18. Rowan

18

ROWAN

T hat night, Rowan woke to a great commotion. She sat with a start, and Orla's journal flopped onto the bed next to her. She'd fallen asleep reading it—not long ago, judging by the heavy dark outside her windows and the height of the candle on her nightstand. Flames guttered in the fireplace, threatening to go out. A tempest raged outside, pummeling the walls of the keep with vicious, windy fists. Sheets of rain furiously pounded against the windows, the storm begging to come in.

A loud screech cut through the din of the gale, chilling Rowan to the bone. She should have stayed safely tucked in her bed. Instead, she stood and pulled on her robe before cracking open her bedroom door.

Another screech echoed through the halls. The sound reminded her of what she'd heard in the forest after Orla died, when the Dark Wood resounded with the screams of lost souls being devoured by the monsters that lurked in the shadows.

Rowan hesitated at the threshold of her room before continuing down the hall. When she reached the top of the stairs, she heard murmuring between the agonized wails. She padded down the stairs, the soft sound of her slippered feet on the marble floor punctuated by low groans that she followed to the dining room.

Conor stood at the head of the table, bent over a spirit. His brow furrowed in concentration and his eyes glowed, staring down at the writhing spirit as Charlie and a dark-haired female reaper restrained it.

The soul didn't look like the ones Rowan led through the woods. Instead of the palish white-gray color with which she was accustomed, this one was nearly translucent, spotted with bright crimson—like spatters of blood. Rowan flinched as another keening wail burst out of it.

All three sets of eyes snapped to her.

"Rowan, you cannot be here. Go back to your room!" Conor barked. His eyes were incandescent, his presence somehow larger than usual, as if he could fill the whole room.

Rowan didn't move. She stared at the writhing soul. "I can help."

"Absolutely not. Out! Now!" Conor growled.

"I think you mean ‘ Thank you, Rowan, that's so generous of you ,'" she said.

Conor's eyes flared brighter. "I mean you have no idea what you walked into, and you're making things worse."

"It might help," Charlie intoned. "It might calm him. At least let her try."

Conor looked at the reaper with murderous intent, but Charlie nodded at Rowan. She closed the space between them, careful not to look at the soul's eyes.

"What's wrong with him?" she asked.

"He was attacked by a monster in the Dark Wood. What was left of his life force has been partially drained. We need to try to restore him so that he can cross over. Otherwise, he will become a wraith," the female reaper said.

Wraiths were souls trapped between worlds, forced to wander and never find peace. They were responsible for hauntings, and it was considered the worst fate for a soul.

Rowan shuddered. "Valen?"

Conor nodded.

Rowan took the soul's hand in hers, and she started to sing a lullaby she'd heard Orla sing many times when she thought no one else was in the tower.

The soul stopped screeching and writhing and focused entirely on her song. His gaze burned into her, but she didn't dare meet his eyes for fear of being possessed.

Rowan felt the heavy silence of Conor's magic fill the room. The soul squeezed her hand tighter.

"It's working," Charlie whispered.

Slowly, the soul filled in more evenly with color, and the red patches faded.

Rowan watched Conor. A strange blue glow pulsed beneath his hands where they rested on the soul's chest. He looked strong, powerful, and darkly sexy, with his hair falling over his forehead and his brow furrowed in concentration. She imagined having that same focus directed at her. She imagined his hands on her, and it filled her with a strange, fluttering heat. She clenched her thighs together.

Conor's nostrils flared, and his gaze snapped to Rowan. "Stop being distracting."

She looked back at the spirit's hand, trying to hide the mortified flush of her cheeks as she continued to sing.

After a few strained minutes, Charlie brushed her shoulder, indicating that she could stop. Conor grabbed the spirit and dragged him out of the room.

Rowan looked awkwardly from Charlie to the female reaper.

"I'm Petra. It's nice to meet you. Charlie's told me so much about you, but it's interesting to see that power of yours in action," she said, brushing her long, dark hair behind her shoulders.

"How many reapers are there?" Rowan asked.

Charlie laughed. "Plenty."

"What do you do all day?"

Petra's eyes narrowed on her. "Hunt down souls apprehensive about crossing. Help balance the realms. Keep Conor safe."

Rowan shivered, considering what the reaper might do if she knew about the dagger strapped to Rowan's thigh.

A moment later, Conor appeared at the door. He looked wrecked by the effort of restoring the soul. "Charlie, Petra, leave us," he said.

Charlie winked at Rowan on his way out of the room. "I'll keep an ear out just in case he loses his composure, lass."

Rowan turned and smiled at Conor.

"Don't smile. I'm very frustrated with you," he said. He ran a hand through his hair and rolled his shoulders back. Rowan didn't know someone could look so weary and dangerous at the same time. She stood completely still as Conor turned to look at her. "You do not listen."

