by Mary Weber
My mouth drops open. Fine. Good. None of your business. I’m failing miserably. But none of my answers come because my throat has just collapsed. Stupid bolcrane.
He chuckles and makes some unnecessary comment about me blushing. I twitch my hand and send a single hailstone through the air to slap his head. He lurches and laughs harder.
I start to smirk, then frown as I look from him, to my hand, to the hail remnants in his hair.
His expression turns quizzical.
“How come your block didn’t stop that from hitting you just now?”
He shrugs. “Lucky aim.”
Daft answer. “Why?”
“I told you—it works differently with different people.”
“Okay.” I bite my lip, examining him. “So you can use it to calm me, but . . . it doesn’t protect you from me?”
His expression turns careful. “Like any ability, my block has its weaknesses.”
Against my will, the edge of my heart ripples. Am I a weakness for him? “What, like it only protects you from certain people? What about the avalanche—does it work against anything trying to kill you?” My relief soars. Maybe it will protect him from Lord Myles.
“It’s usually more an issue of when than who. It doesn’t guard me permanently.”
“Usually?”
The look on his face shuts me down. Then he’s grabbing my arm and tugging my sleeve up and sliding his fingers along my deformed hand. “So how about we do this thing?”
“What thing?”
He smirks. “Close your eyes.”
He presses down as I comply, and there’s an immediate thickening in the air as the damp, magic-soaked atmosphere rushes into my lungs. The next thing I know, it’s launched through my veins, singing through my blood and muscles, infusing them with that ancient melody I swear I know and yet have never heard. That feeling of homesickness returns, and if I concentrate hard enough, I can almost hum the enchanted refrain from another time, another spectrum, as it blends earth and sky and water into a heartbeat that is pulsing with my own.
“Feel that?” he murmurs.
I hardly nod. With my eyes shut, I’ve come from this ancient time, this ancient place. I was created out of its elements, and now those elements have returned to awaken everything around us—the ground, the valley, the lake—they’re in my mind and in my breath, as if they’re the original version of me. The thing I was intended to be.
“What’s it doing?” I gasp.
“Reminding your heart of who you are, and what your Elemental race is for. What you were created for.” His chin brushes my hair as he leans in, sending goose bumps down my skin. “Now this is the part where you let go.”
What? How? I start to panic, but something inside of me shifts, as if the magic filling my lungs is speaking and I should listen. And I know instinctively that it’s stirring me, inhabiting me even as it’s whispering that it’s incapable of inhabiting evil. The thought emerges that, therefore, there must be a goodness within me that predates my curse. I exhale and cautiously allow the siren within me to respond.
I brace for it. But instead of my power exploding like a thunderstorm, it comes as a gentle tide. A heart surrender. Almost painful in its approach, beckoning tears to my eyes as it renders my defenses nonexistent. And suddenly I can’t remember why I ever needed them anyway because the very power I’ve spent my life cowering from is, at its core, pure.
A mist forms on my face, my neck, my lips.
Eogan’s hand slips down to mine. “Open your eyes.”
His face is the first thing I see. Tiny, jeweled water droplets cling to his dark eyelashes. The drips shiver as he smiles before they release to join the millions of others floating around us—around the entire valley—in rainbow-lit colors. As if the world’s gravity no longer holds sway over the elements.
I stretch out my hand and the rainbow mist collects on my skin, molding to me like a colored suit of glass. I lift my arm higher and the water ripples into place along it like crystalline armor. Then I’m reaching farther, toward the distant lake, where I can feel the energy flow as I pull at the air. The lake waters churn and move, no longer gray, but brilliant and alive as a geyser shoots up out of it to follow the arc of my hand. I tug it harder and, like a serpent, it rises into the sky, ready to do my bidding. Beside me, Eogan swears.
I release the water in a giant splash and turn to the storm clouds lacing the valley. With a flick of my wrist, they crack and release a lightning bolt, but before it can land, I tug it closer. It hits down ten feet in front of us. The static from it stays in my fingers as it zaps back and forth on the watery shield. I lift my hand to show Eogan.
