22 Dáinn #2
“Ignore him,” Jasper replies. “He thinks he knows everything.” We crest the landing, and he opens the first door on the left. “This is you. It’s Phoebe’s old room. Hope that’s okay.”
She smiles weakly. “At this point, I could sleep on the stairs. It’s only for one night, right?”
Wait, what happens after one night? Where will Birdie go? Back to that drab little apartment? Oh, surely not. I look to Jasper, waiting for him to offer our human use of this room indefinitely, but he says nothing. Stepping back, he lets her enter first. I follow her in.
This room carries the faded scent profile of his niece, who was supposed to be living in the shop apartment. Jasmine and honey, fresh tomato plants kissed by the morning sun, the damp earthiness of rooted trees.
“It’s cute,” says Birdie. “Very Phoebe.”
Can she smell it too? I always thought humans had pathetically underdeveloped olfactory senses. Maybe my Birdie is unique. Or maybe she just means the loud colors of the room. Humans sometimes take notice of things I ignore.
“The next door over is a bathroom.” Jasper sets her bag on the desk by the door. “If you need anything, my room is across the hall.”
She sinks down on the edge of the bed. “And Hortie?”
“Downstairs. The room off the kitchen. She says she’s too old to climb stairs.”
“Right. Well . . . thanks.”
He turns to leave without another word, and I want to kick him.
Too bad I have no legs in this form. Nothing for our human?
No kind word or tender touch? If I’m to be relegated to the shadows, it will fall to him to comfort her.
In this moment, Birdie is distressed. He should embrace her, offer to brush her silky, auburn hair.
Humans like physical touch. And this human is starved for it.
She withers like a grape on the vine, aching for a taste of the sun.
“Hey,” she says before he can close the door.
He stills.
I sense the tension between them, the bone-aching longing. Gods, mortals are such idiots. They think there will always be another chance to say and do the right thing. Well, they’re wrong. Take it from an immortal, there is never enough time to do what matters.
They stand now on opposite sides of this room as if there were an ocean between them instead of only a carpet, easily traversed. Feeling nervous under the heat of his stare, Birdie crosses her arms again, physically retreating.
Stupid selfish witch. I’ll flay him for this later.
“I’ll need a ride back to the apartment in the morning,” she says.
“Won’t be a problem. Just tell Hortie what you want for breakfast.”
Her smile turns to more of a wince. “I’ll be okay. She doesn’t need to make me breakfast.”
I swear to Hera, if he doesn’t feed our human . . .
But for once, we seem to be on the same page. “Goddess, help me,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck with a tired hand. “Birdie, please, just let her feed you, okay? Or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
She purses her lips, clearly considering. “I like toast with peanut butter. And coffee.”
He nods. “It’ll be waiting for you in the morning.” Then he turns to leave.
“Hey.”
He glances over his shoulder, one hand on the door.
She tips her head to the side, doing her best to read him. “You sure you’re okay? That was a lot tonight.”
“Sleep,” he says in answer. Not giving her a chance to even offer him a “good night,” he closes the door on us both.
I rush through the closed door, following him across the hall to his bedroom. The scents are more vibrant here, not stale like old bread. Jasper’s signature is everywhere—fresh sawn pine, the forest just after a rain, warm amber honey, sweet golden apples.
He stands in the middle of the room, dragging both hands through his dark hair. With a heavy sigh, he drops them to his sides and sinks down to the edge of his bed. “Are you here?”
Outside, he told me to stay hidden and say nothing. Maybe this is some kind of test?
He glances around, eyes narrowed. “You can show yourself. We’re alone in here.”
I wait.
“Damn it, Dáinn—”
“I’m here.” I appear by the door, drifting closer.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“You saw her.”
“I did.”
“Did you get anything?”
“Any what?”
He huffs, stripping off his shirt and tossing it to the floor. “What do you think I mean? Any vibe. Any magical sense. Any answers. She’s a human, right?”
“Oh, she’s definitely human,” I reply, taking in the sharp lines of his chest, the dark hair trailing down his stomach. The evil eye pendant glints at his neck.
“She could see you down in the alley. But humans can’t see wraiths . . . right?”
I don’t like revealing aspects of wraith nature that hint at our vulnerabilities. But Jasper is right, trust must go both ways. “Only if the human’s name has been called, and only once my hands touch them.”
“Well, she definitely saw you. She’s a human who can see wraiths. And stop them.”
I drift closer. “What did she say exactly? After I left?”
