat a lot,” Eli offers. He takes my trash, finds the receptacle, and dumps it. “Almost as much as humans with tendencies.”
“Ha ha,” I remark, and slide my arms around his waist. His strong arms embrace me, and I feel drowsy just resting against his chest.
“Go upstairs and get some sleep,” he says against my hair, then kisses my temple. His lips move to my ear. “You’re gonna need it, chère.”
My heart leaps.
Eli laughs against my hair. “I heard that.”
Something hard presses against my abdomen. “I feel that.”
He laughs again. “Go,” he says, and turns me around and swats my ass. “Go get some rest. You don’t want to pass out onto the floor like you did at my parent’s house.”
“Yeah, that I could’ve done without,” I answer. “Especially with your idiotic brothers watching. Throwing things at me and laughing. So freaking juvenile.”
“Don’t forget my idiotic sister,” he adds. “She laughed just as hard.”
“Yeah and your mama scolded you all for it,” I remind him.
“Tough woman, Elise Dupré,” he says.
To that I fully agree. And I miss her.
I wave good night to the team as I pass back through the common room and head for the stairs. In the foyer, it’s dark with only a single lamp burning on a tall, small table. Shadows play on the wall as I go by, and I briefly wonder if it’s me causing it or something else.
I climb to the second floor, and only when I hit the landing does a strange sensation come over me. I glance around, but see nothing except dim lights and shadows. I continue on. Stopping by the bathroom, I take care of girly business, wash up, and brush my teeth. I pull my jet-black hair into a floppy bun at the top of my head, and head out into the corridor. I take no more than a few steps before the sensation comes back full force. A whisper brushes my neck, close to my ear, and I whip around. My breath hitches.
At the end of the hall, back at the platform leading downstairs, is that creepy little girl from before. I blink. She’s gone.
I half expect her to still be standing there, saying Come play with me. Forever.
I stare at the empty space for several seconds. I guess if Tristan can be a ghost for centuries, and I know that to be true, then the ghost of a little girl could be lingering here. Not optimal, since I don’t have time for tricks and games and scares, but what the Hell. I turn and head to my room. I pull up short.
She’s standing by my door.
I decide to play it cool.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
The little girl, with her severely pulled-back hair and white skin, simply stares. She says nothing.