Rowan stood tall with her hands on her hips. "Neither do you."

"It was perilous for you to be here during that process." He punctuated each word with a step closer.

"My whole life is dangerous," she whispered.

"You're foolish to be so brave."

"You're foolish to think I'd be anything other than what I am," Rowan countered.

Conor brushed his fingers over her cheek and down her neck. "I have no idea who you are, little Red. I'm not sure it would be wise of you to show me," he murmured.

He struck with no warning. His lips brushed over Rowan's as he drew her into his arms. She pulled him closer, her hands threading through his hair. Conor lifted her so that she sat on the edge of the table as he devoured her kisses. She moaned into his mouth, which only made him more ravenous. He tugged her hair, tilting her head back, trailing kisses over her jaw.

"It is dangerous for you to be here right now. I have very little control left after that," Conor whispered, even as he kissed down her neck and cupped her breasts through her nightgown. "Why must you tempt me?" His voice was tortured and his touch rough as he nipped at the delicate skin of her neck.

Rowan loved that he couldn't help himself. His desperation spurred on her own. Shivers rushed through her body, and she wanted to be lost in the rawness of his touch.

His fingers expertly worked the buttons at the front of her nightgown until he slid his hands inside to palm her breasts. She felt helpless to his ministrations, but for once, she didn't mind being powerless.

Conor pushed her back so that she lay on the table. Her skin prickled in goosebumps as he kissed and licked a trail down her chest. He sucked one of her nipples into his mouth, dragging his teeth over it. Rowan arched up off the table with a surprised, desperate moan.

Conor jerked back as if someone had hooked him around the neck. His eyes flared with a bright blue and gray glow.

"Get out!" he barked.

She stared at him, dazed.

"Get out, Rowan!" he screamed again.

Rowan sat up and hopped to her feet. Her knees trembled as she hurried out of the room, grasping at the sides of her nightgown to cover her chest. In the hall, she bumped into Charlie, who gave her a knowing smirk.

"Best you stay in your room the rest of the night, little Red," the reaper said solemnly. "No matter what you hear, stay put. Seems he's a little out of control right now."

Rowan nodded and walked back to her room, locking the door and collapsing on the bed. She realized then that her dagger was still strapped to her thigh and she hadn't thought to reach for it once while Conor was kissing her.

Rowan lay in bed, reading Orla's journal. Most of the early entries were simply about her interactions with the Wolf. From what Rowan could tell, Conor had been equally distrustful of Orla as he was with her. Then, the entries shifted.

Today, I overheard a conversation between the elders about the nature of power. I was so nervous, hiding in the shadow of the meeting room, listening to them speak. They reasoned that the new religion to the north was fueled by faith and belief in a singular god. Instead of faith being divided among multiple deities, it was focused on one, and since faith builds a god's power, it explained the rapid spread of the new religion.

Rowan stopped reading and considered the words as she bathed and dressed for the day, pondering the questions of faith and power as she pinned her hair away from her face.

She gazed out the window at the daylight bouncing off the trees in the Dark Wood. She wondered if Aeoife was worried about her back in Ballybrine, but she needed to focus on the task at hand. What Rowan was doing was for both of their good. She wasn't entirely confident that the Mother's plan would really produce a positive result. Still, it was the best plan she had at that moment, so she had to stick to it until she knew more. She sat down by the fire with Orla's journal and continued to read.

It is time I write a secret that no one knows. I have a gift for spying. It took me a long time to realize, but I can lurk in peace where there are shadows. It is the strangest thing. As if someone can stand mere inches away and still not see me. It is how I have overheard many things I should not. Which has left me with the question: Do all Red Maidens have such a gift?

Rowan stared at the words. Perhaps they all had secret gifts.

So far, Orla's journal brought Rowan as many questions as it did answers. She needed to find the rest of the Maidens' journals to see if they spoke of secret talents. Rowan read the words over again.

"You're quite entranced."

She jumped, dropping the book on the floor.

Conor leaned against her bedroom door. "I knocked, but you didn't answer. I was worried, so I just came in. What has you so enthralled, little Red?"

"It's private," she said with a frown.

Conor looked delighted by her answer. "Is it, now? You think you deserve secrets in my home?" His tone was playful.

"You think I don't?" Rowan challenged.

"I think you're up to something."

"I think you're overly suspicious. Have you been to Ballybrine? Would you want to stay there?"

Conor cracked a smile. "Fair enough. You should know, Rowan, nothing stays secret from me long."

"If you say so," she said.

"I think perhaps you've been here so long you forget who and what I am. I'm a vicious beast, Rowan."

Rowan frowned. "Is that why you put that poor soul out of his misery last night?"

