Page 111

Chapter Thirty-Two

Kit cursed himself for a fool, having briefly forgotten what Gillian was, and what she could do. And focused all his strength on wearing out the hex she had hit him with. He managed to wiggle his wrist somewhat above the hand she’d freed, as the spell had likely been weakened there, but that was all.

Leaving him staring at the candle as it slowly dripped wax onto the table, and the thrice damned tea as it cooled off.

The two witches did not come back, perhaps because something was happening out front. He couldn’t see what, since the shutters were flapping back and forth in the wind, cutting off the view. And since the damned window didn’t look in that direction in any case!

But it did show some very disturbing glimpses of things taking place at the other end of the street. There was a multicolored haze above the buildings there that did not look like lightning, and cracks echoing down the road that didn’t sound like thunder. The skies had torn open, the storm having arrived in full force, yet it wasn’t enough to cover the sounds of battle—and he wasn’t there!

Or even on his feet. He toppled over, his progressively more desperate flailing having only succeeded in unbalancing him, causing him to hit the floorboards face first. Where he remained, staring at them helplessly, as his now broken nose leaked blood all over the wood. And wondered how he was supposed to get out of this one.

“You could ask,” someone said mildly, and Kit closed his eyes.

Twice in one day.

He was never going to live this down.

“Yes, but the operative word is live,” his Lady said, as he felt a gentle touch on his chin, lifting it back up.

He opened his bloody vision, because something had torn a cut in his forehead, too, and it was currently leaking into his eyes. And actually saw her, as clearly as if she was standing before him. The only way he knew that she wasn’t was that the rough floorboards he was laying on shaded into marble around her feet.

But that was the sole thing giving it away. Her touch was warm and indented his skin slightly, and the cloth of silver dress she wore, complete with train, lit up in another lightning burst so brightly that it dazzled him. He could even see his face, frozen in a ridiculous expression because he hadn’t been expecting to get stuck that way, reflected in her eyes.

It was an impressive display of power, and normally would have had him asking questions that she might or might not answer, depending on her mood. But tonight, he didn’t care how she was doing it. Just knew that he hated this, hated everything about this, didn’t understand how he kept getting into these things—

“That would make two of us,” she said, searching his face. “Ah, yes. I know this one.”

A moment later, Kit was hitting the floor again as the spell released him. His chin took a knock, hard enough to rattle his teeth, and then he was on his feet again, snarling. Only to have his Lady look at him in amusement.

“You look better that way.”

He decided not to ask what she meant, and sketched a bow before his situation got any worse. “I thank thee, Lady, for—”

“I am to dine with friends this evening,” she interrupted smoothly, pulling on a glove. “Can you manage from here?”

“I— Yes, of course.”

“Good.” She looked at him wryly. “A third time will cost you.”

And then she was gone.

Kit stared at the place where she’d been standing for a moment, his eyes insisting that they could still see her, a silver blur against the darkness. Until he blinked, the illusion shattered, and he leapt for the stairs. And raced down the sagging boards on unsteady feet, the spell still snarling and snapping around his ankles, trying to trip him up.

He spilled into the main room of the alehouse, his power high and his muscles tensed and ready—

Only to discover that it was utterly deserted.

He paused, looking around in confusion, because even the damned cats were gone. The only movement was from the fireplace, where a few glimmers of flame poked their heads above the embers, and a spilled tankard of ale, dripping onto the floor. And from the partly opened front door, which the rain-laced wind was batting back and forth.

The bird was even gone, its perch in the rafters empty and splattered with guano, the sharp reek of which made his nose twitch.

Then something flickered at the opposite edge of his vision, just a shadow, but a moving one. Kit dove for the darkened doorway at the back of the house, being careful not to trip through the portal that was situated only a few yards beyond it. And grabbed for something that was making an ominous sort of scraping noise, like a sword tip being dragged across wood.

But before his fist could close, it sprang at him, hitting with such force that he found himself staggering back into the main room, despite being braced for an attack. And then crashing to the floor on his back with an armful of something heavy and happily gurgling. And staring down at him with brilliant orange eyes, so bright that they shed shadows onto scaley cheeks.

Very pudgy, scaley cheeks, because it slowly dawned on him that he had an armful of baby dragon.

He stared at it in disbelief, and it laughed delightedly back at him, showing off pink gums with no teeth, because it hadn’t grown any yet. Not that it needed them. Its mother had some as long as one of Kit’s legs and—