Saviours of Oestend Oestend 2 (27 page)

“I should have spent some of that time learning to ride better,” Cami said to Dante as she eyed the saddled horses.
Dante secretly agreed with her, but she’d been so busy with Deacon and Olsa, he hadn’t wanted to add more to her burden. “You’ll be fine.”
“Don’t you worry,” Deacon said from the next stall over. “You can’t ride any worse than Aren. I’m laying bets he falls at least twice.”
Dante laughed as Aren lifted a certain finger in Deacon’s direction. Still, Cami’s limited riding skills worried him. He offered up a quick prayer to the Saints that they wouldn’t encounter anything along the way that would spook Cami’s horse and make it bolt. When he was done doing that, he offered a second prayer to the Ainuai ancestors. For him, they might not listen, but if Cami was one of their own, maybe they would.
They were packed and ready to mount up when Olsa came hobbling slowly out of the kitchen, and over to where they waited.
“Here,” she said, shoving a small leather pouch into Deacon’s hands. “You know how to brew it. Make it strong. Use it all. Share it between the six of you when you’re ready. Then wait. You’ll know when to start.”
“Will it help?”
“It will make the pieces whole.”
Deacon didn’t appear to know what she meant, but he nodded. “All right.”
“That’s the last of it,” she said. “I’ll be blind without it.”
Deacon put his hand on her shoulder. “When fall comes, I’ll gather every tea leaf in the prairie—”
Olsa shook her head. She reached up and put her hand on his cheek. “I won’t be here that long.”
Deacon took a step backwards, as if Olsa’s simple words were a force he couldn’t bear to stand against. “What? No!”
“Don’t you worry—”
“No!” he said. He tried to push the bundle of tea back into her hands. “No, we don’t need it. We’ll sing without it—”
“Hush, lou’o. It will be my time, with or without the tea.”
“But…” Deacon’s voice caught on the words. He was fighting to maintain his composure in front of everybody else. Tears escaped his eyes and ran down his dark cheeks. Dante chose to look down at his boots rather than witness the pain on Deacon’s face. “I won’t go. I won’t leave you.”
“Yes, you will,” she said, her voice stern. “And you won’t hurry back, either. You keep your promise to Aren. Take some time. I’ll be here when you get back.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I am. It’ll be harder without the tea, but we’ll still have time to teach Cami what she needs to know.” She reached up to pat his cheek with her gnarled hand. “Be happy, lou’o. You won’t have to sing my song alone.”
Deacon gathered her carefully into his arms. She was so small and fragile compared to him, and yet, Dante could still picture him as the boy he’d been, running to Olsa for comfort. Deacon whispered quietly into her ear. He kissed her on the cheek and let her go.
Nobody spoke as they mounted up and rode out of the compound, westward, towards the wild, and away from the safety of the BarChi.
For most of the first day, Deacon rode ahead of them all. He eschewed even Aren’s company, and so Aren dropped back to ride next to Dante.
“What did Olsa mean about keeping his promise to you?” Dante asked.
Aren looked down at his saddle, a blush creeping up his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” Dante said. “It’s not my place. Just trying to make conversation.”
“It’s fine,” Aren said. “I just…” He sighed. “I never know how much I can say to you. I don’t want it to seem like I’m rubbing it in.”
Dante hated that he’d made things so difficult between them. “Don’t worry about that. At one time, it might have bothered me, but now? I’d just like us to be friends. I know that’s a lot to ask, after what I’ve done, but—”
“It’s fine. I mean, I think I understand.”
“I won’t ever cause trouble for you like that again.”
“I know.” Aren smiled shyly at him. “We’re good, right?”
“I hope so.”
Aren laughed. “Well anyway, the promise Olsa mentioned, it’s nothing big. I just thought it would be nice to be away from the ranch for a while.” He looked ahead, to where Deacon rode alone. “The ranch weighs on him. He loves it, but he hates it too. Sometimes it’s like a third person in our bed. I just asked him to take a break. Take our time getting home. That’s all.”
“I don’t blame you a bit. What’s your plan?”
“We thought we’d ride north to the main branch of the river on Redmond’s map. If we follow it, it should lead us right back home.” He smiled. “Eventually.”
“Home,” Dante said. He was surprised to realise the word didn’t bring the BarChi to mind. He had a new home now. He looked over at Cami, who rode on his other side, and he knew she shared his thoughts. The smile she gave him was big and bright and possibly the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“I hope you enjoy your time away,” she said to Aren. “But for myself? I can’t wait to get back to Brighton.”

