Braving Fate (The Mythean Arcana Series Book 1) (2 page)

“It doesn’t happen very often,” Warren said, picking up the Slinky on his desk and fiddling with it.
 

Why wouldn’t Warren meet his eyes? The claws of nerves crawled up Cadan’s back, little pinpricks sinking into his skin that wouldn’t shake loose. It took him off guard; he hadn’t felt that in centuries.
 

“I’ve spoken briefly to Aerten about it.” Warren finally glanced at him, but looked away almost immediately.
 

Shite.
 

“What does the goddess of fate have to say about it?” He hadn’t seen her in ages. Hell, he’d only seen her a few times since she’d offered him a spot in the Praesidium. Whether he should thank her or curse her was something he hadn’t figured out yet.

“That only select souls are reborn. Those who were so strong in life that their souls never left this plane.” Warren set the Slinky down. “Their souls wait in stasis until humanity needs them. At that point, they’re brought back to perform a task that only they can accomplish.”

“So, I’m going to be protecting a child who will save the world?” A cold sweat broke out on his skin. Killing and guarding adults—no’ a problem. But dealing with children was something he was entirely unqualified for after being alone for two thousand years. Fuck, what a mess.
 

“No’ exactly,” Warren hedged. “Apparently with Druidic reincarnation, the soul is reborn in another person, but the person doesn’t become conscious of their previous life until they reach the approximate age at which they died originally.”

“Shite, they develop split personalities?”
 

“Ah, no’ exactly.” He paused, seemingly unaware that he’d grabbed the Slinky again and was juggling it faster and faster. “They doona survive that long. Once they remember who they are and complete their fated task, they die.”

“Die? That’s some shite luck.”

“Aye. The tragedy that took the soul too early the first time follows it. History is destined to repeat itself, after all. You need to protect the reincarnate until the fated task is complete, longer if you can.”

That would be a challenge, but then, he liked a challenge. “Do we know what this guy’s task will be, once he regains his memory? And where is he, anyway?”
 

“Doona know the task, but Aerten has prophesied that a catalyzing event will spur the memory of the reincarnate and lead them to Arthur’s Seat, likely today or tomorrow. That’s where you’ll meet.” Warren hesitated before continuing, finally meeting Cadan’s eyes. “And the warrior isn’t a man.”

Cadan’s breath stuck in his throat and a chill broke out on his skin. Nay, it couldn’t be. “Who is it, Warren?”

“It’s Boudica.”

CHAPTER TWO

Clayton, Maine

 
A deep, hollow grief filled her, so strong that it nearly overpowered the lightning bolt of pain that streaked through her chest. Cold crept insidiously through her veins, a sickening contrast to the burning pain. Every breath that she struggled to drag into her lungs felt like she’d plunged in the dagger all over again.

 
The moans of the dying filtered weakly through the walls of the house in which she lay, creeping through the thatch of the roof and wrapping around her brain, her soul, and sucking the life from her all the faster. Her warriors lay dying outside in the mud and blood of war.

The sounds of her failure to protect her people, her daughters, reverberated through her mind and soul like thunder.
 

She gasped as a streak of pain tore through her chest. Why did it take so long to die? Perhaps because she didn’t really want to die, and hadn’t plunged the blade to its greatest effect. But it was only right. Her death would ensure the end of the war, and she’d rather it be at her own hands than those of her enemy.

“Why?” the man holding her rasped. “Why do this?” His pain was palpable, but the only thing she felt was rage at his betrayal.
 

Diana Laughton’s fingers stopped on her computer’s keyboard and she stared at the words she’d just written. What the hell? She was a historian, damn it. She wrote historical analysis, not historical fiction.
 

But
it
was happening again.
 

Only...different. Worse. She rubbed a sore spot on the back of her wrist and inhaled deeply of the brisk October air that blew through the open window. It smelled of leaves and carried the heavy, wet scent of impending rain.
 

She scrubbed at her eyes, which were gritty with exhaustion. The dreams that had haunted her on and off since childhood were coming more often, taking over her mind whether she was asleep or not. She felt what the dying woman felt, smelled what she smelled, and saw what she saw.
 

And wondered if she was finally going crazy.
 

A knock sounded on the door. Diana jumped. A statuesque woman, her striking face topped with wild dark hair, popped her head into Diana’s small office.
 

“Hey, Diana,” Vivienne said. “I’ve a break between classes. Do you want to go grab a coff— Oh, hey, are you all right? You don’t look so good.”
 

Diana looked up at her friend. The Egyptology textbooks in her fellow professor’s hands, combined with her flowing, colorful scarves, presented an image of worldly and adventurous scholarship that Diana never failed to appreciate. For what felt like the thousandth time, Diana admired the casual bohemian elegance of her closest friend.
 

Whereas Vivienne spent much of her time traveling through Egypt’s deserts in search of ancient sites, Diana had spent the last few years preparing her latest manuscript. That meant research and libraries, not world travel and exotic sites. She’d been content, mostly, to stay back and work on the research that had obsessed her for years. But sometimes...

“Ugh, it has been
a day
,” Diana said. “I could definitely use a break. I was about to head out anyway to meet the postman.”
 

