Octavian's Undoing (Sons of Judgment) (12 page)

“
Octavian?” She closed the unforgiving distance separating them and stood before him.

Without a word, he took her hand, his skin warm and firm. They were the hands of someone not afraid of hard manual labor. They were the hands of a fighter, a champion, a lover. They were strong and capable, yet they held her with such gentleness that she could have been crafted of precious glass.

“
Where are we?” she asked, staring over the eerie silence.

“
My home,” he said in a tone drenched in love and wistfulness.

Riley searched the outskirts of the pond, squinting through the murky blackness for some sign of the sprawling structure that was Final Judgment. “Where’s home?” she asked.

“
Here.”

Bemused, she followed the inclination of his head towards the pond itself. “A person can’t live in a pond,” she told him, giving a chuckle.

“
A person can live in many places so long as he has those he loves with him.” He turned to her then. “I have searched for you for countless centuries. I have longed for you for even longer. But every second of that pain was worth it to finally be with you here, in this place that holds the thread giving me life.”

Riley wanted to tell him that it was only a pond, but the genuine love in his eyes stilled her words. She squeezed his hand instead. “I know this is a dream.”

The corner of his mouth darkened as it drew into a half grin. “Is it?”

She glanced around them. “Yes, I think—” He was gone. The space beside her was empty. Stunned, she spun in a circle. “Octavian?”

A soft splash interrupted the silence, hooking her attention and turning it to the stretch of water yawning at her feet. No more than a stone’s throw away, a body rose from the depths, sleek and powerful, before diving headlong back into the black folds. A second later, something long, narrow and pale broke through the surface, shimmering in the night before it too vanished from sight.

Riley bolted upright with a gasp perched on her lips. The sweet scent of flowers and wilderness followed her back to the sundrenched walls of her room. She stared at her closed door, each breath running a bit more ragged than the last. She closed her eyes, willing the dream back into focus, but only managing a vague, blurry imitation that left her frustrated. She was totally losing her damn mind. Fantastic.

Irked, she threw back the sheets and rolled out of bed. She padded into the bathroom for a quick shower and froze as she ripped off her t-shirt and caught sight of her arm.

Three uneven welts curled a harsh crimson against the pallor of her right forearm. The area throbbed with the residual thrum of a third degree burn that was excruciating at even the slightest contact. Riley had no idea where the burns had come from, only that they were there and they hurt like nobody’s business.

“What the hell?”

She gingerly touched two fingers on her left hand to the tender area just beneath the marks. It was as though she’d stabbed herself with a white hot iron. She growled through her teeth, her vision going momentarily white as she struggled not to pass out. Her stomach heaved, a vicious protest to her stupidity. She collapsed to her knees before the porcelain bowl as her entire body broke out in cold sweat and began trembling.

Minutes ticked by, stamped by her labored breathing. She pushed away and leaned against the wall with her knees to her chest. Her mind raced with every detail of the previous day, searching fruitlessly for the moment she’d injured herself. But nothing at Final Judgment had that shape. Even if she’d somehow brushed up against the woodstove or the fireplace or anything else, nothing left perfect loops unless she stuck her arm into a metal band that had just been extracted from the pits of Hell. It made no sense, yet the proof of it blazed a fierce red along her arm.

If the mark on her arm was strange in its appearance, it held no candle to the anxiety biting into her like the serrated teeth on a piranha. It gnawed without mercy at her patience and sanity until it burned under her skin. For the hundredth time that day, she glanced at her watch, counting every tick until it was tattooed into her brain.

She wasn’t late, but even as her feet ate the distance between home and work, she couldn’t dislodge the pressure compressing her soul.

What’s wrong with me?
But there was no one that could answer her.

Final Judgment, a shadowy smudge against the gray-blue background, seemed to glow with an almost ethereal hue. She felt the jerk deep in her chest like a cork wedged in the neck of a bottle filled with baking soda and vinegar. Any moment now it would pop and spray everything in sight with her insides. The suffocating build strangled the breath from her lungs. Standing so close, that band shifted, became almost bearable. By the time her feet touched the first step, she could nearly breathe.

“Riley?” Kyaerin looked up when Riley stumbled into the diner. A dainty teacup sat poised at her painted lips. “Is everything all right? You’re an hour early.”

“I…” Unusually dizzy, Riley slumped against the door, using it to keep upright.