Crossing the furthest edge of the BarChi was frightening. It was the halfway point. If they quit now, they could still make it back to the BarChi by nightfall, but past it, there was no turning back. It had been generations since anybody had gone so far. Even Dante and Deacon had to stop for a moment before going on. Only Frances rode on, seemingly unaware. Eventually, the rest of them followed.

The first night away was definitely tense. Deacon watched Aren with a hawk-like vigilance, as if suddenly unsure of his safety. Dante was pretty sure he was watching Cami just as intently. Simon and Frances sat close together, ostensibly playing dice, but Dante suspected their heart wasn’t in it. What if they were wrong? How many of them would the wraiths take?

The sky went from brilliant orange, to silver-grey, to black. Pinpricks of light began to appear overhead. Dante lay back on the ground and watched as the stars claimed the sky.
“It’s amazing,” he said. “Think how few people in Oestend have ever seen this and lived to tell about it.”
“We’ll fix that,” Cami said.
Eventually they curled up in their bed rolls, bundled in pairs. Although the wind gusted and whispers rode its waves, the wraiths didn’t come.
Over the next three days they followed a southern branch of the river, and Oestend seemed to fight them every step of the way. It was as if the wraiths knew their intent and did everything they could to make the trip miserable. The six of them rode through wind and rain, hail and even snow. At night, they huddled together, trying to stay warm. The wind buffeted them, stealing their breath, chafing their skin. The voices grew louder, following them even during the day—whether taunting or threatening, Dante didn’t know. Deacon was pale and silent, his fists white-knuckled on the reins.
“What are they saying?” Cami asked him.
“Most of it’s gibberish, but the part that isn’t…” He shook his head. “You were right. They want to go home.”
“Then why don’t they help us out?” Simon asked. “Quit making things so blessed hard?”
Deacon shook his head. “They can’t. It’s not their nature.”
Nobody spoke for a long time after that.
Twice they passed abandoned homesteads. “What happened?” Aren asked.
Deacon shrugged. “Some people lived out in the wild, before the wraiths. You got to realise, the Ainuai made the pact to stay here after their deaths, but it ain’t like they died right away. It wasn’t until later, and even then, it was one at a time.”
Cami shuddered. “Imagine how it must have been. First only one wraith, and maybe there were rumours, but then slowly more warriors crossed over. More settlers were probably killed. But with so few people out here in the wild, the rumours probably couldn’t spread fast enough to save them all.”
“Exactly,” Deacon said. “Caught a lot of these folks out here in the wild off guard. A generation later, nobody was left. They either went back to civilisation, or they died.”
On the fourth day, the rain stopped and the landscape began to change. The long grass of the prairie gave way to barrenness. Deciduous trees still grew along the river, but everywhere else they saw only squat, scrubby evergreens and round puffs of sagebrush. The earth was the colour of rust, and the air was so dry it parched their throats just breathing it in. It should have been hot, but a bitter wind still blew, pelting them with dust and causing their eyes to tear.
“I think we’re getting close,” Aren said.
They worried the mesa would be hard to find, but on the fifth day, it rose up ahead of them, a tower of reddish-brown earth, surprisingly tall and with a perfectly flat top.
“Nice of them to make it easy for us,” Frances said.
As they neared the lai’i n’ahro, the atmosphere somehow became lighter and less oppressive. The wind died down and the temperature seemed to rise a few degrees. By the time they reached the base of the mesa, it was warm and sunny. The light spring breeze was heady with the scent of sage. A row of trees followed the river, leaning over its path like overprotective parents. It was surprisingly peaceful and undeniably beautiful.
“It’s hard to believe this, after what we rode through to get here,” Simon said.
Deacon answered. “There are no wraiths here. The ancestors are too strong.”
The mesa rose above them, and Dante wondered how they’d ever reach the top. They rode around its base, and finally, on the northeast side, they found a path in the rock. It appeared to be partly natural, partly man-made. It was still steep, but was obviously made for the purpose of reaching the summit of the lai’i n’ahro.
They set up camp, tended the horses and ate a quick supper. Afterwards, as the sun began to fall low in the sky, Deacon brewed the tea. The six of them sat in a circle and slowly passed the cup around. It was like no tea Dante had ever tasted, with strong liquorice notes and an aftertaste like wet smoke. It wasn’t exactly appetising, but they each drank, passing the tea until the cup was empty.
And then they sat back to wait.
