Cold Fire (Spiritwalker 2)

“I’m sorry about Drake,” I said. “I really am. I was drunk.”

He did not answer, but I felt his thoughts as if they were knives. Very cold edgy knives.

“I mean, he got me drunk.”

“I can now see how well that would have worked out for him.”

“Ouch! That was unkind!” I waited, but he fumingly said nothing, so I went on. “Anyway, I had just washed up on that place we’re not supposed to talk about. I was so scared and confused.”

His anger veered off me and slammed elsewhere. “As I suspected, he took advantage of you. Or worse.”

“He saved my life. Or maybe he didn’t. I’m still not sure who to believe about that. Do you know what? He uses dying people as catch-fires to heal people who have a chance to live. That seems wrong to me but what if it is right? If they’re already dying, I mean?”

“Lord of All, that is a grim tale,” Vai murmured. “Fire mages seem rank upon the ground here in the Antilles.”

His words caused my thoughts to gallop down a more interesting path, one whose peculiar contours I ought to have surveyed before now. “Vai, what’s wrong with you?”

“What makes you think anything is wrong with me?”

“When you’re angry, shouldn’t there be hammering waves of cold? Shattered iron? For one moment there at the ball court, weren’t rifles killed and flames extinguished? Yet then didn’t a pistol go off?? Given you are a rare and potent cold mage, how can you sit in the courtyard and not extinguish Aunty’s cook fire? What is going on with your magic? Is it you? Or is it this place?”

He said nothing. We walked a ways in a calm resembling truce.

At length, he spoke. “I’m wondering how you are able to walk unseen. I weave cold fire to form false images. You truly veil yourself from the sight of others.”

“From everyone but you.”

“I will always know where you are. Maybe you will tell me how you manage this magic.”

“You think I will tell you because I am drunk.”

“The drink does loosen your…control.”

I staggered away from him as the abyss that was my future yawned before me to coax me into its chasm. “No, what am I thinking? It’s impossible. I have to hold on.”

“Why should it be impossible, Catherine? Hold on to what?”

“How can it not be impossible? Haven’t we already had this conversation? Aren’t I already bound—?” The wind was tearing at the clouds, and in a rent appeared the masked white face of the moon, its light a talon dug into my throat. I halted as if I had slammed into a glacial cliff.

o;Catherine, all the shadows in the world will not hide you if everyone can hear your voice.”

Catching him by surprise, I shoved him against the wall of one of the empty market stalls. Someone sold spices here during the day. The rich perfumes of cinnamon and nutmeg lingered, and I licked my lips to savor them. “Have I ever told you you’re uncanny handsome?”

“Catherine, you are drunk.”

He tried to step away from me, but I leaned into him. The rise and fall of his chest caressed me. I was enchanted by his glower.

“I could just eat you up,” I murmured in what I hoped was an intimate whisper.

He turned his head away, so my lips brushed the prickly hairs of his decorative beard; he gripped my elbows. “Catherine, if you cannot respect yourself enough not to throw yourself at me while swilled in rum, then could you please respect me enough not to treat me as if I were a man willing to take advantage of a woman who is drunk? Because I am not that man.”

I nuzzled his throat. “You wish you were that man.”

“No, I don’t wish I were that man.”

I ignored his frosty tone in favor of rubbing against him. “Your body wishes you were that man.”

He shoved me away so hard I fell flat on my backside.