Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,22

scrutiny.

“What are you doing, Helenia?” Soran growled. His spirit voice was inaudible to human hearing, but her ears pricked at the sound. “What do you want?”

She raised her face, lifted her long dark lashes. Black eyes flashed bright in the glow of the candle.

What I’ve always wanted, my love.

Her lips didn’t move when she spoke. This body, after all, was only an illusion.

To be yours. As you are mine. Eternally.

Soran’s spirit-self flinched and recoiled. His mortal body tensed, his fists clenching tight as he continued to read the spell, winding the enchantment tight.

“I’m not a fool,” he said. “Remember, I am the one who called you to life. I know who and what you are.”

I am your Helenia.

“You are a nightmare. A Noswraith.”

I am your Helenia. And you are my beloved.

She stood. The illusion was so convincing. So perfect. When she approached him, her hips swayed in just that way he remembered. The light caressed her soft curves, so tempting and so near.

Embrace me, she whispered. Embrace me as you once did.

“No.” He stood upright, braced to meet her, and raised a hand in defense. In this realm it was not encased in a nilarium curse. It was whole, human, able to touch and perceive all manner of sensual pleasures.

She reached out. The shadows of briars wound up and around his arm, spiraling to his shoulder, but he could scarcely see them. Instead, he saw her hand take hold of his and pull him toward her, placing his palm against her beating heart. It was so real. She was warm and soft and willing.

Stop fighting, my love, she murmured, stepping nearer. Her lovely face upturned to his, her lips plump and parted. For the moment, he couldn’t see how they were truly formed of rose petals.

It would be so easy to give in. Yes, he would die for the mistake, die for his weakness. But could any death be more desirable?

Our bond is for eternity, she whispered.

Then she made her critical mistake.

What can that mortal girl possibly have over me?

Soran blinked.

With a snarl, he lifted his hand from her bosom and wrapped his fingers around her throat. “Get out!” he roared and, with a single brutal twist, snapped her neck.

The Noswraith screamed. Thorns erupted through her skin, tearing apart the illusion to reveal the reality. Briars and thorns swarmed up Soran’s legs and around his waist, wrapping his arms and body. But his grip on her broken neck never faltered. He swung her off her feet, tearing her briars from the walls, uprooting them from the floor. Twisting fast, he hurled her straight out the nearest window. Her thorny arms scrabbled and tore, cutting into his flesh, cutting into the stone window frame.

Then she fell, dragging her multitudinous slithering limbs behind her.

With a gasp, Soran reared his head back and stared down at the page in front of him. He was seated at his desk, candlelight illuminating the text before him. The shimmering magic of the incomplete spell danced in the air before his eyes.

Good. It wasn’t broken. Not yet anyway. The Thorn Maiden’s distractions were powerful, but he hadn’t let his focus drift too far from his task. Hastily he resumed the spell, carefully reading out the words, forming the complex patterns of magic and power.

He felt her out there in the darkness, in the rain. Crawling around the base of the tower. Her long-fingered, thorny hands scraped at the stone, and now and then she uttered a low, wordless moan. But by the time dawn tinged the edge of the horizon, she was silent.

Soran completed the spell and closed the book fast.

Nelle was up, dressed, and already busy flipping and stacking flapcakes when the mage came down from his tower the next morning. His footsteps echoed in the tower while he was still far overhead, and she listened to him descend until he stood just above the opening in the raftered ceiling.

There he stopped, hesitated.

She counted slowly to twenty.

Still he didn’t come.

Nelle pulled the last of the flapcakes off the fire and turned her head to the opening. “You know, I really hate it when you do that,” she called out.

Another few breaths, then he was in motion again, his robes dragging on the steps behind him as he appeared. His hood was up, and pale hair spilled out from beneath it in long coils. “Do what, Miss Beck?” he asked, his voice perfectly smooth and mild.

“Leave the room, all mysteriously abrupt like that, while I think we’re