Her skin was chilled under his touch, a fine tremor a millimeter under the surface, as want and need and desire and truth crashed within her, fought a battle as epic as any powers a dream crafter could summon, and as intimate as the enclosure of the human heart. Her gaze shifted, and she looked off into the shadows.
She broke contact then, shifting her gaze away from whatever had mesmerized her, and when she smiled up at him, there was decision and determination in the lines of her body. “How do we save him the right way?”
“If I may.” Laire stepped forward, the timing so perfect she must have been waiting for the words. She moved in slow motion, wary in the way people are around a rabid dog. “The Spellbook. What does the Spellbook say?”
“The Spellbook?” He and Amana asked it together, and he was sure, without looking, their faces had the same expression of dumb not-understanding.
“I know you’ve felt how it responds to him. I felt it through the twenty layers of magical crap your boyfriend threw at me – by the way, tell him never to do that again – so I know you know what I’m talking about. Ask it now to help him.”
Nakoa glanced at Amana, the mental note in his head to ask about Laire’s declaration written and signed. Indeed, Amana did know what Laire was speaking about, for her face cleared, and with a quick movement she grabbed at the bag at her side to rip the book out of her bag.
The book was glowing, magics swirling around it in a violent maelstrom he flinched from, but Amana brought it close to her, cradling it to her heart and leaning over it, as though it were speaking to her.
Nakoa rose and stepped back, but not more than a step away. He was with his sister until the end, and now, he would support her whatever happened next.
Chapter Forty-Seven
‡
The Spellbook was crying for Merc.
Now that her mind was free, its call was clear, the way it reached for him visible to her now, and she placed it against his chest, taking care not to allow its weight on Merc’s numerous wounds.
The Spellbook released a mournful surge, its magic surrounding Merc, and the black lines of his skin rose up to intertwine with the cascading magic, the resulting glow surrounding him.
“So you’ll step away, again.” The other stood on the other side of Merc, her lip curled in unmitigated disgust.
“No.” Amana’s disagreement stopped the other, her mouth pursing and face scrunching in confusion and surprise. “I’ll never deny what I am again.”
Satisfaction radiated from the other. “So you’ll keep using our power.”
“No, I won’t do that either.”
The other went through a whiplash of emotions stalking and prowling in front of Amana. “What are you playing at?”
Before Amana could speak, from the Spellbook came a flash of light, magics swirling in the air above it. Up, up they went, and the forces began to coalesce, take shape.
The form was shimmery, misty, but opaque enough the features were readily seen, and Merc’s mother from that long ago dream took form, opening her eyes and looking straight at Amana and her double. “Dream Crafter. My son would choose such a woman.”
Amana didn’t question, didn’t require anything, only stepped forward and extended her hand. “Please help me save him. Before you even ask, I love him. I’m sure I’ve loved him from the first time I met him, and I’m almost sure my magic made me find him because it knew I loved him. So please, I’ll do anything you ask, but help me save him.”
“It is Merc’s decision.” Her eyes fell to the man on the ground, and even with her translucent figure, it was apparent how her eyes went soft as she looked at the man. “The Spellbook can save him, but only if he accepts his place as its next Guardian. I would not force that position on him during my life, and I will not force him from this existence. All I wish, is for my son to follow his own heart. Though,” and here her eyes turned again to Amana, the softness lingering, “I do hope his heart chooses you.”
“I hope so too.” She kneeled down now, kissed his forehead, placed her hand on top of the Spellbook, the area that covered his heart.
His eyes were closed, hiding those warm, loving eyes from her, and the last look he gave her flashed through her mind, the warmth and love in them so clear though he was hurting, was dying. She leaned close to his ear. “It’s your choice, my love. I’ll never take that away from you. So you choose, and let me follow you.”
I swear to you that will never change. I will follow where you lead, so you can be free to follow your heart.
“And me?” The other was looking down at her, uncertainty and unreleased anger thrumming through her. “What about me?”