On the bank, he stripped off his sweater and leathers. The scratches on his biceps stung a little, but he’d live. Naked, he dove into the bone-chilling water, finally numbing his mind and cooling the relentless desire swamping him…
A long while later, exhausted to the bone and barely able to feel his frozen limbs, he climbed out of the lake, dried off with a thought, then pulled on his sweats. He collected his clothes and dematerialized back to the cabin.
In the warm living room, he tossed his things on the table. Raking back his damp hair, he checked in on Kira. She was asleep. The scent of summer and flowers was stronger in the bedroom. The edginess inside him rose again, clawing at his skin.
Groaning, he made his way back downstairs and dropped onto the warmed leather couch. No, there wasn’t any rest for the wicked. He ought to know.
Exhaling roughly, he went horizontal and shut his eyes. And the past he would never forget seeped back in…
Dagan had left to check the outlying lands surrounding the Sumerian temples, and Inara had sent for him.
“You don’t drink wine anymore?” she teased, handing him a really ostentatious, jeweled goblet this time. Another gift for the new Goddess of Life. She received many. It was nothing new, she always offered him a drink when he stopped by.
Sure, he hated the ugly chalice, but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
“So, can I?” she pleaded.
“No, it’s too dangerous…” He took a mouthful of the tart liquid before he explained why again. A second later, he stumbled…
“Týr!” Inara cried out as he hit the floor.
He awoke, head groggy, and pushed to his feet. “What the hell happened?”
“For all that is holy, Týr, tell me she is safe,” Dagan pleaded, slamming him against the wall, yellow eyes stark with terror. “Tell me you kept my sister safe.”
Inara? A dense, coppery odor crowded Týr’s nose. He blinked and looked around, horror twisting his gut at the sickening carnage. Several slain soldiers lay on the bedroom floor amidst the crumpled bodies of the handmaidens.
He struggled to recall what had occurred, but his brain hurt. Everything remained trapped in a haze. He looked up as Dagan’s sword swung, seeing only his friend’s grief-stricken features as the weapon came down in a deadly arc—
Týr’s eyelids snapped open, his heart thundering in his chest. Flames crackled and hissed merrily in the hearth, the only sound in the dead silence.
Shit, he rubbed his burning eyes, hating when memories hauled him back. But this was his penance, remembering.
Dagan had learned the truth just a few weeks ago and had told Týr. Inara had apparently spiked his wine so she could go to the river. He’d been oh so altruistic, promising Dagan that none of the Guardians ever needed to know the truth, to know that Inara had been responsible for their incarceration. It was only to cover his own ass. His shame.
Bile crawled up his throat.Hewas the asshole who’d failed in his duty. He should have been more alert that day at the temple. But he’d drunk the damn wine and changed the fate of all the protectors to one of absolute horror. And his best friend had become a vampire.
Hel, his foster mother, had been one of the prosecuting deities at the Gates of the Gods tribunal. She’d sought her vengeance on Dagan and had sentenced him to the withered wastelands of Reapers Hell for what he’d done to Týr.
Fate! Týr flung an arm over his eyes, trying to block out the memories. But those slain bodies and the blood-drenched floors swamped his mind…andthattortured cry still garroted him to this day.
Godsdammit! This place was too freakin’ quiet! He needed a damn TV in here, didn’t matter that he rarely watched it. At times like these, he desperately wanted the noise to keep his screaming mind from hauling him back to the darkness of his past.
A muffled sound fissured through his churning skull. Instantly, Týr scanned the interior of the cabin and then outside but picked up nothing. It was probably his own demons fucking with his head again. Then the fragrance of summer and flowers, more potent than normal, caressed his senses. Barely discernable footfalls reached him.
Kira. She probably wanted water or something. Not because she was attuned to him or sensed his nightmares or some shit.
“What is it?” her soft voice reached out to him.
“Nothing. Go back to bed. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. I couldn’t sleep. I heard a noise…”
“Probably the wind.” Týr shifted his arm from his eyes and found her hovering a foot away from him, concern on her lovely face. Thick socks covered her feet. She wore a long-sleeve nightshirt now, the wide neckline slipping off one shoulder. Even in the glow of the low, spluttering flames in the hearth, she appeared pale.
He pushed up, feet hitting the cool wooden floors. “Are you in pain?”
“I’m okay.” She walked over to the fireplace and sat on the stone step.