He starts to touch it, and when I pull back because it’ll kill him, he smirks and grabs my hand, then presses it to the center of his shirt-covered chest.
The energy releases a glow on his body, and suddenly his skin is fire and lightning and northern night skies, igniting the air around us. He grins, eyes brilliant as they smolder down at me, his heartbeat alive against my hand, sending my stimulated lungs lurching into my throat.
I swallow and try to relegate my emotions back toward some level of safety while the storm in his eyes crackles in amusement. “You have no idea how extraordinary you are,” he murmurs, and suddenly I can feel the hunger pouring off of him as thick as it’s leaching from me.
My jaw drops. The clouds in the distance roar and the floating droplets ascend to create new clouds of their own as a gale picks up, whipping my hair back.
Eogan raises an eyebrow, and his eyes blaze. As if the same lightning storm assembling above us is now poised at the edge of his gaze, determining whether or not it will engage. His breath shudders as my mind forms a definition for the look in his eyes: Craving. Conflict. Apology. Written in colored-light reflections across his handsome face. The pulse in his neck quickens. His inhale is hesitant as his gaze slides down to my lips.
My rib cage curls. Wavering. Terrifying me with how badly I want him to kiss me again.
He pushes a hand along the side of my neck and into my hair, then runs a thumb down my jawline as he tilts his face to hover an inch from mine. His finger stops beneath my trembling lower lip.
My world pauses.
His eyes flicker. An agonized smile, and suddenly he’s clearing his throat. But his voice is still husky when he says, “Look up.”
Confused, I trail his gaze up to the storm surrounding us.
The winds should be ripping the ground up from beneath us and tearing the forest and the sky from its very axis because the hurricane is stronger than anything I’ve ever created. But instead, everything remains untouched, seeming to move in time with the chaos, in a wild cyclone of light and water and rainbows, a shield of lightning and snow with us directly in its eye. Abruptly, I am falling, swimming, flying apart inside as the siren within me finds the door to her cage flung open and deliverance to be near. Deliverance. Freedom. The words sear themselves to my heart.
I smile at Eogan. I can feel control emerging.
“Now do you believe you were created for better?” Eogan whispers.
His body trembles as his mouth grazes my skin just before he rests his chin in my hair. I close my eyes.
When he sighs, it’s one of self-control.
After a moment, he pulls away and his face has already transformed into his very official, disgustingly polite self. “Come on. We need to get you back, or you’ll be late for Adora’s party.”
CHAPTER 23
HOW ’BOUT THIS ONE?” BRECK SAYS IRRITABLY, and holds up the filmy blue dress Adora nearly busted her panty seams over a few parties ago. She runs her hand down the material and tries to suppress a cough in its sleeve, her chest sounding tight even though her skin’s a better color today.
I crinkle my brow. “Breck, you sure you’re all right?”
“Fine. Other than waiting for you to decide on a dress.”
I drop my hairbrush and take the garment selection from her arms. “I told you
I can get myself ready. You should go rest. Or, at the least, go check out that hippo they’re roasting in the kitchen,” I add with a teasing tone.
Her hazy eyes don’t change expression, but she licks her lips and rubs a hand across them.
“Go. Adora’ll never know you weren’t here.”
She wheezes into her palm. Tucks a ragged hair strand behind her ear. “Well, in that case, you just be sure an’ curtsy at the king for me, miss.” She hustles from the room before I can reply.
Miss? I watch the door close. What the bolcrane did Adora do to her?
I press a hand to my pounding head, pathetically aware that whatever game Adora is playing, I’m losing. An hour ago, upon returning from the valley, I asked Breck flat out about Adora while we recolored my hair brown. She actually snarled at me and said we weren’t “goin’ to be talkin’ about it. Ever.” When I queried if it was because of Eogan, her expression turned confused, then angry. “I said it’s none of yer business. An’ if yer smart, you’ll stop askin’ an’ just do what Adora tells you to win this war.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’m not sure I can do that—not if Adora’s plan proves anywhere near as twisted as our owner. And whatever role Eogan’s playing in it . . . between the two of them, I’m beginning to feel like an asylum patient. He wants me, he wants me not. She despises me no matter what, and she’ll hurt people anyway.
