Reflection Pond (27 page)

Two weeks,
Rowan thought. How could he fit an eternity into fourteen days? And how would he survive if she didn’t leave with him?

He’d find a way to come back, he decided. He couldn’t leave her.
No matter what.

Rowan gathered Callie against
him, surprised when she came willingly. She felt small in his arms as they spun around the tiny cottage. His hands were in her hair, pressed against her shoulder blades, curved around her hips. Callie threw her head back and laughed, and though they hadn’t had much to drink, Rowan wasn’t sure if she’d remember in the morning and why it bothered him if she didn’t. There was no music, but they danced slow, bodies fused together like lovers, they danced fast, their feet barely touching the floor.

Rowan had never felt more alive.
Here, where it didn’t matter that he was unimprinted and unimportant. Here, on the eve of the rest of his life, he wanted to tell Callie everything.

It terrified him, even when he was full of liquid courage. So when they stopped moving and stood, arms tangled, sweating and breathing hard, panic closed his throat. There was a second bottle of wine above his sink and he debated another gulp for good measure, but knew if he did, he would forget this night, and it seemed important somehow. Instead, he slid his hands from Callie. She glowed now, the blue of her skin a beacon in the darkness. The warmth of her cheeks turned the color slightly purple. Her hair hung in loose waves that framed her face. Her eyes were bright.

He stepped away. “Ready?”

Callie closed the careful distance he’d put between them. She touched his cheeks, smoothed damp strands of hair from his face. He could see himself reflected in her eyes.

“Promise you won’t be afraid.” The words sounded small. Embarrassed. The scars should’ve been the hard part. They were visible now, crisscrossing his flesh, marking him for what he was, reminding him of what he’d done, of the life he’d taken.

“I promise,” Callie whispered.

***

Rowan slipped away from her, moving closer to the fire. She felt the absence of him in the cool air that slid against her sweaty skin. The intensity of her glow was difficult to look at, like staring at the sun after walking out of a darkened movie theater. It wasn’t so bad, she decided, liking the way the blue energy twisted inside her like a kaleidoscope.

He met her gaze from across the room, backlit by the blazing fire. She was drunk, too warm. Everything felt sloppy, loose, disconnected.

Why were her fae markings so obvious when Rowan’s continued to hide even after the wine had stripped away their glamour?

“You sure?” he asked, as though sensing her unease.

Her focus went from his scruffy, too-long hair, skipped across the scars on his chest and stomach, and lowered to his dirt-caked toenails. Callie searched for any remaining worry over Hazel’s thoughts. She found none, but it was always that way with Rowan, as though he scattered her judgment and overshadowed her worries.

Callie nodded. Her heart thundered against her ribs, wishing to be independent of its bindings. She flattened her hand there, in case it managed to escape. What was this warmth inside of her? She was still dizzy from dancing, her skin layered with a light sheen of sweat. She hoped this night never ended. Tomorrow, when she was sober, everything would come crashing back.

But right now, she was Rowan’s, and he was hers.

Rowan lowered his head.

A strange sound filled the room, that of tearing flesh and rustling fabric. Rowan shook his shoulders, as though fighting a chill. Callie held her breath.

He exhaled and massive wings rose behind him. They were oily, feathered, and intense, almost absent of color, and hurt her eyes as though she stared into absolute darkness. They grew, unfurled, stretching larger and larger until they finally stopped just before the tips reached the ceiling. The feathered points draped the floor. She couldn’t fathom how he carried them on his back. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Callie was intrigued, horrified, and a million other things she couldn’t name. Blackness threatened the edges of her vision, or maybe it was just Rowan’s wings. They seemed to suck all the light to them and blot it out.

Rowan waited, impossibly still.

“Can you fly?” she stammered eventually, mortified at her choice of words. They were just so…
huge.

He stretched, opening his wings until he resembled a bird of prey in glorious flight. They spanned the entire length of the cottage. Rowan was a fallen angel, dark and dangerous; yet so beautiful that she couldn’t look away.

“Yes,” he said quietly, “I can fly.”

“That’s—” She nodded frantically.
Swallowed. “That’s…it’s…whoa.” Callie stumbled backwards. “I need to sit down.” The floor rose up to meet her and Rowan’s gaze followed her descent. She buried her face in her arms and took deep breaths.

Rowan had wings.

Rowan could
fly.

When she finally looked up, he hadn’t moved but continued to stare as though he expected her to run. He took a tentative step, and then another, watching her cautiously. His wings hovered like a shadow behind him, ominous as a thundercloud.

He was magnificent.

Up close, the exquisiteness made her throat hurt. He pulled the length closer to his body, but even tucked against his skin, their sheer size didn’t diminish. He was scarred, dark…
beautiful.
And like a horrific car accident, Callie stared.

He knelt, eyes on the floor. She took in the soft curve of his wings, the delicate skin at his throat where his pulse thrummed, the roadmap of scars.

“Touch me,” he whispered.

She couldn’t fathom her thoughts into actions. Callie’s muscles had turned to stone.

“Please,” Rowan begged,
“please.”

Callie wanted to cry.

He was Rowan, and at the same time, he wasn’t. Gone was the strong, certain boy she’d come to expect, with his razor tongue and careless actions. Gone was the cockiness. The wall he hid behind. On his knees before her, he was raw, exposed.

She’d read the books in the library. There was a word for faerie markings like his.
Predatory.

The fae who chose to inhabit Fraeburdh have mostly animalistic markings, which favor predatory beasts, such as wolves, cats, and birds of prey. Some have the ability to hide their faerie form, making it easy for them to move amongst humans and other fae unnoticed.

It didn’t matter where he came from, she decided. She never wanted to be without him.

