Chapter Sixteen
Spring came late again this year, and summer ends far too early.
I have sent word via the priestesses to every village to prepare.
The island’s bounty has always been more than we needed, but I fear that may not always be true.
We will preserve more than we need this autumn, and hope that we feel foolish when spring comes again.
The lost journal of High Priestess Tona
Einar’s skin felt too tight.
He stood on their suite’s private balcony, feet bare against the chilly stone in spite of the frigid night air.
Naia had insisted on making time to speak with some of the frightened villagers, and Aleksi had shut himself up with Gwynira for another of their diplomatic conversations about the attack at the beach.
Einar didn’t want to be alone. But he couldn’t tolerate the idea of facing the naked need of the islanders, or Gwynira’s icy assessment.
Not right now, when even the slide of his clothing against human skin was an unbearable irritation.
Battle-readiness still surged in his blood, but there was no outlet for it. Nothing to attack, no one to fight.
Just the wind, and the waves, and the night sky lit by silver moons and an endless expanse of bright stars.
A plaintive yowl cut through the silence, and he smiled as his gaze fell to the rocky shore far below.
Perhaps he wasn’t entirely alone. The large cat who had come to Naia’s aid paced the beach below, its restless energy a match for his own.
Just two wild creatures, waiting for the return of the goddess whose touch could soothe them.
Einar rolled his shoulders, trying to shift the fabric so it didn’t irritate him so much.
It didn’t help. There had been times in the past when he’d felt regret upon regaining his human form, but this was the first time it had taken effort to maintain.
It didn’t feel like his own skin anymore, but a cage trapping the parts of him that wanted to break free.
Danger stalked the people he loved. Newly awoken Dreamers could be snatched up from the Empire by their enemies and sent against them at any time.
Einar was stronger in his demigod form. Harder to hurt.
Harder to kill. He could protect Aleksi and Naia more easily if he shed this mortal skin and embraced the parts of himself that felt real.
The ocean crashed against the rocks beneath him, as if churning in sympathy.
Einar closed his eyes and reached out, but it was harder to feel its rhythms when he wasn’t standing on the deck of the Kraken.
He had considered going out to the ship to feel the smooth wood beneath his feet and sink his power into the depths of the sea, but he didn’t trust his temper.
And he didn’t really want the sea, anyway. He wanted Naia.
“Einar.”
Her voice brushed over him, and for a moment he thought he’d conjured it from pure yearning. But the feel of her wrapped around him, soothing one ache while stirring another.
He turned, and nearly caught his breath.
She was stunning by the moonlight, ethereal and not quite of this world.
The moons should have been the same everywhere, but he swore their light caressed her differently tonight, painting her in silver light and stunning shadows that only existed on this island.
Her island.
“Are the villagers feeling better?” he asked, his voice rasping.
“They were mostly worried about me. About us.” She stepped closer and raised her hand, fingertips hovering over his skin without quite touching. “You changed.”
Back into his human skin, she meant. “I didn’t want to make people uncomfortable.”
The wry quirk of her eyebrow practically demanded since when? but she only murmured, “That’s a shame. I rather like when you look like you.”
Like you. The words crashed over him like a rogue wave, and his control over his human form faltered. To be not just accepted as he was, but to be desired because of who he was . . .
He didn’t consciously decide to change. The demigod form tore free, the discomfort of the transition lost on a wave of euphoria as he stopped struggling against his instincts, stopped trying to hold back, stopped fighting.
Fabric ripped loudly. He glanced down, wincing.
At least he hadn’t been wearing his finest leather pants, or his lovingly embroidered vest. But the loose pants had not been loose enough to accommodate his larger size, and his shirt had fared even worse, the ragged tears revealing the fine silvery purple-and-blue hide that had taken the place of his human skin.
“I’m going to run out of clothing if I keep doing that. ”
“We’ll find you a robe.” Her fingers finally made contact with his cheek, warm and soft. No one had ever stroked him in this form before Aleksi and Naia, so he had never realized how sensitive this flesh was, how the slightest touch could spark through him like lightning.
“There you are,” she whispered, stroking him again. Then her smile fell away. “Are you certain you weren’t injured during the attack?”