I stalk over to the mirror and hold up Adora’s hand-me-down dresses one at a time. The last one in the pile is a billowy satin the color of gray stormy skies. Uneasy. Dangerous. I swag it under my chin, and whether it’s my imagination or the magic still haunting me, my eyes flash. As if the valley’s enchanted melody is still there. You’re stronger than them, it whispers.
Yes. I am stronger. Even if I doubt the than them part.
I decide to wear the poofy dress, thanking the stars that there are minimal buttons. Even so, it takes three times as long to put it on due to my gimpy fingers.
The first trumpet rattles the mirror while I’m attempting to fix my hair like Breck does. But within half a minute, I’ve conceded that the best I can do is to leave it down in its long, saggy curls and hope Colin won’t tease me too badly. I’m shutting the door and hitching up my skirt when the second trumpet blast comes. It sends me running for the stairs, and by the time I reach Adora’s ballroom door where the bald boy is waiting, I’m breathless.
“Cutting it a little close,” he whispers.
I ignore his admiring glance at my attire until my search of his face satisfies me that his health is almost back to normal. His body heat’s still high—I can feel it—but his smile says he’s good. And the fever’s put a shine in his eyes that matches his brown doublet handsomely.
Colin’s grin widens. He winks and opens the door just as the third trumpet erupts and, with his hand on my waist, shoves us into the miniature ballroom. I pull us around guests swathed in more glitter and perfume than anyone should safely inhale, interrupting the attendees’ excited murmurs with my apologies as we make our way to stand opposite Adora, who’s frozen in a curtsy with her hand aloft. She looks like some morbid version of a tree nymph in an amber-colored twig dress. Especially with the carcass of a dead squirrel attached to one shoulder.
Without turning, her eyes snap offense at our tardiness before meeting my rueful smile with loathing. I swear the room’s air drops just as King Sedric strides up, and we bow with the rest of the guests.
Then the king’s taking her hand. “Lady Adora, I’m looking forward to this evening’s party as well as the negotiations to follow.”
The squirrel head on her shoulder jiggles as she laughs. “Your Highness flatters me. The idea that anything I do could help ease the kingly weight you carry humbles me. Of course, I’m always entirely at your service. To ease . . . whatever troubles you may have.”
My brow goes up. I lift my fingers to hide my giggle as the king’s expression freezes. His gaze turns awkward a moment before he releases her hand and steps back.
“Is there really no limit to her flirting?” someone behind me mutters.
No. No, there’s not.
“Allow me to present the Lady Isobel to Your Majesty,” Adora continues, and on cue, a woman unfurls like a flower from a mound of fur cloaks beside my owner.
A gasp shreds through the room.
How I didn’t notice her two seconds before is beyond me, because now her presence permeates the entire suffocating space. Tall and willowy, with black eyes and raven hair set off by a tight, nearly see-through gown, she’s the picture of power and intimidation and seductive delicacy. If Adora can control a harem of men, this woman could dominate a horde of warriors. And she can hardly be four years older than me.
Jealousy slips up my throat. Eogan fully lied. I jab Colin in the ribs to make him shut his gaping mouth before he gets drool on me.
Lady Isobel glides forward, surrounded by five female masked guards, and offers the king her gloved hand. She doesn’t curtsy or bow or show the least bit of deference beyond a cordial nod, but if the king is intimidated or impressed by her, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he may be the only person who’s not falling over himself to stare at her.
A host of introductions are made between the lady and others of the High Court’s esteemed council—including Lord Myles, who pulls his attention from Isobel long enough to smirk at me. I narrow my gaze and tip it to his cravat, as if he’s got some unsightly stain on it, then bite back my amusement when he actually looks down. His responding glare is murder.
