The Spirit Thief(33)

“Forgive me, mistress,” he rattled. “I failed you.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Miranda said gently, running her fingers over his jagged edges. “I sent you into danger neither of us could have foreseen. You did well in the job I assigned you. Now it’s time to come home.”

Durn sighed against her skin, and then, with a sound like slag falling down a cliff, began to disintegrate. He broke first into small boulders, then gravel, and then dust that glowed silver in the afternoon sun as it drifted up into Miranda’s open hands. She gathered him bit by bit into his ring, using her own spirit as a guide to fold him into the gem. When the last tendril of dust vanished, the emerald flashed faintly before dying out altogether as Miranda pushed him into a deep sleep.

“He’ll recover,” she said and sighed, twisting the ring over so the dark stone was against her palm. “But it’ll be weeks before he’s fit for anything except sleeping.”

“It could have been worse,” Gin offered, but she cut him off with a raised hand.

“I don’t want to think about it. Let’s focus on doing our job. Which way did they go?”

“This way.” Gin stood up and turned with a swish of his tail, hopping over the remains of Eli’s root trap.

Miranda hobbled after him, gritting her teeth against the pain in her bruised legs and side. “How far?”

“Less than a mile,” Gin said, looking over his shoulder.

Miranda grabbed a broken root and, leaning her weight on it, hobbled faster. “I’m surprised you’re not stalking them if they’re that close. I could have caught up.”

He gave her a long look as she limped forward pathetically. Then, with a sigh, he jumped back over the roots and flopped on the ground beside her. “Get on already, you’re making me hurt just watching you.”

Miranda grinned and tossed her improvised crutch aside, climbing up his back as fast as her aching muscles allowed.

“Anyway”—Gin lowered his head to his paws, which suddenly required his immediate attention—“I preferred to wait.”

Miranda hid her smile in his fur as she made her way to her usual seat behind his ears. When she was settled, she nudged him with her boot. Gin rose and, together, they slunk westward through the trees.


In another world, a door opened in a white room. Or, rather, that was incorrect, for to say a door opened implies that a door existed. Nothing here existed if she did not will it, and she was not expecting the door. Still, it opened just the same, and a tall, angry man stepped into the perfect white nothing she lounged in, watching her sphere.

Her white eyes flicked over him, and a delicate sneer appeared on her flawless white face.

Why do you come when you are not summoned?

The angry man did not answer. He crossed the blankness with long strides and stood beside her, arms folded over his chest.

“He’s doing it again.” His voice was like distant thunder. “You have to put a stop to this.”

What should you care?

The man’s face grew even angrier, and his long fingers gripped the blue-wrapped sword at his hip. She smiled coyly. It was times like these, when his rages got the better of his sense, that she remembered why she treasured him still, despite his presumptions.

“With respect,” he growled, “you created me to care. I spared your favorite’s companion when he took in the demonseed. I even turned a blind eye when he gave her that triple-damned coat, but this is too far. The whole League just felt her attack a stone spirit, and yet you give no order to attack.” His voice rose with each word, and small tongues of lightning began to crackle from the hand that gripped his sword hilt. “How am I to fulfill my purpose if you block me at every turn for the sake of your pet thief!”

He had barely finished when the empty whiteness pressed in around him, grabbing him in a vise of air and lead. The woman’s coy smile never faded, but her anger thrilled through the emptiness until he felt the light itself burning his skin. Even then, he did not move, and his scowl did not change.

Eli is mine. The words were glass shards grinding through his mind. You are not to go near him.

“And should the demonseed awake?” he said, choking against the unrelenting pressure. “Am I to watch her devour the world and your precious Eli with it?!”

I have spoken!

The man staggered under her anger, dropping to one knee. Her white face softened, and she reached out to lay a snowy hand on his dark hair.

There, there, she cooed. It will not come to that. She slid her hand down his cheek and tilted his head up, her sharp nails digging into the tender flesh of his throat. Have faith in me, my Lord of Storms.