Tempest’s Fury

All I could think about was the fact this war was real, and I was supposed to be leading it. Even if it was only supposed to be in spirit, that felt even worse, somehow. I felt like I was posing as something that would get those people killed.



Pushing past the barghest, I made my way over to the bay window that was the showcase of our room. It looked out over a lovely Georgian square that, bathed in moonlight, reflected an ordered calm the opposite of my roiling emotions.



Meanwhile, Anyan took a seat on the bed, waiting in his patient way for me to start talking. Eventually, I did.



“You called me a hero when I faced Graeme. I felt like a hero, at that moment. But that was personal, and I kept it personal. I can’t lead those people to fight my fight.”



Anyan thought about what I said, before finally speaking. What he came out with surprised me. “You have to stop thinking any of this is about you, Jane.”



A million rejoinders flashed through my mind. Of course it was about me! They killed my mother! They raped my friend! Jarl’s nagas were going to kill me like they did Joe Gonzalez from Shreveport! It’s always been about me!



But I managed, if only just, to say none of these things. Instead I narrowed my eyes at Anyan, waiting for him to continue.



“I know it looks like it’s about you, but you’re just like the rest of us—caught up in this massive shit show that’s obviously always been about something a whole hell of a lot bigger. You’re involved, yes, but in the same way we all are. If anything, you’re a victim. You didn’t ask for Peter Jakes to finger you as a halfling, but he did. You didn’t ask for Jakes to get himself murdered in your town, but he did. And you didn’t ask to find his body. But you did. And that’s how you got involved. But you didn’t start any of this.”



I winced, realizing that Anyan had managed to nail my emotions with more accuracy than I ever could. I was horrified about leading those people, yes. But I also felt guilty—a guilt so profound I couldn’t even acknowledge it to myself. To do so would be to sink under its weight.



“Haven’t I?” I asked, harshly. “What if I’d not found that body, and Ryu never came to Rockabill, and Jimmu had killed me? None of this would have happened.”



Anyan shook his shaggy head, his grey eyes sad.



“No, Jane. Your death wouldn’t have changed anything. All of this would have happened anyway, and probably faster. Up until you came along, we thought that Jarl was working by himself, doing evil shit because he could and because he had a typical, Alfar-purist agenda. But it’s never been just about Jarl, Jane. He’s part of something huge, and part of something that has nothing to do with us.



“Think about it,” he continued, when I frowned. “Think of what’s happened in the past few months. Has any of it really been about Jarl, at all?”



I thought, as he’d asked, and then I said, “No. It’s been about Morrigan, hasn’t it?”



“Yes,” he said. “Morrigan has been in the shadows, this whole time. We always thought it was about Jarl, but it’s really been about Morrigan, the Red, and the White. And none of us had a clue. For all we know, she orchestrated all Jarl’s crazy just to serve as cover for what she was doing with the relics. Or her madness infected him. Who knows.”



“But what does that have to do with the people we met in that room?”



“It’s simple, Jane. We’ve all been victims of Morrigan. We’ve all been put into a position we don’t want to be in, because of Morrigan. We’ve all been forced to take on new roles, because of Morrigan.



“So now you need to ask yourself,” he said, “What you want that role to be.”



“I don’t have a choice,” I said, frustration lacing my tone. “I got conned into taking that stupid ax.”



“No,” Anyan said, and his voice was adamant. “You’ve always had choices, Jane. I said earlier that you were made into a victim by Jarl. But is that what you remained?”



I’d made a face when Anyan had said the word “victim,” and I suddenly started to understand.



“I’m nobody’s victim,” I said. “But I’m not sure about being a hero, yet, either.”



“I think we’re all gonna have to be heroes, if Morrigan gets her way and resurrects the Red and the White. Otherwise, we’re all fucked—humans and supernaturals, alike. So when the beings in that room volunteered to fight, it wasn’t because of Jane True. It wasn’t even really because you have an ax, or you’re called a champion. Yeah, knowing you’re the champion might have made them feel a little more hopeful, but they volunteered because they know their history, and they know what will happen to everyone they love if Morrigan gets her way.”



