Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,96

effect.

The reaction was sharp—harsh enough to make her gasp and recoil, her lips burning with suddenly activated magic. She’d never felt the Sweet Dreams react like this before. But then, she’d never kissed a fae before.

Kyriakos pushed away, his hands pressed into the bed on either side of her, his long hair framing his face. Light from the red fire gleamed against the black disks of his widening eyes, which stared down at her, filled with shock and mounting horror. His mouth twisted into a grimace, a hideous mutation of his smile.

“Rishva!” he spat. With a gargled cry choking in his throat, he grabbed for her neck, his fingers closing fast. “You little witch!”

But his words slurred and his grip weakened almost at once, much faster than Gaspard had reacted in the Evenspire. Nelle caught hold of his wrists and pried his hands away without effort. His powerful arms trembled like a straw doll’s, and his eyes rolled back in his head.

With a sinking sigh, he collapsed on top of her, his great weight pressing her into the bed.

Sweat dripped into Soran’s eyes, but he couldn’t stop long enough to wipe it away. His arms heaved in rhythm, pulling at the oars, and his body shuddered in protest as what remained of his strength threatened to fail.

The water was rough. The channel, which had looked smooth enough from Roseward’s shore, had become brutal and unyielding. Waves tossed the little boat like a toy, threatening to overturn it at any moment.

No matter how hard he pulled, he made no progress. The harbor at Roseward grew no smaller. The ramshackle buildings of the ruined town taunted him with their gaping ghostly windows and empty doorways.

But he would not be beaten. He wouldn’t give in. Kyriakos would not triumph, not today.

The Rose Book’s weight in the front of his robes filled him with terrifying confidence.

Soran twisted on the rower’s bench, looking over his shoulder toward the Noxaur shore. But wait . . . no. He wasn’t aimed correctly at the shore. Somehow, despite all his efforts, the little craft was headed toward the open Hinter Sea.

Swearing bitterly, Soran wrenched at one oar, fighting the waves and current to correct his course. He lined the little boat up as best he could and again put his back into the work, heaving, pulling, every muscle running up and down his spine and along his shoulders screaming in protest. He felt those screams gather in his lungs, and finally let them burst from his throat in a savage yell.

Only one, however. He wouldn’t scream again, no matter how urgent the need. He must save his breath.

After what felt like hours he turned and looked again, expecting to see the shore much closer. Again, his course was thwarted. The prow of his little craft, which he had been so certain was aimed true, again pointed out to the waiting, ravenous sea.

“It’s a curse.” The words ground through his teeth, and spittle flecked his lips. Kyriakos had left a curse in his wake to throw Soran off his trail.

Soran closed his eyes, reached out with his senses, and felt the magic shimmering in the air. It wasn’t a particularly powerful curse—a simple deflection. Child’s play for a being of Kyriakos’s magical prowess.

But without a counter-spell on hand, Soran was helpless against it.

The moment he shipped his dripping oars, the waves relented. The boat bobbed on the water, drifting slowly farther and farther off course.

He could go back. The curse wouldn’t stop him from returning to Roseward. He could go back and hasten to the lighthouse, dig through his spellbooks, and find something to counteract that deflection curse.

But dared he risk it? He didn’t know how long he’d lain unconscious, how many hours had been wasted. Every moment was too precious if he was to reach Nelle before . . . before . . .

A growl rumbling in his breast, Soran put his back to Noxaur’s shore, lowered his oars, and pulled again. He wouldn’t go back. Not yet. He would not let Kyriakos beat him. If sheer will could break a curse, he would find a way through.

The Rose Book thudded against his heart in rhythmic time to his rowing.

At first Nelle couldn’t move, couldn’t think. She could scarcely breathe, crushed under that huge, senseless fae. It was all she could do to lie there and force her mind back into focus, wondering all the while if she too would fall prey to the poison that burned on