read it, but that doesn’t mean you can’t understand it.”
Wil stared at the blade, at the words that had been senseless little scratches on metal five minutes ago, but which had already seared themselves into his heart with the tangled, ruthless burn of chaotic conflagration. For moments, he was helpless to do anything but watch the firelight glance and shiver over the knife’s honed edge.
He blinked desperately, refusing to let traitorous tears 57
The Aisling Book Two Dream
sabotage his last and best bulwark of safety; refusing to let the jagged lump in his throat choke him.
He stood calmly then slipped the strap of the rifle over his shoulder. “I believe I’ve the watch tonight,” he told Brayden quietly and stepped away.
“Wil.”
Soft but urgent. Wil paused but didn’t look back.
“Do I look like I don’t know what I’m doing?” Brayden asked him gently.
Wil dipped his head, closed his eyes.
And then he turned. Walked away.
It wasn’t until he was already pacing his second slow sweep about the perimeter that he realized the damned knife was in his hand.
58
Carole Cummings
Chapter Two
Dallin didn’t jolt this time, didn’t wake panting and shaking; he merely opened his eyes and sighed up at the stars. Groaned.
“Fucking
hell .”
Of all the things around which this mess could have centered, it just had to be dreams, didn’t it? Just his luck.
The groan turned into a light growl.
The night air was thin and cold, the clammy weight of rain and its aftermath gone now. Dallin listened to the quiet night-sounds, listened to Wil’s light steps inside of them. His chest loosened a notch, relieved. If Wil didn’t attack him while he slept or take the opportunity to run, Dallin could at least console himself that the unreasonable trust he was putting forth wasn’t completely insane, but well-founded, even if he had no rational reason why.
Bloody hell, here he was, basing critical decisions on dreams and intuition, skulking back to a ‘home’ that hadn’t been home for nearly thirty years because of tattoos and a feeling, because She’d told him he’d forgotten and it had pissed him off. As if he didn’t remember every damned thing about the raid that had so brutally cut his tether to Lind. As if he hadn’t been reminded every day he’d lived in Putnam that he hadn’t really belonged.
Forgotten . Right.
59
The Aisling Book Two Dream
Dallin rubbed at his face and growled again.
The fire had died down to glowing cinders. Dallin levered himself up and stared at it for a while, sitting there in his bedroll, trying to decide if he’d slept enough yet.
He’d had a hard enough time getting to sleep in the first place, and by the set of the moon, it appeared he’d only slept a few hours. He’d prefer a little more—vigilance demanded rest—but if it meant more dreams, he’d be just as happy to skip it.
Last night had been foolish but necessary, for his own peace of mind, if for nothing else. Sleep was as crucial as food and water, and he’d been blathering just yesterday about tactics and strategy. But he couldn’t leave Wil to watch alone until he knew what he was doing and was capable of defending them both, and Dallin couldn’t take even little snatches for himself, for fear he’d end up inside another dream that didn’t belong to him. So he’d foregone sleep altogether—which was stupid—then taught a man he didn’t really trust to shoot and gave him a loaded gun while Dallin slept—which was even more stupid. And now, if sleep was going to be this exhausting and unnerving, he thought perhaps he’d never sleep again.
He’d hoped the other night had been a one-time event, but it appeared that he wasn’t yet through with whatever he was supposed to be learning from these little pieces of chaos. And he didn’t know if he’d ever have the nerve to sleep at the same time as Wil again.
Earlier, before this latest, he’d been walking through the burnt
Wil stared at the blade, at the words that had been senseless little scratches on metal five minutes ago, but which had already seared themselves into his heart with the tangled, ruthless burn of chaotic conflagration. For moments, he was helpless to do anything but watch the firelight glance and shiver over the knife’s honed edge.
He blinked desperately, refusing to let traitorous tears 57
The Aisling Book Two Dream
sabotage his last and best bulwark of safety; refusing to let the jagged lump in his throat choke him.
He stood calmly then slipped the strap of the rifle over his shoulder. “I believe I’ve the watch tonight,” he told Brayden quietly and stepped away.
“Wil.”
Soft but urgent. Wil paused but didn’t look back.
“Do I look like I don’t know what I’m doing?” Brayden asked him gently.
Wil dipped his head, closed his eyes.
And then he turned. Walked away.
It wasn’t until he was already pacing his second slow sweep about the perimeter that he realized the damned knife was in his hand.
58
Carole Cummings
Chapter Two
Dallin didn’t jolt this time, didn’t wake panting and shaking; he merely opened his eyes and sighed up at the stars. Groaned.
“Fucking
hell .”
Of all the things around which this mess could have centered, it just had to be dreams, didn’t it? Just his luck.
The groan turned into a light growl.
The night air was thin and cold, the clammy weight of rain and its aftermath gone now. Dallin listened to the quiet night-sounds, listened to Wil’s light steps inside of them. His chest loosened a notch, relieved. If Wil didn’t attack him while he slept or take the opportunity to run, Dallin could at least console himself that the unreasonable trust he was putting forth wasn’t completely insane, but well-founded, even if he had no rational reason why.
Bloody hell, here he was, basing critical decisions on dreams and intuition, skulking back to a ‘home’ that hadn’t been home for nearly thirty years because of tattoos and a feeling, because She’d told him he’d forgotten and it had pissed him off. As if he didn’t remember every damned thing about the raid that had so brutally cut his tether to Lind. As if he hadn’t been reminded every day he’d lived in Putnam that he hadn’t really belonged.
Forgotten . Right.
59
The Aisling Book Two Dream
Dallin rubbed at his face and growled again.
The fire had died down to glowing cinders. Dallin levered himself up and stared at it for a while, sitting there in his bedroll, trying to decide if he’d slept enough yet.
He’d had a hard enough time getting to sleep in the first place, and by the set of the moon, it appeared he’d only slept a few hours. He’d prefer a little more—vigilance demanded rest—but if it meant more dreams, he’d be just as happy to skip it.
Last night had been foolish but necessary, for his own peace of mind, if for nothing else. Sleep was as crucial as food and water, and he’d been blathering just yesterday about tactics and strategy. But he couldn’t leave Wil to watch alone until he knew what he was doing and was capable of defending them both, and Dallin couldn’t take even little snatches for himself, for fear he’d end up inside another dream that didn’t belong to him. So he’d foregone sleep altogether—which was stupid—then taught a man he didn’t really trust to shoot and gave him a loaded gun while Dallin slept—which was even more stupid. And now, if sleep was going to be this exhausting and unnerving, he thought perhaps he’d never sleep again.
He’d hoped the other night had been a one-time event, but it appeared that he wasn’t yet through with whatever he was supposed to be learning from these little pieces of chaos. And he didn’t know if he’d ever have the nerve to sleep at the same time as Wil again.
Earlier, before this latest, he’d been walking through the burnt
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