And for some reason, I couldn’t answer. I stared into that lovely face, so close, closer than I’d ever thought it would be, and I couldn’t say anything at all. My throat closed up and my eyes filled and my face crumbled and I probably looked like a complete, blubbering idiot. But try as I might, I couldn’t seem to say anything—
And then the kidnapper answered for me.
“Agnes sent her,” he said harshly. “It’s a trap!”
“I don’t think so,” she said, her eyes never leaving my face. I don’t know what expression I was wearing, but she looked stunned, disbelieving, shocked. She put out a hand to touch my cheek, and it trembled slightly. “I don’t think so,” she whispered.
“I’m telling you, they’re working together!” he hissed. “She’s the one who helped that bitch drag me back—”
“Agnes is a good woman.”
“She’s a bitch!” he shrieked. “And this one’s just as bad. You have to—”
I never found out what he wanted her to do. Because four mages jumped on the coach at the same time, which was impossible, since at least two of them were supposed to be dead. But they all looked pretty lively to me, including the one who grabbed the kidnapper around the throat and jerked him back off his feet. I didn’t see what the others did, because the next moment we were shifting, flowing through time with an ease I’d never before experienced.
Shifting was usually metallic and electric and vaguely terrifying, like the thrilling ride of a roller coaster you suspect might just be out of control. But this wasn’t. It was warm and soft and natural, like breathing, a light caress that picked us up and gentled us along toward . . . somewhen. I didn’t know; I didn’t care. I just wanted to stay here, right here—
“But this isn’t your fight,” she told me simply, as the tide washed us toward an unknown shore.
I shook my head, trying to tell her that she was wrong, that it was my fight; it so very definitely was. But I still couldn’t talk, even as I felt her hand dissolve under mine, as the current washed us in two different directions, as I cried out and tried to hold on to something that simply wasn’t there anymore—
And the next thing I knew, I was standing on a street corner, surrounded by flashing neon lights and falling snow and shimmery, delicate nets of hanging stars, watching a Victorian coach veer across modern traffic lanes—for an instant. Before vanishing again into nothingness.
And just like that, she was gone.
Chapter Twelve
I stood on the street corner, swaying slightly, while bits of snow gathered in my hair. It’s a beautiful last view, I thought blankly, watching what looked like Christmas crowds rushing about. The stars overhead were banners of lights draped across the openings of each street feeding into the intersection. Other streets farther down had them, too, so that the whole from the air probably resembled a great, glittering wheel. Or maybe a wreath. That would be more Christmassy, wouldn’t it?
They look pretty against the black sky, anyway, I thought, as water dripped into my eyes from rain that had fallen however many decades ago. I didn’t bother to brush it away. It didn’t seem to matter now.
The lights on passing cars blurred together in long streamers of gold and red, appropriately festive. I watched them, feeling wobbly and cold and numb, and waited for oblivion. And waited. And waited.
And then I heard running footsteps coming up behind me, and before I even had a chance to turn around, hands grasped my shoulders, spinning me about. I stared dizzily up at Mircea, who was looking a little crazed. His hair was wild and so were his eyes, and there was a smudge of mud on his cheek. “You’re still here,” he said blankly.
I nodded cautiously, half expecting not to be at any second.
His fingers tightened on my shoulders, almost painfully. And then he picked me up and spun me around, heedless of my filthy dress or my dripping hair or the safety of the passersby. “You’re still here!” he said, laughing, and kissed me.
And either it was a damn good kiss or not fading away into oblivion was a hell of an aphrodisiac. Because after only a second, those lips melted the cold shock that had all but paralyzed me, and my hands clenched on his shoulders and my leg curled around him and the next thing I knew, I was climbing his body and doing my best to climb down his throat. Mircea gave as good as he got. His hands found my ass and he lifted, and my legs fastened around him and he spun us around again, as snow fell and cars honked and somebody laughed, and I didn’t give a damn because I was alive to experience all of it.
We broke apart only when it was that or asphyxiation. I clung to him, panting and light-headed from passion or relief or lack of air or all three, and the crowd we’d managed to collect applauded politely. Somebody donated a sprig of mistletoe, “not that you two need it,” which Mircea jauntily stuck behind his ear. And then he kissed me again.
I think he only stopped because I started shivering. We were both soaked and it was freezing, and I’d managed to lose his jacket somewhere along the way. Even with Mircea’s warmth, the cold, damp night air was already making its way in underneath my clothes, seeping down my neckline and slithering up my legs.
And there was no point even trying to shift back home. I’d be lucky to be able to do it in the morning, assuming I got some food and rest between now and then. But that posed a problem.
I looked at Mircea, who was staring up at the swirl of snow seemingly in fascination. “Mircea?”
“It’s beautiful, dulceat?a?,” he said, his tone awed. “Do you see? Beautiful.”
“What is?”
“The snow. The night.” His arms tightened. “You.”
I eyed him warily. “Thanks?”
Warm lips found my neck. “You are welcome.”