Kiss of the Goblin Prince (27 page)

He shook off the prickling sense of unease that was never present when he’d made deposits as a goblin. He felt like he was intruding, like even the air was trying to push him out as he climbed the stairs. His skin pulled tight. The tattoo on his lower back spun without raising any magic. It had protected him from the druid, but not the Shadowlands magic, and not his own nightmares. In here it was useless. He was defenseless.

At the top of the stairs he paused. There were no doors, only a corridor that stretched on as far as he could see. More magic and tests. His lips thinned. Once again the acolyte searching for the truth and the reward of knowledge.

Fine. He could play their game. It wasn’t a hard one.

The door was where he wanted it to be.

He took several paces down the corridor. This time he did check behind him; as expected the stairs had vanished and he was in a never-ending corridor. Very unimaginative.

He closed his eyes and steadied his heart. He was where he was supposed to be. Then he knocked on the wall three times. When he opened his eyes there was a door and a handle. Before he could turn the knob the door swung open. The man, if it was a man, in the room was five feet tall in his well-heeled boots.

“Mr. King, welcome to Birch.” He stuck out his hand for Dai to shake.

Vexion’s hand was cold, uncomfortably so, against his flesh. Like gripping ice. His vision slipped and in the weave of Vexion’s body he caught a glimpse of a tail that snapped like a whip. Dai blinked and it was gone.

“Come, sit down and we’ll talk about your special cassse.” This hiss slid down Dai’s spine like a handful of snow.

“My books.”

“Yesss, yesss, the booksss.”

They sat opposite each other at a desk made of wood so dark and polished it shimmered red over black like hot coals. Like coals, it was hot to touch. Was Vexion some kind of reptile that needed the heat? Dai kept his hands away from the wood and folded them in his lap as if he had all the time in the world to wait.

Vexion rested his forearms on the surface of the desk. He shivered and his eyes widened in pleasure. “I’m impressed you found usss.”

“You didn’t make it easy.”

Vexion’s lips thinned. “We spent a lot of time debating what to do with you. Be grateful you were allowed to live. Asss for your booksss…we can’t return them.” Vexion gave a little shrug.

Dai put his hands flat on the table. The skin on his palms began to heat. He forced cold through his hands as if he could will the wood to cool. “I need my books.”

Vexion tilted his head as if he were appraising dinner. “We let you live. It wasn’t an easy, or unanimousss decision. This world hasn’t seen the likesss of you since Merlin. The booksss you collected are best locked away.”

While his palms grew hot, they didn’t burn. “I’m not doing this for myself. There is information I need.” Important information if he was going to be able to save Brigit’s life and heal the damage he’d done to his sister so long ago.

Vexion dropped his gaze to the wood and then glanced back at Dai. “The fabric of society isss at risk.”

“A child will die.” And Amanda would break apart. He didn’t want to see her hurt.

“People die. You know that.”

“She is dying because of me.”

“Not my problem.” Vexion curled his lips. “You’re chilling my desk.”

Dai let thoughts of a bitter Welsh winter flow through his fingers. “Not my problem.”

Vexion chuckled like this was a game. “You aren’t what I expected, mage.”

“Sorry to disappoint. I need access to the scroll on healing—you know the one; it’s made of skin and can repair itself.”

“Yesss, but do you know why it repairsss itself?” Vexion said with a grin that was anything but friendly.

Dai blinked. He didn’t. Damn it. He was about to fail. Did he try for a plausible lie or admit defeat? He hadn’t expected to be tested. He eased his hands off the desk and let the heat return.

“Because it embodies the magic it explains.” He inclined his head in an acknowledgement that he had no idea and would defer to Vexion’s wisdom, if he saw fit to share. Dai waited, not expecting an answer if he was wrong. A test failed was sometimes one that couldn’t be repeated.

Vexion leaned forward. “Almossst, mage. Almossst. The magic is in the wordsss. The wordsss have power and thusss restore the scroll whenever it isss damaged.”

That had been his other answer. It was either embodiment or words. There was a third option but that scroll never appeared to be haunted or possessed. The one that bit him had been a nasty, vengeful piece of hex law. That Vexion believed him worthy of knowing the correct answer was a good sign.

“Thisss world isn’t ready for magic again. Your booksss will be cared for and catalogued. Your donation to our library isss appreciated.” Vexion reached into his jacket. “I’ll write you a check for your trouble.”

“I don’t want money.” He had enough; the compound interest on what they’d put away made them wealthy enough to buy a small country.

“Gold?”

Dai shook his head. “I’ll give you everything I have to read that scroll.”

“You don’t want to do that. Trust me when I say your soul is just the start. Doesss this child mean that much to you?”

Amanda flickered in his mind. She would be fine without him, and with Brigit healed she would be happy. He would have righted his past and be free to move on in his next life. “Yes.”

Roan was going to kill him if Vexion didn’t first.

Vexion cocked his head at an angle too crooked for him to be anything other than not human. “You are no use dead, mage.” He stood up. “The decision has been made. I hope you and your brother found our service useful, but our relationship isss at an end.”

“Wait.” He’d failed Brigit and he didn’t even know what he’d done wrong. He’d been willing to give everything to save her and it wasn’t enough. “How do I tell this child she will die?”

“You don’t. If you heal her, then where will you stop? One, one hundred, one thousand? You could bring down religion.” Vexion opened the door. “I wish you well. Next time you come here, you will not be allowed entry.”

The idea that he would bring down the world for his own gain was laughable.

