Pain splintered through his skull, and he clenched his jaw as he concentrated. The bruising emotion was fading, but the lingering torment reverberated in the room, the essence familiar…Leya’s.
But beneath it was another, one he’d never encountered before. And try as he might, he couldn’t reach beyond the faint, abrasive sensation, andhecould usually break through anyone’s shields.
He bolted his mind’s safeguards and turned as Thiorr exited the bathroom, shaking his head. Drav’n strode back into the room. “Nothing in the corridors.”
“Drav, get Zior.”
The warrior dematerialized.
Aerén crossed to Leya, where she still stood near the foot of the bed. She appeared far too pale, as if a puff of wind would drop her.
With a hand on her back, he ushered her to the bed again. “Sit.”
“I’m okay.”
No, you’re not.But he let it pass. “What did the apparition say? What did it look like?”
Her throat worked. The terror in her eyes made him want to seek reprisal. “He was transparent…white,” she whispered.
“Ghosts generally are—”
“No, no, his skin. It was white like snow when he became corporeal.”
Corporeal? “His hair waswhite, too?”
Another barely perceptible shake of her head. “No…black, but it gleamed the colors of a rainbow, and his eyes were like looking into turquoise glass. He was ethereally beautiful, like you, but in a chilling way.”
Aerén frowned. He didn’t know anyone like that. He glanced at Thiorr, who was eons older than him, and the warrior shook his head.
Whoever the hell this was probably thought she was a Chosen.
His jaw clenched, aware there were those who still didn’t care for interspecies mating and stuck to their rigid beliefs. He didn’t give a shit. He would find the intruder, and Hell would seem like paradise when he was done with thecuzzon.
Aerén grasped Leya’s icy hand and led her to the small fireplace and armchair. He saw her seated, and with a flick of a hand, the black crystal chunks in the hearth lit up. Pale blue flames wavered, giving out a gentle heat.
As if on autopilot, Leya held out her hand to the warmth.
The door opened. Zior hurried inside, his creased cloak fluttering around him. As usual, his bronze hair was in a messy queue, and strands fell around his young face. Zior was a decade older than Aerén and always appeared harried, but he was damn powerful.
His mage gave a quick bow. “Sire, you asked to see me?”
“I did. Would you check this room for any apparition activity and strengthen the ward here—no, just redo the entire castle’s wards.”
“Of course, sire.” His gaze shifted to Leya.
“Leya?” Aerén said softly and waited until her dark eyes met his. “This is Zior, he’s the mage of Cidéra. Leya’s my guest,” he told Zior. “A specter confronted her in this room.”
“That one.” Leya pointed to the ajar window. “He came through that.” As Zior strode over, her gaze followed him, then she shot up from the armchair and hurried across to where Zior had stopped and shut his eyes.
Leya watched him, rubbing her hands down her creased tunic.
“Do you see anything?” she asked.
Zior opened his eyes. “My lady, I need a moment.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Her anxiety scoured Aerén’s psyche like a steel brush, and it startled him. Usually, he couldn’t read her. But with her emotions off-kilter, her innate mind shields must have lowered.
