FINALLY

The walls appeared to be solid. While Gabriel was not the one subject to visions—nor even the out-of-body experiences Ricky had with the hound—he was taking nothing at face value. He’d circled the room twice now, methodically searching for a hidden door. That was not merely a desperate and foolish hope, but a very real likelihood, because otherwise, the room had no exit. Which didn’t make sense. There seemed little point in constructing a room without a door. Which was exactly what it looked like, solid walls with no hint of a depression where a door had been plastered over.

He’d tried breaking through the plaster, with both fist and elbow. That had won him nothing more than throbbing pain. Which was vexing, both the pain and the fact he’d been unable to break through. Proper plaster should give under the right amount of pressure.

He considered his options, positioned himself, and drew his foot back for a kick—

The only thing you’re going to break is your foot.

Gabriel grumbled at the sound of Gwynn’s voice.

I couldn’t help earlier. Anything I know, you know.

Gabriel tapped at the plaster, looking for a weak spot.

This isn’t your battle, Gabriel. Your war, yes. Your battle? No. This is hers. You know that.

Yes, he did understand that, because of the simple fact he’d been placed in this damn room. The knight had been moved off the chessboard. Set aside while the real showdown began.

Or, perhaps, not so much a knight as a pawn.

Yes, almost certainly a pawn. Not swept clear of the board but moved to where he could be useful. Useful to the sluagh. A captive pawn.

He kept tapping.

Gwynn’s sigh rippled through his mind. Gabriel ignored it.

You can’t help her. You know that.

More tapping. Was that spot…? No.

Do you trust her, Gabriel?

Absolutely.

Then trust she’ll get you out of here. Trust she’ll win her battle. In the meantime, take this. If nothing else, it might calm you down.

Something slid through him, almost like a warm breeze. Then it was a warm breeze, and he was kneeling on a blanket in a meadow.

No, not him. Gwynn. He realized that as soon as he saw Matilda crouched beside him, taking cheese from a basket, as she laid out a picnic.

They were alone in the meadow, the sun blazing, a soft breeze tickling past, a hummingbird chasing the smell of spring wildflowers.

Matilda set out the last slice. She pulled back, as if to grab something else from the basket, and he reached for some of that cheese, not because he was particularly hungry, but because it would make her laugh. She would laugh and swat his hand and tell him to wait, her eyes dancing—

Matilda changed course, reaching for the plate at the same moment he did. They nearly collided. Both stopped short. He stared at her, just inches away. Close enough that he could lean in and…

Kiss her. That’s what he could do. What he should do. What he’d been trying to do on each of these damned picnics, so many picnics that by now he was surprised she hadn’t said, “Can’t we do something else, Gwynn?”

But this was the one activity Arawn wouldn’t join. Terrifically dull. He never asked to join their picnics, and Matilda never offered to invite him.

It was just the two of them, and each time, Gwynn vowed he would kiss her. He’d devised a hundred ways to do it, a hundred ways that would allow him to brush it off if she pulled back in shock.

Too much wine, too much fresh air, whoops, how did my lips end up there?

Yet each time he screwed up the courage, he panicked. What if he offended her? Upset her? Angered her? And then there was Arawn, and he tried not to think of that, tried to relegate their promise to the foolish vow of children. It wasn’t as if Arawn hadn’t taken a dozen lovers since. He seemed to have no feelings for Matilda beyond the fraternal. No, Arawn was not an obstacle. The obstacle was Gwynn’s fear.

But there she was, her face in front of his, lingering there, and yes, yes, this was it, the perfect moment. All he had to do was lean in and—

Matilda kissed him.

Gwynn never saw it coming. Possibly because his own eyes weren’t quite open at the time. They opened fast, though, as her lips pressed against his, and he looked to see her kissing him, absolutely, beyond any doubt, kissing him.

Then she wasn’t. She was pulling back, blushing, but her eyes still danced, and in those eyes he saw challenge.

Well, Gwynn, aren’t you going to—

He did. He covered that distance between them, his hand going behind her head, mouth moving to hers and—

“Wakey-wakey, Gabriel. This is hardly the time for napping.”

He snapped from the memory-vision to see Imogen Seale. She wagged her finger at him.

“Is it confidence that lets you snooze? That legendary Gabriel Walsh arrogance. You know what’s happening, and yet you think you have nothing to fear.”

