Chapter 48
Best of Bad Options
No thaw in sight, though the forecast—and the male lirai, who was probably a more reliable source—said more snow was coming.
Freezing rain had made the civilians miserable, and running patrol in the cold wasn’t anything Erik would have looked forward to even if the temperature made little difference once you had a mark.
He was more worried about the emotional weather inside the walls. Another trio was on duty out in the hall, in case of incursion or Liv taking it into her head to go for a walk.
Which didn’t seem likely, even if she was handling this far better than Erik ever dreamed possible.
“He’s right, you know.” Dakshi stretched, a long lithe movement, and dropped across the grey linen couch their lirai said she liked so much.
Erik didn’t think she was being quite honest about that particular preference, but if the lady was pleased to try a little misdirection, so be it. “Hm?” He leaned against the bedroom door, his shoulders warm against the baffle, and hoped a little brother wasn’t about to start making good sense.
“She should be sealed.” Robert, standing at ease near the fireplace, was paging through a glossy architecture magazine.
His weapons harness, old-fashioned but evidently nothing he felt the need to update, was soundless as he rolled one shoulder, then the other, settling himself for a long article.
He kept asking Liv about her clothing preferences, obviously used to more fashionable lirai.
“To at least one of her primary trio. As a bare minimum.” The fire, eating well-seasoned wood, sang a soft, popping, crackling song.
At least she seemed to like that, so they made sure there was always a blaze going. Flame was mortal, but could still drive away the shadowbeasts.
“When she settles in, she’ll choose.” Erik glanced at the windows. No help there, only the failing light of a winter afternoon. If only there was something to fight, he could have put an end to this whole conversation.
“It’s dangerous.” Dakshi might look like a lounging feline, but he was tense and ready.
They were both solid soldiers, and even if Robert didn’t quite have Ignatius’s dry humor and Dak didn’t have Jake’s fey battle-rage, they were at least Sons, very good at mayhem and ready to defend his lirai to the death.
She needed another permanent trio. She made absolutely no move to select them, though Erik had begun sounding her out for preferences. Liv wanted time, and he would give it to her.
As much as she needed. As much as was possible.
“Everything’s dangerous.” The conversation was getting old, fast, and the fact that it happened just about every time Liv went to bed wore on his nerves. “Especially for lirai.”
“You’re trying to protect her.” Robert turned a page. The fire added counterpoint, a soft pop and shower of sparks.
“Aren’t we supposed to?” And I’m getting tired of chewing this same old meat. Either find a different subject or shut the fuck up.
He couldn’t say as much, but they could probably tell his temper was wearing thin. Not that it mattered; nobody cared what he thought.
“She’s safer sealed.” One dark eye peered past the edge of the magazine, and Erik realized Robert was pushing, ever so gently. Ever so delicately, as if Erik himself was lirai.
Which was ridiculous. His shoulders were full of iron rods; the muscles along his spine had transformed as well. “It’s not enough that we’re criminals marked by him, we have to be rapists as well?”
For a moment, even he couldn’t quite believe he’d said it so baldly. It wasn’t like the familiar corralling of Jake’s enthusiasm; this was a Father. Providing guidance, even if unwelcome.
“It’s not like that,” Dakshi said, but he’d paled a few shades.
He rubbed at his left wrist; the more active the temple, the more active the mark, and the brief moments of respite in a lirai’s presence sometimes made the throbbing worse by contrast. It did no good to wonder what form the whispers took for another man, but was sometimes impossible not to. “It really isn’t.”
No, it wasn’t. But for Erik, well, close enough. Maybe he was old-fashioned, or more modern—given male behavior through the ages, he couldn’t decide.
There was so little a Son could take a stand on. He was just fine with this one.
“You’ve been out of touch for a decade at least.” Robert’s tone couldn’t possibly be any drier or more academic, but Erik got the sense the tall, spare, iron-haired man was choosing his words with care—and the spaces between them, too. “For whatever reason. Things have changed, Elder.”
“Our lord Daniel’s the oldest lirai on this continent.” Dakshi kept Erik in his peripheral vision, dropping his hands onto his chest, interlacing long capable fingers. “If he says—”
“She needs time,” Erik said. Softly, but each word held an edge. They were having trouble pinpointing just who Islington’s control liaison had been; records were damaged and the sudden coordinated attacks ten years ago had kept everyone too busy.
