I lost my dog unexpectedly last week--well, mostly unexpectedly. He was old and had been struggling a little in the last few months, but when he went, he went quickly. Which was great, of course, but I'm having a hard time dealing with it. So, I'm not up to writing a blog post today. Instead, here's a Throwback Thursday post from Sound of a Voice That is Still )Oberon, book 3) which I'll be re-releasing possibly this year, but more probably early next year.
In this scene, Siobhan has just received the cremated remains of her dog and is dealing with that trauma in her typically dysfunctional way.
Siobhan sat on the floor in front of her fireplace, watching as the flames slowly devoured Selke’s collar. When the acrid smell of burning leather grew too strong and threatened to choke her, she tossed another handful of myrrh onto the logs and watched as a pall of fragrant smoke rose from the melting resin. The heat from the fire was warm against her face, but did nothing to dispel the insidious spread of frost through her heart, blighting and blackening everything it touched. Outside, the wind whipped through the trees and she flinched at every creak and moan. It was dark and getting darker still, as night and yet another storm made their approach.
Lying on the floor at her side, Ryan’s dog whined. It was such an anxious, strange sound, it made her wonder if the dog was not part wolf. Not that it looked like anything but pure Irish setter, of course, but things were not always as they appeared.
The dog.
Damn it, what was wrong with the man that he couldn’t even name her? It shouldn’t be so hard. Certainly there were a lot of names that would fit. If the dog was hers, she knew just what she’d call it, as a matter of fact. But it wasn’t her dog.
She picked a chew toy out of the small pile on the floor and threw it in beside the collar. She didn’t have a dog and she wouldn’t be naming anything anymore.
The setter pushed its cold, wet nose against her hand and whimpered softly. “I know, sweetie. Me, too.” She laid one hand on the dog’s head. It was surprisingly warm. Or was it just that her hands were cold?
Probably he just didn’t want to commit that much emotion to it. If you named something you gave it more than a label; you gave it a weight and a substance. And a place in your life. You gave it a value that it might otherwise not have had. Like calling something love, when all you really felt was need.
I love you. She supposed she should be grateful. At least this time he hadn’t run when she used the words. This time, they’d been wrung from her lips in the hot depths of a passion the likes of which she’d never known...and he hadn’t responded at all.
She stroked her trembling fingers through the dog’s soft coat again. How typical. Wasn’t it just like a man, to react that way? She couldn’t imagine why she’d expected anything else from him. Every man she’d ever known had been a coward when it came to emotions. They ran from birth and death--and from love as well--as though their feet were on fire and their souls were at risk. That’s why women had the babies, wasn’t it?
And why they sang the dirges.
Her eyes strayed back to the little tin box clutched in her hand. The box she’d received from the crematorium. Selke. She’d made all the arrangements last week and then, amazingly, she’d forgotten about them. Finding the ashes in the mailbox this afternoon had come as a shock, as had the tears she’d shed over them. She was surprised by how upset she’d been, and still was. It was as if an ugly black pit had opened at her feet. Her reaction left her fearful and furious.
She took her hand from the dog’s flank long enough to feed another chew toy to the fire. This was all Ryan’s fault. He had done this to her. Loving him--no. Needing him--had left her vulnerable to feelings she’d almost succeeded in forgetting existed. Emotions which had lain submerged in the iciest, darkest depths of her soul were resurfacing now, bringing with them all the pain and craziness she’d hoped never to feel again.
She hadn’t wanted to feel this way about him. She hadn’t wanted to be in love with anyone. Twice before she’d fallen and it had come close to destroying her. Would this third time be the charm that broke the spell that she was under? Or was it she who would break?
And what would she risk to find out?
She turned her head at the sound of the front door opening. Ryan stood framed in the doorway, a frown creasing his forehead. “What’s it gonna take, anyway, before you start locking this door?” he asked. She watched as his eyes narrowed and his expression changed to one of concern. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head and went back to watching the nylon bone as it bubbled and charred. “Nothing’s wrong.”
He came to stand beside her. His dog looked up at him, wriggling out from beneath Siobhan’s hand to beg for his attention, tail thumping a welcome against the hardwood floor. “What’s going on then?”
Siobhan shook her head again, her eyes still on the fire. “Not too much. How was your day?”
The dog whined again, and pawed at Ryan’s leg. He lowered himself to a half crouch, and rested one hand on the setter’s back. “All right, I guess. What’s in the box?”
Her heart lurched at the unexpected tenderness in his tone and she had to blink as smoke tore at her eyes. “Selke.” Her voice came out too flat, she cleared her throat and tried again. “Therapy go okay?” She picked up the lamb’s wool cat from the floor beside her.
“I didn’t have therapy today. I was-- What?” He grabbed her hand before she could toss the cat into the fire. “Wait, what are you doing?”
Wrenching her hand free of him, she shot him an angry look. “Playing twenty questions with you, I guess. Is there going to be a lot more of it, by the way? Because I’m really not in the mood right now.”
“Did something go on here today that I don’t know about?”
She gritted her teeth. “I told you, nothing--”
“Siobhan.”
Once more, his voice compelled her and she made the mistake of looking into his eyes. Bright as the sky they were, and warm as the summer sun. If she could only fly to him. If she could only steal a little of the warmth she was sure he’d give her...but no. No, like Icarus if she got too close he would melt through all her defenses. Her heart would break, her wings would fall to pieces and she’d drop, just like a stone, into the cold dark sea. She thrust the box into his hands. “Here. Take a look, if you want. It’s really fascinating when you think about it.”
She got to her feet and swept the rest of the toys into the hearth basket. She could finish this later. When she was alone. “I’m thinking I might teach a unit on it next year. All about the chemical composition of bodies and how everything organic eventually breaks down and is decomposed. Of course, it would probably fall more under the heading of Chemistry than Biology, but that’s all right. I’ve been feeling kind of stale lately, anyway. I think maybe I need something new.”
Sound Of A Voice That Is Still
Oberon Book 3.0
Some wounds take a long time to heal, others never do. Four months after being wounded in the line of duty, Ryan Henderson is beginning to fear that his is of the latter variety. He's a patient man, but a poor patient. As winter drags interminably on, he's growing desperate for distraction--anything that might take his mind off his injury, before he goes insane.
Siobhan Quinn could give the injured officer a lesson or two in living with pain. It's been ten years since her life was changed and her heart critically wounded as a result of the tragic accident that robbed her of her family. She knows firsthand how grief can cripple a soul and drive a sane mind over the edge.
Sometimes it seems like Spring will never come again. Sometimes, the only alternative to living in inner darkness, is death. Your own, or someone else's. In the depths of winter, Ryan and Siobhan will have to make a choice: to help each other heal, or die trying.
Visit my website for more info on the Oberon series.
