Page 62 of In Your Light

Fyn trembled but never released his hold on him. Maybe he couldn’t bear to look Hadeom in the eye. Maybe he didn’t want to see the truth.

“Your true form,” he whispered. “A raven of shadows.”

Hadeom nodded.

Fyn knew.

And Hadeom knew then that when this embrace was finished, he’d never have another. Fyn would be gone from his life, taking with him the only light and warmth Hadeom had ever known.

“The slayer of monsters,” Hadeom whispered.

“You’ve been called many things,” Fyn said. “You’ve had many names.”

Hadeom nodded again, a fresh wave of tears falling, because this was it. He was about to say it, and it could never be unsaid. He could never take it back, like he could never take back the pain he’d caused, the trail of destruction of everything he ever touched.

Fyn let out a shaky breath, his whole body trembling. “You are Hades.”

Hadeom wept, the dam burst, and the agony poured out of him. Unending, unsurmountable. Unforgivable.

“Yes.”

Chapter

Fifteen

SAWYER

Sawyer felt untethered. Like everything was happening too damn fast and wildly out of control.

“What the fuck?” he yelled over the sound of the incoming helicopter, looking at Ciaran. He needed to see calm and reason in those copper eyes, but Ciaran looked as bewildered as Sawyer felt. “He killed Salem’s mother? And he’s a creepy shadowy bird? What the fuck even is that?”

Ciaran shrugged and held up one finger. “One what-the-fuck at a time, babe.” He nodded to the helicopter, to the mining logo on its door.

The helicopter landed. It was a small white helicopter, looked brand-new and sleek, worth untold amounts of money. Two men climbed out, while the pilot stayed in his seat. The first guy was probably sixty, pudgy in the middle, with short white-grey hair, droopy jowls and a smarmy smile. He wore jeans and a blue button-down shirt and was pulling on an expensive oilskin coat, and it was clear his cowboy boots had never once seen dirt. He screamed billionaire-who-wants-the-plebs-to-like-him, and Sawyer hated the guy already.

The guy behind him was young and held an iPad. His blond hair was military-short, and he wore office attire along with a sour expression, but his shoes were maybe eighty bucks of fake leather, and his thin dress coat would do nothing for him in this weather. The older guy handed something to him without acknowledging him at all, and the young guy looked to the ground instead of at his boss.

Even without introductions, Sawyer knew this: The kid was being paid minimum wage, was more than likely treated like shit, and he hated his boss.

Sawyer almost felt sorry for him.

The old guy walked toward them, smarmy smile wide, his hand already outstretched. “Wasn’t expecting a welcoming committee,” he said. “John Bickell, Bickstrom Corporation.”

Sawyer shook his hand. His skin was soft, as if he’d never done a minute of manual labour in his life, and he gripped too hard, as if overcompensating for something.

“Detective Sergeant Sawyer.”

His eyes widened under his thick, dark, wiry, and unkempt eyebrows. “Ah, the local constabulary.”

Yep. Sawyer hated him.

“This is Ciaran,” Sawyer said. “My husband.”

If Ciaran was surprised by this, he didn’t show it at all. But Bickell’s smile glitched for a second before he recovered and shook Ciaran’s hand. He looked over to the row of shops and put his hands on his hips. “Quaint little town you got here,” he said. “Colder than hell, though. That wind has gotta be straight from Antarctica, right?”

Sawyer kept eye contact for a full second before he ignored him and held his hand out to the assistant. “Nice to meet you,” Sawyer said. “Sawyer and Ciaran.”

The young guy shook Ciaran’s hand, giving full eye contact and the hint of a smile. “Michael.”