There were no records of Islington’s funding requests, requisition shipments, or anything else—even the recent purchases for their found potential. The money had to come from somewhere, but…
“it would behoove you to listen, my Elder.” Robert matched Erik’s quiet—a good tactic, mirroring and de-escalating at once. “Every lirai we’ve lost since the disaster has been unsealed. We don’t know if he is responsible, or if it’s simply chance.”
Erik was very still. “Every one?”
“I thought you knew.” Dakshi sighed, settling back into feline stillness. “I hate to say it, but maybe communications to your temple weren’t simply cut, big bro. In any case, you’re clean, and the best thing you can do is seal her. Just in case.”
Don’t you think I’ve considered as much? Erik’s jaw had turned to iron as well, his teeth aching. All of him was metal, cold and brittle. “How many times am I going to have to betray her?”
The answer, of course, was as many times as necessary, to keep her safe. Thankfully, neither Father nor Younger said it aloud.
“Your dedication isn’t in question, Elder.” Robert turned another page. Ignatius had never sounded this kindly, even in the first few days at Islington. “Neither is your capability.”
At least a few sessions in the sparring room had taught his fellow Sons to respect Erik’s professionalism, not to mention his reflexes. They didn’t quite look at him sidelong—if a lirai said you were clear, you were clear—but a man was an unknown quantity until you fought him.
Always.
Another bad idea occurred to Erik, tiptoeing velvet-shod through his head. Islington was a smallish city, yes—but he and Jake hadn’t come across any potentials before Liv Stellack. Not a single one, on endless nights of patrol.
Ten years was a long time for mortal treachery to ripen, but the Mad God was immortal and his Sons, unless they met a horrifically violent end in battle, shared a measure of that longevity.
Dakshi was still eyeing him. “Can we at least consider another full trio for her? If she won’t choose, why can’t we just nominate?”
“It’s an excellent idea,” Robert weighed in. “She’s uncomfortable with her own power, but every lirai begins so. More amplifiers, more force, but…”
“But she’s safer that way,” Erik said heavily, and knew he wasn’t just agreeing to selecting another trio. They were deferring to his primacy because he’d found her first and known her longest, but that wouldn’t last forever.
Especially if one of the others caught her eye. Lonely and vulnerable, in freefall with normality snatched from underfoot, thrust into high-danger situations, Liv would naturally look for some comfort.
It would be… easy, to take advantage. He could even tell himself it was the right, the safest thing to do.
Yet the tiny voice of his conscience, the only part of his mental landscape the Mad God hadn’t managed to crack, was still speaking loud and clear.
Would it be better if that particular whisper stopped? Or worse?
“That is the goal,” Robert said. “Our overarching, our only goal.”
Dakshi’s dark eyes hooded, sleepy and thoughtful. “I thought it was fighting him.”
“Try doing that without the Dreamers.” Erik tipped his head, rested the back of his skull against the door, baffling-sorcery tingling pleasantly on his slowly relaxing shoulders.
Once a man decided, all that remained was to perform.
Erik found, with some relief, that he was still going to stick with his conscience, come what may.
* * *
Her scream ended on a throat-cut gurgle; if there was anything that put a cold knife in his guts, it was the thought that something had breached this temple too, slithered through a window, and found its way to her.
The bedroom was dark except for a soft edge of pale gold from the bathroom nightlight, and he ripped aside navy velvet curtains as Dakshi headed for the window, guns drawn. Robert, his sword a glimmering bar, halted near the door, ready to move in any direction.
Liv fought—clawing, kicking, biting—and managed to elbow him on the cheek before he could pin her, grab her wrists, and immobilize her slight frame.
The resident chefs apparently couldn’t tempt her with haute cuisine, and she’d lost yet more weight since arrival. A bad sign, and this was another one.
Every night, in the dim dead reaches of deep darkness, the nightmares came.
By the time he wrestled her into stillness she was awake, tears slicking her cheeks and ribs heaving with deep, hopeless moans. She shuddered like a trapped animal, and he heard his own voice, soft and soothing—or as soothing as a growl from a Son could be.
“Shhh, beautiful. It’s all right, I’m here. We’re here. It’s a nightmare, just a bad dream.”