Into the Dreaming by Karen Marie Moning Page A

reply as he raced from the hall as if all the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels.

Eleven
    A BOVE ALL ELSE, IT WOULD BE UNWISE TO SEEK THE company of female humans or permit them to touch you.
    It would be unwise.
    How had he overlooked such nonspecific phrasing?
    It would be unwise. Vengeance didn’t feel particularly wise at the moment. Nor did he intend to eat bland food, nor did he intend to circumvent Kyleakin because “it might be best.”
    Just as he’d begun to suspect, his king had, in truth, not issued a single order at all.
    How and when did I meet him?
Vengeance wondered for the first time. Had he been born in Faery, pledged to the king from birth? Had he met him in later years? Why couldn’t he
remember
?
    Vengeance sat in silence beside the gently lapping ocean, slapping the blade of a dirk against his palm.
    Fae didn’t bleed. They healed too quickly.
    Vengeance made a fist around the blade.
    Blood seeped from his clenched hand and dripped down the sides. He spread his fingers and studied the deep cuts.
    They remained deep, oozing dark crimson blood.
    A harsh, relieved breath escaped him.
    How old was he? How long had he lived? Why could he not recall ever changing? Why did humans gray on their heads, yet Vengeance remained unchanged?
    Nothing changes in Faery
.
    If he never went back, would his long black hair one day turn silver, too? Strangely, the thought appealed to him. Thoughts of a child rose unbidden in his mind. He imagined hugging one of the wee village lasses in his arms, wiping away her tears. Teaching her to climb trees, to make boats out of wood and sail them in the surf, bringing her a litter of mewing kittens whose mother had died birthing them.
    “Who am I?” Vengeance cried, clutching his head.
    It occurred to him that, in truth, mayhap the right question was—who had he once been?
    Jane watched him from the front steps of the castle. He sat with his back to her in the deepening twilight, clutching his head, staring out to sea. Blood was smeared on one of his hands, dripping down his arm. Suddenly he stood up, and she caught a gleam of silver as he flung a blade, end over end, into the waves.
    A salty breeze whipped at his hair, tangling the dark strands into a silken skein. His plaid flapped in the breeze, hugging the powerful lines of his body.
    He seemed dark and desolate and strong and utterly untouchable.
    Jane’s eyes misted. “I love you, Aedan MacKinnon,” she told the wind.
    As if the wind eagerly whisked her words down the front lawn to the sea’s edge, Aedan suddenly turned and looked straight at her. His cheeks gleamed wetly in the fading light.
    He nodded once, then turned his back to her and walked off down the shore, head bowed.
    Jane started after him, then stopped. There’d been such desolation in his gaze, such loneliness, yet a great deal of anger. He’d turned away, clearly demonstrating his wish to be alone. She didn’t want to push him too hard. She couldn’t even begin to understand what he was going through. She was elated that he was remembering and equally anguished by the pain it was causing him. She watched, torn by indecision, until he disappeared around a bend in the rocky shoreline.

Twelve
    H E DIDN’T COME BACK FOR THREE DAYS. THEY WERE the most agonizing three days of Jane Sillee’s life.
    Daily, she cursed herself for pushing him too far too fast. Daily, she berated herself for not going after him when he’d begun walking down that rocky shore.
    Daily, she lied to the villagers when they came to work, assuring them he’d only gone to see a man about a horse and would return anon.
    And nightly, as she curled with Sexpot in the bed that was much too large for just one lonely girl, she prayed her words would prove true.

Thirteen
    A T WAS THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT WHEN AEDAN RETURNED.
    He awakened her abruptly, stripping the coverlets from her naked body, sending Sexpot flying from the bed with a disgruntled meow.
    “Aedan!” Jane