The tea worked quickly. It started as strange pinpricks. A tingling sensation, yet, when Dante tried to locate where on his body he felt it, he couldn’t. It was everywhere and nowhere at once. Something teased the periphery of his vision. He felt he should be nervous but instead, his heart seemed to slow. His hands felt unnaturally light. His legs felt a mile away. Somebody laughed, and he was surprised to realise it was him.
“Everybody else feels weird, right?” Simon asked. “It’s not just me?”
“Not just you,” Dante said.
“Does Olsa feel like this all the time?” Aren asked, his voice full of amusement.
Deacon chuckled. “You’d think she’d be a bit less cranky, wouldn’t you?”
They fell silent. Dante’s breathing slowed. He closed his eyes and felt himself drifting, a speck of dust on the wind, being carried up and over the prairie. He thought he could see their small campfire a mile below him. Six men, as inconsequential as moths, huddled around it.
“I can feel the river,” Frances said suddenly. Simon and Cami started to laugh. “I mean it!” Frances said. “I can feel it, like it’s flowing through my soul.”
Dante wasn’t sure what to think of that. It seemed crazy, and yet, he couldn’t dismiss it, either. His perception of himself was blurring. The ends of his consciousness were suddenly hard to define.
“I can feel the birds in the trees,” Cami said. “They’re watching. I can see us through their eyes.”
“I’ll be damned,” Simon said, his voice full of awe. “I think I feel it, too.”
They were silent for a moment, and Dante could sense them all reaching out and up, their consciousness somehow expanding, and stretching, and merging.
“I can feel you guys, too,” Frances said. He laughed. “I know Deacon’s got a hard-on.”
“You would too if you could hear what Aren’s been whispering in my ear.”
They all laughed at that—even Dante—yet he was distracted. He could feel something pulling at the edges of his mind. Something that was dark and twisted. It swarmed around them, just past the edge of their campsite. Dante knew he wouldn’t see it if he turned to look, but it was there, constantly shifting and moving, watching and longing, hating and unbelievably miserable and frustrated.
“Now I can feel y’all trying to listen in,” Deacon said. “Mind your own damn business.”
They started to laugh again.
“I can feel the wraiths,” Dante said.
Their laughter died in an instant, and he felt them all draw breath. He felt their shared consciousness turn its attention upward and outward, afraid and unsure, searching for what he felt.
“Blessed Saints, Dante,” Frances breathed. “You sure know how to kill the mood.”
Cami had said the wraiths were tired, and sad, and Dante knew now how right she was. They longed to be set free.
“I thought there weren’t any wraiths here at the mesa,” Simon said.
“They can’t get too close,” Deacon answered. “But they know we’re here. They’re going to do all they can to push closer. They may want this to happen, but their nature won’t allow them to
let
it happen, if they can help it.”
The level of shared anxiety rose a bit, all of them glancing nervously into the dark as if they’d be able to see the wraiths.
Dante knew before Deacon spoke what the man was going to say.
“It’s time.”

They gathered what they needed and went single file up the steep trail. Nobody spoke. As they climbed, the mental commotion of the wilderness seemed to fall away. There were no trees here. No birds. No river. Only the sky, brilliant with stars, stretching impossibly far in every direction. When they reached the top, they stood in silence, reaching out with their senses. Although it was full dark out, the array of the stars and the sliver of moon granted the place an eerie silver light. The apex was smooth flat stone, rim to rim. The world lay below. Above them dwelled something vast and awe-inspiring—a quiet sense of peace and of connectedness.

“Is that the ancestors?” Cami whispered. It was so silent atop the mesa, her voice carried despite her hushed tones.
“Yes,” Deacon said, and even he sounded amazed. “That’s why the mesa is holy.”
At another point in his life, Dante might have scoffed at anything so mystical, but there was no denying the wonder of the place.
“Let’s get to work,” Deacon said.
They’d gone over the steps to the ritual. They all knew what to do. The mesa itself was round, roughly fifty yards across, too big for them to use as their circle. Aren held a piece of string to the ground at the centre of the mesa, and Deacon used it as a guide to paint a smaller circle, six yards in diameter. They used stones to anchor the map in the centre of the circle. When that was done, everybody but Cami removed their shirts. When they’d discussed the process of the ceremony, Cami had balked at being bare-chested, and Deacon had assured her he only needed access to enough skin to paint the ward, so Cami unbuttoned the top few buttons of her blouse instead. They took their places around the circle, Deacon and Cami directly across from each other, Frances and Simon between them on one side, Dante and Aren on the other.
