Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,70

face the way they ran. “Stay awake, Sam! Stay with me.”

She hurried down the passage until suddenly she saw another flickering light ahead. A waft of burning rose perfume drifted through the shadows, tickling her nostrils. Quick as thought, Nelle darted down another hall, dragging Sam after her. They continued this way until she saw another light and quickly made another turn to avoid it.

This turn led them to the magnificent front foyer and the stairway. Their shoes echoed hollowly against the marble floor, and Nelle raised her flaming sword higher, trying to illuminate the cavernous space. The light glittered against a gold frame.

Despite herself, Nelle’s eyes were drawn to meet the pale gray gaze of that young man’s portrait. For a shocking instant she thought it was real, thought he was truly alive, truly present, looking down on her with such grave disappointment. The instant passed, however. The image in the firelight resolved back into mere paint on canvas.

A shudder rolled down Nelle’s spine. Something was wrong with that picture. She took several steps, letting Sam’s hand slip from her grasp. Tipping her head back, she peered up, holding the spell-sword high.

A single long gash cut across the canvas, slashed across the young man’s throat. In the firelight, the paint around its edges seemed to drip like blood.

“Nelle!”

Startled, Nelle turned, swinging the sword. Sam stood in the center of the foyer, pointing back the way they had come. She looked.

“Bullspit!” she growled.

The hall was full of flaming roses. Dozens and dozens of roses springing from vines that climbed the walls and crawled along the ceiling. More vines crept out into the open space of the foyer, reaching for the support pillars.

Nelle dashed back to Sam’s side to grab his hand. She took three steps toward the other side of the foyer but stopped short. That passage was filled with roses as well, their flaming petals brilliantly illuminating the undulating briars creeping along the floor.

“What do we do?” Sam choked.

“This way.” Nelle yanked him toward the stair, running up the center to the landing. There she tried to turn right, toward the library, only to see more vines and roses spill over the top edge of the steps like water pouring down a cliff.

She turned to the left instead, and they raced to the passage above. This was the way to the private family apartments. It was dark and silent—no roses, no sound of slithering, no creak of branches.

A partially open door caught Nelle’s eye, and she dragged Sam through it. He leapt inside, and she spun around, pushing the door shut. She pressed her ear against the panels, listening.

Nothing. No slither. No insidious whispers. Nothing.

Breathing out a sigh, she turned to face Sam, holding up her flaming sword again to look at him. He stood a few paces away from her, breathing hard. Beyond him, she could just see the outline of a large four-poster bed and other shadowy hints of fine furnishings. But the light from her spell seemed to strike only his face, illuminating him in a warm glow. Dark strands of long hair fell across his forehead, and the borrowed shirt he wore was open down the front, all the ties undone, exposing the hard muscles of his chest.

The sight made Nelle’s pulse throb. But not with fear.

She frowned. Something was wrong. She shouldn’t be feeling this way, this rush of heat through her veins, this sudden giddy lightheadedness. She was afraid, she knew she was. Afraid of the nightmare on the other side of the door, afraid of the darkness overwhelming Roseward, afraid of . . . afraid of . . .

She couldn’t remember . . .

Her hand holding the sword shook. The spell shivered.

“Nelle,” Sam said. His voice was low, thick with emotion. He took a few quick steps toward her, his hand sliding around her waist. “At last,” he said, his face hovering just above hers. “At last, at last.”

Nelle tried to speak, tried to protest. But when his mouth lowered to hers in a hard, bruising kiss, she shivered and dropped the spell-sword, which landed with a clatter at her feet. Her arms wrapped around his neck as he pulled her against him.

The scent of roses filled her head.

She was coming.

He could feel the swelling power of her draw near.

Soran stood at the west window of the lighthouse, gazing out across the cliffs to the looming shadow. Night crept ever nearer, many hours sooner than it should. With a curse on his