Song of Oestend (42 page)

“Aren?” Deacon said again, and Aren could hear the fear in his voice. Deacon pushed

him away, turning him around in his strong arms so that he could look at him.

No
, Aren tried to say.
You’re the only thing keeping me warm
.

“Oh, Saints, Aren!” Deacon cried. His hands gripped Aren’s shoulders, and he shook

him hard. “No, no, no!”

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It was getting harder to breathe. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t seem to get

enough air to fill his lungs. They burnt.

“Aren!”

It’s fine. Just have to stay warm. I need you to keep me warm
.

“Aren, don’t you go,” Deacon said, suddenly pulling him close and hugging him tight.

“I can’t lose you. I don’t know what to do.”

The wraiths have come.

He found he didn’t care too much. He knew he didn’t want to leave the BarChi, or

Deacon, but the feeling seemed remote. It was a faded memory.

Deacon was sobbing now, holding Aren close. “He’s mine, he’s mine,” he cried, rocking Aren as he’d rocked Olsa. “Take me. Take me instead, or take us both. Don’t take him and leave me. He’s mine! Don’t—”

He stopped short, suddenly pulling away to look down at Aren. Aren felt the loss of his body heat like a blow to the gut. He gasped harder, fighting to breathe.

“That’s it!” Deacon looked up at the painting on the armoire, of him inside the brand, then back down at Aren. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Don’t you give up!”

Don’t leave! I’m so cold!

Deacon’s footsteps seemed to pound on the floorboards as he ran from the room. It

seemed to Aren he was part of the house. He could feel the path of Deacon’s boots as he ran into Aren’s studio and back to the bedroom where Aren lay gasping on the floor. Deacon pulled his shirt off and knelt by Aren’s side. “Please let this work, please let this work, please let this work,” he said over and over again. Aren felt Deacon take his hand, although it seemed his hand was somehow very, very far away. Deacon pressed something into it. He lifted Aren’s hand. Aren was starting to see spots. The room was becoming distorted and dark, but he recognised what was in his hand—it was his penknife. Deacon’s hand was wrapped around his, and he pushed the point into his own bare chest.

“Make your mark,” he said, “like on your paintings.”

Aren’s hand shook. He was so weak.

“Please, Aren,” Deacon begged. “Make it big.”

Then he ducked his head, and he started to sing.

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It was an Ainuai song. Aren couldn’t understand the words, although they made a

beautiful pattern in his mind, repeating over and over. “Ailua ma’ana nai’i roha’ala. Ailua ma’ana nai’i roha’ala. Ailua ma’ana nai’i roha’ala.” Aren summoned every last bit of his strength. He pushed the knife into Deacon’s chest and made his mark.

It was poorly done. His hand shook. The lines wavered. The knife started to slip from his fingers, but Deacon’s hand closed over his, helping him carve the last line.

“Ailua ma’ana nai’i roha’ala. Ailua ma’ana nai’i roha’ala,” Deacon continued to sing.

Aren couldn’t see anymore. He couldn’t breathe. He closed his eyes. He just wanted it to end. If it weren’t for the horrible coldness, he’d feel nothing. He almost felt nothing already. Then…

Something.

A tick. An itch. A tingle on his chest that wasn’t quite right, followed by a hint of warmth. It flowed over his chest, down his side. It lasted only a second. Almost as soon as it had begun, the warmth faded.

There was only cold.

“Ailua ma’ana nai’i roha’ala. Ailua ma’ana nai’i roha’ala.”

He was dying. He knew that now. The wraiths were taking him. This was what Garrett

had gone through. Garrett had died in Deacon’s arms, too.

“Ailua ma’ana nai’i roha’ala. Ailua ma’ana nai’i roha’ala.”

He wondered what would happen now. He wondered if Deacon would go on living in

the house. He wondered if he’d take a wife.

“Ailua ma’ana nai’i roha’ala. Ailua ma’ana nai’i roha’ala.”

Something pressed against his lips. Something warm and soft and heartbreakingly

familiar. Even from the distant place where he now dwelt, he recognised the feel and the taste of Deacon’s kiss.

Then blessed air!

Aren choked. He gasped. The warmth that finally filled his lungs burnt like fire, but he could breathe!