A strange awkwardness suddenly filled their shared consciousness. It felt absurd to be standing together, half naked in the dark in the middle of nowhere. Did they really think this would work?
“Don’t doubt now,” Deacon said. “Your conviction is important.”
Dante took a deep breath. He felt the others doing the same, all of them resolving together to believe in what they were about to do.
“Good,” Deacon said.
A heartbeat of silence, and then Deacon began to sing. “Le’ama sa’ahala ma’ana re’ehalo’au roha’ala.”
His voice was low, and quiet, and Dante sensed his unease—not because he feared it wouldn’t work, but simply because he felt silly singing in front of them all.
“Le’ama sa’ahala ma’ana re’ehalo’au roha’ala.”
Immediately, Dante felt a ripple in their shared consciousness. A mental warmth surged from his right. It was Aren, reassuring Deacon. Whether he knew he was doing it, or whether it was only his natural response to Deacon’s unease, Dante didn’t know, but he felt the way Aren worked to bolster Deacon’s confidence. He could almost hear Aren’s thoughts.
Don’t be ashamed. You’re strong. You’re amazing. You’re sexy as hell.
Dante smiled. Not on purpose, then.
He took a deep breath, and he threw himself in behind Aren. He was careful not to copy the feeling exactly, but he tried to project absolute faith. A moment later, he felt Cami do the same.
Deacon’s voice grew stronger. “Le’ama sa’ahala ma’ana re’ehalo’au roha’ala. Le’ama sa’ahala ma’ana re’ehalo’au roha’ala.” The circle seemed to shudder as one.
They had the attention of the ancestors.
The first part of the ceremony was all Deacon. He would draw a ward on each of them as he entreated the ancestors to acknowledge the men who were with him. Deacon and Olsa had explained that in the past, the re’ehalu had been more symbolic than ceremonial. It was the Ainuai’s way of declaring friendship or confirming treaties, but it was less than official. It didn’t carry the weight of the marriage song, but now, with the first of the songs Deacon and Olsa had created, they asked the ancestors to recognise the men he marked as Ainuai.
Deacon’s chant went on. “Le’ama sa’ahala ma’ana re’ehalo’au roha’ala. Le’ama sa’ahala ma’ana re’ehalo’au roha’ala.”
He reached down and picked up a jar of paint and a brush. He started with Aren, painting the ward with bright red paint across his chest, singing as he did. Then it was Dante’s turn. Dante closed his eyes as Deacon came to him, afraid that whatever passed between them would distract Deacon. The paint was cold. The brush left a wet, tingling trail, and Dante shivered as Deacon made the ward.
“Le’ama sa’ahala ma’ana re’ehalo’au roha’ala.”
Next, Deacon went to Cami, who pulled the collar of her blouse open enough for Deacon to paint the ward, then Frances, and finally Simon. Deacon returned to his place in the circle, and his chant continued, the same as before, over and over again. “Le’ama sa’ahala ma’ana re’ehalo’au roha’ala.”
Dante waited. His breath caught in his throat. Had he felt something change? Some shift in the cosmic awareness around them, or was he imagining it? He wasn’t sure, but he tried to gather his awareness, to pull it close lest he offend the ancestors or distract Deacon with his thoughts.
Deacon stopped. He sang once, almost under his breath, “Sa’ahala nai’alini.”
Next to Dante, Aren repeated the words. His intonation was imperfect, but he said it with utter solemnness, and Dante wondered at its meaning, but he knew it wasn’t the time to ask.
Deacon took a deep breath, and the next song began. It had three parts, Olsa had explained. First, it claimed the land of Oestend for the living. Second, it asked the ancestors to open the door to the spirit world and to take in those left behind. Third, it asked for healing. Cami had told Dante how she, Deacon and Olsa had debated what kind of healing to ask for. For the wraiths? For the land? For those still alive? In the end, they’d decided that just asking for healing was enough. They’d let the ancestors decide from there.
Deacon’s voice was strong and loud. “Ailu jai’roi’o ma’ana sci’holu. Le’ama sa’ahala loai’loma ay’arou. Le’ama aolo’ui ai jai’roi’o, eye’nay.”
There was no unease this time. No embarrassment. His voice seemed made for the strange Ainuai words. The vowels took on a depth the rest of them could never achieve. Dante hoped Olsa was right that their belief meant more than their pronunciation.
