7. Conor

7

CONOR

T he new Maiden had a death wish. Conor stared at her in disbelief.

Rowan slept heavily, curled into the chair by the fire as though she was right at home in the lair of the god of death. She'd come in so fiery that he could practically taste her rage, but as soon as she realized she was relatively safe, she'd crashed. He couldn't imagine the life she led to feel at peace in his keep. She should have been scared out of her mind. Instead, she looked cozy, her full lips parted and her auburn hair catching the firelight.

He had plenty to do, but he simply sat in his chair and watched her. He tried not to think of the skimpy silk gown she wore under his robe, or the fearful, furious look on her face when he had tilted her chin up as she knelt at the gates.

He wanted to wake her and ask her so many questions about her magic. It hadn't occurred to him until after she fell asleep that all the past Maidens might have been able to hear magic, too. Their song enchanted and lured the dead to cross between realms. It made sense that their ears were attuned to more than what met the eye as well.

Suddenly, he questioned every moment when Orla had stood there in silence, eyes closed, as if she was waiting or listening for something. He wondered if she intentionally kept it from him or if she'd never mentioned it simply because he hadn't asked.

It felt like a bit of a betrayal, but as she'd proven many times before, Orla was hard to know. He'd tried to, but she was a very private person—guarded in the way those born of terrible loss were.

"Should I have Mrs. Kline clear out Orla's things and start on a wardrobe for the new girl?" Charlie asked as he bound into the room. He drew up short at the sight of Rowan asleep in the chair. "The new Red is a lightweight," he laughed.

"Don't call her that," Conor snapped. "Her name is Rowan."

He hated how everyone in town just called them "Red." It was dehumanizing, and it made him sick. He learned each of their names as soon as they trusted him enough to reveal it, though most were afraid not to. Years of being indoctrinated left them all confident that he was a monster. As if death wasn't necessary to balance the realms.

Charlie's eyes went wide. "Seriously? Her name is Rowan?"

Conor couldn't believe it himself. A Red Maiden named Rowan, which literally translated to "little red one." She had the red hair and a temper to match.

"So I assume I should have Mrs. Kline clear out Orla's room?"

"No," Conor sighed. "We'll put Rowan in the garden room."

Charlie's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Next to your room? Is that a good idea?"

Conor frowned but said nothing else. Moody silences were the easiest way to shut down Charlie's questions.

The reaper gazed back at Rowan. "She's certainly bright as a summer day."

Conor wished he could see what Charlie did. Reapers were gifted with extra sight that allowed them to spot and capture lost souls as well as perceive various aura colors to differentiate the dead from the living, the good from the evil.

"What does it look like?" Conor asked.

"Maybe the brightest I've seen," Charlie started. "She has lots of greens cocooned in red. I wouldn't be surprised if she was soft and sensitive underneath that fiery exterior."

Conor wished he'd asked Orla more about the younger Maidens. It was short-sighted not to have done so.

"Are you just going to let her sleep?" Charlie asked.

Conor shrugged. "I don't want to wake her yet. She's been through enough, and letting her sleep is the only kindness I can offer."

"She has courage walking into the woods with the blight and Orla's death. I'll grant her that," Charlie said.

"That she does." Conor eyed the sleeping girl warily.

Charlie stared at him. "Why are you looking at her like she's dangerous?"

"Because she is," Conor said, meeting his friend's eye.

Charlie's brows flew up. "Really? What changed? You were always fine with Orla. In nearly five years, you never had a slip-up."

It was true. Orla was a smart, beautiful girl. Despite her sheltered life, she understood people and possessed the natural distrust of the world that only orphans had. She was a survivor, and surviving was messy. Orla wasn't one to fear dirty hands.

She took a while to trust him, but she'd come around, and then she'd become an invaluable resource for finding out exactly what was going on with the Ballybrine elders. She had a natural talent for eavesdropping, and because she was such a fervent rule-follower in their eyes, she was privy to more information than most. The leader of the elders, Elder Falon, loved her and trusted her with more than most Red Maidens were told about the inner workings of the elder council and the Crone.

And in turn, Conor had betrayed the trust she placed in him.

Charlie stared at him, expecting more of an explanation. "You could?—"

Conor narrowed his eyes in a look meant to eviscerate.

"That face might scare everyone else, but you forget who I am." Charlie laughed. "I know you think you can keep going as things are, but this blight is a sign that it's time for change. You might not want to know that, but that doesn't mean it's not true. Whether or not you like it, she might be your way to gain control once and for all?—"

"It's out of the question," Conor said, cutting him off. "I'm not talking about this right now. I just need to get her out of here soon."

Charlie's gaze locked on to the sweat dotting Conor's brow and his white-knuckled grip on the armchair. The laughter in his eyes dissipated.

"Mother's tits! It's that bad?" he asked in a harsh whisper.

Conor tried to pretend it wasn't, but he could barely control himself. He was disgusted by the lack of restraint that had him practically vibrating with need.

All Red Maidens were tempting. It was part of the way the magic worked to ensure the power between himself and the Mother stayed balanced.

Most of the Maidens had a familiar, intoxicating scent and a loveliness that was unique and supernatural. Rowan smelled like goodness itself. She smelled so startlingly sweet and alive it was hard to even sit in the same room as her. She shifted in her sleep, and the robe fell open, offering a tantalizing view of the creamy skin of her neck and the swell of her breasts. She let out a soft, discontented whimper that curled Conor's toes.

She was tearing his self-control to shreds within a couple of hours. He wasn't sure how he'd make it five years.

As if reading his mind, Charlie spoke up. "Maybe it will get better over time. You'll get used to it."

