Wyatt

Windsor Township, Ashtabula County

---

They’d made it to town ahead of a promised storm. The locals warned them that the wind off the Lake would make it especially bad. With the rendezvous so close, they really didn’t have time to dawdle.

“Are you sure you want to hunker down here for the night?” Jessica asked from where she stood at the window, looking over the snow-laden town. They’d been wading through snow up to their asses. Her gelding was half-frozen, and Goliath was in a mood.

“Yes, I’m quite certain.” They’d worked swiftly to secure the room. The innkeeper hadn’t even wanted to open the door when they’d come knocking, but Wyatt paid her generously and ignored the way she eyed him up and down, then turned that suspicious glare on Jessica. “We need time to rest, and we can’t move now until after sundown tomorrow at the earliest.”

He was closer to MacPherson than he’d been in decades. The creature’s final hours were within his grasp. The disapproval of one innkeeper couldn’t really touch him.

“Jessica, would you like to take another bath?” Her mood had improved vastly after the last one.

“No,” she said, continuing her surveillance of the world outside. “Soap smells wonderful, but it also carries. I’d rather not let anyone know where I am until I am ready for them to see me.”

It was a reasonable argument.

“Do you want to take a bath?” Throwing his question back at him, Jessica put her fingers against the glass. As inns went, this one was very small. It felt more like a house that had been converted for guests.

“I’ll survive,” he said, waving off the question. “But we have time to go get a meal…”

“Dining options appear to be limited by the snowfall out there. Not that I saw a lot in the way of restaurants. The innkeeper promised to set out cold cuts, bread, and some soup if we were hungry.” Still, Jessica didn’t look at him. Her arms folded, she leaned against the frame.

Crossing the room, Wyatt set his hands on her shoulders. The act was proprietary and invaded her space. He half-expected her to pull away. Though she tensed, she didn’t reject the contact. “You’re upset.”

It wasn’t a question. Since he’d told her he needed her to kill him, she’d locked down. He might have enjoyed the comfortable silence between them, but her retreat hadn’t been comfortable.

For either of them. “I cannot change what is.” He’d spent too many years trying to do exactly that. First, he’d fought. Afterward, he’d tried to ignore it. Then Quanto extracted an oath from him. Very soon, he would do what he should have done so many years before.

“Of course you can’t, and I would be a fool to expect otherwise.” The tension in her voice reflected in the muscles of her neck tightening. “How long until we need to move?”

“Tomorrow after sunset.” At his words, her shoulders went taut. He’d kept most of the plan to himself, and she’d accepted his word rather than push for more. “Jessica, will you look at me?”

“No.” The snap in the single syllable made him grin. “Don’t try to coddle me, Wyatt. It’s beneath both of us. We have a task to do.” Withdrawing was how he handled difficult emotional situations. It was easier to deal with the impossible while standing behind a remote veneer.

“Tell me, do you like being an apothecary?” Perhaps changing the subject entirely would entice her to join him, then to rest.

“It was merely a task that helped care for the coven and the people. One I was uniquely suited for.” She was still tense, like an iron rod.

With care, he exerted gentle force against the rigid line. “Because you cannot die?” How immortal was she? Was that immortality simply based on her lack of aging? Or something more complex?

The hunger to know her rushed him.

“Because I can taste the complex properties in herbs, both wild and cultivated. I know when a leaf is particularly strong in the components, or too astringent.” Not exactly the answer he was looking for. Her head tilted ever so slightly to the side as he found a knot and pressed his thumb into it. “The apothecary must do more than simply follow the recipes, grind the components, and combine. They have to be able to read the person seeking their assistance. Are they truly looking for something to sooth an ulcer in their stomach? Or do they simply need to relax because they do not sleep enough and their life is plagued by doubt? Each of these is fundamental to the brews, pastes, and tinctures I prepare.”

“You read people as well as the herbs.” Fascinating. He didn’t care for people in general overmuch. Individuals were different.

