The Vanishing Throne (41 page)

Kiaran grasps my shirt and kisses me, a hard press of his lips against mine. As if forgetting himself, he murmurs in his language, over and over again. The words cascade off his tongue in a rolling accent that makes me long for more, that makes me
yearn
.

“Tell me what you're saying. Translate.” I press my lips to the underside of his chin, the space above his shoulder. I'll kiss him everywhere.

“You want to know what you mean to me, Kam?” His lips trail down the curve of my neck. “Every day I wonder when your human life will end, and it scares the hell out of me.” His words are hot on my skin. “You make me wish I didn't have forever.”

Falconers always die young. Always
. I wish those words weren't true. I wish he were human or that I were fae and we had a thousand lifetimes to do this.

His hands are on either side of my face, the gentlest of touches. “
Aoram dhuit
.”

I will worship thee
.

“You said it was a pledge. Do I make it, too?”

“No, Kam.” His eyes lock with mine just before he presses a kiss to the pulse of my throat. Then his lips are at my ear, whispering, “You let me honor my words.”

I can't hold back anymore. Before I realize it, I'm grabbing him by the front of his shirt, and my back is to the
wall and I'm kissing him and kissing him and kissing him. He laughs with surprise as I reach for the buttons of his shirt—undoing one, two, three—until he impatiently rips it off.

Then his lips are on mine again. On my cheek, my shoulder, lower. Our clothes are tossed aside and I have a brief glimpse of his muscular, gleaming body before he presses me to the wall. Kiaran grips my thighs, lifting me to wrap my legs around his waist.

He keeps his promise. I can't get enough of his lips, his kisses, his hands, his touch, everywhere.

And I finally know what it means to be worshipped.

S
OMETIME IN
the night I open my eyes to find Kiaran asleep beside me. We're facing each other, our bare legs tangled together beneath the heavy counterpane. The near-full moon shines bright enough through the window that his features are illuminated, the sheen of his pearlescent skin catching in the light.

In all the time I've known Kiaran, I've never seen him sleep. It softens his features. He looks younger, almost vulnerable. He holds me in a tight embrace, his fingers curled in my hair, and something about the gesture makes me feel safe, comforted.

What draws my gaze are the markings across his shoulders and down his arms. I know from kissing them earlier that they stretch down his torso and across his entire back, beautiful swirled designs upraised along his skin as if cut there by a fine blade. I reach to touch them with my fingertips.

Kiaran's lips curve into a smile. “Do you like what you see?”

Damn
. I flush, my face hot, and snatch my hand back. “How do you do that? How do you always manage to catch me staring?”

“Mmm.” Kiaran pulls me closer, kissing me softly on my forehead, my cheek, the curve of my neck. Featherlight touches that bring back the memory of his hands, his lips, everywhere. “I'm an excellent guesser,” he tells me.

“Oh? Then what am I thinking right now?”

“That you like this.” Kiaran's hand slides down to my hip. “That you want us to stay this way.”

Something about the way he says it makes me go still. “You think we won't?”

“Kam—”

“Wait.” I press a finger to his lips. “I've changed my mind. Don't answer that.”

Kiaran looks amused. “What shall I say, then?”

“Something else. So then I don't have to think about you and me or Lonnrach or wherever that bloody crystal is. What's your favorite color? Do you have a favorite color? To how many places can you recite pi?”

“Kam.”

“No. Not that. Let's start over.” I prop my chin in my hands. “Tell me—” Kiaran's lips brush mine. “Tell me . . .” He kisses me again, harder. What was I going to say? I can't recall. “You're doing that on purpose.”

“I learned it from you,” Kiaran says. “Improvisation.”

I should have known he'd use that kiss after the wisp attack against me. “Very clever.”

“You said to start over.” Kiaran trails his lips down my jaw. “Shall we begin again? I'm Kiaran.” Another kiss. “You're Kam.” Another. “Pleased to meet you.”

I laugh. “Introductions don't generally include kisses, MacKay.”

“This one does.”

“You're making this far too easy for me,” I say. “First I'm supposed to charm you. Then ensnare you when you least suspect.” In a swift move, I roll on top of him, trapping him beneath me. Our bodies are perfectly lined up, pressed close. I pin his wrists with a triumphant grin. “Ha! There now. You're mine, Kiaran MacKay.”

The way he looks at me steals my breath. He's gazing up at me like I'm powerful. Like I'm magnificent. I don't think I've ever felt more beautiful.

Then he breaks my hold and he's whispering against my lips. “I am,” he tells me. “I'm yours.”

I wake to see Kiaran standing by the window, his back to me. The moon outside frames him in a halo of light. I study the span of his back, the length of his spine, the designs etched into his skin there that must have been burned by fae metal.

I rise from the bed and move to stand behind him. He doesn't say anything as I slide my fingertips up to the skin at his shoulder to explore the pattern there. Some of the swirls are tiny, some larger. It's the most beautiful work of art I've ever seen.

“What does it mean?” I ask him. I follow the lines over and over, feeling how the skin is upraised in tiny, intricate patterns.

“When a
sìthiche
makes a vow, their skin is marked with it. It's a reminder we wear for eternity, a penance,” he says. “That one is my promise to Catríona.”

There's an ache in my chest, a dull throbbing. “Your penance?”

Kiaran closes his eyes and reaches for my hand, as if he craves the comfort of touch. As if I'm about to disappear. “Each sign represents a human I've killed.”

