that fate
has a plan for every being, human, god, shapeshifter or banshee. Apparently she
was a vital part of his, and he couldn’t have been more surprised or frightened
by that fact if he tried.
He was no good when it came to emotional connections,
protecting those in need of his strength. But he couldn’t push her away.
Instead he eased her toward him, until her cheek rested on his shoulder.
Gràinne sighed, snuggled up as he pressed her closer. Ah, by the Orixás, the
soft, plump length of her felt good against him. Better than good, it felt
right, inevitable. Necessary.
“What do your markings mean?”
Gràinne sounded sleepy, her words slow and almost slurred.
After the emotional wallop she’d taken, he wasn’t surprised.
“They are all the tribal marks of the people I once called
my own. Each village had their own traditional patterns, so I combined them
into one design and wear it as a sign of my fidelity.”
“I like that.” Fingers drifted, soft as butterflies, across
the band of scars encircling his waist. “What happened? Why are you no longer
their god?”
It wasn’t something he spoke about, the shame still with him
after all these many centuries, but if anyone deserved to know it was this
woman who seemed inclined to put her faith in him.
“I was a god of truth, sitting in judgment over the humans.
But like many truth-seekers before me, and those who have come after, there was
one fundamental truth I myself couldn’t grasp, and that lack led to my
downfall.”
He paused, listened to her shallow, even breaths, feeling
the weight of her body leaning into his, thinking she’d fallen asleep.
“What truth is that?”
If anything she sounded more awake than before, and he
sighed silently. “That truth is a multifaceted jewel. That the story told twice
can lead you closer to it or take you further away.”
Gràinne stirred, made a questioning little sound in her
throat. “I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t then either,” he admitted, the taste of shame
still strong on his tongue. “And that lack was costly.”
“Explain it to me.” She let go of the front of the shirt and
slipped her arms around his waist, pressed her palms flat against his back, as
though sensing his impulse to move away.
“Two honest men can see the same thing at the same time, but
each tell a different story. Does that mean one was lying?”
“Ahhh.” It was a sigh of recognition. “No. It just means
they each had a different perspective, saw things differently because of where
they were or what they believe.”
“Exactly. You see it but I didn’t, not for a long time. I
believed if two stories didn’t match one person must be a liar, and it was up
to me to judge which one. I would brook no arguments to the contrary and
eventually I was stripped of my name, banished for condemning too many
innocents.”
“Harsh.” Such a simple commentary, but sympathy lingered
behind the word.
He didn’t deserve her compassion.
“I thought so too, although I was sent to the human side
and, under a new name, made a king over a large, prosperous tribe. Anger and
the need to prove my worth caused me to be constantly waging war, ever trying
to expand my territory and work off my frustration.”
Her finger traced the ram’s head tattoo on the side of his
neck.
“What happened next?”
“I was too angry to heed the lessons the Orixás tried to
teach me and one day, in a fit of temper, I burned down my own palace.”
That brought her head up and he knew she was staring at his
profile, but it took all his courage to face her. Gràinne’s eyes were wide, a
little darker around the edges—the light-green irises ringed with smoke. “How?
Why?”
He shook his head, needing to be as honest with her as he
could be. “I still had the power to make storms appear at will. One day I was
so frustrated with the humans’ weaknesses, not able to recognize my own, I
hurled lightning at a courtier, and the entire palace
has a plan for every being, human, god, shapeshifter or banshee. Apparently she
was a vital part of his, and he couldn’t have been more surprised or frightened
by that fact if he tried.
He was no good when it came to emotional connections,
protecting those in need of his strength. But he couldn’t push her away.
Instead he eased her toward him, until her cheek rested on his shoulder.
Gràinne sighed, snuggled up as he pressed her closer. Ah, by the Orixás, the
soft, plump length of her felt good against him. Better than good, it felt
right, inevitable. Necessary.
“What do your markings mean?”
Gràinne sounded sleepy, her words slow and almost slurred.
After the emotional wallop she’d taken, he wasn’t surprised.
“They are all the tribal marks of the people I once called
my own. Each village had their own traditional patterns, so I combined them
into one design and wear it as a sign of my fidelity.”
“I like that.” Fingers drifted, soft as butterflies, across
the band of scars encircling his waist. “What happened? Why are you no longer
their god?”
It wasn’t something he spoke about, the shame still with him
after all these many centuries, but if anyone deserved to know it was this
woman who seemed inclined to put her faith in him.
“I was a god of truth, sitting in judgment over the humans.
But like many truth-seekers before me, and those who have come after, there was
one fundamental truth I myself couldn’t grasp, and that lack led to my
downfall.”
He paused, listened to her shallow, even breaths, feeling
the weight of her body leaning into his, thinking she’d fallen asleep.
“What truth is that?”
If anything she sounded more awake than before, and he
sighed silently. “That truth is a multifaceted jewel. That the story told twice
can lead you closer to it or take you further away.”
Gràinne stirred, made a questioning little sound in her
throat. “I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t then either,” he admitted, the taste of shame
still strong on his tongue. “And that lack was costly.”
“Explain it to me.” She let go of the front of the shirt and
slipped her arms around his waist, pressed her palms flat against his back, as
though sensing his impulse to move away.
“Two honest men can see the same thing at the same time, but
each tell a different story. Does that mean one was lying?”
“Ahhh.” It was a sigh of recognition. “No. It just means
they each had a different perspective, saw things differently because of where
they were or what they believe.”
“Exactly. You see it but I didn’t, not for a long time. I
believed if two stories didn’t match one person must be a liar, and it was up
to me to judge which one. I would brook no arguments to the contrary and
eventually I was stripped of my name, banished for condemning too many
innocents.”
“Harsh.” Such a simple commentary, but sympathy lingered
behind the word.
He didn’t deserve her compassion.
“I thought so too, although I was sent to the human side
and, under a new name, made a king over a large, prosperous tribe. Anger and
the need to prove my worth caused me to be constantly waging war, ever trying
to expand my territory and work off my frustration.”
Her finger traced the ram’s head tattoo on the side of his
neck.
“What happened next?”
“I was too angry to heed the lessons the Orixás tried to
teach me and one day, in a fit of temper, I burned down my own palace.”
That brought her head up and he knew she was staring at his
profile, but it took all his courage to face her. Gràinne’s eyes were wide, a
little darker around the edges—the light-green irises ringed with smoke. “How?
Why?”
He shook his head, needing to be as honest with her as he
could be. “I still had the power to make storms appear at will. One day I was
so frustrated with the humans’ weaknesses, not able to recognize my own, I
hurled lightning at a courtier, and the entire palace
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