Fire Heart (The Titans: Book One) (41 page)

She absolutely did not—never before had she wanted anything less. “No,” she answered, and to prove it to him she took his hand in hers, and placed her free one on his shoulder. The music changed then, and the fiddles and lutes quieted to allow the addition of a viola, its sweet notes setting the tone for a slow rhythm that invited closeness and whispered words. The violist struck a soft chord that started off quiet and gentle, and eventually built into a sweeping rise and fall that nearly brought tears to Clare's eyes with its beauty. She pulled Will back into the dance, moving slowly this time, her bare feet sinking into the soft earth with each step. Their bodies were touching, and through her chest she could feel his heartbeat.

The music filled her as though she were a cup, and by the time it reached her brim she and Will and the music were the only things in the world. And deep inside of her, in some recessed corner of her mind, the Other slowly began to creep back out into the open.

Will's hand went to her back, the tips of his first two fingers just touching the skin above the top of her dress, and she shivered. “Are you cold?” he asked.

She shook her head and giggled, and he gave her a quizzical look, but she said nothing. The music's
tempo and pitch waxed and waned, and they with it. She leaned her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes; his scent filled her nose, something that reminded her of fresh-tilled earth or the first rain of the season. The sensation of his touch intensified a hundredfold, and she felt each and every one of his movements, no matter how small. She wondered if he felt the same.

She could feel his breath puffing softly against her neck, tickling her skin, and she opened her eyes slowly and pulled her head back. They looked into each other's eyes, neither of them speaking, the Other inside of her pushing her ever closer until his breath danced softly across her lips.

And then the song ended.

The spell broke and Will cleared his throat and moved slightly away from her. Her hands lingered on his shoulders for a moment longer, and then she let them fall away.
Why is it so awkward? s
he wondered.
Does he feel differently about me than I do about him?
But then a sudden, painful thought occurred to her: she was mortal. She had seen the look on Will's face when he had learned of Asper's mortality.
I've been a fool. He doesn't want a mortal lover. And the Phoenix Empress...oh, spirits, what am I doing?

She looked away and, more out of nervous habit than any real need to, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you,” she said softly. He did not answer. “I...um...I should go.” Her words came out in an unintentional whisper, and when he still did not say anything she turned to leave. But the gentle press of his fingers on her shoulder stopped her, and she looked back at him.

He licked his lips, and she noticed with some surprise that his blue eyes had tiny, almost invisible veins of red in the irises.
Were those there before?

“Would...would you walk with me?”  he asked hoarsely, to her surprise.

“Of course.”

They walked far, far away, leaving the festivities behind until they could no longer hear the soft, lingering notes of music or the merry laughter that drifted through the air. The onset of evening had begun, and by the time Will stopped the rays of mystical sunlight were tinted red and purple.

For a long while they simply stood, neither speaking, an awkward silence settling over them like a heavy woolen blanket. Will did not look at her, and though they stood almost shoulder to shoulder, to Clare he seemed very far away. She waited for him to say the first word, but he never did; his even breathing was the only sound outside of the occasional hoot of an owl, or the constant low chirp of crickets, and the silence between Will and Clare dragged painfully onward.

“Will...” she began, her voice very soft, and
that
triggered a reaction.

“Clare, I...I have to talk to you about...something.” He ran his hands through his hair and breathed a heavy sigh that ended in a quiet, nervous chuckle. When he turned to meet her gaze, she noted with some trepidation that the crimson traces in his irises had grown. He did not notice her alarm, however, and continued talking, his next words halting and unsure. “When I'm around you, something happens to me, I...it's like I...wake up. No, no, that isn't right.” His eyes took on a distant look as he searched for the proper words, and the lines of red intensified.

Memory struck Clare like a hammer blow, and her mind pulled her back to only a short time ago in Prado. An image of Will, screaming and engulfed in flames, sent a shock of fear through her.
His eyes were red then,
she remembered.
Glowing crimson, and churning like magma.

“There's someone else inside of me,” he said in a hushed voice, and Clare suddenly realized that the air around them had grown much, much warmer. “I think...I think it's Koutoum, and every time he sees you—”

He stopped abruptly, his eyes widening in shock, and his hand flew to his chest as though he were in pain. “Oh no,” he gasped, and then squeezed his eyes shut. “I can feel it again, inside me—it wants to get out—”

“Will,” Clare said, cutting him off, and though she said it in a soft voice the effect was instantaneous. Will cracked his eyes open—eyes now almost completely crimson—and looked at her. “Will, remember what I told you in Prado. It doesn't have to be this way. You can control this, just like
you did then.” Her words did the trick—the temperature dropped noticeably, and she could see several lines of red slither back into the edges of his irises, disappearing from view. The sight was disturbing, but she did not mention it.

“It's—so hard—to control,” he gasped. “Please—go before I hurt you again.”

She did the exact opposite; she reached up to him and placed her hands gently on either side of his head. His skin was hot to the touch, but it was not enough to hurt her. She barely felt it at all through the scars on her maimed hand. “Will,” she repeated, looking deep into his eyes, “come back. You have to come back, just like last time.”

And he did. With another gasp and a grunt of pain, his eyes narrowing and sweat beading along his brow, he slowly began to banish whatever presence was inside of him. The crimson lines snaked back into dormancy, leaving behind the beautiful icy blue that she had come to love. His skin cooled rapidly, and soon, with a heavy sigh, he slumped forward, catching himself at the last moment before he collided with Clare.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and she caressed the sides of his face with her thumbs. His hand came up to cover her maimed one, and they stood like that for a long while. Clare could have stayed that way forever.

