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“You attract power.”
Christian went still. He’d often felt that way as a lad, strolling the bens and vales of his Highlands, tethered by a deep bond to all of it, earth to sky, dirt to stars, feeling as if the heavens themselves sometimes shot out a milky tendril to caress him, noticed him, observed him with curiosity. His druid connection to all living things was intense. He’d not even been able to fish as a lad because he couldn’t bear the pain of the pierced worm, life stolen by the hook. The worm had enjoyed its dark, sweet, rich life in the soil, comforted by the rhythms and songs of the earth. And now he was the Great Stealer. “Why do I draw it?”
“You have the potential for great good or evil. The universe notices.”
“Why the bloody hell are you bringing this up now?” Barrons always had a reason. He never talked unless he needed to in order to accomplish an aim.
“You’re about to meet someone. Greet it with warmth and respect. I won’t tell you again.”
Christian stopped in his tracks. “That thing from Samhain is here?”
“Another of the old earth gods. This one, however, will not run, they will decimate you if you fear them. The old ones can be cantankerous.”
“Your pronouns aren’t matching. What the bloody hell is it—one or multiple?” When Barrons said nothing, he snapped irritably, “Where the fuck do you even find old gods? It’s not as if they’re just hanging about on street corners.”
Barrons shot him a look of dark amusement. “You might be surprised. If you were one day summoned by those in need of your services yet greeted with fear and hostility, what would you do to those who’d called you??
?
Christian bared his teeth in a twisted smile. If someone dared compel his presence then treated him with horror and rejection…well, in his recent state of mind he might do worse than the old god had done. He’d live up to his fucking legend, every frightening bit of it.
“Be glad the one that came that night wasn’t as bitter and broody as you. All things considered, it was surprisingly well mannered.”
Christian narrowed his eyes. “As you’ve just been. You never explain.” Were they becoming…friendly? Was Barrons capable of friendly?
“Power is gray. It goes where you will it, wrong or right, dark or light. Reviling yourself is the surest way to go dark.”
Christian bristled but said nothing. The bastard had struck a nerve. Barrons didn’t know he’d begun hating himself long before he turned Unseelie, when he’d been but a lad, for hearing all those truths no one else could hear, for making those he loved uneasy, for inciting suspicion and fear. But even more shaming to his character—he’d come to revile those around him, to feel contempt for their lies and evasions, their inability to face what they felt. Between despising himself and looking down on others as liars and cowards, he’d grown to adulthood with a serious chip on his shoulder. He’d donned the mask of a carefree, good looking young Scotsman, but there’d always been a streak of darkness in him, perhaps even repressed sadism, seething anger at his fellow man. Was that why he’d been one of the first to turn Unseelie prince? Had the evicted magic of the dead prince somehow sniffed it out in him and deemed him a fine fit? Had Fae power targeted him long before that night at Ban Drochaid, even before Mac fed him Unseelie?
He shifted his wings uneasily. Fuck, he had wings. He could fly. He considered that for a moment, looking for the first time past the Unseelie element of it to the simple beauty and power of having wings. The freedom. The strength.
But since the day they began to grow, he’d done nothing but bitch about the itch and the pain, the need to clean them, how he could no longer sleep flat on his back. No position was comfortable, and he’d begun to fear, like a bat, that he might need to hang upside down to get any rest at all. And sure enough, the bloody things hurt most of the time, felt wrong on his body, kept him on constant edge.
He canted his shoulders back, expanding his druid essence into the Fae appendages, as he accepted—nay, welcomed—them for the first time. When the world was safe again, he might fly a velvety night sky in the Highlands, watch wolves tussle in the moonlight with their cubs, soar beside a grand eagle for a few hours, glide across a silvery loch, tumble to a soft landing in a bed of heather.
Bloody hell, he had wings!
For the first time since he’d begun to transform into something otherworldly, he felt…elation.
His wings responded, lifting slightly, fluttering as if with a sigh of pleasure, as if, with the aloofness of a cat, they’d been waiting to be noticed, stroked, appreciated. Heat raced through his body into the strong, sure sails that spread and fanned without conscious thought, the powerful muscles in his shoulders rippling smoothly as they arced high before crossing down again to tuck behind his shoulders in a position he’d never before been able to achieve. Perfectly tucked precisely where they were made to be.
Effortless.
Neither dragging nor aching.
He shook his head with a wry smile. His wings had always known instinctively how to arrange themselves but his brain had been in the way. He’d been in the way of himself. They’d been a burden because he’d thought them a burden, and now that he thought them a gift, they behaved like a gift.
He stole a glance at his companion. If he could learn to like himself and the world around him, Barrons could learn to have friends. Thanks to Dageus, the Keltar and the Nine were practically bloody married now. They’d become clan in every meaningful sense of the word. Like the Nine, the Keltar had long been insular, secretive, staying intentionally isolated. But the world had changed and neither band could afford insularity anymore. There were too many risks to them all to shun shared knowledge and power.
Christian wanted friends. He’d missed having them as a lad. God damn it, at least he could have peers.
Barrons cut him an irritated look.
“What? Don’t tell me you can actually hear what I’m thinking,” Christian snapped. He wouldn’t be surprised. Barrons and his men were bizarrely attuned to people’s slightest nuances.
“I endeavor not to,” Barrons muttered. “Sometimes you infernal creatures seem to be holding a bloody megaphone to your brains.”
“What is the god’s name?” Christian changed the subject swiftly. It would be easier to be courteous if he knew something of whom he was to address.