Conor grimaced. "And why did you help him?"

Rowan was baffled by the question. "I helped him because he was in pain, Conor. It was a decent thing to do."

"By using your magic?"

"It's not just about magic. Music comforts people. Mothers sing to their babies. People sing at the Gratitude and Grieving Ceremony."

"So you sang to him out of pity?"

Rowan threw her hands up. "I sang to him out of empathy . Out of mercy . Is it easier to live as if every kindness is some secret weapon?"

Conor took a step back. "Do I do that?"

Rowan's kindness extended to Conor as well. It must have been hard to be a god, always feeling like people wanted things from you. She supposed everyone must beg him for time he could not give them. That at least would explain why he refused to take anything about her at face value. When the whole world wanted something from you, it must be hard to believe that someone could want nothing. For Rowan's part, the first thing she had done was ask him to renegotiate a centuries-old bargain. Still, she was exhausted and on edge from feeling the constant pressure of failing his tests.

"Charlie told me you found Orla's paintings," Conor said softly.

Rowan sighed. A fresh ache bloomed in her chest. "I didn't even know she liked to paint."

"She was a hard person to know."

Rowan only nodded, afraid speaking would reveal the extent of her grief. They stared at each other as an uncomfortable silence settled between them.

"Let me show you something," Conor said.

He led her down the hall to the eastern wing, carefully guiding her down the rocks that led into the dark tunnel cut by the stream. Rowan took in the smell of moss and wet grass as she followed silently behind Conor. Finally, they emerged into a dim hallway that opened into a large room with stained glass windows. The afternoon light shined through the windows, casting colorful patterns along the stone floor, which was marked with a mosaic forming the jaws of a wolf. It was Conor's temple.

Rowan followed Conor to the far end of the room. Small markers lined the wall, but Rowan didn't understand what they were until she approached the one Conor had stopped in front of. There was a glass jar splattered with paint stains and several paintbrushes.

"This is the shrine I made for Orla. There's one for each of the past Maidens," Conor said.

Rowan lost count as she looked back down the row, trying to take in how many shrines there were in total. It was startling to consider how many Maidens he might have killed. But she believed Conor hadn't killed Orla, and that was enough to settle the idea that perhaps he wasn't as violent as she'd been taught.

When she turned back, Conor looked as stricken as she felt at the loss of her friend. Everything frozen in her chest melted.

As if realizing how the shrine softened her heart toward him, Conor took a step away from her.

"Why did you bring me here?" Rowan asked.

"Charlie said how sad you were. I thought you'd like a place to come if you want to remember her."

He shifted between truth and lie so seamlessly he may as well have lied all the time. The stain of his deception tarnished all of his truths. She wanted to hang her hopes on his words, but she wasn't foolish enough. It seemed her life would have been easier if she was ignorant.

"Perhaps you think you can chase away your guilt for failing her by looking after me," Rowan whispered.

A coldness settled over Conor's face. His jaw twitched.

"Is it such a bad thing to care?" Rowan asked. She hated the desperation in her voice—hated that she wanted something from him.

"Death's gift is in taking. I have nothing to give. I'm not someone who can love you, Rowan. There's nothing but darkness where my heart should be."

"Who said anything about love?" Rowan challenged. She turned to face him head-on. They were so close the fabric of her dress brushed against his boots.

"You really want to do this here, little Red? You want me to make you lie in the temple of the god of death? Next to shrines for your fallen sisters? You want me to pretend that I don't see that desperate way you look at me like I'm the only person who can take care of you?" he taunted. He slipped into cruelty with surprising ease.

"I don't need you to tend to me. I can take care of myself," she snapped.

"Yes, lass, but should you have to?" Conor asked.

Rowan tried to hide any hint of reaction, but the words gutted her. She hated him using her fear as a weapon. "I've never been presented with much of a choice, Conor. I've done what was required of me."

"Are you so happy to be the perfect little victim?" he challenged.

The word made her feel ill. Victim . As if everything was happening to her, and she was helpless to the momentum of life. She hated to look right at it, and she was humiliated that Conor saw her complacency.

"You taunt me for being a victim in a bargain you made. I am only what I am because you created a game with no thought of who might suffer for you to play it," Rowan rasped. "You know, the people of Ballybrine and the elders might be careless and cold, but you are actively cruel when it serves you and kind when you want something just the same."

Conor was content to pull her close when it suited him and shove her away if she touched a nerve. It was for the best that he kept reminding her that he was her enemy. The moment she forgot, she would be the only one who paid the price for it.

He looked equally frustrated and contrite, but she was too embarrassed to stay and hear his apology.

Rowan was no one's victim. She needed to take care of herself, and that meant walking away instead of standing there waiting to be wounded.