Page 26 of Destined for Dreams
Chapter 8
Bartol
The Russian landscape below was covered with snow, yet beautiful to behold as they flew over it. A few minutes before, the pilot had announced they would reach the city of Kirov in about half an hour. The journey had been long in some ways and short in others.
For most of Bartol’s life, he’d wished he could fly like the birds and the angels. Upon occasion, he’d gone so far as to flash to the highest mountaintops—surrounded by clouds—so that he could at least pretend to be in the air. Aviation was only getting off the ground when he’d gone into Purgatory, but he had been able to fly a couple of the early model planes. His favorite had been the SPAD used during the Great War—now known as WWI—and used by French fighter pilots. It had been an incredible experience, which had allowed him to briefly take part in the fighting without using his supernatural powers. Bartol had looked forward to the possibilities of the future back then.
All thoughts of flying planes soon left his mind after he arrived in Purgatory. There were no hints of civilization or technology in that dreadful, archaic place—one that was outside of this dimension. While it was technically on an island with mountains, they confined the nephilim prisoners deep underground in a tunnel network. It was freezing cold and always wet.
For most of his stay, Bartol had been given no clothing to wear, and he’d lived in a cell where he’d had to sit on an ice-covered floor that tore at his bare skin all while frigid water dripped on his head in an endless cycle. Sadly, that was not even the worst part about the place. His tiny prison cell was a haven against the sadistic guardian who loved to play games of torture on his prisoners almost daily. If it could be thought up, Kerbasi had done it to them in one form or another and often numerous times.
When Bartol had finally left the place months ago, planes and flying no longer interested him. He could have easily found opportunities, but it didn’t matter anymore. Only now that he’d been in flight for the better part of a day—if one included refueling stops—was he beginning to remember how much he’d loved the concept of aviation. According to Caius, the variety of aircraft and methods of flight in the twenty-first century were more than Bartol could imagine. A few movies and television shows gave him a reasonable idea, as well as the bush planes that flew over his cabin periodically, but it was still a lot to take in. He’d been in such a fog over the last few months that none of it had seemed to matter the way it once did.
It was only Cori’s presence that brought him out of his shell.
His chest tightened at the thought of her. At the airport in Fairbanks, she’d showed up the previous afternoon before takeoff, stood right outside the fence, and tried to say goodbye to him. The hurt and betrayal he felt was still raw. He’d let Lucas turn her away and tell her to leave. Through their mate bond, though, he’d sensed her despair. A part of him wanted to give her the farewell she desired, but he forced himself to push her away. There would be time enough to resolve their differences after he returned.
Rebecca settled into the wide leather seat next to him. “You look like you’re in deep thought.”
The female nerou was over three-hundred years old, but she didn’t appear to be beyond her mid-twenties. She had long, strawberry-blond hair that fell in soft waves almost to her slim waist, blue eyes, creamy skin, and a pert nose. There was something about her demeanor that told him she was likely the sweetest woman he might ever meet—as long as he didn’t upset her.
Bartol lifted a brow. “I could say the same of you. We’ve been traveling for over twenty hours, and you’ve hardly said more than a few words.”
“True.” She smoothed the khaki pants and blue blouse she wore. “I still can’t believe I agreed to meet my mother.”
He hadn’t been there the day Rebecca confronted Zoe, but Lucas had told him about it. The poor woman had found out how many people died or were hurt by her mother to get her out of Purgatory—where every nerou had been kept since shortly after their birth. The angels hadn’t wanted the hybrids free to roam the planet with their extraordinary powers. They might not be immortal, only long lived, but they were difficult to kill, and as they grew older, they developed talents unlike any seen before due to their mixed heritage.
Rebecca had also been shocked to find out a spell had been cast to manipulate who she would fall in love with, which turned out to be the alpha werewolf and supernatural leader of Fairbanks. The levels and depths Zoe had gone through to ensure this happened—over a hundred and fifty years of guiding the right pieces in place—were shocking.
Neither Derrick nor Rebecca realized they’d been manipulated into falling in love until after it was too late. They couldn’t bear to break up by that point, so they vowed to stay together regardless, but the female nerou swore she would never speak to her mother again. She’d said as much to Zoe last spring, and she’d kept her vow until now.
“Why did you agree to come along?” Bartol asked.
She pursed her lips. “I didn’t at first, but everyone made the argument that lives could be in danger. It irks me that my mother would ignore a potential disaster if I don’t do what she wants. And her methods for trying to draw our attention…” She paused and looked at him with regret. “I’m sorry Cori was nearly killed last month.”
“This isn’t your fault,” he said. From all accounts, the young woman didn’t have a cruel bone in her body. She might look similar to Zoe, but Rebecca wasn’t her mother.
“Still.” She sighed. “If I’d opened any of the letters my mother sent me, then I would have known there was trouble and could have warned someone.”
That was another thing. Lucas had told Bartol how Zoe was sending regular letters to the nerou compound—some to him and others to her daughter—but they both ignored them. Rebecca had let hers pile up without reading them until after Caius arrived and explained the problem. Lucas had burned the ones he’d received like they might be filled with anthrax.
Bartol shook his head. “The only person to blame is Zoe. If not for her past actions, many of us might have listened to her sooner, and this problem could have been resolved already. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve seen her shoot herself in the foot trying to get what she wanted. Although, I have to say, she always gets her way eventually.”
“Thank you for understanding.” Rebecca reached over to squeeze his hand. He stiffened at her touch, pulling away. She blanched. “Oh, sorry. They said you don’t like physical contact, but I forgot.”
“Everyone forgets sometimes.” He hated himself that he couldn’t control his reaction no matter who got close. Except Cori, who had a little more leeway than others.
Rebecca looked down and curled her fingers in her lap, likely sensing his discomfort with her abilities. “It must be hard for your mate, handling that problem. How do you…how do you make it work, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“It doesn’t work—at least, not very well,” he replied gruffly, reluctant to answer.
She furrowed her brows. As a woman in love herself, the issue must have disturbed her a lot. “But how do you show affection? How does she?”
“We’ve had few chances to do so, but I have progressed enough that I can touch Cori for short periods without…without too much difficulty.” Bartol had no idea why he was telling her these things. He didn’t like talking to anyone about his intimacy issues, least of all with a woman he’d barely met.
“But she can’t touch you?” Rebecca asked, eyes widening.
“No more than a brief caress upon occasion and even that is barely tolerable.”
