Cree slipped forward and stood beside Strad. “Thank you,” she told Rune.
Rune studied her for a long, silent moment. “What will you do now, Cree?”
Cree shrugged. “Maybe I will search for Abby.”
It would give her a purpose.
She didn’t know Abby was dead.
And Rune wasn’t going to tell her. She just nodded. “I hope you find everything you’re looking for.”
Maybe the bird would find Fin.
Maybe she’d find peace.
Rune jerked her head around at the sound of a puppy’s loud bark, and the milling crowd, laughing, parted to let Grim through.
The dog was not alone.
Owen stood beside him, weak, limping, blind, but awake. Healing.
“Rune,” he called, his fingers buried in the dog’s fur.
Rune didn’t move.
Grim barked again, and his bark sounded, to her ears, disapproving.
Owen smiled. “Rune.”
He looked like hell. He had scars that would never go away, and the horrible torture he’d been subjected to would surely haunt him forever.
But his hat was firmly on his head, and he was still able to smile.
He was still the fucking cowboy.
She cleared her throat but when she tried to speak her voice cracked. Finally she simply strode to him and wrapped her arms around his damaged body. “Fuck you, Cowboy,” she murmured.
He heard the forgiveness, and he heard, maybe, the complicated love she had no choice but to feel for him. And that was all it took to break the cowboy.
He wilted against the big dog, sobbing.
His dreams had been shattered, much like the bones in his body, but the one he loved forgave him.
“I’m not one to give up.”
Truer words had never been spoken.
He’d be okay.
Owen would always be okay.
And she’d do everything she could to make sure of that.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Brasque Dray welcomed her into his shimmer and his castle, not, perhaps, because he wanted to, but because right then she was the love of Skyll.
The people worshipped her.
If she’d but tossed a displeased glance his way, the people—her people—would have cut him down where he stood.
Shimmer lord or not.
Rune took Strad’s hand and he gave her a quizzical smile as they were led to the shimmer lord’s throne room.
“Why are you afraid?” he asked her.
Her mouth was almost too dry to speak. “I brought you here because there’s someone you need to see.”
He frowned. “Brasque Dray?”
Just that second the doors were shoved open and they were ushered inside the huge, echoing room.
“Rune,” Brasque called, and stood.
Strad looked away from Rune when Brasque spoke, and then he froze.
Standing beside the shimmer lord was the shimmer lord’s hand.
Matthew Matheson.
The blood drained from the berserker’s face and he stumbled, his eyes wide. Disbelieving.
Even though he’d witnessed the return of Z, he could not believe.
Because Matthew was his child.
He shook his head, hard, trying to clear his confusion, then dragged his stare away from Matt long enough to look at her. “Rune?” His voice was a hoarse whisper, and along with the doubt in his eyes was the fervent need to believe.
She nodded. “It’s Matthew. Blood and Fire brought him here to serve as the hand of Flesh.”
She didn’t think he heard her. Probably couldn’t over the roaring and buzzing that was surely in his head.
He turned back to the throne.
The people in the room were quietly ushered out, likely by an order from Brasque that Rune hadn’t heard him give.
All her attention was on the berserker.
Was it better for him that he saw Matthew there? That Matthew was no longer really, truly Matthew?
Probably not, but letting him know had been the right thing to do.
She hoped.
The berserker couldn’t move.
His blue eyes blazed in his pale face. He clenched his fists and said something under his breath, once, and stared.
But he could not move.
Matthew went to him.
They stared at each other, the big man and the little boy. They bore no resemblance to each other except for the somber, sad looks in their eyes.
At last, Matthew reached out and took the berserker’s hand in his.
Strad dropped to his knees and then slowly, carefully, he touched Matthew’s face.
No one made a sound.
Rune couldn’t breathe. Her eyes were hot and tight and she wanted to break down and beat her fists against the wall until either the wall or her bones shattered.
She could only imagine how the berserker felt.
Finally, he pulled the child into his arms and stood.
Matthew wrapped his arms around his father’s neck and sobbed, loud, messy sobs. He hadn’t forgotten.