“Not a scratch.” But the doubt didn’t fade from her eyes, so he turned so she could see the bare, unmarred expanse of his back. “Like I said, it’s hard to pierce my skin in this form.”
“Good.” Now those teasing fingertips were sliding across his back, tracing dizzying patterns across his shoulders that stoked the hunger burning within. “Aleksi was hurt, though he did not let us see.”
“What?” That dashed cold water on his ardor as he glanced back. “How badly? Is he all right?”
“Yes. Inga already healed him.”
Damn it all. He should have checked on the Lover himself. He knew too well how prone the man was to hiding his own hurts—even from Naia and Einar. “You’re sure he has been healed? How do you know?”
Her gaze dropped, as if she could no longer meet his eyes. “I just do.”
Einar put one finger beneath her chin and tilted her face back up.
Her expression was self-conscious, uncertain, which could only mean that this knowledge had not come by normal means.
And given her connection to the island—and the island’s connection to her—he could guess what had happened.
“You know because you’re the goddess, and this is your island. ”
It hadn’t quite been a question, but she answered anyway. “Yes.”
How much was she aware of, now that the island had fully claimed her?
If her pleasure could sink into the land and spiral out to touch those around her, was the opposite happening as well?
Could she feel the stirring of power? Sparks of magic?
Enemy feet treading on the sands? Or was it subtler, not a thing of senses, but of simply knowing?
He might have asked, but she’d gone back to touching him, tracing an aimless path up his arm as if she was savoring the way it felt beneath her fingertips. So a different question emerged. “You truly don’t mind when I wear this form?”
“You are not a form,” she protested. “And I do not care what you look like. I only care who and what you are.” She met his gaze, eyes soft and yearning. “And that you’re mine.”
He caught her hand and held it to his chest, where his heart pounded beneath their joined fingers. “If I wore it all the time, others might care. They would fear me, and that fear might reflect back on you and Aleksi.”
“Honestly?” Her fingernails dug into his chest with delicious pressure. “I’d rather they feared us on our own merits, not yours.”
Einar couldn’t help his low laugh. “You were incredibly fierce today. Anyone who means harm to your people should fear you.”
He expected her to laugh as well, but her smile dropped away, and she swallowed hard. “I have something to tell you, and I don’t know how, so I think I just have to do it.”
“All right.” He stroked a soothing hand over hers. “There is nothing you can’t tell me.”
Instead of speaking, she turned, tugging his hand until he followed her inside. She stopped to sweep up a robe—just large enough that he could shrug into it after he kicked free of his damaged pants—and then sat on the love seat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, waiting for him to join her.
As ominous as her sudden seriousness was, Einar tied the belt around his waist before joining her on the plush seat, which felt a great deal smaller now than it had last time he’d sat on it. “Tell me, Naia. Just tell me.”
She seemed to struggle for how to start. “You are the Kraken,” she finally said, the words halting and hesitant. “You always have been, Einar.”
It felt like that, some days. It had been almost two thousand years since he’d walked this world as a mortal man. But she wouldn’t look so distressed if she was simply commenting upon the length of his life. “You mean I was born with this potential in me? Because of my connection to the island?”
A shake of her head. “No, I mean that your birth was a return to the island. Because you lived here before, with me, when you were Theron. The god of storms.”
The words didn’t make sense. He repeated them in his mind a second time, and a third, trying to push them into coherence as his heart began to pound. If this was anyone else, he’d think they were trying to trick or manipulate him. Perhaps she was teasing him? But the look in her eyes—
“It was you who gave me the sea glass,” she whispered. “You who stayed here and helped the people of Rahvekya survive after I was gone. It was always you.”
Impossible. Ridiculous. But Naia was deadly serious. And the only way she could be, the only way she could know . . .
“You . . .” His voice cracked. He swallowed, and tried again. “You . . . remember me?”
“Yes.” Tears filled her voice, and her eyes. One escaped, tracking down her cheek. “I remember everything.”
He wanted more than anything to reach out and wipe that tear from her cheek, but he was afraid his hands would shake. What did you even say to something like this? To someone telling you the fondest, most impossible dreams of your childish heart had been true the whole time?