The Hour of Dust and Ashes

Ceallachan. They spoke of a day when darkness would come. And here you are.” This pressure, this suffocating invasion, was too much, even for my unconscious self. “So much chaos inside of you. Fractured. She, Mother Earth, can repair this. Fix this. You’ll need to be whole for what’s to come.”

No, no. No more, my mind cried.

“Fighting, always fighting …” The space went silent again and peace settled around me.

Then Emain’s voice again. “The gift is yours. Your last gift will come soon. Once each element is inside of you, they will join to make a new element. Nwyvre. You will be transformed, able to see the energy, the magic inside of everything because you will become magic. It will happen at once. And then, after a time, Nwyvre will fade and you will be as you once were …”

Her voice faded, and I relaxed back in the embrace of Mother Earth, letting my mind go.

The easing of pressure woke me.

The dirt was thinning fast around me as though drawing back. My mouth and eyes opened at the same time. Dirt scratched at my irises, and even though I closed my eyes immediately, dirt clung to my lashes and the rims of my eyelids, scratching, damaging.

My lungs contracted, wanting desperately to breathe, burning hot and painful. The burn of failure. Of denial. My throat thickened. Every time I clawed or moved, I lost the little bit of ground I had gained. Goddammit! I struggled, panicking.

My nails broke as I fought.

My hand suddenly hit flesh. Strong fingers wrapped around my wrist and pulled. The bones in my wrist cracked under the pressure, my shoulder nearly ripped from the socket. The dirt seemed to work against me, sucking me back in.

Then out. My head was free. I opened my mouth and sucked in air. Bits of dirt flew into the back of my throat, down my esophagus, and into my stomach. I hacked and coughed and choked, every draught of air into my body a welcome, dirty pain.

wileight='0em' width='1em'>Strong, bruising hands re-gripped my weak, useless body lower and lower, climbing down my arms, pulling, until my shoulders came out. Arms went beneath mine, wrapping around me, dragging me out of my would-be grave.

My hips slipped free and I collapsed on top of Hank.

He held on to me as I heaved, lungs burning fire, and turning me when I started gagging and finally puking dirt onto the ground beside us.

When the worst of it was over, he sat up, skimming me for injuries. His dirt-caked hands finally settled on my face and I felt the faint tremble in them. He pushed back my hair and removed chunks of wet dirt from the corners of my eyes and ears.

I slumped against him, grabbing on to his bicep, the side of my face planted in the crook of his shoulder. Tears continually leaked, my body trying to shed the dirt from my eyes. Hank’s heart beat hard and fast in his chest. He wasn’t letting go of me, and I wasn’t arguing.

“Asking me not to fight,” he muttered in a shaky voice. “Never again. You understand? Never again.”

Hot pain radiated through my wrist, and pretty much everywhere else on my body, but I heard his words and held them, stored them for a later time.

My muscles grew stiff as we sat there in the dim tunnel, both of our flashlights remaining on, lying on the ground nearby and giving me enough light to see. Another MARTA train rumbled by, shaking the earth.

After it passed and the tunnel grew quiet again, Hank leaned back to look down at me, gently laying a hand on my arm. “Your wrist is broken. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. If you hadn’t pulled me up …”

He reached up with both hands and unclipped the voice-mod from his neck. I went still and slid back, off his lap and onto the ground beside him, our legs touching. “What are you doing?”

Determination settled over his features as his eyes held mine, shifting into a dark sapphire blue. “I broke it. I fix it. Don’t argue.” He spoke true and deep, and without the voice-mod adjusting his voice, it flowed over me and through me in a warm wave of contentment and pleasure.

“But I—”

“You’re not human anymore, Charlie,” he said softly, “you can handle my voice without …”

Without jumping his bones, declaring my undying love and devotion, offering him everything I had …

Not exactly the kind of one-sided relationship I was after. But then, he was right, I wasn’t exactly human anymore.

His hand trailed down my arm. I went still; the only reaction was the light burst of awareness in my stomach. His fingers closed around my wrist. Pain shot up my arm, stealing my breath. His other hand cupped the back of my neck as he leaned forward, pulling me in, his scruffy cheek brushing against mine. My heart started to beat wildly. Pain? What pain?

I waited, knowing he was going to speak. He was so close, the act so intimate. His fingers clamped harder on my neck as his lips parted against my ear, so close I heard the faint intake of breath.

And then he spoke.

Slow, rhythmic, deep words flowed from his lips. Words I didn’t understand, but the exotic language and the accent that came with it seemed to give them power, persuading, demanding, an alluring kind of power. My wounds would obey him. Happy to re-knit and mend for him. Every muscle relaxed, every nerve ignited with vitality, pleasure, contentment, bliss …

My mouth dropped open and the stunned curse that formed languidly in mind never made it out. My broken nails dug into his arm, an initial burst of pain replaced by goodness as the cuts healed.

And the words kept coming, going deeper into my senses, and somehow more personal—far more intimate than those first healing words.

My mark burned—a good kind of burn that matched the heat building in the rest of me. My mouth still hung open and my breath was coming out swift and ragged. I wanted to reach up, to slide my hand around the back of his neck and pull him closer, but my body and mind were too overwhelmed to move.

His words ended in a low whisper. His lips smiled, brushed past my ear, and pressed into my temple.

I blinked a few times and finally was able to close my mouth and swallow the lump in my throat. My heart pounded like a damn drum and my entire body hummed with something pretty similar to an endorphin rush.

As he pulled back and released his hand at my neck, I felt the faint, feathery touch of his breath, and wondered if I was imagining it or was his breath as shaky as my own?

10

Hank stayed quiet as he reattached his voice-mod, head bent, expression unreadable.

Look up! I wanted to shout at him, but he didn’t. I wanted to know he was affected, that this moment wasn’t some usual siren event for him, that I wasn’t the only one feeling something on the inside.

I drew in a deep breath and immediately started hacking, dislodging the dirt clinging to the back of my throat. I grabbed Hank’s knee, bent over, and spit a glob of dirt onto the ground.

A wry chuckle echoed in the tunnel. “Well, I’ve never gotten that kind of response before.”

I shot a dark look over my arm as I wiped my mouth. “Funny.”

And the idea of him doing what he’d just done to me to someone else? Absolutely maddening.

“The aches and stiffness will return,” he said. “Your wrist is healed, but it’ll be sore for a while.”

“Thanks.” I sat straighter. “For healing me.” My hands were covered with dirt, so I grabbed the end of my shirt and used the inside edge to wipe the dirt from my eyes, but it was just as grainy on the inside as it was on the outside.

“Here.” Hank pulled off his button-down, and then yanked his T-shirt over his head, using the inside end of it to help get more dirt away from my eyes and off my tear-streaked face. He held it to my nose. “Blow. You’ve got dirt shoved up your nose. That’s why you’re breathing out of your mouth.”

I hadn’t even noticed, but he was right. Now I knew why I was still feeling a ton of pressure in my face. I