Stars of Fortune
Page 83
She wearied of waiting, wearied of only watching through the curtain of magic. She stroked her creature nearly into slumber. Then snapped the head from its body with one vicious twist. She added some of its blood to the goblet as a woman might add cream to her tea.
She imagined, as she drank, it was the witch’s blood, and his power ran in to twine with her own.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
She swam through cool blue water, strong and sure. It called to her, like a song, and she wanted only to answer. Even when her lungs burned and begged for air—just one gulp of air—she swam on.
She saw the change of light, a kind of beckoning, and risked all to dive still deeper. Even when her arms weakened, her kicks faltered, she never thought of the surface. Only the light. Only the song.
Close, so close. Tears burned behind her eyes as her body betrayed her. She could see the mouth of the cave, but knew now she couldn’t reach it.
She wasn’t strong enough.
As the light began to blur, the song to dim, hands grabbed her.
She sucked in air that scored her throat, gagged on dream water filling her lungs. And stared into Bran’s dark eyes.
“Thank the gods.” He dragged her to him, rocked them both. “You stopped breathing.”
“I was drowning.”
“You’re here. Here with me.”
“There was a light, and I wanted to reach it. Had to. I was swimming for it, but I wasn’t strong enough. I was drowning.”
“A dream.” Not a prophecy. He wouldn’t permit it. “You’re stressed, that’s all. We dive tomorrow—” Today, he thought, as dawn crept close. “And you’re stressed.”
“I was alone. Not diving, not with a tank. And I wasn’t strong enough.”
“You won’t be alone. We’ll stay back today. I’ll stay with you here.”
“It’s not what we’re meant to do. You know that. The dream doesn’t make sense. I wouldn’t dive without a tank. And I wasn’t afraid, Bran. More . . . mesmerized. Until I realized I couldn’t do it.”
“Do what?”
“Get to the light. The cave. Stress,” she said with a nod. “Sometimes a dream’s a dream. I’m still the weak link—physically. I’m sorry I scared you.”
“Only to the marrow of my bones. Come, rest a little longer.”
“If I get up now, I can get coffee in before Doyle starts cracking the whip. I think it’d be worth it.”
“We’ll have coffee then.” In that moment, with his fear still circling the edges, she could have had anything in his power to give. “Sasha, if when we’re diving, anything reminds you of the dream, you need to let me know. You won’t be alone.”
“That’s a promise.”
* * *
She felt calm. The dream left her no residual upset or worries. In fact, it barely felt real. And after twenty minutes under the crack of Doyle’s whip, absolutely nothing was real except sweat and quivering muscles.
She managed six (-ish) push-ups—half-ass push-ups according to Doyle—and three-quarters of one pull-up.
By the time she stepped onto the boat, she felt she’d been running at top speed for half the day. She doubted anything could feel better at that moment than lowering her sore butt onto a padded bench, lifting her face to the sun, and letting the salty breeze flow over her. And all while the greens of Corfu gleamed against the blue.
Other boats swayed in their slips or sailed across the water—as they would soon do. She could see the colors of shops and restaurants, the movement of people already strolling. On the rails of narrow balconies on a small hotel, beach towels flapped.
The breeze carried a mix of voices and languages to her, the scent of sunscreen and lemons, strong Greek coffee, a tang of smoke.
And wasn’t that a wonder of its own, she mused, all that life, so different from what she’d known, bustling on around them? Families on holiday, shopkeepers opening their doors for the day’s business, couples sitting at tables at pavement cafes, enjoying the sights and sounds and scents just as she was as they lingered over breakfast.
None of them knew, she thought, there were dark hearts wanting power so greedily they would destroy all else.
The little girl in the pretty pink capris with a ribbon trailing from her curly ponytail, bouncing along between her parents, or the old man with the weathered face and peaked cap drawing deep on his cigarette while his coffee steamed in front of him. The impossibly handsome man swabbing the deck of a nearby boat, and flashing a grin at the trio of girls who sent him flirtatious looks as they passed by.
They didn’t know worlds hung in the balance. For them, it was only a beautiful spring morning on an island floating green on a blue sea.
“You’re far away.” Bran sat beside her.
“No, actually. I’m right here. Right here and right now, and it’s really wonderful. I’m going to come back,” she decided on the spot. “When there is only the right here and right now. I’m going to have coffee right over there, and browse those shops. I’m going to buy an insanely colorful scarf, and something utterly useless and beautiful, then drink kumquat wine in the middle of the day.” She angled her head, smiled. “Maybe you’ll come drink it with me.”
“I could be persuaded.”
Doyle eased the boat out of the marina, away from the bustle, the scents, all that life. Sasha grabbed her sketch pad to draw a quick perspective of the village from the water. She would remember the bright colors, the sun-bleached ones when she painted it. A dreamy watercolor, she decided, so that edge of a world seemed just slightly mystical and unreal.