“Aren!” Deacon cried in relief, pulling him into his arms. “Thank the Sain—” He

stopped. He seemed to choke on the words. Then, as Aren breathed hard, as his fingers and SONG OF OESTEND

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toes began to tingle with new warmth, as the fog cleared and his vision returned, Deacon rocked him in his arms, and he sang. “Sa’ahala nai’alini. Sa’ahala nai’alini.”

Aren knew that song. He’d heard it before, the day Olsa had almost died.

It was the song of thanks.

“I still don’t understand,” Aren said some time later. They’d moved downstairs, in front of the fire, and Deacon had slammed a healthy measure of whisky before pushing a glass into Aren’s hand as well. After that, he didn’t seem inclined to let Aren get more than two feet away from him.

“What don’t you understand?” Deacon asked.

“If it wasn’t the ghost—the
wraith
—then who was it?”

Deacon ducked his head, his cheeks turning red. And Aren suddenly realised he knew

the answer.

“Dante,” he said. He thought back to what Deacon had told him a few weeks before.

“You said Old Man Pane caught you in the barn with another boy. You didn’t say a ranch hand. You said another
boy
. The only boys on this ranch were you and Jeremiah’s sons.”

Deacon nodded. “Old Man Pane tanned my ass, but he never thought I was worth

much anyway. But Dante was his oldest grandson and the one he loved most, and it hurt him to find us like that. It hurt Dante a lot to suddenly have his granddad refuse to look at him.”

He rubbed his eyes, and Aren thought he’d rarely seen him look so tired. “Dante hated me after that.”

“It wasn’t your fault, I’m sure.”

“Well, yes and no. I sure didn’t force him to be in that barn with me. He was willing enough. But I think it was easier to blame me and try to win his place back in his

granddaddy’s heart. And once Old Man Pane was gone, Jeremiah arranged for Daisy. I

thought he’d be happy, but he never was.”

“Did he ever try to get you back?”

“He came to me once, not long after Cody died. He was drunk, and he told me how he

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up at Aren. “He’s more like you than me. He told me he was sorry. He told me he still loved me—that he’d always loved me…”

“But you didn’t love him back?”

“Not by then. Maybe I thought I did when we was boys, but he’d been damn

unpleasant to me in the years that followed. Then to come to me right after Cody died? I could barely stand to look at him, I was so mad.”

Aren had heard the expression that love and hate were two sides of the same coin, but never before had he fully understood it. “All this time, I thought it was Tama he was in love with.”

Deacon laughed, a short, humourless sound. “I wish. They’re friends. I think Tama

understands him better than most.”

“You think he’s the one who sabotaged the generator?”

“Can’t imagine it would be anybody else,” Deacon said, and Aren had to agree with

him.

Aren started to reach for Deacon, but the pain in his chest caused him to stop short. He looked down at himself, pulling the blanket Deacon had wrapped around him aside to see the mark that was scabbing over. It was the BarChi brand, and inside it, the A he signed his paintings with. Despite being scared, Deacon had made the mark small and neat. The corresponding mark on his own chest wasn’t nearly as pretty. Aren’s A was too big, slightly askew, the lines wobbly, but inside it, Deacon had carved the BarChi brand.

“What does it mean?” he asked.

Deacon ducked his head, his cheeks turning red. “It means we’re married. Not legally, I mean, but according to the Ainuai.”

“And that saved me?”

“They won’t take me,” he said, “and they won’t take what’s mine.”

Aren was almost afraid to ask his next question, but he did. “Could you have saved

Garrett this way?”

To his surprise, Deacon laughed. “No. The ancestors will know if you try to lie. They would’ve known I was trying to cheat them.” He blushed again, but he didn’t look away.

“They would’ve known I didn’t love him.”

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Aren looked again at the mark on his chest. “It’s going to be a wicked scar,” he said. “I might actually look tough.”

Deacon laughed, reaching out to pull Aren into his arms. “You are tough.” He pushed

Aren’s hair out of the way and looked down into his eyes. “I have a confession to make, though.” His eyes still had laughter in them, but Aren saw a shadow pass through them as he remembered what had happened only a few hours before. “I was so scared. I wasn’t thinking right. I sang the song the way Olsa taught me when I was a boy.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Aren asked.

