The End of Magic (The Witches of Echo Park #3)(7)

She took a deep breath.

She thought she would be okay.

And then she began to cry.

She felt Tem wrap his long arms around her. He pulled her to him as she gulped down air, her sobs so powerful they shook her whole body. All the fear and tension drained out of her as she cried, like her heart had been lanced with a sharpened needle. It was a visceral thing, something she had no control over. So she let the hysteria consume her. Let her brain float away for a little while. Even though the crying made her head feel large and unwieldy, made her temples throb, there was nothing for it.



       
         
       
        

Temistocles held her as she broke down. He didn't say a word, only stroked her russet hair and let her cry. He seemed to understand she needed this. That without the tears, there would be no healing of the wound.

She nestled her cheek against the warm hollow of his neck, the soft skin at his throat as inviting as a pillow. She wished she could go to sleep right there in his arms-and if she could've managed it, she would've. She didn't care that she was standing up.

"Daniela . . . the others . . . will they be . . . okay? I . . . can't . . . stop . . . crying," she whispered. She was having trouble getting the words out because she was gritting her teeth in between the sobs, trying to stop them from chattering.

"I don't know. And you do what you need to do," he said, then kissed the top of her head.

"I've . . . ruined your shirt." The thin linen at his throat was wet with her snot and tears.

He laughed, the sound coming from deep in his belly and rolling over her like a wave of joy.

"What?" she demanded, smiling despite herself.

"That's what's got you worried?" he said, snorting with more laughter. "After all that . . . after thwarting the bad guys and personally-with your own damn body as the vessel-dragging magic back into your world . . . getting boogers on my shirt's what gives you pause?"

He squeezed her tight.

"You are a precious jewel. I'd die a hundred more times to get to spend my death with you."

She pulled away from him, for the first time realizing that though he was warm to the touch, she could hear no heart beating in his chest. She stared up at his face-the long nose, the sad gray eyes that turned down at the corners, the soft pink lips-and her own heart thudded.

"I don't want you to be dead," she said, the words coming out in a rasp. Her mouth was dry from crying. "I want you to be alive so we can be together."

He grinned down at her-as tall as she was, he was even taller.

"I'm stuck in the dreamlands, love. It's a life, of sorts. I can see you and touch you while you're here . . ." He trailed off, as if realizing just how lame this sounded.

Thunder cracked across the sky, the sound rolling in percussive bursts toward them. For the first time since she'd left behind the human world, Lizbeth looked at her surroundings. The dreamlands were another dimension from the one she'd been born into. It was where you went in your dreams, and since Lizbeth was a Dream Walker, she'd spent a lot of time there. But the dreamlands were so changeable, so fickle and unpredictable, that even with her experience spending time there, she was often surprised by the new things she discovered. 

This trip was no exception. She'd been standing on a monolith of rock in Georgia-the country, not the state-before Tem had spirited her away, and part of her expected to see a similar terrain here in the dreamlands. That happened more often than not when she visited. It would resemble where she'd been in her real life, and then, after a while, it would start to morph and change into something new. The dreamlands were skilled at mirroring whatever was in the dreamer's mind, whatever the dreamer happened to be thinking about or obsessing over in their waking life. She was pretty sure the dreamlands were crafted from pure thought, making them impermanent and easy to manipulate, if only you knew how to do it.

And she did . . . but this trip was different.

"Where are we?" Lizbeth asked, eyes adjusting to the darkness.

She saw a velvety black sky with a shining globe-the orb as pale as fresh butter-stitched into the fabric above them, and then farther away a sea of angry gray thunderheads fast approaching. They were standing on a surface made entirely of water. It stretched out around them in an unbroken line of liquid for as far as the eye could see. She lifted her foot and felt wetness slosh against her ankles, saw that not only were her feet bare, but so were her legs. She lifted her arms, examining the rest of herself, and discovered that she'd magically shed her cold-weather clothing for a thick white muslin nightshift. She knew she should have been cold standing in four inches of cool water, but the muslin made her feel warm and toasty.