Dying Wish: A Novel of the Sentinel Wars (3 page)

“Yes. I have. I know what it’s like—the pain, the guilt. You’ll get past it, eventually.” His tone was devoid of emotion, as if he were stating facts from someone else’s life.

Jackie almost wondered if he was lying, but something in her gut said he wasn’t. Iain didn’t look like the kind of man capable of love. He seemed too cold for that, too emotionless.

“There’s no
getting past
something like this,” Torr nearly shouted.

“You can’t see a path forward now, but you will find one. Give yourself some time.”

“You’re a cold fucking bastard, you know that, Iain?”

“I know. And by the time you’re over Grace, you will be, too. For that, I’m truly sorry.”

Jackie stood there, unsure of what to do. This conversation had nothing to do with her, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to slink away like a coward without thanking Iain for stopping Torr.

She backed up, well out of arm’s reach. Torr stalked off, causing her to flinch as he passed by.

“I think he’ll leave you alone now,” said Iain. He didn’t move to touch her again, as so many men had. He stood still, just breathing, watching her with calm, black eyes.

He wasn’t as tall as Torr, but still nearly a foot taller than she was. His broad shoulders seemed to fill the hallway. Even though he was dressed in casual clothing, power emanated from him, radiating out in palpable waves. His arms and legs were thick with muscle, his chest layered with it. Faded jeans clung to his hips, the waistband tilted slightly with the weight of his sword, which she could not see, but knew was there.

She could still remember the way her fingers had tingled at his touch the night he’d pulled her from her cage. Every Theronai here who managed to touch her had the same disconcerting effect, but with Iain, it had been different. She wasn’t sure what it was about him that had the ability to straighten out her jumbled nerves, but whatever it was, she found herself soaking it in, hoping he wouldn’t hurry off as he’d done so many times before during their infrequent, chance encounters.

She looked at the ground, uncertain of what to say. “Thank you. For stopping him. He’s obviously not himself right now.”

“It’s polite of you to make excuses for him, but that’s not going to help him in the long run. He needs to face facts. So do you.”

Her spine straightened in indignation. She was the
victim here. Who the hell was he to treat her as if she’d made some error in judgment? “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You go traipsing around here, acting as if you’re not a catalyst for violence.”

“You think I asked for this? That I did it to myself? Torr was the one who went too far. I just left my room.”

“That’s all it takes. You’re torturing these men, making them think they have a chance with you. If you had any sense at all, you’d pick one of them and get it over with.”

One of
them
. Not one of
us
. She noticed the slight distinction and found it intriguing. Why wouldn’t he count himself among the rest of the men? He still wore both parts of his luceria, which meant he was available.

Maybe it had something to do with the woman he’d loved and lost—the one whose death had left him a self-acknowledged cold bastard.

She forced herself to look him in the eye while she lied, tipping her head back to make it possible. “I’ll pick someone when and
if
I’m ready.”

“Yeah? Well, let’s hope that no one gets killed while you take your sweet time.”

“It won’t come to that.”

“And just what are you going to do to stop it? These are big, armed warriors you’re dealing with, not pansy-assed suits, like the men you’re used to.”

How had he known? She hadn’t told anyone about her former life. She didn’t trust anyone enough to risk giving away more information than was necessary. “Did you check up on me?”

“I Googled you. I thought someone here should know who you really were, rather than daydreaming about who they wanted you to be.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Did you find a bunch of skeletons marching out of my closet?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, making his shirt stretch to contain his muscles. The tips of several bare branches of his tree tattoo peeked out from under his left sleeve. “You’re smart. Educated. A barracuda when it comes to business. People respected you. Feared you.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“In our world, it is. Of course, I don’t see any sign of the woman you used to be. All I see is a scared little girl who would rather hide than do the right thing.”

“I’ve been through a lot these last two years,” she grated out through clenched teeth.

“Who hasn’t? Life’s hard. Wear a fucking cup.” With that, he turned on his heel and left her standing there.