Cami was the first to join in. “Ailu jai’roi’o ma’ana sci’holu. Le’ama sa’ahala loai’loma ay’arou. Le’ama aolo’ui ai jai’roi’o, eye’nay.” Her voice was higher than Deacon’s, yet still lower than if she’d been entirely female, blending well with Deacon’s deep baritone.
The rest of them began to sing as well, quietly at first, but gaining confidence as they felt their way around the unfamiliar vowels. “Ailu jai’roi’o ma’ana sci’holu. Le’ama sa’ahala loai’loma ay’arou. Le’ama aolo’ui ai jai’roi’o, eye’nay.”
Once they were all singing, Deacon moved into the centre of the circle with his paint. He knelt in front of the map. “Ailu jai’roi’o ma’ana sci’holu. Le’ama sa’ahala loai’loma ay’arou. Le’ama aolo’ui ai jai’roi’o, eye’nay.” He dipped his brush in the jar then slowly began to draw the new ward on the map.
“Ailu jai’roi’o ma’ana sci’holu. Le’ama sa’ahala loai’loma ay’arou. Le’ama aolo’ui ai jai’roi’o, eye’nay.”
Back at the BarChi, Deacon had argued briefly that Aren should be the one to paint it. “You’re the one with the art magic,” Deacon had said.
Dante wasn’t sure what that meant, but Aren had strongly disagreed. “What if I paint it wrong?”
Olsa had backed him up, saying the ward would be stronger coming from the one of them who was full-blooded Ainuai, and so now Deacon sat alone in the circle, making the ward on the ancient piece of parchment.
“Ailu jai’roi’o ma’ana sci’holu. Le’ama sa’ahala loai’loma ay’arou. Le’ama aolo’ui ai jai’roi’o, eye’nay.”
When the ward was done, he moved back to his spot at the edge of the circle. The six of them continued to sing.
“Ailu jai’roi’o ma’ana sci’holu. Le’ama sa’ahala loai’loma ay’arou. Le’ama aolo’ui ai jai’roi’o, eye’nay. Ailu jai’roi’o ma’ana sci’holu. Le’ama sa’ahala loai’loma ay’arou. Le’ama aolo’ui ai jai’roi’o, eye’nay.”
The air on the mesa grew warmer. A light breeze brushed them all then gusted, strong and unnaturally hot.
“Ailu jai’roi’o ma’ana sci’holu. Le’ama sa’ahala loai’loma ay’arou. Le’ama aolo’ui ai jai’roi’o, eye’nay.”
Dante wasn’t sure he could breathe. His chest seemed to contract. His pulse raced. Their voices faltered as a wave of unease flowed through them.
All but Deacon. His voice surged on, stronger and louder than before. “Ailu jai’roi’o ma’ana sci’holu. Le’ama sa’ahala loai’loma ay’arou. Le’ama aolo’ui ai jai’roi’o, eye’nay. Ailu jai’roi’o ma’ana sci’holu. Le’ama sa’ahala loai’loma ay’arou. Le’ama aolo’ui ai jai’roi’o, eye’nay.”
Then Aren was there, his unfaltering faith in his lover washing over them all. Frances was there, too—a quiet resolve that was less romantic than Aren’s feelings, but undeniably worshipful. Dante grabbed onto that feeling. He breathed it in. He swallowed it. He took it in his mind’s eye like a mantle and cloaked himself against the onslaught of the wind.
“Ailu jai’roi’o ma’ana sci’holu. Le’ama sa’ahala loai’loma ay’arou. Le’ama aolo’ui ai jai’roi’o, eye’nay.”
Their voices were loud now. The wind blasted them, and Dante closed his eyes, knowing in some heart that was not his that this was good. That this thrust of power wasn’t a final, pitiful push to remain, but the force of the wraiths, rushing towards peace. Dante reached out to both sides, feeling for the hands of those next to him. Physically, he couldn’t reach, but subconsciously, he felt the connection. He felt Cami’s calloused fingers in his left hand, Aren’s soft warm hand in his right. He felt them all reaching for each other, six men connecting on some unknown level. He felt the power surge around them all, their circle brimming with it, six men and the rocky ground thrumming with something ancient and holy. The strength grew. It rose and expanded up and out, like warm unbaked loaves on a counter, growing fat and thick, and still they sang.
“Ailu jai’roi’o ma’ana sci’holu. Le’ama sa’ahala loai’loma ay’arou. Le’ama aolo’ui ai jai’roi’o, eye’nay. Ailu jai’roi’o ma’ana sci’holu. Le’ama sa’ahala loai’loma ay’arou. Le’ama aolo’ui ai jai’roi’o, eye’nay.”
