Heath would have much rather pushed ahead, but he knew rushing forward blindly would only hurt them. For now, he just had to pray his Fate was as safe as possible until he could get to her. He didn’t think karma would be so ugly as to take her before he had the chance to know her.
Cynes loped away, the Mark Stone embedded into the chest plate of his armor.
“We don’t have anything to build a fire with, but we may rest in the trees. At least the leaves will hide us from anything that may want to catch us unaware,” Eiravel surmised.
“Let’s go.”
Since he’d assumed his Unseelie form, Heath didn’t have to feign hunger or eating. In fact, much like the daywalkers who hailed from them, Unseelie could survive long stretches of time without food or blood. The In Between wasn’t devoid of life, but most of the animals they wouldn’t be good for consumption, anyway.
The chaos that survived here would change their forms to pure magic, and ingesting them would only make Heath and his men sick as they traveled. It wasn’t exactly like this was a planned excursion. He followed Eiravel to the line of trees off the narrow path they’d congregated on.
As they climbed, Heath spotted several branches up higher he knew would take their weight while they rested. There was no day or night in the In Between—just a constant wash of gray. He used spirit to anchor himself to the tree so he wouldn’t fall and break his neck.
A Foraltae. He never would have thought it would happen, not in a million years. The world had been too unkind to him, a smorgasbord of ugly moments tied together by hatred. He’d lost Lorenzo, Cin, the Lombardi Pack, his home, and even his identity.
Even walking around in his natural form seemed odd. He wasn’t accustomed to his height, or the way his hair tickled the back of his neck sometimes when he moved. The weight of his sins and mistakes on his shoulders was sometimes too much to carry.
“The sound of your brain grinding gears is loud enough for even me to hear, Kieran.”
“Heath.”
Eiravel shifted, the leaves swaying and the branch groaning under his weight. “What?”
“My name, it’s Heath. It’s no different than Niamh going by Silva or you using Roderick when you were helping me hide in Encantado.”
“Aye, except I did it only to make sure I could fit in, and my ability to hide among the mages and shifters was not as gifted as yours.”
No, not many could use the glamour the way Heath did. It was a gift to his shadow, allowing him to mimic what he’d come into contact with. It wasn’t all-powerful, like when he’d fought Silva with fire against her metal. He’d only be able to use it for several hours at most before he had to fall back into his shadow. Heath had worked on his glamour for several years before he began running with the street urchins.
When it failed, he’d find somewhere to hide only long enough to catch his breath before he used it once more. Cin had nearly caught him once, and he’d had to hide his ear under a cap for a few days until he restored his reserves.
His gut dropped at the thought of her. He may not have loved her the way she’d hoped—he’d never had those feelings for her—but he’d cared for her, loved her like a sister. Heath had found himself distrustful of Lorenzo when he first appeared on the scene until he knew the youth was true. Still, he longed to be part of a family once more. The time he spent with them had been the best of his life. Once he knew what he believed he’d survived as Kieran wasn’t all of what it seemed, he’d struggled with holding the moniker.
“Why don’t you want to be called by your name? It’s a sign of who you are.”
Every Fae’s name had some connection to their gift. Eiravel meant “sharp sword,” a testament to his battle prowess. Cynes mean “onyx heart.” And Kieran … Kieran meant “dark.” He was the darkest of shadow.
But …
“I crave the light.”
It seemed to be enough for Eiravel, and Heath was happy he didn’t have to explain more.
“If I were my twin, I’d make some remark about needing a flashlight or you couldn’t find your ass with both hands, but I am not him. All I can offer you is rest. Sleep, Heath. Maybe in dreams you can find you Foraltae, your light.”
Fuck, I hope so.
The wind kissed his skin, a cool lick calming the sun’s heat blazing over his neck. Heath squinted his eyes, his back aching as he chopped wood. The days were sweaty balls, but once the dual moons filled the sky in Seraph, he’d shrivel from the cold. Building a fire in his hearth would help fight the chill.
A fire?
He frowned. Heath didn’t own a home. Never had, but the steady fall of the axe calmed him. Sweat slid down his exposed back, and his white pants hung loose around his hips, damp from exertion.
What idiot wears white while working outside?
Apparently, him. Heath shook his head, trying to clear it, but he kept chopping.
Whack. Whack. Whack.
