Page 19 of Dark Rover’s Luck (The Children Of The Gods #95)

19

FENELLA

F enella padded into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes. The aroma of fresh coffee and something sweet filled the air, making her stomach growl.

Shira stood at the stove, her flaming red curls piled atop her head in a messy bun that somehow looked artful rather than chaotic. Several loose tendrils framed her heart-shaped face, emphasizing her porcelain skin that was dotted with freckles.

So pretty, so perfect, but her flawless beauty no longer annoyed Fenella.

"Morning." Fenella made her way to the coffee pot. "That smells divine."

Shira turned, her face brightening with a smile that revealed perfect teeth. "I'm making French toast, and I was about to knock on your door to see if you wanted some."

"God, yes." Fenella poured herself a generous mug of coffee. "I'm absolutely famished, and that's strange given how much I ate last night at Callie's."

"How was it?" Shira asked.

Fenella took a long sip of coffee before answering, savoring the rich, dark flavor. "Fabulous. Callie's is great. I wish I could eat there every night and sample the different dishes she makes. Have you eaten there?"

Shira shook her head. "The waiting list is months long, and I'm terrible at planning ahead. I like doing things spontaneously." She chuckled. "Not a trait most would associate with a librarian, but I'm very different at work from who I am outside of it. How did you manage to get a reservation?"

"I didn't. Max did. He traded some highly coveted concert tickets for the reservations."

"That was nice of him." Shira cast Fenella a curious look. "Was it as a favor for you or for Din?"

"Both, I guess." Fenella sat on one of the barstools at the kitchen island. "He still feels guilty about what happened fifty years ago in Scotland."

"Oh, yeah?" Shira flipped the French toast, the golden-brown slices sizzling in the pan. "What happened?"

Fenella was surprised that there was anyone in the village who didn't know the story yet. The place was a hive of gossip, and rumors spread at the speed of light.

"It's a long story. The gist of it is that Din had a crush on me, but he was bashful, and Max, who was supposed to be Din's best friend, didn't realize how obsessed Din was with me and rushed to seduce me instead. In my defense, I had no idea that Din was besotted with me because he never made a move. Anyway, long story short, Max inadvertently induced my transition, and here I am today, trying to figure out what I have missed out on with Din."

Shira shook her head. "I'm missing a lot of puzzle pieces, but I get the picture." She transferred the French toast to two plates, adding a generous dusting of powdered sugar and a drizzle of maple syrup before sliding one plate in front of Fenella. "So that's what the date with Din was about? Checking out what you'd missed out on?"

Nodding, Fenella cut into the French toast. She hadn't intended to discuss Din with her roommate, whom she barely knew, but looking at Shira's eager, open face, she realized that she actually wanted to talk to someone about it.

Strange how quickly the human need for connection reasserted itself once safety was secured.

"He seems different than the guy I remember skulking at the bar I served drinks in." She took a bite of the toast, which was delicious—crisp on the outside, soft and custardy within. "He's more confident now, which is kind of absurd since he wasn't a kid back then. He's over five hundred years old." Fenella shook her head. "I'm still trying to wrap my head around that number. Then again, I'm seventy-three, and I still feel as young as I look, just less naive and more dejected. The world sucks, you know."

Shira nodded, but her expression indicated that she disagreed.

Great, she was rooming with an optimist.

It wasn't that Fenella had anything against them, but it was even more heartbreaking to see them crashing on the shores of reality than those who had been expecting it.

The way she saw it, life sucked, bad things happened, and when something good came along once in a while, it was a fortunate and pleasant surprise rather than the expected norm.

Oh well, it wasn't her job to teach Shira that the world wasn't made of rainbows and unicorns. One day, she would discover how awful it was outside the village and the library where she worked.

Still, Fenella had to admit that the evening with Din had been one of those surprisingly pleasant, rare occurrences. Din had been attentive, with just a little bit of overbearing intensity, and he had been interested without asking intrusive questions.

The only thing that cast a shadow over their date was the almost-kiss at the door, which she regretted spoiling by chickening out at the last moment. Their date should have ended differently, and she intended to correct that today somehow.

"I don't remember Din," Shira said. "What does he look like?"

Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair, intense blue eyes that seemed to see right through her. "He doesn't look like he belongs on the cover of a magazine, but he's good-looking in the football captain sort of way." She chuckled. "I haven't seen a bad-looking immortal yet, male or female. This village looks like a computer game with fake, pretty people with some aliens thrown in for interest."

"That's true," Shira said, her green eyes dancing with amusement. "We are blessed with pleasing features. When are you seeing Din again?"

"Today. He's coming with me to meet Atzil at the Hobbit Bar. I might have a job there."

"That would be brilliant! I've only been to the Hobbit once, and I loved it, but I need to warn you that it gets a little rowdy in there."

Fenella laughed. "I've tended bar in Scotland. Rowdy doesn't bother me."

Shira smiled. "I know what you're talking about. I was born in the new country, as we called it for the longest time, but I visit Scotland from time to time."

Fenella studied her roommate over the rim of her coffee mug. "Is it rude to ask how old you are?"

Shira tilted her head. "Normally, yes. I don't know why, but immortals are sensitive about their age, and most of us don't even celebrate birthdays. But I'm still young, so I don't mind. I'm one hundred twenty-eight."

That explained a lot. Born into the clan's protection, Shira had never known the fear and desperation that had defined so much of Fenella's existence. She'd never had to run, to hide, to reinvent herself in strange countries with nothing but her wits to rely on. Never had to fight off predators, human or otherwise. Never had to make the kinds of choices that had kept Fenella awake at night, wondering what the purpose of it all was, and why God was punishing her to live endlessly like that.

