Chapter Twenty-One

Qadaire

If the loneliness had been oppressive before her, it was utterly unbearable now. Could the life he had before her even be called a life? Qadaire saw her face in every shiny object he found. There was no peace without the sounds of her frustration or her music filling the space. He meandered the woods and traversed the sky, anything to be away from the lab, which still pulsed with her memory, her sweet honey scent lingering in every room she’d set foot in.

It was suffocating.

His comrades pitied him. They told him she should never have left her mate, but Qadaire knew she wasn’t to blame. Things she’d said plagued him, like a waking nightmare.

I shouldn’t have let things go so far.

This was a mistake.

Like her mistake had been meeting him at all.

It hurt because it was true. He’d never been good enough for her. She was oil and he was water. He had to be satisfied with the brief moments when her moans and pleas were of his name. Those memories were all he had now.

She didn’t want a life in hiding. Was that something he could give? He knew what humans did to freaks of nature, to things that were beyond their comprehension.

Days or weeks later, she was still all he could think about. He finally worked up the courage to make a serious attempt at getting back to work. He’d avoided everything to do with her, the lab, board games, everything he enjoyed. The only hobby he’d kept up was the guitar. He’d moved on to a double-necked guitar, which came more naturally to him anyway. Her Jimi had only two hands.

He tried to find something worthy to research. As he combed through science blogs, he saw her picture. He clicked the link. Nebraskan pathologist may have cracked the case. It went on to say her findings were awaiting the go ahead for trials. She’d done it. She’d saved Zero. She deserved all the medals, all the recognition.

Speaking of awards, he’d built quite the collection in her name.

Qadaire shot from his seat. Without pausing to talk himself out of it, he collected all the shiny bits and baubles he’d deemed worthy over their insufferable time apart. He flew to the tree where an older, trusty crow sat perched on a branch.

“Show me where she lives.”

Master, you can’t leave.

“By the nine rings, why the hell not?” he roared. He gesticulated wildly at the barrenness surrounding him. “There’s no point to any of this. Not without her.”

But your magic.

“What of it?”

It’s spread too thin.

Qadaire paused.

He’d spent so long within these grounds that he’d forgotten how much of his magic was constantly being spent. He was so used to the confines he’d set for himself that he’d lost sense of them. Without his magic cloaking the mansion, it would be easily found by hunters, hikers, poachers, families camping out. The greenhouse also survived on his magic. It was cleverly designed to mingle with the irrigation systems and required upkeep, but there was an automatic component to it as well. If he were to leave the area for any amount of time, the magic would rupture, leaving holes in unpredictable places.

“The only way to circumvent is to choose,” Qadaire mumbled. “There’s too much in this castle that cannot fall into human hands.”

He flew higher and surveyed the grounds. The greenhouse was a sanctuary. It was the constant reminder that he’d once been without daylight, and now he was of it, at least in one small way. Could he really destroy it?

“Perhaps there’s another way.” He had to try.

He swept the southern plot, where he saw a group of birdwatchers. To the west, a large caravan of campers.

There was no other way.

Qadaire landed at the threshold of the greenhouse. He pressed his upper hands to the glass and turned the knob with his lower right hand. The humid warmth invited him in like a dear friend. He ran his lower hands over a patch of herbs, letting the leaves tickle his skin. He sighed, channeling his resolve.

With his upper palms facing either side, he gritted his teeth and began to steal the magic from the soil. Little droplets in every shade of the rainbow seeped toward him. He dared not watch the petals wilt beneath his hands.

When he reached the purple poppies, his black heart panged with regret. He’d left her there. If he could go back in time, he would allow one of her kisses to land their mark.

“Greenhouses can be rebuilt.”

There was only one Dr. Cassandra Billing. His dewdrop.

He bypassed the small patch of purple. He couldn’t bear to kill it. He would find a way to preserve some of that precious memory.

Memories were not enough anymore. He continued until all that was left was brown.

The sun was inches away from kissing the horizon. It was probably too early to start, but he couldn’t wait. Couldn’t stop the momentum. He hastily threw everything he’d gathered since her departure into a bag, tossed the strap of his guitar over his shoulder, and took to the sky.

Cloaked with magic, he sped through the air. The flight was short, but he saw now how incredible it was that Zero had made it that first night. Had it been a week later, the poor thing would never have gotten so far. Qadaire was grateful that his friends had been convincing enough to bring Zero and Cassandra to his door.

Her driveway was empty, the house dark. Qadaire artfully arranged his tokens on her stoop with the help of the insomniac crow, who was mated and knew more than he did about these things. When he was satisfied, he took to the skies around her house to pass the time, the strings of his guitar comforting under his fingers.

The stars this far from his castle twinkled knowingly. He’d never been able to discern their mysteries. One could stare through a telescope until they withered away without learning a single secret that burned inside those gaseous rocks, but tonight, Qadaire questioned them further. Did they know his fate? Were they laughing at him or with him? Was the porcelain moon holding his fragile destiny in its bright white glow?

He corkscrewed through the sky, then glided with his wings close to his body, two arms behind his head, the other two clasped over his abdomen, guitar hanging off his back. There was a peacefulness in the sky that occasionally made him glad to have these cursed wings. Tonight was a night like that. He leaned into the feeling and let it carry him, the frigid caress of winter’s breath a cold reminder that he was alive. He had a purpose.

Even if that purpose was to be rejected by a radiant human pathologist.

After some time, Qadaire questioned himself. Maybe he’d been too brash. He started to lose hope, debating whether to return home. He lingered somewhere between their homes, his palms too sweaty to grip the guitar. He wasn’t ready to give up.

A familiar citrus and cream scent reached out to him from below. It was dampened, like there was something between them blotting it out, but it was enough for him to track. When he realized it was leading him straight to his castle, his wings couldn’t carry him fast enough.

A snub-nosed red car was speeding down the gravel road. Zero’s healthy pink tongue lolled from his mouth where his head hung from the window.

Qadaire panicked. He dove into a cedar tree and clung to the branch with his talons.

You can do this, master.

“I can’t,” he heaved.

You can. Serenade her.

Do it now.

With three more steeling breaths and a stomach full of lead, he leapt from the tree.