Jackie shook with anger as she watched him walk away. And there was only one reason she would have been as infuriated by his words as she was: He was right. She was merely a shell of her former self, and she didn’t like who she’d become. She didn’t like being afraid all the time—not just of the monsters, but of the people who lived here. And of her future.

She gathered herself and marched the last few yards to Joseph’s office. It was time to take back her life.

N
ormally, once Iain walked away from someone, he put the conversation behind him and let it go. He simply didn’t care enough to carry around other people’s baggage. But this time was different.

He couldn’t get Jackie out of his head. She lingered there, in the back of his mind, like a puzzle left unsolved.

His monster—the dark, enraged beast that lurked within him, always threatening to break free and kill—had perked up, its ears twitching with interest.

Even through the layers of clothing, he’d felt something when he touched her. Some deep, resonant vibration that seeped into the coldest parts of himself. His hand still tingled, and the pain pounding through his body—which had eased slightly upon contact with her—had now returned with a vengeance.

He was used to pain. It was part of his life. He accepted it the way he did his own skin, but since meeting her, he noticed it more.

Jackie had the ability to affect him when no one else could. Not that it mattered. She couldn’t save him. He’d stopped Torr from making a mistake. There was nothing left to think about.

And yet there she was, haunting a small corner of his mind with the memory of how warm she’d been, how delicate her arm had felt under his fingers. When he’d
touched her, there had been something there—some subtle change inside of him. He couldn’t tell what it was, and even if he could, it wouldn’t have made any difference.

He was damned. Soulless. No one knew of his dangerous state but him. Even his luceria hummed when he got near Jackie, as if hoping for a reprieve from death. The thing apparently didn’t accept that it was too late for him.

But there was someone else who still had a chance: Cain.

Iain couldn’t save his brother’s soul, but he could sure as hell slow its death.

The black ring burned his hand with cold as he carried it through the hallways of Dabyr—the fortified compound that protected nearly five hundred humans and Sentinels. He could have shoved the ring into his pocket, but the pain reminded him of the danger of what he was about to do. One false move, and he and four other men—men he considered brothers—would be sentenced to death.

The Band of the Barren was the only refuge for soulless warriors, and Iain was the only man who knew who was in it. He’d recruited them all. And now there was one more he had to recruit, before it was too late.

He found Cain in the antechamber outside the Hall of the Fallen, staring at a worn sword mounted on the wall. A delicate band of shimmering gray was woven around the well-used grip.

Angus’s sword. Gilda’s luceria.

The couple had died a few weeks ago, and while Iain was beyond feeling any sort of grief for his friends, he remembered what grief felt like—how it crushed the breath from a man’s body and sapped his will to live. He remembered feeling like that after his betrothed had died at the hands of the Synestryn. The pain had been much worse than anything he had experienced in his long, long life, and yet somehow it hadn’t killed him.

For years, he’d wished that it had.

A sliver of the man he’d once been yearned to feel like that again, if only because it would mean some minuscule part of his soul was still alive. But the only emotion he seemed to have left was rage—the only thing that had survived the death of his soul.

Cain lifted his dark head in surprise as Iain entered the place of mourning and remembrance. The room was silent except for the crackle of a fire. The dark walls, soft carpet, and comfortable furniture were designed to make the room welcoming, but there was no happiness here. No hope.

Cain’s deep voice was gravelly as if from a prolonged silence. “I’ll leave so you can have time to mourn alone.”

Iain kept his expression neutral, hoping the other man would take it for some form of grief. He couldn’t let Cain know his secret—not until he was sure of what his instincts were telling him. “I was looking for you.”

Cain was a giant of a man, even among Theronai. Years of battle had hardened his body and etched themselves into his very skin. Small scars dotted the backs of his hands, as well as a few places on his face. Muscles bunched under his turtleneck as he shifted to face Iain.

