Christopher Golden - Lost Ones

Julianna rolled her eyes. Oliver did not want to let her go. The memory of her lying there on the ground with blood soaking her clothes remained fresh in his mind. He saw her that way many nights when he closed his eyes, and sometimes he dreamed of that moment, just as he dreamed of the sinking of Atlantis, of the people hurling themselves from buildings, of the power that had been in his hands.

He could never change the past. He would never allow himself to forget. The outcome had been a triumph over savagery and tyranny, but the cost meant he would never celebrate.

Somehow, he and Collette and Julianna had all survived.

“Oliver,” Julianna whispered in his ear.

He let her pull away. She gave him a wistful look, her gaze lingering on his eyes, and then she kissed him again, slow and sensuous. When she stood and started for the door, Oliver took a deep breath and let it out, casting away the shadow that often hung over him. It was a time for joy. And whenever Julianna was around, he could surrender to it, and to the whims of fortune.

To magic, for better or for worse.

Collette kissed him on the head. “Get some sleep.”

She followed Julianna out of the room, and Oliver was alone again.

The fire had begun to die down. After a few minutes, he rose and picked up the cocoa tray. There would be enough chaos tomorrow without anyone having to worry about cleaning up after him.

A gust of wind rattled the window. Oliver glanced that way and knitted his brows. Curious, he walked over and touched his fingers to the glass, tracing lines in the icy condensation on the inside of the window.

Outside, it had begun to snow. The first snowfall of winter. It seemed that Frost would attend the wedding after all.

Oliver turned, and the fox was there.

Kitsune sat warming herself in front of the fireplace, her tail swishing happily. Her copper fur glinted in the flickering light of the dying blaze. Strips of opalescent scar tissue lined her body and head and snout, places where the fur would never grow again. The scars had a hideous gleam in the firelight.

The fox turned her jade eyes toward Oliver. Myriad emotions swirled in her gaze-gratitude and love and regret and something akin to happiness. Or perhaps those were merely the things he hoped or expected to see.

Oliver dropped to his knees and she came to him, nuzzling against him. He stroked her fur without a word. Frost had told him that Kitsune’s wounds were so grievous, that her flesh had been so badly damaged, that she could never change shape again. She would be a fox forever.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For so many things.”

Kitsune lifted a paw and placed it against his chest. Oliver bent and kissed the soft red fur atop her head.

The fox turned from him, trotted toward the window, then paused to give him a final glance. A gust of wind came down the chimney and the fire flickered. He shifted his gaze only for a moment, but when he looked back she was gone, as though she had never been there at all.

A melancholy smile touched his lips. Oliver hesitated only a moment and then carried the tray toward the door. His mother’s parlor had always been an escape for him, a place to which he retreated whenever he began to worry that his father might be right, that his journeys into his own imagination were foolish.

He stepped out into the corridor and pulled the door closed behind him, but it swung open just a few inches.

The door to his mother’s parlor did not close properly anymore.

Oliver suspected that it never would.