“Yes, I suppose I do. It was tricky work,” she said on a deep exhale, the stiffness in her posture softening. “Understanding that a little of something could cure, but too much made it poison seems to have been an analogy for all of life.”

“I can’t argue with that.” His experiences had taught him much the same. “So if you were to read me, to determine what it is I needed…what would it be?”

“A kick in the head to start,” she said, pulling from his grasp, and stalking across the room. Pivoting, she faced him.

It was definitely a start.

“I begin to understand why your shaman kept you bound by oath. Are you so eager to leave this existence that you rush the battle? Do you feel some kind of glee in knowing it will all be over soon?” Anger beat within her every word.

Folding his arms, he leaned against the lip of the window. Fury was so much better than apathy. “I am eager only to end the pain I created.”

“There is no other way besides sacrificing yourself?” Frustration edged the question.

“I have tried many paths. This is not the first time I have made this walk.” Even if it was the last time he wanted to do it. “This war has already cost so many lives. I cannot ask of others what I am unwilling to give myself. I’ve known that to end him, I had to end me. Even more so now, because he is inhabiting my body. How much hell has he rained on others? How many more will he kill? Their blood is on my hands. This is why I race to end it, this is why I need to see it through. My siblings are coming to wage this war alongside me. They will strike at him and, should they managed to be successful, I will die anyway.”

Jessica stilled, and for the first time since they began the discussion, he read understanding in her eyes. “You do not want them to carry that guilt.”

“No, I don’t. You are a sineater, Jessica. I need you to take my sins from me, and from them. To spare them the realization. They are too volatile. It will hurt them on a fundamental level, no matter how necessary his extinction is, and the cost.” He knew exactly what he was asking her to do, and from her reaction, how much it would cost. Were this any other time or she any other woman—he couldn’t let that matter. Ending MacPherson’s threat once and for all protected his family, protected the children, and protected everyone’s future.

He couldn’t allow what it would do to her to dissuade him.

“I will be back.” She vanished and Wyatt jerked to his feet. He’d tightened his power around the room, plugging the cracks, and securing the door. No sound would escape, but she didn’t even blink before vanishing. It was—aggravating.

Mirroring her earlier posture, he faced the window. Windsor Township was a small, rugged community. A white-boarded church stood proudly, the bell steeple rising like a finger to point at the heavens. Trees, laden with snow, lined the street with houses and businesses dotting the landscape. Their Main Street seemed curiously small compared to some, but this was primarily a farming community.

What if Jessica didn’t return?

No sooner did the thought take root than he dismissed it. In their short acquaintance, he hadn’t seen her once shy from a difficult task. She’d rushed to face him, not once but twice. She’d fought him with both skill and determination. Within her existed the ability to overcome his strengths and natural defenses.

Straightening, he closed his eyes and clenched his fists. The wind howled around the building. The wood shuddered from the force. It was as though every wind spirit had gathered in one place to vie for the title of strongest.

The corner of his mouth kicked up, and a chuckle escaped him. The provocative image entertaining enough, it punctured the bubble of tension within him. He couldn’t afford for Jessica to hesitate.

Breathe…

He trusted her to make the right choice, even if it was the painful one.

Breathe…

Like him, she recognized the threat and, like him, she was a protector.

Wyatt!

The call of his name pulled at him, and he forced his fists to relax. The spirits hadn’t spoken to him in a long time.

Or were you simply not willing to listen, old friend?

Opening his eyes, Wyatt cut a look to his left. Quanto stood there, a remnant, a half-formed shade. Or was he only seeing what he wanted to see?

The time has come for you to stop flagellating yourself. The war is upon you.

It sure sounded like Quanto.

The old man’s hair had been more silver than black before he’d died. His form wasted by age and infirmity, his gnarled hands a testament to the weathering of time.

You have the key, and you have support. You have everything you need.

