Page 113
He was completely motionless. He wore a heavy, dark trench coat that fell past his boots, but he wasn’t looking at a menu, and he wasn’t drinking beer.
He was staring directly at me.
He was clearly—undeniably—not of Earth.
His skin possessed that unnatural, luminous pearl sheen that belonged only to the ancient bloodlines of Nymeria. His hair was long, straight, and white as spun winter frost, cascading over his shoulders, and his eyes—luminous, pupil-less orbs of solid, glowing silver—burned through the dim tavern light with cold, terrifying intelligence.
The white-haired male stood up slowly.
He didn’t make a sound. His dark trench coat billowed around his boots as he glided across the worn red carpet, moving with an eerie, weightless grace that bypassed every mortal instinct in the room. The old fishermen near the jukebox didn’t even raise their heads; it was as if an invisible spell ward had rendered him completely silent to the mortal patrons.
Caspian began to slide out of the vinyl booth, his broad frame tense, his blade clearing its scabbard an inch. “Stand down, stranger, or I will bleed you on this floor—”
The white-haired male didn’t draw steel. He simply raised two slender, frost-pale fingers.
BOOM.
A sudden, silent wave of invisible force detonated through the air.
The unseen magic slammed directly into Caspian’s broad chest, shoving the six-foot-four High Captain violently sideways across the vinyl bench, pinning his massive frame hard against the wood paneling of the wall with staggering, supernatural pressure.
“Caspian!” I yelled, reaching for my dagger.
Before I could draw my steel, the white-haired male stepped up to our table.
With smooth, terrifying composure, he slid into the vinyl booth directly across from me, sitting right next to Dax, who froze with his blade pressed against the male’s ribs beneath the table.
The warlock didn’t care about Dax’s blade. He didn’t care about Manem and Mal rushing down the aisle toward us with drawn daggers.
His luminous, glowing silver eyes locked straight onto mine.
He leaned across the laminate table, his pale, beautiful face inches from mine, his voice dropping into a low, echoing resonance that sounded like shattering crystal:
“Do not reach for your steel, Tauriel Drakhar,” the warlock whispered, his voice vibrating straight through my ribs, carrying the cold, ancient scent of petrified wood and blood. “I know who you are. I know why you have crossed the Divide...”
He tilted his head, a faint, chilling smile spreading across his frost-pale lips as his silver eyes fixed on the liquid-mercury brand glowing through my shirt.
“...and I know where Vaelthrys rests.”
FORTY-EIGHT
The warlock’s frost-pale hand lay open on the laminate table between us.
His palm was devoid of lines, smooth as ivory, radiating a vapor that misted over the red vinyl booth and turned the condensation on our strawberry daiquiris to crystalline frost.
“Don’t do it, Trouble!” Caspian’s voice was a ragged, brutal snarl, vibrating with a terrifying, helpless fury.
Pinned against the wood paneling by the invisible wall, the High Captain’s muscles strained so hard the seams of his black leather jacket groaned. His dark hair, whipped across his forehead, and his eyes burned with an unhinged, feral panic. Beside the warlock, Dax’s hand remained locked on his concealed hilt beneath his hoodie, his jaw clenched, while Mal and Manem stood frozen two paces away, held back by the same suffocating pressure field.
“Tauriel, look at me!” Caspian roared, his gravelly voice dropping into a desperate, guttural rasp. “Do not touch him! Do not give him your hand!”
I looked at Caspian. I saw the raw, possessive agony in his eyes, the absolute terror of a male who would tear the realm apart to shield me from a threat he couldn’t strike. It sent a sharp ache straight through my chest; a heavy, magnetic pull that nearly made me draw back.
Then, my gaze flicked to the warlock’s glowing silver eyes.
Four days.
Four days until the portal archway closed. Mere weeks until the heir of More Alora showed himself and demanded my head. My father saw a weapon. Mal warned of a trap. And the sea-nymph had sent us to this tavern for a reason. I didn’t have time for caution. I didn’t have time to play the protected princess.
