Burned

Mesmerized, Stark turned the claymore, allowing the jeweled hilt to catch the light as Sgiach’s Guardian continued, “The five crystals, set in as four corners, and the fifth centered with the heart stone, create a constant pulse in tune with the beating heart of its Guardian, if he is a chosen Warrior who guards honor afore life.” Seoras paused, finally looking away from the claymore. “Are yie that Warrior, ma boy? Is it a true Guardian yie will be?”

“I want to be,” Stark said, trying to will the sword to beat in time with his heart.

“Then yie must always act with honor and send the one you’ve defeated on to a better place. If yie can do this as a Guardian and no as a boy . . . if yie are aff the true blood soul and spirit, son, yie will find yer last horror will be the ease by which yie accept and execute this eternal duty.

“But know there is no going back, for this is the law and lot o’ the Guardian pure, nae grudge, malice, prejudice, or vengeance, only yer unflinching faith in honor can be yer reward, nae guarantee of love, happiness, or gain. For after us there is nothing.” In Seoras’s eyes, Stark saw timeless resignation. “Yie will carry this for eternity, for who will guard a Guardian? Now yie know the truth of it. Decide, son.”

Seoras’s image disappeared, and time began again. The Other was on his knees in front of him, staring up at him with eyes that held fear and acceptance.

Death with honor. As Stark thought the words, the claymore’s hilt warmed in his hands with a beat that mirrored the pounding of his heart. He closed his other hand on the hilt, reveling in the feeling.

Then the weight of the blade became a life force of its own, filling Stark with a terrible, wonderful strength and knowledge. Without thought, without emotion, he used the arc of a crescent moon to deal the killing blow, crashing the blade sickeningly into the Other, slicing him cleanly from skull to crotch. There was a great sighing, and the body disappeared.

The full extent of Stark’s brutality slammed into him. He dropped the claymore and fell to his knees.

“Goddess! How could I do that and be honorable?”

Mind reeling, Stark knelt on the ground, breathing hard. He stared down at his body, expecting to find gaping wounds in his flesh and blood—lots and lots of his blood.

But he was wrong. He was completely free of any physical wound. The only blood he saw was packed into the earth beneath him. The only wound that remained was the memory of what he’d just done.

Almost with a will of its own, his hand found the hilt of the great sword. Seeing in his memory the killing blow he’d just delivered, Stark’s hand trembled, but he gripped the hilt tightly, finding warmth and the echo of the beating of his heart.

“I am a Guardian,” he whispered. And with the words came true acceptance of himself and, finally, understanding. It wasn’t about killing the bad within him; it was never about that. It was about controlling it. That was what a true Guardian did. He didn’t deny brutality; he wielded it with honor.

Stark bowed his head so that it rested on the Guardian claymore.

“Zoey, my Ace, my bann ri shi’, my queen—I choose to accept it all and to follow the way of honor. That’s the only way I can be the Warrior you need me to be. This I swear.”

With Stark’s oath still hovering in the air around him, the archway that was boundary of Nyx’s Otherworld disappeared, along with the Guardian claymore, leaving Stark alone, weaponless, and on his knees in front of the goddess’s grove and the ethereal beauty of the hanging tree.

Stark struggled to his feet, automatically walking toward the grove. His one thought was that had to find her—his queen, his Zoey.

But as he got nearer to the grove, Stark slowed and finally stopped.

No. He was starting out wrong. Again.

It wasn’t Zoey he had to find, it was Heath. As big a pain in the ass as Aphrodite could be, he knew her visions were for real. What the hell was it Aphrodite had said? Something about Heath having to move on for Zoey to come back. Stark thought about it. As much as it hurt him to admit, he could understand why what Aphrodite had seen was the truth. Zoey had been with Heath since they were kids. She’d watched him die, which had hurt her so badly her soul had shattered. If she could be whole, and be with Heath here . . .

Stark looked around, and as when he’d connected with the claymore, he was really seeing.

Nyx’s realm was incredible. The grove was directly in front of him though he could sense the vastness of the place, and knew Nyx’s realm was way bigger than this one place. But, in all honesty, the grove itself was enough—green and welcoming, it was like a shelter for his spirit. Even after what he’d been through to get there, knowing his responsibilities as Zoey’s Guardian, and understanding his quest was far from finished, Stark wanted to enter the grove, breathe deeply, and let the peace of it fill him. Add Zoey’s presence to all of that, and he’d be more than content to stay here for at least a slice of eternity.

So, yeah, give Heath back to Zoey, and she’d want to stay. Stark rubbed a hand over his face. He hated to admit it—it broke his heart to admit it—but Zoey loved Heath, maybe even more than she loved him.

Stark mentally shook himself. The love she felt for Heath didn’t matter! Zoey had to come back—even Aphrodite’s vision said so. And, sure, if Heath weren’t involved, he’d probably be able to convince her to come back with him. That was the kind of girl she was—she cared about her friends more than she cared about herself.

Which was exactly why Heath would have to leave her, and not the other way around.

So he’d have to find Heath and talk him into giving up the only girl he’d ever loved. Forever.

Fuck.

Impossible.

But it should also have been impossible for him to have defeated himself and accept all that meant.

So think, damnit! Think like a Guardian and don’t just act and react like a stupid kid.

He could find Zoey. He’d done it before. And once he found Zoey, Heath would be there, too.

Stark’s gaze went to the hanging tree. It was bigger here than on Skye, and the pieces of cloth that were tied to its massive umbrella of branches kept changing colors and lengths as they waved gently in the warm breeze.

The hanging tree was about dreams and wishes and love.

Well, he did love Zoey.

Stark closed his eyes and concentrated on Zoey—on how much he loved her and missed her.

Time passed . . . minutes, maybe hours. Nothing. Not one fucking thing. Not even a vague inkling of where she might be. He couldn’t feel her at all.

You can’t give up. Think like a Guardian.

So love wouldn’t lead him to Zoey. Then what would? What was stronger than love?

Stark blinked in surprise. He already had the answer. He’d been given it with the title of Guardian and the mystical claymore.

“For a Guardian, honor is stronger than love,” Stark said aloud.

He’d barely finished speaking the words when a thin golden ribbon appeared directly above him in the hanging tree. It glinted with a metallic luminescence, reminding Stark of the torque of yellow gold Seoras wore around his wrist. When the ribbon unknotted and floated free of the tree and into the grove, Stark didn’t hesitate. He followed his gut and this small reminder of honor, and strode after it.