She imagined, as she drank, it was the witch’s blood, and his power ran in to twine with her own.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
She swam through cool blue water, strong and sure. It called to her, like a song, and she wanted only to answer. Even when her lungs burned and begged for air—just one gulp of air—she swam on.
She saw the change of light, a kind of beckoning, and risked all to dive still deeper. Even when her arms weakened, her kicks faltered, she never thought of the surface. Only the light. Only the song.
Close, so close. Tears burned behind her eyes as her body betrayed her. She could see the mouth of the cave, but knew now she couldn’t reach it.
She wasn’t strong enough.
As the light began to blur, the song to dim, hands grabbed her.
She sucked in air that scored her throat, gagged on dream water filling her lungs. And stared into Bran’s dark eyes.
“Thank the gods.” He dragged her to him, rocked them both. “You stopped breathing.”
“I was drowning.”
“You’re here. Here with me.”
“There was a light, and I wanted to reach it. Had to. I was swimming for it, but I wasn’t strong enough. I was drowning.”
“A dream.” Not a prophecy. He wouldn’t permit it. “You’re stressed, that’s all. We dive tomorrow—” Today, he thought, as dawn crept close. “And you’re stressed.”
“I was alone. Not diving, not with a tank. And I wasn’t strong enough.”
“You won’t be alone. We’ll stay back today. I’ll stay with you here.”
“It’s not what we’re meant to do. You know that. The dream doesn’t make sense. I wouldn’t dive without a tank. And I wasn’t afraid, Bran. More . . . mesmerized. Until I realized I couldn’t do it.”
“Do what?”
“Get to the light. The cave. Stress,” she said with a nod. “Sometimes a dream’s a dream. I’m still the weak link—physically. I’m sorry I scared you.”
“Only to the marrow of my bones. Come, rest a little longer.”
“If I get up now, I can get coffee in before Doyle starts cracking the whip. I think it’d be worth it.”
“We’ll have coffee then.” In that moment, with his fear still circling the edges, she could have had anything in his power to give. “Sasha, if when we’re diving, anything reminds you of the dream, you need to let me know. You won’t be alone.”
“That’s a promise.”
* * *
She felt calm. The dream left her no residual upset or worries. In fact, it barely felt real. And after twenty minutes under the crack of Doyle’s whip, absolutely nothing was real except sweat and quivering muscles.
She managed six (-ish) push-ups—half-ass push-ups according to Doyle—and three-quarters of one pull-up.
By the time she stepped onto the boat, she felt she’d been running at top speed for half the day. She doubted anything could feel better at that moment than lowering her sore butt onto a padded bench, lifting her face to the sun, and letting the salty breeze flow over her. And all while the greens of Corfu gleamed against the blue.
Other boats swayed in their slips or sailed across the water—as they would soon do. She could see the colors of shops and restaurants, the movement of people already strolling. On the rails of narrow balconies on a small hotel, beach towels flapped.
The breeze carried a mix of voices and languages to her, the scent of sunscreen and lemons, strong Greek coffee, a tang of smoke.
And wasn’t that a wonder of its own, she mused, all that life, so different from what she’d known, bustling on around them? Families on holiday, shopkeepers opening their doors for the day’s business, couples sitting at tables at pavement cafes, enjoying the sights and sounds and scents just as she was as they lingered over breakfast.
None of them knew, she thought, there were dark hearts wanting power so greedily they would destroy all else.
The little girl in the pretty pink capris with a ribbon trailing from her curly ponytail, bouncing along between her parents, or the old man with the weathered face and peaked cap drawing deep on his cigarette while his coffee steamed in front of him. The impossibly handsome man swabbing the deck of a nearby boat, and flashing a grin at the trio of girls who sent him flirtatious looks as they passed by.
They didn’t know worlds hung in the balance. For them, it was only a beautiful spring morning on an island floating green on a blue sea.
“You’re far away.” Bran sat beside her.
“No, actually. I’m right here. Right here and right now, and it’s really wonderful. I’m going to come back,” she decided on the spot. “When there is only the right here and right now. I’m going to have coffee right over there, and browse those shops. I’m going to buy an insanely colorful scarf, and something utterly useless and beautiful, then drink kumquat wine in the middle of the day.” She angled her head, smiled. “Maybe you’ll come drink it with me.”
“I could be persuaded.”
Doyle eased the boat out of the marina, away from the bustle, the scents, all that life. Sasha grabbed her sketch pad to draw a quick perspective of the village from the water. She would remember the bright colors, the sun-bleached ones when she painted it. A dreamy watercolor, she decided, so that edge of a world seemed just slightly mystical and unreal.
