Because in forcing me to live, he’d not only ensured that my soul could never be reborn, but he’d made me what he was.
A dark angel.
The next time I died, I would not move on and be reborn into another life here on Earth. I would join him on the gray fields – the unseen lands that divided this world from the next – and become a guard on the gates to heaven and hell.
And that meant I would never see my late mother again. Not in any future lifetime that might have been mine, because he’d stolen all that away from me.
What made it worse was the knowledge that he’d saved me not because he loved me, but because he needed me to find the lost keys to the gates.
And because I was carrying his child.
The stinging in my eyes was nothing compared to the pain in my heart. I curled up in the bed and hugged my knees tightly to my chest, but it did little to stop the tidal wave of grief washing over me.
If he’d said, just once, that I mattered more than any quest or key – or even the child we’d created – then perhaps the bitterness and anger would not have been so deep, and I wouldn’t have banished him from my side. But he hadn’t, and I had.
And now all I could do was try to figure out what had actually happened in the days that had followed his departure, and move on.
Because despite his actions, my task in this world had not changed. I still had keys to find, and I very much doubted whether the patience of either my father or the Raziq – the rebel Aedh priests who’d jointly created the damn keys with my father before he’d stolen said keys from their grasp only to lose them himself – would hold for much longer.
Hell, it was surprising that one or both of them hadn’t already appeared to slap me around in an effort to uncover what the hell had gone wrong this time.
But maybe they had no idea that I’d actually found the second key. After all, this time it had been stolen not only from under my nose, but before I’d managed to pinpoint its exact location. Which meant the thief – the same dark sorcerer who’d stolen the first key, and who’d permanently opened the first gateway to hell – wouldn’t know which of the many military weapons he’d stolen was the second gate key in disguise. Thanks to the fact that my father’s blood had been used in the creation of the three keys, only one of his blood could find them.
And I would find them. Without my reaper. Without my protector.
A sob rose up my throat, but I forced it back down. Enough with the self-pity, I told myself fiercely. Enough with the wallowing. Get over it and move on.
But that was easier said than done when my entire world had been turned upside down.
I scrubbed a hand across gritty eyes, then flipped the sheets off my face, and finally looked around the room. It definitely wasn’t a place I knew, and I very much doubted it was a hotel room. There were too many florals – the wallpaper, the bedding, and the cushions that had been thrown haphazardly on the floor all bore variations of a rose theme – and the furniture, though obviously expensive, had a well-used look about it. There was a window to my left, and the sunshine that peeked around the edges of the heavy pink curtains suggested it was close to midday.
Curious to see where I was, I got out of bed and walked over to the window. My movements were a little unsteady, but I suspected the cause was more a lack of food than any residual effect of my drinking binge. Alcohol cleared out of a werewolf’s system extremely fast, which is why it was so damn hard for us to get drunk. And that was definitely a good thing, because it meant my desperate attempt to forget wouldn’t have done any harm to my child.
I drew one curtain aside and looked out. In the yard below, a dozen or so chickens scratched around a pretty cottage garden. To the left of the garden were several outbuildings – one obviously an old stable, another a large machinery shed – but to the right, there was nothing but rolling hills that led up to a thick forest of gum trees.
It definitely wasn’t somewhere familiar.
Frowning, I let the curtain fall back into place and turned, my gaze sweeping the small room again. My clothes were stacked in a neat pile on the Georgian-style armchair, and flung over the back of it was a fluffy white dressing gown. Sitting on the nearby mahogany dressing table was a white towel, as well as bathroom necessities. Whoever owned this place at least didn’t intend to keep me naked or unwashed. Whether they intended me other sorts of harm was another matter entirely.
Not.
The familiar, somewhat harsh tone ran through my mind and relief slithered through me. I might be without my reaper, but I still had my sword, so I wasn’t entirely without protection. Amaya – the name of the demon trapped within the sword – was as alert and as ready for action as ever. The sword itself was shadow wreathed and invisible, so the only time anyone was truly aware of her presence was when I slid her dark blade into their flesh. Although she did have a tendency to be vocal about her need to kill, so she certainly could be heard on occasion – generally when she was about to kill someone.
What do you mean, “not”? I walked over to the Georgian chair and started dressing. Like the room itself, my clothes had a very slight floral scent, although this time it was lavender rather than rose, which was definitely easier on my nose.
Harm not, she replied. Foe not.
Which didn’t mean whoever owned this place was a friend, but my sword had saved my butt more than once recently and I was beginning to trust her judgment.
Should, she muttered. Stupid not.
I grinned, not entirely sure whether she meant she wasn’t stupid, or that I’d be stupid not to trust her. I sat down on the chair to pull on my socks and boots, then headed for the door. It wasn’t locked – another indicator that whoever had me didn’t mean any harm – but I nevertheless peered out cautiously.
The hall beyond thankfully was free of the rose scent that had pervaded my room, and it was long, with at least a dozen doors leading off it. To the left, at the far end, was a wide window that poured sunshine into the space, lending the pale green walls a warmth and richness. To the right lay a staircase. There were voices coming from the floor below, feminine voices, though I didn’t immediately recognize them.
I hesitated, then mentally slapped myself for doing so and headed toward the stairs. My footsteps echoed on the wooden boards, and the rhythmic rise and fall of voices briefly stopped.
I’d barely reached the landing when quick steps approached the staircase from below. I paused on the top step and watched through the balusters. After a moment, a familiar figure strode into view and relief shot through me.