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Instead of dying faithfully by my side in our skewed version of Romeo and Juliet, Sion starts to sing. My heart warms beneath his palm. Vibrations from his voice wave over my skin. Moments later, I’m calm.
Sion slides an arm around my shoulders. “Are you all the way back from the Veil?” A slight pink rises under his cheekbones, replacing his near-corpse gray tint.
“Are you?”
“Aye. In the nick.”
Satisfied we’ve both side-stepped death’s welcome mat, I round on him. “What the hell was that?”
His face flushes the same chili powder color as his hair. “Me being a gobshite.” He stares past me into the forest. “Seems I’ll be spending a good portion of our time together apologizing to you.”
“Cut the puzzle talk and explain.” The ample sleeve of my leine makes a nice handkerchief to wipe the sweat from my forehead. “I’d prefer to avoid future cardiac arrest.”
“I’m with you there.” He shakes his head, freeing the curls sweat-plastered to his temples. “We overstayed our time.” I windmill my hands for him to continue. He frets and pops his lips. “Traveling is like this. The Veil answers to a Celtic day, sundown to sundown. That’s when we travel. Here a single night passes. The hours don’t match exactly.”
I want to pull his hair and not let go until he gets to the point. “What—almost—killed—us?”
“A hundred thousand heart beats are the limit we’re allowed to travel during a single Celtic day.”
I press a fist to my lips. “How in the world are we supposed to keep track of heartbeats?”
“It’s your typical number of heartbeats in a day. As long as we finish wandering before what’s dawn to us, there’s no bother with counting.”
I use the stone to stand and fluff my skirts. “That’s a huge need to know, Sion. You’re ridiculously stingy with vital information.”
He dusts off his britches. “I’ll write you a manual.”
I groan in frustration at the immense lack of information I’m getting from him. “Your manual better include a chapter on me not getting killed while we bop around time.” I lock hands to hips. “You lied when you said I was safe when we travel. What about the caveman on the stairwell? Some gamble, flashing my grandmother’s ring, husband!”
“I didn’t lie. You were fine. I’d a called the Veil to pull us out if the milk turned sour.”
I give his shoulder a light backhanded smack and find it wildly satisfying. “That is what you should have led with.”
Instead of fighting back, he bows to me. “Forgive me, wife.” He tilts his head. “Are we done bickering?”
I defy anyone not to smile at the sparkle in those green glass eyes. “For now.”
He gives his chest a good scratch. “It’s the blazing time as a fox that fooled my reckoning.”
Sion stretches an arm over his shoulder, aiming for the center of his back but can’t quite reach.
I move around him. “I’ll get it.”
He almost purrs as I vanquish his itch. My hands long to sneak up the inside of his shirt to relish the warmth of bare skin. This overwhelming need to touch him is baffling. Less than a day ago, I wanted Sion out of my life. That was before we bent time and saved a soul. “What does your freaky fox trick have to do with keeping track of time?”
“A fox’s heartbeat is a gallop to our trot. Drains the heartbeat quota much faster.” He grunts. “Finnbheara’s gifts always come with give and take. Mostly take.”
I lay a palm over my heart, checking, and am relieved to feel it calm and steady. “I didn’t turn into a fox. What screwed my quota?”
Sion’s lip crinkles. “You’re tied to me, love.” He looks over my shoulder, eyes calculating. “I’ll not gamble using the fox again this close to Beltane.”
I shudder as the memory of the oubliette washes over me. “Was it you or Pwyll who allowed us to walk through walls?”
He kicks a stone. “Me. That particular effort stole heartbeats as well. Thank grace we made it back at all with me being so reckless.” His gaze meets mine, and he winks. “Another chapter for the manual.”
I blow a stream of air, sending hair dancing around my face and wish there really was a manual.
“Good, on we go.” He reaches into his pocket and produces three tiny, interconnected metal rings. “These belong to a laddie who squired for Strongbow. Chainmail is what you’d call cutting edge technology in the grand ole twelfth century.”