“It’s going to hurt her to do this.” With Quanto, he could afford to be honest. “Jessica does not deserve to shoulder my burden.” His very existence had encumbered her from the beginning.

No one deserves a burden. Grief and guilt spurred you to try and save your brother. What drives you now?

“Necessity.” He was through making emotional decisions. The crime was his. The penalty was his.

The mirage evaporated, and Wyatt shook his head. Outside, the wind cried and slapped against the house.

“You don’t have to like my answers, old man. You never had to like them. You only have to accept them.” Why didn’t anyone understand that?

“Who are you talking to?” Jessica’s sudden reappearance behind him actually sent a jolt through his system, the shock startling in its intensity.

“Myself.” Facing her, he found a second surprise waiting for him. She held a huge tray in her hand, covered with silver lids. “What is that?”

“There’s a place in Boston I love—they make perfect clam chowder,\ and the best tarts. I liberated some for us.”

Taking it from her, he carried it to the small table their room shared. “You went that far for food?” Had she taken leave of her senses? “Why would you weaken yourself for something so foolish as a chowder?”

“Because I wanted it,” she retorted, disdain scorching every word. “I don’t need nor desire your permission to act as I see fit.” After dropping her hat and duster onto a hook, she marched over to the table and pulled out a chair. “You said you can eat, so sit down and eat. We can spend one evening behaving in a civilized fashion before I indulge your suicidal wishes.”

Before…? “You’ve seen the sense in my plan.” He pulled out the chair opposite hers then settled onto it.

The withering look she settled on him stung. “Sense is not the word I would apply to the situation at all.” Steam curled upward from her chowder, and she dipped a thick biscuit into it. At the first bite, she closed her eyes and pleasure rippled across her expression.

When those stunning blue eyes opened, he couldn’t look away. It took a moment for his mind to connect the dots on a response to what she’d said. “I am not trying to make light of the challenges we face.”

“Aren’t you?” She took another bite of the chowder, glancing from him to the covered plate in front of him then him.

Needing her focus on his words and not his actions, he removed the lid covering the food and captured one of the hot biscuits—though it had more of the consistency of a muffin—and plunged it into the chowder. “No, I’m not. From the moment you set out on your journey, you knew this could end only one way.”

“True,” she agreed, finishing her biscuit before reaching for a spoon. “Necessity does not bring joy. I’ve been driven along the same destiny since birth. It has dictated every move I’ve been allowed to make. The only difference is now you want to decide how my destiny is to be fulfilled rather than Rosemary or the coven.”

“It is not the same at all.” Testing the flavor against his tongue, he frowned at the hints of onion, leeks, and potatoes as well as whatever a clam was. Another bite proved savory with a hint of salt. He’d eaten most of the first biscuit before he realized she stared at him, waiting. “It isn’t.” He’d almost forgotten what they were talking about. “The binding of spirits created…”

“Enough.” She silenced his explanation at the point of her spoon. Waving it at him, she continued. “Enough about the past. You said it yourself, we cannot change what happened. You keep looking back for the answer, and never at where you are or where you could be.”

“There is no could be.” He straightened. “The future is a misty road, and not one I was ever meant to walk. Each time I try to race its rocky surface, people die. People whose lives had merit and value, they die and I go on.” The cycle had to be broken. “Just before we left, Scarlett brought a son into the world. Does that baby deserve to grow up to fight this same war all over again?”

“Death should be a last resort, a last desperate grasp to save the battle. What you want to do is suicide, and you have no absolute guarantee it will work. What happens if I destroy that vessel, as you seem eager for me to do, and you simply pass beyond the veil? Has that thought not occurred to you?”

It had, but… “Souls travel beyond when their time is finished, when they have nothing left to fight for. I have much to fight for…and who is the spiritwalker between us?”

“Being a spiritwalker is what caused the mess. Perhaps it’s being a man that will save us.” She pushed away from the table and paced the room.

