CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE #3
Deckard’s arms encircled her, pressing her firmly against him.
The longing she’d felt upon seeing him took control.
Her fingers latched onto the collar of his coat, pulling him into a deeper kiss.
She could feel his heart racing under her hand and hear it beating in time with hers.
Their breath mingled, neither of them willing to break for a full inhale.
His hands wandered with a freedom he’d never allowed, trailing shivers across her skin.
She was vaguely aware that he’d pressed her against the wall.
A desperation woke within her, a need she’d tried to ignore for far too long.
Every barrier she’d placed between them was gone.
She ran her finger through his hair, down his neck, and across his chest. She felt everything with startling clarity.
His deep sigh spiraled down into her core, in resonance with her heart.
The sharp scent of pine and sweat mingled with the ever-present crispness of him.
He tasted of over-malted ale. His warmth countered the coolness that coated her skin.
She was overcome by the experience of him, and she never wanted it to end.
The sudden clearing of a throat scratched jaggedly through Evylin’s magic-heightened ears. She stilled at the shocking realization that Ethenn, Auden, and half a dozen dead men were in the room with them. A wave of embarrassment slammed into her, dousing her in reality.
Evylin jerked back, shoving Deckard away.
They both gasped for air as their eyes locked in startled wonder.
She’d expected to see the presence of the Mage still, but his eyes had returned to their usual, subdued green-blue.
His expression had softened, the fierceness replaced with gentleness.
The purple-black shadows had faded entirely.
He’d returned to the Deckard she’d met in Whickam Village, the charming, harmless man she’d married.
“Colonel,” Ethenn muttered awkwardly, “we should go.”
Deckard hadn’t yet looked away from Evylin as though surprised to find her there. His lips remained parted, his chest still heaving for breath. The pinch appeared between his brows. “Yes,” he said, then swallowed. “Yes, I know.”
Returning to their senses, Evylin and Deckard shifted away from one another.
“Do you—?” He paused, took a breath, and then started again. “Do you know where they took your things?”
Evylin shook her head, afraid to look away from him. Her heart still pounded, her magic urging her to return to his embrace. She couldn’t trust either herself or him at the moment.
Finally, Deckard turned away. “See if you can find them,” he told Ethenn. “I’ll take care of Auden.”
“Yes, sir,” Ethenn said, giving Evylin a half-glance before hurrying from the room.
Slowly, Deckard faced Evylin once more, head dipped. He scanned her. “Are you all right?” he asked tenderly.
At first, Evylin thought he was asking about her reaction to the kiss. Then she realized he referred to her capture.
The mixed emotions warring in her disrupted her ability to form words. Was she all right? Abduction and threat weren’t pleasant experiences, but this had been nothing compared to her meeting with Blount in the Water Keep. And it was a jaunty trip across the countryside next to Hewitt’s death.
If Evylin were honest, that kiss had been more traumatic than her time as Nev’s prisoner.
“I’m fine,” she managed to say.
A relieved sigh escaped Deckard, and he reached out. Likely, he’d only meant to brush the hair from her face, but she sidestepped, moving out of his range.
His hand fell, his expression dejected. “Did they hurt you?” he asked cautiously.
Evylin tried to smile, shrugging off her avoidance. “Nothing that Auden can’t patch up.”
Reminded of the Mage, Deckard turned to appraise him. He dropped down to untie his bonds. “What did they do to him?” he asked.
“Nev—their leader—he said that they’d drugged him,” she explained. “I don’t know what they used.”
As Deckard finished freeing Auden, Ethenn returned with their cloaks, purse, and Evylin’s weapons. “I found this too,” the young man said, then proffered a large money pouch.
“Leave it,” Deckard said.
Evylin paused in hiding the daggers about her person once more. “It’s a lot of money,” she said. “Which we’re frightfully low on.”
Deckard shook his head. “We’re not thieves.”
She scoffed. “They’re dead. It’s not like they’re going to use it.”
Deckard turned to her, jaw tight. She saw anger in his glare, and she latched onto it. The anger was good. It would put distance between them and that magically induced hunger. It would protect them, walling off their feelings and desires.
Instead of replying, Deckard turned to Ethenn. “Help me carry Auden.”
Evylin swiped the money pouch from the floor where Ethenn had left it.
Slowly, the men carried the Mage out of the room, down the stairs, and through the tavern.
She followed, eyeing each dead body they passed.
Eighteen men and one woman, dead. Five had fallen to Ethenn’s blades, and only Nev had died at Evylin’s hand.
The other thirteen showed signs of the vicious slashes of Deckard’s magic.
Evylin stared at her husband’s back as they waited in the gore-filled tavern.
He stripped off his blood-spattered coat, draping it over the countertop as though to rid himself of this crime.
Thirteen people he’d killed by himself. All with magic he’d never touched before.
And in some dark fascination, it drew her to him.
Ethenn went off to retrieve the horses—his and Deckard’s as well as Evylin and Auden’s, which he’d discovered in a stable two buildings away during his earlier search. When he returned, they stepped out into the gloomy rain. He and Deckard secured Auden to his horse, draping him across the saddle.
Then Deckard surveyed the tavern. “We should burn it,” he said.
“Why?” Evylin asked.
“Blount can’t learn of this,” he explained. “It’d be best he doesn’t know about my . . . condition.”
Though Evylin thought it foolish to compare his magic to an illness, she didn’t bother arguing that particular point. “He’ll just assume that it was Auden,” she said.
Deckard shook his head. “Blount will recognize Night magic when he sees it.”
Evylin and Ethenn shared a look. Night magic—that’s what the purple-black masses of shadow and crystal were. That’s why Deckard had acted so differently—so aggressive and terrifying, so ready to kill. He’d connected with the most violent resource, wielding it as though it were breathing.
While Deckard and Ethenn set the tavern ablaze, moving with haste, Evylin waited with the horses.
A few villagers appeared at the fringes of the square, peering at the scene.
None of them interfered. Whether it was due to indifference or fear, she didn’t know.
Even when a gray-coated guard wandered by, he immediately turned around to pace away, as though disinterested in getting caught up in the crime.
Scanning the dreary village, Evylin’s thoughts rolled through her head like rocks down a hill.
Deckard was a Night Mage, connected to the most brutal, vile form of magic.
The sort of magic she should fear above all.
Yet, it inspired the deepest ache within her, the strongest desire she’d ever felt. Was she going mad?
No, this wasn’t madness. This was magic.
It was her magic that had drawn her to him. It was as intoxicating as the Day Relic, his power and hers melding together, coursing through her veins. Her whole being felt alive.
Smoke began to seep out of the tavern windows and door.
A shuddering breath slipped out of Evylin.
This was a longing she couldn’t tolerate.
This magical pull was more menacing than Blount and all his Mages put together.
If it could induce this reaction from her, if it could make her forget everything she’d lost and throw caution to the wind, she had to defend herself against it most of all.
Because now that Deckard was a Mage, he was all the more dangerous to her.
Now that their hearts could be fused in an unbreakable Bond, she was at risk of more than losing someone she cared for.
She was at risk of losing part of her very soul.