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It happened faster than she’d thought possible. Instead of hovering just out of reach, building slowly, she came hard in a rush of sensation that roared through her entire body. Dante slipped his own leash, driving fast and deep, and followed.
When she was able to breathe again, able to open her eyes, the first thing she saw was fire. Every candle in the room was flaming.
“Tell me why you denied your gift.”
They were lying entwined, her head on his shoulder, barely recovered from what had felt
so cataclysmic that neither of them had spoken for a long time. Instead they had been slowly stroking each other, touch replacing words, touches of reassurance and comfort, of silent joy.
She sighed, for the first time in her life feeling a little distance from the unhappiness of her childhood. “I think you already know. It’s not an original story, or an interesting one.”
“Probably not. Tell me anyway.”
She smiled against his shoulder, glad he wasn’t making any big deal of it, though the smile faded almost as fast as it had bloomed. Talking about her mother was difficult, even though it had been fifteen years since she’d last seen her. Maybe it would never be easy, but at least the pain and fear were less immediate.
“As bad as it was, a lot of kids have it worse. The only reason she didn’t abort me was so she could get that monthly check. She told me that every month when it came. She’d shake the envelope at me and say, ‘This is the only reason you’re alive, you freak.’ That check helped keep her in drugs and booze.”
He didn’t say anything, though his mouth tightened.
Her head found a more comfortable resting spot on his shoulder, and she nestled against him, soaking up his heat. She’d known he felt hot, but it was nice to know she hadn’t been imagining things. “It was constant slaps, and she’d throw things at me—cups, empty wine bottles, a can opener. Whatever was near. Once she threw a can of chicken noodle soup, hit me in the head, and knocked me out. I had a headache for days. And she wouldn’t let me have any of the soup.”
“How old were you?”
“That time…six, I think. I’d started school and discovered numbers. Sometimes I was so excited I’d have to tell someone what I’d learned about the numbers that day, and she was the only someone I had. She told my teacher I’d fallen and hit my head on the curb.”
“You’d have been better off in foster care,” he growled.
“I ended up there when I was sixteen. She took off one day and never came back. I remember…even though she’d made it plain how much she hated me, when she left it was as if part of me was missing, because she was what I knew. By that time I wasn’t helpless, but when I was little…no matter how bad it is, little kids will do anything to hold on to what passes for a family, you know?” She sighed. “I know I overreacted about the baby thing. I’m sorry. You said ‘baby,’ and that’s one of my triggers.”
A little smile curved his mouth. “Don’t get upset again, but I wasn’t joking. When a human mother gives birth to a Raintree baby, she becomes Raintree. No, I don’t understand the science of it. Something to do with hormones and the mixing of blood, and the baby being a genetic dominant. I’m not sure there is any science to explain it. Magic doesn’t need to be logical.”
The explanation intrigued her. Everything she’d learned about the Raintree intrigued her. It was such a different world, a different experience, and yet they existed normally within the regular world—not that the regular world knew about them, because if that ever came about, then their existence would not only not be normal but they might cease to exist at all. Lorna had few illusions about the world she lived in. “What about human men who have babies with Raintree women? What changes them?”
“Nothing,” Dante said. “They stay human.”
That didn’t seem fair, and she said so. Dante shrugged. “Life isn’t perfect. You deal with it.”
Wasn’t that the truth. She knew about dealing. She also knew that, right now, she was very happy.
The dozen or so candles in the room were putting out enough heat that she was beginning to be uncomfortable. Looking around at them, she realized that Dante and fire went hand in hand. She didn’t like fire, would always be afraid of it, but…life wasn’t perfect. You dealt with it.
“Can you put out those candles?” she asked.
He lifted his head from the pillow and looked at them, as if he hadn’t realized they were burning. “Damn. Yeah, no problem.” Just like that, they went out, the wicks gently smoking.
Lorna climbed on top of him and kissed him, smiling as she felt a leap of interest against her inner thigh. “Now, big boy, let’s see if you can light them again.”
TWENTY-TWO
Sunday morning
She had stayed.
Dante came back into the bedroom from the balcony where he’d met the sunrise, intense satisfaction filling him as he saw Lorna still peacefully asleep in his bed. Only the top half of her head was visible, dark red hair vivid against the white pillow, but he was acutely aware of what it meant for even that much to not be covered by the sheet.
She was feeling safer. Not completely safe, not yet, but safer. When he was in the bed with her, she slept stretched out, relaxed, cuddled against him. When he left the bed, though, within five minutes she was curled in a tight, protective ball. One day—maybe not this week or this month, or even this year, but one day—he hoped he could see her sprawled in sleep, head uncovered, maybe no covers at all. Then he would know she felt safe.
And when the day came that he didn’t feel the need to constantly check on her whereabouts, he would know that he felt safe, too.
