And right there in the middle of his chest, a sleeping kitten.
She couldn’t have loved him more in that moment if she’d tried.
Miranda reached up and took the clip out of her hair, letting it fall down around her shoulders. She grinned to herself and sat on the edge of the couch, pushing her robe off. She nudged the cat onto the floor with one hand. The kitten gave her an indignant look and turned away to lick herself. Then Miranda leaned down and kissed her Prime awake.
He made a half-growling noise and opened his eyes a slit. “I’m asleep,” he said drowsily. “And I’m dreaming there’s a beautiful naked woman within easy pouncing distance. I can’t possibly be that lucky.”
She flicked her tongue against his earlobe. “How lucky would you like to be?”
Now his eyes opened all the way. “Wait . . . didn’t I marry you?”
“As a matter of fact, you did.” Miranda took one of his hands and placed it on her thigh, where it began to wander of its own accord, his nimble fingers tracing spirals over her skin. “It’s late,” she said. “Are you done with whatever it was you were sleeping through?”
“Done enough. Besides . . . I don’t think I could concentrate on code right now.”
She smiled, then leaned close and said very softly into his ear, “Take me to bed or lose me forever.”
David wound his fingers through hers, all the worry and sadness they’d been carrying around for months falling away, for a while, leaving just the two of them, one heart beating in two places. He smiled and replied, “Show me the way home.”
• • •
“Hey, Lark. I’m just checking in . . . I really miss you. Maybe I can sneak off into town one night this week and we can do a movie or something. I’m just craving actual human company. Give me a call, or e-mail.”
Stella stuffed her phone back in her pants pocket with a sigh. She didn’t know if Lark was avoiding her calls or they just had bad timing; at this point either was equally likely. She’d barely spoken to her best friend since she’d come back to the Haven—her life had been sucked into a vortex of weirdness and she felt like she was living outside time, in another dimension.
She went back to what she’d been doing when the impulse to talk to Lark struck: dusting and rearranging the altar in the ritual room. It hadn’t been used since that night she had watched Nico work; he hadn’t had a chance to make good on his offer to teach her. She didn’t blame him. He did have a lot on his mind.
She was just so lonely. Everyone made it clear she was wanted here, and that they cared about her, but with so much going on, there was no time to eat ice cream with Miranda or learn Weaving with Nico. The closest she got to either was eating ice cream while entertaining extremely vivid fantasies of licking it off the Elf’s neck. She had seen him only a couple of times since he’d taken his Signet, and she wanted very badly to seek the Elf out, to offer . . . well, whatever comfort a silly young human could give an immortal . . . whatever he needed that she could find a way to give.
Most of the items that had been on the altar were back in her room already, since they were from her personal shrine; there were two large pillar candles, a bowl of salt and one of water, and a slowly desiccating pomegranate remaining.
The thought occurred: She might not be able to do much Weaving, but she could go in and look, have a peek at the Circle and see how things were shaping up. She was curious what all the bonds looked like now, especially the one between Nico and Deven. It couldn’t hurt to do that, could it, as long as she didn’t touch anything or dig around? They’d trusted her with far more than that, and if she wanted to learn that kind of magic, she needed to spend more time studying.
Excited at the prospect of having something new to do, Stella grabbed a big cushion and dropped it on the floor, then dropped herself onto it cross-legged. She took a moment to ground and center, a bit annoyed with herself; she’d been neglecting her meditation practice lately, and that almost certainly had something to do with how unhappy she’d been. With all these supernatural beings around her, staying grounded was even more important.
“Bad Stella,” she muttered. “Bad Witch, no broomstick.”
Taking a deep breath she closed her eyes and started to reach inward to draw up the Web . . .
. . . but something . . .
Her eyes popped open. Something wasn’t right.
The energy in the room felt strange all of a sudden, charged with static electricity that made her arm hairs leap up on end. She shifted into her usual Sight, the less sophisticated vision she’d always relied on before.
What she saw . . . what the hell?
Stella was on her feet, pushed by a swell of power in the center of the Circle that felt unlike anything she’d ever experienced. The way it was swirling slowly around the room, gathering in front of her, made no sense to her eyes or her Sight. The air in the room grew hotter, each breath feeling sharp in her lungs.
She would have run, but the energy was between her and the door. She had nowhere to go, and she was about to lift her com to her lips and yell for help, when . . .
The power condensed into a single point, then blew outward with a nearly audible snap like a flag unfurling. Energy rushed out from the center, the force of it nearly knocking her on her ass. The single point grew until it was a circle of light, and another blast hit her, this one of wind.
The door was closed. There were no windows. Wind? From where?
Stella stood transfixed, too petrified to move, as the light became brighter and brighter, ultimately flashing bright enough to send stars dancing through her brain.
A moment of intense heat—
—and it was gone.
Stella had her hands over her face and took them away slowly, her heart racing so fast she couldn’t even feel individual beats.
Oh . . . my . . .
A face she knew, but without its warmth—staring at her with cold eyes, seeming made out of shadow and fire—jet-black hair, shining like a raven’s feathers, falling down like a cloak over black robes that reached the floor.
Those eyes burned into hers . . . filled with wrath and power that had no interest in discretion or diplomacy . . .
. . . violet eyes.
A voice that she knew was normally low and melodic snapped at her like a bolt of lightning, as commanding as any here she’d ever heard, and Stella was so afraid she could barely comprehend the words.
Every syllable was knife-sharp and hell-dark.
“Where is my brother?”
Shadowbound Page 36
