Bound by Forever (True Immortality 3)

Guilt prickled as she remembered the many times she’d come out of a vision to find Ronan straining to hold her, his face stark with concern.

He did love her, though.

She knew that too.

Just sometimes a traitorous question crossed her mind: Which did he love more? Her or her powers?

“Niamh.”

She looked back at him.

His expression had softened. “I just worry about you. Every time we do this, we put ourselves in the path of the Blackwoods and The Garm.”

“I know.” She felt terrible for thinking badly of her brother. “But we know who our enemies are. We can protect ourselves.”

Ronan opened his mouth to respond but instead of his voice, Niamh heard the roar of shattering glass. She flinched, shutting her eyes against it, and when she opened them, they were surrounded by witches and warlocks. Rose was there. She stood between Niamh and Ronan looking fearful and confused.

“What’s going on?” Niamh asked. She turned to face the unfamiliar coven as they held hands and surrounded them.

And then the image slammed into her head, taking her to her knees.

Ronan.

Losing energy, soul, heart … everything he needed to live.

Leaking out of him and into them.

To the coven.

“No!” she screamed, coming out of the vision.

Ronan held her, his expression pale with worry. “Nee?”

“Run,” she whispered. “Ronan, run.”

But it was too late.

Suddenly, he grew limp, falling onto his back, his eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling.

“Ronan.” Niamh scrambled over him. “Ronan!”

Cracks appeared in his skin. Cracks. Cracks. Cracks.

Until his body crumbled inwards and there was nothing left but a pile of ash.

“No!” Niamh’s eyes flew open, her pulse rushing in her ears, her chest heaving with frantic breaths. Disoriented, it took her a moment to realize she was on a plane.

“Are you well?”

She glanced at the woman to her right. The stranger’s brow puckered with sympathy.

Niamh lifted a trembling hand to her forehead and gave the woman a pained, embarrassed smile. “Nightmare. Fear of flying.”

The woman reached out to pat her hand in motherly comfort. “Air travel is the safest mode of travel.”

Niamh gave her a tremulous smile and relaxed into her seat. She closed her eyes against the bright lights of the cabin interior. She hadn’t dreamed of Ronan in a while. For a long time, she wouldn’t even let herself think his name.

The nightmare never depicted the exact reality of his death, but it was a succinct summation of the event.

Meghan O’Connor would pay for it.

A bing sounded above Niamh’s head.

The seat-belt sign was lit up.

Then the PA crackled. “Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has now switched on the seat-belt sign as we begin our descent. Please make sure any larger items, including laptops, are stowed in the overheard bins. Any smaller items can be stowed beneath the seat in front of you. Please stow away your tray tables and return your seats to the upright position. We hope you’ve had an enjoyable flight with us this morning and wish you a pleasant stay in Paris. And if you have a connecting flight, we wish you a safe onward journey. From all of us at Helm Airlines, thank you for flying with us and we hope to see you again soon.”

Niamh released a slow exhale. She felt twitchy and impatient to get off the plane now that she was so close to Paris. To being in the same city as Meghan.

When the fighting had started, Niamh remembered the witch coming at her. She’d used her magic to blast the girl out of the apartment window. Niamh had assumed that the descent, or rather the impact, had killed her.

But she’d survived.

Ronan hadn’t.

That just couldn’t be allowed.

Obviously Fate agreed with her by sending her the vision.

The hum of the plane’s engines grew louder as they descended toward Paris-Charles de Gaulle Airport. The knots grew tighter and tighter in Niamh’s stomach. Vengeance was a nasty business, not something she’d ever thought her heart would hunger for.

But here she was.

Starving.* * *Inverness, ScotlandAfter leaving New York in 1960, Kiyo traveled. His first stop was Britain. After exploring England and Wales, he’d backpacked north and up through the highlands of Scotland. Even after he’d wandered mainland Europe for the next decade, Scotland stayed with him. Being more mountainous than the rest of the island, it reminded him a little of Japan.

Back in the ’60s, he’d climbed Ben Nevis. It was almost three times smaller than Mount Fuji, which Kiyo never had occasion to climb. Yet the mountain of his home was far from his mind standing at the top of Ben Nevis. All that had mattered was that he was alone up there in a way that finally made sense. Standing on a clear day, staring out at the majestic glory that stretched before him, the panoramic vistas conveyed a lonesome beauty that caused an ache in his chest for the first time in decades. The mountain peaks, the rolling valleys, the glistening, placid lochs, the startling greens and earthy browns and the harsh, rugged rock face. It reminded him there was still unspoiled places in the world. Places that made feeling alone no longer a joyless desert; that aloneness could offer its own bounty. Its own peace.