"You're lucky," Fenella said.

Shira turned from the sink, soap suds clinging to her slender forearms. "I know," she said. "My mother keeps telling me that. According to her, it wasn't always easy for our community, and I'm lucky to grow up in the new country and all of its conveniences."

It was strange. Even though Fenella was technically younger at seventy-three, she felt ancient in comparison to Shira. The weight of her experiences had aged her. She'd been quite naive as a human, although she hadn't known that at the time, but after her transition she'd been forced to grow up fast, and the subsequent decades on the run had made her harder and more disillusioned.

"I'm not the girl Din knew fifty years ago," she said. "I'm not sure I even remember how to do this—dating, relationships. Heck, I didn't even know how to do that then. It was all about having fun. I was young and carefree, and I was not looking for my forever guy. It feels like speaking a foreign language, and I can't find a good course to teach me about it."

"You'll learn," Shira said. "The language of love is universal, and it doesn't require translation earpieces. Just look at Jasmine and Ell-rom or Jade and Phinas. Their love crossed species. Yours only has to cross decades."

That sounded so reasonable, and yet it didn't quiet the unease in Fenella's gut.

"Maybe you are right," Fenella conceded, though she wasn't convinced.

The ability to speak the language of love, as Shira had put it, required a solid foundation and an unburdened heart. But those parts of her had been broken, perhaps beyond repair. The ability to trust, to allow someone close enough to hurt her—she wasn't sure those pieces could be reassembled.

"He waited a long time for you," Shira said. "That's patience and dedication."

"That's the part I don't understand." Fenella waved a hand. "Who carries a torch for that long? Especially for someone they barely knew and thought was probably gone?"

Shira shrugged. "Immortals have a different perspective on time. And maybe Din just couldn't find anyone else who evoked such strong feelings in him." She settled her luminous green eyes on Fenella. "Did he tell you about fated mates?"

A jolt that felt like an inner earthquake shook Fenella. Din hadn't mentioned it, but Jasmine, Kyra, and even Max had talked about that enough for her to know what it meant for immortals.

"Forgive me for sounding like a heretic, but I don't believe in all that Fates nonsense."

"Oh, it's real." Shira put the rag aside and came to sit next to Fenella at the counter. "Fated mates are real, and that might have been what Din felt for you all those years ago. He didn't know that you were a Dormant, so he couldn't understand the pull, but it would explain why he's never forgotten you and why he flew over here as soon as he heard that you'd been found. Don't you feel the same pull toward him?"

Before Fenella could formulate a response, her phone buzzed with an incoming text. She glanced at the screen, frowning.

"Everything okay?" Shira asked.

"It's Bridget," Fenella said. "She wants me to come to the clinic at ten-thirty."

Shira looked concerned. "Why?"

"I don't know," Fenella muttered, but a cold tendril of fear slithered through her stomach. "She didn't say."

What if Bridget had found something during her examination when Fenella first arrived at the keep? She'd taken a lot of blood samples, and not all the results had been available immediately.

What if it was something the Doomer had done to her?

Something that was permanent damage or worse, a progressive disease that would undo her immortality and make her human again?

Fenella had been subjected to countless indignities and abuses during her captivity, most of which she didn't remember and others that she tried not to think about.

"It's probably just a follow-up to your initial screening," Shira said.

Fenella nodded, but the knot of anxiety didn't ease. "Yeah. You're probably right." She looked at the time on her phone. "I should shower and get dressed."

"Do you want me to walk with you to the clinic?" Shira offered. "I don't start work until noon."

The offer was unexpectedly touching. Fenella wasn't used to people looking out for her without wanting something in return.

"Thanks, but I'll be fine," she said, forcing a smile. "I know how to get to the clinic."

As she headed to the bathroom, Fenella tried to convince herself that she had nothing to worry about but failed.

The hot water of the shower did little to wash away her anxiety, and as she let it cascade over her back, her thoughts oscillated between Din and Bridget's summons.

Din's face appeared in her mind's eye—the way he'd looked at her when they'd said goodnight, the gentle press of his lips against her cheek when she'd turned at the last moment. Why had she done that?

Part of her had wanted that kiss, had been curious about what it would be like to be kissed by him. Yet something in her had pulled back, erected a barrier at the crucial moment.

Sighing, Fenella turned off the water and wrapped herself in a towel, studying her reflection in the foggy mirror. Her face was youthful, unmarked by the passage of time, but her eyes told a different story. They'd seen too much, those eyes.

Pushing those thoughts aside, she dried herself briskly and thought instead about meeting Atzil at the bar. That was something concrete she could latch on to that didn't require adjusting her feelings or anything complicated like that.

Bartending was simple. She knew how to do it, had done it countless times before, and she was good at it.

Once Fenella was dressed, she sat on the bed, pulled out her phone, and googled Din's name on a whim to distract herself. To her surprise, several hits came up—a university faculty page, publications in archaeology journals, a couple of articles about an excavation in Turkey that had made minor waves in academic circles.

Dinnean MacDougal, PhD. The formal name looked strange to her, almost like it belonged to someone else. The faculty photo showed him in a tweed jacket, looking scholarly and serious. It was hard to reconcile this academic figure with the immortal who had bared his fangs last night at the mention of avenging her.

She closed the browser, unsettled by the glimpse into Din's other life. He was established and respected in his field. He had a career, colleagues, and students who depended on him.

What was she bringing to the table?

A half-century of drifting, of survival, of running from shadows. No roots, no achievements, nothing to point to with pride except the bare fact of her continued existence.

The thought was sobering.