“Nothing…?” he began, still dazed from the memory. A sharp shake of his head. “The choice,” he said. “You’re making her choose. Between me and Ricky. Yes?”

“Running a little slow today, Gabriel. And with a tad less than your usual confidence in your conclusions.”

He straightened. “I have full confidence in my conclusion. I am here, waiting. Ricky will be nearby, waiting. Olivia will be asked to choose. It is, you believe, the worst thing you can do to her, and so you will do it, for nothing but the satisfaction of sadism.”

“Ouch.”

“You are sluagh. You enjoy inflicting pain. In this case, it also serves a purpose. Break her by forcing her to choose.”

“Ah, there’s that confidence surging. Bolstered, I’m sure, by the certainty she will pick you. She already has, after all. Chosen Gwynn; overthrown Arawn. Such a fickle girl, our Matilda.”

“Not fickle at all. Ricky was what she needed when I was not.”

“Such arrogance.” The sluagh moved closer and whispered. “What if I said that I do not expect Eden to choose you? In fact, I’m quite certain she won’t. You are her favorite, but she still loves him, cannot quit him, cannot sacrifice him. Part is guilt. Part, too, is pure and cold logic. Ricky is strong; you are stronger. He is resourceful; you are more resourceful. You have a deviousness and a cleverness and a gift for manipulation that our young biker lacks. You are better suited to escaping whatever fate I attempt to inflict on you, and that is why she’ll choose him.”

Gabriel said nothing.

“You know that, don’t you?” She moved closer, lips rising to his ear. “And deep inside, it pisses you off. You can’t get rid of him. You tried, so long ago, to push Arawn from her life, and what happened? She ran to him. Could not quit him. Still loves him. You give her everything, and she still climbs on the back of his motorcycle, puts her arms around him, her cheek against his back, and she smiles. She tells you she loves you, but he’s always there. He will always be there. And there’s only one thing you can do. The one thing you have failed to do, despite multiple opportunities.”

“Kill him.”

She smiled and stepped back. “There. That was easier than I dared hope. You are indeed the smart one, the rational one, and this is the smart and rational answer. I will let you kill him, and I will tell Eden that he attacked you. He heard of the choice and attacked you, and you were forced to kill him. Not only will he be dead, but she’ll hate him in memoriam for what he tried to do. Problem solved.”

“No.”

“I beg your—”

“You heard me. I was not offering to kill Ricky. I was merely hurrying you to the suggestion obviously forthcoming. The answer is no. I agree that if you do force Olivia to choose, it is entirely possible she may pick Ricky, both from guilt at having hurt him and from reasoning that I am, as you say, better equipped to escape whatever trap you set. Therefore, I will take this further. You do not need to make Olivia choose. I’ll do it for her. I volunteer.”

“Because you presume you can get out of it.”

He pursed his lips. “Hope, certainly. Presumption is a dangerous thing. But yes, I’m not actually throwing myself on the pyre. More like agreeing to face your champion. That’s fair, I believe.” He peered at her. “You do have a champion, don’t you?”

Her form rippled, the edges blurring to shadow, her eyes deepening to pits, and in those pits he saw the death of self, the death of soul, the death of everything. Which should, he reasoned, fill him with terror. Certainly, even the sense of the sluagh had done so earlier. But now, he looked into those pits and felt only a sort of odd satisfaction.

I see all that you can do. There’s nothing more you can frighten me with.

“Oh, but you’re wrong about that, Gabriel Walsh. Take your time. Think about our offer.”

“I don’t need to.”

And that was, strangely, not bravado at all, but the truth. He did not want Olivia to choose him over Ricky. Where would that lead? Right back where they started, only with a different two surviving in guilt and pain and blame.

No, this was the answer. This had always been the answer.

Stay together.

No matter what.

“You have my offer,” he said. “I volunteer. Now bring me your champion.”

The sluagh snarled…and disappeared.

You learned, Gwynn whispered. You aren’t just paying it lip service. You finally learned.

No, we did. About time, too.

Gwynn chuckled. It is indeed. This isn’t over—but you know that. So while you wait, let me return you to this…

Sunlight pierced the dark room, and a breeze brought the scent of wildflowers and of Matilda, right there in front of him, still blushing, eyes open as Gwynn leaned forward and kissed her.