"Grieve?" I whispered his name, sending it along the slipstream. It had been a while since I'd tried to harness the breeze this way. There wasn't much call for it in the city, but here . . . here, everything came streaming back.
After a moment, I whispered his name again. "Grieve, are you here? Are you really still here?"
Never hurry. Grieve's voice echoed in my memory. Give it time. Don't try so hard--I know it's hard to be patient when you're still so young, but you'll need these skills, Cicely. You'll need them as you grow up.
He'd known, I thought. He'd known that I was leaving soon, and he'd tried to prepare me.
Another pause. Then, slowly, the wind picked up, carrying the sounds of arguing headed my way. Before I could blink, two men stood beside me.
My heart thudded in my chest and I wanted to cry. It had been so long, so many years, and yet--here he was. Grieve . . . it was Grieve. And Chatter stood beside him. Both gorgeous and mesmerizing.
Olive-skinned, Grieve and Chatter had slanted eyes and their chins were sharp and narrow, as if the flesh had been stretched taut across their faces. Grieve had a thick head of platinum hair that curled down his back, while Chatter--slightly stockier--wore his hair in a raven-black ponytail. They were dressed in camo jeans. Tight, form-fitting jeans and long dusters that looked oh so hot.
But something was different . . . While Chatter's eyes still glistened pale blue, the blue of cornflowers, Grieve's had changed. They'd grown dark--no white showed, and no pupils, just glistening ebony orbs. But unlike a vamp's, scattered amid the inky blackness sparkled a field of glowing white stars. Like the woman in Rhiannon's vision.
"Grieve . . . what happened to you?" My whisper sliced through the silence, my heart thudding in my chest. As I took a step forward, Ulean hissed in my ear, stopping me.
Be cautious, be careful.
I paused, tuning in to the energy and went reeling. Grieve had an edge to him that I didn't remember, a palpable arrogance. Chatter--not so much. But Grieve felt wary, almost hostile.
I caught my breath, wanting to throw myself in his arms, but I restrained myself and gave them a gentle nod. Play it light, keep it superficial at first.
"I'm back, boys. I'm home. To stay. Did you miss me?"
Chatter broke the silence first. He held out his arms, pulling me close.
"Dear Cicely. Of course we missed you. We heard word on the wind that you were home." He smelled like sweet grass and raspberries and his hug ran through me like sheets fresh from the dryer on a cold night.
"But you shouldn't be here. Not now. You need to leave the wood," he whispered so low I had a feeling that even Grieve couldn't hear him. "Before the dark comes, get out of here for your own safety."
I stepped back, staring into his eyes. He looked frightened.
"Chatter--I missed you." I turned to Grieve, hesitating before I said, "I missed you, too." Please, oh please, don't reject me.
Grieve held back. He didn't reach out like Chatter had. "You returned." There was a hint of distrust in his voice and he looked angry. "I thought you were done with me. With New Forest. You said as much, last time."
"I guess I deserve that," I said, stung even though I knew he had every right to be angry. I scuffed the ground. "Are you so unhappy to see me?"
He took a step back and shook his head. "You must leave. You have to get out of this wood. Now. And stay away, especially during the night." But as he watched my face, his eyes lit up and the tip of his tongue crept out to lick the corner of his lips.
Confused, I wasn't sure what to think but my body answered for me, hunger welling up as I watched his thick, full lips curl into the hint of a smile. Just the look of him made me want to reach out and . . . Touch me, take me, taste me, feel me, hold me. My wolf let loose a low growl, hungry.
Grieve had implanted himself on my heart years ago, the roots taking strong hold. His rejection hurt, even though I knew I'd brought it on myself.
"If I'm so unwelcome, why are you worried about me?" I crossed my arms. "I can take care of myself, you know."
"You're the one who should be worried, Cicely," Grieve said, his eyes narrowing. A hint of threat rode the wind and I eyed him cautiously. Oh yes, Grieve had changed drastically.
Never show fear if you're not sure whether they're friend or foe. Lesson number twenty-nine from Uncle Brody, an old black man who lived in the first rooming house we'd stayed in after leaving the Veil House. I still thanked that old geezer. He gave me a running start--his cautions a guidebook to living the life into which my mother had dragged me.
"I'm not six years old anymore. Too old to be captured for a changeling."
"Not the subject to joke about. Not now, not here." Grieve slowly reached out for my hand. "You've fully grown up. You're more beautiful than you were the last time you came to visit." His gaze raked over me like hot coals.
"I'm home to stay, Grieve. Marta's dead and I'm taking over her business."
I froze, forcing myself to breathe normally as he took hold of my hand and brought it to his lips where, one by one, he brushed a kiss against each fingertip, soft silk against my skin. Slowly, he turned my arm so my palm was facing up, and lowered his lips to my wrist. I closed my eyes, sinking into his touch. I remembered that touch, those lips.