Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,21

caught behind her pursed lips and clenched teeth.

Nothing. Only the ocean and the wind.

No creeping creak of vines, no scrape of thorns. No feather-light shushing of soft petals stirred in a breeze.

And yet Nelle stood there for some while, longer than she reasonably should.

At last she slowly released her breath and whispered, “I know you’re there.”

Yessss . . .

Her eyes flared open.

Nelle choked and started up onto her elbow, kicking the solid weight behind her knees. The wyvern growled, and sharp claws rested on her hip in not-so-gentle warning. Nelle couldn’t react. She stared at the wall illuminated by the glow of the dying fire, her heart racing furiously, thudding against her breastbone.

She looked over her shoulder. Across the room.

The door was shut. Fast shut.

All was dark and still save for the constant drum of rain. No moonlight filtered through the windows. The storm had not yet passed.

“A dream,” Nelle whispered. “Just a dream.”

She rolled over to face the door, pulling her blanket up to her shoulders and under her chin. The wyvern stretched out, grumbling, its ugly snout close to her heart. It blinked at her and showed its teeth in an unconvincing hiss.

Nelle wrapped an arm around the creature and hugged it close, ignoring the discomfort of scales and knobbly limbs. When she fell asleep at last, it was to the sound of wyvern snores and the drip of rain hitting stone.

She sat on his bed. Right behind him.

Soran bowed over the open spellbook. He was already several hours into the spell. The night had grown deep and dark around him. His candlestick had burned halfway down, wax pooling thick in the base of its wooden bowl. Light glowed in his eyes.

But the light he saw wasn’t candlelight. It was the light of burning words, burning magic, dancing in the air before his vision.

After all the hundreds of times he’d read this spell, conjured this magic, it never got easier. The sheer complexity required tremendous effort. Despite the open windows all around him, despite the icy blasts of air and driving rain that poured in on every side, a sheen of sweat covered Soran from head to toe. An hour ago he’d thrown off his heavy robes and loosened the ties of his shirt. Damp hair clung to his forehead, and he took care not to let beads of sweat drop onto the pages and mar the precise handwritten script.

The storm raged on for hours. At last, however, the worst of the thunder rolled away, leaving behind a gentle, steady rain. Only then did Soran feel the change in the atmosphere.

Only then did he feel her arrival.

It wasn’t unexpected. Last night she’d been quiet, distant. But he knew better than to hope she’d retreat for long. He braced for battle, ready to drive her out while simultaneously maintaining the complexity of the ongoing spell. It was a battle he’d fought many times. One of these nights, his strength would give out.

But not tonight.

Not while Nelle lay on her bed down below, trusting him to protect her until dawn.

To his surprise, no sudden vicious attack came. A wave of perfume heralded the Noswraith’s arrival, the dense scent of crushed and burning roses that accompanied her everywhere. No thorns crawled along the walls or wound up the legs of his chair, however. He sensed her movements behind him, even heard the creak as she took a seat on his bed. Otherwise she was quiet. Demure.

His pulse quickened with dread.

For some while he managed to maintain single-minded focus on the spell. But the sensation of her eyes watching the back of his head was too much. With a growl in his throat, Soran split his consciousness. His physical body continued to bow over the book, his eyes reading the spell, his lips soundlessly forming the words. But a piece of his awareness sat up and turned to face the room behind him.

She sat just where he expected, perched on the edge of his bed, her hands neatly folded in her lap. She was strangely human in appearance. Though he could just discern the shadowy outline of thorns and briars all around her like a dark halo, she herself was shaped in flesh and blood. She wore a white silk slip that exposed her shoulders, the laces partially opened across her bosom. The skirt was split from hem to knee, displaying her small feet, her daintily crossed ankles, her shapely calves.

Her eyes were downcast, but he knew she was aware of his