His aura pulses mustard yellow, his usual golden glow tinged with fatigue and wariness. “She said she saw you . . . felt you. She felt your eyes on her.”
“I couldn’t look away,” I say softly. “Even with you in my arms, your soul filling me with such power—I’m sorry, witch, but I couldn’t look away.”
He glances up, searching within the depths of my cowled face. “Why are you apologizing for looking at her?”
I stiffen, feeling vulnerable again. “It’s difficult to explain . . .”
“Try.”
Floating away as far as the wall, I turn back to face the witch. “Savoring a soul is not merely a matter of feeding myself.”
He sits at attention, clearly interested. “What do you mean?”
I cross my arms within the folds of my robes and lean against the wall. “Under perfect conditions, all aspects of my creature nature are satisfied. First by the haunt, then the hunt, finally by the feast.”
“And what are the perfect conditions?”
“It begins with choice. It’s in a wraith’s nature to choose who we devour. My forced bonding robs me of that most basic pleasure. Ludmilla chooses who I devour. And I may say that her choice in bottom-feeding magical miscreants typically leaves me feeling hungrier than before.”
His expression sours. “Shit, that sounds awful. We should all have a choice, Dáinn. I’m sorry she took that from you.”
Saying nothing, I glance out his window into the dark of the yard. It will be morning soon. I’m not allergic to daylight, but I’m not a fan of it either.
“What else?” he presses. “What are the other conditions?”
I look back to my witch, taking in the strong line of his jaw, the pepper of silver at his temples, the firm set of his shoulders. “A soul worth savoring.”
He smirks. “I take it I have one of those?”
I stifle a groan. “Sweet witch, you have no idea.”
“What do I taste like—”
“Don’t,” I hiss.
“You can tell me—”
“I can’t.” I wrap my arms around my middle to keep them from latching on to those strong shoulders.
“Why not?”
I search his face, taking in the warm glow of his aura as he watches me.
I sense no guile or ill intent. He’s merely curious.
He really wants to know me? “Imagine you’re starving,” I say on a breath.
“Weak . . . desperate . . . kept so by a villain who uses and abuses you, locking you in a cage in the deepest part of her dungeons. She lets you out again and again, forcing you to feed on souls barely fit to flicker. Souls that taste sour. Fetid rot that burns your throat or noxious slime that makes you gag. But it’s food.
So, you eat. Then she calls your name again, and you go to her.
You have no choice. Only this time, the name she gives you is steeped in power and purpose.
The name alone opens an ache in your chest.”
Jasper tenses, knowing I speak of him now.
I drift closer, not daring to touch. “You go to him, this one you’ve been gifted .
. . a witch with a soul that shines more radiant than the sun on a summer’s day.
In his eyes, you feel free. His soul is so wild, his memories bold and beautiful.
It’s a gift to taste him. A blessing even to hold him.
For once, you’re not starving. For once, you can truly feast. You hold him in your arms, and for once you don’t feel swept away by your bone-breaking loneliness. ”
“Dáinn . . .”
“So yes, sweet witch, I apologize,” I say over him.
“Devouring you was a gift. I had you in my arms and I dared to think you weren’t enough.
I let myself look at another. I let myself yearn, even with your taste in my throat.
It was cruel, gluttonous. But Birdie appeared, and I felt I could do no less.
It is right that she stopped me from finishing you. ”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t deserve you.”
Sighing, he shakes his head. “I can’t believe I’m actually saying this . . . but I think you’re being too hard on yourself.”
“I am?”
He shrugs. “My name was given. You had no choice but to go after me. And you can’t help how you feel about Birdie. Whatever she is, she can’t be entirely human, right? What else explains why she could see you and stop you tonight?”
Daring to trust him with more of my plan, I drift back to the bed and sit at his side. “There is someone helping me look into her . . . the mage I mentioned from before.” I press a finger to the evil eye pendant on his bare chest.
Shrugging away from me, Jasper stands. “Look, I think we need to be careful with who else we go trusting right now.”
I rise too. “Baz can be trusted. He’s my oldest friend. My only friend. And we may need his special brand of magic before the end.”
“Special brand of magic?” Jasper’s expression is all wariness now. “Why does that make my blood fucking curdle?”
Best to just have out with it. “Baz is a necromancer—”
“Shit.” Turning away, he paces to the door. When he reaches it, he turns. “No, Dáinn. No way. We’re not getting a necromancer involved in our business.”
“He’s vastly talented,” I assure him. “And he’s someone outside of Ludmilla’s known network. She’ll never suspect him. She won’t know his magical signature. And her wards are no match for his renders—”