I just couldn’t believe it was happening to me, and by the time I accepted it was, it had fucked with my head, and getting out was…harder.
The shame was still there, burning in his gut like acid. He didn’t know how long it took for that to fade, but it wasn’t eight years.
He didn’t know how long he stayed like that, sitting against the upright stones of the dolmen, his body trembling with the force of finding his equilibrium again. The sun climbed higher, and the air gradually warmed around him, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. Because if he did, he’d have to admit that Derek’s voice was still in his head, that the past wasn’t as buried as he’d thought, and worse, no matter how strong he was now, there would always be a part of him that was still that scared, stupid younger version of himself, wondering what the hell he’d done wrong.
2
The whetstone hissedagainst the blade, creating a rhythmic and steady sound that resonated in the quiet space around him. With each stroke, each pass of the stone along the steel, Cian felt the connection deepen between him and the weapon that was almost an extension of himself when he was in human form. He didn’t even need to watch what he was doing as his calloused and experienced hands intimately knew this weapon, the specific angle of its edge, and the way the metal seemed to call to his soul. He had sharpened this blade many a thousand of times before, honing its edge until it was as ready for war as his wolf side’s teeth. But today, despite the familiarity, a tempest swirled within him, causing his focus to flicker like a candle flame caught in a breeze.
Beyond the dolmen’s arch, where the ancient stones stood like sentinels guarding the border of worlds, the veil between realities thinned just enough to let the scent of pine and damp earth weave through. Fresh and vibrant, the air brushed against his skin, bringing with it the sounds and the scent of the Grá Croí, his lifeforce was now tethered to.
But today, the rush of being close to his Grá Croí gave way to something that turned his stomach, twisted his heart, and enraged him enough that for one of the only times in at least four thousand years, he had to fight back the urge to shift: the bitter tang of fear, of pain, and of something his Grá Croí should never feel—shame.
Our Grá Croí is hurting.
I feel it, Failinis.
We must go to him.
His fingers stilled mid-scratch, the whetstone hovering, suspended in the air for a moment before he finally released it to clatter into his lap, forgotten.
We cannot cross the veil.
I don’t care, Reaper needs us.
Just the thought of the man’s name sent a shiver down Cian’s spine. He hadn’t expected Reaper to arrive this soon, nor had he dared hope the man would stop so he and Failinis could catch more than a glimpse of him. But now, there he was, resting against the ancient stones on the other side of the Fianna Door, his presence a chaotic swirl of jagged edges and raw, unspoken burdens that clung to him like an invisible cloak.
Warrior. We must go to him.
Stop, Failinis, we need the permission of an Rí to cross the veil. You know this.
But our Grá Croí?—
—I know.
The sword dropped onto his lap, its sharpness momentarily forgotten as his attention honed in on Reaper. He had to work hard not todo as Failinis showed him in his head, and hurl himself against the portal between the standing stones of the Dolmen. It was maddening that he could see beyond the veil, but he could not pass through.
“Invite us to cross, and I will slay your demons, Grá Croí. Failinis will slay them all.” He knew Reaper couldn’t hear him, yet he made the request anyway. “Say the words and open the door.”
Go to him.
Help him.
He needs us.
Failinis demanded in his head.
If we cross without permission.
We will age and die, as will he.
We cannot hurt our Grá Croí.
He understood the reasons the Fianna could not pass through the door uninvited. It had taken Oisín nearly a thousand years to recover from falling off the horse while he’d searched for Fionn. The Fianna could not set foot on human soil without permission to be there. It had taken all the skill of Cian’s own father, Dian Cecht, and of the Tuatha Dé Danann to reverse the aging process that would have killed the heir to the throne of the Fianna. His wolf half either didn’t understand or refused to. With Failinis, either was a distinct possibility.
He understood the wolf’s demands. He could hear how rough and uneven Reaper’s breathing was. It wasn’t the measured inhalations of the warrior he’d met in Dún Fianna; it was theragged, labored gasps of someone grappling with an unseen battle only Reaper was a part of. Cian’s jaw tightened. He understood the weight of memories capable of crushing a man’s spirit from the inside out, inch by inch, until not a sliver of hope remained. Everything he was, craved, demanded, yearned to do as his wolf wished, and throw himself at the portal until it allowed them through.
Fionn is an old man; we can take him.
