28. Thaumaturgy
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THAUMATURGY
Serun, Lord of the Undercity
Serun paces the room, the fire in the hearth flickering while Saya Claymore sits on the couch, back stiff, eyes closed, and brow knitted. She is inside her mind, finding it easier this time, but still needs me here in case she can’t escape.
He waits, unblinking, shrouded in shadows. Saya’s shoulder jerks, and he steps towards her, his finger twitching in anticipation.
That’s when he sees it. Hair, once an unnatural white and glowing like the stars themselves, gains a yellow tint. It burns from the roots, moving down. Saya grits her teeth, a bead of sweat trailing the yellow as she struggles to hold her magik.
Another step, and Serun is kneeling before her, watching without touching. Whenever he touches her, Saya flees her mind quickly. And so, he waits. Wanting nothing more but to shield her from the nightmares that plague her.
Icy blue skin begins to pinken, and the freckles on her face disappear behind the glamour he never enjoyed seeing on her. She’s beautiful without it—a deity. It bothers him that she cannot see what he sees.
She exhales with a faint whistle, then opens her eyes.
What were once crimson pools are now the hazel met in valleys filled with wildflowers.
Her focus immediately connects with his.
Her fingernails dig into her flesh, and she sinks a fang into her lip before pulling them back, hiding them behind a tight smile.
“Is it working?” she asks. Serun looks down her body, examining the changes. Saya follows his gaze and gasps, her surprise shattering the glamour. “Fuck, damn it.”
“It only took you sixty seconds to bring yourself out this time. No lurking shadows?” Serun asks.
Saya leans back into the couch and wipes the sweat from her brow. “I heard him, like a wasp near my ear, but I grabbed my magik and didn’t linger.” Her eyes narrow. “It’s hard, though. I like my magik in the valley. It reminds me of the best pieces of home.”
Serun reaches out, but Saya hesitates—as if afraid he is going to hurt her.
He pushes down the sadness that accompanies the knowledge and wraps his hand around her slender wrist. “When you do it this time, look at me and keep looking at me until you aren’t concentrating on holding your glamour anymore. Do you think you can do that?”
She closes her eyes and slips back into her mind. If she keeps this up, soon enough, she’ll be able to do it instantly and without closing her eyes. Her magik will be there—something she can always grab onto.
He knows she can do it when she is surprised, frustrated, or angry. It comes in bursts when she least suspects it. This, right now, is control. Something Saya needs to learn before she goes topside.
“Okay,” she breathes, opening her eyes and connecting with his.
Serun doesn’t speak. He doesn’t push for conversation. He waits until she is ready, his hand tightening on her wrist, his thumb brushing up and down. Glamour-bound and radiant, this time, it seems to stick.
She rests her hand over his, the glamour holding.
She blinks.
She licks her lips and lets her teeth sink into her flesh.
Her glamour remains.
Then she looks down. Her breath is shaky, but her glamour holds as she touches her own skin as if waiting for it to shatter. “It’s working.”
Serun nods, holding his emotions and thoughts close, conflicted at seeing Saya hidden. “Do you think you can walk around the room?”
Saya nods and they stand. There is a slight flicker to her glamour, but it’s nothing a human would notice.
She takes a step, then another. Serun chuckles. “Is my consort a robot with stiff hinges?”
“Shut up,” she snaps, taking another awkward step, making her way around the couch and to the fire. “It’s hard.”
“A human might think you desperately need to take a shit. It is awkward. And somehow a little cute, seeing you so frustrated.”
“Enough, nightwalker. You aren’t helping.”
He follows her around the couch, a smile on his face, but he doesn’t dare admit the teasing is to distract her. While Saya does laps around the couch, jaw locked, spitting insults at him, he talks. He keeps her mind company while she holds her glamour.
Thirty minutes. The longest yet.
Perhaps he will reward her with another game. She enjoys them, believing they make her human, afraid that she will lose her soul if she doesn’t hold tight to her humanity.
“Shall I call you a good girl?” Serun says, a smirk settling on the corner of his mouth as he rests a board game on the couch between them.
“Shall I gut you and see what your insides look like, nightwalker?” she drawls. Then, nudging her chin towards the game, she says, “You start. I like a challenge.”
My consort, he thinks, wishing to bite her and feel the rise of his cock at her smugness. Instead, they play a game and dance around the sexual tension they create whenever they are near each other.