"Maybe," Conor gritted out, panting as he tried to tear his gaze away from her.

Rowan sat with a start, choking on a gasp. Her wide doe eyes met Conor's, and she blushed.

"I didn't mean to fall asleep," she mumbled.

"Yes, we'll have to keep you away from the drink, lass. Can't have you falling asleep on the job," Conor said.

Rowan narrowed her eyes, as if uncertain if he was teasing her or actually disapproving. He wasn't sure himself. He was irrationally angry with her—for what, being lovely and tempting? It wasn't her fault. Magic made it so. She was no more able to control how she tempted him than he was to remain unaffected by her.

"I should get back. Aeoife will be worried," Rowan said, rising from the chair, shrugging out of the robe, and carefully folding it and smoothing it over the seat as if trying to erase her presence from the room.

"Aeoife?" Conor asked.

"The youngest Maiden. Orla didn't tell you either of our names?" Rowan asked. "By the Mother! Am I not supposed to tell you that?" She paled, and her hand came to her mouth. "They didn't teach us that in lessons."

Charlie laughed. "Relax, lass. Orla was just very private and protective of the two of you." He handed her the red cloak she'd arrived in, but not before his eyes raked over her slinky silk dress appreciatively.

Conor nearly growled at him.

Charlie cocked an eyebrow and chuckled. "Territorial," he whispered.

It was all a game to Charlie. He didn't know what it was to struggle like that. Worse, he'd likely forgotten what it was like when Conor was out of control. They'd both become complacent with the lack of temptation.

And he'd failed Orla. He shook his head, trying to blot out a vision of her lifeless eyes.

Still, Charlie had the lightness about it that only came from helping to clean up bodies he wasn't responsible for.

"I'll walk you out," Conor said. He held out his arm for her, as if it was nothing to be so close.

Both he and Rowan gasped when she wove her hand through his elbow, though he suspected they were breathless for different reasons. She was afraid, but he was fighting for control. He caught her watching him out of the corner of her eye. It was a novelty, since most people feared him too much to even be curious.

They stepped out into the chilly night. Rowan pulled her cloak tighter around her.

"You should wear something more substantial next week," Conor said.

She laughed. "I don't think the elders would approve."

"Doesn't it only matter what I approve?" Conor asked, even while knowing it didn't.

The ceremony of it all wasn't ever for the gods. It was for the people. For their compliance and homage—for their complacency to sacrifice beautiful young women to a monster in the forest.

"All respect, Conor, but they wouldn't believe me even if I suggested it was your idea. Men assume that their peers all want the same thing," she said.

"Don't they?" Conor challenged.

Her face was inscrutable. "I actually don't think they do."

Conor went utterly still. She said she was chaste, but that didn't mean that her heart didn't belong to someone else. The thought burned through him like a fever. He went momentarily blind with jealousy, but he could say nothing. It didn't break any rules for her to want someone else, only for her to give in to her desire.

"Be careful of those who would lead you to believe otherwise. It's a true monster that would lavish you with pretty words so you don't look at his genuine desire," Conor said.

Rowan flushed, and her face fell.

It was unnecessarily mean of him to jab at her when she was already scared and overwhelmed, but a primal part of him wanted her entire attention.

Still, she'd been raised to believe she was nothing but a sacrifice, and it was cruel of him to dash whatever small hopes she held onto.

He bent low, breathing in her scent—a delicious blend of lavender, vanilla, and spun sugar. The closer he got to her skin, the stronger it was. He was drawn to her on instinct—a moth to flame.

But Conor knew her for what she was—something dangerously beautiful. It would be foolish of him to get sucked in by her big, innocent green eyes and forget the way he could doom her—the way she could do the same to him.

Her breath went shallow, and she held stock-still as he kissed the inside of her wrist. His lips brushed over her pulse, making it kick into a frenzy.

It was a mistake. Conor knew immediately when he licked his lips because he tasted spun sugar and vanilla. She was temptation itself. The truth was, he'd been fighting the impulse to devour her from the moment he met her. Her essence sang to him—a torturous, intoxicating song. The urge to take had never been so potent with any of the other Red Maidens. He almost groaned. It took all of his self-control to pull back.

Perhaps he'd become accustomed to it, or it would lose its power over time like it had with Orla. After the first year, the moments he even remembered who she was were few. It could happen with Rowan, though that felt unlikely.

"Safe journey, Rowan," he whispered. "Stay on the main trail. Don't get lured from it. Nothing can touch you if you stay on the main trail."

"I know the rules," she said curtly.

"So did Orla."

Conor could tell from the suspicion in her eyes that she blamed him for Orla. He blamed himself. It was best for Rowan to maintain a healthy fear of him, for both of their sakes.

"I'll be happy to answer more of your questions next week," Conor assured her.

"What about the blight?" Rowan asked.

"I'm working on it," Conor said. "You can take that back to your elders."

She eyed him with scrutiny before she turned to walk back down the path. She looked back over her shoulder once before tipping her chin up to the brightening sky. Then she took off down the path. The urge to follow her was almost unbearable.

Conor wished he'd explained to Rowan that he hadn't hurt a Red Maiden in nearly ten years. He didn't have the heart to tell her that even though their blood was on his hands, he hadn't killed Orla or her predecessor, Evelyn. He also didn't have it in him to admit he was afraid that he was beginning a cycle that would end with Rowan meeting a similar fate.

It was better to keep his distance—to stay the monster. The mystery and fear that surrounded him protected everyone else as much as it did him. It was even more dangerous for him to forget his own viciousness. He might not have been what Rowan thought he was, but he was a beast all the same. He'd done horrible things, and he'd likely have to do more. It was better that he remain monstrous for as long as possible.