“And she used to say the day you became a fish would be the last we’d ever see of you. That you’d lose yourself to it… wander too far to find your way back.”
I can’t help the huff of a laugh that leaves me. “Heaven’s Gate, I’d forgotten that last part.”
“She always did like comparing us to sea creatures, wild beasts, house pests, or her beloved Tommel.”
“And guessing what we’d shift into if the family blood ever ran true.” I shake my head as more memories surface. “She likened you to that old billy goat—the one that used to jab Old Man Kelly in the ass if he didn’t get fed first. Said the only time you were right as rain was when you had a full belly.”
His grin builds into an impish smirk. “Which was a lie. A pint and the love of a good woman did the trick a time or two. Not that I could ever tell her that. She already wanted to tan my hide for getting the neighbor girl dismissed.”
“Was that the one she caught you with in the stables?”
“Yes. Buck naked and taking her over a bale of hay when she walked in.”
I laugh. “She said your ass was the whitest thing she’d ever seen and cursed her luck for it, because she’d never be able to scrub that image from her mind.”
“Probably why the cloak.” He huffs a quiet breath. “Though most don’t believe it, God does have a sense of humor.”
We fall silent, studying one another.
Finally, he asks, “Is that proof enough for you?”
I nod.
He closes the distance between us. His hand clamps around my arm as mine does his, and then he pulls me in. We embrace—something we haven’t done in this life.
That’s when I know something is wrong. Pollock rarely shows this much emotion.
When he steps back, his features have gone somber, his gaze sweeping over me as if to make sure I’m still whole.
“You have no idea how relieved I am to see you’re alright. When you didn’t reach out and the earth started falling apart, I got worried.”
“You? Worried about me?” I say it lightly, more to steady myself than anything else. “Maybe I should still be suspicious.”
A dour smirk tugs at his mouth. “Yes, imagine that. I actually care about you. Quite a bit, in fact.”
An awkward silence settles between us. Because what the hell am I supposed to say to that when the memory of his sword in my belly is a visceral one?
“I have news.” He sighs. “Kahill… we were together when the stars began to fall.”
I don’t like the look on his face. It speaks of death and destruction, the same fate we faced here.
“Is he alive? Where is he now?” But it’s as if I know or can feel the loss he feels, leaking out into the unstable powers working against mine.
“It wasn’t him that the god contended with. It was Lazreth. Lazreth had me pinned—doing his usual best to cause chaos, mayhem, and pain, and neither of us realized what was happening until it was too late. A god fell right on top of us.”
He shakes his arms out at his side. “That’s why my power is unstable.”
“I barely made it clear of the fallout. Lazreth kicked me free at the last moment, but the god’s power still flared outward and burned me to a crisp. When I woke… I woke like this. Changed. I still haven’t fully grasped what it’s done to me. Suffice it to say, I feel different, and using my power has had… odd consequences. The more I try to control it, the more chaotic the results become.”
I understand him fully.
I’d grappled with the same thing, though my circumstances were different. When I’d taken the power from Dagda, it had been too much. Completely unstable. I’d felt explosive, as if I couldn’t contain it. It was only after I expelled power to mend things here that my powers and his had begun to steady.
That hadn’t been intentional. It had been instinct. Survival.
I believe it created a fragile balance between my own power and the dying god’s essence I had stolen. Because since then, mastering it has become… manageable.
Pollock may be struggling with the same thing.
