“It doesn’t happen very often,” Warren said, picking up the Slinky on his desk and fiddling with it.
Why wouldn’t Warren meet his eyes? The claws of nerves crawled up Cadan’s back, little pinpricks sinking into his skin that wouldn’t shake loose. It took him off guard; he hadn’t felt that in centuries.
“I’ve spoken briefly to Aerten about it.” Warren finally glanced at him, but looked away almost immediately.
Shite.
“What does the goddess of fate have to say about it?” He hadn’t seen her in ages. Hell, he’d only seen her a few times since she’d offered him a spot in the Praesidium. Whether he should thank her or curse her was something he hadn’t figured out yet.
“That only select souls are reborn. Those who were so strong in life that their souls never left this plane.” Warren set the Slinky down. “Their souls wait in stasis until humanity needs them. At that point, they’re brought back to perform a task that only they can accomplish.”
“So, I’m going to be protecting a child who will save the world?” A cold sweat broke out on his skin. Killing and guarding adults—no’ a problem. But dealing with children was something he was entirely unqualified for after being alone for two thousand years. Fuck, what a mess.
“No’ exactly,” Warren hedged. “Apparently with Druidic reincarnation, the soul is reborn in another person, but the person doesn’t become conscious of their previous life until they reach the approximate age at which they died originally.”
“Shite, they develop split personalities?”
“Ah, no’ exactly.” He paused, seemingly unaware that he’d grabbed the Slinky again and was juggling it faster and faster. “They doona survive that long. Once they remember who they are and complete their fated task, they die.”
“Die? That’s some shite luck.”
“Aye. The tragedy that took the soul too early the first time follows it. History is destined to repeat itself, after all. You need to protect the reincarnate until the fated task is complete, longer if you can.”
That would be a challenge, but then, he liked a challenge. “Do we know what this guy’s task will be, once he regains his memory? And where is he, anyway?”
“Doona know the task, but Aerten has prophesied that a catalyzing event will spur the memory of the reincarnate and lead them to Arthur’s Seat, likely today or tomorrow. That’s where you’ll meet.” Warren hesitated before continuing, finally meeting Cadan’s eyes. “And the warrior isn’t a man.”
Cadan’s breath stuck in his throat and a chill broke out on his skin. Nay, it couldn’t be. “Who is it, Warren?”
“It’s Boudica.”
Chapter 2
Clayton, Maine
A deep, hollow grief filled her, so strong that it nearly overpowered the lightning bolt of pain that streaked through her chest. Cold crept insidiously through her veins, a sickening contrast to the burning pain. Every breath that she struggled to drag into her lungs felt like she’d plunged in the dagger all over again.
The moans of the dying filtered weakly through the walls of the house in which she lay, creeping through the thatch of the roof and wrapping around her brain, her soul, and sucking the life from her all the faster. Her warriors lay dying outside in the mud and blood of war.
The sounds of her failure to protect her people, her daughters, reverberated through her mind and soul like thunder.
She gasped as a streak of pain tore through her chest. Why did it take so long to die? Perhaps because she didn’t really want to die, and hadn’t plunged the blade to its greatest effect. But it was only right. Her death would ensure the end of the war, and she’d rather it be at her own hands than those of her enemy.
“Why?” the man holding her rasped. “Why do this?” His pain was palpable, but the only thing she felt was rage at his betrayal.
Diana Laughton’s fingers stopped on her computer’s keyboard and she stared at the words she’d just written. What the hell? She was a historian, damn it. She wrote historical analysis, not historical fiction.
But it was happening again.
Only...different. Worse. She rubbed a sore spot on the back of her wrist and inhaled deeply of the brisk October air that blew through the open window. It smelled of leaves and carried the heavy, wet scent of impending rain.
She scrubbed at her eyes, which were gritty with exhaustion. The dreams that had haunted her on and off since childhood were coming more often, taking over her mind whether she was asleep or not. She felt what the dying woman felt, smelled what she smelled, and saw what she saw.
And wondered if she was finally going crazy.
A knock sounded on the door. Diana jumped. A statuesque woman, her striking face topped with wild dark hair, popped her head into Diana’s small office.