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The Dream of Being Human
The Summerlands, Present Moment
The last time I died, it was a Tuesday. Don’t ask me how I know that. It’s just stuck in my brain as a cold, hard fact. Well . . . that and the slightly more troubling realization that I took the guy who’s in charge of all evil as a mate. But I digress.
I don’t recall the days leading up to my death, never mind the years. I remember arriving in the Underworld and Morgana’s chaotic escort out of the place a short while later because of it. But then there’s a big skip forward to the final minutes of my life. So I’ll start at the end, and maybe that will help me piece it together myself.
Embarrassingly enough, I was asleep when it happened, so I was a goner before I’d fully registered what was going on. Not an honorable way for a warrior to die, but there you have it.
How Morgana even got close enough to do the deed is beyond me. There’s an enchanted river to cross and an army of ill-tempered dark angels to navigate. So when the scent of sandalwood wormed its way into a rather good dream, I didn’t think much of it. Why would I with all those hulking ex-celestials around for protection? And I’m sorry, but who wears perfume to a stealth mission?
The fragrance was enough for my subconscious to begin a reluctant climb to the surface. But it was the blinding pain that got me the rest of the way out—just in time to see the dagger buried in my chest. So mission accomplished, no matter how clumsily executed.
The dark witch stared into my face as I clod-hopped to the other side of the veil, her eyes wide and dancing with delight. Maybe because thirty years prior, my arrival got her booted out of Mortegol’s bed . . . and tossed from a realm where she would never age. Nothing like three decades of pent-up anger as motivation to murder an enemy.
She did look older, and that’s not just me being catty.
Okay, maybe a little catty.
Fun fact: you witness your own death. And here’s an interesting aside, you also experience the emotions of those next to you. Like most, I hoped I would “go” peacefully. But that day, I tapped into the soul of an aging, angry witch intent on revenge. Not so peaceful in there.
Afterward (and by that, I mean once I’d croaked), two dark angels who should have been protecting me dragged my executioner away instead. The portal sucked me in soon after, so I couldn’t tell you the extent of the fallout. But it’s safe to say they didn’t whisk Morgana Sorcha Balfour away for a champagne lunch. No matter her revered magical bloodline or witchy pedigree, she had just murdered the boss’s girlfriend, and there was probably a steep price to pay for that.
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