Descendant

“Speaking metaphorically, of course,” Fennrys said wryly.

“Of course.”

Mason grinned and reached up and pulled his head down so she could kiss him again. She had the distinct feeling she was going to enjoy being able to do that whenever she wanted to. Now that she knew how Fennrys felt about her . . . she wanted to tell him in that moment that she loved him, too. But at the same time, she was almost afraid to. She didn’t know why, but it almost felt like if she did, she’d break some kind of spell or something. It was stupid. But she also wasn’t willing to tempt fate. Everybody else seemed to be doing that for her, and—what was worse—she’d let them. She’d let herself be blind to her father’s dark obsession. She’d let Rory use her claustrophobia against her. She’d let Heimdall manipulate her, using her dead mother’s face.

She’d stopped asking questions. . . .

Suddenly, a chill traced down her spine, in spite of the warmth of Fennrys’s body pressed against her, as Mason realized that she hadn’t even asked the biggest question of all.

“Hey.” Fennrys finally broke her long silence, putting a finger under her chin and tilting her face up so she had no choice but to look up into his eyes. “What is it? What’s bothering you?”

There were things moving through his gaze. Shadows. Secrets . . .

Mason shifted up onto her elbow so that she was looking down at him. She put her hand on his chest and felt the steady beating of his heart, thrumming against her palm.

“How did I cross over into Asgard?” she asked.

When his mouth opened and no words came out, Mason was pretty sure she knew. She just needed to hear him say it.

“Fenn?”

The muscles of Fennrys’s neck moved convulsively as he cleared his throat and found his voice. “Yeah?”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I can handle it.”

Are you sure? whispered a small voice in her head.

“I know you can. I know. Mason . . .” Fennrys closed his eyes.

She waited.

When he opened them again, she saw the answer to her question in the depths of his blue gaze before the words were past his lips.

“You died.”

A sap pocket in one of the branches of their campfire suddenly popped loudly and hissed, spitting sparks and brightening the air with a brief orange flare that dwindled almost instantly to nothing. The shadows in the room crowded closer. Mason could almost feel them. It was as if the shades that haunted North Brother Island had suddenly realized that she was kindred to them.

You are.

Dead.

She’d asked and he’d told her. And there it was. No sugarcoating.

It felt as if the world was falling away from her. The crumbling bricks, the leaves, the firelight . . . everything but Fennrys’s face, clouded with concern, was becoming insubstantial. As if the world was the ghost. Not Mason.

But you are.

Fennrys sat up and pulled her with him. Her head lolled on her shoulders, her ability to make her muscles work properly fleeing from her in that instant.

“Mason,” he said, giving her shoulders a shake. “Mase!”

She tried to focus on his face. She tried to breathe.

Am I supposed to breathe? Do I do that?

“Sweetheart . . . listen to me.”

He breathes . . . his hands are warm . . .

“It was a long time ago. And it doesn’t change a thing. It doesn’t change who you are, or how I feel about you.”

Dead girls don’t cry. . . .

But there was wetness on her lashes. It turned the firelight into golden spangles and made it seem like she was looking at Fennrys through a curtain of rain. He gazed at her, eyes locked on her face, unblinking, unfailingly steady. He was there. He was real. And he was dead too.

Mason drew a sudden, deep breath.

And the world snapped back into focus.

“How?” she asked. “When?”

“I can’t be sure, but I think it was probably right around the time that your claustrophobia first manifested.”

“Oh my god,” Mason murmured. “The hide-and-seek game . . .”

“Yeah,” Fennrys said. “I think so. I mean, it makes sense. I think your phobia is a result of the fact that you died. I mean, it didn’t take—obviously—but you crossed the threshold.”

“Something sent me back.”

Fennrys nodded.

Mason knew what the something—someone—was. “My mother.”

Fennrys nodded again. “That’s what I was thinking, too. I mean, I’d say that’s a pretty fair guess.”

“It’s not a guess. I know it was her,” Mason said. There was a sense of utter certainty as she said the words. Her mother was a queen of the underworld, and her mother had sent her back. Just like she’d sent Fennrys back.

And the thing was . . . Mason knew. She’d known it all along. Even though she had no memory of the event, no sense of what had actually happened to her, trapped in that shed, she had always, since that time, felt different. There was a distance . . . a detachment. A feeling that she was always on a slightly different vibrational plane from all the other students at Gosforth. Then there were the nightmares . . . the claustrophobia . . .

No. Not anymore. I will not be afraid of anything anymore.

Mason closed her eyes and felt herself grow light as air.

The air flowed into her lungs, her blood sang through her veins. Her hands were still on Fenn’s chest, and she could feel the beating of his heart. And then her own . . . as her heart began to beat along with his.

She was dead. Was dead. And now . . .

And now she felt more alive than she ever had.

Mason left one hand over Fennrys’s heart and put the other over her own. Her heartbeat was light and quick, strong and vibrant. Fennrys’s was deep and steady and powerful. With those two beats coursing through her, rhythm and counterrhythm, Mason strangely, surprisingly, didn’t care that she was dead. Or had been. Or however that had worked out. She didn’t care because the very same thing had happened to Fennrys, and that meant that the two of them were special in the same way.

If he could handle it, so could she.

Fenn was still gazing steadily at her, a shadow of worry twisting in the depths of his blue eyes. He needed to know that she was all right. She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his neck and let him know she was. He pulled her close, and Mason let herself drift on the sensation of kissing Fennrys, but suddenly, he froze. She thought for an instant she’d done something wrong, but she saw that his head was cocked to one side . . . listening . . .

Then she heard it too.

Howling.

Sorrowful, soul-deep, and fiercely, frighteningly angry.

Fennrys was up on his feet and loosening the blade he carried strapped to his leg in its sheath. The howling built to an echoing cacophony, and Mason shivered when she realized what it was. Wolf song.

Rafe.

Something was terribly wrong.

Mason leaped to her feet and kicked at the little bonfire until it was extinguished. Then she and Fennrys were running before Mason even had a chance to wonder what the hell was going on. As they rounded the