ruby droplets.
His hand upon his sword, senses attuned to the slightest movement or sound, he watched her eyes close. Her dark lashes were lacy against the upper curve of her cheek. The arcane words she murmured grew in strength and volume. They seemed to fill the cavernous space of the warehouse with their intricacy, complex as labyrinths.
Light gathered around her, gold and lambent. It covered her, its radiance like a cascade sweeping across her in waves. An unseen wind pulled her hair from its pins so it blew about her shoulders. Though Bram remained alert to any signs of intrusion, he could not look away from her, shining like a goddess. Her magic turned the air electric. He could feel it in the reticulation of his veins and sponge of his lungs. When he breathed, he breathed her power.
The glow surrounding her grew, spreading outward until it formed a sphere that encompassed them both. Energy skittered across his skin.
The light abruptly flickered, dimming. Livia swayed and her voice weakened. She looked suddenly haggard. Alarmed, he darted forward. Something was awry. Yet before he could touch her, her eyes opened. They glowed. Her irises and pupils were no longer visible, replaced by more golden light.
He halted, his hand hovering over her shoulder. She stared directly at him, but did not see him at all. She chanted louder. With a flare, the glow surrounding her returned, stronger now, so that it stretched out in a radius that engulfed half the warehouse.
A gust of wind pushed Bram back. He struggled to keep standing as Livia’s voice increased in volume and the tempest battered at him.
The unknown language she spoke shifted, and she cried in English, “Return—there are no barriers! Hellraisers, the time to undo your wickedness is at hand.
The light around her flared, blinding him, and the warehouse shook. Small pieces of wood shook down from the ceiling and struck the floor. Abruptly, the wind died, the light was quenched, and stillness enfolded the building.
Bram blinked, clearing his vision from its dull red glow. He rushed forward when he saw Livia supine upon the blanket.
Falling to his knees, he gathered her up. She lay listless and unmoving in his arms. But for the slight rise and fall of her chest, she was utterly still. He stroked her hair, her cheeks, his heart pounding fierce enough to rip from the cage of his ribs. She felt altogether too slight, too fragile. Her cheeks were pale, the beat of her pulse barely fluttering against the fine skin of her throat.
He brushed his lips against hers. Light as thistledown, her breath, and shallow. He drew upon it, as though he could pull it from her and drag her back to consciousness.
“Livia, love,” he urged, his voice a rasp, “you aren’t to go anywhere. Is that understood?”
There was no response from her. Not a word spoken, nor even a flutter of an eyelash.
“I’m a wastrel,” he continued, “but I’m a soldier, and a bloody officer. I won’t be gainsaid. Disobeying me is a whipping offense. You obey me now, damn you.”
The softest movement of her lips. She struggled to form words.
His throat burned as it constricted. “What is it, love?”
“I obey . . .” She drew in a thready breath. “. . . No one.”
“Just this one time, do what you’re told.” His heart was a leaping animal when her eyes opened, dark and rich, and focused on him. He could not stop touching her face.
“Only this once,” she whispered. “I caution you, however . . . do not get . . . accustomed to such behavior.”
“I am duly warned.” He glanced down at the rough woolen blanket spread upon the ground. “Damn. You need to rest, but I don’t want you touching this coarse thing.”
She lifted her head enough to glance around the warehouse. “Take me to the desk.”
He gathered her up in his arms and carried her the distance. The feel of her nestled against him, her soft, sleek weight, coursed like fire.
She instructed, “Say the following.” She spoke series of words in a tongue he’d never heard before.
He repeated the words as best he could. Nothing happened.
“The second syllable of the fourth word needs to be drawn out,” she said, and repeated the spell.
He fought for patience. A damned linguistics lesson when she needed rest. But he mimicked her pronunciation of the words. To his surprise, a glow spread out from his chest. It flowed from him to surround the desk.
When light dissipated, the desk had transformed into a low, Roman-style couch. It had curved wooden legs, elaborately carved and gilded, and was covered by a long silk-wrapped cushion. More bright silk pillows were strewn about the couch, tasseled with gold. A small brazier at the foot of the couch sent spice-fragrant smoke curling up toward the beams of the ceiling.
“A useful spell,” he murmured. “We could’ve used this when first we arrived here.”
“The outcome of my spellcasting was unknown. I was uncertain if we would need your magic for something else. Healing, or retrieval. But now . . .”
Carefully, he arranged her on the couch. Her skirts rustled as she settled back, combining with her sigh in an intimate caress of sound.
After retrieving the bottle, he discovered a few swallows of wine left in the bottom. He put the bottle to her lips, and she took a sip. A droplet of wine clung to her bottom lip. Rather than lick it off, he drank from the bottle. It did nothing to quench his thirst, especially after the tip of her tongue darted out and caught the droplet.
“The spell is broken?” He needed to occupy his thoughts with the looming danger, or else he would stretch himself out beside her, or cover her body with his own, seeking out her hot and yielding places.
“The other Hellraisers may cross water now. I have summoned them to us. The matter of getting here, and how quickly, that is theirs to determine.” She let out a long exhale. “Bram?”
“What is it, love?”
“I feel strange.”
“How?”
“Heavy and lethargic, and my eyes keep trying to close.”
He leaned over her, running the backs of his fingers over her cheek. “You’re simply falling asleep. Nothing to give you concern.”
“I haven’t slept in so long. I don’t remember what it’s like.”
“It can be very pleasant. Peaceful. You may even have dreams.”
“What if . . .” She swallowed hard. “What if I do not wake up?”
“You will. I vow to you that you shall awaken.” She still looked uncertain, rare vulnerability in her gaze. “I’ll watch over you.”
Already, her lashes fluttered as sleepiness overtook her, and her words faintly slurred as she said, “Thank you.”
“Rest now, love. I’m here. And I will be here when you wake.”
As he watched, she dozed off, her breath becoming even and slow. This was the first time he had ever seen her asleep, or anything other than vigilant and aware. Her beauty at all times pierced him, and in repose she had an unguarded softness, a pliancy.
An illusion. She was steel and fire, her will as indomitable as his own. Precisely as he desired. Yet in her weakened, sleeping state, she needed protecting. He would watch over her—for as long as she needed.
He kept his vigil, leaving her side in brief intervals to patrol the building. Restlessness gnawed at him, the need to move, to take action, yet there was little to do except wait.
Some hours later, as he made another sweep of the warehouse, he was alerted by the sound of her gown rustling. By the time she blinked open her eyes, he sat beside her, brushing loose strands of hair from her forehead.
“There, you see,” he murmured. “Still amongst the living.”
“And you are still at my side.”
“No sign of trouble while you rested,” he said. “We’re safe.”
