Bitterburn (Gothic Fairytales #1) - Ann Aguirre Page 0,46
the voices you’re hearing. But first . . .” He takes a deep breath, as if this is unspeakably difficult, and then in my peripheral vision, I see him push back the hood of his cloak. “If I want you to trust me with your private thoughts, I should take the first step. Look at me, Amarrah.”
Slowly, I shift my focus from the corner to where he’s standing square in the kitchen by the worktable, highlighted by the dancing fire in the hearth. My gaze skims upward, locking onto the face he hasn’t wanted me to see. And perhaps it’s because I’ve gotten to know him, but he doesn’t seem monstrous. Only . . . inhuman. His brow ridge is heavy and sharp, his ashen hair wild like a mane, and his skin is blue-gray. On his left cheek, a sigil has been etched into his skin in dark ink, an inward spiral. He looks a bit like the frost giants I’ve seen depicted in story books, though his claws and fangs are more demonic, and he has vestigial horns half-hidden in his hair. His eyes gleam an eerie silver, catching the light like a creature that prefers hunting in the dark.
But I’ve been in his arms. I’ve kissed that mouth. I smile at him, meeting his gaze fully. “So this is you.”
Njål regards me with timorous hope, taking a step closer with the air of one who fears startling a bird. “You’re not frightened?”
“Not at all. I didn’t have any expectations, and you’ve filled in the gaps of my knowledge. I’m glad you did.”
Perhaps the next step will be him allowing me to see whatever’s hidden in the east wing. Considering the bone room lurking in Bitterburn’s depths, I ought to be worried about what he finds troubling enough to conceal. And how much of a role did Njål play in the evisceration of this place? I want to believe he’s innocent, and while he certainly was an blameless victim in the past, I’ve no idea what happened when he grew up. The townsfolk only speak of the beast, not how he became one.
I hold my ground as he moves until he’s standing right before me, and I breathe in his lye and pine scent while gazing into his unnaturally brilliant eyes. Really, they’re like quicksilver or the heart of a star. I imagine the latter, as I’ve only seen the stars from far away. He reaches out and I don’t flinch when he cups my cheek in his palm, careful with his claws. Instead I cover the back of his hand with my fingers, telling him with silent strokes that the reality of him is far less disturbing than the mystery.
“I had long since given up on the gods, but now I might consider. Because I have no other explanation for you.”
“You think I’m heaven-sent?”
“I can find no other explanation. Perhaps it took this long for them to act on my desperate pleas, but at last, here you are.”
“While I don’t mind the notion of being a divine emissary, it removes free will from the equation. And I like it better when I’m the one who made this decision and acted on it.”
“Yes, I can see why you would. Then let me thank you instead of absent gods.”
“You’re welcome.” It’s strange to look at his face as we talk, but not in a bad way.
He pulls his hand from my cheek with a soft sigh. “While I’d much rather spend the day on more agreeable topics—”
“The voice.” Before the odd, fuzzy feeling returns, I start with a summation of the nonverbal force, the one that shows me visions like the one of the bone room and how I think it’s related to my dream forays into the past. I finish with what the presence has been whispering and how I sometimes don’t feel like myself.
Njål takes a step back, bracing on the edge of the worktable. “Do you mean . . . were you not yourself when we—”
“No,” I cut in. “I’m not implying that you took advantage of me. Everything that’s happened between us occurred because I was willing. Eager, even. This is more . . . I can’t hold on to certain thoughts, or my mood shifts without my volition and I lose track of facts. It’s like something wants me content and complacent, not examining too much.”
His voice quickens with excitement, and for the first time, I can see the related glimmer in his eyes,