Callie raised her hand, surprised to see it fill the charged space between them. Her energy cast an eerie blue glow, which his wings absorbed, as if they stole her power. Rowan caught her wrist just before her fingertips grazed his left wing. He swallowed, released her, and looked away. Her fingers delved into the soft spray of feathers. They felt impossibly light, much thinner than any feather she’d held before, glossier, and softer than silk. She slipped her fingers between them, feeling a delicate web of fragile bone and gentle counter pressure of tissue underneath. He smelled dark, like the earth beneath an ocean, mixed with salt and faerie wine.

Rowan made a sound low in his throat and Callie withdrew her hand, startled. “Am I hurting you?”

The shadows in the room had grown long, and Rowan’s eyes were black as pitch when he shook his head and returned her hand to his wing. She stroked it again, higher and higher, pushing to her knees so she could see where they joined his back. The wings rose from the space between his shoulder blades, arcing gracefully from beneath a thin layer of down. He
was scarred here, too, as though someone had tried to hack off his wings with a handsaw. She traced the curving scars, splayed her hands across the wing bases.

Slowly, Callie became aware of how close they were. She had both arms around him where he knelt, the side of her breast pressed against his cheek. Her pulse jumped. She sat back, embarrassed by her unbridled curiosity. Heat crept up her neck and into her face as she struggled to control her breathing, which was too fast, as if she’d run a marathon. Her skin felt tight, itchy. Her head buzzed.

“Becoming Fallen doesn’t stop you from assimilating into the human world,” Rowan said, looking away, expression impenetrable. “My foster father was exiled from a faerie city—I don’t know which one because I didn’t put it all together until I came here.” He reached for her hand and held it tightly, as though drawing courage.

“He had so many foster kids over the years, and then one day, he got lucky. I discovered my healing power a few months before my eighteenth birthday. It was an accident—” His eyes were far away now. “My foster mom cut her hand making dinner. It was bad…and when I went to wrap it in a towel, it just happened. The cut disappeared. Of course, she
was freaked out, but my foster father got this wild, greedy look. That night he tried to kill me.”

Callie shuddered and Rowan squeezed her fingers before continuing.

“Back then, I didn’t know that he wanted to be Immortal, or even that the fae existed. I’ll spare you the details because you’ve seen the scars, but he tried to drain my blood. Almost succeeded, too. I remember lying there thinking,
this is it.
But then my foster mom found us.” He swallowed hard and when he met her gaze, his eyes were wet.

“She opened his skull with a golf club, but not before he stabbed her.” He pressed a hand to his an invisible wound in his stomach. “She pulled herself over to me and we lay there, helpless, bleeding out together.
She kept telling me I’d be okay, it’d be okay. When she took my hand,” his voice broke, “I didn’t know what I was doing. Her energy just came to me. The cuts started healing and the pain eased. I could’ve healed her, but instead, I stole her life…her energy. I killed her so I could live.”

Rowan swallowed. “I’m no better than him. She was always so good to me, and I just watched her die.”

Callie couldn’t read Rowan’s expression. The urge to say something important overcame her, but she had no idea what that something was. She rubbed the goosebumps on her arms, licked her lips, tasting salt. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said finally.

Rowan
exhaled, the scent of his breath sweet on her face. “Tell me.”

“Tell you what?” she whispered, even though she knew what he wanted. He’d exposed everything, right down to the very core. She couldn’t remember a more honest moment in her life.

“What happened to you. I saw some of it in your memory, but…”

“I can’t,” she said, nausea turning her stomach.

“Can’t or won’t?” Rowan asked.

“Both.”

“Liar.” He flattened his palms on the dirt floor, curled his fingernails, making angry gouges there.

“Can’t,” she said.
“Can’t lie.”

“Oh Callie,” he whispered, finally looking up. She felt as if he saw right through her. “Lying is as easy as breathing.”

“I’m drunk.”

“You’re not drunk.”

“I am.”

Rowan sighed and stood.

Callie forced herself to watch him. “I’m not drunk enough,” she amended. She knew this was one of those situations where two people opened up to one another and then had life-affirming sex. She’d read enough books to know how it worked. But sex would never be life affirming to Callie—if she had her way, sex would never be anything to her.

She could tell him, just let it all pour out of her until she was empty, but then he would feel the same way about her as she felt about him. There would be pity in his eyes when he looked at her, a hesitance to his touch.

She couldn’t do it.

Rowan held out a hand, shoving it annoyingly close to her face, until she had to either take it or bat it away. He jerked her to her feet, too hard. She stumbled against him. He caught her, and for a brief moment, they embraced. Rowan moved away quickly.

Callie reached for the bottle of wine, disappointed to find it empty. Rowan plucked it away, setting it with a thud of finality on the table. “You’ve had enough, anyway,” he said.

She frowned, hands fluttering like nervous birds. “I haven’t had enough.”

Rowan chuckled. “We’re going to bed.”

Callie’s eyes wandered to the bed, lingered there as she imagined all the ways they could lay there together. The words were out before she could stop them. “Where are you going to sleep?”

“In a tree, obviously.”

“What?”

“I’m kidding.” He pushed her toward the bed with gentle hands. “Go to sleep.”

“Okay.” Callie lay on the bed. Rowan’s scent surrounded her. She rolled, pressing her face into his pillow, inhaling him. If she weren’t drunk, or shocked, she would’ve been mortified.

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

Callie slept, face hidden beneath Rowan’s pillow. Her unconsciousness was absolute, like that of an infant napping in a crowded, loud room. He knew she must be exhausted after the long day combined with the faerie wine. Fatigue filled his body, but Rowan ignored it. He’d stood vigil, watching her first from the kitchen table, and later, next to the bed. He kept thinking she’d wake and notice him, but she slept soundlessly through the remainder of the night.