Wyatt frowned. Her agitation puzzled him. Three times she walked the room, then she sat on the bed and pulled off her boots. They struck the floor with a thud as she dropped them, then she glared at him. Tendrils of hair escaped her braid, emphasizing her troubled expression. For the first time, she seemed vulnerable. Even when she’d fought off the attack, or suffered from cold and exhaustion, she hadn’t looked like this.

“Jessica, what’s wrong?”

“You’re an idiot,” she told him. She rose and her eyes seemed to flash as she shook her head. “That’s what is wrong. No matter the argument, you have every intention of pursuing this plan. Don’t you?”

He had no other choice. “Yes. This war ends. It must. It’s all I have left to give my siblings.”

“Idiot.” She returned to her place at the table. “Eat your food.”

He didn’t need the food, even if it tasted interesting. Yet Jessica apparently needed to feed him, so he reached for another biscuit. His fingers collided with hers, and then his gaze locked on hers.

Turning his hand, he pressed the biscuit into her palm. Curling her grip around the bread, she pulled away from him and he took another. Her disappointment in him soured the air. He could not force understanding, no matter how much he might wish otherwise.

Quanto had been of a like mind and refused to entertain the necessity of his choice. He’d given in to the old man’s persuasion. He’d done the same with his wife, when Willow believed so fiercely they could trick his brother and win the fight.

Each time he allowed another to sway his decisions, it cost them all.

Perhaps, someday, Jessica would forgive him.

This was his choice, and his…

It wasn’t his alone; he needed her to play her part. Jaw clenching, he forced himself to go through the motions of eating, even though all the flavor drained out of the meal as Jessica’s eyes shuttered. He couldn’t afford to care.

None of them could afford for him to care.

---

Quinn

A little over a day away from the end

---

The storm outside continued to dump snow upon them. Periodically, the wind rose like a wolf howling, then it would drop again. The mournful note in nature’s song wasn’t lost on her. Wyatt’s continued obstinacy regarding his brother frustrated her on a level it shouldn’t. Unable to get through his thick skull, she’d retreated to the stables. The building was sturdy, the solid wood not allowing wind to cut through.

Goliath woke the moment she appeared. Her poor gelding, however, snored and didn’t raise his head once. Practicing the minor blood magic had helped him on the trail, but she was leery of tempting face.

“I need some time to myself,” she told Goliath, violently aware that the stallion was something far more than natural.

He snorted and stamped his foot once. Assuming that meant she was welcome, she made her way along the aisle. There were no other horses in the stable, which made some sense. The innkeeper had been surprised by their arrival ahead of the winter storm. It was a rather small stable, and had only six stalls, a small room for tack and gear, and another room for feed. There were two day stalls, likely used when a horse needed special attention for the day or simply a place for a few hours respite, then the longer, box stalls.

Goliath stomped his hoof again, a knock against the stall door. They hadn’t closed him in when they’d tucked them in earlier. Striding down to him, she freed the rope lock on the door, and shoved it open. “Our apologies. I’m assuming the innkeeper sent someone out to tend you?”

They’d assured the woman they didn’t mind doing the work themselves. The stallion tossed his head in a nod.

Well, it seemed despite the woman’s ornery nature, she cared about the horses. There was plenty of fresh, crisp hay in each stall and she’d even cleaned out the gelding’s, adding fresh straw bedding as well as adding a blanket to the gelding.

Silly horse needed a name—or maybe he had one. It baffled her why she hadn’t asked. A horse was a horse, except this boy had proven his mettle at keeping their pace. More often than not, she’d traded horses regularly. It made her more difficult to track.

Goliath was not wearing a blanket, but he did have fresh water that hadn’t frozen all the way. “Are you cold?”

The horse seemed to know what he wanted. The stallion shook his head.

“Thirsty?”

He banged his bucket off the wall and a chunk of ice came out. Amused, despite herself, she glanced into the stall then up at him.