“Riley?” Kyaerin set her cup down with a resounding clank and was on her feet in an instant before the kitchen door flew open and Octavian stomped in.

“Riley.” Unlike Kyaerin, he was unsurprised by her presence. He turned his gaze to his mother. “I asked Riley to come in early and help me with a few things.”

His mother appeared unconvinced as she continued to stare from Riley to Octavian.

Pulling herself together, Riley straightened, pushing off the door to face the room without looking like an even bigger idiot. “I ran,” she lied. “My watch is broken and I was afraid I would be late.”

Kyaerin’s dainty eyebrows furrowed, but she made no indication that she didn’t believe Riley. “All right,” she said slowly. “As long as you’re sure.”

Giving her a nod, Riley headed towards the kitchen where Octavian held the doors open for her. She made it all the way under his arms when Kyaerin called after them again.

“What kind of things?”

“Inventory things,” Octavian replied, closing the doors before she could press.

Riley stared up at him. Her blood hummed beneath her flushed skin. It took every ounce of thought not to do something stupid, like tackle him.

“You didn’t ask me to come in early,” she said.

“I know.”

“Then why…”

“Because it was easier to lie then tell the truth.”

Riley had no idea what he was talking about and never got the chance to ask when Reggie strolled into the room, whistling happily to himself. He stopped and stared at the two with a raised eyebrow.

“Am I interrupting?”

“No,” Octavian said at once. “I was just heading out to take care of a few things.”

With a last glance at Riley, he moved past his brother and disappeared through the door towards the back of the house. Riley watched him go, a lump the size of a small chunk of stone wedged in her throat.

“So.” Reggie pulled her attention to him. “This is awkward.”

The dreams persisted, becoming an almost tradition to her nightly routine, like brushing her teeth or remembering to flush the toilet. Each one faded almost the moment her eyes snapped open, but she remembered enough to know Octavian was leading man in every one of them.

At work, he remained his broody, grumpy self, except those rare moments when Riley caught him watching her. It was usually quick and gone before she could gather herself back from the momentary prickle of surprise. But even then, it was becoming a routine. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it, not sure she wanted to think about it. There were enough complications in her life without adding one more to it and something told her Octavian came with a whole fleet of problems, even if just the sight of him was a cool salve on a burn.

Riley stared at the inside of her refrigerator with a mild sense of fascination. It looked exactly how it did the morning it arrived from the appliance store, empty and very clean. The single stick of butter that had been in there was now gone and she wondered what her father had used it for. She’d already explored the cupboards and freezer and both were as polished clean as the fridge. Except for the single box of cereal, they were as Old Mother Hubbard as possible.

The painful reality of just how far they’d come had her slamming the fridge door with a bit more force than was necessary. She reached for the cereal box and cursed when it lifted easily off the shelf, the few crushed pieces of Cheerios rattling around at the bottom. It was all she could do not to pitch the box across the room. Instead, she dumped it into the recycling bin and stalked out in search of her father.

She found him reclined on the sofa, remote in hand, flipping idly through their prehistoric TV. The thing only got three channels and one of them was always covered by static snow, but her father didn’t seem to have any trouble repeatedly passing through all three like somehow, magically, a forth channel would materialize.

“Hey, Dad.”

He lifted his head and caught sight of her in the doorway. “Hey.”

Riley folded her arms and glanced at the forgotten bowl of cereal on the cluttered coffee table with soggy bits of floating Cheerios and more milk than necessary. There was a glass of milk next to it and several granola bar wrappers, gum wrappers and an unfinished bowl of macaroni and cheese alongside it. On the floor was that morning’s newspaper, rumpled and carelessly tossed aside. She went over to it and picked it up.

“Did you find anything?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the black and white print and not the man switching channels like it was going out of fashion.

“I haven’t looked yet.” He sighed, shifting onto his back. “Just taking a break. I’ll have a look in a little bit.”

The paper crinkled under her curling fingers. She dropped it down on the table, mouth opening, a flood of angry words stinging the tip of her tongue. But she swallowed them back. She had fifteen minutes to get ready for work and she knew if she started now, she’d only get worked up and start crying. The last thing she wanted was to go into work with a blotchy face and red rimmed eyes. It was the curse of having Irish skin, it always showed when she was embarrassed or when you cried and she always cried when she was angry.

Gulping a deep breath, she turned on her heels and marched out of the room. She stomped all the way to her room before closing her door and slumping against it.