“It’s not about me, about Jane True, at all,” I said, finally getting it.



Anyan held out his hand to me from where he sat on the bed. I moved forward to take it, and he pulled me down to sit next to him.



“Nope, it’s not about you. It’s about survival. And you’re no more a victim than they are, Jane. You’ve never once backed down, even though you were scared. You’ve never once put others ahead of yourself, when it came to danger.”



I didn’t point out that I’d hidden behind Anyan, himself, at least five dozen times this week. He was on a roll of Jane Adoration, and I was enjoying it.



“So just be yourself, Jane. Don’t stress out about being anything else. You’ve done heroic things dozens of times, when you’ve had to. I’ve got faith in you. And if what those people need right now is some of that same faith, that idea of a champion, are you really going to take that away from them?”



I shook my head. “No, sir.” And I wasn’t. I still wasn’t happy about my role as champion, but everything Anyan said had made sense. This chaos was happening with or without me—and if I needed to step up and shoulder my part of the load, that’s what I’d do.



He smiled down at me, and then his mouth was on mine. The kiss was gentle, affectionate, and lingering. It also took me down to the bed so that, with a little adjusting, we were lying side by side. His favorite soft Eukenuba shirt was against my cheek as my body instantly relaxed against him.



“Is it wrong that I like it when you call me sir?” he asked, cuddling me close.



I giggled, but my laugh turned into a yawn. I was suddenly exhausted both physically and mentally. Today had been fucking crazy, even for all the recent crazy days we’d had. We’d fought Morrigan first thing that morning, then been kidnapped, I’d had that confrontation with Graeme, then there had been the whole thing with the rebel soldiers.



In technical terms, I was pooped.



I was also finally alone with Anyan, in our own bedroom, replete with all the privacy in the world.



So it was with much regret that I nodded off, fully clothed in the barghest’s arms. I slept deeply and dreamlessly till I awoke the next morning to find myself alone in that big bed, wondering if my libido would ever speak to me again.



My dad was talking so fast I could hardly understand him.



“Linda Allen reads the craziest books, have you ever actually read one of them? And oh my God have you seen what Miss Carol orders? I think my eyes about near fell out. But we miss you and the girls are fine, although Tracy is about as big as a house by now, and Grizzie’s acting like she’s okay, but I can tell she’s freaking out, and she wants to paint the baby’s room with murals of what she calls ‘cavorting nudes,’ but Tracy is putting her foot down…”



I listened, patiently, until he took a moment to breathe.



“Dad? How many coffees have you had today?”



“I don’t know. Why do you ask? What does it matter?” he said, hyperactively and evasively.



I sighed. For the past fifteen years my dad hadn’t been allowed more than one cup of mostly decaf coffee a day, because of his heart condition. But now that he was healed, all bets between him and coffee were apparently off.



“Dad, just tell me. How many have you had?”



“I had some for breakfast, obviously. And then one at work. And then Grizzie was teaching me how to make dirty images with cinnamon on the foam—which she’s unsurprisingly really good at—and so we had to drink what we used to practice, and then the boys called up from the fire station for some coffees, but then they had a call out, so they were going to go to waste, anyway, so…”



My father continued motormouthing away like a Valley girl on meth, while I frowned and shook my head. I hadn’t thought through the consequences of leaving him alone in a state-of-the-art café. After all those long years without real coffee, training him to be a barista had been like teaching a junkie to cook gourmet crack.



My dad was now talking about his plan to reorganize the bookshelves by size and shape, when I interrupted him more forcefully.



“Dad, I really think you should talk to Tracy and Grizzie before you do any reorganizing. And maybe sleep first, before even bringing it up. Have you been sleeping, by the way?”



“Of course I’ve been sleeping. Why wouldn’t I be sleeping?” he said, clearly lying.