I hold my breath, my eyes roving the length of the design. Oh, god. If I tried to count them, I would lose my place. There are so many swirls, so many. I can't help it, I rise onto my tiptoes and slide my hand up the design, from his wrist to the underside of his arm.

Kiaran lets me continue my exploration across the span of his back, over his shoulders, to his other arm. Thousands of swirls.
Thousands
.

I can't even breathe once I reach his other wrist, where the design finally ends. I recall his endless dark and hopeless gaze when I saw him in the past.

Kadamach was not made to love. His gift is death
.

Kiaran wears his marks just like I do. They're memories and shame and hurt all at once. If anyone should ever ask me what happens when chaos and death meet, I should tell them that together we bear the scars of our gifts. They're a reminder of what happens when we try to choose our own fate.

“Kam,” he whispers.

And that's it. Only my name, as if he's saying:
Do you understand?

“You chose a human name,” I say softly. I hadn't even realized it until I said it. “Kiaran MacKay is a human name.”

“Aye,” he says.

“Why?” I follow the marks up his spine and feel him shiver beneath my touch.

“I wanted something of my own,” he says. “So I chose my name.”

Kiaran's entire life was planned for him from the moment he was born until his death—a pattern, just like the Cailleach described. It's remarkable how something so small and simple can become so important. Something that says
This is mine. I chose this. I own this
.

A name. Just a name. If I had to start all over, maybe I wouldn't choose to be Lady Aileana Kameron, daughter of the Marquess of Douglas. Or even Falconer, the girl whose gift is chaos. Maybe I'd just be Kam, the girl who endured.

I find a branch of his design that is smaller and more intricate and I touch my fingertips to each swirl. One after the other.

“What made you hunt your own kind?” I ask. “I've always wondered.”

Kiaran almost turns, but I stop him. I run my hands over his shoulders, over the lives he took. I'm memorizing his marks, just as he did mine. It's my turn.

“I saw the part of me I tried to destroy in them.” The words rolling off his tongue, his accent thicker with emotion. “So I killed them all.”

I go still.
Isn't that what I did
? The fae I slaughtered were all substitutes for Sorcha. Whenever I looked at them—without fail—I saw
her
. Each time I killed one of them, in my mind I was murdering Sorcha and avenging my mother's death.

I lean my forehead against his back. I feel the puckered skin against mine and wonder who they all were.

His gift is death
.

Wherever she goes, death follows
.

“Don't you ever feel cursed?” I whisper against his scars.
I do
.

“Every day,” he says.

Kiaran turns to face me and I can't help it—I press a kiss to his collarbone, my fingers trailing where the marks end just there.

“Let me see your vow to Sorcha,” I say. Because that's all I can say.
Show me. We can compare our curses. You already know all about mine
.

He takes my hand and presses it to his chest. The design across his pectoral is different from the others. It's all harsh
lines and jagged, thorny branches that split off in a web that begins right over his heart.

This one isn't beautiful. This is a vow of obligation, tradition, not made out of love. I hate the way Sorcha has marked his body. I hate that he wears a promise to her simply because it was
expected
.

“Now I understand,” I whisper.

“What?”

I meet his eyes. “What you said to me in Glasgow, when I accused you of wanting me to hide my scars. I look at this and I hate her even more.”

He threads his fingers through mine. “It's my reminder, too.”

“Of your vow to her?”

“No, Kam,” he says. He looks at my own scars, just at my shoulder. One, two, three bites. Fifteen memories. “My entire existence was planned before my birth. This mark represents the path I could have taken. It's my reminder that I'd rather die on my own terms than live an eternity on someone else's.”

T
ONIGHT IS
Hogmanay, the last celebration before the New Year. It'll soon be 1848, and despite spending all that time imprisoned, I still feel like it
should
be the final weeks of 1844. All that time I missed, I can hardly believe it's gone.

I force the thoughts from my mind and stand before the bedroom mirror in a gown Derrick made for me. Its deep, dark crimson makes my freckled skin look smoother. Sleeves cover the scars on my arms and the scooped neckline shows off the slope of my shoulders. The waist cinches in to an extreme curve before belling out in full skirts adorned with white lace.

Beneath the layers of petticoats and skirts, I wear boots and trousers out of habit. Despite that, I look about as trussed up as one of those bloody Christmas trees in the middle of Charlotte Square. Now I remember precisely why I detest these damn things.

“I can't breathe,” I tell Derrick.

“I made you a dress that can be torn away in case of emergencies and flipped into a coat, and you're complaining about being able to breathe? How ungrateful!” He flies up to my shoulder and wrinkles his nose. “Ugh!
Uuuuugh
! And you smell like the
daoine sìth
. He's left his scent all over you like piss on a tree.”

“
Derrick
!”

He flies off my shoulder like he's been chased by the hounds of hell, settling on my dirty coat instead. I imagine it smells a great deal like mud, sweat, and
me
.

“Now I can't even sit on your shoulder,” he whines. “He's
ruined
it. I can't
believe
you after everything the Cailleach told you.”

I glare at him and inspect the dress again. He's even sewn hidden pockets in it for my weapons. I slip Aithinne's sword in its specially made pocket, where it hangs heavily against my thigh—but you wouldn't know it was there just by looking at me. Good god, Derrick is brilliant, my breathing complaint aside.

“You said you didn't want me to hate him,” I point out.

Derrick sulks, his wings fanning. “That was
before
he ruined your perfectly good shoulder seat with his vile smell.”