A turtleneck was a bad sign among their kind. Each Theronai warrior’s chest was marked with a living image of a tree. As they grew, so did the lifemark, branching out and growing stronger each day as the magic inside them swelled—magic that could be accessed only by a female of their kind. A couple of centuries ago, their enemy attacked, killing nearly all their women. The men were left alone, struggling to contain the magic that continued to grow inside them with no outlet. As the power they housed grew, their souls began to weaken and die. Leaves fell from their lifemarks, each one marking a loss of what made them who they were.

The warriors became darker, angrier. The pain was too much for some, and they took their own lives.

Iain had considered doing the same more times than he could count, but one thing kept him holding on: He was the answer to the prayers of his brothers. He could save them.

He’d found magical artifacts that slowed the decay of their lifemarks and allowed them to cling to their souls for a few more years. His efforts hadn’t saved everyone, but he’d saved Madoc, who was now happily united with a woman who could wield his power and take away his pain. Nika had saved Madoc’s soul, but Iain had made it possible.

He hoped to offer Cain that same chance for survival.

The signs were all there. Cain had grown darker over the past month, quieter. His clothing had changed. So had his habits. He no longer dined with others. He sat alone, ignoring the rest of the men who offered to share his company.

Those were all signs that his lifemark was nearly bare, and that his time was almost up. He was distancing himself from the others, doing what he could to make his death easier on his brothers. Iain had seen it all before.

“Why were you looking for me?” asked Cain.

This was always the hardest part. Iain had to offer Cain a chance to slow the fall of leaves from his lifemark without betraying the fact that there were others like him—others whose souls were nearly dead. “I was worried about you. You seem…different lately.”

Cain’s face tightened with skepticism. “Did Joseph send you?”

“No.”

“Bullshit,” spat Cain. “He won’t listen when I tell him I’m fine, so now he has you spying on me.”

“You’re not fine, and we both know it.”

Cain backed up and his hand moved to the hilt of his sword. A bit of magic made it invisible to the naked eye until it was drawn, but Iain knew it was there. He also knew that a man close to the end would have no trouble
drawing a blade to use on someone he had once considered a friend.

Iain slipped the ring into his pocket and lifted his hands in surrender. “You don’t want to do that.”

“What I want doesn’t seem to matter anymore. My best friends are dead. Their daughter—the little girl who has been like my own child for centuries—has grown up literally overnight and no longer needs me. No longer wants me meddling in her life. That’s why she left.” His voice broke at the end and his throat moved as he struggled to regain his composure.

The man’s pain would have had Iain aching a few years ago. Now it was simply more data used to gauge his brother’s decaying status.

“Your duty to Sibyl was what you lived for. Now that she’s no longer a child, you feel lost. I get it.”

Cain glanced up, meeting Iain’s gaze for the first time since he’d entered the room. There was pain and desperation there. Mountains of agony crushing the soul from his body.

“I want to help,” said Iain.

“There’s nothing anyone can do. It’s too late. I’m done pretending. I’ll let Joseph know my intentions before I leave tonight.”

“You’re going to kill yourself.” It wasn’t a question.

Cain swallowed hard, and his big body shook with fear and regret. “I don’t want to die, but I’d rather walk calmly to my death than risk hurting Sibyl—which I will do if I follow her to Africa like some kind of overbearing father. Even if I pretend I’m only there to help rebuild the ruined stronghold, she’ll know the truth.”

“What if I could offer you another alternative?”

Cain let out a long, resigned sigh and then stripped off his shirt. His lifemark was nearly bare, with only a precious few leaves clinging precariously to the empty branches. “There are no other alternatives. It’s too late for me.”

Iain showed no sign of horror or surprise. It was just as he’d thought. “I’ve found another way, but before I tell you more, I need your vow of silence.”

Confusion wrinkled his wide brow. “What?”

“You must promise me that you will never speak to anyone of what I tell you here today.”

“I don’t understand, Iain. What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m offering you your life in exchange for your silence. Do you want to take the deal or not?”