Brennan seemed to think about it again. “I guess so, but seriously I’m not safe.”
“Have you hurt anyone?” I asked.
“No, not yet.”
It was Sholto who said, “One of your soldier friends hurt someone.”
“How did you know?”
“So you have PTSD,” I said. “So do I, so do a lot of us, but we don’t all hurt people. We get therapy, we talk to our friends, our family, other soldiers, other survivors, and we heal. We find love.” I smiled up at Sholto.
There was a knock on the door, no, a pounding on the door, as if it had shut behind us as tightly as when we tried to open it. We heard someone running around the house, and then the screen door we’d seen at the end of the hallway banged open, and whoever it was came running down the hallway. I thought at first it would be the brother, but then a woman’s voice yelled, “Brennan, damn it, you better not be dead, or I am so going to kill you!”
Brennan stood up. “It’s Jen.”
Sholto and I stood there as a woman with short brunette hair came rushing into the room. She saw him, the gun on the table, and ran at him slapping his chest, finally slapping his face hard enough to rock him.
“Your good-for-nothing brother told me the message you left. I left him in charge of the store and told him if anyone stole anything I’d see him in jail. Josh always was useless.”
Brennan just stared at her, too surprised to speak, I think. He glanced back at us, but she either hadn’t seen us or couldn’t see us.
“Jen …” he started.
“Don’t you Jen me, Brian Fitzgerald Brennan. You are not going to kill yourself; you are not going to leave me just because you’re losing the family farm. It’s just land, just a house.” She grabbed his arms and shook him. “I’m here, I’m real, and I love you. Don’t leave me to marry Tommy.”
He was holding her arms, to keep her from shaking him more. “I thought you loved Tommy.”
“No, he’s nice enough, but he’s so boring. I hate to be bored, you know that.”
He laughed. “I remember.”
“You never bore me, Brian, never. You’re the only man who never bored me, even when we were kids.”
“I love you, Jen. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry you love me, or sorry you almost did something stupid and ruined it all?” She motioned at the gun.
“That last part, because Jennifer Alice Wells”—he dropped to one knee—“if you’ll have me, I will do my best to never be boring for the rest of our long and interesting lives.”
She started to cry, and so did I.
“I will, I do, you stupid man, yes, I will.”
Brennan picked her up around the waist and lifted her off her feet. The gray cat, Cleo, sat on the floor and purred. He put Jen down and said, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, laughing and crying.
“She can’t see us,” Sholto said, softly.
I shook my head. I thought we’d have to walk out of the house to break the dream, but the room started to fade. The last thing we saw was the two of them kissing. Sholto and I woke na**d on the edge of the Western Sea in a bed covered in white rose petals, and sprigs of thyme and rosemary, all covered in the delicate blossoms that still decorated his crown.
Sholto turned to me, smiling. Our hands were no longer bound, but the matching tattoos of the rose vines on our arms shone blue. He raised his arm up so he could watch it glimmer, and then laid his arm next to the glow of mine. “They pray to you for protection and fertility, but what am I?”
“Love, apparently,” I said.
“Love?” he said.
I nodded. “You were there, Sholto. She was his true love, and he hers, maybe marriage.”
“King of the Sluagh, King of Nightmares, the Queen’s Perverse Creature, Lord of Shadows, and behind my back, Shadowspawn, and now you’re telling me I’m a deity of love and marriage?”
“Yes,” I said.
He smiled, then grinned, and said, “Me, a god of love and marriage,” and he threw his head back and laughed until the sound of it danced around the room. Then distant from outside the house came the singing of a mockingbird. It was loud, clear, and sweet, falling from one song to another, and I remembered that it had been a mockingbird that welcomed us back to L. A. the night that Sholto had brought us all back to the edge of the sea. He laughed, the bird sang, and tiny multicolored flowers and white rose petals started falling from thin air.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
SHOLTO AND I got dressed, him back in his mix of modern and muse-umworthy fashion, the black making his skin whiter, and strangely bringing out more of the yellow in his mostly white-blond hair.
“I always like you in royal purple; it makes your hair even more scarlet, and only green makes your eyes more brilliant.” He touched my hair as he said it, gazing down at me as if to drink in the sight of me in one of his favorite colors.
I smiled up at him, putting my hand over his so I could rest my cheek in his open palm. He felt safe and warm, his hands large enough that he could cradle the entire side of my face.
“Why do you think I wore it today?”
His smile lit up his face, not with magic, but with happiness. “I have never had anyone pay as much attention to my preferences as you do, Meredith.”
He was over three hundred years old; the thought that I was the first person to ever pay the attention that all lovers deserve made me sad, but I didn’t say it out loud, because I didn’t want to take the happiness off that handsome face.