“May I come in?”

The stallion withdrew a step away from the entrance, which suggested she was welcome. Sliding inside, she walked over to the water bucket. The wood was thick and sturdy. Someone had well sealed it, as not a drop escaped from the bottom. If the ice kept thickening it, though, it would strain the bands around it.

“Please don’t be offended,” she advised the horse. “This is a very minor spell.”

A gentle nicker preceded Goliath rubbing his chin against her shoulder. At the unexpected gesture, she paused to brush her fingers against his velvety nose in acknowledgement.

Fire spells were actually the easiest of the four elements to learn. They were also the hardest to control. Combining fire with water was a skill requiring a true master of their craft. Exhaling a frosty breath, she whispered the words, “Fire breathe, and water heat, let this call to magic beat, protect the horses and provide them shelter in this wintry weather.” The rhymes were kind of silly, but they provided focus, discipline, and direction.

Unlike most witches, Quinn didn’t use her spellwork often. Her magic tended to range in the mallet-sized hammers rather than a fine-toothed comb. Still, the ice crackled in the bucket as the tingle of magic left her. An answering crackle in the other stall suggested it worked for the gelding, too.

She’d double-check it before she left. Touching two fingers to the bucket’s side, she found the wood warmer, but not hot. Good, she didn’t want to blow up the container, though admittedly that would be easier than just heating it enough to melt the ice.

“There,” she said, as the last tingle left her. It was a trivial amount of power to expend, and the spell would only linger a short time. No hazard to the people who owned the stables or the horses who used it. “That should be better.”

Goliath bumped her again, a playful nudge. Taking the hint, she stepped aside so he could get a drink. She retreated to the open door. It was quiet in the stable, if she ignored the wind outside. Folding her arms, she settled against the frame.

They were a little over a day away from when they would be engaged in the actual fighting. She still didn’t know the details, not really—except for one big one.

He wanted her to destroy him.

Closing her eyes, she rested her head against the wood. Three weeks before, she wouldn’t have hesitated to agree. It would have been a culmination of too many lifetimes worth of a journey.

Her earliest memories were the stories about the First Ones. The twins. The forbidden pair. The broken magic. Every time Rosemary told her the stories, she emphasized the power of negative choices, even for the right reasons.

Life has rules, and boundaries. Magic has more. No spell is without a true cost. The more you affect with your spell, the greater the price you need to pay. Blood magic exacts the very worst cost. To prevent a death, you may very well cause a death. Stop a storm to save a crop, and you may send that storm somewhere else where it does far more damage. Every time you decide to do a spell, you must take into account every consequence. Act, Jessica. Always act. Don’t react.

The last three phrases had been hammered in at the end of every story. It was as though the syllables drove the nails of the knowledge deep into her being. Even after the coven’s bindings on her fell away, and she followed her instincts to do the task for which she’d been created, she clung to those phrases as a tenet of every encounter she took on—especially saving the Matthews siblings.

She regretted none of her choices, not even those which led to the deaths of others. Not everyone wanted to be talked down, and when a gun was pointed at her head or the head of one of her charges, she had to act.

If she waited to react, she risked being in the position of avenger not protector.

Why then did Wyatt asking her to destroy his vessel—his brother’s vessel—trouble her? If he’d been something supernatural before he’d been forced to possess the abandoned husk, he was an abomination now.

He’s not an abomination.

It was like having an argument with herself. One she couldn’t win, no matter how she wrestled with it. They didn’t have time for her to tear apart every ethical and magical issue at hand. She had to act—not because he ordered her to for some plan he wouldn’t share and not because she’d been born to do this, but because it was the right choice. The act.

Goliath snorted, and she opened her eyes to look at the horse. “I didn’t ask your opinion.” For a split second the horse blurred, and she blinked and wiped at her eyes. Crying wasn’t acceptable. Crying suggested she wanted to surrender, and she hadn’t given up this fight yet.

