Seoras’s image disappeared, and time began again. The Other was on his knees in front of him, staring up at him with eyes that held fear and acceptance.

Death with honor. As Stark thought the words, the claymore’s hilt warmed in his hands with a beat that mirrored the pounding of his heart. He closed his other hand on the hilt, reveling in the feeling.

Then the weight of the blade became a life force of its own, filling Stark with a terrible, wonderful strength and knowledge. Without thought, without emotion, he used the arc of a crescent moon to deal the killing blow, crashing the blade sickeningly into the Other, slicing him cleanly from skull to crotch. There was a great sighing, and the body disappeared.

The full extent of Stark’s brutality slammed into him. He dropped the claymore and fell to his knees.

“Goddess! How could I do that and be honorable?”

Mind reeling, Stark knelt on the ground, breathing hard. He stared down at his body, expecting to find gaping wounds in his flesh and blood—lots and lots of his blood.

But he was wrong. He was completely free of any physical wound. The only blood he saw was packed into the earth beneath him. The only wound that remained was the memory of what he’d just done.

Almost with a will of its own, his hand found the hilt of the great sword. Seeing in his memory the killing blow he’d just delivered, Stark’s hand trembled, but he gripped the hilt tightly, finding warmth and the echo of the beating of his heart.

“I am a Guardian,” he whispered. And with the words came true acceptance of himself and, finally, understanding. It wasn’t about killing the bad within him; it was never about that. It was about controlling it. That was what a true Guardian did. He didn’t deny brutality; he wielded it with honor.

Stark bowed his head so that it rested on the Guardian claymore.

“Zoey, my Ace, my bann ri shi’, my queen—I choose to accept it all and to follow the way of honor. That’s the only way I can be the Warrior you need me to be. This I swear.”

With Stark’s oath still hovering in the air around him, the archway that was boundary of Nyx’s Otherworld disappeared, along with the Guardian claymore, leaving Stark alone, weaponless, and on his knees in front of the goddess’s grove and the ethereal beauty of the hanging tree.

Stark struggled to his feet, automatically walking toward the grove. His one thought was that had to find her—his queen, his Zoey.

But as he got nearer to the grove, Stark slowed and finally stopped.

No. He was starting out wrong. Again.

It wasn’t Zoey he had to find, it was Heath. As big a pain in the ass as Aphrodite could be, he knew her visions were for real. What the hell was it Aphrodite had said? Something about Heath having to move on for Zoey to come back. Stark thought about it. As much as it hurt him to admit, he could understand why what Aphrodite had seen was the truth. Zoey had been with Heath since they were kids. She’d watched him die, which had hurt her so badly her soul had shattered. If she could be whole, and be with Heath here . . .

Stark looked around, and as when he’d connected with the claymore, he was really seeing.

Nyx’s realm was incredible. The grove was directly in front of him though he could sense the vastness of the place, and knew Nyx’s realm was way bigger than this one place. But, in all honesty, the grove itself was enough—green and welcoming, it was like a shelter for his spirit. Even after what he’d been through to get there, knowing his responsibilities as Zoey’s Guardian, and understanding his quest was far from finished, Stark wanted to enter the grove, breathe deeply, and let the peace of it fill him. Add Zoey’s presence to all of that, and he’d be more than content to stay here for at least a slice of eternity.

So, yeah, give Heath back to Zoey, and she’d want to stay. Stark rubbed a hand over his face. He hated to admit it—it broke his heart to admit it—but Zoey loved Heath, maybe even more than she loved him.

Stark mentally shook himself. The love she felt for Heath didn’t matter! Zoey had to come back—even Aphrodite’s vision said so. And, sure, if Heath weren’t involved, he’d probably be able to convince her to come back with him. That was the kind of girl she was—she cared about her friends more than she cared about herself.

Which was exactly why Heath would have to leave her, and not the other way around.

So he’d have to find Heath and talk him into giving up the only girl he’d ever loved. Forever.

Fuck.

Impossible.

But it should also have been impossible for him to have defeated himself and accept all that meant.

So think, damnit! Think like a Guardian and don’t just act and react like a stupid kid.

He could find Zoey. He’d done it before. And once he found Zoey, Heath would be there, too.

Stark’s gaze went to the hanging tree. It was bigger here than on Skye, and the pieces of cloth that were tied to its massive umbrella of branches kept changing colors and lengths as they waved gently in the warm breeze.

The hanging tree was about dreams and wishes and love.

Well, he did love Zoey.

Stark closed his eyes and concentrated on Zoey—on how much he loved her and missed her.

Time passed . . . minutes, maybe hours. Nothing. Not one fucking thing. Not even a vague inkling of where she might be. He couldn’t feel her at all.

You can’t give up. Think like a Guardian.

So love wouldn’t lead him to Zoey. Then what would? What was stronger than love?

Stark blinked in surprise. He already had the answer. He’d been given it with the title of Guardian and the mystical claymore.

“For a Guardian, honor is stronger than love,” Stark said aloud.

He’d barely finished speaking the words when a thin golden ribbon appeared directly above him in the hanging tree. It glinted with a metallic luminescence, reminding Stark of the torque of yellow gold Seoras wore around his wrist. When the ribbon unknotted and floated free of the tree and into the grove, Stark didn’t hesitate. He followed his gut and this small reminder of honor, and strode after it.

Chapter 27

Zoey was getting worse. It was just not fair. Like she hadn’t had enough bullcrap to deal with lately? Now this had happened to her—this shattered-soul thing, and she was slipping away from him, from everything. At first it was little by little. Recently, it’d been more like humongous, cataclysmic piece by piece. As they moved farther and farther into the heart of the grove, keeping away from the edges of the trees and what was probably Kalona stalking them out there, she’d started changing faster. There didn’t seem to be shit he could do about it. She wouldn’t listen to him. He couldn’t reason with her. She wouldn’t even hold still. Literally.

He could see her in front of him. Even though he was almost jogging along the mossy bank of a musical little stream, he wasn’t moving quickly enough for her. She wandered ahead of him, sometimes whispering things to the air around her, sometimes crying softly, but always restless—always in motion.

It was like he was watching her evaporate.

Heath had to do something. He realized what was happening to her was because her soul wasn’t whole. That made sense. He’d tried to talk to her about it—tried to get her to call the pieces together and then go back to her body. He didn’t really understand all this Other-world stuff, though the longer he was here, the more he just knew things, which was probably ’cause he was dead as dirt.

Jeesh, it was totally weird to think that he was dead. Not scary weird, bizarre weird, ’cause he didn’t feel dead. He felt like him, just in another place. Heath scratched his head. Damn, it was hard to figure out, but what wasn’t hard to figure out was that Zo wasn’t dead, and so she really didn’t belong here.