She mashed her finger against the delete button and almost sighed as the muscles in her shoulders began to relax.
 

“Is it that dream again?” Vivienne asked.

“Yeah. It’s been getting worse.”

“Did the dream still feel familiar?”
 

It sounded crazy when Vi said it like that. Hell, it was
crazy. Vi was her closest friend, and the only person she’d ever told about the dreams besides her dad, who had reacted…badly.
 

“Yeah, but I’m a freaking history professor. I should be familiar with battles and the theoretical consequences of war. What I shouldn’t
be able to do is
feel
the dying woman’s last emotions.” Such miserable emotions.

Diana stood to put on her coat and barely resisted straightening the mussed pile of papers at the corner of her desk. They were fine the way they were. She no longer had to make sure everything was neat as a pin. That necessity had died with her father. Her hand squeezed into a fist. It might have been a dozen years since she’d experienced the repercussions of not following his rules, but such things were hard for the subconscious to forget.

“Let’s go.” Diana turned quickly from the pile of papers.

They walked down the barren hall, Vivienne’s stilettos clacking at a higher pitch than Diana’s comfortable beige kitten heels.
 

Fortunately, the coffee shop was close to their department. With her erratic sleeping patterns, coffee was the only thing that had kept her going during the last month.
 

Outside, they crossed the historic street that ran down the center of the university town of Clayton, barely dodging a child racing down the sidewalk on a bicycle. A gust of wind blew russet leaves off nearby trees. Halloween was coming and jack-o-lanterns grinned eerily from shop stoops. Normally, this was her favorite season. But this year, with the dreams coming more frequently and the unsettled feeling haunting her waking hours, she hadn’t been able to appreciate it at all.

“Was there anything new in the dream?” Vi asked.
 

“No, basically the same, but this time the man spoke. I couldn’t make out his face, but I think I loved him.” Diana shook her head. “I mean, the dying woman loved him. At least she
had
loved him. But she felt betrayed.”

“By what?”

“Don’t know.”
 

Honestly, it was creepy and she didn’t want to think about it anymore. She rubbed the back of her wrist, which had begun to tingle again as the cuff of her jacket rubbed against the sensitive skin. Yet another mystery to be filed away for later.

“Very cool.” Vivienne paused when Diana shot her a look. “But sad. I wonder who she was?”
 

They slipped inside the coffee shop and out of the brisk air. The wind slammed the door at their backs, but the warmth and inviting décor, punctuated with local art and plush furniture, welcomed them.

“How about a figment of my crazy imagination? Maybe all my research is getting to me.”
 

“Or, your memories are getting to your research.”
 

“No, the dreams have nothing to do with my book.”
Liar.
 

Hadn’t she always been drawn to the more gruesome parts of ancient history? The warriors, battles, death? Ever since she was little, she’d been the girl who wanted to play with wooden swords and watch
Xena, Warrior Princess.
Combined with her love of books, it had led her to a career as a history professor with a specialty in the warrior women of the Bronze and Iron Ages. She had almost finished converting her dissertation into a book for the university press.

“The manuscript is almost done, by the way,” Diana said. “And with it, my application for assistant professor will be all but in the bag.”
 

She hoped. She really needed that promotion. Currently, as a lecturer, she had no control over what she taught, how or when she taught it, and no certainty that she’d even have a job next semester. She wanted that certainty and that control, desperately. The tenure-track job as assistant professor would get her one blissful step closer.

The line went quickly as they chatted. Their turn to order came and Diana thrust her card at the barista, nudging Vivienne’s out of the way. “Both, please.”
 

“Diana, you don’t have to.” Vivienne nudged her own card at the barista.
 

The girl glanced at Diana, then shook her head at Vivienne, no doubt deciding that Diana was the scarier one.

“I know. But you’ve spent so much time listening to me complain about my nightmares that the least I can do is get you a coffee.”

“Thanks. And it’s not a problem. I think they’re interesting, though I’m sorry they cause so much trouble.”

Black coffee in Diana’s hand, a frothy latte in Vivienne’s, they headed toward the door.
 

“All right, Vi, I’ve got to run. FedEx is delivering an old treatise to my house today. They usually show up around three and I don’t want them to leave it out on the stoop, what with this weather.” She nodded up at the gray clouds. “I’ll see you later.”

Later that evening, Diana jiggled the key in the lock of the front door of her townhouse. Rain pounded on her head, and the groceries she’d run out for after receiving her package made opening the door a pain in the butt.
Damn.
She needed to get the stupid lock fixed, but there just never seemed to be time between writing and classes.
 

Snick
. Finally. The door swung open and she stepped out of rain that wasn’t nearly as charming as it was when she was snuggled up cozily at her desk.

Letting the door swing shut, she kicked off her shoes and hauled her grocery bags down the hall to the kitchen. Fresh veggies, tofu, and red wine—it wasn’t exciting, but they were the healthiest things she could find at the small shop down the street. That had to count for something when it felt like any control she had over her life was disappearing with every terrifying new dream or hallucination. Not to mention her manuscript deadline and her upcoming—
please, God
—promotion.