Page 82 of Hunted in the Shadows
“We’ve both drunk too much,” I murmured. My voice tightened, tenderly tracing the strong line of his jaw. “I just need you to be alright before we leave. I… I want you to fall asleep with peace in your heart.”
This disarmed him more than any magic or monster I’d seen him encounter. He gave me a long, odd look before leaning in to kiss my forehead. “You’re too good. Too fucking good,” his voice rasped against me, chilling me.“I’m poison to you.”
“Stop it. You’renot—”
“Iam,” Jon said, leaning back.
His gaze flickered to my cheek-to my traitor mark—and over my body, where a myriad of scars and scrapes were cloaked by the plane’s perfection. His eyes, even clouded by whiskey, moved like he had committed the location of each of them to memory.
“You’ve already been branded and banished because of me,” he went on in a low voice. His hand traced along the hem of my cropped blouse, where the outline of a mottled purple mark should have been. “Because we took you. Because you saved me. What if I’m not strong enough to fix what happens next?”
His expression clouded, gaze far away and seeing past me. “There was something off in my dad—something that made him a prime candidate for possession, like it was drawn to him. It’s going to catch up with me sooner or later. Maybe there’ll come a time when I don’t have a choice and I…” Hebreathed out sharply, and I saw a glimmer reflected in his eyes—arealfire. “I’ll be the death of you.”
From the corner of my vision, I glimpsed a plume of smoke rising in the spectral plane. A house in the distance succumbing to raging flames. I pointedly turned from it and cupped Jon’s face to do the same. I brushed his tears away and pressed my forehead to his as though I could bleed tranquility into his mind.
“Jonathan Nowak, you will not frighten me away.” I grabbed his face and met his eyes firmly. “If you want me gone, then I swear on the stars themselves that I will leave. But you have to say it.”
He trembled. Then he pushed past my hands and buried his face in my hair. “I’m too selfish,” he said in a wavering voice. “Te amo, cariño—” The last word choked off with a soft sob.
I shushed him gently and held tight around his shoulders. I kissed away the tears on his cheeks until they stopped. When I looked over my shoulder again, the shifting image of the house was gone. Jon’s breathing was steadier. I sighed with relief.
I attempted a fragile smile, shifting myself into his lap, looking down into his face. “We’re made of stronger stuff than whatever destiny you think is running through your veins.”
A glimmer of something familiar struck in his gaze. “Fuck destiny?”
“Yes—fuck destiny,” I said, grinning.
Around us, the sky and ground softened in hue. His fingers brushed the wound on my shoulder—where it should have been.
“I can’t hurt in here, remember?” I assured him.
Jon frowned deeply, his touch delicate nonetheless. “What does it feel like out there?”
“Jon…”
“Please. Tell me.”
Even in this state, the gravity of the situation weighed heavily in his stare. He knew as well as I did that I’d never made direct contact with iron before today.
That moment—when the iron chain had seared against my skin—was the last thing I wanted to think about, but it lived with overwhelming clarity in my mind.
“Like everything about me was stripped away until I didn’t exist—only the pain,” I said. “I’m lucky it was just a graze. Any longer, and my magic would have been completely snuffed out for who knows how long. Even being near it was horrible—this awful numbness, hot and cold at the same time.” I shuddered.
“You can’t heal it away?”
“I tried, but it won’t budge. I may be rivaling you for nasty scars soon.” I found his hands, locking my fingers through his. “Can you put your salve on it?”
Jon’s eyes lit up so readily, I nearly melted. He leaned his forehead against mine, sighing. “Promise me you’ll actually sleep tonight, too,” he whispered. “Please. You’ve been through enough.”
My throat tightened. “I promise.”
To my relief, we made it back to reality before his telltale nosebleed could make its appearance.
Still seated at the edge of the bed, Cliff looked up from his sketchbook. He eyed Jon with concern as we came to. But when it was clear that Jon was no longer falling apart at the seams—just a little intoxicated—Cliff gave me a grateful nod and came over to sweep the dirt back into the burlap pouch.
I glimpsed what he’d been drawing. The lines were rough and hurried, as though he might lose his memory if he didn’t finish it fast enough. It was the alp, partway between avian and reptilian form. A tiny figure hovered above it, delivering the killing blow.
Like something out of a legend.