A sudden cold rushed over her, and she pivoted to check the doors. Had Wyatt pursued her out into the dark? Not that he could know where she went. The door remained closed, the windows were still shuttered and even the roar of the wind outside had quieted some.

Prickles raced over her flesh.

Magic.

Not hers.

Goliath shifted his stance, moving to stand right at her shoulder. He glared into the dark. Definitely not Wyatt, then.

Sliding her hand down to her hip, she almost cursed. Her guns were in the room. Reacting to her own emotional upset, she’d ported down here without preparation. Reacted. Not acted.

“I know you’re there. You should go ahead and show yourself.” Whatever witchcraft was being used, if it had been an attempt to kill her, it would have already struck. So what was it looking for?

A wave passed toward her, icy like the water off the ocean rolling in to the shore. It pressed against her, then retreated. It did nothing to her. Alerted to the possible threat, she braced for the potential surge, which would try to take her out. Goliath didn’t move, but his focus and attention told her she wasn’t alone in noticing the problem.

“You know I’m here,” said a silky voice, the accent both familiar and alien at once. “How would you know I’m here?”

A thunk sounded like a foot striking a board, but nothing in the dust moved.

The spell was projection. They’d been seeking a specific target.

“You’re not remotely subtle,” she responded, still searching the darkness for the actual figure to form. There was very little light in the stable, but her eyes had long since adjusted. For a moment, she considered calling a light spell, then stayed her hand.

That would be reacting.

Her current position was secure. Goliath stood at ready to physically defend her. There was a deepening to the sense of other about him. Her sleeping gelding lifted his head, then his eyes opened. No snort or whinny betrayed his awareness, but horses were prey animals primarily. They responded to threats with fight or flight. The poor baby was trapped at the moment.

A soft chuckle sounded, so utterly devoid of real humor it made her skin crawl. “In my experience, it takes someone exceptional to comprehend subtlety.”

“Then your experience must be limited.” Most people responded to subtle cues, to inner voices warning them away from danger. Only the fools and the brash ignored instincts. Or those who’d had their instincts beaten out of them. “Scared to show yourself?”

Some deep part of herself already accepted who was doing the looking. He’d come here following blood, would be her thought, and that blood led him to Goliath. But his target was secure upstairs at the inn, unless he’d come out to find her. Hopefully he believed she’d gone on a much longer port to somewhere else.

The shadows rippled then coalesced and took shape. A hint of light, underlined by darkness, began to surround the man. Moment by moment, color filled in the figure as though being painted. Tall, dark haired, possessing blue eyes which reminded her of her own. The face—the face was Wyatt’s, but the expression was not one he’d ever worn.

Shadow Man was a far more fitting name for him than she’d ever realized.

“Adam MacPherson,” she said, schooling her own expression and posture to remain as they were. Every reaction, even the most minor, could betray a thought or action. Better to give him nothing to interpret.

“Very good. I’m going to guess that you’re…someone.” He smiled, without even a trace of humor. The projection failed to disguise the absolute lack of humanity in that man. “You’ll have to forgive me. I have so many interested parties, it’s hard to keep track of all of you.”

She didn’t dignify the insult. If he wanted a rise from her, he would be sorely disappointed. Projections were terrifying, because they put the person right in front of you. It was as if they could touch you—but like shadows, they lacked substance.

This was purely a scouting mission on his part.

Leaning his head to the side, he looked past her toward the horse. “Did you steal the beast?” Without waiting for her to answer, he chuckled. “Or did he think to trick me by giving him to you? Very clever, I suppose.” Hands clasping behind his back, he walked forward. Only steely discipline kept her from reacting to the invasion of her space.