“Who is making these decisions?” Who was deciding whether he should live or die, or get his books? He tried to pull together some magic but grabbed nothing. He’d only been allowed to use a little because Vexion had permitted him. It was a charade. The whole damn place. A test to see what he knew and how he’d react.

“Good-bye, Mr. King.”

He put his foot in the door. “Her death is on your hands.”

“Everyone diesss. Don’t pressss your cassse. You may not be able to live with the outcome.” Vexion gave him a toothless grin.

A threat coated with honey. They, whoever they were, would kill him for pursuing magic. He stepped back and found himself back on the dusk-cloaked street gazing up at the building. He pressed his teeth together. If his death couldn’t buy her life, what the hell could?

What was his purpose in living if he could do nothing?

He thrust his hands into his jacket pockets and started walking. As he did, the cold wind lost its sting. He wasn’t walking anywhere in particular. Nothing waited for him at home. His shelves were bare. The knowledge in his head wasn’t enough to heal Mave—Brigit.

Did it matter how Brigit got healed as long as she got healed?

No. Maybe there was nothing he could do and that was the point. He had to let the past be the past and move on. Behind him the bones in his back rattled in the breeze, a constant reminder of the past still casting a shadow on his life and blocking out the sun. He’d seen the specter of Claudius disintegrate, so why was he still held by the bonds of Rome? Why didn’t they release him? He trudged on waiting for a solution or an idea to appear.

Amanda’s words formed in his mind.
Forgiving
is
about
freeing
yourself. Until you do he still holds the power.

He stopped and looked up from the pavement. In front of him a church loomed, the crucifix black against the darkening winter sky. In a supposedly non-magical time there were traces everywhere. People’s faith and hope and fear took shape and form.

Magic was familiar and safe. He’d lost himself in its lure for so many years. Even then he was deaf to the teachings of the wise men who’d warned him about how holding onto the bitterness poisoned his heart.

He could blame Claudius for many things he didn’t want to remember, but the one that hurt the most was at his feet. He’d made the choice that now weakened Brigit. It was his hand that held the sword. Claudius gave him a choice and he fell into the trap without touching the sides or stopping to question.

His hate and fear never let him see the other option. He could have let Mave live. That was on him, not Claudius, not the druid’s curse. That choice was still creating ripples of anguish and doing damage he couldn’t undo.

His feet moved up the path toward the church. Inside it was silent. Whispers left traces on the air like incense. Here was the home of the most powerful God that lived—for the moment. Feeding on people’s will He had a life of his own, sustained by prayer. Like all gods He would eventually fade when people’s beliefs changed and a new god would rise to power. This God had been a fledgling power when Dai was born. Could He help now?

He sat on the bench seat and rested his forearms on the back of the pew in front of him, then laid his head down. He wanted to shake off the past as easily as Roan did. Roan had washed his hands and the stain of blood and gray was gone. Dai closed his eyes. He wanted a future. He wanted everything that had been taken from him. But his hands had done the snatching. He’d lost Seiran because they had been careless. Mave because he was blinded by rage and venom.

He didn’t want to make the same mistakes again. His life was so worthless Birch wouldn’t take it in exchange for Brigit’s.

“Are you all right, son?”

Dai raised his head. A man in his fifties, dressed in the robes of a priest, gazed down at him. But the face Dai saw was that of his father. His father’s sharp blue eyes had seen everything Dai was trying to keep hidden to prevent a battle the Decangli couldn’t win. Unable to stand what he saw his youngest son becoming, he led a rushed rebellion and died pointlessly. His sons were left wounded and struggling to keep their people together. At least he didn’t have to watch his sons become goblins.

“I haven’t been all right in a very long time.”

The priest’s face remained smooth and neutral. It lacked the lines and hardness and scars his father’s had developed. This man was no Celtic king, and no longer his father—even though he still led people and cared for their well-being. Some habits lasted through many lives.

“The Lord is forgiving. Can I ask what brought you into his house?”

Dai couldn’t answer. The swelling in his throat prevented the words from forming. His father had never spoke so softly, not after his mother’s death. He forced the lump down. He would admit his mistake and hope Amanda was right. That he held the power to free himself.

“Do you hear confession?”

The priest nodded. “How long since your last confession?’

Would he hear his confession if he’d never been baptized? The priest understood his silence.

“Have you ever confessed before, son?”

“No.” This crime had never been spoken aloud.

“But you have faith and a need for God’s forgiveness?”

Would God forgive him? None of the gods had cared when they were cursed. Some had acknowledged Roan and Eliza’s vows. Not even God had the power to make right what he’d screwed up.

“Yes.”

“That is a start.” The priest led him down the aisle and around the side to his office. On one side was a bookcase filled with Bibles. He scanned the names, but none of them were the version he’d read. Maybe that got lost beneath the weight of time.

Dai sat and folded his hands in his lap. In here the whispers were louder, like the rustling of leaves as they forgot the green of summer and gave into the red of autumn, waiting to fall from the tree and return to the earth.

The priest made the sign of the cross. “Are you ready?”

Dai nodded. He was silent as he tried to find the right words. The priest waited, his face calm in a way his father’s never had been. There was no kind way to say what he’d done. After two thousand years and a thousand languages all he had were four words.

“I killed my sister.” The words didn’t tear out his throat as he’d expected.

“Murder is a serious crime,” the priest said without judgment. But his eyes assessed Dai again as if looking for a threat.

“I know…I believed the alternative to be worse.”

The priest inclined his head, willing to hear the full story before casting him out. “What, son, was the alternative?”

Dai squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the memories that wanted to be viewed again and again like a broken horror film stuck on a loop of violence. He could skip to the end, but it would have no meaning without the start.