Amara and Gwynn have a decades long relationship by the time the book starts. Gwynn was many things, mentor, protector, lover–but firstly, her friend whose purpose was to help her stand on her own feet. He unearthed the mythos surrounding the sword, since it wasn’t necessary to get into those details for the purpose of Mara and Cass’s story, here’s a taste of how it went.
Though he wasn’t the last person she expected to see standing on the lawn of her humble cottage on Gaia, seeing the Fae King out of his element was always a surprise. Not always a good one, but it never failed to make her insides giddy, as though she were the young girl she’d never had a chance to be.
He was as beautiful and untamed as the lightning storm he stood in, the flashes lighting up his pale face, the rain plastering his black hair to his forehead. His head was tilted back, eyes closed, as though he were in ecstasy–something she’d witnessed more times now than she could count–rather than standing alone in a storm.
She knew him to be a solitary creature, as she was herself, irrevocably maddened with more power than he could handle, but undeniably gorgeous. Shallow of her, she supposed, but she allowed herself the indulgence. There was more to him than madness and beauty, she was one of the few close enough to know.
She took a step towards him and he turned, eyes as brightly blue as the traceries surrounding the lightning. A good sign. They turned gold when lost to a vision or the influx of the Wild Magic he precariously controlled.
Sane Gwynn promised good things.
He walked up the steps leading up to the door in all his handsome glory, turning to watch her approach with a keen shine of interest in his startlingly blue eyes. “Gwynn.” She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, taking him all in.
His black hair had been cropped shorter since she’d last seen him, his clothes actually matching and properly neat, though soaked through from the rain. Whatever his purpose was, he’d put effort into showing his best. Since she’d seen him naked, unraveled and completely mussed, this was probably some sort of official business.
“I wasn’t expecting you. How long have you been waiting?”
“Amara.” He reached out his hand for hers, holding it in the guise of helping her up the three wide stairs. “I did send a message to Asurim, it must’ve missed you.”
“You’ve been too busy to visit?” She hadn’t seen him in months, loathe as she was to admit it, she’d been missing his company.
“I’ve been following a lead. Tracing out patterns to their source, weeding fact from gossip…” He swiped a hand through his hair, shaking the droplets to the wood of her porch as she unlocked the wards from the door. “And you’ve been busy with your queenly duties.”
“Yes well. Thought I was due a little holiday.” She stepped around him, entering her stuffy house and immediately wandering off to crack open some windows.
“I heard.” Gwynn was right behind her, hands grazing her hips before settling more surely when she didn’t flinch from his touch. She was getting better with that. “About Asmodeus. Lost his crown, but now he’s out of your reach.”
He was her friend, confidante—the only other person still alive who knew of her list of enemies and the reasons for each. She leaned back into his chest, not ready to speak her feelings with him watching her with his too-clever gaze.
“Temporarily removed. I’m not ready to face him. I… he’s too powerful yet.” She turned, burying her face in his firm chest. “His influence will be lessened this way at least.”
Gwynn hummed a noncommittal noise and brushed his hand down her hair.
“I think I’ve found the solution to your Namtar problem.”
She admired the nonchalance of his one-eighty subject change, knowing he was dropping a bomb of relief even as he failed to address the other issue he’d brought up in the first place. Vexing Fae.
“What solution can you offer? I’ve looked through every loophole and short of killing him—“
He pressed a finger to her lips. “Killing him.” He nodded with assurance and her world dropped out from under her. Killing… a god. There were very few ways, none that were common knowledge. The old ones kept that knowledge close to the chest, or buried with those who chanced to discover it.
“A weapon that can kill a god? They’re myths.”
“So I thought as well.” He walked to her stove, grabbed her kettle and filled it, turning it on to boil before leaning against the counter to face her. “But if something is mentioned enough times it’s worth sifting through for the grain of truth.”
“And you think you’ve found this grain?” Her brow quirked, lips turning up into a soft smile reserved only for this man, the one who’d been so patient and steadfast for as many years as she’d walked free. “When my own scholars and oracles have turned up nothing of the sort?”
He smiled then, brightening his austere countenance into something more attainable, not remote and removed from the world, but lively and absorbed in it. She turned from the look, the invitation of it, grabbing a couple of mugs as he filled her tea pot.
“I promise you it’s been worth my time.”