“You're always taking care of me,” he said with a small laugh, breaking the silence. “My guardian spirit.”

“You're...a god, Will,” Clare said softly. “But you don't know how to control yourself.” She ran one hand gently along his cheek. “Maybe I can help.”

“Clare,” he said finally, “I have...feelings for you. Strong feelings.” He swallowed nervously. “I've never felt this way before.” The last he said in a voice barely above a whisper, but he might as well have screamed it.

Clare could not move. For some reason, his admission held a real, tangible finality to it that her feelings, until that point, had not.
What should I do? Oh, spirits above, what should I do?
Her mind was a whirlwind of activity—she loved him, she knew that, but he would live forever. Could she live like that? Could she watch him remain young and vital while her own body withered and aged? If she led a life like that, would she be able to keep her sanity knowing that the man she loved might at any
moment
grow tired of the old woman she would become?

She swallowed, and her mouth opened and closed like a fish. Why was it suddenly so difficult to speak, when it should have been so easy? Hadn't she been wishing for him to say what he just had?

Or had she?
What should I do?!

His face fell as her silence stretched on, and she felt her stomach do a backflip.
Say something, damn you!
her mind shrieked furiously.
Say anything!

“I'm...I'm sorry,” he said finally, and he was unable to meet her gaze. He pulled away from her touch, and his face was a mask of hurt and confusion. “I shouldn't have said that. I just...I thought...” He closed his eyes and shook his head, and his next words came in a whisper. “I thought you felt the same way.”

And then he turned to leave. She reached for him as he vanished into the darkness of the forest, but still she was unable to speak. Soon he was gone, his soft footsteps fading away and leaving in their wake the nighttime sounds of the Dark Forest.

She would not ever remember how far she stumbled through the thick vegetation, which parted before her despite her wish for some root to trip her, or a branch to tear at her face. She remembered seeing a wolf, and welcome thoughts of a grisly end dashed through her mind. But she was in Yalkul, the Dark Forest, where nothing would hurt her. The wolf faded quietly back into the underbrush.

And the next thing she remembered she was kneeling on the ground and sobbing into Grim's fur—Grim, the beautiful beast who had accompanied her all the way from Dahoto, who had saved her life countless times, who had thrown himself in the path of the Fallen One for her, and who, even after all he had been through, was now comforting her the only way any living thing could.

“Grim,” she sobbed, and the warhound pulled her closer into his warmth with his chin. “Oh, Grim. Why is this happening to me?”

She did not know how he had found her, but it didn't matter; nor did she know how long she stayed like that with her arms around his great neck, but somewhere along the way she finally ran out of tears, and her sobs died away soon after. Even then, though, she did not move. The sounds of the forest covered her like a blanket, and she felt herself begin to drift off into peaceful oblivion.

“Talyn?” said a voice from behind her, startling her so badly that she tripped over her legs in her wild attempt to get to her feet, and crashed back down to the soft earth below. Her head whipped around so fast that she cricked her neck, and she grunted in pain.

“Who's there?” she asked, her voice shaking, and she rose hesitantly. Her hand went to her sword out of reflex before she remembered that it was gone. Strangely, Grim did not growl, which surprised Clare very much.

And then the old man she had seen at the ceremony stepped out from behind a tree, his blind eyes questing from side to side and his hands waving out before him like an insect's feelers. “Is that you?” the man called in a trembling voice. “I am sure I felt you. Where are you, Talyn?”

“My name is Clare,” she answered softly. “I'm sorry, but I think you've got the wrong woman.”

The old man stopped and turned his head in her direction. He was very, very ancient, Clare realized, and then she remembered that someone had said he was, in fact, over five hundred years old.
He must be confused,
she thought.
Didn't Feothon mention that living to see the next Dragon King was this man's final duty? I imagine he's very close to death now.

“Forgive me,” the man murmured. “My mind drifts more and more of late. I thought it was many years ago. But I...I felt compelled...” He pointed with a shaking finger off in the direction he had appeared from. “A little bird led me here. I followed its calls.”

Clare raised an eyebrow. “I haven't seen a bird.”

“Ah.” The old man—Borost, she remembered now—was silent for a time. Then, rather abruptly, he said, “You have been crying, child. What ails you?”

Clare sniffled, her tears suddenly threatening to return, and murmured. “Nothing—it's nothing.” She did not ask how he had known.

“But you are lying.”

Clare stared at him. “How would you know that?”

Borost chuckled and gently tapped his temple next to his eye. “I cannot see, and so I do other things better. So tell me—why have you been crying?”

“It...It's my heart,” Clare answered lamely, and inwardly berated herself for such a response. What was she, a tearful princess in a fairytale?

“Oh? Are you sick?” Borost asked.

“...Yes.”

He smiled. “How so?”

“My...heart...tells me to do things.” Clare wondered why she was telling the old man her problems. How had he gotten such a response out of her? But she continued regardless. “I want things, but I know I can't have them. So...my heart is sick.”
Go away, Tearful Princess.
I want nothing to do with you.

Now Borost laughed, a dry wheeze that made Clare feel self-conscious and mirthful at the same time. “You young people,” the old man rasped. “You never realize what you have until it is too late to get it back.”

Clare was taken aback. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Only this,” said Borost with a kindly smile, and he walked haltingly up next to her, stopping less than a pace away. “What you need—
everything
you need—can be found right here.” He gently prodded one finger over Clare's heart, and she wondered how he had been able to locate it without the use of his eyes. “Listen when your heart speaks, young lady, and never think twice about doing so. Otherwise, you will end up like me—a lonely old man.”