I close my eyes, soaking in his heat, committing this moment to memory just in case…
Well, just in case.
We stay like this until the door handle turns. Reluctantly, we pull away from each other as Ansel returns to the workshop. Rowan takes a step back, his stormy gaze on my face. He nods, silently telling me it’s time.
I’m not crying, but it feels like my tears are welling up inside of me. They’re an ocean raging in a storm, and the crashing waves threaten to drown me.
“Are you two ready now?” Ansel asks impatiently.
“We’re ready.” Rowan picks up the pendant, produces his wand, and takes a deep breath.
My heart leaps to my throat, and my stomach rolls. I grasp the side of the workbench to stay standing as he taps into the shimmering spectral magic.
Rowan winces, letting out a slow hiss as he clenches his eyes shut.
“How does it feel?” Ansel asks eagerly.
“Cold and slimy,” I shudder, repulsed. The magic surrounds me like a wet dress, clinging too closely.
“You feel it, Kit?” Ansel demands, fascinated.
“It’s like I jumped into a pit of ice-cold, writhing snakes.”
“Snakes are cold-blooded,” the sorcerer says ever-so-helpfully. “Technically, if they were ice-cold, they wouldn’t be moving.”
“Okay, that’s great,” I say. “Are we done yet?”
“You might as well disengage from the cache,” Ansel says to Rowan. “If Kit can feel it, it’s not working?—”
He no sooner says the words when my magic rallies. It pushes away the ominous, slimy cloak, shoving it back until I feel…
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
I become hyperaware of my surroundings. A clock hangs on the wall. Its second hand creates a loud, rhythmic tick that fills the earth-magic and rock-dust scented room. Outside, rain patters on the window, forlorn.
For the first time in weeks, I feel utterly and completelyalone.
Chapter 24
Worst-case Scenario
It worked.
Ansel yanks a stool out from under the workbench with his foot and none-too-gently guides me toward it. “Sit down. You look like you’re going to pass out.”
I plop onto the stool, feeling numb, and drag my gaze to Rowan. He’s still connected to the dust pendant, but he leans against the workbench, shoulders rounded and face pale.
“Break away from the cache,” Ansel instructs. When Rowan doesn’t respond, he growls, “I don’t want to break the pendant and release that magic in my workshop. You’re going to have to disengage.”
With a groan, Rowan mutters something, flicks his wand, and the link between him and the dust pendant vanishes.
I watch, fear lodged in my heart, terrified for him. What’s he going through right now? What nightmares are playing through his head?
Ansel roughly grabs him by the shoulders and all but drags him toward the hearth. “Drain your magic. Get it out of your system.”
Rowan leans on him, unable to support his own weight, and weakly raises his wand. A second later, he casts the torch spell.Instead of normal flames, these are tinged silver. Heat spreads, along with a heavy, ominous feeling of foreboding that must be a side effect of burning off the pixie dust.
