Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,78

solid. The instant passed, and he again became nothing but shadow to her perceptions, though perhaps a little more distinct of a shadow than before.

He crossed to the sleeping mound on the floor and crouched beside it. She got the impression he was checking her breathing. That weirdly echoing voice sounded in her ears again: Can you not wake?

“Sorry,” Nelle said, moving to stand at his back. “I don’t know how to wake up on my own. You did it last time.”

What looked like the shadow’s head seemed to tilt to one side. Did he hear her? That was encouraging. Maybe. She hurried on: “If you’ve got something disgusting for me to drink, maybe we could—”

The stillness of the night ripped apart, her voice swallowed in a hideous, ululating howl. Nelle choked and recoiled from the two shadowy forms, staring into the darkness.

That sound hadn’t come from inside Dornrise but from out there, out on the island somewhere. Not far off. A sound she’d heard before.

When it sounded again, memory shook her to the core: the skull-dogs.

She looked down at the shadow of Soran, her heart beating wildly. He’d warned her. He’d told her that daring to use her mortal magic would draw the dark fae lord back to Roseward’s shores. Yet she’d defied his will, ignored his warnings. And now . . .

What would Soran do? What would he say? Would he curse her for her folly and leave her where she lay? Even as the thought crossed her mind, she watched his shadowy form scoop up the shadow on the floor, seeming to cradle it in his arms. Such a gentle act, though rather peculiar to observe from this layer of reality.

A stab of guilt shot to Nelle’s core. Guilt at the lies she had told this man, the danger she had put him through. Shame that he would still try so hard, risk so much to help her.

“Please,” she whispered, stepping behind him to rest a hand in the space where his shoulder ought to be. “I’m so sorry. I can’t explain it, you see. There’s . . . there’s things I can’t tell you, and I—”

She broke off abruptly as his shadowy form bowed again over the still figure in his arms. A shock went through her body and spirit. She jumped, stepped back, sensation sparking through every limb . . .

. . . and blinked open heavy eyes.

Soran staggered down the passages of Dornrise, leaning heavily against the walls for support. His battle with the Thorn Maiden hadn’t taken long—mere minutes unless he missed his guess. But the amount of magic it had required was far more than he was used to expending in a single day. And completion of the Rose Book spell had sapped whatever strength remained.

More than anything, he longed to collapse on his knees and slump into a pile of senseless limbs right there on the floor. To sleep for twelve hours without interruption as he’d not slept in . . . he couldn’t even begin to guess how long.

“Nelle,” he whispered, wrenching upright again, the spelled claws on his hand digging through the plaster on the wall to the wood beneath. He couldn’t sleep. Not yet. Not until he found her. Not until he made certain she was safe.

Since the spell-sight had faded, he walked with his physical eyes open. It hardly mattered. Even with the candle he’d taken from Helenia’s room, the Night of Noxaur was too intense for him to see anything beyond a few inches in front of his nose. He made his way by feel and memory down the passages to the great front stair, then nearly fell several times during his descent. The candle flame wavered wildly.

Had Nelle found her body? Had her dream-walking spirit made it back through the tangle of the Thorn Maiden’s briars to the kitchen? He could only hope the Thorn Maiden had been too distracted by his presence to bother with one flitting little spirit. Had the girl managed to wake herself and flee Dornrise? And if so, had she returned to the lighthouse and its protections or . . .

Or had Kyriakos already found her?

Soran clenched his jaw and pressed on, fear rejuvenating his shaking limbs. He made his way at last to the stairwell leading to the kitchens and staggered down the treads, gasping for breath, his shoulder slumped against the wall. At the end of the stair, he hung for a moment from the doorpost, his chin