“I called you a woman. I claimed you as my wife.”

Aren laughed. “Saints, I don’t care! If it was good enough for your ancestors, it’s good enough for me!” Deacon kissed his neck and as he did, Aren thought about everything Deacon had told him before the wraiths had almost taken him. “So, Jeremiah wanted you to be Ezriel’s son. And Olsa wanted you to be Uly’s. And instead of choosing between them, you refused them both.”

Deacon stopped kissing his neck. He pulled back to look down at him, his eyes

thoughtful. “Can’t say I ever thought of it like that, but I guess that’s right enough.”

“How did you think of it?”

“Jeremiah wanted me to be Ezriel’s heir. Olsa wanted me to be a descendant of the

Ainuai.” He shrugged. “I can’t be both.”

“Obviously you can,” Aren said, “because you are.”

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Aren woke an indeterminable time later to the sound of a door slamming. It took him a moment to get his bearings. He was on the rug in his living room. The sun was up. The fire had burnt out. The wound on his chest throbbed.

Deacon was gone.

Aren looked out of the window and saw him, already halfway across the grass to the

main house and walking with a steady determination that bespoke danger.

This can’t be good.

Aren rushed upstairs, tearing his room apart in an effort to find pants before realising he already had them on from the night before. He found his shirt and hurriedly pulled on his shoes. He sprinted after Deacon, catching him just as he reached the main house.

“What are you doing?” Aren panted.

“Going to kill Dante.”

“
What?
Deacon, no!” He tried to grab Deacon, to pull him back, but Deacon turned and roughly pushed him away.

“Aren, stay out of it!”

Deacon walked into the kitchen, and Aren followed. The hands were eating, and as they entered, all eyes turned their way. Aren bit back his protests, ducking his head. Even now, he would not question Deacon in front of his men. He followed him out of the kitchen, into the hallway that led to the dining room.

“Deacon, wait!” He kept his voice low, but he reached out and grabbed Deacon’s arm.

“Please, don’t do anything you might regret later!”

Deacon turned on him. He grabbed Aren’s shoulders and pushed him back against the

wall. He looked down into Aren’s eyes. He wasn’t mad, Aren realised. He was scared. “Do you have any idea how close you came to dying last night?” he asked, his voice unsteady. He shook his head. “I can’t take a chance he’ll try again, Aren. Your life means more to me than his.”

“What about Jeremiah?” Aren asked. “What about the ranch?”

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Deacon shook his head again. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess we’re about to find out.”

He leant down and kissed Aren’s forehead. “I love you, Aren. But don’t you dare get in my way.”

There was nothing Aren could do but follow Deacon as he burst into the Pane’s dining

room.

“Tama, Daisy,” Deacon said as he walked into the room, “take the boys out of here.”

Neither Tama or Daisy moved. In fact, nobody moved. They all stared at Deacon in

mute shock and confusion. Only Jeremiah seemed able to respond.

“What the hell is going on, Deacon?” he asked.

Deacon didn’t answer. He walked straight up to Dante. He grabbed him by his shirt

and pulled him from his chair, slamming him into the corner. “Did you think I wouldn’t know it was you?” he asked, holding him against the wall. “Did you honestly think it would change anything?”

Dante’s eyes were huge. His voice shook when he answered. “What was me?” he asked.

“What did I do?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know!”

“But I don’t—”

“Deacon!” Tama said, standing up from the table. “Why don’t you calm down? Let

Dante go and tell us what’s wrong.”

Deacon didn’t let go of Dante, but he turned to look at Tama over his shoulder. “Unless you want those boys of yours to see something they’ll never be able to forget, I suggest you get them out of the blessed room like I told you.”

The blood drained from Tama’s face. Next to her, Daisy’s hand flew to her mouth, her

eyes wide.

“Girls,” Jeremiah said, finally standing up from the table, “I think you should do as Deacon said.”

The two boys, who were only four or five years old, were starting to cry and Tama

turned to them quickly, hushing them gently, grabbing Daisy’s arm as she did and pulling the other woman out of her chair. “Come on, boys,” she said. “Everything’s all right. Let’s go down to the kitchen and see if Olsa will give you some of her cheese.”