“Is it… how? I don’t want to do anything that will only stave him off temporarily, they regenerate, even if it takes centuries and I won’t want to deal with him any more then…” she trailed off when she noticed his indulgent smile, the mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “You better not be teasing me. If you just wanted to see me, you know I enjoy your company–”
“I wouldn’t taunt you about this Mo’ stór. I didn’t want to come until I had something more solid than speculation, but I’ve hit a wall in my research. Conall has been searching his internet and I’ve been poring through my fathers old tomes,” he sighed, tapping her chin up to close her gaping mouth, following it with a brief kiss as though he couldn’t help himself.
He wandered off through her house, leaving her staring absently at the raindrops trailing down her kitchen window, her mind running through years of research and possibilities she may have missed. She’d been thorough, relentless even, in her pursuit to cleave the contract her mother had made with the death god, all to no end. A flicker of hope danced within reach, she didn’t dare grasp for it–even knowing how intelligent and single-minded Gwynn could be, information was fraught with lies and misinterpretations.
He returned scrubbing a towel over his head, shirtless, and she shamelessly ogled his fae-gifted beauty. His wasn’t the sensual appeal of the sin-eater, but that of an ethereal presence, to be appreciated more than absorbed in.
He dropped the towel to his shoulders and filled their mugs, carrying both into her sitting room, expecting she’d follow like a good little curious kitten, and damn her, she did–the bait was too juicy to allow for feminine pique.
“Drink. It's a citrus and vanilla blend with spices.” He placed the mug on the coffee table, grabbed her hand and tugged her to her couch, pulling her down on his lap, taking a small notebook from his pants pocket and pressing it into her hands.
“We need to find my father’s old sword.”
“What does a faery sword have to do with slaying ancient deities?”
“It wasn’t always my father’s sword. The chain of possession is obscured in a few places but I’ve found references leading it back to the Sumerian deities.” He opened the book and passed it back to her, tapping some text. “Claidheamh Soluis. The sword of Light. Given to my father Lugh by the god Nuada Airgetlám.”
She looked up at him, the lines of strain around his eyes and lips. Gwynn never spoke of his past, his parentage—his family. Though she’d met his sister under some less than fortunate circumstances regarding her vampire husband and his unceasing blood lust.
“Your father was Lugh? As in the Celtic god.”
Gwynn smiled wryly, shaking his head. “He was no more a god than I. But mortals,” he shrugged, “saw too much of what he was and deemed him so.”
“So…” she needed a moment for the information to settle. “You don’t know where this sword is now?”
“My father gave it to a worthy mortal ruler before this common era. Conall and I traced the line of King Solomon to no avail.”
Recognition dawned. Solomon’s sword – used in the holy wars to turn the tide of Judeo-Christian pantheon. Even she’d heard of that holy blade, said to have been divine blessed. Guess that made sense then.
A name jumped out of the passage of text, one very recognizable. “Shamshir-e Zomorrodnegār. This is the same sword?”
He nodded, pulling her closer to his chest and resting his cheek on her head in an uncharacteristic showing of intimacy. “As I’ve said, we traced the lines most thoroughly. It disappeared after the rise of Christianity.”
“We have to find it. I’ll get my best seers scrying—“
He chuckled, kissing her temple. “Ah yes, we should find it, why didn’t I think of that.”
She turned and smacked his chest. “Cheeky Fae. This is the best lead I’ve had in… ever.”
“Enough to earn me a kiss?”
There wasn’t much she could deny him when he was looking all young and mischievous, and fully sane. A rarity she wasn’t about to squander.
“Much more than a kiss, I’d say.” The notebook fell to the floor as she turned in his lap and wrapped her hands around his neck
“It’s okay to admit you missed me, A’stór.” He smiled as he leaned in, tightening his grip on her waist to drag her closer.
She smiled back, not unaffected by his charm. “More than I miss my favorite silks when they’re being laundered, less than I miss my magic on this realm.”
His thumb swiped down her cheek, fingers curling under her jaw. “Next time, I’ll visit you in your chambers. I didn’t want to take the chance of being overheard…”
“Are you going to kiss me or shall we get into a discussion of politics?”
He let out a breathless chuckle as he finally pressed his lips to hers, soft, gentle, waiting for her to set the pace, always considerate. She quickly took control, her body having gone too long without the fulfillment he offered, deepening the kiss, digging her hands into his damp hair, losing herself to sensation.
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