I smile innocently and return to studying Lady Isobel. And not just because she’s gorgeous and unlikable and Eogan was clearly less than forthcoming about her physique, but because I’ve never seen a Mortisfaire before, let alone Draewulf’s daughter. What must it be like to have that kind of ability? To have that kind of heritage?
I shiver just as a cheer erupts in the crowd. Adora and her dead squirrel are announcing she’s arranged a special dance before dinner in honor of our guests. The three harpies pick up singing their mystical waltz harmonies as I pat Colin on the back and start for the side corner to blend in with the gaudy wallpaper.
“Wait! Dance with me,” he says. But his eyes are still on Lady Isobel.
I’m saved from replying by three salivating ladies-dressed-as-mermaids who pounce. No doubt thrilled to have a handsome, very young man to fight over. I wave him off as they twirl him to the center of the room where Adora leads the waltz with two male guests, one dressed as a sin-eater and the other a fern.
“Excuse me, miss, would you—?”
“I’m flattered but not feeling well.”
Two, three, thirteen offers later, and I don’t even glance at the gentlemen before responding. My head blurs Adora’s guests, who sound alike as they chatter about how the war has affected their access to frothy dresses and turned their servants into ninnies. But there’s a tightness in their voices I’ve not heard before, and their tones dip at the word war. As if whispering it will make the reality less terrifying. I listen and keep my eyes on Lady Isobel.
I’m working to decipher the thoughts behind her smile as she converses with King Sedric and Myles when a number of generals near me pick up discussing the battlefront. I edge closer at the mention of the hundred airships that came into sight off the coast yesterday, floating above Bron warboats. Fifteen minutes of eavesdropping informs me where the likeliest strikes will come (to the northwest of us to gain control of the water pass), and how soon (any day), and how the infantry units have been repositioned.
Then the men move on, and after a brief moment of watching the group around Isobel, I make a decision.
I head for Lord Myles.
He catches my eye and excuses himself from the king and Lady Isobel’s company. Not that he seemed to be a part of their conversation anyway. When he strides over, his snarled expression does nothing to hide his intrigue.
“Well, if it isn’t the little Elemental seeking me out. I’m flattered.”
“I want to speak with you.”
“Of course you do. Truly, it’s a wonder you haven’t committed suicide from sheer boredom in this place.”
“From the looks of it, your chat with Lady Isobel wasn’t quite the thrill you’d hoped either. I wonder—was it your awkward flirtations that repulsed her or the stench of traitor?”
His lips pucker as he leans back to assess me. “Nymia. I swear I’ve misjudged you. That sssarcasm. Please tell me you employ it often. Because there’s a shortage of sharp-witted women these daysss, and I find it positively entertaining. But here, how rude of me. Did you want to dance?”
“I don’t dance. I want to talk.”
“Hmm.” He runs a glance down me. “Trussst me, talking should be the furthest thing from our minds. But no worries, we can do both.”
“That’s not—”
He slides a cold finger up my arm. “Tsk, tsk. It wasssn’t an invitation, love.”
My feet trip over each other to keep the rest of me upright as he clamps one hand on my waist and the other over my owner circles and presses me to the dance floor. I’d slap him if I didn’t think he’d out my Elemental status here and now to the king. Instead I step on his foot, hard, just as I catch Adora’s scathing glare that’s challenging me as to why I’m not cowering against the wall like a squashed fly.
Then Lord Myles is in my face. “You know, I think anger is an excellent attribute on you. You’re practically glowing.” He spins me close. “Perhaps I’ll infuriate you more and see what sparksss we set off together, hmm?”
I frown. “My sparks get violent.”
“That’s exactly what I’m hoping.” He pushes me out and twirls me until I’m dizzy, with only his fingers gripping mine, and in that moment Eogan is there. Stiff. Glacial. Watching us from the sideline. Then I’m back in Myles’s arms, inches from his perfect teeth. “I believe you wanted to ask me something?”
“What do you know of Lady Isobel?”
