“More vampyres? Trusting Cian’s been difficult enough. As for more witches, we’re still learning each other, as we learned tonight. We were to start with those we have. We’ve barely begun. But weapons. We can make them as we made the crosses.”
She picked up her wine again, drank, breathed out slowly. “Okay. I’m game.”
“We’ll take them with us when we go to Geall.”
“Speaking of. When and how?”
“How? Through the Dance. When? I can’t know. I have to believe we’ll be told when it’s time. That we’ll know when it’s time.”
“Do you think we’ll ever be able to get back? If we live? Do you think we’ll be able to get back home?”
He looked over at her. She was sketching, her eyes on her pad, her hand steady. Her cheeks were pale, he noted, from fatigue and stress. Her hair was bright and bold, swinging forward as she dipped her head.
“Which disturbs you most?” he wondered. “Dying or not seeing your home again?”
“I’m not entirely sure. Death is inevitable. None of us get out of that one. And you hope—or I have—that when the time comes you’ll have courage and curiosity, and so face it well.”
Absently, she tucked her hair behind her ear with her left hand while her right continued to sketch. “But that’s always been in the abstract. Until now. It’s hard to think about dying, harder to think about it knowing I might not see home again, or my family. They won’t understand what happened to me.”
She glanced up. “And I’m preaching to the choir.”
“I don’t know how long they lived. How they died. How long they looked for me.”
“It would help to know.”
“Aye, it would.” He shook it off, angled his head. “What do you draw there?”
She pursed her lips at the sketch. “It seems to be you.” She turned it around, nudged it toward him.
“Is this how you see me?” His voice sounded puzzled, and not entirely pleased. “So stern.”
“Not stern. Serious. You’re a serious man. Hoyt McKenna.” She printed the name on the sketch. “That’s how it would be written and said today. I looked it up.” She signed the sketch with a quick flourish. “And your serious nature is very attractive.”
“Serious is for old men and politicians.”
“And for warriors, for men of power. Knowing you, being attracted to you, makes me realize what I knew before you were boys. Apparently, I like much older men these days.”
He sat, looking at her, with the sketch and the wine between them. With worlds between them, he told himself. And still he’d never felt closer to anyone. “To sit here like this with you, in the house that’s mine, but not, in a world that’s mine, but not, you’re the single thing I want.”
She rose, moved to him, put her arms around him. He rested his head just under her breasts, listened to her heart.
“Is it comfort?” she asked.
“Yes. But not only that. I have such a need for you. I don’t know how to hold it inside me.”
She lowered her head, closing her eyes as she rested her cheek on his hair. “Let’s be human. For what’s left of tonight, let’s be human, because I don’t want to be alone in the dark.” She framed his face, lifted it to hers. “Take me to bed.”
He took her hands as he got to his feet. “Such things haven’t changed in a millennium, have they?”
She laughed. “Some things never change.”
He kept her hand in his as they walked from the kitchen. “I haven’t bedded many women—being a serious man.”
“I haven’t been bedded by many men—being a sensible woman.” At the door to her room she turned to him with a qu
ick, wicked smile. “But I think we’ll manage.”
“Wait.” He brought her to him before she could open the door, and laid his lips on hers. She felt warmth, and an underlying shimmer of power.