The wind roared to a sudden crescendo, hitting them from all sides at once. The map flew from under the rocks that held it, up into the air, out of sight. The air crackled and snapped—the sound of lightning but with no light.
A tremor ran through them all.
And then there was silence.
The wind had stopped.
“Ailu jai’roi’o ma’ana sci’holu. Le’ama sa’ahala loai’loma ay’arou. Le’ama aolo’ui ai jai’roi’o, eye’nay.”
By some unspoken agreement, their song ended. They stood there, looking awkwardly around the circle. They all laughed—a nervous, shaky laugh.
“Is that it?” somebody asked.
Dante felt on edge. The earth seemed to pulse under his feet. The air still crackled with energy.
No, Dante realised, that wasn’t it. That may have been what they came to do, but somehow he knew, it wasn’t all that needed to be done.
He looked around the circle, all of them but Cami standing there with their chests bare. He could almost see the magic flowing between them.
And then Frances took a step forward.
His was looking straight at Aren, and even Dante could read the blatant invitation he saw in the boy’s eyes.
Dante felt the jolt of surprise that touched them all, but then Aren laughed and moved forward, meeting Frances halfway. They kissed and their arousal caused a ripple—a tiny wave that spread from the centre of the circle, growing until it lapped over and around them all.
It was strange. They were so much alike, like two sides of the same coin—Aren a bit older, a bit more scuffed, copper where Frances was golden—but still, as they kissed, Dante began to feel he couldn’t tell which one was which. The paint on their chests blended and blurred.
Dante looked at Deacon, wondering if it bothered him to see Aren kiss another man, but Deacon didn’t seem bothered at all. He was smiling—a small, knowing smile. Obviously amused. Obviously not surprised. To Deacon’s left was Simon, obviously incredibly uncomfortable. When Dante turned to Cami, she met his eyes. The colour was high on her cheeks.
“Oh my,” she said.
Frances and Aren broke their kiss, although they still clung to each other. Hands explored bodies as they talked quietly then, moving as one, they both turned his way.
Dante’s heart jumped inside his chest. Inside his pants, his cock began to grow hard.
They came straight to him.
No, not just to him. To him and Cami. Frances reached Cami first. He began to undo her blouse. She stopped his hands, looking at Dante in alarm.
“It’s fine,” Frances said. “We’re all friends here.” He used his hands on her blouse to pull her into a kiss.
Dante felt he should object, that maybe he should be bothered, but he wasn’t. He didn’t have time to wonder why, either. Aren was suddenly in front of him, unbuttoning Dante’s pants as he stood on his toes to kiss him. He tasted different than Cami. That was Dante’s first thought. He was shorter than her, but not quite as thin. Their chests touched, and the power of the blurred wards seemed to pulse. Dante felt his pants slide down his hips and to the ground. Aren’s warm hand began to caress Dante’s growing erection.
This couldn’t be happening.
Dante glanced nervously at Cami, but found her in an equally intimate position with Frances. Her shirt was open, her skirt up around her hips. He felt the confused desire that filled her as Frances deepened their kiss.
Dante left his pants and shoes and let Aren guide him into the centre of the circle. Cami and Frances soon followed. Deacon moved into the circle, already naked. He scooped an arm around Aren and pulled him away from Dante, although not as if he were mad. He winked at Dante as he practically carried Aren over to Cami. “Go ahead,” Dante heard him say, and somehow, Dante
felt
the laughter that bubbled up in Aren’s chest. He felt Aren’s quiet amusement as he stepped between Frances and Cami. He put his arms around Cami’s waist and pulled her close, kissing her while Deacon stood behind him, caressing him and nibbling his neck.
Frances came to Dante. He put his arms around his neck and smiled up at him flirtatiously. “I knew we’d get to do this someday.”
Dante heard himself laugh, as if from very far away. Frances was warm in his arms, and when Dante kissed him, he found he tasted divine. It was strange, touching Frances, somehow knowing that Aren and Deacon were touching Cami, and yet there was no jealousy anywhere.
But he realised suddenly that there was still one of them missing.
He pulled away from Frances and found Simon, still alone, still half dressed, still standing on the circle they’d drawn. He looked terrified. Dante looked down at Frances, and he could see the pain in the boy’s blue eyes.
“He’s not like us,” Frances whispered.