Page 49 of Shaw

He coughed into his sleeve. “My kind are born fully aware of our destiny, Julianne Scott. Once we come into the mortal realm, we cannot alter our path in the slightest. I cannot even imagine making such a choice.”

“That’s terrible. You should talk to your gods, and tell them you need to switch it up sometimes.” She glanced around at the jars. “Can I look through some of these? I’ll be careful.”

The monk bowed. “Take your time, please.”

After he left Julianne picked up a handful of scrolls and took them over to the writing table. It was hard for her to get comfortable with her long legs, so in the end she nudged aside the pillow and just knelt as she untied the cord around the first scroll and spread it out. This one had faint charcoal sketches of her and Shaw looking just as they did now, killing each other with daggers, holding up swords as bolts of lightning came down, and together in a bed as smoke billowed around them. In each one they didn’t seem to be afraid, only sad. In the sketch where they stabbed each other they were both crying. Hovering in the background of each sketch loomed the silhouette of something that looked like a man covered in black oil.

Julianne smiled a little. There you are, Buster.

A short time later she left the scroll room and went in search of Shaw, who she found standing on the pavilion beside a stone garden. He was watching two elderly servants carefully raking the sand in beautiful lines. For a while she stood there in silence, wondering what if anything she should say to him. The monk’s claims also hung around her neck like a too-large statement necklace.

“He showed you the scroll paintings, then?” Shaw asked.

He already knew. “I looked at some of them. How many did you see?”

“Thirty or so.” He reached for her hand, and curled his around it. His thumb moved idly back and forth across her knuckles. “He stopped after the one with the mountain spewing whole islands of smoke in the sky, and flaming rivers of smelted ore. We jumped into that crater holding hands.”

“Death by volcano. Big yikes. Well, at least it would have been quick.” She leaned against him, relaxing a little as he put his arm around her. “Even if we are the whole dark and light thing, I don’t get why it’s our fate to die horribly every time together. How does that save the world, really, if we keep coming back? And hey, why aren’t you upset about all this depressing soul-bonded business?”

“All beings die, even immortals.” He moved his shoulders. “I cannae dwell on such when I may yet live with and love you, and ken we’ve eternity together. That, ’tis what truly matters. When we die, we die. The scrolls assure me we shall find each other again.”

“Yeah, but I’ve been alive this time for like just two minutes, Shaw,” she said, annoyed now. “I didn’t even get a chance to become a better person, you know?”

“How could you become better?” he chided.

“You have no idea what a slouch I can be. I never put my laundry away. I just take it out of the basket and wear it wrinkled.” She had to think for a minute to recall her other bad habits. “I drink milk directly from the carton and eat cereal out of the box. Why dirty a dish, right? And I never ever pluck my eyebrows. My friend, Eva? Got hers waxed once, and I watched. That like scarred me for life.”

His mouth curved a little. “I steal from the kitchens in the night, and then hide the food in my chamber. ’Tisnae from hunger, but my fear of starving again. Even now ’tis likely fifty piles of oatcakes rotting away under my bed and in my trunks. I’ve stolen a dozen tunics from my brother Fletcher, who never says a word when he sees me wearing them. Aye, and whenever the laird leaves the stronghold, I’m meant to stay in his place. Yet I follow him.”

“Why?” she asked, unsure of how that tied in with his other secrets.

“All the NightRiver, I ken they’re gone, but yet still I worry mayhap some escaped, and sired sons who now hunt me and my clan.” He rubbed his eyes. “I fear they may come and capture my brother, and enslave him as they did me. ’Twould destroy Connal, suffering such horrors.”

He was still a lost little boy at heart, Julianne thought. She also hoped if the jerks who had enslaved him were reincarnated, they’d come back as cockroaches.

“If we could come to terms with Buster, we wouldn’t have to kill ourselves in this lifetime,” she said. “What would the Big Bad want to keep from Armageddoning the world? Maybe if we find out, we can get it on our side, and then maybe we don’t have to jump into a volcano.”

“I dinnae care, for I hate the facking thing,” Shaw said flatly. “If ’twas any manner in which I might slay the demon, I would.”

“But we know it’s not a demon. It’s the end. The end isn’t bad or good, it’s just the end.” She thought for a moment. “Is there anything else that makes Buster settle down?”

His dark eyes narrowed. “You.”

She recalled the way his tattoos responded to her whenever they made love. “It definitely likes me, or it wouldn’t have inked me. What if I try to convince Big Bad to hop over to me so we can chat?”

Shaw recoiled. “Never. I’d sooner end myself than let the facking thing possess you.”

“That’s not what I mean.” She put her arms around his waist to keep him from leaving her. “Calm down. We’re just talking about what we could try. You told me the only time it’s interested but not wanting to kill is when I’m near you. I’m your fated love, so that makes sense in a way. It sees me as part of you.”

“You dinnae ken what the spirit arouses in me,” he told her. “’Twill roar through you like a storm of fire and ice. ’Twill gnaw at your heart and your mind and all the good and kind and gentle parts of you until they’re but scarred and twisted. Then it shall whisper to you the worst of your desires, and taunt you for resisting them.”

“Sounds like my ex.” Julianne suspected he was dead wrong about what the beast would do to her. “Okay, we’ll back burner that idea for now. I think we better head back to Caladh soon. C and V are probably totally freaking out about now.”

Shaw nodded, and turned and led her down the walkway around the garden to a room that had a sliding door. When he opened it she saw a guest room inside like hers, only with dozens of white paper scrolls dangling from gold cords tied to the ceiling rafters.

“What’s with the hanging art?” she asked, frowning.

“They’re something like Fae charms, I reckon,” Shaw said as he went to close the sliding door. “Mortals of faith use such as safeguards against evil spirits. Doubtless they consider me the same.”