The wraith doesn’t seem to care about my warning, judging by the way its jaws clack together.
I take a breath, close my eyes, and reach deeper for the ley line. It’s the middle of the park, but no one’s around to get hurt. I’ll take out this freak and head back to the apartment, no harm, no foul.
The power’s waiting just below the surface. I lift a thick tendril from the ley line and struggle to pull it higher, letting its heat spark against my palms and fingers, crawling its way up my arms. My cursed limbs may not actually move, but the ley line’s magick floods through them all the same, waiting for the strike that will allow all the power to rebound out of me. Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire—
The heat prickling my skin abruptly snuffs out with the whipping arrival of an icy wind. Snow blows past me and catches in my eyelashes. The wraith manages to look confused, but merely slows its approach. The snow thickens, grows harder, sharper. Ice flecks swirl around us and cut my cheeks; I wince when the newly drawn blood flash-freezes to my skin. The green flames licking the wraith’s body extinguish and it suddenly ices up above me, drawing up short in midair.
Grass shatters as a shining pair of Oxfords tromp across the lawn and come to a halt about a foot away from me.
My gaze travels up from the shoes to the straight, pressed lines of the wool slacks. The thin leather belt I could never afford. The buttons of the dress shirt. And there, like a freaking cherry on an evil sundae, the sharp twist of the lips that’s the closest he ever gets to smiling. Apparently, superpowered magickal villains don’t need to smile.
“Wool in this weather, Lyne? Isn’t that a bit douchey, even for you?” I snark.
Chapter Two
Phineas
The toe of his Oxford stretches out and presses against the underside of my jaw, tilting my face up just enough for my eyes to meet his.
Roark’s eyes are the freakiest thing I’ve ever seen. Ice blue, pale as fuck. Thanks to his dark, nearly black hair, they appear even lighter.
Right now, that glacial gaze skims over me, dissecting me with the brisk efficiency wealthy aristocrats seem born to use against their underlings.
The ley line shivers. I pretend it has nothing to do with the man before me and everything to do with the potential threat of the thoroughly incapacitated wraith.
“Farmer’s tan and athletic shorts.” The edges of his mouth tighten. “Some things never change.”
Like his voice. The vague hint of Irish that’s just a bit older, a bit smoother than anything I’ve heard before. The utter contempt in it squelches any kind of momentary appreciation I had for his interrupting the situation.
“Lyne,” I reply, with what little dignity I can manage from the ground, “don’t look at me like that. We both know this isn’t the worst situation you’ve seen me in.”
“True.” God, how can his voice possibly be so dry? “Although teasing revenants without putting them out of their misery seems a bit gauche, even for you.”
“Hey, I thought it was a normal wraith. There’s no reason for it to terrorize me.”
A single brow rises and his condemnation grates. “It’s a neamh-mairbh, you idiot. I wish I could be surprised that something this ancient decided to come after you.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice,” I agree, still stretched on the ground on my stomach, wishing Roark would either free me and send the wraith away, or just unleash it so I can be put out of my misery.
He makes a noise of discontent and prods me with his shoe, urging me to right myself. The best I can manage is rocking onto my back, forcing him to crouch beside me and sit me up. His fingers hover over my garbage-covered legs, moving carefully, like he’s trying to decide where to touch them.
“Nasty,” he murmurs. I start to protest his insult at the state of my clothes when he finishes the thought with “Their kind were always good at curses.”
Oh. He meant the wraith. Not me.
He makes a decision and places his hands lightly on my shins before closing his eyes and whispering words over and over under his breath. The curse breaking is a slow, painful sensation, like unsticking your naked back from a searing vinyl seat in the heat of summer after you’ve been swimming in the creek. I grimace as the pain intensifies at my knees. Roark’s whispers shift, become coaxing, and the slow, steady pulling sensation at the joint fades some. The last bit of the curse removes itself from my body like a cork from a wine bottle.
There’s a gentle pop of the magick dissipating and my legs are free. I mumble my thanks and reach down to rub some feeling back into them, but Roark hasn’t removed his hands. He’s looking back at the frozen wraith, expression strangely tight.
“Lyne?”
He ignores me and rises. The royal indifference of his dismissal isn’t unusual, but the way he stalks back toward the wraith is.
“Lyne?” I try again.
He holds up a hand in irritation, a clear shut up, but it doesn’t matter. One second, the wraith is encased in ice, the next the ice shatters away. Roark protects his face with an arm and I throw myself back down on the grass to avoid the worst of the shards.
The wraith levitates out of our reach. Its voice