Mal appeared from the fire, his eyes wild.
Ambrose stumbled backward as Mal swooped Maeve under one arm and placed his palm flat on her chest.
With a guttural noise and an ancient tongue of magic, a green jet of light shot from the tips of Mal’s fingers and hit Maeve square in the chest.
The walls of the study shook. Pictures and artifacts fell from high shelves and shattered on the floor.
Mal’s counter curse took full effect as he continued to speak in a foreign tongue. His fingers traced up towards her throat, slowing, meticulously with each word, his voice grew deadlier. Darker.
So did the room.
Maeve’s scream was bloodcurdling as Mal drew a long, black, ghostly substance from her mouth. It broke away from the tip of his finger and hovered above them ominously.
Big Ben struck Midnight outside Ambrose’s enchanted office window. Maeve was losing conciseness now. Mal’s grip around her tightened as she slipped limply.
His finger remained pointed at the dark swarm of Magic, which looked as though it was cowering from him.
“A container, Ambrose,” said Mal darkly. “Something laced with wolfsbane.”
A glass jar flew to Ambrose’s hand with a flick of wrist. Mal’s eyes narrowed and forced the ghostly bit of dark Magic down towards Ambrose’s outstretched arm.
“Keep the lid on tight, Ambrose, and I’ll seal it myself in a moment,” commanded Mal.
He returned his gaze to Maeve now, who was barely conscious. In a few strides, he laid her on the large leather tufted sofa.
“Rest, Maeve. Sleep now,” hummed Mal as he brushed her hair to the side. “You are in no danger anymore. I came when you called.”
Chapter 56
A tall slit of sunlight spilled onto Maeve’s bed, forcing its way through the closed velvet curtains. They hadn’t been drawn magically that morning. She felt Spinel curled up in the crook of her knees.
There was a tray of pancakes next to the bed. Maeve pushed up and looked at the small paper calendar next to her bed.
December 26th, 1945
“No,” she whispered, reaching for Mal’s ring around her neck. But it was gone. He must have taken it.
She had been asleep for days.
She looked on the nightstand and food tray for a note or message from Mal, but there was none. Maeve laid her head back down, exhausted.
Whatever it was that tried to kill her nearly succeeded, and she was still recovering. Her eyes became too heavy to hold, and she rolled over, falling back asleep.
Another day later, Maeve was on her feet. She was weak, but she was moving.
She sat on the stool of her vanity in complete disbelief at her reflection. Her fingers traced the lingered black lines that shot up her neck light bolts of lightning. They traveled down her arms, and into her finger tips.
No part of her was spared.
Maeve wiped the tear that silently dripped down her cheek.
Zimsy’s hands brushed through her hair, gently weaving it into a braid.
“It isn’t fading,” she said softly from behind Maeve.
Maeve wiped another tear with the back of her hand.
It wasn’t going to.
