And it had pressed against a heart that hadn’t beat in nearly a thousand years.
So his brother had fallen, he thought, for the single blow against which there was no shield. Now they would live their short and painful lives within that light.
Perhaps it would be worth it.
Then he stepped back into the shadows of his room, and the cool dark.
When he came down, it was full dark, and she was in the kitchen alone. Singing at the sink, Cian noted, in an absent and happy voice. The sort, he decided, that a fanciful person would say had little pink hearts spilling out from between her lips with the tune.
She was loading the dishwasher—a homey chore. And the kitchen smelled of herbs and flowers. Her hair was bundled up, and now and then her hips moved with the rhythm of the song.
Would he have had a woman like that if he’d lived? he wondered. One who’d sing in the kitchen, or stand in the light, looking at him with her face alive with love?
He’d had women, of course. Scores of them. And some had loved him—to their loss, he supposed. But if their faces had been alive with that love, those faces were a blur to him now.
And love was a choice he had eliminated from his life.
Or had told himself he had. But the fact was he had loved King, as a father does a son, or a brother a brother. The little queen had been right about that, and damn her for it.
He had given his love and his trust to a human, and as humans were wont to do, it had died on him.
Saving this one, he thought now as Glenna set dishes in the rack. Another thing humans had a habit of doing was sacrificing themselves for other humans.
It was, or had been, a trait that had intrigued him often enough. Easier to understand, in his circumstances, their habit on the other side of the coin—of killing each other.
Then she turned, and jolted. The dish she held slipped out of her hands and shattered on the tiles.
“God. I’m sorry. You startled me.”
She moved quickly—and jerkily, he noted, for a woman of easy grace. She took the broom and dustpan from the closet, and began to sweep the shards.
He hadn’t spoken to her, nor to any of the others, since the night of King’s death. He’d left them to train themselves, or do as they pleased.
“I didn’t hear you come in. The others finished dinner. They—they went up to do some training. I had Hoyt out for an hour or so today. Um, driving lesson. I thought…” She dumped the shards, turned again. “Oh God, say something.”
“Even if you live, you’re from two different worlds. How will you resolve it?”
“Did Hoyt speak to you?”
“He didn’t have to. I have eyes.”
“I don’t know how we’ll resolve it.” She put the broom away. “We’ll find a way. Does it matter to you?”
“Not in the least. It’s of interest to me.” He got a bottle of wine from the counter rack, studied the label. “I’ve lived among you for a considerable amount of time. Without interest, I’d have died of boredom long ago.”
She steadied herself. “Loving each other makes us stronger. I believe that. We need to be stronger. So far, we haven’t done very well.”
He opened the wine, got down a glass. “No, you haven’t done very well, particularly.”
“Cian,” she said as he turned to go. “I know you blame me for King. You have every right to—to blame me and to hate me for it. But if we don’t find a way to work together, to mesh, he won’t just be the only one of us to die. He’ll just be the first.”
“I beat him to that by a few hundred years.” He tipped the glass toward her in a kind of salute, then walked out with the bottle.
“Well, that was useless,” Glenna muttered, and turned back to finish the dishes.
He would hate her, she thought, and likely hate Hoyt as well because Hoyt loved her. Their team was fractured even before it had a genuine chance to become a unit.
If they had time, nothing but time, she would let it lie, wait until Cian’s resentment cooled, began to fade. But they didn’t have that luxury of wasting any more of the precious little time they’d been given. She’d have to find a way to work around it, or him.