Salvation's Kiss (Tales Of Mython Book 1) by Kathryn Jayne (ebooks that read to you .TXT) 📕

be destroyed, and purged from existence. As if sensing these powerful feelings of protection, she seemed to relax, leaning closer, holding him tighter, and all too soon the mechanical clanking of the gate’s gears were opening.

The home they lived in was amazing. Even now, he loved the remote isolation he felt from the large walls barricading their own little corner of the world from trespassers. The grounds were maintained by a gardener, who kept the main paths and gardens pristine and manicured, while the raw force of nature could be witnessed in every direction beyond their home.

The farmhouse mansion had come complete with wraparound porches and swinging seat to the rear. The two forward-facing gable windows were eye-catching features, rarely visible in the houses he had seen around the city. It offered a unique flair to the property, and the large windows allowed ample light to stream inside. He thrust his key into the lock, surprised to find his mother in the hallway, papers in hand.

“I didn’t expect you home until—” His mother’s face instantly morphed from concern into a welcoming smile. “Forgive me, where are my manners? I am Selene, Conrad’s mother.”

“This is Ashley, I’ve spoken to you about her.” He hoped she would get the hint and keep at least part of their life private. “She needs your help.”

“Of course, come in, come in. What can I do for you?”

Once the door was closed, he saw Ashley hanging back awkwardly. His hand slid into hers as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and he led her inside. Unsure exactly what to say, where to start, Conrad launched straight into an explanation.

“Mum, you know how you came here to study the statistical phenomenon relating to PB and unwanted transitions?”

“Well yes, dear, that and—”

“She’s the reason—or was, before she was attacked.” His nostrils flared as he tried to suppress his rage, drawing comfort from the pressure of her hand within his. “Ashley”—he turned to look at her, meeting her eyes as he spoke—“please, you can trust us. We would never let anyone uncover what we know. Let my mother examine you, she’s a specialist in preternatural genealogy and has experience in… you know, trauma.” He watched his mother’s eyes mist as she understood what he was saying.

“Your father’s working from home today, too. Conrad, go help him in the kitchen, tell him to set some extra places.” Her gaze dropped briefly to his hand that was still intertwined with Ashley’s. It was then he noticed he’d stepped before her, shielding her from the discomfort he felt radiating from her. “Go on.” She waved him away as she placed her hand gently on the small of Ashley’s back, encouraging her towards the door leading downstairs into her work space.

Conrad stood behind the door, his forehead resting against the wood separating them as he imagined her tearful eyes. Whoever had forced her to shed those tears would pay for each and every one in blood and pain. He froze, his hand raised to knock as another thought assailed him. He had seen the tears streaking her cheeks; why hadn’t he thought to mention it? When someone became an Atelís, they lost the ability to cry. It was one of the first symptoms, not as recognisable as the altering shape of the tongue, but a symptom nonetheless.

Lowering his arm, he turned. His mother would have noticed. With an enraged growl, he stalked away, feeling the fury building within him. His kind were known for their righteous rage, the need to bring justice. He tried to focus his gaze upon the kitchen, to channel his attention elsewhere, but it was hopeless. The pressure building within him was unbearable, like no other need he had felt before. Pulling a stool from beneath the central island, he focused on his breathing, aware of the sheer heat being forced from his body. His gaze burned into the polished black granite counters, focusing on the smallest fleck. Breathe in, breathe out, an exercise he repeated for several minutes. When he felt more in control, he lifted his gaze to the outer parts of the enormous kitchen, where his father stood watching him, a look of concern deepening the wrinkles on his brow.

“What’s happened? You smell wronged.” He could tell from the way his father assessed him with a look of concern in his hazel eyes, that he had not yet managed the level of control he needed.

“I’ve brought a friend home,” he muttered.

“Am I laying an extra place?”

Conrad nodded, watching as his father swept the dark brown hair from his eyes with the back of his wrist, clearly fighting back further questions. He wasn’t sure what his father had seen, but it was unlike him to be so quiet.

“I didn’t realise who she was quickly enough. She’s been bitten.” He saw his father stiffen, and whilst his revelation had not been the sum of his emotions, he hoped it would be enough justification for his father to explain his current temperament.

“And who is she?”

“The cure, the reason PB and unwanted transitions are so low.”

His father placed the chopping knife down with a care that spoke volumes about the control he was mastering. As a Blue Coat, Conrad knew his father would have a barrage of questions, but clearly he had read his son well enough to know now was not the time.

“The cure’s a person?”

“It was, until she was attacked,” he growled.

“Grab a knife, help me cut up some more fillets.” His father gestured towards the magnetic knife block on the wall. Grasping a handle Conrad saw his knuckles whiten and made a deliberate effort to slacken his grip, but he knew his father would have seen. He saw everything. “Get cutting. Let’s get you looking a little less ‘hell hath no fury like an if’—”

“Do not mention what we are!” He slammed the knife into the wooden chopping board, splintering the wood.

“I don’t know why you’re so ashamed. We’re something incredible, pulled into