He wasn’t really there. Even the cold around him was the displacement of the air affected by the spell, a distortion only. Coming right to her, he seemed to want to tower over her. Unfortunately, their heights were nearly matched. “You know, you do strike me as familiar. Such a bastard, my brother, leaving you with his horse. A breadcrumb for me to follow. Then again, maybe you’re expendable. Still, have we met?” A hint of a twitch around his right eye disturbed his smug expression.

“How unfortunate for you that you can’t recall.” They’d never been face to face before, but she’d certainly hunted him long enough. Of course, maybe he, like so many others, didn’t expect Quinn to be a woman.

“Interesting that you aren’t telling me how you got the horse. Or is this your stable and you just found him in here?” He made a show of glancing around, but she didn’t think for a minute that his attention was anywhere but her.

“You find the oddest things interesting.” What was his goal? Intimidation? Information? Or was he showing his own insecurity?

“Do I?” His gaze sharpened on her. “Perhaps. You’d be surprised how repeating the same dance over and over again can be tiring. You’re new though, aren’t you?” Then he stepped close enough that, were he really there, she’d feel his breath against her as he spoke. “Come to me. I want to know you.”

The surge of magic pushed out, a compulsion and a desire all tied into one, a beckoning. Prepared as she was for him to try something, desire hadn’t even made the list. Nor was she remotely intrigued. The maw wanted to open, but she only let it sip. Let his power choke around her, but she wouldn’t give him any clues.

Act.

“No.”

Don’t react.

Almost instantly, his expression became fierce. “You will do as I tell you.” So much for persuasion.

“No.” She didn’t obey anyone. Not anymore.

Rage glittered like ice across his eyes and the resemblance to Wyatt vanished as he lunged at her, narrowing the space. The ice of the invasion thrust at her, but she closed her eyes. The stone in the river did not move, the water crashed around it. Like the river, he exploded around her, his power rolling around her rather than through. When he reformed behind her, she had just enough time to look over her shoulder. Goliath rose on his hind legs and slammed his hooves down on the projection.

Sparks struck the man as his hooves raked through him. Surprise rippled across the creature’s face and a shout of pain echoed. The image wavered, then burst as though burned from within, and she jerked out of the path of aura.

Then all evidence of his presence was gone.

For a long moment, she stared at where he had been. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to find Goliath raising his head. A noble gleam shone in his eyes.

“Thank you,” she told him, and he nodded his head once. Before she could think better of asking him, she said, “Do you know what Wyatt is planning?”

The stallion tilted his head, as though considering, then nodded once.

“Will it work?”

Act. Don’t react.

Based on the evidence of how the horse handled MacPherson’s appearance, and everything else she’d learned, he would know.

Goliath didn’t nod nor did he shake his head.

She sighed. “You don’t know either, do you?”

A single nod.

“But you trust him.” Though it wasn’t a question, he nodded again.

Glancing at the gelding, she found his head lowered again, and a gentle snore escaping him. The horse wasn’t easily rattled. But he had Goliath looking after him, so that made sense.

The problem wasn’t that she didn’t trust Wyatt. The time spent with him had given her some insight into the man beneath the primal force he’d made himself into. The man still existed, the power of the shaman flowed through his spirit. He needed the distance to shield his heart. Amazing that he even still had the capacity to hope.

No, the problem wasn’t trust.

“I don’t know if I can do what he’s asking me to do,” she confided in Goliath, trusting the horse needed to know. “I don’t know that I can stand to lose him.” Swallowing, she turned away to stare into the darkness of the stable once more. “They said I was born to be their balance, but there is no balance when one is dead and a monster has taken his place.”

What if she did destroy his vessel? What if even then, his spirit took out MacPherson? There was no guarantee he would survive. Then she would exist, and they would be gone, and the balance would remain shattered.

Unless she was prepared to act.

Like her, Goliath didn’t have any answers.

Do as Wyatt asked, and risk him dying forever. Do as she wished, and risk MacPherson’s hell repeating again and again.

The former would cleave her heart. The latter would rot it.

She hadn’t been born to create balance; she’d been born to die.